Page 39 of Mesmerized

“All right. If you want to write him, I will send a servant with the letter to London to give it to your uncle. I would appreciate any help we can get. I feel as if I have wandered into a madhouse. That charade in the garden the other night seems like the merest trick now.”

“Very well. I will write Great-uncle Bellard immediately.” She stood up.

“Olivia...” Stephen reached out a hand, then dropped it uncertainly. “That dream—what happened—I—” He hesitated, his eyes searching her face.

There was something—a heat, an intensity—in his gaze that made Olivia weak in the knees. She knew she ought to leave the room. He had a devastating effect on her senses, and she could not help but remember what Pamela had told her about his fickle ways. He was dangerous in a way she had never experienced before. It would be safer, much safer, simply to remove herself from his presence.

Yet, as he reached up and curved his hand over her cheek, leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I should not...” Stephen said, his thumb softly sliding over her cheek. “But when I look at you, I seem to forget the rules of gentlemanly behavior.”

“My family has rarely conformed to rules of behavior,” Olivia replied a little breathlessly.

A smile lit his eyes. “Then that is very good for me, isn’t it?”

He leaned closer, and as his lips touched hers, all thought left Olivia’s head. Instinctively, her lips returned the pressure of his, and he let out a groan deep in his throat. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her up into him, and Olivia went with them eagerly. His body was hard and muscled against her soft curves, and her own body responded to the feel of it.

Their kiss deepened. Her arms went around his neck, and she clung to him, savoring the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the enveloping warmth of his body. When at last his mouth left hers, he kissed his way down the side of her neck, nibbling gently at her skin. His hand slid up her side and gently cupped her breast. Olivia drew in a sharp breath of surprise and pleasure. She wanted to know more, to feel more. She slid her hands slowly up the back of his neck until her fingers intertwined with his hair. It slipped through her fingers like caressing silk, igniting the sensitive nerves of her hands.

He kissed the hollow of her neck, his tongue delicately tasting her skin. Olivia shuddered, heat exploding in her abdomen. He felt her body quiver against him, and he made a low, animal noise of pleasure against her throat. Gently he squeezed her breast through her bodice, his thumb rubbing over the center, making her nipple tighten in response.

His mouth returned to hers, and he kissed her hungrily, their lips melding. Olivia felt as if she would melt against him, her body all fire and hunger. Finally, with a groan, Stephen tore his mouth away from hers, stepping back and half turning away. He plunged his fingers back into his hair, holding on to his head tightly, as if he could thus control his wayward passions.

“Sweet, bloody hell!” he cursed softly. He drew a deep breath. “I think I understand how he felt—that knight—risking it all for her.” He glanced back at her. “I apologized before. I suppose it becomes meaningless when I cannot seem to keep from taking liberties...”

Olivia clasped her hands together, trying to bring her own scattered emotions under control. “There is no need to apologize. I—” She looked down, unable to meet his eyes, as she said candidly, “I found it quite enjoyable.”

She whirled and hurried from the room, leaving St. Leger standing there, staring after her.

* * *

THE DAY WAS GRAY, the weather cooler than it had been the first few days she had been there, but Olivia sought the refuge of the garden anyway. A stroll in cool, moist air would be just the thing, she thought, to chase away the fevers in her head and flesh. She had been impossibly bold, she knew—well, not bold, for she was afraid she was more shy than bold; her words had simply been the truth. However, in society, she knew, the truth was often the last thing one should say. Lord St. Leger had doubtlessly been shocked at her words, which were not the sort of thing a lady would say. She had frequently been told that what a gentleman did and what a gentleman expected of a lady were not at all the same thing.

Of course, Lord St. Leger did not seem like other men. He was easy to talk to, straightforward and plain speaking. He did not indulge in the sort of aimless social chitchat at which Olivia found herself remarkably inept. Nor did he talk to her as if she were deficient in understanding, or waste her time with flowery compliments and meaningless flirtation. Indeed, now that she thought about it, he had on more than one occasion been actually rude. He was not at all the kind of man Olivia would have labeled a flirt, and she would have found it hard to believe what Pamela had told her if it had not been for the fact that she could not imagine a woman like Pamela saying that any man had rejected her if it had not been the truth.

She frowned as she walked, wishing she was more adept at this man-woman thing. Someone like Kyria would no doubt know whether St. Leger was a flirt, and what a woman should do and say if a man had kissed her as Stephen had kissed Olivia. A small smile played across Olivia’s lips as she tried to imagine any man having the nerve to do such a thing to her sister. She wished quite fiercely that Kyria were there now, so that she could ask her advice.

“Lady Olivia!” A cry came from off to her right, and Olivia turned her head to see Belinda waving at her from the other end of the pathway.

Belinda started toward her, and Olivia turned with a smile to meet the girl halfway. “I am surprised to see anyone else out for a stroll on this gloomy day.”

Belinda laughed. “I love the weather. It means autumn’s coming, and that is when I love Blackhope the best.” She gave a little chuckle and admitted, “Except, of course, for the spring, when I am sure that I love it even better.”

“You are very fond of your home?”

“Oh, yes. I love it. Every man I met this season, I would think to myself—would I leave Blackhope to marry him? And, frankly, I did not find any for whom the answer was ‘yes.’”

Olivia smiled. “Well, I feel sure someday you will.”

“Perhaps.” Belinda shrugged.

“So you have never felt that the place was, well, the abode of ‘lost souls’?” Olivia asked teasingly.

Belinda made a face. “No. The séances are all very well, you know. I find them exciting. But I’m not sure that I actually believe Madame Valenskaya.”

“I see.”

“You don’t either, do you?” Belinda went on. “I can see it on your face, though you try to be polite about it.”