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Author: Lynne Barron
Series: Idyllwild, Book One
Blurb:
What’s a Viscount to do when a mysterious lady with a secret past and a reputation frayed around the edges suddenly appears in London in hot pursuit of his naive young cousin, setting the gossips’ tongues wagging, stirring his family into pandemonium, and driving him mad with her irreverent ways?
If the Viscount in question is Simon Easton, the answer is quite simple. Seduce the beguiling lady. But Miss Beatrice Morgan isn’t your average tarnished lady. She lives a slapdash life wandering the globe like a gypsy, painting fantastical portraits of Duchesses as sirens and landscapes featuring a crumbling old fountain, all the while harboring a secret desire to return to Idyllwild, the only home she’s ever known.
What Simon does not know is that Beatrice just might be willing to sacrifice her honor, her virtue, her very heart to reclaim Idyllwild.
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Excerpt:
“Have you ever painted a self-portrait?” Hastings asked as Easton walked up beside her with her hat.
She held out her hand but instead of the hat, he placed three hairpins in her palm. She met his eyes briefly before she looked up at Hastings. “No, I prefer to capture faces I find interesting. I have been looking upon my own for far too long to find it of any interest.”
“But if you could capture that moment when your hair fell back only to be picked up by the wind…what a painting that would be,” Bertie exclaimed.
Bea laughed at his foolishness. “I have no idea how I looked at that moment. How could I possibly paint it?”
“I can describe it,” Easton said quietly. Three pairs of eyes swung in his direction. There was a beat of absolute silence.
“But surely you were too far away,” Hastings pointed out. “And her horse was flying. You could not have seen the expression on her face.”
“I can describe it,” he said again. Bea turned and looked away from him, from all of them, to gather her hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She took her time securing it with the hairpins. She needed a few moments to gather her wits. The way he had said it, so sure, as if he had the image captured in his mind. And perhaps he did. She closed her eyes and there he was, sitting on his horse, his eyes intent, his jaw hard, his face a picture of—what? She wondered. Desire she had recognized but there had been more. Shock? Restraint? Contempt? Perhaps some combination? She didn’t know. She told herself she didn’t want to know.
With her hair confined to her bun and her wits restored to some semblance of normalcy, Bea turned back to address the gentlemen. “I for one would certainly enjoy a lemon ice right about now.”
“By all means, Miss Morgan.” Hastings threw out his arm, motioning her to precede him. The little group walked along the path, leading their horses along with them.
Bea smiled and laughed at the comments exchanged between Bertie and Hastings as they recounted the more memorable moments of the race. She was mindful of a quiet Easton following behind them. She reached one hand behind her to massage the cramped muscles of her lower back. She imagined she could feel his gaze, hot and hard, following the movement. She dropped her arm to her side self-consciously. Then a mischievous urge to provoke him rose up in her. Rarely one to avoid such urges, she exaggerated the swing of her hips. She couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard him utter a curse, low and hard.
She looked back over her shoulder to find him stopped cold. He whipped his gaze up from her swaying bottom to her eyes. She laughed softly before asking, “My lord, is there a problem? You seem to be lagging behind. Is the walk too much for you? Perhaps you would rather ride?”
“Come on, old man,” teased Hastings before continuing on with Bertie.
Bea slowed her pace until Lord Easton was beside her, leaving Bertie and Hastings to their talk of horses and races gone by.
“You, Miss Morgan, are trouble,” Easton said. His voice was quiet, just above a whisper.
“Please call me Beatrice,” she responded, peering at him from below her lashes. “We are friends, after all.”
“Friends?” he asked with an arch of his brow.
“I certainly hope so,” she answered. “I am quite short of friends in London, and even if I weren’t, I would still wish to count you my friend.”
“As you count Hastings your friend?” he asked.
“You wonder about my fondness for your cousin.” She knew he did. She had seen the way he watched her last night. That exaggerated curtsy, that moment when she and Hastings had stood, hands clasped, smiling at one another.
“The thought has crossed my mind that the two of you are quite familiar.”
“Too familiar?” She knew the answer. She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to bring it out into the light, to a certain degree, of course. She would not share all with him. But she truly wanted them to be friends. For his father. For herself. And for him. He seemed in need of a friend.
“Much too familiar.” She waited but he said no more. So it would be up to her.
“Henry is not my lover.” She said it boldly, knowing he would find her words and the use of Hastings’ given name shockingly improper, perhaps even vulgar.
His gaze shot to her face but she continued to look straight ahead, willing herself not to blush, or laugh. From the corner of her eye she could see the look of absolute shock that flashed across his face. He coughed, and she couldn’t hold the laughter back any longer. But when it came, it was softer than she would have wanted, uneven and choppy. She heard the catch in her breathing and hoped he missed it.
She waited impatiently for him to speak. Surely he was not going to force her to do this alone. He must have questions. He was clearly protective of his younger cousin.
“I am sorry if I have shocked you,” she began.
“No, you are not,” he interrupted. “You did it intentionally.”
She waited a beat before shrugging one shoulder. “Perhaps,” she answered.
“Why?” he asked. There was a note in his quiet voice, a note she had not heard before. It sounded like more than curiosity. It sounded suspiciously like confusion.
“I don’t know,” she answered before honesty compelled her to say, “No, that isn’t true.”
He continued walking quietly beside her. He has the patience of a saint, Bea thought. It was exasperating!
“I think you are a man who needs to be shocked,” she finally admitted.
“I see.” He seemed to ponder her words. At least she thought he must be pondering her words. He walked on beside her, looking straight ahead, no discernible expression upon his handsome face. Say something, she felt like shrieking.
“Oh for goodness sake!” She threw up her hands, startling Lancelot, who bumped into her. She stumbled and would have fallen into the quiet, annoyingly patient man beside her had he not reached up with his free hand to grasp her firmly by the shoulder. Unfortunately, in an attempt to catch her balance, Bea shifted ever so slightly toward him. His hand glanced off her shoulder and fell to land on her breast. And as if that weren’t quite shocking enough, for both of them, he had been about to grab her shoulder to steady her, so when his hand landed, it didn’t just rest there. It grabbed. His hand squeezed her breast, not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough that she felt it clear through the layers of her thick velvet riding habit, stays and chemise.
Bea froze. Easton froze. His hand froze upon her breast. True, he was no longer squeezing. But he did not remove his hand. Her gaze shot up to his face. My God, his eyes. They were hot, hot and dark, and boring into hers. And before she could stop herself, she leaned ever so slightly forward, fitting herself more firmly into the palm of his hand. Glorious, she thought with a sigh. The warmth of his hand upon her breast, the warmth of his eyes upon her face was simply glorious.
Easton blinked once, twice, and then she watched in fascination as his eyelids fluttered closed. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out slowly so that it caressed her face. His eyes opened. There was the smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips as he gently, oh so gently, squeezed the flesh that still rested in the palm of his hand.
Bea found herself starved for air. She dragged in a quick breath, filling her lungs and forcing her breast hard against his hand. She held herself still, not daring to move for fear that he would lift his hand from her. Her eyelids grew heavy but she was afraid to break the connection, afraid if she closed her eyes he would remove his hand. She imagined that she held it there with her gaze. She felt nearly faint with the pleasure of his hand upon her, and that smile teasing his lips.
He relaxed his hand and she released her breath with a soft moan. He groaned in response, deep in his throat, so that she felt it more than heard it. His fingers flexed, kneading her aching flesh, sending an arrow of shivery heat from her breast to her womb. Instinctively, she clenched her thighs together, trapping the delicious sensation, savoring it.
He dropped his gaze to her lips and bent his head toward her. Instinctively, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. She watched his lips descend toward hers, slowly, oh so slowly, giving her time to withdraw if she chose. She didn’t. She wanted his kiss. Oh how she wanted his kiss. She felt his breath on her lips and finally her eyes closed.
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Excerpt:
“Have you ever painted a self-portrait?” Hastings asked as Easton walked up beside her with her hat.
She held out her hand but instead of the hat, he placed three hairpins in her palm. She met his eyes briefly before she looked up at Hastings. “No, I prefer to capture faces I find interesting. I have been looking upon my own for far too long to find it of any interest.”
“But if you could capture that moment when your hair fell back only to be picked up by the wind…what a painting that would be,” Bertie exclaimed.
Bea laughed at his foolishness. “I have no idea how I looked at that moment. How could I possibly paint it?”
“I can describe it,” Easton said quietly. Three pairs of eyes swung in his direction. There was a beat of absolute silence.
“But surely you were too far away,” Hastings pointed out. “And her horse was flying. You could not have seen the expression on her face.”
“I can describe it,” he said again. Bea turned and looked away from him, from all of them, to gather her hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She took her time securing it with the hairpins. She needed a few moments to gather her wits. The way he had said it, so sure, as if he had the image captured in his mind. And perhaps he did. She closed her eyes and there he was, sitting on his horse, his eyes intent, his jaw hard, his face a picture of—what? She wondered. Desire she had recognized but there had been more. Shock? Restraint? Contempt? Perhaps some combination? She didn’t know. She told herself she didn’t want to know.
With her hair confined to her bun and her wits restored to some semblance of normalcy, Bea turned back to address the gentlemen. “I for one would certainly enjoy a lemon ice right about now.”
“By all means, Miss Morgan.” Hastings threw out his arm, motioning her to precede him. The little group walked along the path, leading their horses along with them.
Bea smiled and laughed at the comments exchanged between Bertie and Hastings as they recounted the more memorable moments of the race. She was mindful of a quiet Easton following behind them. She reached one hand behind her to massage the cramped muscles of her lower back. She imagined she could feel his gaze, hot and hard, following the movement. She dropped her arm to her side self-consciously. Then a mischievous urge to provoke him rose up in her. Rarely one to avoid such urges, she exaggerated the swing of her hips. She couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard him utter a curse, low and hard.
She looked back over her shoulder to find him stopped cold. He whipped his gaze up from her swaying bottom to her eyes. She laughed softly before asking, “My lord, is there a problem? You seem to be lagging behind. Is the walk too much for you? Perhaps you would rather ride?”
“Come on, old man,” teased Hastings before continuing on with Bertie.
Bea slowed her pace until Lord Easton was beside her, leaving Bertie and Hastings to their talk of horses and races gone by.
“You, Miss Morgan, are trouble,” Easton said. His voice was quiet, just above a whisper.
“Please call me Beatrice,” she responded, peering at him from below her lashes. “We are friends, after all.”
“Friends?” he asked with an arch of his brow.
“I certainly hope so,” she answered. “I am quite short of friends in London, and even if I weren’t, I would still wish to count you my friend.”
“As you count Hastings your friend?” he asked.
“You wonder about my fondness for your cousin.” She knew he did. She had seen the way he watched her last night. That exaggerated curtsy, that moment when she and Hastings had stood, hands clasped, smiling at one another.
“The thought has crossed my mind that the two of you are quite familiar.”
“Too familiar?” She knew the answer. She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to bring it out into the light, to a certain degree, of course. She would not share all with him. But she truly wanted them to be friends. For his father. For herself. And for him. He seemed in need of a friend.
“Much too familiar.” She waited but he said no more. So it would be up to her.
“Henry is not my lover.” She said it boldly, knowing he would find her words and the use of Hastings’ given name shockingly improper, perhaps even vulgar.
His gaze shot to her face but she continued to look straight ahead, willing herself not to blush, or laugh. From the corner of her eye she could see the look of absolute shock that flashed across his face. He coughed, and she couldn’t hold the laughter back any longer. But when it came, it was softer than she would have wanted, uneven and choppy. She heard the catch in her breathing and hoped he missed it.
She waited impatiently for him to speak. Surely he was not going to force her to do this alone. He must have questions. He was clearly protective of his younger cousin.
“I am sorry if I have shocked you,” she began.
“No, you are not,” he interrupted. “You did it intentionally.”
She waited a beat before shrugging one shoulder. “Perhaps,” she answered.
“Why?” he asked. There was a note in his quiet voice, a note she had not heard before. It sounded like more than curiosity. It sounded suspiciously like confusion.
“I don’t know,” she answered before honesty compelled her to say, “No, that isn’t true.”
He continued walking quietly beside her. He has the patience of a saint, Bea thought. It was exasperating!
“I think you are a man who needs to be shocked,” she finally admitted.
“I see.” He seemed to ponder her words. At least she thought he must be pondering her words. He walked on beside her, looking straight ahead, no discernible expression upon his handsome face. Say something, she felt like shrieking.
“Oh for goodness sake!” She threw up her hands, startling Lancelot, who bumped into her. She stumbled and would have fallen into the quiet, annoyingly patient man beside her had he not reached up with his free hand to grasp her firmly by the shoulder. Unfortunately, in an attempt to catch her balance, Bea shifted ever so slightly toward him. His hand glanced off her shoulder and fell to land on her breast. And as if that weren’t quite shocking enough, for both of them, he had been about to grab her shoulder to steady her, so when his hand landed, it didn’t just rest there. It grabbed. His hand squeezed her breast, not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough that she felt it clear through the layers of her thick velvet riding habit, stays and chemise.
Bea froze. Easton froze. His hand froze upon her breast. True, he was no longer squeezing. But he did not remove his hand. Her gaze shot up to his face. My God, his eyes. They were hot, hot and dark, and boring into hers. And before she could stop herself, she leaned ever so slightly forward, fitting herself more firmly into the palm of his hand. Glorious, she thought with a sigh. The warmth of his hand upon her breast, the warmth of his eyes upon her face was simply glorious.
Easton blinked once, twice, and then she watched in fascination as his eyelids fluttered closed. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out slowly so that it caressed her face. His eyes opened. There was the smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips as he gently, oh so gently, squeezed the flesh that still rested in the palm of his hand.
Bea found herself starved for air. She dragged in a quick breath, filling her lungs and forcing her breast hard against his hand. She held herself still, not daring to move for fear that he would lift his hand from her. Her eyelids grew heavy but she was afraid to break the connection, afraid if she closed her eyes he would remove his hand. She imagined that she held it there with her gaze. She felt nearly faint with the pleasure of his hand upon her, and that smile teasing his lips.
He relaxed his hand and she released her breath with a soft moan. He groaned in response, deep in his throat, so that she felt it more than heard it. His fingers flexed, kneading her aching flesh, sending an arrow of shivery heat from her breast to her womb. Instinctively, she clenched her thighs together, trapping the delicious sensation, savoring it.
He dropped his gaze to her lips and bent his head toward her. Instinctively, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. She watched his lips descend toward hers, slowly, oh so slowly, giving her time to withdraw if she chose. She didn’t. She wanted his kiss. Oh how she wanted his kiss. She felt his breath on her lips and finally her eyes closed.
Title: Widow’s Wicked Wish
Author: Lynne Barron
Series: Idyllwild Series, Book Two
Blurb:
Be careful what you wish for.
The Countess of Palmerton has lived her life by Society’s rules, marrying the right man, bearing the required heir, and guarding her name at all costs. And what has it gotten her? A loveless union, a cold marriage bed and a reputation for perfect propriety.
Fleeing the whispers of her husband’s scandalous demise, Olivia finds a haven at Idyllwild. Away from the gossip and glitter of London, she dares to cast a wicked wish to the winter sky.
Jack Bentley has a wish of his own, one he has no intention of leaving to the fickle fates. He will marry the stubborn widow, even if it means using her awakening passion to force her to the altar.
Buy Links:
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Excerpt:
“Who is Mrs. Goode?” Jack ushered Olivia into the front parlor, curious to learn what she thought of the large room that was rendered miniscule by an overabundance of gilded furniture and sentimental landscapes.
“The lady from whom you lease this house,” she replied before stopping just beyond the threshold. “My goodness, I’d forgotten this room was so...”
“Hideous,” Jack offered.
“Interesting,” she corrected primly.
“You’ve been here before?”
“I attended school with Rachel Goode,” she explained as she began to wander about the room. “I often called upon her here before my marriage.”
Jack watched her trail her hand along the edge of an ornate table and over the back of a spindly chair he’d never been brave enough to sit upon. “Is there no one of consequence you don’t know?”
Olivia shrugged delicately in answer as she continued about the room, stopping to peer at a vase paying homage to some Chinese dynasty.
“London’s Darling,” he murmured.
Olivia shot a quick look over her shoulder, one Jack couldn’t begin to decipher. Surprise perhaps, maybe chagrin. Before he could place it she turned back to the vase, her hands gliding over the squat base and long neck. “I have it on the highest authority that I am nothing more than the daughter of an earl, the widow of same and the mother of yet another.”
“Is that all?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Funny, that was my question, as well,” she said as she turned to face him across a garish Turkish carpet in shades of purple and yellow. “Somehow I don’t think we meant the same thing by the question.”
At a loss as to how to respond to her words, to the rather surly look upon her face, Jack chose to take the bull by the horns.
“I want to apologize for the other night,” he began as he stepped onto the carpet, one step closer to where he wanted to be.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“For that ridiculous remark I made about your gown.”
“My gown?” she asked with a laugh that sounded anything but joyous. “You needn’t apologize for finding my gown lovely.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. It appeared the lady was not going to graciously accept his contrition.
“How would I know what you meant? I hardly know you.”
“You knew me well enough this winter.”
She shrugged before resuming her promenade about the room.
“I did not mean to imply that you didn’t look lovely,” he continued. “Of course you were lovely. You are always lovely.”
“Lovely,” she murmured more to herself than him. “That’s it? I’m lovely?”
“Beautiful,” he hurried to assure her, surprised that she seemed to want to be flattered. The Olivia he’d known at Idyllwild hadn’t given him to believe she needed to be praised and petted. Nor was he one to spout such blarney, but hell, if she needed pretty words, if she wanted to be courted with poetry and sweet talk, then he would do his best.
“Your skin is like rose petals, your hair like…like the most luxurious silk.”
She spun about and pinned him with a glare down her pretty little nose. If it weren’t for the pulse beating at her throat, and the rise and fall of her breasts with each rapid breath she took, he might have mistaken her renewed temper for haughty disdain.
“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Caught off guard by the cold fury radiating off her in waves, Jack floundered.
“Go on,” she hissed.
“Your breasts are two pillows,” he began, grimacing as the words tripped from his lips.
“Where did you hear that? London’s Darling?” she interrupted.
“What? Nowhere,” he muttered in confusion.
Olivia advanced on him until she was close enough that he might have reached out and grabbed her.
No sooner had Jack lifted his hands to do just that when she spun around and returned to wandering about the cramped parlor. Jack turned to follow her, to keep her in sight in case she made to stride from the room, from the house, from him.
“This room really is dreadful,” she said after another charged silence, a silence during which Jack attempted to figure out what he’d done to set her against him. It couldn’t be his careless remark the night of her mother’s ball, not entirely.
“Awful,” he replied carefully to her back.
“I seem to remember Mrs. Dumfries having a knack for decorating,” she continued, peering up at a painting of two boys rolling a hoop in Hyde Park. “Likely Miss Dumfries inherited her mother’s talent. Perhaps you should ask her to help you with this room.”
Jack let out a bark of laughter, relief and amazement mingling to make him almost lightheaded.
“Is that what this is about, Livy?” he asked incredulously.
“This what?” Olivia turned to face him, her chin lifted in the air.
“You’re jealous.”
“Of Miss Dumfries?” she asked with a sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t trade places with that child for all the tea in England.”
“It was just a harmless bit of flirtation,” he said as he stalked toward her.
“It matters not a bit to me if you flirt with every woman in Town.” She stepped back from him until her hip grazed a statue of a blue elephant and she was trapped in the corner between the elephant and a carved wooden screen with butterflies painted in various shades of pink.
“Livy—”
“Although I must say it was rather déclassé to do your flirting in my brother’s house, at my mother’s annual ball!” Her voice rose with each word until she was screaming at him as she’d done in the snow all those months ago.
At the time he’d found her behavior shocking, now he found it encouraging, hopeful.
“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed as he stepped into the corner with her. “I apologize. My behavior was beyond boorish.”
“Boorish but effective.” She stepped to the left, clearly intent upon sidling around him.
Jack shifted with her, effectively forcing her farther into the corner.
Undaunted, Olivia tossed back her head. “Although I must admit, I am a bit confused as to why you called upon me day after day, why you accosted me on the street today.”
“I wanted to see you,” he answered, not sure where she was going with this new tangent. Christ, keeping up with Olivia’s agile mind was a lot like following a conversation in Latin. Jack had never been much good with Latin.
Olivia sucked in a breath, all the color leaving her face. “You don’t intend to offer me some bauble, do you?”
“Bauble?” He’d purchased a ring but the large square-cut sapphire hardly classified as a bauble.
“Isn’t that what men do? They give a mistress a piece of gaudy jewelry, something no lady would ever wear, something meant to be sold to hold her over until another man comes along?”
“What are you talking about?” Jack growled as her meaning became clear. “You are not my mistress!”
“Well, I don’t need your tacky jewels,” Olivia growled right back, giving him a shove to his shoulder that didn’t budge him. “Let me by!”
“There won’t be another bloody man,” he snarled low in his throat.
“Don’t you curse at me.” She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat as if to shake him. “I am not some cheap doxy you can curse at whenever you choose. And I am not London’s goddamn Darling!”
***
The Countess of Palmerton had finally reached the end of her tether. Seething with rage, burning with a lust so powerful she’d been forced to flit about the room in order to refrain from grabbing Jack Bentley and wrestling him to the ground, Olivia did the only thing a lady can do when backed into a corner.
Tightening her hold on Jack’s lapels, she rose onto her toes until they were nearly eye to eye.
“Either put your cock inside me this instant or get out of my way,” she demanded, her voice vibrating.
Lynne Barron always wanted to be a writer, if only she could decide what to write. Everyone told her to write what you know. It wasn’t until she married her extremely romantic and surprisingly sensual husband that she was able to follow that advice. Lynne lives in Florida with her husband, son and a menagerie of rescued pets.
Contact Lynne:
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Excerpt:
“Who is Mrs. Goode?” Jack ushered Olivia into the front parlor, curious to learn what she thought of the large room that was rendered miniscule by an overabundance of gilded furniture and sentimental landscapes.
“The lady from whom you lease this house,” she replied before stopping just beyond the threshold. “My goodness, I’d forgotten this room was so...”
“Hideous,” Jack offered.
“Interesting,” she corrected primly.
“You’ve been here before?”
“I attended school with Rachel Goode,” she explained as she began to wander about the room. “I often called upon her here before my marriage.”
Jack watched her trail her hand along the edge of an ornate table and over the back of a spindly chair he’d never been brave enough to sit upon. “Is there no one of consequence you don’t know?”
Olivia shrugged delicately in answer as she continued about the room, stopping to peer at a vase paying homage to some Chinese dynasty.
“London’s Darling,” he murmured.
Olivia shot a quick look over her shoulder, one Jack couldn’t begin to decipher. Surprise perhaps, maybe chagrin. Before he could place it she turned back to the vase, her hands gliding over the squat base and long neck. “I have it on the highest authority that I am nothing more than the daughter of an earl, the widow of same and the mother of yet another.”
“Is that all?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Funny, that was my question, as well,” she said as she turned to face him across a garish Turkish carpet in shades of purple and yellow. “Somehow I don’t think we meant the same thing by the question.”
At a loss as to how to respond to her words, to the rather surly look upon her face, Jack chose to take the bull by the horns.
“I want to apologize for the other night,” he began as he stepped onto the carpet, one step closer to where he wanted to be.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“For that ridiculous remark I made about your gown.”
“My gown?” she asked with a laugh that sounded anything but joyous. “You needn’t apologize for finding my gown lovely.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. It appeared the lady was not going to graciously accept his contrition.
“How would I know what you meant? I hardly know you.”
“You knew me well enough this winter.”
She shrugged before resuming her promenade about the room.
“I did not mean to imply that you didn’t look lovely,” he continued. “Of course you were lovely. You are always lovely.”
“Lovely,” she murmured more to herself than him. “That’s it? I’m lovely?”
“Beautiful,” he hurried to assure her, surprised that she seemed to want to be flattered. The Olivia he’d known at Idyllwild hadn’t given him to believe she needed to be praised and petted. Nor was he one to spout such blarney, but hell, if she needed pretty words, if she wanted to be courted with poetry and sweet talk, then he would do his best.
“Your skin is like rose petals, your hair like…like the most luxurious silk.”
She spun about and pinned him with a glare down her pretty little nose. If it weren’t for the pulse beating at her throat, and the rise and fall of her breasts with each rapid breath she took, he might have mistaken her renewed temper for haughty disdain.
“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Caught off guard by the cold fury radiating off her in waves, Jack floundered.
“Go on,” she hissed.
“Your breasts are two pillows,” he began, grimacing as the words tripped from his lips.
“Where did you hear that? London’s Darling?” she interrupted.
“What? Nowhere,” he muttered in confusion.
Olivia advanced on him until she was close enough that he might have reached out and grabbed her.
No sooner had Jack lifted his hands to do just that when she spun around and returned to wandering about the cramped parlor. Jack turned to follow her, to keep her in sight in case she made to stride from the room, from the house, from him.
“This room really is dreadful,” she said after another charged silence, a silence during which Jack attempted to figure out what he’d done to set her against him. It couldn’t be his careless remark the night of her mother’s ball, not entirely.
“Awful,” he replied carefully to her back.
“I seem to remember Mrs. Dumfries having a knack for decorating,” she continued, peering up at a painting of two boys rolling a hoop in Hyde Park. “Likely Miss Dumfries inherited her mother’s talent. Perhaps you should ask her to help you with this room.”
Jack let out a bark of laughter, relief and amazement mingling to make him almost lightheaded.
“Is that what this is about, Livy?” he asked incredulously.
“This what?” Olivia turned to face him, her chin lifted in the air.
“You’re jealous.”
“Of Miss Dumfries?” she asked with a sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t trade places with that child for all the tea in England.”
“It was just a harmless bit of flirtation,” he said as he stalked toward her.
“It matters not a bit to me if you flirt with every woman in Town.” She stepped back from him until her hip grazed a statue of a blue elephant and she was trapped in the corner between the elephant and a carved wooden screen with butterflies painted in various shades of pink.
“Livy—”
“Although I must say it was rather déclassé to do your flirting in my brother’s house, at my mother’s annual ball!” Her voice rose with each word until she was screaming at him as she’d done in the snow all those months ago.
At the time he’d found her behavior shocking, now he found it encouraging, hopeful.
“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed as he stepped into the corner with her. “I apologize. My behavior was beyond boorish.”
“Boorish but effective.” She stepped to the left, clearly intent upon sidling around him.
Jack shifted with her, effectively forcing her farther into the corner.
Undaunted, Olivia tossed back her head. “Although I must admit, I am a bit confused as to why you called upon me day after day, why you accosted me on the street today.”
“I wanted to see you,” he answered, not sure where she was going with this new tangent. Christ, keeping up with Olivia’s agile mind was a lot like following a conversation in Latin. Jack had never been much good with Latin.
Olivia sucked in a breath, all the color leaving her face. “You don’t intend to offer me some bauble, do you?”
“Bauble?” He’d purchased a ring but the large square-cut sapphire hardly classified as a bauble.
“Isn’t that what men do? They give a mistress a piece of gaudy jewelry, something no lady would ever wear, something meant to be sold to hold her over until another man comes along?”
“What are you talking about?” Jack growled as her meaning became clear. “You are not my mistress!”
“Well, I don’t need your tacky jewels,” Olivia growled right back, giving him a shove to his shoulder that didn’t budge him. “Let me by!”
“There won’t be another bloody man,” he snarled low in his throat.
“Don’t you curse at me.” She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat as if to shake him. “I am not some cheap doxy you can curse at whenever you choose. And I am not London’s goddamn Darling!”
***
The Countess of Palmerton had finally reached the end of her tether. Seething with rage, burning with a lust so powerful she’d been forced to flit about the room in order to refrain from grabbing Jack Bentley and wrestling him to the ground, Olivia did the only thing a lady can do when backed into a corner.
Tightening her hold on Jack’s lapels, she rose onto her toes until they were nearly eye to eye.
“Either put your cock inside me this instant or get out of my way,” she demanded, her voice vibrating.
Lynne Barron always wanted to be a writer, if only she could decide what to write. Everyone told her to write what you know. It wasn’t until she married her extremely romantic and surprisingly sensual husband that she was able to follow that advice. Lynne lives in Florida with her husband, son and a menagerie of rescued pets.
Contact Lynne:
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