Duke of Scandal (8 page)

With quiet intensity he murmured, “Is that your goal? To seduce me?”

Olivia fumbled with the stack of mail in her hands, dropping several note cards onto the thick teal carpeting at her feet. She tossed him a fast glance, her cheeks flushing hotly from the sudden notion of what he thought she meant by such a simple statement. Or was he just trying to shock her? Of course
he
didn't appear at all fazed.

He watched her gather her correspondence loosely in her hands and place it all back on her secretary in a jumbled heap, not moving to help, and no doubt enjoying every second of her discomfiture. Olivia decided not to give him the satisfaction of thinking he could unsettle her every time he opened his mouth to offer a snide comment or question.

After smoothing her skirts, she faced him once more with grim posture and what she hoped was a haughty little smile upon her mouth.

“Sam…” she started, clearing her throat and lacing her fingers behind her back. “I
meant
that I will thoroughly enjoy playing Delilah to your Samson for every crafty, underhanded, or manipulative thing we must do to find my husband and return my funds to me.” She narrowed her eyes in defiance, hoping he understood that she could not be used. “I will do my part and act superbly, but seduction? Never. You and I will never be lovers.”

He continued to eye her speculatively from across the room, then crossed his arms over his chest, his brows pinched in contemplation. “Isn't that what Samson said to Delilah? And just look where it got him.” He snickered, one side of his mouth turned up acridly. “Be aware, Olivia; I am not so drawn to you—or any woman—that I will risk losing my own fortune, or more importantly, my life or my sanity, and I never intend to be.”

Her jaw dropped open a fraction. Ironically, she couldn't remember if either Samson or Delilah said such a thing at all, or who seduced whom first; her biblical knowledge was lacking. But that hardly mattered. She knew what lay between herself and the Duke of Durham. He didn't like her, didn't trust her, and he toyed with her purposely to get her to react in the negative every time they conversed in private. What kind of man did that to a woman he didn't know?

A cynical one.

Someone hurt you badly, too.

Such a thoughtful revelation about his hidden character surprised her. She had absolutely no intention of becoming close to this man, physically or emotionally, and she didn't particularly want to ponder the idea. They didn't need to like or enjoy each other, but they absolutely needed to get along. Her livelihood depended on their mutual cooperation.

Sighing, Olivia surrendered and replied, “Perhaps, your grace—”

“Sam.”

“Of course. I forgot.” Planting what she hoped looked like a genuine smile on her lips, she nodded once, in acquiescence. “Perhaps, Sam, you and I are not as different in pasts and in future needs as we might think.”

He raised a brow at that, though offered no comment.

She dropped her arms to her sides and took a step toward him. “What I mean is that regardless of how we view each other, and where our trusts lay, I propose that we tame our differences, combine our common experiences, and try to work together.”

Olivia smugly decided her suggestion was quite satisfactory and would no doubt be agreed upon immediately, perhaps with even a shake of hands to signify an agreement of sorts.

He apparently didn't take it that way at all.

The Duke of Durham stood upright once more, staring down at her, though his expression seemed more guarded than angry.

“We're very different, Lady Olivia,” he grumbled quietly, his face and body tight with a haunted weariness he
couldn't hide. “But that shouldn't, and won't, matter, so there's no use dwelling on it. For now, I'm exhausted, in no mood for dinner, and would like to retire.” He strode past her and toward the guest bedroom where the footman had deposited his trunk and personal items. Without glancing back in her direction, he added over his shoulder, “We'll start looking for my brother in the morning.” He shut the door behind him, turning the lock with a click.

Olivia just stood there for a minute or two, staring at the newly painted oak, open-mouthed and suddenly deflated. The sky wasn't even completely dark yet and he had gone to bed—no thought to eating, no thought of getting to know each other better, no thought to an evening of planning their next move together. No thought to her whatsoever.

The brute.

For the very first time, she felt a strange flicker of elation that she had been fortunate enough to meet Edmund first, and marry him instead.

H
e couldn't sleep. It had been hours—or at least it seemed that way—since he'd settled down between the cool sheets and laid his head on the feather pillow, attempting to drown his memories and current irritations in a sea of street noise and a grumbling stomach. He'd been an idiot to announce that he didn't want dinner, that he just wanted to go to bed. He was famished, and tired, true, but not sleepy, especially with her in the next room.

He was too wound up to doze off. Nerves on edge, he'd tried to relax, but the longer he tried, the more he just stared at the ceiling, picturing his brother, always angry with him; Claudette, the beautiful woman who had come between them and altered their futures; and a host of past thoughts and feelings that merged together to interfere with peaceful slumber. And then
there was his brother's new wife, invariably in the background, sliding into every scene of remembrance to annoy and provoke him with her stunning image, her haughty smile and determined mind full of mischief, enticing him by her mere sudden—and completely undesired—existence.

Two weeks ago, Sam recalled, he had been bored; bored with his tedious work at the estate; bored with the ladies he knew who encircled him, or more accurately his title and wealth, like vultures in waiting; bored with what had become an otherwise mundane life. Now, of course, he'd moved beyond boredom to a whole new realm of irritation, to reservation regarding his immediate future, to a measured restlessness, and yes, a seemingly endless state of physical arousal.

Sam groaned and turned onto his side, staring at filtered streetlight that spotted the darkened wall of the small guest bedroom. Her well-maintained and expensive apartments lay in the bustling business district, though in a respectful and clean part of town, he'd noticed. He didn't particularly enjoy the noise and quickpaced dirtiness of the city—any city—and he certainly wasn't pleased to be in this one. Although she'd decorated her home in lovely fashion, he supposed, all pastels and flowers that resembled the particular style of the day, he refused to consider becoming comfortable here.

But
here
wasn't the problem.
She
was.

For the first time in his life he felt totally perplexed by a woman. He didn't know what to think of her, how to interpret her moods and objectives, how much to trust her decisions, actions, and words. Because of his uncharacteristic lack of knowledge where she was con
cerned, he didn't act when he was with her, he
re
acted, and that, he'd realized over the course of the evening, could not only be a mistake but a danger to their still proper relationship. Normally, Sam considered himself a cool and even-tempered individual, controlled and self-possessed almost to a fault. But somehow, in only a few short days together, the Lady Olivia seemed to bring out the strangest responses in him, though he was, gratefully, fairly able to hide the affects. Or at least he thought so.

She vexed him with her feisty attitude; she made him want to shake her to rid her of the streak of defiant determination she possessed. And embarrassingly enough, the simple notion that such a beautiful creature married his brother made him inexplicably mad. Just mad. The most vivid memory of his childhood remained the fact that Edmund always seemed to win, in every competition in which they were both engaged. Sam rationally knew that many of his brother's achievements over his were related to the duty that came with his title, and that all of his memories were tempered by age and immaturity. Still,
he
wasn't allowed to roam free of responsibility, and never had been; Edmund not only had the opportunity, he took it with pleasure, and always had. In a manner, Sam supposed he was envious.
He
had obligations where Edmund had money, time, and choices.
He
would be required to marry a suitable woman regardless of her looks and intelligence, where Edmund could marry as he wished. Sam realized then that the old streak of jealousy toward his brother had returned in full force to slap him in the face. Not only had Edmund married a smart, remarkably
beautiful woman, he had married very, very well. The Lady Olivia Shea, daughter of the late Earl of Elmsboro, had been an excellent catch.

But were they married? It would be the last great mystery until they found his brother and learned the truth of the man's deception. The only thing Sam was sure about was that Olivia truly thought they were. After spending only a few days with her, she'd managed to convince him of her belief that she was Edmund's wife, regardless of the circumstance in which she now found herself. And that, he considered with a dismay that shocked him, put the greatest damper on their relationship, whatever it might be, and his growing desire to have her.

Sam sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, turning onto his back again and pushing the sheets down to the edge of the bed with his bare feet, his body growing hot and uncomfortable in the suddenly stuffy room. Lying there quietly, his arms supporting his head beneath the pillows, he envisioned her nude form, curled up on a soft layer of white feathers and red rose petals, gazing at him with passion-filled eyes as her long black hair fell loosely around her shoulders, the ends curling around pink nipples that stood out and beckoned him to taste. Slowly, she offered him a stirring smile and reached out with an open palm, her long, shapely legs gradually lengthening to give him full frontal view of her exquisitely curved form. She invited him by reaching down and stroking her thigh with a perfectly manicured nail, back and forth, her fingertips brushing ever so gently against the thick black curls between her legs as she slowly opened her knees for his pleasure…

Sam's chest tightened as his body grew hard with desire once again. Had he been so long without a woman that his mind no longer worked to discriminate between those he could and couldn't possibly ever have? To those he shouldn't even desire because of a past that had changed him?

No, this went beyond such choice, such simple lust. This was strictly about her.
She
did this to him, and she probably didn't even realize it, which made it all the worse—or maybe more exciting? But God, what he wouldn't give right now to have her open the door to her guest room, walk to his side, and reach out and touch his hot, rigid flesh with a warm soft hand. His release from her stroking would be bliss beyond words.

Oh, yes, Olivia…Make me
—

Sam's eyes popped open and he slowly raised himself up on his elbows, shaking his mind clear, his ears suddenly attuned to the tiniest sounds coming from beyond his room. And then he heard it again—a creak of the floor and a wooden chair briefly scraped across it.

She was awake, like him. And thinking of him as he was of her? Probably not. He'd never known a woman to fantasize about a man that way, or admit to lusty thoughts. And while everything in his well-ordered and intelligent mind told Sam to lie back down, close his eyes again, and
finish
his erotic vision, his impulses got the better of him.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he waited only a moment or two for his erection to die a slow and painful death, then reached for his trousers and a linen pullover shirt, deciding it would be best for both of them if he were at least decently covered. He could
only hope she'd be wearing nothing but a silken, sheer chemise.

Sam stood by the door for a few seconds, listening. Hearing nothing, he opened it cautiously and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

Since he'd stubbornly marched off to bed earlier in the evening, he hadn't taken the time to observe the layout of her home, though he had seen the parlor, now straight ahead of him, and assumed the dining room and kitchen were to his left, where he now noticed a faint sliver of light coming from under a swing door.

Sam walked silently toward it, reached out with the palm of one hand and opened it.

The movement obviously caught her by surprise. He heard her slight gasp before he saw her.

She sat at the end of the table, her vivid blue eyes wide with uncertainty, clearly startled by his presence as she held a mug of what he assumed to be tea in mid-movement to her lips.

“Your grace—”

“Sam,” he cut in, annoyed that she continued to ignore his request to call him by his given name. But he supposed that was natural given her upbringing and the circumstance in which they found themselves. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked casually, walking a few paces into the room.

Her ambivalence toward him, given their quarrel a few hours earlier, showed on her face, but to his mollification, she overcame it at once.

“Of course not, please come in,” she said pleasantly, lowering the mug to the tabletop.

Sam glanced quickly around the small room, noting
how her kitchen lacked the embellishment and charm of the rest of her apartments. It remained small, functional he supposed, and tidy. Everything about Olivia Shea, he decided, spoke of fastidiousness above all description. But a kitchen wouldn't be a place to receive guests, and so little had been spent on its design. Aside from a small stove, it consisted of only a wash basin and a few small cupboards, everything but the stove painted a glossy white. A square serving bowl of apples and plums sat next to a brightly burning oil lamp in the center of the table, its shiny fruit the only color to adorn the room. If it weren't for her glossy black hair, now falling free to her shoulders and behind her back, and of course those stunning blue eyes, even she would melt into the background. Indeed, she looked absolutely
nothing
like the gorgeous, erotic creature in his fantasy of just a few minutes ago, as she—unfortunately—wasn't wearing the flimsy chemise he'd envisioned, but a stark white cotton nightgown buttoned to her chin and covering her arms to her knuckles. Sam had to admit, though, that the appeal she naturally possessed remained in all its innocent glory even now.

“You seem to be studying me,” she said in a curious light, her head tilted to one side.

He smiled and readily pulled out the chair opposite her, sitting heavily then leaning back to stretch his legs out, crossing one ankle over the other. “Not at all.”

He knew she waited for more of an explanation, but she didn't pry. She was too properly bred for that, though he thought he might have seen a flicker of annoyance cross her features.

“Did I awaken you?” she asked after a pause and a
sip from her mug.

He drew in a deep breath and folded his hands over his stomach. “Actually, I hadn't been able to fall asleep.”

She frowned faintly, her gaze traveling the length of his body, taking in all that she could see from above and beside the tabletop.

Sam supposed he looked completely disheveled and inappropriate in his untucked shirt and bare feet. Still, she didn't seem to judge him and his attire, only notice it.

“I'm sorry about that,” she said, raising her mug again and taking another sip or two. “I know if one is not accustomed to it, the city lights and noise can seem quite blaring, even when tired.”

“The city isn't the problem. Although I spend much of my time on my estate in Cornwall, I also live part of the year in London proper.” He smiled again. “No, if I'm tired, I can sleep through anything.”

“I see.” She caressed the side of the mug with her fingers. “So if you weren't tired, why did you so readily retire this evening?”

The awkwardness of the question caught him off guard, and in a manner troubled him. If they were to succeed in their scheme to find his brother, they needed to get along, and get along on various intimate levels, regardless of his self-preserving lack of trust in her. She was smart enough to detect dishonesty in his answer.

Sitting forward and laying his arm flat on the table, Sam eyed her directly. “In truth, madam, your presence—or the presence of any woman—sometimes makes me…uncomfortable.” He hesitated, then de
cided to add, “The gentle sex and I have never mixed all that well in casual company.”

“I see.”

Strangely, to his annoyance, she didn't look all that surprised.

“So you excused yourself for bed hours early and without dinner or a late supper to…get away from me?”

He adjusted his body in his chair. “Perhaps.”

She chuckled very softly. “Dearest brother, I didn't think I was all that frightful to a man of your stature.”

Sam discerned an odd, restless tension envelop them both, not because she teased him for his supposed cowardice, but because she called him brother. The more he thought about it, the less he liked her thinking of him in that regard, especially since the more he knew her, the more he thought of her sexually.

“What are you drinking?” he asked in a purposeful attempt to change the subject. If she was surprised by the turn of conversation, she didn't show it.

“Warm milk and honey, actually. It helps me fall asleep when I'm having trouble doing so. Would you like a cup?”

“Uh, no thank you,” he replied, pulling a face. “Sounds positively awful.”

She smiled. “Didn't your mother ever suggest it when you couldn't sleep?”

He smirked. “I didn't really know my mother.”

The look on her face was very telling, though he couldn't decide if she was shocked or appalled.

“Didn't know her?” She tipped her head to one side speculatively. “Edmund said he left for the Continent
before she passed on and that business kept him from attending her funeral.”

“She died seven years ago,” he confirmed. Shrugging, he amended, “But I'm sure you're aware that in my world I wouldn't have interacted much with my mother. Instead, I knew my nanny, then my governess, my personal valet, my riding instructor, my music instructor, various tutors…shall I go on?”

To his strange delight, her expression fell flat and her forehead creased in frown.

“No, I understand,” she admitted softly, sinking a little into her chair. “Although Edmund said he had a very loving childhood, with wonderful memories of his parents—”