Read Online My Only Love by Katherine Sutcliffe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine Sutcliffe
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lips.
They
stood there, both silent, both staring into the fire while the chair arms and
legs snapped and crackled and slowly turned to char-red embers.
"That
was a very nice chair," she told him.
"Yes,
it was."
"Have
you no money for fuel?" "No."
"What
will you do now?"
"Torch
the settee, I suppose."
She
laughed and looked up at him. His face was lit from the golden firelight, and
for the first time since she'd arrived at Braithwaite she noticed the tiny
lines etched into the skin at each outside corner of his eyes. There were two
small vertical indentations between his brows as well. And he needed to shave.
And he smelled slightly of whisky and bay rum. And rain.
Very
slowly, he reached for her glasses and removed them with utmost care.
"That's better," he said. "I rather like your eyes when they
aren't distorted. You have very nice eyes, Miss Devonshire."
They
stood there for several moments, locked in mutual bewilderment by the sudden
bursting forth of sentiments that danced between them as vividly as the fire
flickering in the hearth.
Could
he really find her, even in the remotest sense, attractive? Olivia wondered. Or
was this just another ploy to scandalize her? To send her running from the
house, never to darken his door again?
Good
God, he thought. Either he'd been too long without a woman, or Olivia
Devonshire was far more attractive than he'd imagined, with her rain4dssed face
and moisture clinging to her silky black lashes. The curve of her breasts owed
nothing to the artifices so often employed by women, and for a startling moment
he imagined releasing them into his hands, perhaps burying his face into their
lushness . .. while her long legs easily spread to afford him a gentle entry.
Or perhaps she preferred it rough, wild, and abandoned; she was, after all, a
paradox: a woman in an old maid's guise with the heart and soul of a harlot.
Perchance she hadn't come here to wrangle him into marriage. Possibly she had
nothing more in mind than a fast and furious tumble in the sheets. In that case
.. .
"Tell
me," he said. "Why did you really come here, Miss Devonshire?"
She
glanced longingly at the spectacles hanging by the end piece from his index
finger. "I told you. To apologize—"
"Come,
come. I've been more than honest with you. I think you owe me the same
consideration."
Folding
her glasses, he slid them into a pocket in his trousers, his eyes never leaving
her. Her eyes were wide and growing wider by the second. Yet, as he eased one
hand around her nape, he felt her start, and tremble, and for an instant she
looked frightened enough to flee.
But
she didn't. Just remained stock-still while her breathing quickened and her
soft pink lips parted to release a small sound of surprise. Or perhaps it was
simply desire.
He
stepped against her, his body pressing against hers as his fingers gently
tightened upon her nape, drifting upward and into the knot of hair that, with
slight pressure, tumbled from its anchoring of pins and spilled over her
shoulders and down her back. She stretched out a hand in a feeble show of
resistance, causing him to smile his satyr's smile that made even the most
innocent maidens yield.
"Don't,"
she managed to whisper. "You mustn't. You're only trying to shock me
again, and . . ."
"Is
that what I'm doing, dear heart?" He laughed softly, wondering himself.
Perhaps in the beginning, but now . . . ?
Sliding
his arm around her, he held her hard and close, and for a brief moment she
resisted frantically, her body rigid, and her green eyes fearful as they stared
up into his. How she had changed in the space of an instant, with the thick,
soft waves of her hair framing her face and her head fallen back, partially
exposing the smooth curve of her throat. Oh yes. He could imagine this woman
tempting an entire tribe of Gypsies. Or perhaps one of her father's tenants. Or
even some less than noble aristocrat—such as himself—who found himself
drowning in the whirlpool of her eyes. If
They
stood there, both silent, both staring into the fire while the chair arms and
legs snapped and crackled and slowly turned to char-red embers.
"That
was a very nice chair," she told him.
"Yes,
it was."
"Have
you no money for fuel?" "No."
"What
will you do now?"
"Torch
the settee, I suppose."
She
laughed and looked up at him. His face was lit from the golden firelight, and
for the first time since she'd arrived at Braithwaite she noticed the tiny
lines etched into the skin at each outside corner of his eyes. There were two
small vertical indentations between his brows as well. And he needed to shave.
And he smelled slightly of whisky and bay rum. And rain.
Very
slowly, he reached for her glasses and removed them with utmost care.
"That's better," he said. "I rather like your eyes when they
aren't distorted. You have very nice eyes, Miss Devonshire."
They
stood there for several moments, locked in mutual bewilderment by the sudden
bursting forth of sentiments that danced between them as vividly as the fire
flickering in the hearth.
Could
he really find her, even in the remotest sense, attractive? Olivia wondered. Or
was this just another ploy to scandalize her? To send her running from the
house, never to darken his door again?
Good
God, he thought. Either he'd been too long without a woman, or Olivia
Devonshire was far more attractive than he'd imagined, with her rain4dssed face
and moisture clinging to her silky black lashes. The curve of her breasts owed
nothing to the artifices so often employed by women, and for a startling moment
he imagined releasing them into his hands, perhaps burying his face into their
lushness . .. while her long legs easily spread to afford him a gentle entry.
Or perhaps she preferred it rough, wild, and abandoned; she was, after all, a
paradox: a woman in an old maid's guise with the heart and soul of a harlot.
Perchance she hadn't come here to wrangle him into marriage. Possibly she had
nothing more in mind than a fast and furious tumble in the sheets. In that case
.. .
"Tell
me," he said. "Why did you really come here, Miss Devonshire?"
She
glanced longingly at the spectacles hanging by the end piece from his index
finger. "I told you. To apologize—"
"Come,
come. I've been more than honest with you. I think you owe me the same
consideration."
Folding
her glasses, he slid them into a pocket in his trousers, his eyes never leaving
her. Her eyes were wide and growing wider by the second. Yet, as he eased one
hand around her nape, he felt her start, and tremble, and for an instant she
looked frightened enough to flee.
But
she didn't. Just remained stock-still while her breathing quickened and her
soft pink lips parted to release a small sound of surprise. Or perhaps it was
simply desire.
He
stepped against her, his body pressing against hers as his fingers gently
tightened upon her nape, drifting upward and into the knot of hair that, with
slight pressure, tumbled from its anchoring of pins and spilled over her
shoulders and down her back. She stretched out a hand in a feeble show of
resistance, causing him to smile his satyr's smile that made even the most
innocent maidens yield.
"Don't,"
she managed to whisper. "You mustn't. You're only trying to shock me
again, and . . ."
"Is
that what I'm doing, dear heart?" He laughed softly, wondering himself.
Perhaps in the beginning, but now . . . ?
Sliding
his arm around her, he held her hard and close, and for a brief moment she
resisted frantically, her body rigid, and her green eyes fearful as they stared
up into his. How she had changed in the space of an instant, with the thick,
soft waves of her hair framing her face and her head fallen back, partially
exposing the smooth curve of her throat. Oh yes. He could imagine this woman
tempting an entire tribe of Gypsies. Or perhaps one of her father's tenants. Or
even some less than noble aristocrat—such as himself—who found himself
drowning in the whirlpool of her eyes. If
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