A knock sounded on Oliver’s study door. “Enter.”
“My lord, the man you’ve summoned is here.” Burk stood in the doorway, a question in his gaze.
“See him here, Burk.”
Burk bowed, then disappeared. Moments later, a squat, heavyset man with a thinning head of straw-colored hair entered his study. Oliver had requested a man who was skilled in investigating and had discretion. Oliver motioned for him to take a seat.
“Mr. Willis, tell me you’ve found her,” Oliver said.
The man handed him a piece of foolscap. “Not exactly, my lord. But I do have a list of possible women.”
Oliver took the proffered list. His brows pinched together as he scanned the contents, then he reached for a pen in an inkwell in the corner of his desk and proceeded to cross off two names out of five.
“Lady Somersby and Miss Lorenz are not who I’m searching for.” He knew both women from his family connections, and the mere notion that they were Lady Scarlet was ludicrous. His frustration grew, and he was discouraged and irritated. For a man who’d never had trouble forgetting a lover, it was disconcerting. Something about Lady Scarlet was unique. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was the way she made him feel that was different.
Fierce, fiery, and free. Free of the guilt of his brother’s death. His father’s cruelty. His heavy responsibilities as the new earl. Her awkwardness in the bedroom had intrigued and aroused him, and for the first time, he lost his tightly reined control. Rather than regret it, he’d enjoyed it and wanted that feeling again. He’d experienced a connection with Lady Scarlet that he’d never had in the past and he wanted more.
Craved more.
Unfortunately, Lady Penelope roused none of these feelings. She would make a proper lord’s wife, and she had many childbearing years before her. She was titled, mild-mannered, well-bred.
Entirely and utterly boring.
He knew he was harshly judging her. After all, who could compare with Lady Scarlet? But knowing he was being unfair to the former did not satisfy this deep-seated need to find the latter.
Oliver tapped his fingers on his desk’s blotter as he looked at the investigator. “Was your search based on my criteria?”
“Yes. A well-spoken Englishwoman with a possible Middle Eastern or Mediterranean background.”
“That’s correct.” Oliver was convinced Lady Scarlet had come from a mixed heritage. Arab, Greek, Egyptian came to mind. Her curly hair had been a glorious mahogany, almost as dark as midnight. He’d never seen an English woman with a similar color and texture. And her silky skin had been smooth, luscious, and entirely devoid of body hair.
And virginal.
Even now, days later, the image made his body harden in lust. He’d lain in bed thinking of her, reliving their night together. The lush skin between her thighs had glistened with arousal. For him.
A different image rose in his mind. Hazel eyes. A hideous gray crepe gown and lace cap.
Lady Penelope’s chaperone. Her eyes were the right color, but everything else about her was wrong. The stiff posture, the pursed lips, the disapproving glare.
Then why did he keep thinking of her?
The chaperone distrusted him, but he supposed she was doing her job of guiding her young charge, no matter how ridiculously overprotective. But he’d caught a flash of more than mere distrust in her gaze.
She despised him.
Why? It made no sense. Unless she was someone who had spent the night with him, who was incensed that he then appeared at her home the following day to court her charge.
His instinct told him there was more to her than what one saw at first glance. Could that be it?
He pictured the chaperone once more. The tight bun could not contain unruly wisps of dark, curly hair that protested the lace cap. She was as tall as Lady Scarlet, but no one could discern whether or not she had curves beneath the heavy crepe fabric.
What was her name?
Green? Garber?
No! Miss Gardner.
A heightened anticipation struck Oliver’s chest—one he hadn’t felt since first spotting a lady dressed in red at a notorious brothel.
“My lord? Shall I keep searching?” Mr. Willis asked.
“No. I shall get back to you.”
He couldn’t wait to pay Lady Penelope another visit.
…
A kiss on the base of her spine stirred Ana. Splendidly naked, she turned over and met a muscular male chest. Strong arms held her as his lips trailed a heated path down her neck.
She arched her back and wantonly offered her breasts. “Oh, yes. Please kiss me there,” she whispered.
Teeth grazed her right nipple, then her left, leaving her aching. His hand followed down her abdomen to brush the throbbing secret bud between her thighs that left her panting for more.
Her eyes fluttered open to meet dark eyes. “Remove your mask.” His voice was deep, powerful.
With trembling fingers, she untied the laces behind her head and then took off the mask. She lay naked before him, exposed in every way.
A flash of anger clouded his fierce face. “You! You can no longer hide from me.”
No. No. No.
He put his hands behind his head on the pillow, his eyes dark, fiery, and gleaming with lust in the candlelight. “Come take what you want, what you need.”
Ana moaned and rolled over. The rustle of her coverlet slipping to the floor woke her.
She sat up in bed. A sheen of perspiration dotted her brow, and her heart beat swiftly in her chest. The dream had been vivid and lurid.
She hugged her pillow to her, her breasts still tingling from the memory of his touch.
Why him? Why the Earl of Drake?
She had betrayed her family in the worst way.
Traitor! A snake of betrayal wound its way around her heart and into her head, squeezing, suffocating. Still, no matter how hard she tried and even knowing who he was, she could not forget him.
Oliver had already occupied her waking thoughts.
And now he’d invaded her dreams.