He let it happen.
It wasn’t logical. Wasn’t really him. It was powerful, though.
“Oh, Quin,” Olivia whispered, considerably later. She was flat on her back, and he was inching his way down her body, kissing as he went.
“Hmmm.”
“I love it when you growl in my ear.”
Quin thought about that. “You make me sound like a rabid bulldog.”
She threw her hands over her head in a happy stretch that signaled pure pleasure. “I don’t mean you growl like a dog. You’re—it’s as though you’re so happy to have me here.”
“You’re mine,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Of course I’m happy you’re here.” He nudged her legs apart.
“Just what are you doing down there?” Olivia asked, peering down at him.
“Kissing your thighs.”
She tried to pull her knees together. “Absolutely not. We must return to the house before your guests notice our absence. Thank goodness these birds made such a racket and woke us up.”
He lapped a little design on her thigh that made her shiver despite all her busy conversation, slid his tongue a little closer to her hot middle, caressed her breast in a way that he now knew drove her half mad with pleasure.
“Why, why, Quin,” she said, in that breathless voice he’d heard only a few times. “What . . .”
He ran a delicate finger over beautiful pink folds.
She sat up again. “No!” And she followed that up with a lot of babble. They had to go inside, they had to bathe and dress, they had to avoid his mother, they had to . . .
The one thing his beloved Olivia didn’t realize about him yet was that when Quin made up his mind . . . he got what he wanted.
The only way to stop the flood of words and anxiety was to pull her into a kiss. Since his hand had found its way to the softest, wettest place in her whole body, he wasn’t inclined to listen to protests.
Mind you, he wanted to do more than stroke her. But if he had momentarily lost self-control the night before, he had it again now. Olivia, sweet Olivia, needed to experience bone-numbing pleasure before he would venture near her again.
Finally he had her gasping and twisting against his finger and pleading, please, please, please. He ruthlessly rejected the urge to leap on top of her, and instead carefully pushed another finger next to the first . . . and that was it. She cried out, clutching at his shoulders, her whole body shaking.
It was so damned enticing that Quin actually had to stop for a moment and wrestle his own body back into submission.
She was everything he wanted . . . everything he could ever want.
He couldn’t ruin it.
“Quin,” she said, struggling for breath. “Oh, that. That.”
He nodded, rolling over and giving his body another little lecture. No, he would not rub against her.
“Your turn,” she said, looking like the brave little soldier facing a battalion of armed elephants.
That did it. His erection finally calmed enough that he could sit up. “Time to return to the house,” he said, looking around for his smalls. It was the work of a moment to put on his breeches and shirt. “We should go back before too many servants are up and about.”
“My knees are weak,” Olivia said. Her voice was throaty and sounded as though she was inviting precisely that which she was not.
“Up,” he said.
“You go,” she suggested. “I’ll take a little nap and follow later.” She curled into a ball and tugged the blanket over herself again. Her eyes drifted shut.
“I can’t leave you in a tree.”
“Yes, you certainly can. You go inside and have breakfast with everyone. I’ll come in later. That way no one will think that we spent the night doing wicked things in a tree, which I’m sure is what would come to mind if we appeared together. I know I often assume people are cavorting in trees.”
“I cannot leave you here,” he said patiently.
“I’ll be fine. You’re the one who fell out of that other tree, not me.”
Quin squatted down. “Olivia, wake up. We’re going inside, and I can’t carry you down.”
“Too tired. And too sore. I’m not climbing down until I’ve had a rest. Wake me in a few hours.”
That was an order. Quin stood up, as best as he could, and looked down at his future duchess. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a hand under her cheek, her gorgeous, tousled hair curling all over the blanket. She didn’t even have a pillow, and yet she looked blissfully comfortable.
He found he was grinning: he was rumpled and unwashed, and happier than he’d been in years.
She opened one eye.
“Bring some tea when you come back?”
“As I explained, footmen can’t negotiate up the ladder while carrying trays. Wait a minute—are you, Miss Lytton, asking a duke to fetch you some tea?”
Her eye closed again, but he saw the little curl of a smile on her mouth. She was testing her power, his Olivia was.
“Yes,” she said sweetly. “That’s what marriage is all about.”
“What is it all about?”
“Being nice because”—she smiled—“you want the other person to be nice to you.”
He brought her tea.
And crumpets.
Twenty-two
Wreathed in Glory
Early evening
"I simply cannot believe you did that!” It was a little insulting the way Georgiana was staring at Olivia, rather as if she were a two-headed calf at the fair. “No wonder you didn’t come to breakfast. Or lunch.”
“I slept right through both. But it wasn’t as if we spent the night in the open air,” Olivia tried to explain. “It’s a tiny house; it just happens to be up in a tree.”
Georgiana snapped her mouth shut. Her eyes were laughing, though. “I simply cannot believe it. No one could get me into a tree. I’m quite certain that you found the one man in the world who likes to climb trees.”
“It’s rather amazing, isn’t it?” Olivia said. She could hardly put it into words. “He’s everything I would have dreamed of, if I’d thought that I could dream.”
Georgiana shook her head. “Even you couldn’t have dreamed up a man who likes to sleep in trees.”
“I know.” Olivia was so happy that she felt as if she were about to burst. “How was luncheon?”
“We should join the party in the drawing room,” Georgiana said, starting. “Her Grace is terribly irritable. She clearly suspects there’s a reason you missed breakfast and luncheon. None of the houseguests have departed, and I gather some plan to stay for at least a week. She was quite short with Mr. Epicure Dapper—the gentleman with the remarkable addiction to puffed shoulders on his coats.”
Olivia snorted. “How the mighty have fallen!”
“Lord Justin takes positive delight in tormenting her, you know. After luncheon, the young ladies all begged him to sing for them, and he sang French songs!”
“He is half French, is he not?” Olivia held open the bedchamber door so that Georgiana could precede her. “Why shouldn’t he sing in his native language?”
“Oh, Olivia, you know perfectly well that French songs are nothing like English ones. They sound improper even when they aren’t.”