Forbidden to Love the Duke(29)
He motioned the footman out of the way to personally help Ivy into her creaky old carriage. She felt the pressure of his hand upon her hip, the hardness of his body against hers.
“Ivy,” he whispered against her cheek.
She restrained the urge to turn her face to his. His closeness devastated her, filled her with reckless desire. “What?” she whispered back.
His mouth slid to the corner of hers. His fingers lifted to the underside of her breast, a sinful caress that fizzed her blood like champagne. “Do you have to go?”
“I’ll come back.”
He drew himself upright. “You’d better.”
“Good day, Your Grace,” she said.
He glanced back at the house. “One can hope.”
Chapter 12
Sir Oliver was as unimpressed by the exterior of Fenwick Manor as he was unprepared for the impact of its interior. With obvious reluctance, Rue Fenwick, recognizing his name, had invited him into the great hall. He managed to overlook her loveliness for several minutes as he cataloged the interior of the house.
In his mind he heard drums and cymbals, the music of revels and whispers of Tudor political rivalries. His imagination caught fire.
How could four young women have spent their lives in this splendid ruin and not have found the hidden treasure? They must have heard of it. And how would he delicately approach the subject without appearing to come across as the fortune hunter he was?
Poetry, of course.
Words of flattery. He made his living writing sonnets to noblewomen who in turn supported him with little baubles, which he sold and professed to have lost.
“Darling Oliver, how can you be so careless with your watches?” his last countess had asked him as she lay naked and squashing him to the bed.
“Perhaps because time flies when I am with you.”
“You adorable cad.”
Yes, he was a cad, and were he a more talented cad, he wouldn’t have to write poetry to wealthy ladies of the beau monde in order to survive. He wasn’t much of a gambler. But this endeavor, a treasure hunt, inspired him. He disregarded his stirrings of guilt and allowed Rue to introduce him to her sisters.
Naturally, he would share in whatever hidden fortune he discovered. But what a complex puzzle of a house. It could take months to search every nook and cranny, and how was one to do so without appearing obvious?
“Sir Oliver, please come into the drawing room and take refreshment,” said a tall, dark-haired lady whose stare, he swore, pierced his innards.
“Lady . . . ?” he asked, hinting for a first name.
She gave him a vague smile. “Sometimes.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Arrogant woman. She hadn’t even properly brushed her hair for his visit, although neither had he. But then Oliver found the look of tousled artist appealed to most females, and God knew it wasn’t as if he lived on Park Lane and had a reliable valet to keep him in style.
She didn’t appear to be a typical daughter of the nobility. Neither of the two other sisters, Lilac and Rue, were dressed to receive guests, but with their natural beauty, what did clothes matter?
The unfriendly siren led him into a sunlit room and to a hard chair that sat beside a large golden lyre. It looked like something a giant might own; he wondered when the golden hen would appear so that he could snatch it and run. But on closer inspection the lyre’s strings were so worn that Oliver doubted it would play a chord.
“Is Ivy—Lady Ivy—at home?” he asked when he realized the women awaited an explanation for his appearance. “I do have the right day this time? I sent a box here last week and received a letter in return that she would be at home on Wednesday.”
The statuesque lady whom one of the sisters had referred to as Rosemary gave him a curt nod. “We sent the box to her place of employment, which we shouldn’t have done. She hasn’t been gone from home all that long. I’m not sure she’ll be ready to receive callers the minute she walks in the door.” She crossed her arms. “You are the poet Sir Oliver?”
He warmed. “You know my work?”
She sniffed in reply.
He glanced at Rue for support, only to find an impassive expression that indicated she wouldn’t take his side over her older sister’s. “But I owe her a personal apology, don’t you agree?” he said. “I’ve thought of nothing but her since that day in the street. I can’t write a decent verse. I’m rather hopeless. I have to see her.”
“This sounds like more than an apology,” Lilac said candidly. “Are you hoping to court her?”
He lowered his gaze. Odd. At a soirée in London his looks could melt stone, but these women appeared to be made of the stuff. He’d feel a damned fool if Lady Ivy refused him as a suitor.