Chapter One
Salisbury, England, 1813
Lady Olivia Hopkins reached to the library shelf above her
head and yanked on the heavy book she was determined to
read. It came loose with a whoosh of air, as though it
hadn't been moved from its spot in many a year. The
weighty tome fell toward her, and she barely caught it
before it crashed to the floor with a loud thud.
Cradling it to her chest, she lugged it to a nearby table
and laid it down. The cover was deep red, the title-A
Feast for the Senses-printed in ornate golden lettering
that hinted at antiquity. Carefully, she opened it, the
binding creaking with age, and her nose was assailed with
the smells of dust and mold.
She seated herself in a comfortable chair and turned to
the first page, but she was shocked by what she saw. She
blanched, her brows rose.
"Dear me," she murmured to the empty room. She peeked
about, half expecting one of Lord Salisbury's servants, or
her stepmother, Margaret, to leap from behind the velvet
draperies and scold her for her nocturnal curiosity.
For the prior hour, she had been studying the works of the
Italian masters, and she'd anticipated more of the same,
but this was no educational reference, no boring volume of
scholarly merit she could carry to her bedchamber as a
cure for insomnia.
Before her, dozens of mermaids were strewn across an
oceanic scene and lounging on a rocky shoreline.
Disturbingly, they looked like herself-slender, with blue
eyes and blond hair. They were serene, beaming with
contentment, their flaxen locks flowing into an azure sea,
their scaled, flippered legs dangling in the frothy water.
Previously, she'd observed paintings of mermaids, but the
illustrations were discreet, the bodily arrangement hiding
any sights the viewer ought not see.
In contrast, these were ... were ... She couldn't describe
what they were.
The mythical creatures were arrayed to startle. Their
postures were provoking, their upper torsos exposed, their
anatomical curves precisely delineated. The anonymous
artist had a particular fascination with the female
breast, for each pair was lovingly and meticulously
drafted for maximum effect. He was intrigued, captivated
by the risqué, and eager to convey his bewitchment to
others. Which he did. Quite successfully.
There were large breasts, small breasts, rounded, high,
flat, pointy, and voluptuous breasts. Every size, shape,
and contour was exhibited. The centers were portrayed in
varying hues of peach and rose, an erect nipple
conspicuous in the middle of each.
In her twenty-three years of living, she'd never beheld a
woman's breasts, and though she endeavored to recall, she
wasn't certain she'd ever seen her own, when she
definitely should have. She was an accomplished artist
herself, but in all actuality, she knew very little about
the human form. Aesthetic investigation should have
spurred her to master the intimate aspects, but it wasn't
as if she-the prim, proper daughter of a deceased earl-
could hire a model to pose in the buff, and she was hardly
an individual who would stand in front of the mirror and
gaze at herself in the altogether, so she hadn't realized
that the breast could be so magnetic, so alluring.
She couldn't quit staring.
While she wanted to be disgusted or upset, she wasn't, and
she really and truly intended to stop surveying the
naughty portraiture, but she was too mesmerized. Sternly,
she ordered herself to close the cover, but she couldn't
obey the command.
She traced a finger across the fantastical lumps of flesh,
and the maneuver had a peculiar and dramatic impact on her
physique. Her breasts swelled and ached, and her nipples
poked against the fabric of her nightgown, causing her to
notice and assess them in an entirely new fashion.
Distractedly, she cupped one of the mounds, testing its
plump mass and girth. By accident, her thumb flicked
across the rigid tip, and the gesture set off a slew of
exotic, almost hurtful sensations. Feeling as though she'd
been burned, she dropped her hand and glanced away. Her
cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
How could an object as innocuous as a book have such
rousing force? Why would something as simple as a painting
wield such power? Why did she allow a reaction to occur?
Yearning for a respite from the stimulation, she turned
the page.
The next picture was worse-or better, depending on one's
perspective-and much more disquieting than the first. A
lone mermaid was stretched out on a boulder, the sea
churning around her, her finned legs suspended in the
water. She too was fully displayed, her pouting,
curvaceous breasts visible.
A man was with her. A very handsome, very mortal man, with
dark hair and eyes. He appeared to be a sailor, with a
loose, flowing shirt and pants. They were ripped at the
knee, as though he'd been in a shipwreck and had been
tossed up by the waves. He was sprawled behind the
mermaid, and she was in his arms, her bottom snuggled
between his muscled thighs.
His hands clasped her breasts, his fingers squeezing her
nipples. In obvious bliss, her face was tilted toward the
stormy sky.
The spectacle stirred an unusual and primal excitement in
Olivia. She hadn't known that a man would do such a thing
to a woman, that a woman might enjoy it. Instinctively,
she comprehended that this was the sort of exploit a
couple would engage in in the marital bed, where an
episode transpired that was so obscure and so puzzling
that a virgin-such as herself-dare not ask others about
it, dare not ruminate or speak of it aloud.
The information was frightening, and had her so
disconcerted that she couldn't reflect upon it, so she
browsed, rapidly scrutinizing the paintings.
Hundreds of legendary animals were drawn, and they were
mostly female. Nymphs frolicked in a waterfall, elves
danced before a fire, fairies scattered their magic
powder. They were ravishing, beguiling, making her want to
linger and examine, to dream and fantasize. Frequently,
the mysterious man rollicked in the midst of the
merriment, the fictitious ladies adoring him and the
blatant maleness he brought to their feminine enterprises.
They were touching him, with their hands and their mouths,
but the specific deeds were shielded, the nature of the
conduct too astonishing to divulge.
If she wed the Earl of Salisbury, Edward Paxton, was this
the type of activity he would require? Should she
ultimately become his bride, what else was there to
discern? Upon what other bizarre, private behaviors might
he insist?
Did men and women perform such antics? Did the earl? If he
decided to marry her, would he demand such debauchery? She
could never be sufficiently relaxed with him to where she
could strip off her clothes and romp around. What if it
was obligatory? What if he solicited such dissipation on a
regular basis?
Could she go through with a marriage to him? How could she
not?
Without warning, a shadow crept across the page, and she
frowned, in her confused state, unable to grasp what it
portended.
"What an interesting choice for nightly reading," a male
voice intoned from right next to her. "And one of my
personal favorites."
She froze.
A man had sneaked in without her noticing! Her hair was
down and brushed out, and she was clad in a flimsy
nightgown and robe. Her feet were bare, not so much as a
slipper covering them.
Everyone was abed. If she'd assumed differently, she'd
never have come downstairs.
Who had joined her? If it was the earl, she would perish
from mortification! If it wasn't the earl, it had to be
someone with whom he was well acquainted. No one else
would be roaming the halls so late.
How could she explain what she was doing, sitting by
herself and obsessing over lewd drawings?
Gad! What if she'd wrecked her chance with the earl before
the visit had even begun? Margaret would be driven to
commit murder.
Terrified over what she'd wrought, she glanced up, and she
flinched with shock and surprise.
For a bracing, mad instant, she was sure he was the knave
in the book, having vaulted to life from the pages.
But no. Her imagination was merely agitated to a frenzy.
He had many comparable features, but he wasn't the same
fellow.
He was beautiful, if a man could be described as
beautiful, with black hair and blue eyes that glimmered in
the dim light. His hair was neatly trimmed in the front,
but the back was long and tied with a queue. He had high
cheekbones, and a mouth tinged with dimples, as if he were
carefree and prone to smiling, and he exuded masculine
aromas like fresh air, tobacco, and horses.
A few years older than herself, he was tall, with broad
shoulders, a thin waist, and lanky legs. As she was
seated, he loomed over her, but she sensed no menace or
intimidation. A disreputable cad could have taken
advantage of her situation, but she didn't perceive a
hazard. While he appeared to be the sort who was capable
of mischief, it wouldn't be achieved at her expense; she
was convinced of it.
She tried to deduce who he might be, but inference was
difficult. He was attired as a laborer, in tan shirt and
brown trousers, but the clothes were tailored and made of
costly material, which verified he wasn't a servant. He
didn't have the demeanor of a guest, either, and the earl
had no relatives visiting.
If he wasn't an employee, a guest, or kin, who was he? And
how could she garner his promise that he'd never tell a
soul what he'd seen her doing?
She was going to have a devil of a time worming her way
out of the debacle, and she decided to seize the
offensive.
"I beg your pardon?" she said. "Were you speaking to me?"
Casually, she closed the book, pretending that he'd
witnessed nothing untoward. Exuding bravado, she glowered
at him as if she were in the habit of confronting unknown
men in the middle of the night, while scarcely dressed and
perusing indecent art.
"I'd forgotten this book was here" he replied. "I haven't
picked it up since I was a lad just out of short pants. As
you might surmise, I found it quite enlightening."
He chuckled at the memory, a low, beguiling rumble that
reverberated through her, rattling her.
"That's not exactly information I'd share with others,"
she retorted, as though she hadn't just debased herself by
greedily analyzing the drawings, too.
"Do you enjoy erotica?"
Erotica ...
She blinked, then blinked again. She hadn't heard the term
before. It sizzled through the room, like a novel flavor
she'd never tasted, and she liked the sound of it. It
connoted romance, intrigue, mystery-extreme wickedness!-
and it conjured up notions of a bohemian life of gaiety
and excitement.
What kind of scoundrel strutted up to a woman to whom he'd
never been introduced and uttered such a scandalous,
delicious word?
"I've no idea what you're talking about," she alleged.
"Erotica," he repeated. He moved until he was behind her
chair, blocking her in, and ruining any prospect she might
have had to jump up and dash out. "I prefer the French
style, but the Italian isn't bad."
He leaned forward, placing a palm on the table on either
side of her, so that she was trapped. She'd never been so
near to an unfamiliar man before. Hers was a sterile
world, where contact was forbidden and avoided, so
incidental and sporadic that she occasionally felt as if
she were living in a bubble.
She didn't know what to do. Though she knew she should
leap up, shove him away, and stomp out, she didn't want to
give him the impression that she was apprehensive or
unsophisticated, even though she was. And she couldn't
leave until she'd smoothed over the awkward encounter.
She had to marry the Earl of Salisbury. There was no
alternative. They were in dire financial straits, with no
options remaining, but she'd never wanted to wed. Her
doting father had pampered her, letting her pursue her art
by declining every proposal she'd received, a mistake
about which Margaret never ceased to harangue.
If Olivia's father had affianced her-Margaret liked to
sharply contend-as any normal, sane parent should have
done, Olivia would currently be joined with a wealthy,
aristocratic husband who could support her family.
Absurdly, she suffered a ripple of irritation at both her
father and brother for having had the gall to die, and
thus abandoning a houseful of women who'd been alarmed to
determine that they were on the verge of fiscal ruin.
Olivia had to work a swift miracle, by expeditiously
snagging a husband, even though she had no dowry
remaining. Their contrived solution rested with the
widowed Lord Salisbury.
Margaret had events plotted out: Olivia would charm the
earl, he would be smitten and offer for her, and she would
accept. Then, Margaret would advise him of Olivia's
plundered dowry, certain that he was too much of a
gentleman to recant after an overture had been tendered.
The stratagem bothered Olivia, and ordinarily, she would
have stood firm against chicanery, but she was as frantic
as Margaret. Not for herself, but for her niece, Helen.
Helen was three, and the lone-though illicit-offspring
sired by her brother before his death. The girl's mother,
a kitchen maid, had died in childbirth, so Helen had no
one but Olivia to watch over her, and she definitely
needed watching.
Though she was angelically pretty, she didn't talk or
interact as a healthy tot would. She was mute and distant.
Margaret denounced her as a lunatic, the insanity a
symptom of her illegitimacy, so she was concealed in the
nursery, with few people aware of her existence.
Helen was Olivia's only kin, her only tie to what had once
been a powerful and renowned British lineage, her only
connection to the brother and father whom she'd loved.
Safe at home in London, Helen was another secret that
would have to be revealed after wedding plans were in
progress. After all, with Olivia flaunting herself as a
bridal aspirant with an irreproachable ancestry, it
wouldn't do to alert her suitor that dementia ran in the
family!
At all costs, Olivia would protect Helen, even if it meant
she had to marry a mature, reserved stranger, and she
couldn't risk that the impertinent rascal with whom she
was presently sequestered might spread stories about her
midnight wanderings.
He reached for the book, flipped it open, and it fell to
an illustration of an Arabian sheik, surrounded by his
harem. A concubine straddled his lap, her bosom thrust
toward him, and he suckled at her breast as a babe would
its mother.
Olivia blushed from the roots of her hair to the tips of
her toes.
"Really, sir ..." she sputtered, unable to find sufficient
vocabulary to characterize her outrage. "You presume too
much."
"He looks just like me, wouldn't you say?" He was in her
peripheral vision, his cheek all but pressed to her own.