Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

There were oohs and aahs and scattered cheers.

Groans came from the Rankins’ corner.

She looked up at him. “You see? This is a fine, happy moment—for everybody except the villains. Enjoy it.”

Some hours later

Lisle stood in the window recess looking out into the night. A few stars were visible in the cloudy sky.

By the time everyone had finished exclaiming over the treasures and they’d got the chest packed into the cart again and returned to the castle in a procession—during which he heard more of the sorts of things he’d heard in the Crooked Crook—it was very late. Even the ladies were ready for bed.

He’d had Roy and Jock thrown into the dungeon, to be dealt with later.

One more thing to deal with.

He’d confronted hosts of such matters in Egypt—discontented villagers and workers, cheating and stealing and assaults and such. Excavations went awry. Boats sank. Rats invaded. Diseases struck. It was his life. It was interesting, even exhilarating at times.

Now . . .

A light knock at the door made him start.

He left the window recess and opened the door.

Olivia stood before him. She was all in white, in a dressing gown with fluttery things on it—ribbons and ruffles and lace. Her hair was down, tumbling about her shoulders in glorious disarray.

He pulled her inside and closed the door.

Then he changed his mind and opened the door and tried to push her out.

“Make up your mind,” she said.

“You come to a man’s bedchamber in the dead of night, dressed in your nightgown—and you expect him to have a mind to make up?”

How long had it been?

Days and days and eons.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He pulled her back into the room and closed the door again. “Let me explain something to you,” he said. “A girl who comes to a man’s room wearing practically nothing is looking for trouble.”

“Yes,” she said.

“As long as that’s settled,” he said.

He threw off his dressing gown.

That left him in his nothing.

“Oh,” she said.

The firelight made liquid rubies and garnets of her tousled hair. Her skin glowed like a midsummer moon. The faint, shadowy scent of her hung in the air.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the high bed. Bracing her against him, he threw back the bedclothes with one hand. Then he set her down on the side of the bed.

“All right,” she said. “We can talk later.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve a good deal to talk about,” he said. They had a lifetime to talk about.

She put her hand up and slid it over his chest. “You turned out well,” she said.

“So did you,” he said.

He pushed his knee between her legs, and she inched back, drawing her feet up onto the bed.

“I cannot begin to tell you how exciting this is,” she said.

“You can write me a letter,” he said. “Later.”

He took a fistful of her nightgown and dressing gown in each hand and pulled them up. He looked at her legs.

“You like my legs,” she said.

“To a disturbing degree,” he said. He bent and kissed the front of her lower leg, the way he’d done at the White Swan in Alnick, paying homage.

“Oh,” she said. “You wicked man. You cruel and heartless—”

“Fiendish,” he murmured. “Don’t forget fiendish.”

He stroked the insides of her thighs, teasing, up and down. She threw her head back.

He pushed her nightclothes up higher. He trailed his fingers upward, then lightly over the soft place between her legs.

“Oh, your hands, your hands.” She pressed her hand over his, pressing him harder against her core. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. What am I to do?”

She rose to her knees. She tore at the ribbons of her dressing gown and flung it off. She pulled the nightgown up over her head and threw it aside.

The copper curls fell over her shoulders. A small triangle of copper glistened between her legs. That and her pearly skin was all she wore.

It was so easy to picture her dancing naked in the desert moonlight.

“Enough,” she said. “Enough of this nonsense. I’ll never be good. You can’t ask me to be good.”

“That was the last thing I was going to—”

“Come here,” she said. She slid her hands down over her belly and down over the silky mound between her legs. “Come here.”

He came up onto the bed, and knelt in front of her. She grasped his hands and brought them to her breasts.

He leaned in and kissed her, a long, sweet kiss. He kneaded her breasts and she wrapped her hands around his neck and let her head fall back, giving him room to touch her as he wanted and as she wanted.

She touched him, too, her hands roaming over his arms and his back and down to cup his bottom. She moved closer, and pushed herself against his groin. His cock throbbed eagerly against her belly.

She reached down and grasped it. She slid her hand up and down, then paused and drew it lightly over the crimson head. He made a strangled sound.

She looked up at him.

“Are you done playing?” he said thickly.

“Not by half.” She gave him a light push. He took the hint and went down. She climbed on top of him.

“I know this can be done,” she said. “I’ve seen pictures.”

He laughed.

He grasped her hips and lifted her up. He eased her onto him. “Oh,” she said. She let out a long, shaky breath. “Oh, Lisle. Oh, my dear.” She bent forward, and the movement squeezed his cock, and he gasped at the pleasure of it. She kissed him. It was deep and fierce, and dragged him down deep into hot darkness. He grasped her tightly and she moved, sliding herself up and down his length and setting the pace.

It was a fast and furious pace, as though it was the first time again, as though they’d spent forever waiting, saving it up, and this was their last and only chance.

He watched her, b

ent over him, her blue eyes as dark as midnight, her wild hair a fiery halo about her face.

“I do love you,” he said.

He pulled her down, to kiss her, to hold her tightly as they rose and fell together, faster and harder until there was nowhere left to go. The rush of pure pleasure came, and carried them along. And then, suddenly, the world went quiet.

A long, long time passed.

Then she slid off him and onto the bed alongside him. He lay on his back, listening to her breathing slow while he stared up at the canopy.

She put her hand on his chest, still rising and falling. He wasn’t entirely at rest yet, but he was sure of one thing, absolutely sure.

He covered her hand with his. “I do love you,” he said.

Chapter 20

Olivia drank the words in and let them slip down, down to her heart, and she held them there, with her many secrets.

She drank in the quiet, too. The castle’s thick walls blocked out the outside world and deadened sound from within. All she heard was the crackling of the fire and the sound of his voice, low and husky, and the quick beating of her heart.

She raised herself up on one elbow to look at him, without moving her other hand from his chest. It was warm there, against the steady beat of his heart and under his strong, clever hand.

“I was beginning to suspect something of the sort,” she said.

“You ought to love me back,” he said. “I don’t see how you can’t. We’re meant for each other. Surely it must be obvious.”

She drew in a long breath and let it out again.

“Stay here,” she said.

She slid from the bed, grabbed her nightgown, and threw it over her head.

He bolted up to a sitting position. The firelight turned his skin to gold, and caressed the rippling muscles. His silvery eyes were wide, shocked. “Olivia!”

“I want you to see something,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He was up and in his dressing gown and pacing by the time she returned with the box.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bailey, as always, was awake when she ought to be asleep. She’s always on the watch, like Argus with his thousands of eyes. She had to stuff me into a dressing gown and scold me about catching my death. Come back to bed.” She set the box down on the bed and climbed up. “Come,” she repeated, patting the bedclothes. “I want to show you my treasures.” She folded her legs to sit cross-legged.