Tempt the Devil (31 page)

This was the last time.

For an endless space, she clung to that burning height, unaware of where she was. Although she was always aware of who she was with.

Her love. Her only love. Her lost love.

Vaguely she felt him move, shift, reposition himself. Then glorious pressure as he pushed into her swollen, creamy tissues.

“Open your eyes, Olivia.” His demand emerged in breathless gasps. He sounded angry. He sounded fierce. He sounded as though love drove him to the edge of madness.

Silently, she obeyed him.

His face was haggard. His lips drew back against his teeth as if he were in excruciating torment. His skin seemed too tight for the bones of his face.

Determination firmed his jaw as he met her stare. “I want you to look at me while I take you,” he insisted gruffly. He edged his way farther into her body. “I want you to feel every inch. Then I want you to try and tell me you're leaving me.”

He leaned over her, his powerful chest and shoulders dwarfing her. He supported himself on taut arms, and his savagely glittering gray eyes didn't shift from hers. With ruthless purpose he angled his hips and seated himself completely.

She had a dazed second to adjust to how he filled her. Then he began to move, hard, arrogant, commanding.

Every stroke irrefutably claimed her as his.

She clutched at his back as each powerful thrust bumped her against the arm of the sofa. Her hands bunched in the fine wool of his coat. She bent her knees to give him greater access, her thighs chafing against his trousers.

A barrage of sensations attacked her. The vigorous virility of his body in hers. The sharp tang of sweat and desire. Her own flooding, uncontrollable response. His breath rasping as he moved, owning, branding, marking.

She rose to meet him and moaned as he went deeper. He'd taken her so often, but never before had her body become an extension of his.

All the time, those gray eyes bored into hers. Charting the rise of her pleasure.

While part of her resented how easily he subdued her, her greedy soul snatched what pleasure it could. She'd never feel this with anyone else. Every second was precious, perfect, irreplaceable.

Relentlessly he pushed her higher and higher.

After what he'd done to her with his mouth, she couldn't believe she had anything left to give him. But she did.

She reached helplessly into the void. Still, final pleasure eluded her grasp. The pressure built and built until she thought she must shatter.

She gave a choked sob. Her fingernails drove into his back. If he'd been naked, she would have drawn blood. She closed her eyes and arched, blindly seeking that ultimate, transcendent connection.

He withdrew to the limits of her body. She braced for him to plunge back.

Nothing.

She opened her eyes. “Julian?”

“Look at me, damn you.” His voice was harsh and shook with the superhuman control he exerted.

“I am looking at you,” she said breathlessly, frenzied with the need to have him inside her. She surged up, her hands fisting in his coat.

“And you love me.”

“I love you.” It was a frantic cry. “Don't stop.”

“Never.” He drove down hard and everything around her erupted into a coruscating burst of white.

She cried out and clutched at his back as her body convulsed in a pleasure higher, purer, brighter than any she'd ever known.

Through the conflagration, she heard him groan, then she felt him shudder over and over again as he spilled into her. The perfect rightness of the moment held her suspended in joy and anguish as her tight passage milked him of his essence.

She opened tear-filled eyes to see him poised above her, his head flung back, his hair damp with sweat, his face taut. She carved the sight on her memory forever, even while her body gripped him as if she never wanted him to leave her.

She didn't.

She still quivered with helpless reaction and astonished rapture when he pulled out. With a long groan, he collapsed against the back of the sofa. She sprawled where he'd left her. Every bone had dissolved into hot honey. Her face was sticky with tears and stung from the abrasion of his shadow beard.

She ached. He hadn't been gentle. But how could she regret what had happened? The throbbing peak had been unbelievable. Exquisite. Heartbreaking.

His chest heaved as he struggled for air and his pulse beat wildly at the open neck of his shirt. Somewhere in her passion she'd ripped at his neckcloth. She couldn't remember when.

His black hair was disheveled and a lock fell over his forehead. His clothes were crushed and damp with sweat. His trousers gaped, revealing the tangled black curls of his pubic hair.

Neither spoke for a long time. He'd pushed her to her limits. She wasn't sure she'd ever move again.

He looked across to where she lay with her legs splayed and her blue gown twisted around her body. “You look utterly ravished.”

He sounded lazy and pleased. He sounded like the exciting lover who had taught her the meaning of pleasure.

“I feel utterly ravished,” she said in a husky voice. “I think we've ruined the couch.”

“Kylemore can afford a new one.” Julian's gorgeous mouth twitched into a sensual smile. “Anyway, after that, I'll gladly
buy him a hundred couches.” He paused and the smile slowly faded, to be replaced by an intent stare. “Are you coming to Vienna?”

Poisonous reality doused her pleasure like a cold wave washing over footprints on a beach. Her lips were tight as she forced out the question she had to ask. “As your mistress or as your wife?”

He frowned. “You know the answer to that. It's the only answer I can give you. Surely after what we just shared, you can't mean to send me away.”

Gracelessly she straightened her legs and sat up. Grief was a leaden weight in her belly, and her heart beat out a grim rhythm of farewell. She had the answer to her question. He loved her but he didn't love her enough. The inevitable moment had come. Passion had staved it off but couldn't change the outcome.

She felt like she poised trembling on the edge of a chasm. She drew in a scraping breath and stepped off the edge. “Yes, I can.” Her voice was low but steady. “Good-bye, Julian.”

His jaw set in an angry line and he hurtled to his feet, fastening his trousers with violent movements. “Damn you, Olivia. I'm bloody sick of pleading. I'm sick of lying down in the dirt in front of you just so you can kick me.”

Aghast, she stared at him. He sounded as if she'd gashed a hole in his heart. How could she stay adamant against his suffering? Was anything worth his crippling agony? She stretched one trembling hand in his direction. “Julian…”

He didn't seem to heed her. “Let me know when you change your mind. As you will change your mind. But be warned, my lady—don't expect me to wait forever.”

It hurt to swallow the hard lump of anguish in her throat. “I don't expect you to wait at all.” Although the idea of him with another woman made her want to yowl and scratch at him like a maddened tigress. “I told you before you gave me that most memorable farewell—it's over.”

He sent her a freezing glare. How could eyes that had been
so warm only seconds ago turn so frosty? His voice was cold, hard, superior. “I've begged you repeatedly. I won't beg again. You're doing this out of stupid pride, Olivia. I hope you and your pride are damned happy together.”

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door. Her hand dropped disconsolately to her side. He reached for the door handle then paused. And paused.

He kept his back to her but she didn't need to see his face to know he waited for her to call him. Impetuous offers of compromise rose in her throat but she closed her mouth against them. Iron will shackled her and refused to offer the concessions her breaking heart longed to make. She choked on the harrowing desolation.

After another second of charged silence, he turned the door knob and stalked out into the hallway. She heard murmured voices outside. It sounded as if Kylemore had indeed waited for them.

Acrid shame overwhelmed her. For all her brave words, she'd acted like a whore. For all her brave defiance, she was alone and lonely and desperately wanted Erith's arms around her to keep the cold away.

His arms would never hold her again.

Soraya appeared in the doorway and her face convulsed with compassion. “Oh, my dear.”

“The earl has gone?”

“Yes.”

She forced the pathetic lie to her lips even as a jagged rift opened inside her. “I'm glad.”

“Oh, Olivia. You don't need to pretend.” Soraya rushed to her side.

A strangled sob caught in Olivia's throat. “Yes, I do.”

The sob escaped and she began to cry in deep, ugly gasps. The world shrank to a wilderness of overwhelming pain. She hardly felt Soraya take her in her arms or heard her whisper meaningless comfort.

O
livia hefted the heavy pail through the kitchen door and flung the dirty water on the pink rosebush that climbed up the side of her neat whitewashed cottage. This fine August evening, the flowers' sweet scent drifted on the air like a benediction.

She straightened with a tired grunt and glanced vaguely down toward the estate's imposing wrought-iron gates. A man on a large gray horse cantered up the lime tree-lined drive. The long rays of the lowering sun lit the rider and his mount to gold.

Her heart launched into a veering race. Her hand tightened on the pail's handle until the knuckles shone white. The breath jammed in her taut throat. Quivering with a wild mixture of nerves and excitement and dismay, she waited.

“Lord Erith,” she said with artificial calmness when he was within hailing distance.

Because of course it was Julian. The confident easy seat on the horse, the height in the saddle, the rakish angle at
which he wore his hat identified him, even before she saw his face.

She knew he'd look for her after that unequivocal demonstration of mutual passion and a good-bye he wouldn't accept as final. When she first sought refuge here, she spent every minute on tenterhooks, expecting him to gallop up like the hero of a poem and fling her across his saddle. But days had turned into weeks and he hadn't found her.

Well, he'd found her now, God help her.

Without smiling, he swept off his hat and bowed as if to a fine lady. “Olivia.”

Her heart clenched as she remembered the last time they were together. When he transported her to heights of rapture she'd never imagined. And then abandoned her to unrelenting devastation.

For a fraught moment the memory of that fiery encounter in the Duke of Kylemore's library rose between them, honed and shining like a new blade.

Deliberately, she broke the connection, clutching the empty wooden bucket before her as a barrier.

What did he see when he looked at her? These days, very little remained of elegant, decadent Olivia Raines, glittering cynosure of the demimonde. After hours making preserves, she was humiliatingly aware that her faded linen frock and apron were stained and wrinkled. Her feet were shoved into rough work shoes. Her hands were callused from physical labor. Days in the garden had brought out the freckles she'd spent years trying to vanquish. Her mouth was sticky from tasting the jam.

How she wished she didn't give a fig what he thought. But before she could stop herself, she self-consciously raised a hand to smooth her disheveled hair. It was piled untidily away from her face and up from her neck. With the summer heat, stray strands clung to her damp throat and tickled her cheeks.

She looked like a complete slattern, whereas he, as usual,
was kitted out in the height of fashion. The dark blue coat and tan breeches fit to perfection. Even after the hot and dusty ride from London, his high boots gleamed and his neckcloth was crisp and snowy.

The contrast between them couldn't have been harsher. He was probably wondering what in heaven's name he'd ever seen in her.

She raised her chin and tried to summon defiance. But it was difficult when her heart pounded like a hammer and desperate uncertainty prickled at her skin.

“What do you want?” she asked with a hint of hostility, although there was only one reason he could be here. To lure her back to his bed. Under his concentrated gaze, she shifted like a nervous filly. She fought an impulse to wipe her fruit-stained mouth like a street urchin.

“You've led me a devil of a dance,” he said without heat.

He looked relaxed, the hand holding his hat draped loosely over his thigh. The breeze played with his thick black hair. Beneath the sensual heaviness of his eyelids, his eyes gleamed bright silver.

Tingling life returned to her veins. It was so unfair that he turned up without warning to shred the peace she'd fought to achieve. Except if she were honest, she'd admit she'd never found peace. Instead, she'd felt as if someone had ripped her heart from her chest and stamped on it over and over then flung it into an icy river.

Damn Julian for finding her. The long, painful battle to forget him would only start again. A battle she'd been spectacularly losing, no matter how she tried. “Did the Kylemores tell you where I was?”

She lived on the Duke of Kylemore's Kent estate, inherited last year through an obscure cousin. After Erith had stormed out of their library, Soraya and her daunting husband offered her sanctuary here. Gratefully, she'd accepted the chance to hide away until she was ready to grapple with the world again. She couldn't bear the idea of staying in London and
running into Erith everywhere she went. Or worse, him besieging her with declarations of love that couldn't heal the breach in her soul.

His mouth flattened. “Eventually. But only after I'd worked it out for myself.”

The smooth baritone vibrated right to her toes. For one lost moment she closed her eyes and remembered that voice whispering words of love.

When she opened them again, his gaze held a knowing glint, as if he guessed the tenor of her thoughts.

Of course he guessed. He'd known her so well, even if their affair had ended after a few short weeks.

He went on as though that strange moment of shared perception had never existed. “I should have realized you'd be near Leo. I'm sure he's told you I've gone to Wood End searching for you.”

“No, he hasn't said anything.” Leo had been a regular visitor to her cottage all summer. “He knows I'm his mother.”

The gray gaze didn't flicker. “I didn't tell him.”

“He said he's always known.” She couldn't help smiling. Now she didn't have to lie, her relationship with her son held new depth and intimacy.

“He's a clever lad.”

“You didn't come here to talk about Leo.” She straightened and sent Erith a hard glare.

She'd forgotten stern looks never got her far. He merely cocked one mocking eyebrow at her. “I'm happy to talk about Leo. I'm in no hurry.” The glint in his eyes grew more pronounced. “Although it's a long dusty ride from London. Aren't you going to ask me in? Offer me a drink?”

“You usually don't wait to be invited,” she said sourly.

She so wanted to be angry, to hate him. But it was impossible when he sat upon his horse with that wicked gleam in his eyes. He looked like the answer to every desperate prayer she'd whispered through so many wretched, sleepless nights.

“Perhaps I've learned some manners in the long, dismal days since you left.”

He didn't sound like the days had been long and dismal. He sounded like he merely made social chat with a distant acquaintance. Then she looked at the dirt and sweat on the horse's coat and remembered how far it was to London.

“When did you find out where I was?” Although she already guessed.

“This afternoon.”

He must have galloped most of the way. It gave the lie to his casual act. He was used to hiding his feelings. So was she. For a brief brilliant moment they'd been honest with each other. But that moment had vanished forever.

“Your horse must need a drink.” To hide the sharpness of her regret, she turned toward the pump and shoved her bucket under the spout with unnecessary violence.

“By all means, care for the animal first,” he said with a trace of irony. She glanced up and noticed a tautness to his mouth that indicated he wasn't quite as self-possessed as he wanted to appear. “Why didn't Kylemore put you up in the manor?”

She began to pump and a satisfying gush of water splashed into the bucket. “He wanted to but I didn't feel that was right.”

“My, you're such a humble soul, aren't you, Miss Raines?”

She sent him a quelling look. “If you want more than your horse to receive refreshment, I'd guard your tongue.”

“Or use it for something more enjoyable,” he murmured.

She pretended not to hear, but a telltale flush rose at the reminder of what he'd done the last time they were alone. As they were alone now. Her maid had gone home for the day, and this house was isolated from the village.

Ungraciously, she plunked the bucket under the horse's nose. As the animal drank with noisy enthusiasm, she glowered up at Erith. “You may as well come in. It's not as though I can keep you out.”

“It's not, is it?” He seemed completely unaffected by her prickly humor. Even the brief uncertainty she thought she'd marked had disappeared. With powerful grace that sent her heart into a careening sprint, he swung himself out of the saddle and slid down to stand next to her.

She realized she poised stock-still, drawing his wonderful scent deep into her lungs. He smelled of horses and dust and fresh sweat and himself.

He seemed in no rush to shift either. And still he stared at her. She started as though waking from a deep sleep. If she wasn't careful, he'd know how appallingly vulnerable she was to him.

Fool, of course he knows. That's why he's here.

She'd had no idea how cruel love could be until Julian was lost to her forever. What painful joy it was to see him. Because nothing had changed. The air had a special charge and the light was brighter and she felt alive for the first time in months.

How utterly tragic, how completely aggravating, that a
man
made her feel like this.

“Come in.” She spoke in a stony tone. “There's ale in the larder. And I suppose you're hungry.”

He sent her a soulful look from those devilish gray eyes as he pulled off his leather gloves. “It's a long ride…”

“From London. I know, you told me.” With a twitch of her skirts and a huffy sway of her hips, she marched toward the kitchen. “Then you can go on your way.”

A single glance over her shoulder told her he hadn't followed. He just stood near the horse, slapping his gloves idly on the side of his breeches. He formed a perfect picture of masculinity, God rot him.

“Go where?” he asked gently.

She paused on the doorstep and shot him a derisive glare. “Back to town. To Maidstone. To Dover. To Hades, for all I care.”

“But it's going to be dark soon. And Bey is tired. So am I. A kindhearted person would offer me a bed.”

Her lips tightened with impatience. With him and with herself. How she wished she could remain immune to his humor. But she'd always been hopelessly susceptible to his teasing. “You're too old for boyish charm to work, Erith.”

“You used to call me Julian.”

“Many things have changed since then. Are you coming in?”

“With pleasure.”

He drew the final word out, and she couldn't block the reluctant anticipation that trickled down her spine. He'd said those very words the first night he came to York Street.

Good Lord, she needed to put a cap on the insidious enchantment of memory or he'd have her flat on her back before she crossed the threshold. Not that she was averse to one last night of pleasure with the earl. But what would it achieve? She'd only be left lonely and longing again when he departed.

She stepped through into the cool dimness of the flag-stoned kitchen. He followed her inside, and her perfectly adequate kitchen suddenly seemed cramped. Not just because he was a big man, tall and powerful. But because of the contained energy he exuded.

“This is nice.” He sat without invitation on the window seat and looked around with unconcealed curiosity. The room was in chaos after her inept attempts at making jam. The air was sickly sweet with the smells of hot sugar and fruit. She tried not to mind but her pride revolted at the mess.

She carried the jug of ale out of the larder and poured him a mug. She passed it to him, careful not to brush his fingers. “You think it's shabby and mean.”

“Thank you.” He accepted the drink and took a deep draft.

She tried not to watch as his head bent back and his throat worked to swallow. He was such an overwhelmingly male presence. Alien in her feminine world. She tried to resent
his invasion of her home. But her heart was too busy dancing with elation at having him so near.

Poor, stupid heart.

Poor, stupid Olivia.

He lowered the mug and sent her a sharp look. “No, I don't. I think it's charming. But it's not exactly how I imagined you living.”

“You imagined I'd take another rich lover,” she said bitterly, although to be fair, what else would he think? It was the obvious route for London's most notorious cyprian.

His lips twisted in a smile that wasn't a smile at all. “I know you better than that.”

She slammed her hand hard down on the berry-strewn kitchen table, suddenly sick of this fencing. “You don't know me at all, my lord. Please state your business and leave.”

“I wanted to see you.” He slid the empty mug onto the table she'd just thumped. “I've sought you high and low since April.”

She swung away and stared blindly into the hallway that led through the rest of the downstairs section. “There's no point to this. I won't come to Vienna as your mistress.”

“Wait until you're asked,” he said softly.

She turned on him with a flash of temper. “Don't pretend you're not here to get me back. You flaunt a fine uncaring air but I can smell the desire on you.”

He definitely wasn't smiling now. “Of course I want you.”

“It isn't…” She paused. “You said you were going back to Vienna after Roma's wedding in June.”

“She didn't marry Renton after all.” He raised one booted leg and linked his fingers around his knee. He might admit unrelenting hunger for her but his demeanor conveyed pure assurance. “I thought you'd have heard.”

“Gossip doesn't reach down here. And none of my London friends know where I am. Except Perry of course.”

“Lying hound told me he didn't know.”

“I made him promise not to tell anyone. Especially you.”