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The idea was unpleasant, but he must consider it. Oliver might want her—but he should not trust her, no matter how much he was tempted.
Chapter 11
The meeting was held at the Mayfair home of the widowed Lady Chapman, an advocate for the London poor who had, according to the Beatty sisters, done much good in that area. Vivianna had promised to attend on their behalf, and although it was exciting to meet Lady Chapman and many other London reformers, she sat through the first part of the evening—which consisted of a lecture by a worthy gentleman on the workings of the workhouse—with her mind on other things.
Ever since her “lesson” with Aphrodite she had felt as if there really was a seductive stranger inside her, looking out on the world through her eyes. Her body had been more alive, more receptive to sensation than ever before. Tonight, when Lil had helped her to dress, she had felt the slip and slide of her clothing as if for the first time, and the hairbrush against her scalp had made her want to wriggle in her chair.
Her body appeared to be more attuned, on the brink of new experiences, and it frightened her, but at the same time she found herself tingling with anticipation.
She had sent Oliver an invitation, with Lady Chapman’s permission. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but she told herself it was the good and sensible thing to do. Possibly his implacable heart might be softened by being surrounded by people who put the welfare of children, such as those at the shelter, to the forefront. He would not come, of course not, but simply receiving the invitation might sway him a little bit, force him to rethink his position.
“Wasn’t it Lord Montegomery who wished to demolish Candlewood,” Lady Chapman had asked quizzically.
“Yes, but I hope to change his mind.”
Lady Chapman had surveyed her with a cool, curious stare, and then she had smiled. “I think,” she said, “that you could do anything you put your mind to, Miss Greentree.”
Now Vivianna hoped she was right.
The gentleman finished his lecture on workhouses. As he bowed in response to the polite applause, Vivianna had the oddest sensation. As if someone behind her were watching her. For a moment she did nothing, telling herself she was imagining it, but the feeling persisted, and at last, unable to resist it, she turned her head to look.
Her breath caught, her heart began to pound.
Oliver Montegomery, elegant in a black evening jacket and white shirt, the effect rather overpowered by an aquamarine satin waistcoat, was staring at her. Unsmiling, unmoving, he was standing near the back wall.
For a moment their gazes tangled and locked, and Vivianna felt a blush warming her cheeks. That he was here was a good thing, wasn’t it? And yet she had a strong feeling that, as their eyes had met, he, too, had been thinking of their time together in the coach.
Vivianna took a breath, steadying herself. Mrs. St. Claire, seated on her right, made some innocuous comment and she replied, but she could not later have recalled what she said. Oliver was here. He had accepted her invitation. Why had he come? Had he realized the error of his ways? Well, of course, that must be it….
But she knew that wasn’t it at all. Oliver had come here because of her. Aphrodite was correct. He was attracted to her. He had her scent, and he was hunting her like a wolf hunted its prey.
Or its mate.
Vivianna felt the nerves in her stomach jump and her hands tremble before she remembered. Oliver wasn’t hunting her; she was hunting him. She wasn’t his prey; she was a she-wolf, as fierce and determined as he. The seductress inside her began to stir.
The next speaker’s voice droned on, and Vivianna tried to listen. But now that she knew Oliver was there, it was as if she could physically feel him. Her sense of him heightened, and she allowed herself to feel with her body rather than her mind. On impulse, she allowed her Norwich shawl to slip a little, disclosing more white flesh, and wondered whether from where he stood he could see the rise of her breasts above the line of lace upon the neckline of her plum-colored dress, and the way in which her breathing had quickened.
Her mouth curved into a smile, and she lifted a gloved hand and brushed it across her cheek, smoothing a truant curl behind her ear. She was wearing earrings that bobbed when she moved, pearls set in gold, and she touched one, playing with it.
Oh yes, she could not see him but she knew he was there. Her body felt him—the seductress inside felt him, and called out her soft, winsome song.
Oliver knew he was tense. He shifted a little, and observed that he could now see more of Vivianna Greentree—the delicate curve of her cheek, the plump rise of her breasts, the way her chestnut hair tickled her nape in feathery ringlets. It wasn’t enough, of course. He should have known that coming here would only be an exercise in frustration for him. And she seemed to know she was safely out of his reach. He could have sworn she was teasing him—the way her fingers were playing with her fleshy earlobe—but it seemed so unlikely that he dismissed it.
She was probably just concentrating on the lecture. The meeting. Damn her, she had managed to get him to one of her damned meetings after all! Not that he had heard a word of it. He’d been far too engrossed in Vivianna.
More applause, and then their hostess was announcing that supper would be served and after that another lecture from another worthy gentleman. Oliver tried not to groan aloud. He could leave, he supposed, but that would mean missing out on speaking to Vivianna.
Look at her, he thought crossly. She was already surrounded by gentlemen who knew more about soup kitchens than they had any right to. Were they really interested in her conversation or were they just there to gaze into her hazel eyes? Oliver felt disgust at himself for the thought, but he couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t help a great many of his thoughts and actions since he had met Vivianna Greentree.
He
moved closer, until he was near enough, if he had wanted to, to reach out and touch her. Her scent filled his nostrils—lavender and woman. The pulse in her neck was beating beneath the skin, and he had the urge to bend his head and suck upon it. Put his mark upon her, just so that everyone in the room knew she was his. She knew he was standing behind her, didn’t she? She must know. Then why was she continuing her damned conversation with the bore in the blue jacket? Did she enjoy the company of such men? Oliver, his irritation growing with every second, was on the point of rudely interrupting when she finally turned.
Her hazel eyes lifted to his and she regarded him quizzically, but her lips were curved in a little smile that told him she was pleased to see him. “Lord Montegomery,” she said, and lifted her hand to rest it upon his bicep. And left it there, lightly, so that he barely felt it through his clothing. But that butterfly touch was enough to heat every part of him. Oliver forced his eyes from her delicate, gloved fingers and met her bright gaze.
“Are these things always so tedious?” he said grumpily.
Vivianna raised her dark eyebrows. She leaned forward, so close he could see down her cleavage where the shadows promised him a rare treat, and whispered, “Shhh, it is for a good cause.”
