He had a traitor in his midst again.
“That just goes to show how little you know about the man you betrayed.” Olivia sounded confident, as if born to trap deceivers, yet went on to tell a convincing lie of her own. “We made love in the library. And in his private drawing room. With two hundred rooms to choose from, we’ll be occupied for months. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Miss Bourne was undeterred. “Soon, I shall be the mistress of Wynbury Hall. Gabriel will be free to visit whenever he pleases.”
“The disillusioned mistress of Wynbury Hall,” Olivia returned. “Do remember, I am the Marchioness of Rothley. You’ll be expected to curtsy every time we meet.”
He smiled, suspecting Miss Bourne’s nostrils were flaring. He would give his wife her moment of glory before he intervened.
“Enjoy it while you can,my lady. Gabriel has spent ten years struggling to forget me. How long before he tires of playing the dutiful husband and seeks excitement elsewhere?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He seems rather smitten to me.”
“Is that why you wear a pauper’s band instead of the Rothley diamonds? Even a maid deserves better.”
Guilt surfaced. Perhaps he should have bought her something grand and ostentatious, something befitting her position in society. And yet he prayed she’d read the symbolism in its simplicity.
“The ring is a statement, Miss Bourne. My husband knows I cannot be bought. He alludes to Donne’s poem, that love, like metal beaten thin, needs no embellishment to endure.” Olivia paused. “What looks plain to you is something I will always treasure.”
He stepped away from the hedge, his heart stirring, because she was the only woman in the world who truly understood him. He returned to the path and called, “Olivia? Olivia, my love.” He’d be damned if Kate Bourne destroyed his life a second time.
“Here, Gabriel!” Olivia’s voice carried across the garden. He started towards the fountain as she addressed Miss Bourne. “You’re trespassing. Leave now. Don’t force me to draw my pocket pistol. It’s perfectly lawful to shoot poachers.”
The rustle of verdure and a sly comment signalled Miss Bourne’s swift departure. But when he entered the clearing and saw his wife—a cascade of copper hair and lips soft as a sigh—he took her hand and drew her close.
“You should have told me you wanted to walk in the garden.” He bent his head and kissed her without hesitation, certain Miss Bourne still watched from the shadows beyond the shrubs.
Her breath caught, the faintest tremor passing through her fingers where they rested in his.
He told himself it was theatre, a lesson in appearances. Yet when Olivia’s lips parted beneath his, he was lost to need, to hunger, to the sudden truth that she was all he wanted.
He deepened the kiss, coaxing rather than taking, tasting rather than claiming. The world slipped away. There was only her warmth, the steady thrum of her heart, and the ruinous tug of lust.
She broke the kiss but didn’t step back. Her breath came quick, her fingers still tangled with his. He’d forgotten how to breathe altogether.
“Come,” she said softly. “Let’s walk back to the house. We might find a little privacy there. I’m quite certain we need it.”
Neither spoke.
Her hand remained in his, small and certain, guiding him along the path and into the house. They walked through thedim corridors, the brush of her wrapper against his thigh a prelude to seduction.
She paused by an open doorway. Moonlight spilled across the floor. “Here,” she murmured, and he didn’t ask why.
The room lay in shadow, the furniture shrouded beneath dust sheets, shapes touched by the faint silver sheen seeping through the curtains. Olivia closed the door. The soft click sent a thrill through him—part anticipation, part danger, all desire.
She faced him, meeting his gaze with unflinching defiance. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” came her terse warning, not the rampant coupling he longed for. “Don’t use me to make her jealous. The moment you called out to me, it was obvious you knew she was there. That kiss was staged to prove a point.”
It took him a moment to gather his wits. “I wanted her to know she’s not the woman who keeps me awake at night.”
“Why? Why is her opinion so important?”
“It’s not. It’s your opinion that matters most.” Frustration—and the throbbing ache in his trousers—drove him to close the gap between them. “Did you not hear what I said during dinner? Do you not see what you do to me?”
She raised her chin. “Explain it again. You seem to change your mind as often as the weather.”
He reached for the belt of her wrapper, untying it slowly. “I lied when I offered a marriage built on friendship. I simply didn’t know it was a lie at the time.”
She inhaled sharply as the garment fell open, his hand finding the curve of her hip. “Then you agree we might have a marriage based on physical needs as well as friendship?”
