What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(72)

Except…

Olivia.

He watched her as she tiptoed back to the doorway and peeked in. Her movements were a little blocky, and for a moment he thought she might trip. She wasn’t clumsy, not exactly. But she moved in her own inimitable way, and he realized he could watch her for hours, do nothing but sit and stare at the way her hands carried out mundane tasks. He could watch her face, enjoying every play of emotion, every movement of her brow, of her lips.

She was so beautiful it made his teeth ache.

He made a mental note not to attempt poetry.

She let out a little, “Oh!” and leaned in farther.

He took a step forward and murmured in her ear, “For someone who is not interested, you’re quite interested.”

She hushed him, then gave him a little shove so that he wasn’t crowding her.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, and her face took on an expression of delight. “Your cousin is performing a death scene. Your brother has got up on the table, too.”

“Edward?” he asked doubtfully.

She nodded, taking another peek. “I can’t tell who is killing whom—Oh, never mind. Edward’s dead.”

That was quick.

“Oh, wait—” She craned her neck. “No, he’s dead. Sorry.” She turned. Smiled at him.

He felt it everywhere.

“He was rather good at it,” she murmured. “I think he takes after your cousin.”

He wanted to kiss her again.

“Clutched his heart”—she clutched hers—“groaned, and then, when it was all done, he let out one last shudder, and it wasn’t really all done.” She grinned again. “And then it was done.”

He had to kiss her. Now.

“What’s that room over there?” he asked, pointing to a door.

“My father’s office, why?”

“What about that one?”

“Music room. We never use it.”

He grabbed her hand. They were using it now.





Chapter Eighteen




Olivia barely had time to catch her breath before she found herself in Rudland House’s small music room with the door closed behind her. And after that, she managed only the “Wh” in What are you doing? before it was perfectly clear what he was doing.

His hands were back in her hair, and her back was to the wall, and he was kissing her. Madly, passionately, bone-meltingly kissing her.

“Harry!” she gasped, when his lips left hers to nibble on her ear.

“I can’t help it,” he said, his words ticklish against her skin. She could hear the smile in his voice. He sounded happy.

She felt happy. And more.

“You were there,” he said, one of his hands moving down her side, around her back. “You were there, and I had to kiss you, and that’s all there was to it.”

Forget the flowery words of Miss Butterworth’s mad baron. That was the most romantic thing Olivia had ever heard.

“You exist,” he said, his voice deepening with desire. “Ergo, I need you.”

No, that was the most romantic thing.

And then he whispered something in her ear. Something about lips and hands, and the heat of her body, and she had to wonder if maybe that was the most romantic of all.

She had been desired by men before. Some had even claimed they loved her. But this—this was different. There was an urgency in his body, in his breath, in the pulse of his blood under his skin. He wanted her. He needed her. It went beyond words, beyond anything he might try to explain. But it was something she understood, something she felt deep within.

It made her feel deliciously powerful. And at the same time powerless, because whatever it was that was racing through him, it was spreading to her as well, causing a quickness inside in her veins, an inability to draw breath. It felt as if her entire body were rushing through her, moving from the inside out until she could do nothing but touch him. She had to grab him, squeeze him. She needed him close, and so she reached around with her hands, entwining herself around his neck.

“Harry,” she whispered, and she heard the delight in her voice. This moment, this kiss—it was everything she’d been waiting for.

It was everything she wanted.

And a million things more.

His hands slid down her back, pulling her from the wall, and they turned and swirled across the carpet until they both fell over the arm of the sofa. He landed atop her, the warm, solid weight of his body pinning her to the cushions. It should have been the strangest sensation. It should have been terrifying—her body compressed, her movement diminished. But instead it just felt like the most normal, natural thing in the world, that she would be on her back, and this man on top of her, hot, powerful, and hers.

“Olivia,” he whispered, his mouth trailing fire down the side of her neck. She arched beneath him, her pulse jumping when his lips found the thin, sensitive skin over her collarbone. He was moving lower, lower, to the wispy, lacy edge of her bodice. And at the same time his hands were moving higher, sliding along her side, catching her in the cradle of his thumb and forefinger until he reached her breast.

She gasped with shock. His hand had slid around to her front, and now he was cupping her through the thin muslin of her dress. She moaned his name, and then she moaned something else, something unintelligible and completely without thought or meaning.