THE WICKED ONE (Chapter 1)
Through the small window on the second floor of l'Hotel du Lac, the city of Vienna glittered. The flaws in the glass diffused the candle and torchlight, turning the pinpoints into spider-legged stars. After eight months Diane Benchley, the Countess of Cameron, had memorized the earthly constellations. That one would be the soiree of relocated British aristocrats at Herold Haus, while the even brighter cluster beyond meant that even at this hour the old Stephansdom church was occupied.
She should be there as well, she supposed, praying for...something. For the soul of the dead man the undertaker had removed from her apartment yesterday morning. For someone--anyone--to appear and rescue her from the same fate. For her burdens to be lifted and for her landlord to forget that the rent was due at the end of the week.
Absently she picked at the frayed arm of the chair, plucking stiff horse hairs from within and dropping them to the faded carpet. The church bell began chiming, and she stilled, listening. Twelve chimes. Midnight. Was it amusing or ironic or simply very sad that her only visitors in the past two days had been an undertaker and his assistant, and a very reluctant landlord? That the passing of the man with whom she'd shared a life and a bed for the past two years hadn't even garnered a notice in the local newspaper? That people likely knew of the passing of the Earl of Cameron and simply didn't care?
Well, not everyone would be unmoved. Her first task after the departure of her late husband's remains had been to compose a letter to Anthony Benchley in order to inform him that his brother was deceased and that he'd just become the new Earl of Cameron. Huzzah for Anthony. The moment he received her missive he would begin visiting properties, determining which ones were entailed and which ones he needed to wait on the reading of the will before he could occupy or sell.
None of them were hers, of course; the few items that she'd brought with her to the marriage she'd already sold in order to keep a roof over her--and Frederick's--head. Or rather, to repay whichever gambling debt her husband had incurred in order to keep them a step or two ahead of the dunners.
As she watched, the lights of the Stephansdom went out, though the party at Herold Haus evidently continued. She and Frederick had been invited a week ago; the English community in Vienna was small enough that to not receive an invitation would have been more significant.
Three weeks ago she'd turned twenty-one years old. Forty-eight hours ago she'd become a widow. And tomorrow she would have to take an official count of the one thing Frederick had left her. Debts. Bills from tailors, several shops that sold gloves and cravats and other accouterments, bills from grocers and inns and gentlemen's clubs and the hotel where she presently resided. And the largest stack, notes from dozens of men containing only names and dates and pounds owed, and Frederick's signature beneath.
Over the past two years she'd become accustomed to debt, and to the shrinking number of friends that accompanied it. She had a ledger book in the cabinet that detailed a spiral of debt Frederick--they--had incurred in London, the gap in days from the moment they'd left lovely old Adam House in the middle of the night and traveled all the way to Austria, and then the slow, persistent resumption of figures once Frederick had become acquainted with Vienna.
The numbness of the past few days, when she'd determined to ignore everything but the moment or two around her, began to shred. Panic tugged at her throat as the meaning of the mountain of debts seeped into her chest despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. Frederick was gone. What he'd left behind was more than enough to destroy her. They'd already had to flee England. She didn't even have enough money left to flee Vienna. Nor did she have enough money to remain.
And of course no money meant no friends. In fact, she couldn't name one acquaintance from whom Frederick hadn't borrowed a sum and then failed to repay. One or two of them might consent to speak with her, but asking them for money would be both useless and would sever any remaining threads of friendship.
Slowly Diane stood, weariness vying with hopelessness to drag her down to the couch and the pile of blankets there. Her landlord had promised to replace her bed tomorrow, which was rather generous of him even taking into consideration the amount of weeping and hand-wringing she'd had to do in order to convince him to do so. Until then, she would remain on the couch and hope that sleep wasn't as difficult to find as someone whom she didn't owe more money than she could ever afford to repay.
Wits and wagering made fair companions, Oliver Warren reflected as he mentally counted the blunt remaining in his pockets, but that damned luck wouldn't stay out of things. And luck had no regard for skill.
"Well, damn me," le Compte d'Aquille said in a heavy French accent, dragging in a pile of coins, part of which would have paid for Oliver's rooms for the next week. "It seems I cannot lose this evening."
"I've never seen such luck," Tomas DuChamps agreed, downing half a glass of port. "This is rather dismaying."
Aquille laughed, clearly not familiar with the English rule of not celebrating overly much over the table when those with less fortunate hands remained. "It has even rendered the infamous Monsieur Warren speechless."
"Not speechless," Oliver countered, hiding his annoyed frown. He knew better than to wager more than he could afford to lose. Only the rumored incompetence of his companions had driven him to take the risk--well, that and the fact that he had ended up in Vienna with one hundred pounds left to his name and no other means to gain more. "Stunned by the idea that a Frenchman can play cards and win two consecutive hands without wetting himself."
DuChamps snorted. "If I weren't Belgian, I would take offense. And I have to agree to a certain amount of commiseration with your incredulity."
"Chien," d'Aquille stated without heat. "The quips of a loser do not pierce me. I think it is more likely that you English do not know how to play bouillotte."
In truth bouillotte wasn't a game he played often, but whatever Europe at large thought of Bonaparte, the clubs certainly liked French games. "Let's wait and see if you're still whistling that tune at the end of the night."
While the other three men at the table laughed and called for more drinks, Oliver palmed a discarded ace and slipped it up his sleeve. The damned Frenchman, the Belgian, and even the other Englishman present could afford to lose tonight. He couldn't. They hadn't been cut off by bloody stiff-arsed uncles and forced either to flee their homes or join the army just to be able to eat.
"It's your deal, Warren," the third man, Humphrey Jonas, said, shoving more discarded cards in his direction. "The insults are damned amusing, but I'm here to play cards."
"Hear, hear," DuChamps agreed, tossing his ante into the center of the table.
Oliver returned the ace to the bottom of the deck, dealt two cards to each player, then went around once more, slipping the ace into his own trio of cards. It was so simple; and whatever pang of regret he felt at influencing luck in his favor could go bugger itself. It was only fair, really, when he was to let because someone had done the same to him. And the Duke of Greaves had been a friend, damn him. A good friend.
He turned up the next card, placing the retourné on the table in front of him. An ace. Well, now that fickle little bitch called luck seemed to have moved to his side of the room. It was about damned time. With only twenty cards in the deck, the odds of three of a kind were fairly good. Three aces, however, were difficult to beat. Particularly when his third card was a king. Being careful not to wager too aggressively, he cajoled and baited until nearly eighty quid lay on the table.
When all the players had called, they turned over their hands. "Simple Brélan," DuChamps said, showing three nines and the common ace.
"Brelan favori," Oliver returned. "King high."
Jonas cursed, tossing his trio of fives onto the table. Oliver turned his attention to Aquille. A four of a kind would beat him, and he didn't have enough blunt remaining to stay in the game for another hand. Finally the Frenchman dropped his cards onto the table. "You have my fourth king," he said, showing a trio of the royals.
Thank God. With a nod, Oliver swept up the blunt. Now that he'd begun it--and more importantly, gotten away with it--he needed to continue. If he could win enough tonight to put his feet back on the ground, to ensure that with more judicious play later he would be able to continue to feed himself and put a roof over his head, he need never sink this far into the mud again.
Every five or six hands, just to be sure he didn't over-xtend his odds of winning, he tilted the game to his favor. And by the end of the evening his one hundred quid had become nearly two thousand pounds. When Jonas grunted and pushed away from the table, Oliver let out a breath. Whoever claimed that cheating was easier than straight play was a liar.
"Gentlemen," Humphrey rumbled, finishing off a glass of brandy, "I am to let. And a certain opera singer has done with warbling to the public for the evening and will be ready to sing for me."
He stuck his hand out, and Oliver shook it. "You're more pleasant than I remember you being in London," Oliver commented with a brief smile.
"You have fewer Englishmen to compare me with here," Jonas returned.
"Speaking of which, are you going to Lady Darham's luncheon tomorrow? Nearly every Mayfair aristocrat in Vienna will be there."
"Then I can hardly abstain, can I?" He wasn't particularly excited to attend, but with several old friendships gone, he could stand to form a few new ones. And perhaps some of them might have some good gossip. He missed knowing what everyone else was up to. It was like attempting to play a chess game with no pieces. And from the far side of the Atlantic Ocean.
D'Aquille nodded as well, gathering the few coins left in front of him into one hand and dumping them into his pocket. "I say good night now, as well. A good evening, mes amis."
As the others left the table, Oliver stood and collected his own winnings. He wouldn't say he felt triumphant by any means, but considering he'd just ensured his ability to live for the next six months or a year, he could admit to a certain...satisfaction. Sending DuChamps a nod, he turned from the table.
"I hope it was worth it, Warren," the Belgian said in a low voice, idly shuffling the cards.
Oliver stopped. "Beg pardon?"
"Suffice it to say that I will not be sitting at a table with you again. I am not so drunk, nor so foolish, as to be rendered blind and senseless."
"I--"
"I'm finished with this conversation. Take your money and leave. And do not approach me again."
Shit. If DuChamps ever spoke of his obvious suspicions, Oliver would never sit at anyone's table again. If he admitted to anything, or denied anything, he could well be stepping into a morass from which there would be no escape. Ever. Slowly he faced DuChamps. "If you require anything from me, monsieur, I request that you inform me now."
Pale blue eyes regarded him. "I require nothing from you but your absence. One of us, at least, is a gentleman. Good evening."
Oliver nodded. "Good evening."
So in his attempt to gain a measure of freedom and independence, he'd handed his fate over to someone else. Perhaps he needed to be kinder to Luck; if Humphrey Jonas had been the one to realize he'd been cheating, everyone in London would have heard the tale by the end of next week. Instead it had been Tomas DuChamps. However annoyed Oliver was by the circumstance, he had been lucky. DuChamps had a greater sense of nobility and gentlemanly behavior than anyone else he'd yet encountered in Vienna.
Apparently the city attracted dissatisfied ex-patriots who hadn't been able to remain in England and at the same time hadn't been able to settle elsewhere in Europe because of Bonaparte's various tantrums. Vienna had been handed a rather large share of ill luck, itself. Perhaps they belonged together.
Sniffling, Diane sent her landlord a wan, grateful smile. "You've already put a new mattress on the bed and repaired that awful, squeaking shutter. I couldn't possibly ask you for anything else. You are a good man, Mr. Brunn. A very good man."
His cheeks flushed a mottled red. Clicking his heels together, he sketched a bow. "Pay me at your earliest convenience, of course. I shall see myself out. Good day, Lady Cameron."
"Mr. Brunn."
Diane closed her door again, then leaned her forehead against the cool wood. Without her black gown and the tears she would very likely have been removed from her apartment just now. Previous to this, she'd had no idea of the power a dress conjured, of the ease with which a few tears could sway a stone heart. They were her armor now, her only ally.
Straightening again, she walked over to gather up her black shawl and reticule. Fastening on her black bonnet, she opened the door again and went down the narrow stairs to the street. From there she hired a hack to take her up along the Danube Canal to Johannes Strasse. Lady Darham had said a great many of her countrymen would be at the luncheon today, and at the moment she wasn't certain whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. For all she knew, Frederick owed most of them money. But they were her countrymen. They spoke the same language, knew the same people.
Over the past fortnight her own company had begun to wear very thin. In fact, if this solitude continued she would very soon go mad. Already in the silence she'd begun talking to herself--which was rather ironic, considering the few conversations that she and Frederick had had over the past two years and the fact that she'd never been spurred to chitchat with herself before now. It was the difference, she supposed, between having someone--no matter how incommunicative--about, and having no one at all.
She decided to carry her kerchief in her hand, ready to receive her tears on the chance that someone actually confronted her for money. It was so odd; a few weeks ago she would have been ecstatic to attend a luncheon with her fellows. A chance to hear gossip about familiar names, to make new friends, to have someone with whom to talk. Now, as alone as she felt, however, it had all become much more complicated.
When the hack stopped, Diane took a moment to gather her thoughts--and her wits--together. She would at least have need of the latter. "Please let there be a friendly face," she muttered, gaining herself an odd look from the butler.
"Diane," Lady Darham said too warmly, as the servant led her into the dowager marchioness' drawing room. "My most sincere condolences. I didn't expect you to attend today."
"I needed some fresh air," Diane returned. "And some fresh company."
"Well, we can certainly oblige you with that. How have you been, my dear?"
"As well as can be expected, I think," she commented truthfully, accepting a cup of tea and refusing to close her eyes at the warm, rich taste. Steeping tea leaves three or four times before discarding them made for little better than hot, bitter water. "Thank you again for inviting me."
"Of course I invited you. We're friends."
Lady Darham was a friend who hadn't bothered to come calling in a fortnight, but commenting on that would only see Diane asked to leave the luncheon. And she did miss the fresh air; previous to Frederick's illness she'd gone walking nearly every day. Since his death she'd been forced to stay indoors both because of custom and because of the appearance she wished to present. Grief-stricken widows did not go trotting through parks. Neither did they go shopping--which was actually fortunate considering that she had no money to spend.
Patricia greeted another group of arriving guests, then returned to sit by Diane in the corner. "I heard a rumor that your finances are...lacking," she muttered below the level of the animated conversation flitting about the large room. "That's an unfortunate rumor to have attached to you."
It must have been a very prolific rumor, if the luncheon's hostess was actually speaking to her about it. Almost reflexively Diane lifted the handkerchief to her eyes. "I know. I've heard it everywhere. I've written to Frederick's brother for information about which accounts are his and which are mine, because, well...it's very confusing."
The marchioness lifted an eyebrow. "So you do have funds, after all?"
"A widow's stipend," Diane lied. "At the moment. Once everything is settled with the solicitors and the courts, I should have a better idea of things." None of it was true, of course, but she was already learning the lesson of assumed weakness versus actual weakness. Once Anthony received confirmation of the authenticity of Frederick's will back at Adam House everything would be much, much worse, but the one advantage of being in Vienna was that it was far away from London.
"Well, that's splendid," Lady Darham said too brightly. "I knew things couldn't be as terrible as everyone said." She patted Diane on one knee. "Now. Will you excuse me for a moment?"
"Certainly. I didn't come here to monopolize you."
The moment Lady Darham left her side, the condolences began. It was practically a formal queue, every guest in attendance taking her hand and announcing how sorry they were to hear of her loss. None of them offered any assistance or to come calling for a chat or to take her to luncheon or a drive, but none of them asked to be repaid for whatever Frederick likely owed them, either. She supposed, then that she could count that as a small victory. A very small one.
A luncheon or tea party or whatever the dowager Marchioness of Darham chose to call her gathering had little appeal for Oliver Warren. Propriety--or the pretense of it--made his head ache.
At the same time, he'd never have a better opportunity to determine which of his countrymen were in Vienna, and which of the men he could challenge at the table. Legitimately now, of course. Cheating last night had been necessary. It wasn't any longer. And he had enough pride to wish to conquer his fellows in a fair fight, as it were.
The butler showed him into the crowded drawing room. As a keen observer of human behavior it took only a moment for him to realize that the large room seemed...unbalanced. The northeast corner stood empty. Or nearly empty. He turned to look.
For a moment his brain simply stopped working. A black gown sat in the corner. Black meant mourning. The long, raven-colored hair and impossibly green eyes meant something else entirely. Something that settled into his gut and made him cast his gaze about to see if any other male present might be looking at her.
"Ah, Mr. Warren," a warm female voice said, and he reluctantly turned away from the corner.
"Lady Darham." The marchioness offered her hand, and he bowed over it.
"You do know every Englishman in Vienna, don't you?"
She smiled. "Very nearly. A benefit of having lived here for the past twenty years. A bastion of England in the middle of Austria, I suppose."
"Who is the woman in the corner?" he asked, returning his gaze to the slender figure draped in black. Generally he proceeded with a bit more subtlety, but she practically set him humming even from halfway across the room.
She followed his glance. "That is Lady Cameron. Her idiot of a husband died nearly a fortnight ago."
His attention snagged by the comment, Oliver looked back at his hostess. "'Idiot'?" he repeated.
"Well, perhaps it's unkind to speak ill of the so-recently dead, but I don't know a better epithet for a man who wagers poorly and constantly and leaves his wife nearly destitute in a foreign country."
"Ah, that Cameron. Frederick Benchley," Oliver recalled. He hadn't heard that the earl was dead, but he'd only been in Vienna for three days. The gossip in Belgium had been still about Wellington's victory at Waterloo. Evidently the English in Belgium didn't fraternize with those in Austria. And that was likely a good thing.
"Yes. Him."
"So introduce me, my lady."
His hostess frowned. "No."
Lifting an eyebrow, Oliver regarded Lady Darham. "Is something amiss?"
"I don't know you well, Mr. Oliver," she returned, "but I do have ears, and eyes with which I read old editions of the London Times. You are a mischief maker. It is my belief that Diane Benchley has had enough mischief in her life. Leave her be."
If the old hen thought to keep him from the young chick, she was sadly mistaken. "Are you her mother?" he asked.
"I--no, of course n--"
"Well, knowing what I do of her husband, it seems entirely possible that mischief is precisely what Lady Cameron needs."
"You wouldn't be saying that if she were old and plump."
Oliver eyed his hostess, who fairly well fit her own description. "I prefer to see things as they are. And I suggest you let Lady Cameron decide for herself if she wishes to converse with me." Inclining his head, he strolled into the crowd.
From there he spent another handful of minutes watching the Countess of Cameron. New arrivals detoured to her corner to pay their respects, and she smiled and nodded and didn't say much in return. No dear friends--no one--sat with her or said more than the official words of condolence. In fact, she seemed very much alone.
Considering how attractive she was, Cameron must have left her in dire straits, indeed. And others here knew about it. He knew about it. The difference was, he didn't care how poor she might be or whether her husband's nonsense had caused damage to her reputation. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the sleek, black-clothed, black-haired female was the only chit in the room.
Oliver strolled forward and seated himself in the chair directly beside her. "You're Diane Benchley," he said.
She turned her head to look at him, her emerald eyes assessing. "I am," she said in a low, not-quite-steady voice. "And who are you, sir?"
"Oliver Warren."
From the slight narrowing of her eyes, she recognized the name. He wasn't surprised; his reputation had never been for bookishness or prudery. "Mr. Warren. I had no idea you were in Vienna."
"Just arrived. You've been here for over a year, haven't you?"
The countess nodded. "I have."
"Splendid. Perhaps you might show me the sights."
She blinked. "Beg pardon? My...my husband just died a fortnight ago. I am in mourning."
And he found it interesting that the quaver in her voice had vanished once he'd surprised her. "So you want nothing but to be left in solitude? I'm quite amiable and interesting, you know. I might even be capable of taking your mind from your troubles."
The countess visibly drew in a breath. "You don't lack confidence, do you?" she commented.
Oliver shrugged. "I know what I want."
Her soft-looking lips parted just a little in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "And what is it you want, Mr. Warren?"
You. He offered her a slow smile. "Perhaps I might escort you into luncheon, and we could chat."
As if remembering that she was in mourning, the countess fashioned herself a wan expression then sniffed, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. "I would be amenable to that, I think."
Oliver shifted a little closer to her. The desire to touch her flowed through him like a fine brandy. He'd been touched by lust before, certainly, but never in response to such an...unlikely female, and never so overwhelmingly. Yes, she was lovely--stunning, even--but she was in deep mourning. And he wasn't precisely Richard the Third, who would seduce a woman over the very body of her husband. "You loved your husband?" he asked in a low voice. Perhaps he was attempting a seduction, but he would desist if she showed any genuine grief.
"What kind of question is that?" she returned, her voice going from unsteady to an affronted squeak.
"Just a question." Slowly he reached out and touched the sleeve of her gown, making a show of straightening it. "He left you penniless, did he not?"
"That's a rumor." With a shiver he could feel through his fingers, she shifted away from him.
"And all alone, certainly."
"And yet here I am, surrounded by friends."
Oliver sent a glance at the open space around them. "'Friends'?" he repeated. "In a very liberal interpretation of the word, I suppose that's true."
Her gaze met his. "Do you often converse with widows in this manner?"
"Not a one, until you," he answered truthfully. "Why is it we never met in England?"
"I was married at eighteen, a month after my debut."
He wanted to kiss her, to taste that soft, sweet-looking mouth. "That is a damned shame. You were promised to Cameron then, I suppose?"
Brief surprise touched her green eyes. "Yes, but what led you to that conclusion?"
"Because if the rest of the males in London had gotten a look at you, Frederick Benchley wouldn't have been able to manage so much as a quadrille."
Long lashes shuttered her eyes for a moment. "You compliment nicely, though I have to wonder at your timing. And the setting," she finally said, sending another glance around the room.
Several of the occupants had noticed the two of them sitting together. Olivier Warren with a female was anything but unusual, so the interest had to be due to his choice of female. As if he gave a damn what they thought. He could play with them later. Today he had a different game in mind. "Now is when I met you. Should I refrain from stating that I find you beautiful simply because your husband has died? You aren't dead, after all."
Her bosom lifted as she took a sudden breath. "Are you flirting with me?" she murmured, taking a sip of her tea.
She didn't sound offended. In fact, she sounded intrigued. He certainly was. "Yes."
"If you aren't after a wealthy widow, Mr. Warren, then what do you want? Truly?"
"Truly? I want you, Lady Cameron. I want you naked in a bed with me inside you."
Emerald eyes blinked. "You don't...you don't even know me."
"I'll wager I know you better than they do," he said, gesturing at the room in general. Then he decided to press his luck. "So do you want to spend the afternoon pretending you haven't noticed them all avoiding you, or in a more intimate setting with me?"
For the first time she appeared to hesitate. He supposed he might be assessing her through a too-cynical prism, but she interested him enough that he was willing to spend a bit more time deciphering precisely just how much of her mourning was genuine. She could merely be an extremely composed, artful young lady who'd dearly loved her late idiot of a husband, or he could be deliberately misinterpreting the careful application of quavering tones and handkerchief and lowered lashes. He'd seen weeping chits before, and couldn't find a trace of it on her face. A certain...vulnerability, yes, but in a way that appealed to him rather than being off-putting.
"I think I would like that," she finally said.
Thank Lucifer. If he didn't have her soon, he felt like he would combust. "Allow me to inform Lady Darham that you are overset by all the attention, and I've agreed to see you to a carriage, then," he returned, standing when she nodded.
Once he'd made their excuses to the rather suspicious dowager marchioness, he offered Lady Cameron an arm, and she wrapped her black-gloved fingers around his sleeve. The countess was tall, the top of her head coming nearly to his mouth, and she seemed to have abstained from the heavy, flowery perfumes that ladies of her station favored.
The moment they were out of sight of Hoffler House and the horde of Englishmen inside, she stopped, pulling her hand free to face him. "You are trouble, aren't you?"
Oliver nodded. "A great deal of it."
"I don't need more trouble."
He brushed his fingers against her soft cheek. "Give me a night, and then I'll leave if you like."
Diane found herself nodding. She'd never been impetuous, never done anything scandalous--except to flee England with the dunners on her heels. Or on Frederick's heels, rather. She'd never been tempted to misbehave. But this Oliver Warren...just being in his company felt like a very delicious kind of sin.
It wasn't only sin, however. For two years she'd had chances to sin, every night that Frederick didn't return home because he was in pursuit of a winning run of cards, every time he blamed her for the lack of funds at the end of the month when the servants and the rent were due to be paid. Every time she wished she had someone in whom to confide her troubles--and she'd refrained. And being proper had gotten her precisely nothing. No money, no friends, no one to keep her company.
Mr. Warren made her skin tingle all the way to her bones. He felt wrong, and dangerous, and alive - and interesting. Very interesting. Not until he'd seated himself beside her had she realized how very seldom she'd felt so...so anything.
"Shall I escort you to luncheon after all?" he asked. "I know a lovely bistro right beside the river."
"You don't need to cajole or charm me, Mr. Warren. You told me what you wanted, and I am in agreement."
Light gray eyes swept down the length of her and back up again to her face. The warmth seeping through her deepened. "Then give me the direction to your house," he murmured, signaling for a hack.
He didn't bat an eye when the coach traveled well past the best-appointed part of Vienna and into the more ramshackle neighborhood where her rented rooms lay. But then he'd said he knew her to be nearly penniless. Evidently the state of her finances didn't concern him. Neither did the quality of her conversation or the sharpness of her mind, but after nearly a fortnight of solitude, with nothing but her thoughts and a great many debts to keep her company, she didn't want to think.
"This is...cozy," he commented, when the hack stopped and she stepped out to the street.
"The man upstairs plays a very poor bassoon," Diane returned, waiting as he handed up a few coins to the driver, "and the fireplace smokes."
He followed her up the narrow stairs, the...heat of him at her back making her pulse speed. Before she'd married, before she'd met Frederick, Oliver Warren had been the very sort of man about whom she'd dreamed. The wicked, rakish Adonis who could steal a young lady's virtue with a look and her breath with a mere kiss. And now he was standing inside her small, dingy apartment and looking at her.
"How long have you lived here?" he queried, walking over to push open the curtains in the main room.
"Thirteen months."
"That's very precise."
"I'm very precise." He had an air about him, an utter confidence in himself, that made him the centerpiece of the room, made the apartment seem small. She didn't wish to take her eyes off him. Reaching behind her, Diane shut and locked the door. "Those curtains are to remain closed," she said, setting aside her reticule and hat and attempting to keep her hands from trembling.
Over the past fortnight she'd felt abandoned, uncertain, and hopeless. This afternoon she felt eighteen and about to be seduced for the first time. She wished he would stop standing across the room and kiss her instead.
Mr. Warren pulled the curtains shut again. "Is darkness a mourning tradition? I'm not familiar with it."
"It's an attempt to keep the bill collectors worried that they'll face a hysterical female," she returned. He already knew her to be penniless; even if it wasn't for the general rumors, the shabby apartment would have spoken the story just as eloquently. "If I can't be reasoned with, asking me for money would be pointless. And it will definitely cause a scene."
"Then we should likely keep my presence here a secret." He tilted his head, dark mahogany hair falling across one eye as he gazed at her. "I'm going to kiss you now," he announced, strolling up to her. "But because I'm not entirely without conscience, I will give you a last chance to send me away."
She lowered her gaze to his half smiling, sensuous mouth. "I am a lonely woman, Mr. Warren," she said, unable to keep her voice entirely steady. "I don't wish to send you away." Willing herself to have a little courage, she placed her hands on his dark gray lapels. Beneath her fingers his chest felt hard and unyielding, the jump of a muscle against her palm starting heat between her legs. "As you said before, this is about desire."
"Then I think you should call me Oliver," he murmured. Slowly he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.
Diane curled her fingers into his jacket, leaning up along him and kissing him back. Wicked, sinful, immoral--she didn't care. The moment skin touched skin, she felt alive. And excited. And aroused. And not alone.
He shifted to nibble at her jaw, then lifted his head a fraction. "Is the bed in there?" he asked, angling his chin toward the bedchamber door.
"Yes," she returned, her voice muffled against his mouth as he moved in on her again. Hands splayed across her hips, pulling her up against him. Well. He hadn't been lying about wanting her.
Oliver swung her up into his arms. With a surprised gasp Diane gripped him around the neck, unwilling to stop kissing him simply because he was carrying her bodily into the bed chamber. She was fairly certain that if he moved away, if they stopped touching, he would evaporate and she would be left alone again.
Sliding one knee up onto the bed, Oliver leaned down and placed her across the coverlet. "I'm not going to keep calling you Lady Cameron," he said in a low voice as he gripped one of her ankles.
"Diane," she rasped, as he shoved her gown up around her waist. "Diane will do."
With a wicked grin he sank down between her knees. "Diane it is, then."
Fingers, then lips and tongue nibbled at her down...there. Good heavens. A man she'd met less than an hour ago was touching her more intimately than her own husband had ever done. Gasping, she dug her fingers into his dark hair.
"I'm still wearing my shoes," she exclaimed, then realized how absolutely stupid that must sound. "I mean, I don't want them on the bed."
He lifted his head. "Have you never had sex with your shoes on?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?" Sending a glance at the calf-length walking boots on either side of his head, he turned and grasped one of her ankles again. "They're very fashionable."
"I...I don't know why not," she returned, lifting up on her elbows. "They...they're shoes."
"And they're staying on. I will risk being kicked in the head when I come inside you."
Her face heated. "You shouldn't say such things."
Oliver straightened further, taking both her hands and pulling her into a sitting position. "You were married, weren't you?"
"Of course I was. Don't--"
"Did your husband not come inside you?"
"He was my husband."
"Ah." He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and produced a French condom. She'd never actually seen one up close, but one evening when Frederick and some of his cronies had spent the night wagering and drinking in the front room she'd risen to find them jesting about the uses of one. Frederick hadn't appreciated her disturbing his evening, and she'd quickly retreated again. "Better?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good. So your shoes stay on. The gown, however, needs to come off."
Somehow he'd taken command, but considering how very naughty she felt already, Diane had no complaints. None at all. She twisted so he could reach the trio of buttons at the back of her neck, then faced him again as he gathered her skirt in his hands and lifted. The black gown came off over her head, and he dropped it carelessly beside the bed.
Until this moment, only one man had ever seen her naked. As his warm hands cupped her breasts, thumbnails flicking deliciously across her nipples, Diane shivered again. One thing was becoming rather clear. Oliver Warren was nothing like Frederick Benchley.
"Let your hair down," he ordered, sitting upright again and shrugging out of his jacket.
She started yanking out hairpins, setting them on the bed stand. Keeping her shoes on as he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat, watching his face as his gaze swept across her and lowered to her breasts again--it felt so wicked and wanton. Her heart stammered frantically, reminding her forcibly of what Oliver had said earlier; she was not dead. In fact, she couldn't ever remember feeling so...alive.
"Slower," he instructed, the tent of material at his crotch telling her that he was as aroused as she was.
"I don't want to go slower," she stated, already breathless. "And I think you should remove the rest of your clothes. And your boots."
His grin did something warm and twisty to her insides. "That's more like it," he murmured, capturing her mouth again.
When Diane knotted the hem of his white shirt in her hands, he lifted away from her just long enough for her to yank it off over his head. With a low chuckle Oliver reached between them to open the fastening of his breeches and shove them down past his knees. As his erection bumped between her thighs Diane fleetingly wished she hadn't told him to remove his boots; it was just another delay to what she wanted.
With another deep, tongue-tangling kiss he sat back on his bare backside. First he pulled his boots off and dropped them to the floor, the sound loud enough that more than likely both the bassoon player above and the merchant lodging below her rooms could hear the sound. Then he pulled the French condom up around his cock and tied the ribbon around the base.
As he finished, he looked up at her again. "You can do that next time," he said, still grinning.
He crawled up over her, and she lay back. This part she knew. Oliver paused at her chest, taking a breast into his mouth and sucking. Diane gasped, arching her back in response.
Nudging her knees farther apart with his own, Oliver settled against her hips. Then, with another kiss he angled his hips and pushed inside her. Diane groaned at the filling sensation, wrapping her booted feet around his thighs and digging her fingers into his back.
Again and again he slid in and out of her, until the string drawing her muscles tighter and tighter inside her snapped. With a keening groan she grabbed onto him as she came. Oliver kissed her, the smile of his mouth obvious even if she couldn't see the expression.
Abruptly he put an arm beneath her and rolled them, so that she sat astride his hips, impaled. He sat up as well, facing her as he pinched her nipples, then took one in his mouth again. Holding onto his neck, she flung back her head. Her body wanted to move, so she began lifting up and down, the size and heat of him so intoxicating it left her feeling drunk.
"Harder," he grunted, grabbing her hips and pulling her down on him. He pushed up against her in the same rhythm, their breathing and groaning and the slap of skin against skin the only sounds in the room. In the world, it seemed like.
Finally with a deep groan he spent himself inside her. The satisfied moan he uttered sent her climaxing for a second time. Oliver pulled her down across his chest and she lay there for a long moment, his arms around her, as she attempted to stop the spinning of the bed chamber and regain her breath again.
"That...was very nice," she said against his neck.
"I don't think you've been loved enough," Oliver's deep voice returned, the sound resonating through him and into her.
Passion, enjoyment, laughter, of all things. "I...I'm not naive," she commented, kissing his throat. "It's just different with someone else."
Oliver took her shoulders, pushing her an inch or two away from him. "You are going to be very interesting," he said, looking up at her, his gray eyes dancing.
He found her interesting. That was likely the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. Before she could begin crying and get him all wet, Diane sat up, then twisted to extricate herself from him. Her rumpled gown lay on the floor, and considering that it was the only black dress she owned, it needed better care than that. Her armor against the creditors, it was, and a soldier cared for his--her--armor.
She retrieved it, folding it neatly before replacing it in the wardrobe. Then she found a light green muslin and shrugged into it. Behind her she heard Oliver sit up, but he didn't move from the bed. Would he stay? Did a lover simply leave after an...interlude, never to be seen again? She had no idea how this particular game was played. Just as she'd had no idea that sex could be more than a twice-monthly obligation of grunts and thrusts and mauling.
Was this her reward? Was Oliver Warren someone she'd met to show her the way her life was supposed to be? A light to her shadows? Laughter to a very somber two years of marriage? She caught her reflection in her dressing mirror. He'd said several times that she was pretty. Frederick had said so, as well, on the day they'd married. She couldn't recall that he'd said it since then. And now he never would. And she would never have to wait for...something to happen. For her husband to notice her presence, for him to see her as more than someone to have food waiting on the table and to fold his shirts.
If this was her moment, she had no intention of standing by and watching it go by. For the first time, she meant to seize hold of the reins and drive the damned cart that was her life--even if she ran it into the hedgerow. At least it would be her own doing.
"I'm hungry," Oliver said abruptly. "Do you have a cook?"
"I don't have any servants," she returned, facing him.
With a nod he stood, fit and glorious and naked. "Well, we can't have you wandering about Vienna out of that black gown and with a strange man by your side, or you'll lose your advantage over the debt collectors. What say I fetch us a roast chicken and a bottle of wine?"
Her breath caught. "You're not leaving, then?"
One eyebrow lifted. "Do you wish me to? Because I thought we might spend a bit more time naked."
She tried to catch her smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "I would like that."
He retrieved his trousers and shrugged into them. Diane Benchley had definitely not loved her husband. And Lord Cameron hadn't done her any favors in the bedchamber. From what he knew of the fellow, he hadn't been terribly intelligent or imaginative, and he supposed that would show itself in every aspect of the earl's life. A damned shame, considering the goddess he'd had to hand.
Oliver stomped into his boots, then crossed the room to where she stood attempting to put her hair back up into its tight bun again. "Don't do that," he said quietly, picking the trio of pins out of the black mass and letting it cascade over his hands. "You're not going out, so leave it loose. It's stunning that way."
"I don't feel put together with my hair down."
Taking her arm, he turned her to face him and kissed her again. God, she was intoxicating. And with at least two years of pent-up passion she'd never had an excuse to release. "You're free, Diane. Behave as you will."
Her brow furrowed. Then, to his surprise, a tear ran down her cheek. Damnation. He hated it when chits cried. She wiped at her eyes, then walked back to the wardrobe and pulled a neatly folded man's shirt free. "I'm not free," she said, her voice shaking a little. "Frederick left me with thousands of pounds of debt, alone in a foreign country, and all his houses and properties--those that are left--willed to his brother. This is what I have to my name. A few shirts, a great many papers, and an ugly porcelain dog on the hearth."
"I believe you could easily be rid of at least two of those things, then."
From the surprised look in her greener than green eyes, that idea had never occurred to her. She looked down at the shirt. "There are a half dozen ugly green and lavender jackets in the wardrobe. I hate them. Do you know of anywhere I could sell them?"
As if he knew anyone who would dress like a half-witted dandy. "Perhaps. I'll inquire."
"Discreetly, if you please."
He nodded. When he'd seen her earlier, Oliver had wanted her. He hadn't thought much beyond that, and he certainly wasn't looking for a wife or a long-term lover, or anything more than a pleasant afternoon. But something about her continued to draw him. They were both exiles, after all. He took a slow breath.
"My uncle is the Marquis of Haybury," he said, leaning a haunch on her tiny dressing table. "I called him a poor excuse for a horse's ass, and he disowned me."
"Just for calling him a name?"
A smile tugged at his mouth. "The name calling was actually the proverbial last straw, I think. I enjoy trouble, you see."
"You are trouble."
"Yes, but so are you. And as I seem to be returning here with luncheon, Diane, you can stop saying that you're alone."
She didn't look completely convinced, and he wasn't, either. Him. Making proclamations. Once he'd finished dressing, he left her apartment and walked two streets to the nearest inn. Several familiar faces were there, and two games of faro were already in progress. But as tempting as making a few more quid might be, he had enough blunt to last him a few months, even with him purchasing meals for recent widows. And Diane Benchley's naked charms far outweighed those of the cigar-smoking wagerers around him.
He requested a basket of baked chicken and fresh bread, paid for them and a bottle of red wine, and returned to the three-story building housing Diane and five additional apartments. Because she was portraying a grieving widow, he refrained from whistling as he climbed the steep stairs, but only just.
Whatever he'd expected when he'd fled London, it hadn't been this. It hadn't been her. He pushed open her door and stepped inside. She knelt by the hearth, large pieces of what must have been the porcelain dog in her hands. As she rose, Oliver stopped in his tracks. She'd brushed out her long, midnight hair, and the way the thick locks framed her pale cheeks and set off her emerald eyes was simply stunning.
"You came back," she said.
"I told you that I would. Something happened to the dog, I assume?"
"I accidently kicked it into the wall."
"Good."
She cleared her throat, and for a bare moment he thought she'd come to her senses and was going to ask him to leave. He didn't want to. Not yet. Not while the mere sight of her had his trousers tightening. Not until he'd bedded her at least a dozen more times.
"I'm attempting not to be grateful and weepy," she finally commented, walking up to take the basket from him and set it on the worn writing desk. "I can't conjure anything more pitiful."
Neither could he. "You still haven't called me by my Christian name, you know."
A small smile curved her mouth again. "I see. Thank you for fetching luncheon, Oliver."
"That's better. Do you have wineglasses?"
"Yes, I do." She paused halfway across the room, then turned and walked up to him. "I think we should have sex again before we eat, Oliver," she murmured, sliding her arms around his shoulders and rising on her tiptoes for a soft, breath-stealing kiss.
"If you keep this up, I'm never leaving."
Her muffled chuckle warmed his insides. Yes, she was definitely unexpected. He'd known he would enjoy sex with her, but he hadn't thought to enjoy her company. Perhaps Vienna wouldn't be as intolerable as he'd expected. Perhaps he'd earned a bit of luck, after all.
"You can't take me to the theater," Diane said, stacking the last of Frederick's pages and pages of owed funds and overdue bills onto the desk. If they'd owned a paper mill they might have been made wealthy just from documenting her late husband's ill luck.
"Just how long is deep mourning supposed to last?" Oliver sank down into the chair opposite her and promptly disorganized the papers as he flipped through them. "Good God."
"Six months, in London. And there are enough Englishmen in Vienna that I have to conform. And the longer I look...unstable, the longer I'll have to figure out how to manage this mess."
He shrugged. "Send it on to your brother-in-law. If he's inheriting the property, he should inherit the debts."
It sounded so simple. She knew, of course, that Frederick had borrowed money against several of his properties already, and that he'd sold all his horses and let go half his staff before they'd even left England. From what she'd been able to discover, at the moment the properties of the Earl of Cameron must be in complete disarray if not utter ruin simply from neglect. "I haven't heard back from him yet. And unless he's made independent investments, I doubt he'll be able to settle anything." She sighed, reaching across the table to brush her fingers against his.
Touching Oliver Warren both excited her and gave her an unexpected...strength. As if for the first time in two years, she wasn't entirely alone any longer. Her troubles remained, but she had someone with whom to chat, someone who could perhaps point out avenues she hadn't seen on her own.
"Here," he said, lifting a small package from beneath the table and handing it to her. "I thought you might find these useful."
Diane stifled the abrupt urge to cry. She'd for the most part avoided being weepy and clinging too hard to her new acquaintance, and he clearly appreciated that. But the last time anyone had brought her a gift...she couldn't even remember the last time she'd received a present.
Attempting to keep her fingers from shaking, she untied the ribbon holding the paper closed and pulled the wrapping open. A pair of very fine black kid gloves with pearl button closures lay on the table before her. "They're lovely," she said, pulling them on and lifting her hands to admire the smooth, sleek fit of them.
"Not at all proper for your lover to be gifting you with, I'm certain, but you look very nice in black. Exquisite, actually."
She smiled. "If you keep saying such nice things, I may stop resisting the outing to the theater."
To her surprise, he frowned. "I have a question."
Attempting to ignore the nervous fluttering of her heart by concentrating on removing the gloves, Diane nodded. "I seem to have no secrets from you."
"Every woman has secrets," he returned. "I've merely not discovered the correct questions for you, yet. This one, however, is more mundane. Why is it that after you've been in Vienna for a year, you've had no one come calling on you in three days except for that bloody rude tailor and me?"
"Ah. I thought you were going to ask me something difficult." She sighed.
"Frederick owed--owes--money to nearly every Englishmen in town. If someone comes to see me, it would mean that either they're hounding a widow for money, or if they don't mention it, they're here to forgive me the debt."
Gray eyes glittered. "So they stay away in order to keep their options open. Fools."
"Well, that's easier to say if Frederick didn't owe you anything." A disturbing thought occurred to her. "Did he?"
"He did not." Taking her hand again, Oliver drew her to her feet and pulled her around the table to sit across his thighs. "I believe I met your late husband on three occasions, all in London. I never wagered with him."
That sounded like a tale. "You wager with everyone. Why not Frederick?"
"Hm. I believe we're straying back into the 'don't speak ill of the dead' area of conversation," he muttered, bending his head to nibble at her throat.
If she hadn't been sitting, her knees would have given way. A thrill of delight twirled down her spine. "Tell me anyway."
"Very well. I like a challenge. Lord Cameron was not a challenge. He was something of a jest at some of the clubs, actually." His mouth paused in its trail along the nape of her neck. "At the time, it never occurred to me to be anything but scornful. I'm afraid I didn't spare a thought for what Lady Cameron might be feeling as her husband lost hundreds of pounds at the table."
She would have shrugged if she didn't think that might have distracted him from slowly peeling one arm of her gown down her shoulder. "I doubt anyone gave it a thought," she returned. "Including Frederick."
"I think you're becoming more cynical." He paused, his fingers occupied with undoing the ribbon at the back of her dress. "I like it."
"It helps to have someone with whom to commiserate." Diane closed her eyes, delighting in the shivery, arousing sensation of being in the arms of someone who wanted her. She couldn't precisely fault Frederick for not being that someone; their marriage had been contracted and signed for shortly before her eighteenth birthday. While she'd been thrilled to become a countess, the other elements of their marriage hadn't precisely filled her with excitement. Clearly Frederick had been of the same opinion.
"Do you want to return to England?"
"Yes," she replied, lowering one shoulder so he could slip her arm out of the short sleeve of her gown, "but I have no idea how I would manage to do that." Diane twisted her head to eye him. "What about you? Would you go back to London if you could?"
"A week ago I would have said so, without hesitation." His gray gaze met hers. "At the moment, however, I'm rather enjoying Vienna."
And so was she--more than she had in the past year. More than she'd enjoyed England for the year before that. "Such flattery, Mr. Warren. You could turn a young lady's head."
"I already have, I believe." His warm chuckle sounded against the pulse of her throat. "Several times."
Oliver slid her other arm from the sleeve of her proper black gown and bared her to the waist. If one thing had become clear to him over the past few days, it was that Frederick Benchley had been worse than a poor gambler. The man was an utter fool. This had awaited him at home every evening, and he'd instead chosen to remain at his clubs. The earl had preferred to lose his reputation and his income and his future rather than begetting heirs and otherwise indulging in endless sex with an extremely passionate woman. But then again, perhaps her passions hadn't included being in bed with her husband.
"I have a question," she said, her voice hitching as he flicked his tongue across one of her nipples.
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
"Hm. Very well, then. Ask." As he spoke, he lifted her in his arms and stood, carrying her to the deep couch and then sitting again with her still across his thighs.
"I know at Lady Darham's you...saw something you wanted. I didn't expect you to remain after you had me."
He lifted his head from her soft breasts. "Do you want me to leave?"
His voice sounded more strident than he'd intended. It had to be the fact that his cock was already straining at his trousers; what man in his right mind wanted to be asked to go when he was already imagining her naked? His...annoyance--for that had to be what the uncomfortable sensation in his chest was--was only because of her timing.
"No, I don't want you to leave." She grabbed his hair and kissed him hard and openmouthed. "I'm only surprised you don't want to leave."
So was he, actually. For a rather helpless, naive widow, she was quite compelling. And even considering his own situation, he found himself working to make her smile. To at least give her something to contemplate aside from her own untenable circumstances. "You are the most lovely flower in Vienna," he returned, reaching between them to unfasten his trousers. "If not all of Europe. You're also witty, willing, and I'm discovering that streak of cynicism."
"I'm not witty," she breathed, holding onto his shoulders and lifting up a little so he could shove his trousers down past his thighs. "I talk about Frederick too much, and I constantly complain about money."
Oliver drew the black skirt of her gown up around her waist to join the rest of the material there. "What else would you be discussing?"
With a breathless smile, Diane sank down on him again, impaling herself on his cock. "This, perhaps."
As she bounced up and down on him enthusiastically, he swiftly lost the power of speech. He thrust up into her, the heat and friction of her driving him almost immediately to the edge of control. Whatever the devil he was doing keeping company with a luscious young widow, this certainly made it worth the weeping and hand-wringing. In fact, in exchange for being with Diane Benchley he was beginning to think he'd be willing to put up with quite a bit more of it.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and for a moment he was grateful that he still wore his shirt and jacket. He still bore fingernail scratches from their first night together. If nothing else, that had convinced him that this woman needed to be thoroughly ravished. Repeatedly.
Using every ounce of self-control he possessed, Oliver held himself in check until he felt her tightening, shivering release around him. Then with what was likely no grace at all, he lifted her off his thighs and came against her with the help of her eager hands. He groaned, breathing hard as she leaned in and kissed him again.
He was cleaning himself off as someone rapped on the small apartment's door. Diane's face turned gray and she jumped to her feet. "You have to hide," she hissed, yanking up the top of her gown and settling her skirt back around her ankles.
Swiftly he grabbed the second cup of tea that sat on the writing desk and strode into her bedchamber. It wasn't the first time he'd fled after sex, but he'd never done so when the woman's husband was dead--and when technically they'd done nothing wrong. Not in the eyes of the law, at least, though he supposed the church would disagree.
He listened at the door as Diane admitted her dullard of a landlord. The fellow demanded his rent, now overdue by a fortnight, then proceeded to backpedal and apologize when Lady Cameron began to sob and weep hysterically about her helplessness and how awful and unreliable the mail was and how her brother-in-law the new earl would have the papers to her any day now.
Once the fool left, Oliver emerged into the sitting room again. Diane leaned her forehead against the closed door, the knuckles of her hand white where she gripped the handle. Her mourning might not have been genuine, but she was a woman truly in a dire situation. His gut lurched uncomfortably at the sight of how...vulnerable she looked. "I had a thought," he said in a low voice.
She straightened, wiping tears from her cheeks. "Give me a moment, if you please," she said shakily.
His fingers clenched--not with anger or frustration, but because he abruptly wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that she wasn't alone, that he would do whatever he could to assist her. Him. A man who'd cheated to win the money he was presently using to purchase them food and to pay for his own apartment across the city. A man who'd fled London because he could no longer afford to live there unless he apologized to his damned uncle. And crossed his fingers, spit over his shoulder, and hoped that would be enough to earn Uncle Phillip's forgiveness.
Finally she blew out her breath. "I apologize. I know you dislike sticky emotions."
Oliver shrugged, more to settle himself than to signal anything to her. "You did away with dear Mr. Brunn quite handily, I have to say. At least twice now, as well."
"It won't work much longer. A man's discomfort with weeping cannot outweigh his love of gold forever."
"And there's that cynicism again." With a brief smile he walked to the table and handed her the second cup of tea. It was weak stuff, worse than piss, but he certainly wasn't obligated to drink it. He did so because she made it for him.
"Hence that thought I had a moment ago."
She took a long swallow, grimacing. "Which thought did you have, then?"
"Just that Lord Cameron has been away from London for a year, and his circumstances in that time have changed drastically. Would it be terribly unusual for a man in that position to perhaps...amend certain papers?"
Diane stared at him. If he'd needed a ruler to measure the distance between his moral compass and hers, he only needed to look at her face. She wanted to sin, but only in the bedchamber. Outside of that, Lady Cameron seemed to still follow the rules.
"You're suggesting that I what, forge a new will and pass it off as Frederick's?"
Or perhaps she wasn't as interested in the rules as he thought. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I only asked if it wasn't likely he might have put something in writing that took into account his altered circumstances." Taking the teacup from her hand, he leaned down and kissed her again. "Then again, such things take money. A solicitor to declare the documents legal, someone to witness them, your husband's signature, the--"
"It sounds as if you've given this more than a single thought," she broke in.
"You didn't deserve to have this happen to you," he said, somewhat surprised to realize that he was utterly serious. "If a small lie can improve your circumstance, I think it would be worth it. Don't you?"
"I have signed papers on Frederick's behalf, from time to time," she returned slowly. "Frequently, actually." She visibly shook herself. "But no one is likely to believe me over Anthony. And if they suspect a deception, I would find myself in prison. Or worse."
"It was only a suggestion, Diane. From an immoral scoundrel." Smiling to show that he hadn't meant to cause her further distress, Oliver reached out to tug on her rumpled sleeve. "What say we attempt a stroll along the river? A widow and a friend of her husband's, here to provide a measure of comfort?"
The smile that touched her mouth had nothing to do with comfort, and his cock twitched in response. "I've barely left the bed for the past three days. A stroll might be pleasant. But you don't precisely look...brotherly."
"And I don't feel brotherly. I did, however, go to the bother of getting dressed."
With an exaggerated sigh that did wondrous things to her bosom, Diane nodded. "A short stroll. Away from here. I don't want Mr. Brunn seeing us."
He offered his arm. Whether she realized it or not, Diane was learning some things about deception, and about survival. Perhaps he was aiding her a little, after all.
Diane lifted up on one elbow, reaching out with her free hand to brush a strand of rich, mahogany hair from the temple of the man sleeping beside her. How odd, that the worst fortnight of her life had been immediately followed by the best fortnight of her life. And the only thing to differentiate the two portions was Oliver Warren.
He likely saw a similarity between them--two English aristocrats, trapped in Vienna because of a lack of funds. Her interpretation was rather different, but at the moment all that mattered was the fact that she was no longer alone. And she'd begun to realize that she'd been alone not since Frederick's death, but since her marriage to him. The price, she supposed, for marrying according to the dictates of a contract rather than her heart.
It wasn't just the frequent, toe-curling sex. Oliver spoke to her, and listened to her when she talked about nonsense. Even when she talked, endlessly, about Frederick and her current woes. She could barely stand hearing it herself, and yet there he was, a warm, solid, enticing presence that had appeared just when she'd been ready to give up hope.
Even though she knew it was childish, something worthy of a young girl who still believed in faerie magic and dandelion wishes, in the night like this, with his hand wrapped into the material of her night rail, she couldn't help wondering. Was this--he--her reward? Her...compensation for doing what was expected of her, for standing by Frederick even when she would much rather have fled? Had she passed some sort of test, and now she was worthy of being loved? Of falling in love?
Love. Such a small word, and yet the key to opening vast expanses of the world. The things no one could touch, but everyone craved. Long eyelashes fluttered and opened, gray eyes almost black in the filtered moonlight focusing on her.
"Hello," he muttered, a faint smile touching his sensuous mouth.
"Hello."
"Is something amiss?"
"No. I was merely pondering." She lowered her head onto the cushion of her arm. "If we simply ran away from Vienna, what would the penalty be?"
His low chuckle rumbled into her chest. "I doubt any debts accrued in Austria would follow us to England. There is the problem of English debts, however."
"Yes, but Spain is very pleasant this time of year, isn't it? I just received a letter from my dear friend Jenny. She's been living in Spain for the past few months." The fact that she'd received any news at all of Genevieve Martine after five years of silence seemed significant. The timing of it only added to the feeling that she'd somehow managed to step into the sunlight after two years of clouds and rain.
Oliver rolled onto his side, propping up his head in a mirror to her own position. "Would you flee to Spain with me, Diane?"
"I would flee anywhere with you, I think. As long as I could burn any black clothing I own."
"But you look so delicious in black. I don't think you have any idea how much power a woman in black holds over any man. Especially when she looks as exquisite you do." Leaning forward, he kissed her softly and slowly. "Of course you look equally enticing out of any clothes at all."
"Is that why you're still here?" she asked when she could breathe again, deciding belatedly that questioning miracles was a very bad idea. "Sex?"
"Hm. A lovely young woman, a fellow countryman in a foreign country, someone who doesn't look down on me for being the scoundrel that I am, someone who laughs at my jests. And I can't forget that when faced with odds that would crush most people, she's found a way both to survive and to begin thinking beyond tomorrow." He lifted an eyebrow. "So yes, it's solely the sex."
"I was crushed," she whispered, gripping his fingers. "You saved me." Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and she stretched, then kissed him again. "I think I'll put on a kettle for some awful tea."
The moment she left the room, shutting the door behind her, Oliver sat up. Christ. He'd saved her? Him? The idiot who didn't have two coins to rub together, and who couldn't manage to be polite to his uncle for long enough to remain in the man's will? Who'd by insisting on being a scoundrel had denied himself inheriting a marquisdom and enough blunt to purchase a small country?
What the devil was he doing? Yes, he admired her fortitude, and the way that even as completely unprepared for the harsh realities of life as she was, she still somehow found the strength to continue on. He appreciated her body and and her humor, and he loved her angry, hopeful passion.
A sharp chill stabbed into his chest. Love? So what did that mean? Did he love her? Was he going to shackle himself to her for the rest of his life while they fled from country to country racking up debts they could never pay? Drinking that damned, weak tea every morning and...and what? Marry her?
He was six-and-twenty. He still had oats to sow and wagering to do, games to play, women to seduce. If he stayed with Diane now, when they'd talking about...about living together and a future together, he would never be able to leave.
"Shit," he muttered, grabbing his trousers and yanking them on.
She didn't need him. She was discovering ways to make do. He'd showed her some of them. And she had more chance of succeeding as a pretty young widow than as a scandalous female flitting about Europe with the likes of him. His boots were beneath the bed, and he sank down to carefully retrieve them and silently pull them on.
It had only been a damned fortnight. He didn't have to alter the entire remainder of his life because of a bloody fortnight, however pleasant and pleasurable it had been. She expected too much. And he had obligations. His uncle had no other heirs. If the fat fool dropped dead without altering his will, the properties and title and wealth of the Haybury marquisdom would revert to the Crown. That was nonsense.
He found his shirt and his jacket and shrugged into them, then cracked open the bedchamber door. Diane knelt in front of the old, worn fireplace, setting that blasted dented kettle over the small fire. And she was humming.
Swearing silently, he shut the door against the abrupt desire to simply stay there and listen to her, watch her be happy. It wouldn't last. He'd do something stupid, or he'd decide to go out to a club and wager and lose, and she would decide he wasn't what she needed, after all. The only difference between them was the fact that he already knew he was wrong for her.
The window overlooking the neighboring grocer opened silently, and he swung over the ledge and jumped onto the building's lower roof. She would realize what he already knew, and better that he not be there when that happened. Better for them both if he simply disappeared.
She would manage. In fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised if four or five or six years from now she reappeared in London, a wealthy husband and two or three children in tow. She would be happy, and he would be happy, and they would laugh about their two weeks in Vienna. A few tears now, perhaps, in exchange for a much better life. Diane Benchley would thank him for it, the next time they met. He was certain of that. Damned certain.
THE WICKED ONE copyright © 2012 by Suzanne Enoch.
