Once Upon a Wicked Night (3 page)

And there it was. The second closed door on the left. Pausing in front of it, Jonathan glanced at her, the question as clear as cut crystal in those deep blue eyes. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Yes.” The word came out on the merest breath of air.

He turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.

It was exactly as it had been before. A small balcony room that looked out over the ballroom. Curtains on either side of the balcony were tied back with heavy, tasseled golden ropes. A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. Two chairs, upholstered in the same red velvet as the curtains, furnished the room.

Jonathan’s fingers slipped from the door handle. The two of them stood there, mute, staring at the place where their lives had taken a turn both of them had regretted for so long.

Serena swallowed hard. “It hasn’t changed,” she said, her voice rough with emotion.

Jonathan shook his head. “No.”

His hand moved down to hers, enclosing it in his firm grip, his warmth passing through the layers of their gloves. Slowly, he stepped inside, tugging her along with him. Serena took a quavering breath and followed. Behind them, seemingly of its own accord, the door swung shut on silent hinges.

They were alone. Jonathan released Serena’s hand and turned to her.

“I remember that night,” he said, his voice low. “I wanted you so much…”

“I felt the same way.”

“I couldn’t get enough of you, Serena. I still can’t.”

She gazed at him. She couldn’t get enough of him, either. She was older now. Calmer, and more mature. But her desire for this man was a living thing within her. It would never go away.

The kiss was as inevitable as her next breath. His lips came down on hers, featherlight and seeking at first. Soft and warm, and on simple instinct, her lips opened to him. She gave a little gasp as she tasted him, dark and warm and masculine. His hands slid around her body, drawing her so close she felt like she was a part of him.

The touch, the soft intensity of him lit a slow simmer in her belly that spread to her nerve endings, tightening the tips of her breasts and heating her between her legs.

Someone moved outside. Someone spoke. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. And memories of that horrible moment of discovery flooded back into Serena, cold and bitter. Her heart surging, Serena placed her palms on her husband’s chest and pushed him back.

“Stop!” she whispered, the sound emerging more like a sob than a command.

He let go of her instantly and simply gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes narrow but glittering with heat and need.

Then, he said in a low, angry voice, “It doesn’t matter.”

She gulped in a breath, still terrified by the fear of discovery. “What doesn’t matter? What do you mean?”

“It never mattered. We were so stupid to believe everyone who told us it did.” He shook his head, his lips—his beautiful, soft, full lips—turning downward in disgust. “We let them convince us that what we did here was wrong and unprincipled… But it was just us, together, exploring all those newfound sensations, learning about each other…”

And she understood exactly what he meant. If it hadn’t been for the intrusion of others who’d condemned them for their actions, Serena and Jonathan would have remembered what they’d done in here as special. As a symbol of how they felt for each other—then and now. Instead, they’d been persecuted—and that wasn’t too harsh a word, considering what both of them had been through, she thought—for years over it.

Their punishment had far, far outweighed their crime. Except love, in the way that she and Jonathan loved each other, should never be considered a crime.

Serena reached up and cupped her husband’s face in her hands. He must’ve shaved before coming here tonight because his cheeks lacked the roughness she could usually feel under her gloved hands this time of day.

“You’re right,” she told him, her voice no longer shaking with fear of discovery but with the certainty of conviction. “It should never have mattered. We were both so wrong to let others’ judgments get in the way of that.”

Jonathan closed his eyes, then reopened them. They shone dark, like the deepest stretch of sea between England and the West Indies.

“I love you,” she whispered. And, truly, nothing else mattered.

She drew him into a kiss. His warmth and his strength enveloped her as his tongue brushed over the seam of her lips, softening them, coaxing them to open. When they did, she touched her tongue to his, and his taste became a part of her. They fell into a kiss so deep and so warm that she sank into it like the softest blanket. It wrapped around her luxuriously, sweetly, deeply. His hands stroked down the curve of her waist, then to her front, brushing over her breasts, over her nipples that were so wildly sensitive she gasped as pleasure rocked her, the sensation powerful even through the layers of her clothing.

“Serena,” he whispered. The rigid length of his arousal pressed against her hip, just like it had that night before he’d opened his falls and set her over him on one of those red velvet–upholstered armchairs. She’d lowered herself over him, and, oh, the pleasure…

The memory sent longing pulsing through her, and she bit back a low moan.

He bent his head, pressing soft kisses on the delicate skin of the swell of her breasts peeking out above her bodice. She threaded her hands into his hair, closing her eyes as the silky strands whispered through her gloved fingertips.

And Serena knew that if her husband wanted to take her now, on the chair as he had seven years ago, she’d have him. With pleasure.

Olivia and Lord Fenwicke made a slow circuit around the ballroom, peering into each adjoining room as they passed, nodding and greeting people they knew. It seemed Lord Fenwicke was acquainted with everyone, and though everyone they encountered was polite and outwardly congenial, Olivia felt a strange undercurrent in the conversations, something dark and dishonest that she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

She was glad that none of the people lingered to talk—they all made her uncomfortable. Instead of joining in the brief conversations, she sipped at the remainder of her champagne, feeling positively languid as she drifted along on Lord Fenwicke’s arm. When they’d gone in a complete circle, Lord Fenwicke stopped at the punch table and plucked up two more glasses.

Olivia shook her head when he held one of them toward her. “Oh, no, thank you.” She felt odd enough already—tingly and light; another glass and she’d likely be doing somersaults across the ballroom.

Although that might not be such a bad idea. What was so wrong with somersaults? At the moment, she couldn’t remember. She used to watch her sisters have so much fun leaping about and doing somersaults. Mother had never let her join in.

She shook off the thought and steeled herself. Regardless of whether she could remember why it was inappropriate, somersaulting across the ballroom was a bad idea, a
very
bad idea. She pressed her hand to her hair and felt that, despite her many tight turns with Lord Fenwicke on the dance floor, her bandeau was still pinned firmly to her head.

Lord Fenwicke handed the glass he’d offered her to a passing servant and took a sip of his punch. “Well, it appears your family has disappeared.”

Gnawing on her lower lip, Olivia glanced around one last time, though she knew the effort would be futile. “I don’t know where Jessica’s gone, but my sister and Jonathan—Lord Stratford—had mentioned going upstairs.”

“Ah. Have you been upstairs yet?”

“Not yet.”

“There are several lovely rooms up there. I’ll be happy to show them
all
to you.” His dark eyes gleamed at her. He was teasing her, but why? No, it felt like more than teasing; it was something predatory, a
suggestion
… but of what?

Her inexperience was bad enough, but topped with the glass of champagne… oh, dear. She needed to focus.

She did just that as he took her arm again and led her along the edge of the dance floor to the massive, curving mahogany staircase. At the top, they stopped on the large landing, near where the orchestra had begun another quadrille, and looked down into the ballroom.

Olivia couldn’t find any words to describe the
enormousness
of the scene below her from up here. The ballroom resonated with luxuriousness the likes of which she had never seen in Antigua. The ladies wore stylish gowns with large, puffed sleeves and wide skirts of every color imaginable, and the men, in their black waistcoats, white shirts and cravats, and shiny black shoes, were regal and elegant. Dozens of crystal chandeliers illuminated the scene, and their lights sparkled off the jewels in the ladies’ ears and chests and headdresses.

“Welcome to London,” Lord Fenwicke said in a low voice.

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “It’s… marvelous.”

“It certainly is.” He gave a low laugh, but it seemed to be tinged with bitterness. How odd, Olivia thought. He didn’t seem like a bitter man.

He took her arm again. “Come. I want to show you something.”

He led her around the orchestra and down a long gallery, the walls of which were covered with portraits from front to back and top to bottom, all, no doubt, of the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s esteemed family members. Couples and small groups were scattered here and there along the gallery, admiring the portraits. But Lord Fenwicke didn’t linger. He hurried her along until they came to a tall, narrow door at the end of the gallery.

“In here,” he murmured, opening the door for her and gesturing her inside.

Curious as to what could possibly be so interesting that he’d rush her through the gallery and past so many other rooms, she went inside. He followed her in and closed the door behind them.

The small space wasn’t really a room. It was an alcove with a balcony overlooking the ballroom. Olivia had never been to the theater, but she imagined a box at the theater would look something like this, though she figured there must be chairs in a theater box, and this room was devoid of furniture. Red curtains tied back with golden ropes draped both sides of the rounded balcony, allowing the light from the ballroom below to give the room a soft glow.

Olivia looked up at Lord Fenwicke, her brows drawn together in a questioning expression. Keeping his thin lips pressed together, he smiled at her. “What do you think? This is one of four rooms overlooking the ballroom, but since it is at the far end of the gallery, it is the most private.”

Her confusion deepened. She didn’t really want to be “private” with Lord Fenwicke.

“Is it?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. Her eyes cut toward the door, but Lord Fenwicke was standing between it and her, and she couldn’t push past him and exit from the room without seeming utterly rude.

Lord Fenwicke stepped toward her, and she took a corresponding step back.

He cocked his head to the side. “This is what you want, isn’t it, Olivia?”

She blinked at him, at the presumptuousness of him calling her by her given name. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you wanted to be alone with me, here. That’s why you danced so close to me tonight, rubbing your provocative little body against mine. That’s why you asked me to lead you up here.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid—”

“I can give you what you want. I can give you an education you’ll find entirely worthwhile. You’re hungry for my touch, Olivia. I can feel your hunger. Sense it. I’ll give you what you need.
Everything
you need.”

His arms snaked around her, and he dragged her close. So close, she could feel the ridge of his erection through her skirts, pressing against her belly.

“No!” she whispered. Terror swept through her, paralyzing her.
But he’s married. He’s married!
The thought kept running through her mind, over and over, a steady drumbeat of denial.

But there was no denying his lips coming toward hers, ever closer. His breath smelled of oysters and champagne. At the last second, she turned her head, and his mouth, wet and hard, collided with her jaw, leaving it wet as his lips trailed down her neck to her shoulder, sucking and licking and nipping.

“I’ll take your clothes off and lay you down,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ll take you. Hard, Olivia. So hard, you’ll feel me for a week.”

Uncontrollable whimpers emerged from her throat. She was shaking so hard. She was frozen with shock and terror. He was touching her in an intimate way she’d never been touched before, and it was
wrong
, so wrong.

He’s married!

His fingers skimmed along the edge of her bodice, and then his whole hand plunged inside, his knuckles scraping over the top of her breast. He found her nipple, captured it between two of his fingers, and pinched.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no more than a gasp emerged. She couldn’t scream. If she screamed, people would find them. Even though he should be blamed, even though she’d never intended for this to happen, she was the one who’d be shunned, ostracized, branded a whore. She knew
that
much from her mother’s teachings.

Forcing her limbs to obey, she reached up and placed her hands flat on his chest.

“Oh, yes.” He blew into the hollow between her shoulder and neck. He ground his pelvis against her lower stomach.

She gathered her strength. Then, with all her might, she pushed.

Her thrust surprised him, and he stumbled back a step. She ducked under his outstretched arm and sprinted for the door. It was only a few steps away, but just as she reached it, he grabbed her, his long fingers curling around her arm in a grip so hard, she gave a low cry of pain.

“I’m a marquis, if you recall,” he snapped at her, as if it were unthinkable she’d reject the amorous advances of a man of his status regardless of whether the advances were welcome.

And then rage erupted within her, a hot, red burn, and she couldn’t stop the flow of bitter words. They spilled out of her forcefully, painfully, full of acidic bile, but she could do nothing to stop them. “I don’t care one bit if you’re a marquis.”

His eyes widened with surprise, but she wasn’t finished. “I don’t want any man, ever!”