He felt when she drifted away, her footfall a silent testimony of her familiarity with his secret passage. Who are you? After waiting for several beats, he made his way to the library. She had left the panel partially open, and he pushed it forward and stepped into the room. An elusive whisper of honeysuckle was redolent on the air. Of course, the library was empty. Still, a pang of disappointment pierced him.
Moving to the sideboard, he grabbed a decanter and poured a generous splash of brandy into a glass. He swallowed down the liquor, the smooth burn welcoming.
He’d been studying a few businesses that he wanted to purchase for weeks now, taking apart the finances and assessing if making an investment would be profitable. It had always amused his set that working on reviving flagging businesses, the more complicated, the better, gave Oliver a thrill that nothing could rival—except tupping a woman who was passionate enough to take him how he wanted…sinful and filthy on most days. He’d planned to work for the rest of the night, and he was mystified that he was undeniably stuck on what had just occurred.
He could still taste her sweet, musky tartness on his tongue…and feel her tight pussy ghosting over his cock. With this unknown lover, he hadn’t even scratched the surface of the sexual needs that haunted him, yet there was a deep satisfaction lingering in his gut.
He drew in a hard, deep breath. Would she even venture into the secret passages again?
A knock sounded before the door was pushed open to reveal Lord Radbourne.
“You are decidedly disheveled,” he said, closing the door and heading to the decanter of spirits.
“And how was Lady Wimbledon?” Oliver asked, ignoring his friend’s dig at his appearance.
The earl grinned and licked his lips. “Delicious. I dare say my feelings should be bruised, for the lady keeps hinting at a desire to have both of us between her soft thighs again, and soon.”
Oliver frowned as no response stirred within him. “I am not enticed.”
“Come, man. Anna’s charms are delightful.” Radbourne paused in the act of drinking and slowly lowered his glass. “You are really not interested.” His tone suggested how ridiculous he found the notion.
“I’m not.”
“Is it your bloody investments? Or are you painting?”
“Neither.” Though he wanted nothing more than to climb the stairs to his studio and immerse himself in the dark, provocative images that leaped to life on his canvas whenever he sought to quiet his thoughts. Frequently, it was if a madness seized him, and he would lose himself for hours—days, perhaps—while he painted, pouring his emotions into swirling colors of oil paint until provoking images of raw sensuality emerged. Rarely did he produce a tranquil picture.
“Ah, then it’s this blasted rumor I’ve heard of you wanting to marry and fill your nursery.”
Oliver merely smiled in reply and tipped his glass to his mouth, swallowing some brandy.
“Good God, man, say it isn’t so,” Radbourne demanded, appearing aghast and a bit shocked.
“It is so,” Oliver said firmly. “Pray do not bother wasting my time with protests. I am decided. I need…no, I want a wife.”
“Why in God’s name would you desire the old ball and shackle?”
Radbourne had been declared one of the most profligate rakes of society and had been running from the parson’s mousetrap for as long as Oliver had known him. The earl believed marriage for love to be a ridiculous notion. In truth, he seemed to disdain the institution of marriage altogether. Oliver had never uncovered the reason from his tightlipped friend and had been shocked when he’d declared his cousin would be his heir.
“Have you ever felt something is missing in your life, Radbourne?”
The earl considered him for a few seconds. “No.”
“I hunger for something more. And I know I will find it with a suitable companion.”
“You are indecently wealthy, powerful, and healthy. What more could you want to be content?”
Oliver smiled. “Someone to love.”
“Do not tell me you still believe that blathering nonsense about not keeping a mistress after you’ve wed. Upon my word, man, that is one woman to tup until death does part you and your marchioness.”
“I’ll not dishonor my wife. Only a dishonorable bounder would break vows made before his woman and God.”
The earl scowled. “You forget I know your sexuality. We’ve taken women together, Ambrose. What gentlewoman will allow herself to be debased so? You are not thinking straight. Every man has a mistress; it is natural.”
Was he being foolish in his desires? Oliver recalled hovering at his mother’s door, listening to her sob to her maid of how his father had shamed her when he took her to bed. He remembered the guilt on his father’s face that night as he drank several tumblers of brandy. It was then his father had reaffirmed his lessons, his voice rough with regret. His father’s instructions had been explicit—when Oliver took a wife, he must never strip her naked, he should always protect her modesty and delicate sensibilities under the banner of darkness, he must never ask of her any unnatural coupling. Those requests must only be done with whores…or mistresses.
He had a duty to his family and bloodline and knew he would one day take a wife to fulfill that obligation. Oliver had never dreamed that his sense of duty would have translated that to the need for a companion, a friend, a lover, a wife he could adore and be adored by in return.