Olivia knocked impatiently on the front door of number 2 Parson’s Street, invitation in hand. She wasn’t certain if this was the Duke of Durham’s residence or only that of a friend with whom the man stayed while in the city. She’d learned from Lady Abethnot that the man spent most of the year secluded in his Cornish estate near Penzance. But he’d asked her here for dinner, in a hastily written note, to discuss their “mutual predicament”—whatever that was—and she had quickly consented to the summons. If dinner was to be served, all the better.
Her first impression of the outside of this rather large stone town house was one of amazement that a person could fairly “hide” a home of this size and elegant beauty in the middle of a busy city street. Granted, whoever owned the property lived in a very good neighborhood, but its deceptive appearance was no doubt caused by the manner in which the house stood back, well shaded by trees and sculpted shrubs that lined the cobblestone walkway from the edge of the drive, where she’d stepped from the cushioned coach he’d sent for her, to the gas-lighted entryway. The scents of spring were in the air, insects buzzing at the coming twilight, and she breathed deeply of the gentle fragrance of a wide variety of roses mixed with juniper and a tinge of leftover rainfall. Such intoxicating and refreshing scents would normally instill a moment of calm—if not for her extreme nervousness at seeing him again.
The door opened at that precise moment, startling her from her attempt at relaxing thoughts. She straightened her spine instinctively to acknowledge the butler, dressed formally in black on white, but before she could utter a sound or offer him her invitation, the man gave her a slight bow.
“Lady Olivia,” he said with wide, thick lips that hardly moved. “His grace is waiting for you in the dining room.”
“Thank you,” she replied, walking into the town house as he stepped aside for her.
She wore no shawl, as the day had been quite warm, and so she handed him only her bonnet, then smoothed wayward strands of hair into the uptwisted curls loosely piled atop her head.
“This way, if you please,” directed the butler, who still offered her no name of his own, as he turned and began to lead her down a dimly lit corridor.
Olivia didn’t hesitate; she wasn’t afraid in the least. Beside herself with nerves, perhaps, but definitely not afraid. She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked with confidence across a dark marble floor, expensive and covered with forest green and burgundy colored Persian rugs. The inside of the house awed her even more than the outside, decorated in various hues of gold, red, and bronze and containing a wealth, it seemed, of imported furniture and accessories, its style distinctively masculine. If there’s one thing she knew already about the Duke of Durham, it was that he had exquisite taste and plenty of money—or his friends did. He smelled good, too, even without cologne, something she’d never considered about a man before. Every man she’d ever known had worn cologne, including Edmund.
She shook herself of such ridiculous thoughts. Why on earth she thought of the way he smelled at a time like this was beyond her imagination. Tonight she needed, above all things, to remain focused.
With her stolen company funds and the precarious future of Nivan front and center in her mind, Olivia immediately forced herself to concentrate on the meeting ahead as she walked into the dining room. The aroma of oranges and roasted game struck her at once, as did the pleasing atmosphere of thick burgundy carpet, painted walls of teal and brown, polished furniture in dark cherrywood, and the warmth of a slow burning fire.
Then she noticed him, and her heart actually skipped a beat or two—before it began to race with a tinge of discomfiture and a flair of uncertainty.
Focus, focus, focus.
The Duke of Durham stood next to the grate, one elbow of his very tall frame resting on the thick, oak mantel, holding a half-filled glass of amber liquid between his long fingers, the other hand in the pocket of his trousers, which managed to push his frock coat away from his body. Her gaze naturally fell there first, to his expensive, white silk shirt pulled tautly over a strong, broad chest. His clothes—black over white—were expertly tailored to fit his unusually large body, his cravat the only piece of color to adorn him in a shade of emerald green, and of course everything he wore only spoke of quality. She now knew to expect nothing less from this man, and for the first time she began to wonder why Edmund felt the need to go to great lengths to steal her fortune when his brother had such a good one of his own. Then again, maybe that was just precisely why.
At last she glanced to his face, and thoughts of her husband instantly vanished. Although he looked like Edmund in mere physical appearance, the Duke of Durham was nothing like his brother in expression or bearing. Where Edmund was jovial and friendly, this man exuded power and intensity, a force to be regarded with the gravest of purpose. Both men were handsome beyond words, but where Edmund was flirtatious, this man certainly wasn’t, in any manner.
He looked at her, his gaze suddenly locking with hers in a frank, marked intention to intimidate, radiating an energy of its own that almost startled her.
Olivia shivered within, pausing with rapid clarity of thought. He didn’t trust her at all, she realized from that one, biting glare from his deeply brown eyes. He didn’t trust her—and yet he asked her here tonight, which meant he believed that she knew his brother, whatever their relationship might be. She had hoped for more, but, at the very least, his obvious acceptance of her, however uncertain, was a start, she supposed.
Tensely, attempting to overcome her mounting anxiety by taking a deep breath, Olivia allowed her wide satin skirts to clear the doorway and fall gracefully around her as she stepped farther into the dining room, nodding once to the man whose gaze began to scan her very, very slowly from head to foot.
“Good evening, your grace,” she said as pleasantly as she could, wanting to set a congenial tone, like a brother-to-sister discussion, though her voice sounded tight to her ears and her cheeks felt overly hot from his candid inspection of her person.
“Olivia,” he drawled, making her very ordinary name sound far too…sensuous.
She squirmed a little in her stays and laced her fingers tightly together in front of her. “Thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
One side of his mouth curled up. “It is the least I can do for the woman who claims to be married to my brother.”
Claims? She’d given him the marriage license to inspect, for heaven sake. What more proof could he possibly need? And his obvious use of the word “woman” instead of “lady” piqued her even more. If he’d been any other man, she would have put him in his place. He wasn’t stupid, and such careful usage implied that she lied. And that was an assault on her character. Watching him now solidified her argument that he wasn’t to be trusted any more than he evidently trusted her.
Standing rigidly, her expression flat, she remarked, “My goodness, your grace, you are such a flatterer.”
He blinked quickly, visibly surprised by such a comeback, and to her great amusement he looked genuinely confused. That made her smile in satisfaction. If he expected her to be like every other female he knew, intimidated and frightened into submission by his haughty…dominion, then he was in for a wickedly sad treat.
Gently lifting her skirts again, she sauntered toward him, her expression tepid despite her nerves. “Is this lovely home yours?” she asked, her tone as mundane as the question.
He took a swallow of his drink, his gaze never wavering from hers. “No. It belongs to a friend.”
“Ah. Of course.”
His brows drew together fractionally at that. He had no idea what she implied by that comment, but he refused to ask. Stubborn man. But then he looked stubborn.
“Would you like a sherry?” he offered flatly, pulling away from the fireplace at last.
“Please,” she replied, stopping short as she approached him.
With a final glance down her form, he turned and walked to a large, polished sidebar behind the dining table that was already set beautifully for two in burgundy lace and white Sèvres china.
“Is he also Edmund’s friend?”
“He was.”
She watched him reach for a decanter, lift the top and begin to pour a small amount of amber liquid into a sherry glass. The man certainly wasn’t gifted in the art of conversation. “What is his name?”
He didn’t answer for a moment as he put the crystal decanter back in its place. Then he turned and moved toward her again, her drink in his outstretched hand. “Colin Ramsey, the gentleman you met at the ball, but I don’t suppose Edmund ever mentioned him or you would have acknowledged that.”
She frowned minutely as she accepted refreshment from him, mindful not to touch his fingers as she did so. “No, Edmund never mentioned anyone in England save you, and even then you were only the vague older brother whom he said remained jealous of his good fortune. I just assumed you were old and married, living in the country and caring for a brood.” She paused, then added almost insolently, “He never said you were a twin.”
“And you didn’t find that rather odd?” he asked seconds later.
“That you aren’t old and married, or the part about being a twin?”
He snorted, then took a sip of his drink, his gaze lingering on her. “That he didn’t want to discuss me.”
“Yes, of course I found that odd,” she admitted honestly. “But the few times I asked about his family and former friends, he gave me a quick answer, then changed the subject jovially enough for me not to really concern myself with what I now think was evasiveness.”
“It no doubt was,” he remarked wryly. “When one is running from something, or someone, he usually doesn’t want it discussed.”
She took a sip of very tasteful sherry, desperate to have questions answered but not wanting to appear too anxious. “Well, since he at least mentioned you, I suppose I’m relieved to know he wasn’t running from you.”
The man’s dark eyes narrowed significantly, and Olivia had to admit she felt rather proud to have irritated him. He wasn’t certain if her words were spoken facetiously, or if she really had no idea how Edmund despised his brother, and she was glad to have the upper hand, at least in one regard.
After a long moment he took a step closer to her so that he stood near enough for her to notice the stubble on his firm jawline. In any other gentleman she would have been annoyed that he hadn’t bothered to shave again for dinner. In this man it seemed almost…distinguished. In an alluring sort of way.
“Am I that fearful, Lady Olivia?”
She shook herself, annoyed that she’d let her thoughts stray.
Focus!
“Fearful?” She held her shoulders back rigidly. “Fearful of what?”
He laughed. A solid, deep laugh of honest enjoyment.
It startled Olivia so much she almost dropped her sherry. The Duke of Durham was positively gorgeous when he laughed.
Moments later, his amusement subsiding, he gazed forcefully into her eyes and murmured, “In the past, madam, I’ve been more fearful to bold ladies who’ve learned I’ve discovered their lies, however small.” He leaned toward her slightly and lowered his voice. “Or however extravagant.”
It took several seconds before she could react to such a telling statement. Then grinning purposefully, she said, “I’m so glad to know you’ll continue to be your charming self with me, then.”
He tried not to smile again, but failed halfheartedly, and she couldn’t help noticing the small dimple in his right cheek—a facial feature Edmund surprisingly lacked. Suddenly she was enjoying their bantering. She cocked her head in his direction as if they shared a secret. “But just to guard myself, your grace, who are these bold ladies?”
Without pause, his smile hardened into a line of sharp bitterness. “Frenchwomen, Lady Olivia. I’ve never met one I trusted.”
He wasn’t enjoying her any longer. And in fact, with the look of sheer contempt etched into his countenance from just that one, innocent question, she realized he would never trust her, or even like her because of her duel heritage. She wished she knew the reason behind his animosity, though it wouldn’t make one slight bit of difference in any relationship they might have. She didn’t care much for him, either. Arrogant ass.
With a snicker, Olivia took another sip of sherry and turned away from him, fairly gliding across the carpeted floor toward the far end of the dining table, knowing instinctively that his gaze followed her every move. Reaching out with a delicate touch, she slid her fingertips along the hard, polished surface then rubbed them gingerly on a lace napkin. “So, in using such…refined logic, I suppose you think that at least half the time you’ll not know if I’m telling you the truth. Pity that.”
He didn’t immediately respond, as she thought he might if for no other reason than to avoid an increase in the awkwardness between them. Finally, after a few lingering seconds of silence, she glanced back at him through lowered lashes, noting with a kind of odd pleasure that he seemed to be scrutinizing every bit of her—from the dark curls that framed her face and sat dressed with pearls on top of her head, to the line of her jaw and the curve of her bosom, to the intricate details of her expensive, scarlet satin evening gown. And he liked what he saw. As a woman, she knew that instinctively.
Olivia felt a sudden twist of knots in her stomach, a flicker of something undefined creep under her skin. She’d never felt such a charged response, this sort of…knowingness, with Edmund. The feeling startled her as much as it confused her, since not only was this man standing across the room, but just seconds ago she’d come to realize how much he didn’t like her, wouldn’t trust her, and resented her entering his obviously well-ordered life.
“You certainly know how to tease a man, don’t you, Lady Olivia?” he murmured in a husky timbre, the intensity of his words slicing into her thoughts.
She raised her brows fractionally, trying her best to control the moment by keeping it civil and pleasant. “Tease? In what manner am I teasing you, sir?”
His dark eyes narrowed, and in one quick motion he finished off his drink, placing the empty glass on the fireplace mantel. Very slowly he said, “I didn’t necessarily mean you were teasing me, madam, at least not right now, or with intention.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to stroll toward her, eyeing the carpet as he spoke with some contemplation. “I mean, rather, that everything about you—your refined, haughty look, your elegance, your obvious…glamour—is molded with perfection and triggered into action by desire on the part of a man, any man.” He glanced back into her eyes as he moved to her side once more. “Whether you created this image yourself or were molded into such a stunning creature by God is unknown, and probably irrelevant.” He lowered his voice to a deep, hard whisper to add, “You’re a product of beauty, Olivia, just like the perfume you market, and naturally I’m very impressed by it, as you no doubt intended me to be. But a product is still a product. I won’t be deceived by it.”
Deceived? Did he think she was trying to deceive him? His insults—regardless of the fact that he mixed them with compliments—inflamed her. He had intentionally cut into everything she was as a woman, defining her mere appearance as something to actually be wary of. Olivia couldn’t remember a time when she’d been accused so despicably by a gentleman. Still, she refused to move away from him, to succumb to his overbearing nature by cowering, or to react as he likely expected and slap his enigmatic, handsome face. No, she was better than he assumed her to be, and she intended to prove it to him. He expected her to be frivolous and narcissistic, as he seemed to think all Frenchwomen were, but instead she would show him restraint with balance.
Eyes flashing defiance as they penetrated his, she placed her sherry on the tabletop beside her and tightly laced her fingers together in front of her. “Thank you for your gracious compliments, sir,” she said with feigned sweetness. “I’m so glad you appreciate my efforts to look my best when in the company of others.”
His cheek twitched once, but he offered nothing in reply.
Thoroughly smug, she smiled to add, “But as you know, products can be bought and sold, I cannot. Remember that.”
Seconds ticked by in brutal slowness as he stared down at her boldly, and for the briefest of moments she feared he might dismiss her—or grab her and shake her senseless.
“Did you love my brother?”
That quietly asked question certainly came out of nowhere, and frankly startled her. Eyes widening, she pulled back from him a little, still unnerved by his proximity and enraged by his audacity, and finding it extremely difficult to understand his sudden change in subject. “I beg your pardon?”
His lip twitched with a very tiny, knowing grin. “I asked you if you loved my brother. We’ve had three conversations about him now, about the fact that he married you and stole your fortune, about your desire to find him at any cost, but not once have you mentioned a love for him.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m intensely curious.”
Olivia could feel her face turning scarlet under his scrutiny, probably the same shade as her gown. After a solid inhale, she maintained, “Of course I did.”
For seconds the Duke of Durham simply stared into her eyes, his features hard, his expression unreadable as he apparently gauged her rather staid response, perhaps even hoping for more, which she wasn’t about to offer. Particulars were none of his business.
And then, beyond her wildest imaginings, he did the unthinkable. He grasped her chin with one strong hand, and as he lifted it, he brought his lips down to hers—not in a crush of passion, but in a simple connection, a subtle touch of tenderness that defied the moment of exasperation between them.
It took Olivia what felt like days for her to come to the realization that he was actually kissing her. Momentarily stunned, she tried to shake her head free of his, groaning in protest as she drew her hands up and pressed them forcefully against his silk dinner jacket, attempting to shove him away. He reacted by placing one of his large palms on the back of her head and holding her steadily against him as he strengthened the bond of his mouth on hers, lightly caressing her lips until she had no choice but to succumb.
She did, with a fading measure of reluctance and a whirlwind of emotions suddenly swimming through her, making her legs weak and her body come alive beneath her corset. He radiated warmth, smelled divine, and tasted…heavenly. Pure magic. And then, just as she felt ready to melt into his arms and open completely to his urging, he gently released her, slowly pushing her face away from his, though managing to graze the pad of a finger or two across her lips as he did so.
Olivia gasped for breath and, after a moment, opened her eyes, staring at the fine threading of his waistcoat as she remained careful not to look up at him.
Oh, God, he had kissed her. On purpose. And he…he was a marvelous kisser.
Immediately, guilt and regret flooded her senses and she took a step away from his powerful physique. “Are you insane?” she whispered.
He inhaled deeply. “Momentarily,” he admitted in a husky murmur.
“You had no right to do that,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I am married to your brother.”
“And I have every right to challenge your purpose in bringing that fact to my attention, madam.”
Her head shot up with intention to verbally attack his character. Instead, for the first time, she became aware of just how affected he’d been by their embrace. She swallowed, unnerved by his flushed face, his labored breathing, the intensity of his heated gaze as it clung to hers. Just the knowledge that he’d been physically stimulated by the simple touch of her lips to his confused her.
“How on earth was kissing me a challenge?” she asked in whispered fury.
Without hesitation, he said, “You’re attracted to me.”
Just as you’re attracted to me.
“You are insane. And a cad,” was all she managed to enunciate, her fluster limiting her ability to rationally consider a profound reply to a statement so laughable if it weren’t so disturbing.
He almost smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re not the first Frenchwoman to tell me that.”
She placed her palm on her heated cheek. “I’m certain I’m not the only Englishwoman to tell you that, either.”
He didn’t respond, just looked her up and down again very slowly, his features hard and distrusting. After a moment of waiting for something—anything from him—Olivia took another step back and turned, shifting her gaze to the loosely drawn drapes, the pads of her fingers on her lips as if to block them from his scrutiny.
After seconds of unbearable awkwardness, at least on her part, he thankfully walked away from her, toward the dining room door, and pulled on the thick bronze rope to ring the bell for service. Three footmen entered almost at once, their hands filled with food on silver trays, which they began laying atop the oak buffet against the far wall, never glancing at either of them as they worked silently and professionally.
Olivia wasn’t certain if she felt grateful for the interruption or annoyed by the sudden presence of others, regardless of the fact that servants were supposed to be invisible. In her experience they gossiped, though at this point she decided a trifle gossip was the least of her concerns.
Suddenly the butler entered and began speaking with the duke in muted tones. Olivia took the opportunity of his distraction to try to compose herself, inhaling a few deep breaths and straightening her skirts with calming hands, willing her speeding heart to still.
Her brother-in-law stood handsomely tall and stately, now seemingly unaffected by their brief encounter as he continued to offer instruction, she assumed, to the butler, who nodded in obedience. At last their conversation ended and the servants all departed without a glance in her direction, closing the door quietly behind them, leaving the two of them alone once again to dine casually on obviously exquisite fare, serving themselves and conversing as if nothing at all had just happened. Ridiculous notion.
He looked at her openly again, rubbing his jaw with his fingers and thumb. “Shall we eat, dearest sister?”
Olivia fairly rolled her eyes. Could his sarcasm be any more blatant?
She smiled sweetly, though she no longer felt like eating. “Of course, your grace.”
With a tepid smile, he motioned to the steaming buffet with his hand. “Please. We have much to discuss.”
He wanted a discussion now? God in heaven, the Duke of Durham had just kissed her. No explanation, no warning, and she had liked it. She had liked it terribly—enough to make any conversation they might have extremely uncomfortable, at least for her. It occurred to her suddenly that such a despicably pleasurable action might have been planned from the beginning to disconcert her, thereby giving him the advantage in any discussion they might have. If that was the case, the poor, arrogant man would be in for a true challenge of female proportions. He just had no idea who he was dealing with, and that would serve her purpose.
With a sweep of her skirts and a polite nod, Olivia grinned and walked elegantly to the waiting food.
He couldn’t possibly be more angry with himself for taking advantage of her like that, for using the situation to his benefit by confronting her not with words, but with overt lust. And yet he still wasn’t convinced she’d been all that surprised. She had come into his life, after all, and certainly with her own plans of attack. Yet tonight she had surprised him. Instead of storming out of the house, or breaking into tears, or even just slapping his face like any other woman might, she’d managed instead to remain composed, sitting across from him now, eating orange duckling and chestnut stuffing with grace and charm after a shockingly simple kiss that even she knew had numbed them both. The Lady Olivia Shea was different, an astute female, one who apparently enjoyed matching wits with the gentlemen in her life, and Sam wasn’t sure if he approved of her unusual nature or not. Not that his feelings were relevant in the least at this point.
“How is your dinner, Olivia?” he asked pleasantly.
She glanced up from across the table as she delicately piled stuffing on her fork with her knife. “Delicious, thank you. And how is yours, your grace?”
He grunted at her stilted demeanor. “Perfect.”
She smiled agreeably and sliced once more into her roasted game. “You’ll have to mention to your friend that he’s employed a marvelous cook. Is he here this evening?”
Sam had to shake himself from actually cursing aloud. Such a pointless and banal conversation. “Let’s discuss that rather enticing kiss we shared instead.”
He watched her hesitate for only a fraction of a second, her fork halfway to her mouth. Then, without looking at him, she lowered it and remarked, “If we’re going to talk about something besides the weather and the food, I’d rather discuss Edmund and what you’re going to do to help me get my funds returned to me.” She sat back and patted her mouth gently with her napkin. “I’ve been away from Nivan too long as it is, your grace; I need to return home soon to oversee my business. Though being a man of inherited wealth you may not completely understand that.”
Although she impressed him with her ability to appear self-possessed and focused on her task in light of his somewhat improper suggestion, Sam nevertheless felt insulted from nothing more than the simple smile on her pretty pink mouth. Oddly enough, her feigned confidence both disgusted and aroused him.
Shifting his chair, he placed his own knife and fork on his plate and relaxed against the cushion, resting his elbows on the armrests as he eyed her carefully. “I have a proposition for you, Olivia.”
She raised her wineglass to her mouth, swallowed a sip, and licked her lips. “A proposition for retrieving my money, I’m assuming,” she said rather than asked, lowering her glass back to the table.
This time her pleasant assurance absolutely did annoy him, though he refused to let her have the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead, he nodded slowly, pursing his lips in apparent thought. “Perhaps, although I’m not certain you’ll be so smug with yourself after hearing my thoughts.”
Her mouth dropped open a bit, then closed again to form a tight line. “I am not smug, but that’s beside the point, your grace. Frankly, what you think of me is irrelevant.”
“The point is,” he explained, darkening his voice with intensity as he sat forward, “what we think of each other is less important than what we can do for each other in this matter, Olivia.”
Her smile gradually faded as she cocked her head to eye him carefully. “What we can do for each other?”
He cleared his throat, raising his wineglass and studying her over the top of it. “You need my help, and after considering all the options, I’ve decided to help you.”
After a long moment, she maintained, “I need my funds returned to me, which is my primary concern. You seem to enjoy sidestepping that issue, but the fact that you are my husband’s brother makes you responsible for his deceit. I believe I’ve been more than clear in this matter.”
“Oh, you have,” he replied, drawing the glass to his mouth. After a swallow, he added, “But I have specific reasons for finding my brother, and you’re the first person in years who’s claimed to recently see him and spend time in his company.”
Her eyes flashed in irritation. “Actually, I recently married him.”
He almost grinned. Her comment fed directly into his merging thoughts. “Yes, you did, and strangely enough, I’m beginning to believe your claims.”
She straightened in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Should I thank you?” she asked sarcastically, and obviously perturbed.
He did smile then, in anticipation, though as much as he wanted to answer, he managed to brush over that question. “I propose that we look for Edmund together, Lady Olivia, in France.”
She didn’t reply at once, just watched him dubiously. Then very slowly she asked, “How do you suggest we do that exactly? Where would we start, and who would chaperone us on this quest? And why France? Since he’s stolen from me, one can only assume he’s left the country.”
Sam drew in a long breath, relishing this moment even as his pulse began to beat in his temple from pure anticipation. “I think we should start in Paris because that’s where he was last seen. We can trace his movements, visit those he knew, those with whom he socialized. If he was involved with other people in this scheme to swindle you of your fortune, we’ll catch them off guard.”
She huffed. “Who on earth would be so despicable?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve no idea. But the best place to find out, the best place to start looking, is in Paris.”
She thought about that for a while. “I assumed he’d return here, to his home, his family.”
“Edmund would never return to England,” he replied sharply.
Her brows rose. “How do you know this, sir?”
He adjusted his large form in his chair, not yet ready to reveal too much about his past when he didn’t yet trust much of what she said. “Suffice it to say I know how my brother thinks.”
She almost snorted. “Yes, well, I thought I did, too.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Then he murmured, “We’ll go to France, start there anyway, to see if anyone reveals his whereabouts because they’ll think I’m him.”
“What do you mean they’ll think you’re him?” she asked with slowly building suspicion.
“You are married to a man who is my twin, Olivia,” he murmured gravely, stressing that point to hit home. The side of his mouth curled up. “Whoever he’s involved with will certainly be shocked to see me with you after he’s swindled you of your fortune. It’ll stir the bees’ nest hopefully, and in turn draw out some information.” He paused, then added matter-of-factly, “Unless you have a better idea.”
It seemed to take a long time for her to understand his so-called proposition, to come to terms with exactly what it was he suggested they do. And then, instead of becoming indignant or shocked, her mouth turned up in amusement.
“You’re serious,” she murmured.
He took another sip of wine to prolong his answering. “Oh, I’m very serious, which is why I kissed you. If I am to pose as Edmund, you and I will have to act like we’re married.” After a pause, he added, “There’s an attraction between us, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
She stilled, her features going flat, though her eyes widened with incredulity. Sam waited, enjoying the moment immensely.
“I’m…speechless,” she whispered seconds later.
He lifted his fork again and speared a bite of what remained of his orange duck. “Speechlessness is good in a woman, I think.”
“You’re despicable to even suggest that we—” She coughed, then swallowed. “—that we—”
She couldn’t finish voicing her thoughts. He remained silent, drawing her fears out as long as he could, for absolutely no other reason than the fact that he enjoyed watching her face flush and her body squirm from the mere thought of the two of them becoming intimate. And he knew she was thinking about just such an act now, as she blinked quickly, then looked away uncomfortably, then reached for her wineglass and finished off the contents in two unladylike swallows.
Sam placed his elbows on his armrests and tented his fingers in front of him, giving her time to visualize everything, relishing the feel of his own body reacting as it should from the idea of seeing her spread out on the sheets and beckoning with her sultry blue eyes for him to take her. Of course that would never happen if she still loved Edmund, and the two of them were in fact legally married, but it was a marvelous thought nonetheless.
At last she shook her head as if to clear such disturbing thoughts from her mind, then smiled matter-of-factly and looked at him directly. “Of course we cannot—”
He raised his brows. “Cannot?”
She never moved her gaze. “We cannot be indiscreet, your grace.”
He had to admire her boldness, even if her comment could mean any number of things. “Of course not, Lady Olivia. You are my responsibility as my sister by marriage and I take that very seriously.”
She relaxed in her chair minutely, nearly smiling with a measure of relief. “I’ve no doubt.” Seconds later she admitted, “Aside from a few details to be worked out, it sounds like a decent start, considering what little information we have. When do we leave?”
Sam tried not to appear stunned at her sudden approval of his plan. It struck him then that under different circumstances he might actually like this woman and all her mischievous charm and apparent intelligence. Her indescribable physical beauty would only be an added bonus. He couldn’t say that about any other lady he knew. In fact, as he considered it now, he’d never known a woman who came in such a tightly wrapped package of fascinating glamour, power, and smarts. And this one belonged to his brother. If it weren’t so laughable, it would have infuriated him.
“We leave Saturday after next,” he replied, a bit too harshly, turning his attention back to his food with a forceful fork.
Again she paused, likely trying to assess his change in mood. He only wished he could tell her how uncomfortable she made him under the circumstances, but to do so would be admitting an inappropriate lust. He’d rather just come across as mad.
“Thank you ever so, your grace,” she retorted, her sarcasm all but slicing the air as she lifted her fork as well. “You’ve been more than generous.”
He didn’t glance up as they began to eat again in silence. She didn’t understand his animosity, and frankly, he wanted it to stay that way. The less they liked each other, the easier, and faster, this trip would be.
At least that was his hope.