The Love Match (Entangled Scandalous) (3 page)

Mr. Cross looked like he wanted to strangle his friend.

“You are a writer?” Olivia asked, her curiosity piqued.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

“Yes, he is,” Lord Ashworth responded jovially. “He just doesn’t admit it.”

“Well,” Lady Sarah said. “I don’t understand how anyone could prefer reading to playing games with friends. How dull.” She was eyeing Olivia as she said it.

Olivia wanted to ask Mr. Cross more about his writing, but it was quite obvious he didn’t want to speak of it. So she ignored her curiosity and flipped over her card, and the game continued. But for the next hour, her attention strayed to the man next to her far more often than she would have liked.

What was it about him that intrigued her so?

Chapter Three

Eastwold Abbey made entirely too many sounds at night. The ancient house creaked and groaned, and the windows rattled when the autumn wind gusted. Three times Olivia had been falling asleep, only to be jolted awake by some mysterious noise.

She had to admit, reading gothic novels right before bedtime probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do.

When she heard something that sounded like a creaking footstep, she sat up straight in bed. Was it the ghost of the old Lord Ashworth, searching for his murderous wife?

Olivia waited to hear another sound, but was met with silence.

She plucked at her braid for a minute, then swung her legs over the bed. She would never relax contemplating a ghost wandering about the place. Perhaps a boring selection from the library would help—articles on botany, for instance, always put her to sleep.

She padded softly across the room in her wool stockings, shrugging on her dressing gown as she went. Then she lit a candle with kindling from the dying fire. The candle was held out straight in front of her like a weapon as she moved through the dark hallways. She determinedly ignored what might be hiding beyond its small ring of light.

The trip between her bedchamber and the library seemed to take an hour. But that was because she startled each time the house groaned, and she wondered if she should go back, hesitating in the shadowy corridor until she bit her lip and took another cautious step forward. She breathed a very ardent sigh of relief at the library door.

When she heard a vigorous scratching beyond the door, she paused with her hand on the doorknob. Did they have a mouse problem? As much as she disliked the creatures, she fervently hoped so. The alternative was— But could ghosts scratch? Did they have nails?

With her heart in her throat, she turned the knob and pushed into the room, half expecting to be molested by Lord Ashworth’s murdered grandfather.

What she saw startled her almost as much. Mr. Cross sat scribbling away under the light of short, fat candles. Wearing nothing but his trousers and shirt.

There was ink on his hands, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Fascinated, she watched the rippling play of muscles in his arm as he wrote.

She told herself to leave, to turn and reach for the doorknob and flee before he saw her. She’d just taken a step backward when he glanced up, arrested by the movement. The quill clattered on the surface of the round table.

She was too far away to read his expression clearly. Was he angry with her?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cross,” she whispered, shattering the silence. “I thought you were the ghost. I mean, that’s not why I came down—I wanted to get a book. But I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He shrugged, as if stammering women in dishabille stumbled across him all the time. And maybe they did. It was an unpleasant thought. As if she’d just remembered something she’d forgotten and didn’t have time to go back for.

“Call me William—Mr. Cross sounds too proper for our current state. And I should like to call you Olivia.”

She licked her lips, and then, though it wasn’t quite a question, she nodded.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Who?”

His teeth flashed white as he smiled. “The ghost.”

“No. Do you think he’s real?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts. Not that kind, at least.”

She moved forward hesitantly. As she did, he pushed the stack of parchment under a book, hiding it from view. She halted, offended. “I wasn’t going to read it.”

“So, not enough female authors,” he mused, ignoring her comment.

“It doesn’t really matter,” she said quickly.

“It matters to you, doesn’t it?” She was about to say no, but before she could, he said reprovingly, “Hiding again?”

She glared at him. “You just shoved your writing out of sight because I might catch a glimpse of a line. You deflect attention from yourself. You, sir, are a deflector.”

“I’m not familiar with the term,” he said smoothly.

“I don’t think we’re very different at all. You simply hide yourself in plain view. You ooze charm and—”

“I sound like an infected wound,” he remarked.

“You’re so busy chatting with people about vapid things and admiring women and making them fancy they’re in love that they probably don’t even realize they don’t know you.”

“Of course they know me.”

“No, they don’t. You didn’t even like it when Lord Ashworth mentioned that you used to write at Eton.”

“It’s none of his business. Or yours.”

“Then my opinion of the library is no business of yours!” she declared.

Mr. Cross was silent. He leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out. “It’s so easy with everyone else,” he muttered, sounding bemused. “With you, I keep saying the wrong things.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, uncertain of how to respond.

He laughed. “Don’t apologize.” He tilted his head. “What if you tell me what authors you would add to the library, and I’ll answer a question about myself?”

She peered at him through the darkness. “But not about your writing?”

He shook his head.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” she said. “If someone were to find us like this, I would be ruined. It would be just like what happened with my sister. Well, except the earl was already in love with her and they were doing something worthy of ruination…” She trailed off.

“Is that wistfulness, Olivia?” he asked, grinning. “Do you
want
to be ruined?”

“Of course not,” she said, but it sounded weak, even to her ears. When he didn’t respond, she filled the silence. “What I meant was, if I were to be ruined, I’d hope it wasn’t simply for talking to a man.” She stopped, then grumbled, “Forget I said anything.”

“Too late.” He waved her forward with a flick of his hand. It was an arrogant gesture, but oddly, she found her feet moving, carrying her toward him, without much consent from her mind. “Don’t worry—if I hear footsteps in the hall, I’ll start to ravish you.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it to be you,” she said, a bit put off by his flippancy.

“You’re cruel. Keep it up and I’ll be tempted to change your mind.”

She shouldn’t say it. That was a clear challenge. But she said it anyway. He was too arrogant; someone needed to knock him down a peg or two. “Are you certain you
could
change my mind?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then said, “Come here.”

“I don’t think I should,” she answered warily.

“I want to kiss you.”

Her heart thrashed in her chest. Her skin seemed to come alive to every whisper of sensation. He wanted to kiss her. She tried to imagine it—his wide, soft mouth on hers. “Why?” Her voice squeaked.

“If I can’t charm you with words, I’ll find another way.”

Unfortunately, she wanted to let him try. She wasn’t given to impulse, but it seemed a shame to miss this opportunity when it was right in front of her face. She wasn’t exactly sought after in society. Regardless of her mother’s hopes for another title in the family, a future as a spinster was the more likely scenario. If through some twist of fate she did marry, she had no doubt it would be to a man her mother had pushed her toward, not someone of her own choosing.

Was it really so wrong to want to experience something else before she committed herself to a lifetime that might be devoid of love and passion?

She wasn’t Anne—she wasn’t impetuous. But right now, more than at any other time in her life, she wanted to be. She moved closer. When she was within reach, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her forward, between his knees. He tugged at her arm. She realized, belatedly, he wanted her to kneel. He wanted her to surrender.

And even as her mind rebelled at the notion, her body obeyed his silent command—in this, at least, she accepted his control. She lowered her knees to the floor. To do so, she had to rest her hands on his thighs. His thighs! That was unprecedented in itself. Her breath snagged, and under her palms his legs felt warm and muscled through the fine fabric of his trousers.

“This covers too much of you,” he said gently, pushing the dressing gown down her shoulders, leaving her in just her thin night rail. When the robe was pooled on the floor, he placed his hands on her bare arms, and a shiver went through her at the unfamiliar sensation.

And then—she was too dazed to be quite sure how it all happened or in what order—he lowered his head and she tilted hers up and her eyes shut and their lips met. She felt a little shock of heat from the softness of his lips against hers, the way his breath smelled a bit like cloves. His mouth wasn’t closed. It was slightly open, slightly parted, so she mimicked him and felt another sweet shock when their breaths mingled.

The grip on her arms tightened. She leaned forward. Now she could feel the heat of his thighs against her ribcage, just under her unbound breasts.

His tongue breached her lips, touched her own, but before she could get used to it, was gone.

She wanted to feel it again.

One hand moved up her arm, following her shoulder and the curve of her neck and then settling on her jaw, strong and warm. He held her firmly and deepened the kiss.

Her own hands slipped up his legs. She didn’t mean to do it, but they itched to touch every part of him. As they traveled the length of his thighs, his tongue danced with hers again, and she leaned into him, intrigued by the moist heat.

Her hand brushed the firm ridge hidden under his trousers. They both froze.

Then he gently set her away from him, and her face flooded with embarrassed heat.

“It was an accident,” she began.

“You don’t need to apologize. I would ask you to do it again, but that would take things further than they should go.” His lips were dark from their kisses. And she was looking right at them, so she didn’t miss their sudden curve. “You have ink on your cheek,” he noted softly.

She glanced at his dirty hands. “That’s your fault. I hope it washes off.”

“It should.” He stared at her as though trying to puzzle her out. “When I was first introduced to you last Season, I thought you were the picture of the wilting wallflower. But you’re not, are you?”

“I thought I was,” she said, nearly as puzzled as he was.

“But not with me?”

“Not with you,” she agreed.

“Probably because I’m so unimpressive.”

“Most likely,” she said.

And after a heartbeat, they smiled at the same time. And Olivia had the ridiculous thought that she could stay there the whole night, kneeling by his feet and simply talking to him, letting his voice drift over and through her. Although, she wouldn’t be opposed to kissing, either.

But she didn’t know if she would want to stop at
just
kissing.

“I think I should leave,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

She stood up shakily, and he stood with her. He spoke again. “You never answered my question about the authors.”

“Oh!” she chewed her bottom lip while she thought. “Everything by Fanny Burney to start out with. Now I may ask you a question?”

He nodded.

There were too many possibilities. She didn’t know where to start. So she asked one of the first that came to mind, one she truly wanted to know, which would also be easy for him to answer. “What is your favorite color?”

“Gray, I think,” he said, automatically, and then his forehead wrinkled as though he was displeased, or surprised, by his own answer.

“Gray,” she repeated softly, a strange warmth flooding her chest. “Not silver?”

He stared at her, unfathomable in the shifting half-light. Eventually, he said, “Not silver. Gray is a nice color on its own. Better than silver, in some ways.”

When he fell silent, she nodded, turned, and forced herself to move to the door before she found herself sitting down and staying there for hours. But she didn’t know if she would sleep. The imprint of his mouth still burned her lips, and likely would for a long time.

…

William stayed in the library after Olivia left, staring blankly at the parchment in front of him. The words he’d written blurred before his eyes. All he could remember was that kiss. That tentative, arousing, fumbling, consuming kiss.

A rash thing to do, obviously. He wasn’t in the business of ruining virgins. But she’d looked soft in the candlelight with her hair tied in a loose braid. Inviting. Her eyes actually
had
appeared more silver than gray in that instant.

He smiled sardonically and wondered what she would think of that. She would probably laugh at him again.

He wasn’t used to being laughed at, but he didn’t think he minded when it was Olivia Middleton. There was nothing malicious in her amusement, just good-natured teasing. And her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, which he liked. Or when she smiled, which he liked almost as well.

He was dangerously close to being smitten. He could at least be honest enough with himself to admit that.

There’d been plenty of women in his life, mostly the women he flirted with and danced with and sometimes broke the hearts of—allegedly—and a few in a strictly sexual capacity. He liked all of them, enjoyed all of them, but hadn’t felt anything more than mild affection.

That he was becoming infatuated so quickly with Olivia worried him. He wasn’t in control of this relationship. He couldn’t misguide her with flattery or direct the conversation the way he wanted it to go.

There was something terrifying about losing that control.

During the last London Season, one of the matrons had asked him when he planned to marry, and his answer had been when he made a love match—simply because he didn’t expect it to happen. His whole life, he’d never felt anything close to love, and he was thankful for that. He’d seen what caring about someone too much had done to his father, and he wasn’t interested in making the same mistake.

But he was his mother’s son, too.

And a part of him didn’t know if he was capable of love at all.