Duke of Scandal (16 page)

Olivia felt her nerves ignite, her body tingle through every tremor that whipped through her, her whimpering a din from a world of instantaneous pleasure. And then he covered her breast over her sheer cotton nightgown and she could no longer stand.

He sensed her weakness, held firm to her wrists as
he shoved his knee between her legs to help support her. She moaned low and long when he began flicking his thumb across her nipple, encouraging him with a lust she could no longer control.

At last he pulled away from her mouth and she leaned her head back, gasping for breath, her eyes tightly shut. He kissed her cheek, her chin, and neck as his palm and nails caressed her breasts, one after the other, with arduous determination.

She panted; he responded in kind, his breath hot and heavy and rapid against her neck, her cheeks and ear. He gently bit her lobe, and with a low, throaty moan she instinctively rubbed herself against his thigh, encouraging him with the uncontrollable response. He inhaled sharply, squeezing her nipples, rubbing them with his thumb, expertly caressing her with one strong hand.

“God, Livi,” he said in a pained, muffled voice against her ear. “Let me give you what you need. Let
me
…”

She jerked against him, her short, little mewls echoing through the bare, dark kitchen in a wordless plea for fulfilment. He took her mouth again, hungrily, forcefully, granting her desire. And then he dropped his hand from her breast and reached down, pulling at the hem of her nightgown, lifting it handful by handful, tugging until it gave way from between their legs. Then, as no man had ever done before, he traced a line of exquisite fire up one bare thigh until he reached the point of his desire, her hidden pleasure.

Olivia squirmed against him, suddenly afraid, and yet wanting his touch beyond all sanity. When at last
she felt his fingers graze her intimate mound of hair, a flicker of shame shot through her, only to pass quickly into oblivion as he slipped between her delicate folds and began stroking her slowly, gently, her wetness coating his fingers.

He pulled his mouth away from hers. “Feel me here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, ragged, against her cheek. “This is what you need.”

His movements summoned exquisite sensations within her, pushing her beyond hearing anything but the pounding of her heart. Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned quietly, pressing herself against his fingers, her head shoved back, letting him take the full weight of her arms above her.

With deliberate slowness he caressed her, slipping one finger inside of her and then out again, and then picking up the pace to meet her demand, resting his cheek against hers, his forehead on the wall, kissing her ear, brushing his nose in her hair. She met his rhythm, panting, her mind screaming for him to stop, beseeching him to probe deeper and give her everything.

Suddenly her body tensed against him. He moved his mouth to hers, sensing her fulfillment, driving one finger inside of her as she thrust against the others.

“Oh no,” she breathed against his lips, “Oh, no…”

“Yes,” he answered with urgency. “Let me feel you come.”

Her eyes shot open. “No…”

He pulled back to watch her, his teeth clenched, his gaze melding with hers. “Oh, yes…”

It hit her then, a shockwave of forbidden ecstasy that
exploded deep within, making her cry out, causing her body to shudder through each crest of intense pleasure, through each measured pulse that squeezed his finger and left her breathless.

She gasped. “Sam—”

“I'm right here,” he whispered gruffly, soothingly, “watching, feeling everything.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at him, unable to comprehend what she'd just done with him, what he'd done to her. He continued to touch her, keeping the sensation alive and tingling, his fingers moving faintly, almost lovingly, as he seemed to relish in the hot, slick moisture that now poured out of her with each easing ripple of gratification.

Finally she stilled, forcing herself to calm as he slowly released her wrists so she could lower her arms to her sides. He continued to hold her pinned against the wall with his body, and for the first time Olivia became acutely aware of his rigid need pressed against her stomach. She tried to ignore it as she kept her eyes tightly closed, as she attempted to slow her breathing, her racing heart, tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, though she could feel the tenseness and heat emanating from his body, knew he was attempting to remain in control as he once again leaned in to rest his forehead on the wall, his flushed cheek grazing hers. She moved one knee toward his thigh, uncomfortable with his hand still between her legs, and at last he withdrew, allowing her nightgown to fall in a bunch to the floor.

Mortification overwhelmed her as her mind gradually cleared and she realized what he'd just done to her—and how wantonly she'd reacted to his touch.

“Don't,” he said weakly, sensing her sudden desire to flee. “Don't go yet.”

Olivia couldn't speak, didn't want to, but she remained perfectly still as he asked, unsure what to do, what he expected from her at this moment.

His breathing continued to come in rasps, but he'd edged his body sideways enough to allow her to inhale deeply and steadily, which in turn kept her from shaking.

Emotions she couldn't at all understand raced through her mind—a thousand and one of them that trapped her, made her feel at the same time vulnerable and alone, cherished and admired, afraid and devastated, and more than anything, charged with an almost paralyzing wonder.

He shouldn't have done this, and in a way she hated him for taking advantage of her. She hated him almost as much as she trusted him, needed him, and everything he did for her.

She couldn't help the tears this time. They welled up in her eyes even as she kept them tightly shut—tears of frustration, anger, hurt, even longing for unfulfilled dreams. He could have taken her, had wanted to be with her intimately, and yet he hadn't forced her to do anything but betray her own body. And at this moment, still embraced by him, still recovering from a blissful turmoil, she despised him as much as she wanted him again, in every way.

At last, in a husky murmur, he broke the silence.
“You asked me why I kissed you tonight.”

She shook her head minutely, incapable of responding.

“Livi,” he whispered, rubbing the tip of his nose along her ear, “I kissed you because everything about you begs me to.”

“No,” she breathed.

He inhaled fully, and gradually pulled away from her, though even with her eyes closed she could feel the heat of his gaze on her face. And then she felt his fingertips gently glide along her brow, down one cheek, wiping away her tears.

“You're so soft, so beautiful,” he whispered in a gruff, faraway voice. “Please—”

But she'd already moved to the side, quickly, knocking the pantry with her hip and rattling her beautiful porcelain teapots as she skirted past him toward the door, away from the shame and confusion, leaving him alone in the silent, dimly lit kitchen.

C
laudette paced the floor in her parlor, absolutely furious.
Furious.
Never had Edmund treated her with such disdain as he had last night. Oh, she supposed he'd been himself when they danced, if not a bit aloof, which she assumed had to do with her finding him returned to Paris without notification, just like a naughty puppy with his tail between his legs. But to disregard an open invitation to her room went far beyond anything he'd ever done before. In all the years she'd known him, he'd never denied her the pleasures of the bedroom. Discovering, after a thorough search of the ballroom at one o'clock in the morning, that he'd left with his
wife
at just past midnight had completely enraged her. She couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and had arrived back at her suite just before eight that
morning, surprising her entire staff with her untimely appearance as they all stared at her with open mouths.

True, she undoubtedly looked a fright, as her expertly pinned coiffure had come loose during her coach ride home, and she still wore her ball gown, now wrinkled. But then she had every right to be upset! First she learns that Edmund returned to Paris unannounced, and then she finds the two of them alone on the
balcony,
of all places, sharing their own little tête-à-tête as if there were no one else on earth! If she had never been jealous of Olivia before last night, nothing compared to the surge of emotions that coursed through her upon finding Edmund beside her, bodies nearly touching, heads tipped together as they engaged in intimate discussion. She'd
never
seen Edmund so clearly enraptured by anything Olivia had to say, and the second she came upon them by moonlight, she fought the urge to rip the little minx to shreds with her perfectly painted nails. Or better yet, walk to Edmund's side and kiss him soundly in front of Olivia's pretty, innocent eyes, laying claim to him, letting her know at last that the man she thought she married was, in point of fact, already taken and had been for years. But, alas, good breeding reigned and she'd restrained herself to the best of her ability, reminding herself with gleeful satisfaction that Edmund might be pretending with Olivia, but it would be
her
bed he'd be lying in come dawn. His ignoring her demand for a late-night sexual interlude had been the final blow.

Now, after what she could only view as a purposeful, spiteful avoidance of her, she didn't know what to do. She needed to talk to him, to learn exactly how much had been accomplished in Grasse before Olivia found
him, and then just exactly what transpired between the two of them in the days leading up to last evening's fiasco. His explanation of staying in his faux wife's good graces and returning to Paris with her made sense, and yet…it didn't. Edmund never did anything without her consent, or at the very least informing her, especially something as vital and delicate as this. More importantly, she knew, just
knew,
that he couldn't possibly be finished courting the Govance heiress.

After hours of careful consideration, she decided she had no choice but to confront him at Nivan, where he likely was at the moment, curled up in her bed. God, she didn't know what to do without telling Olivia everything, without admitting her part in this incredible fraud. Oh, she wanted to, but then what? Where would that leave her? Very probably imprisoned, a situation in which she simply refused to find herself. Still, Olivia would need to prove fault on her part, and Olivia certainly still believed that she and Edmund were married or she wouldn't have been so cordial last night, or quite so attached to him.

But for now she could think of only one thing to do, and that was to see Edmund and make certain he hadn't decided on his own to bed darling, little Olivia. And the only way she could be sure of that was to catch them off guard, together, in her niece's apartments.

That resolution in mind, she grabbed her parasol from the coatrack by the front door and swiftly headed for Nivan.

 

The storefront looked deceptively vacant upon her arrival. Normand stood at his usual post by the front
display case, tallying receipts or some other such business. He looked up when the door opened, then fairly gaped at her, as surprised as her staff, apparently, at seeing her wide-awake and moving about the city before luncheon.

Planting a smug smile on her face, she said, “I'm here to visit the happy couple.”

He immediately clamped his mouth shut and closed the black receipt book. After glancing around quickly to make certain they were alone, he walked out from behind the glass case and came toward her.

“Madame Comtesse, how lovely you look today,” he said, honoring her presence with a slight bow.

She scoffed, knowing she looked horrendous from lack of sleep and no morning toilette, though she had no time to argue his ridiculous comment. Closing her parasol with some fuss, she replied, “I know my way to her apartments, Normand.”

“Oh, of course, madame,” he muttered, popping up onto his toes, his hands clasped behind him. “But you'll not find her there, I'm afraid.”

Claudette started, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He gave her a half shrug. “She isn't here. When I arrived this morning, Madame Carlisle was on her way out.”

“Out?” Her eyes narrowed with malicious intent. “Out to do what? Where?”

He frowned deeply. “I've no idea, though she was quite plainly in a hurry. And she had baggage brought down and carried a large valise.”

Claudette's brows drew together. “
Baggage?
And
what time was that, dear Normand?” she asked too sweetly.

“Oh, about…nine or so.”

“Nine,” she repeated flatly. When he offered nothing else, she asked, exasperated, “So her husband is upstairs alone?”

He shook his head. “No, actually, he left just after she did.”

She missed him? No longer wishing to hide her annoyance, she threw her hands wide, knocking the glass display case with her parasol. “Well, don't make me wait, where did they go?”

He gaped at her in feigned shock, then placed one palm wide on his expensive linen shirt. “Madame Comtesse, surely you realize it is not my place to ask.”

Claudette felt her face flush with renewed anger. She could think of no greater satisfaction than to strangle the information out of him. Little ant. But before she dared begin a tirade of vile comments, the door behind her swung wide as two large ladies entered, clearly a mother and daughter, talking and laughing between them, disrupting her delicate interrogation.

Normand applied a charming expression to his face and quickly turned his attention to them. “Madame et Mademoiselle Tanquay. How wonderful to see you this bright morning. I will be with you shortly.”

She didn't have time for this. “Normand—”

“Madame Comtesse,” he interrupted, rotating back to her, “may I speak with you for a moment in the salon?”

Claudette's mouth opened a fraction in surprise, then she caught herself and smiled satisfactorily, realizing that he finally might actually have some useful
information to share. “Of course,” she replied, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, then turning her back on him to lead the way.

He followed closely behind her, and as soon as they entered the semiprivate sitting room, she turned on him again, her bearing composed, her expression hard with impatience. “What do you have for me, Normand?” she demanded curtly.

He took his time, rubbing his jaw with his palm as he glanced over his shoulder, peeking around the partially drawn red drapes to check on his customers, now engrossed in the little sachets of various scents on the shelf behind the display case as they sniffed and chattered.

Claudette waited, her irritation growing, knowing his reluctance to engage her was purposeful as he made her anticipate the information—for which he would no doubt expect a reward. She truly despised him.

At last, he gave her his full attention. “I know something…” he drawled, his voice lowered.

“Of course you do,” she snapped. “You couldn't possibly think I'd step back into this ugly red salon for champagne and seasonal scent sampling with you.”

That snide remark didn't daunt him at all. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “I'll need to be compensated, naturally.”

Normand the ant. So predictable. “What is it?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer to her. “I particularly like that diamond bracelet you're wearing.”

She followed his gaze to her left wrist where, in all its glory, dangled twenty karats of exquisite stones, purchased for her by her first husband some fifteen
years ago. It was by far her best piece of jewelry, worn to only the finest occasions, as last night's ball was supposed to be. His suggestion, his apparent belief that she'd even
consider
giving it to him, appalled her beyond description.

“You can't be serious,” she seethed in astonishment. “You have clearly lost your mind, Normand, if you think I'd stand here and give you diamonds—
these
diamonds—for little bits of old news.”

He sighed with exaggeration, shaking his head as he glanced down to the tips of his shiny black shoes, rubbing one back and forth across the carpet.

“I think, madame, that I might reconsider if I were you. The…uh…information that I alone possess is quite probably worth it.” He looked back into her eyes. “At least to you.”

For the first time since she'd known the man, he actually gave her pause. She didn't think she'd ever seen him so arrogant, so sure that he held her under his command, at least for the moment.

“What is your point, Normand?” she asked very carefully, making it clear by her gravely soft voice and rigid stance that she wasn't to be toyed with any longer.

He tossed a look over his shoulder again, stalling. Then he leaned toward her and murmured, “I believe I'd like the bracelet first.”

She absolutely could not believe his audacity. Tipping her head to the side, she sneered. “Tell me where they are, where they went, and I'll consider it.”

He snickered and scratched his side whiskers. “Oh, Madame Comtesse, I know so much more than that.”

Again he'd startled her, and she blinked quickly,
looking him up and down, her features contorted in disbelieving disgust.

“The bracelet?” he said again, holding his hand out, palm up.

She wanted to kill him—but not before she found out what details he actually held; his self-satisfied grin alone expressed the urgency about what he knew, which in itself told her much. He never would have demanded anything of such great personal value to her without good reason. Normand might be a sorry little bastard, but he wasn't stupid.

Tossing her parasol on the velveteen sofa behind her, she practically ripped the diamonds from her wrist. “You know I'll get it back,” she warned with a scathing glare. “I'll have you arrested for theft.”

“Oh, no, I don't think so,” he countered at once, amiably. “I'll have it picked apart and sold in pieces before noon. I have…acquaintances, shall we say, who do that. For a small fee, of course.”

She hated him. She really did. Nostrils flaring, her face tight with rage, she threw the bracelet at him hard, hitting him in the chest, where he caught it easily with one hand.

“Tell me,” she demanded through clenched teeth, squeezing her hands into fists at her sides.

He waited, purposely defying her as he raised the jewels up for inspection, each diamond reflecting rays of sunlight from a nearby window as he twisted it around with his thumb and forefinger.

“Normand, I swear to you—”

He snapped his palm over the bracelet and grinned. “Perhaps you'd like to sit.”

She leaned into him. “Tell me now, you little toad, or so help me I'll stab you in the throat with my parasol and leave you here to bleed to death on this ugly red carpet.”

That threat didn't even make him blink. He continued to smile at her as he said matter-of-factly, “I'd be willing to bet this lovely piece of jewelry that they're both on their way to Grasse.”

She gasped, gaping at him. “That's
it
?”

“Noooo…”

Claudette was ready to explode, her temper made worse because he knew it.

“Now think, Madame Comtesse,” he continued very quietly, his eyes narrowing as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his morning suit. “Why do you think they'd travel to Grasse?”

Something troubling started gnawing at her, deep in her gut, making her waver, a notion as yet undefined. “Why do
you
think they're going there, Normand?” she returned, her voice deadly tight.

He inhaled deeply and bopped up on his toes again. “I think they're on their way to confront the man they believe is Olivia's husband who is now in the process of attempting to swindle Brigitte Marcotte of Govance.”

Claudette just stared at him, then shook her head in tiny movements, thoroughly confused. And then, like a clap of nearby thunder, the truth sliced through her and she jumped back from him, wide-eyed and stunned beyond all thought, caught up in a storm of pure disbelief.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as the room started to spin before her.

With an agreeable air, Normand asked, “Would you like to sit now?”

She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Her legs gave way beneath her and she tripped on the hem of her skirt as she backed up a step, falling onto the sofa, her derriere plopping down on her expensive parasol without notice.

It took several long, painful seconds for her to come to terms with such a staggering and potentially perilous development. She just stared at the carpeting, shaking as she began to perspire from head to foot, began to understand what had taken place without her knowledge, without her insight, began to understand what would soon be happening in Grasse, as she sat here blindly ignorant, piecing together the horrible truth.