True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (32 page)

Abruptly a bubble of laughter shot out
of her. She raised William's picture to hide her mouth, but
Deverell snatched the frame from her hand, turned it over and
studied the silhouette. "That's him, eh? The Kindly
Parson."

"Yes." A rush of relief almost lifted
her aloft.

"His forehead's a little long, isn't
it?"

"Full of wisdom," she exclaimed
proudly. "He was a deep thinker."

"Huh. What would he think of you
coming here?"

"He always said a person should go
where they are most needed. A person should find their
purpose."

"Well then, I suppose he was right, in
this case." He set William's silhouette back on the mantle, cracked
his knuckles and cleared his throat. "I do need you. Very
much."

"Oh." She gripped the back of the
chair by her hip. No one had ever said such a thing to her before,
but he was good at it— shocking her with sudden, unexpected
compliments.

"As a secretary," he added.

Of course. He lifted her up only to
drop her back to earth again. "Yes. That's... why I
came."

"And why you have stayed this long,
despite my behavior and myriad faults?"

"That's a little more complicated, Mr.
Deverell. I'm not sure I—"

He moved closer. "Call me
True."

"I...I can't."

"Why not?" he demanded, chin thrust
forward. "You said plenty to me tonight, but you can't call me by
my name?"

"I said things I shouldn't. And no one
is without fault."

He raised his eyebrows and swayed back
on his heels. "Is that an apology, Olivia?"

"I leapt to conclusions about why you
wanted me gone tonight. I am sorry for that."

Slowly he nodded. "And I'm sorry I
sent you off to spend an evening with my son. I should have known
he'd charm the drawers off you."

She sputtered, "He did no such
thing."

"Plied you with strong drink. Put
ideas in your head. Sent you back her to rail at me and threaten me
with a hot poker—"

"He did nothing of the sort." She felt
the anger leaving her, pushed out by the waves of warm
gladness.

True looked at the mantle again.
"What's this?" He tipped his head toward the small, unframed
painting.

"Can't you tell, sir, with your
infamous talents of perception?" Taking it from the mantle she
looked at it for a moment and then handed it to him. "Tell me what
you think it is, if you're so clever." She would test him, she
thought. Let him show off and impress her if he could.

He held it in both hands, considering
the painting solemnly. "It's an amateur work, by someone with a
heavy hand and not much artistic skill, although he thinks he has
plenty. A picture of a childhood home, drawn by an impatient man
who had no appreciation for its real beauty. "

"You're so sure the artist was a
man?"

"Yes." He handed it back to her. "His
name is Christopher."

"How...how do you know?"

With a sudden laugh he pointed to the
back of the picture, where the black initials C.C. had been daubed
in one corner. "You told me your stepbrother’s name so it was not
hard to put the pieces together. See." He tapped his brow. "It's
all up here. Not magic."

Chagrinned, she ran a finger over the
letters and then said, "But how did you know all the rest of it?
The childhood home, for instance?"

"Because there is a child's swing
hanging from the branch of the tree and you already told me your
stepbrother is not married, so he has no children yet. It was a
calculated guess that this is the house in which he—or you— grew
up. But he does not look at the house with fondness. He has covered
the walls in a messy proliferation of color, blobs of paint with no
definition, no pattern, no care. Here, you see, the color of the
leaves where there are any suggests late autumn. So how could there
truly be so many bright and blossoming flowers growing up the walls
of the house? They were not there, but he thought flowers would
make the picture prettier. He did not see how the old stone of the
walls, the crooked, chipped shutters at the windows and the winding
path have a beauty of their own, without the unnecessary
embellishment of a fictional overabundance of flowers."

"And his impatience?"

"Look at the strokes of paint. No time
was taken with detail. I suspect he grew tired of the project when
it did not come along the way he wanted, so he finished it in
haste. Probably would have thrown it away in a fit of
temper."

"Yes." Amazed she looked at him. "Yes,
he did. I saved it from being burned in the fire." Slowly she set
the picture back on the mantle. "I suppose now I must agree and say
you are very clever. Very perceptive."

Deverell was quiet, just watching
her.

"I had better sleep," she
muttered.

"You stayed out late
tonight."

"You told me to."

He looked down at the fancy carpet. "I
also told Storm he ought to marry you."

Olivia gave in to a half yawn, half
chuckle, and shook her head.

He looked up again, his eyes suddenly
uncertain. Boyish.

She walked around him, away from the
temptation she felt to touch his face. To kiss him on the
lips.

"Mr. Deverell, as you know, I was
married three times before. While it was mostly pleasant, the
experience did not impress me with a great sense of urgency to do
it a fourth time. I did not come here to get another husband." The
idea of another man dead because of her was unthinkable.

"You don't like my son?"

"I like Mr. Storm Deverell very much.
He is amusing, easy company. But I am not going to marry him, and I
doubt very much he would want me to."

"He needs a wife. It's time
he—"

"Your son is enjoying his life just
the way it is for now. And I can't say I blame him. He is happy and
free to do just as he pleases."
"He's twenty eight!"

"Forgive me, sir, for being blunt, but
when you were that age you didn't even want the wife you had." She
paused, wrapping one arm around the nearest bed post, trying to
appear less intoxicated than she felt. Trying to push away her
desires. Something about his rumpled attire was shockingly
alluring. But then he was equally handsome when he dressed neatly—
as he did on the night of the harvest dance. And when he wore
nothing at all.

She's doing it again.
Someone ought to stop her.

Her palms were damp with sweat, but
her mouth was dry.

He finally spoke again. "I suppose
you're right. I shouldn't meddle in romance since I know nothing
about it."

"Precisely. Stick to cards and
dice."

For another long moment they stared,
gazes locked across the short distance.

Olivia leaned her back against the bed
post for the room had begun to reel. "Now, if we might be done with
the subject, I think I'll go to my bed. Good night,
sir."

He hovered there. "You're staying
then. With me."

"Is that another one of your
commands?"

Deverell walked up to her, put his
hands on her waist, tugged her away from the bed post and kissed
her.

She was on fire, could hear the flames
crackling through her body, catching on the tips of her hair. His
hands slid upward to her back and held her close, forcing her
against his torso, crushing her in his strength. She didn't want it
to end, to go back to standing on her own feet. But she
must.

When he released her she wilted
against the carved bed post.

"Yes," he said. "I command you. I came
up here to tell you that. I decorated this room to make you stay.
So tomorrow you will write to your stepbrother and tell him you
expect to stay longer. I don't care what reason you give him. But
you will stay."

"I'm not your slave. I'll never
be—"

"One of my money-blinded
minions?"

She nodded.

"But you
are
here for the
money."

"That is why I came, sir, but it's not
entirely the reason why I've stayed," she confessed
reluctantly.

"And that is what makes it
'complicated'? Because you daren't admit you enjoy the company of a
man like me? That you want to be with me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

He looked puzzled, leaned closer again
and touched her lower lip with his finger. "That's not what I said,
Olivia."

Oh, she knew what he'd
said, but she was not
that
intoxicated. She still had some wits about her
and was regaining still more as the minutes passed. The tip of his
finger ran slowly, painstakingly over her lips, down over her chin
and followed the curve of her arching neck...down to the first
button of her gown. "You showed me your fire tonight, Olivia. One
evening you should let me show you mine. If you truly are fearless,
as you claim."

He had slipped the button free,
leaving a little patch of skin just below the indent at the base of
her throat. She was breathing hard, suddenly powerless to
move.

Until she closed her eyelids when his
mouth touched her flesh.

His warm lips caressed her flesh, and
then a little of his unshaven cheek scraped over it as he pressed
in closer, nuzzling the side of her neck, breathing her in. "You
say you don't want another husband. So perhaps you need a lover
this time. Is that why you came to me? You planned to seduce
me."

She shivered, clutched at the carved
wood behind her. His hands reached around and covered hers, holding
them to the bed post.

"No, sir," she groaned.

"Call me True," he whispered in her
ear, his tongue flicking out to dampen her earlobe, toying with the
dangling pearl.

"I...no...I can't."

His grip tightened on her hands so she
could not get free. Even if she wanted to.

Meanwhile his greedy mouth
traveled back to the buttons down the bodice of her gown and began
to ease them open, one by one. She knew he would hear and feel how
hard her heart was beating. A strange sort of elation had flooded
her body and a little voice, smoky and rich, whispered in her
head,
Now he notices you. Now he looks
twice at Olivia Westcott
.

He would never step over her
again.

He soon had four buttons undone,
showing supreme mastery of his tongue and lips. Now a partial vee
of skin was exposed, including the upper swell of both breasts and
the valley between.

"Call me True," he repeated
tersely.

"No."

He kissed the lace edge of her chemise
and slid his tongue between the curves of her bosom where they rose
up over the corset. Her skin reacted with goose bumps, which only
heightened the effect when he licked across it again.

"Call me True."

"So much for your attempt at being a
gentleman," she managed. "At behaving yourself."

"Call me True and then I'll be good.
I'll be very...very... good."

He caught a little skin between his
teeth and sucked gently. Olivia pressed her thighs together,
swallowing a moan of sheer need. He sucked harder. Enough to drive
a startled whimper out of her mouth. "I don't believe
you."

"That's not
nice
, Olivia. I've
always been honest with you. Always been
straightforward."

His tongue swept down, determinedly
pushing the wet lace chemise aside, sliding further under her
corset.

Catching her breath on a
gasp, she closed her eyes. "Very well then...
True.
Tell me why you're doing this.
What do you want from me?"

A soft chuckle blew against her neck.
"I want you to come to bed with me, Olivia."

Her heart could not find a rhythm. She
kept her eyes closed. "And... then what?"

"I don't know. What would you like?
Some jewelry? Some new gowns. Definitely some new walking
boots."

Olivia let her eyes drift open as he
kissed her chin. "Your son said you've never lived this long with
the same woman under your roof. That you always get bored and look
for the next new, pretty thing."

He lifted his lips from her skin. "Why
should a man stagnate? Why should a woman? Change is the essence of
life."

Now she met his gaze steadily, despite
her intemperate state. Perhaps the drink was wearing off. Or else
it made her see everything with stark clarity. She was bold, ready
to challenge this frustrating man who thought he could not love.
"In my opinion, sir, you fear getting old, so you keep moving in
the hope of preventing time from catching up with you."

He stared, eyes full of hot
sparks.

"But you're going to die one day, just
like everyone else," she added. "It's a certainty."