What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(73)

“You’re so…good,” he groaned. He squeezed her gently, closing his eyes as his entire body shook with desire. “So good.”

She grinned. Right there in the middle of her seduction, she grinned. She loved that he didn’t call her beautiful or pretty or radiant. She loved that he was so out of his mind for her that “good” was the most complicated word he could manage.

“I want to touch you,” he whispered, his lips moving against her cheek as he spoke. “I want to feel you…on my skin…in my hand.” His fingers stole upward until they reached the edge of her dress, and he pulled, tugged gently, and then not so gently, until the fabric slid over her shoulder, and then down—down more—until she was bared to him.

She didn’t feel wanton. She didn’t feel wicked. She just felt right. Like herself.

His breath—hard and fast—was the only sound. The air around them seemed to crackle with urgency, and then she didn’t just hear his breath, she felt it on her skin, cool at first, and then hot, as his mouth grew closer.

And then he was kissing her. She nearly screamed—from the shock of it, then from the fire of it, and the curls of pleasure it brought forth from within. “Harry,” she gasped, and now she did feel wanton. She felt wicked, utterly and thoroughly. His head was at her breast, and all she could seem to do was sink her fingers into his hair, not sure whether she was trying to pull him away or bind him to her forever.

His hand moved to her leg, squeezing, stroking, moving higher, and then—

“What was that?” Olivia shot up into a sitting position, knocking Harry right off her. There had been a tremendous crash. It had sounded like wood splintering and glass breaking, and there had definitely been a scream.

Harry sat on the floor, trying to catch his breath. He looked at her, his eyes still hot, and she realized her dress was awry. She yanked it up, quickly, and crossed her arms protectively over her, each hand clutching the opposite shoulder. It wasn’t that she feared him, but after that noise she was terrified that anyone might come running in.

“What happened?” she asked.

He was shaking his head as he rose to his feet. “It came from the drawing room.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, and her first thought was relief, although she had no idea why. Her second thought went in quite the opposite direction. If she’d heard the crash, then other people in the house would have heard it, too. And if this other person happened to be upstairs, as her mother was, she might come running down to investigate. And if she did that, she might enter the wrong room.

Finding her daughter in a state of considerable dishabille.

But in truth her mother would probably head first to the drawing room. The door would be open, and it was the first room one came across at the bottom of the stairs. But if she did that, she would find three gentlemen, a hulking bodyguard, the butler, three housemaids…

And no Olivia.

She jumped to her feet, immediately awash in panic. “My hair!”

“—is remarkably intact,” he finished for her.

She looked at him with patent disbelief.

“No, really,” he said, looking somewhat astonished himself. “It’s really almost”—he moved his hands near his head as if to indicate…something—“the same.”

She hurried over to the mirror over the fireplace and stood on her tiptoes. “Oh my goodness,” she said. Sally had outdone herself. Barely a lock was out of place, and she could have sworn that Harry had pulled the whole mass of it down.

Olivia pulled two hairpins out, repositioned and fastened them, then stood back to inspect her reflection. Aside from her flushed cheeks, she looked entirely respectable. And really, any number of things could have caused that. Plague, even, although she probably needed to start coming up with a new excuse.

She looked over at Harry. “Do I look presentable?”

He nodded. But then he said, “Sebastian will know.”

Her mouth opened in shock. “What? How?”

Harry gave a one shouldered shrug. There was something elementally male about the gesture, as if to say—a woman might answer your question in exhaustive detail, but this will do for me.

“How will he know?” Olivia repeated.

He gave her another one of those looks. “He just will. But don’t worry, he won’t say anything.”

Olivia looked down at herself. “Do you think the prince will know?”

“What does it matter if the prince knows?” Harry returned, a little snappishly.

“I have my—” She had been about to say that she had her reputation to consider. “Are you jealous?”

He looked at her as if she was slightly deranged. “Of course I’m jealous.”

Her legs started to feel rather liquid, and she sighed. “Really?”

He shook his head, clearly impatient with her sudden dreaminess. “Tell everyone I’ve gone home.”

She blinked, unsure of what he was talking about.

“You don’t want everyone to know what we’ve been doing in here, do you?”

“Er, no.” Said perhaps a little haltingly, since it wasn’t as if she was ashamed. Because she wasn’t. But she did wish for her activities to remain private.

He walked over to the window. “Tell them you saw me off ten minutes ago. You can say that I had matters to attend to at home.”