Duke of Scandal (12 page)

She closed her eyes and pinched her lips together briefly. He was intentionally baiting her, but she supposed she couldn't keep it from him. He would know soon enough. After another long sip of champagne, she replied lightly, “Because she blatantly flirted with my husband in the company of anyone, including me.”

Such an admission embarrassed her, and Olivia turned her gaze to the north wall of the ballroom, staring without interest at the row of elegantly carved giltwood mirrors that reflected an array of color and the brightness of a thousand candles.

“I want to dance with you,” he said after a moment, his tone deep and almost caressing.

Relieved that he'd changed the subject, she planted a smile on her lips and inhaled fully as she once again looked up at his face. “You know I'd enjoy that.”

The intensity of his gaze captured hers. “As would I,
Livi.”

She shivered inside from the silky smooth way he said her name, from the odd way he looked at her, as if they shared an intimate secret that was theirs alone and always would be. But it also reminded her of their shared interest in the ball this night, their sole reason for being here.

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, holding her fan in one hand, the stem of her champagne flute in the other. He didn't move, didn't take his eyes off her.

“I have to tell you something that I probably should have told you before now,” she said, her voice carrying just above the din of the party, of the orchestra, which now began playing a minuet. “As much as I…enjoy hearing you call me Livi, Edmund refused to do so, and everybody knew it.” She cleared her throat. “You called me that in front of Normand the other day, though I doubt he would have noticed such a discrepancy since he wasn't around Edmund all that terribly much. But you probably shouldn't use the name when we're around others. Just to be safe.”

He didn't react much, she observed, which meant he didn't understand or perhaps was simply trying to. She shifted from one foot to the other, starting to feel uncomfortably warm beneath her agonizingly tight stays, then took another sip of her champagne.

“You should have told me this before,” he replied seconds later.

She exhaled a fast breath. “I know. It's just that I…” She swallowed. “I—”

“Enjoy it when I call you that,” he finished for her,
repeating her own acknowledgment.

The uncomfortable heat rose to her face, and she opened her fan for the first time that evening, gently swishing it in front of her. “Yes, I admit I do. It's what my mother called me, my father, very close friends. Edmund simply didn't like it. But when you say it, it's…” She glanced around to see if anyone watched the awkward moment between them, noting with relief that the ballroom guests carried on as if they weren't even present in the room. “I don't know. I can't explain it.”

“I can. It's intimate.”

Her eyes shot back to his face. Shaking her head, she explained, “No, it's simply more…informal, familial, and where you and I are…relations, it only makes sense that you would use it.”

He smirked. “But it's also more intimate, and
I
like it. For that reason.”

“I think I would like to dance now,” she said, forcing a pleasant smile.

“However,” he continued, ignoring her subject change, “per your gracious request, I will refrain from calling you Livi when we are in the company of others. Just as from this moment on you will never again—anywhere—call me ‘brother.'”

That completely confused her. He was her brother by law.

“Agreed?” he prodded.

She bit her bottom lip, then acquiesced. “Agreed.”

“And,” he added, lowering his voice and stepping close enough to her that her skirts draped his legs and his head angled above hers, “when we are in any inti
mate situation where I shall be able to call you Livi, you will call me Sam. Not ‘brother,' not ‘sir,' not ‘your grace,' and
never
Edmund. Just Sam.”

She couldn't help but gape at him.

“Unless,” he amended with a shrug, stepping back a bit, “you'd prefer to call me by some other endearment, in which case I would be most…pleased.”

An endearment?
Pleased?

Suddenly he smiled—a breathtakingly gorgeous smile that made her knees weaken.

“Let's dance, my beautiful Lady Olivia,” he said in a near whisper.

Without giving her an opportunity to object or comment further, he took her champagne glass and placed it along with his, which he hadn't touched, on a buffet table two steps to his right. Then he offered her his arm and she placed her palm on it without thought.

He moved toward the center of the ballroom floor as she closed her fan. Then she was in his arms and twirling to the sound of an expertly played and beautiful waltz.

Vaguely, she became aware of others watching them, and she supposed they had to make a striking pair, especially with his enormous height, which, thankfully, she matched without feeling too overwhelmed. He kept his eyes on her, leading her perfectly in time to the music. He was a marvelous dancer, and again the differences between this man and her husband became apparent. Edmund could dance as well as anyone, but Sam remained focused, seemingly absorbed in her; Edmund's mind often seemed to be elsewhere, as if he'd rather be mingling. The more she knew this man, the
more her relationship with her husband troubled her.

“Tell me of your family,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to her ear.

She pulled back a bit in surprise. “My family?”

He smirked. “Let's just say I'm more interested in your past than the perfume flavor of the season.”

She grinned. “They're not
flavors,
dear man, they're
scents.
”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

He twirled her in time to the music, though Olivia noticed that he was gradually moving them toward the balcony doors, for which she was quite glad. She desperately needed the breeze.

“Well then, since we're discussing it, which scent are you wearing tonight?” he asked moments later.

She realized he couldn't care any less, but thankful for the mundane topic, she yielded to his desire to know. “I'm wearing a vanilla-based spice with just a hint of citrus for color.”

“Hmm. Sounds edible.”

She giggled, throwing her head back a little, and with that he pulled her tighter against him, her torso in contact with his so that her hoops pushed out behind her. Being so close was positively indecent, and yet she refused to back away from his powerful embrace. She simply didn't want to move.

“Tell me, darling Olivia, do you…bathe in these fragrances as well?” he asked huskily.

She blinked at him, shocked that he would imagine such a thing, smacking his shoulder lightly with her fan. “That, good
husband,
is certainly none of your business,” she returned altogether too coyly, utterly
enjoying his company, a grin still upon her lips. “And I refuse to allow you to nibble at my skin to find out.”

It took her seconds to realize what she'd said, and then it hit her with the force of a windstorm. She stiffened against him, her eyes widening with concern. She'd gone too far.

“I'm sorry—”

“Just dance with me, Olivia,” he cut in, his tone thoughtful, even remote.

His smile had faded as well but he didn't loosen his grip. If anything he held her tighter against him, his gaze traveling across her face, her hair and shoulders, then pausing briefly at her lips before returning to meet her eyes once more. He felt unbelievably powerful in her arms, his muscles large and solid, harder than she'd imagined, his facial features defined and ruggedly handsome. Irresistible. Such observations made her remarkably breathless.

They slowed their movements to a standstill as the waltz ended only minutes later, though she couldn't bring herself to pull away from him. Not yet. She inhaled deeply to calm her speeding heartbeat as she continued to hold him in her grasp, as she felt his arm behind her at her waist, her gloved palm in his as he held it against his chest, noting how he'd worn the fragrance she'd selected for him and that it suited him divinely.

“Would you like some air?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts of him with a delicate hint of reality.

Immediately, she took a step away from him, her cheeks flushed, her body hot, her senses heightened to levels she didn't at all comprehend. He released her and
she blinked quickly, lowering her gaze to her gown, fluffing her skirts, more for something to do to escape the awkwardness she felt than for any other reason.

Then, as if the lights had been dimmed for hours and were suddenly raised to blaring extremes, she realized they stood on the parquet floor surrounded by party guests who attempted to dance around them.

“Shall we walk, darling?” she asked, her mind whirling even as she lifted her shoulders to express a regal composure never lost, squeezing her fan at her bodice with both hands.

She could have sworn he wanted to laugh. She saw it in his eyes.

“To the balcony, Lady Olivia?” he asked with consummate charm.

Her senses gradually returning, she gave him a tight smile. “Wonderful.” Lowering her voice, she added, “My aunt will be here shortly—she always makes a grand entrance—and I would prefer to delay your introduction as long as possible.” It was a weak excuse, but he seemed to believe it.

He smiled, a truly engaging smile full of genuine humor. “Afraid I might not live up to a husband's expectations?”

She took his arm and they turned toward the large French doors in the distance. “I refuse to even answer that.”

He laughed aloud as he escorted her to open air.

S
am had no idea what the hell was wrong with him, though he hoped a walk in the outside air would clear his head enough to enlighten him. After a week of suffering periods of complete boredom saved only by Olivia's vibrant personality and desire to keep him engrossed in the day-to-day operations of Nivan, for which he possessed almost no interest at all, he was truly looking forward to this night where he could begin to do
something,
or at the very least learn something that would lead him to Edmund. He should be speaking to those who knew his brother, both socially and professionally as the husband of Nivan's proprietor, gauging their reactions, their responses, hoping for a slip of the tongue. Not dancing. He loathed dancing, which made his desire to waltz with her even more suspect in his mind. Instead of being rational and tak
ing this night seriously, he'd thus far behaved like a schoolboy with an infatuation to match the best of them. And considering his experience with women, and the fact that he now neared the age of thirty-five, he really did know better. Even now he should be inside, mingling, talking, even separating from Olivia for a good portion of the evening to learn what he could without her interference, innocent though it might be.

But he had to admit that his brother's wife had left him speechless on more than one occasion these last few hours. First when she stood before him in her apartments, dressed to elegant perfection, stunning him with a profound beauty enhanced by a poise unmatched; next when she laughed at something he said as if she truly enjoyed him; and of course nothing could compare to the rush of sensations he felt when she mentioned the notion of him nibbling at her skin. He tried very hard to rid himself of the vision of her coming to him dripping wet from a scented bath, then letting him taste her warm, soft body over every curve and under every delectable hidden inch of her.

But what disturbed him most of all was the way she clung to him when they danced, the way she fit so splendidly in his arms, the way she looked at him, her eyes full of confusion and desire, probably all beyond her awareness, or so he preferred to think. He wasn't used to a woman being at one moment innocent
and
inviting, especially when he'd never met a woman who didn't want something from him. It occurred to him that Olivia might want him, or more correctly
need
him, in her attempt to find Edmund and save her busi
ness, but only in a strictly naive,
brotherly
relationship. No wonder she felt confused.

The warm night air caressed his skin, helping him relax, to come to terms with this new awareness, to bring his mind back to the reality at hand. She walked silently beside him now after stopping twice, very briefly, to speak to couples she knew socially as they exited the ballroom. He'd followed her lead and acted exactly as Edmund would have, and he had to give her credit for helping him along by saying, “You remember Monsieur Levesque, don't you, darling?” or “I think we had dinner at Madame Valois's estate last September, isn't that right?” To which he replied with all of Edmund's false charm, “Of course, Madame Valois, and aren't you looking as lovely as ever.” Yes, quite the actor, he was. He just wished he didn't have to pretend to be the brother who had ruined his reputation and stolen his lover all those years ago. And now he had Olivia on his arm, Edmund's wife, or so
she
believed. God, what to do with her—

“What are you thinking?”

She'd asked the question softly, her voice cutting into his irritating reflections as she paused by the balcony's edge to glance up at his face, brushing a lock of breeze-blown hair from her forehead with gloved fingers.

He leaned against the iron railing, resting his elbows on top, clasping his hands together as he turned his head to regard her. “I'm thinking I'm a marvelous actor. I should work on the stage.”

She laughed quietly, rotating her body so that she, too, faced the floral array and grassy hillside that
stretched out for miles to the east toward the rising moon. “In some very perverse way it is fun, isn't it? Pretending to be married to sniff out your brother, and what might remain of my inheritance.” She inhaled deeply and lowered her gaze to the fountain, lit up by torchlight and gurgling just beneath the balcony. “We'll probably need to socialize more if we're to learn anything at all tonight.”

He thought they'd learned a lot already, though not a bit of it had to do with Edmund. “I think I'm up to the challenge,” he maintained, rubbing his palms together in front of him.

“Are you,” she stated rather than asked, a note of amusement creeping into her voice again. “Even so,” she carried on affably, “I don't think you should leave Durham for a life with a traveling company.”

He slapped his hand against his chest in feigned shock. “Madam, you wound me. You think I lack talent?”

“Oh, I know you're quite talented.” She gave him a sideways peek, grinning slyly. “I only mean that your…best talents obviously lay elsewhere.”

“Indeed, they do,” he agreed, watching her closely.

After a brief pause, she relaxed into her stays and looked away, her face half hidden in shadow. “I think your best talents are in teasing unsuspecting ladies.”

Her keenness intrigued as much as it surprised him. “I'll have you know, Olivia Shea, formerly of Elmsboro, that I have never, in all my years, been accused of teasing a woman in any flattering manner. I've been accused of being far too serious to entertain them, or of ignoring them altogether. But never flattery.” He very
slowly moved closer to her, feeling her skirts brush against his shins. “So I suppose, in that regard, you are my first.”

“Your first?” She smiled, but didn't look at him. “I rather doubt that, Sam. I'm sure you attract the ladies no matter what you say or do. Your personality is far too magnetic. That's the tease, and where your individual charm lies.”

Sam couldn't recall a time when a compliment warmed him as this one did, and she'd said it as if it were merely a passing thought. “I'm very different from Edmund,” he murmured, feeling an urgent need to stress what they both knew was obvious.

She nodded, turning to meet his gaze again, her own expression thoughtful. “Yes, but Edmund is like most gentlemen—pretentiously charming in the hope of favors, jovial even when they're not feeling that way inside, complimentary not because they want to share their appreciation, but because they want something in return. The sad thing is, it's all selfishly false.” She ran her index finger back and forth along the top of the railing. “The one thing I admire most about you, Sam, is that you're honest. You may be serious to a fault, but that in itself is charming because it's genuine. If there are ladies who don't understand it, or sense that peculiar charm in you, then it's they who have lost.”

Her voice had taken on a contemplative quality, but he had no doubt that she believed what she said, and he couldn't begin to consider a reply. In truth, he found her insight beyond flattering. She was the first woman he'd ever known who made him feel appreciated for who he was as a man.

She remained quiet for several long moments, and he stood beside her in companionable silence. Music from the ballroom drifted outside through the many open windows; occasionally, animated voices or laughter could be heard in the distance. But the two of them were essentially alone, a move he'd planned, choosing a spot as far away from the French doors as he could reasonably lead her.

“You asked about my family,” she said at last.

“I did,” he replied, reveling, oddly enough, in the shared intimacy and her desire to open up to him.

“Well, let's see,” she began. “I am an only child. I knew my mother much better than my father, but then I was a girl, you know, and he didn't think we had much in common.”

Sam wasn't the least surprised, but decided against mentioning that fact. He remained silent, allowing her to continue at her own pace.

She turned her fan around in her hands, staring at it, smiling vaguely at her memories. “When my father died seven years ago, my mother—a Frenchwoman by birth who has extended family here—decided she wanted to return to France. Immediately we were on a ship and back in Paris. It was soon after our return that she met Monsieur Jean-Francois Nivan.”

“The owner of the boutique,” he said for clarification.

She nodded. “Yes, and it had been in his family for three generations. He was a good man, a good stepfather and provider, I suppose, and my mother did care for him, though he was nearly twice her age and in ailing health. But their marriage offered security for both
of us. At his death, my mother became Nivan's proprietor, but as much as she appreciated the social atmosphere the boutique provided, she had no sense for business. When she died two years ago, I took control, making it profitable again and expanding our name across France. This is precisely why the Princess Eugenie buys solely from us now, though thanks to your brother, I'm afraid that could change.”

“How did your mother die?” he asked after a moment.

She sighed softly. “She came down with a nasty bout of influenza. At least that's what her physician said.”

“And that left you alone.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Not exactly alone. I do have family here, though they're scattered about France.” Frowning, she added, “My closest relation is my aunt, and several cousins of Monsieur Nivan's who live and work in Grasse, which has become the center of the worldwide perfume industry in recent years. And I do see them on occasion since I travel there at least twice a year to keep myself abreast of the latest scents and new information within the industry.” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I've been using my inheritance to build our name. Edmund took that from me, and to be perfectly honest with you, Sam, the more I know you, and learn of my husband's secrets and ill intentions toward me from the start, the harder it is to keep from hating him.”

As he watched her struggle internally with a hurt deeply felt, caused solely by his coward of a brother, Sam felt his own anger toward Edmund flame anew. The more he grew to know Olivia, the more he grew to
believe she truly was the innocent in all of this. His logical caution toward her, God help him, was starting to dissipate.

“So I suppose you're also curious as to why I remain in charge of the business?”

He wasn't thinking any such thing at the moment, but he brushed over that. “It is unusual for a lady of your means and social position to be…working, shall we say.”

She smiled again. “My stepfather's brother, Robert, was the beneficiary, and to this day he still owns it, though he lives in Grasse as well. He's very confident in my abilities, and as I adore the work, I'm very dedicated to keeping Nivan one of the top-selling perfume boutiques in all of France.”

“Which might be at risk because you married Edmund,” he interjected softly.

She inhaled deeply, lifting her face to the moonlight as she closed her eyes. “Edmund never understood my dedication. To him, Nivan is a simple store that sells perfumery to spoiled ladies. But he only thought that because he didn't care to understand the trade, and he certainly never understood
me.
” She opened her eyes again and pivoted slightly to look at him. “Nivan has been the only true joy in my life. Knowing every detail of my business, every eccentricity of each loyal patron, and ultimately using that knowledge to operate the shop superbly, has been my greatest personal accomplishment. Nivan, and I, are known throughout France for being the best at what, and how, we sell. Nothing in my world compares to that achievement. Certainly not my marriage, though at one time I confess that I'd hoped it might.”

Sam remained silent for a few moments, admiring her commitment even as he sensed a gnawing, confusing frustration within him for his own lack of dedication to anything in his life aside from running his estate as expected. For the first time since they'd met, he realized what a truly unusual woman stood before him. He'd never known another like her. Not only was Edmund a fool for abusing the gift he'd been given, he'd been heartlessly cruel in stealing that very innocence that, combined with her astute personality, made her unique.

“Olivia?” he murmured, his tone deep and soft.

With resolve, she stood fully upright once more, straightening her shoulders and clutching her fan in front of her. “I'm sorry if I carried on. Would you like to go back into the party now?”

He shook his head slowly, then reached out and took hold of her chin with his finger and thumb.

She tensed, her eyes growing large as they reflected the moonlight in their dark depths. “We should mingle. We—We're not learning much out here alone.”

Her voice caught and he could swear she faintly trembled. She knew what was coming, sensed his desire, and he marveled in it because she made absolutely no attempt to pull away.

“I think we're learning plenty,” he whispered huskily. Then he lowered his head with agonizing control and gently covered her mouth with his.

Sam wasn't sure what to expect in her reaction, but they both knew immediately that this kiss was far different from the first one they'd shared in England. Instead of being shocked by the contact, or squirming for
release, she remained very, very still, allowing him to begin an exploration of her lips with just a soft brush of his. And he took his time, knowing she would need to be coaxed into responding, waiting to embrace her until she realized how deeply he wanted to go.

It took many long moments, it seemed, for her to begin answering the urgency in his touch. When at last he felt her start to succumb, he gradually lowered one arm and wrapped it around her back, palm splayed across her spine, pulling her gently nearer to him. She leaned into his body then, giving herself to the feel of it as her head tilted to one side and she began to kiss him back.