Oliver snapped the book closed and tilted his head to the sky. Bloody hell. She was young if she considered the baronet, who couldn’t be a day over fifty years, old enough to be her father…and her dead husband had been called Robert. That should narrow down Oliver’s search.
What the hell am I saying? He had no interest in discovering the identity of the author. To what purpose? He couldn’t return her diary with any explanation that would not cause her great distress. Even if he lied and said he hadn’t read the pages, her mortification would be great, indeed.
Nor could he leave it where he found it on the grass under the cypress tree by the gazebo for another unsuspecting soul to stumble upon her lusty and scandalous musings.
Perhaps he should simply burn it.
He glanced toward where he’d found the damning journal, his gaze assessing each young lady who strolled by. None looked anxious, and a few gave him inviting smiles, no doubt hearing wedding bells, since it had been made known he was on the hunt for a wife. He was two and thirty and was quite bored. The usual debauchery that privileged gentlemen of his ilk enjoyed no longer seemed exciting. The pleasure gardens, the reckless racing, scandalous pursuits, and even the rousing debates in Parliament hardly moved him anymore.
There was an emptiness in his soul he couldn’t understand, and nothing of late seemed to fill the void. He had bid his last mistress adieu over eight months past and been without a lover since. Oliver had seen no point in searching for another when his last three had left him so uninspired and frustrated. His mother had even clucked and urged him to take the waters in Bath to cure his ennui.
It was as if the world were painted in shades of gray, and he was waiting for a ray of something…anything to burst through the bleak dreariness and inspire him to simply feel.
One of his closest friends, the Duke of Basil, had taken the plunge into matrimony several months past, and the man seemed at peace and happy with his new duchess. The arrow of envy that had pierced his heart whe
never he spied them together had stunned Oliver.
He had never begrudged a man more in his life. The duke had found love with Elizabeth Armstrong, an American heiress, and had shocked society. His Grace also seemed content and not likely to procure himself a mistress, which meant the duke’s American satisfied his darker cravings. And Oliver had some notion of what they were; after all, they had both shared Lady Wimbledon for a night or two…at the same time.
Oliver wanted a similar happiness. In fact, he quite hungered for a wife…and eventually, children. That need was tempered by his keen desire to find a lady who would appreciate all his desires—even the ones a few of his mistresses had labeled as depraved and shocking. That had been his main reason for not rushing recklessly into matrimony.
His father had taught him at the age of sixteen that a wife must never be subjected to his base and darker urges. Mistresses were designed for rough and carnal tupping, and it was to be expected that he should have two women to sate all his needs.
Except…Oliver did not want that. He’d seen how it had torn up his mother and put a strain on his parents’ marriage. But this was a notion that would have sent his father to an early grave, had he not already passed a few years ago.
Oliver stood, the book gripped lightly in his hand, and strolled down to the lakeside. The waters were blessedly empty, as most of the guests were playing croquet or already indulging in a light luncheon on the freshly mowed lawns. A few boats had been prepared for rowing, and he untied the ropes tethering one and climbed aboard. After securing the diary on the inside of his superfine jacket, he grabbed the oars and propelled himself farther out onto the lake. Once he was a safe distance from the shoreline, he stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift at its own speed atop the placid waters.
Though he had decided to destroy the diary, he would first consume its pages. Interest had taken hold of his mind, and he wanted to read as much as possible, perhaps everything, before he chucked it away. He opened the slim volume once more and started to read. After a few minutes, a few truths made themselves evident.
The author was familiar with the inner workings of Belgrave Manor and its secret passages. Perhaps she had visited before and not just for this weekend’s house party. A friend of his mother?
Oliver’s closest friend, Thomas Pennington, the Earl of Radbourne, had been in residence for a few weeks, and the little minx had sojourned in the secret passages of the east wing, which led to the guest chambers Thomas stayed in. Oliver was positive he was the Lord R referred to in her diary entry. Apparently, his friend had a mole on his left backside and a manhood that could have been more impressive. Sweet Christ.
A rough chuckle escaped Oliver. What would Thomas say if he knew one of Oliver’s lady guests traversed the hidden hallways and spied on him while he had his pleasures? No doubt the earl would be amused and seek to uncover her identity so he could seduce her, too. Thomas was a notorious rake and libertine who enjoyed the challenge of a conquest far too much.
A swift denial roared through Oliver at the very idea. If anyone were to seduce his mysterious author, it would be him.
He paused as that awareness settled inside him. He was vaguely startled to feel the prickling of heat rushing through his veins, since there had been a distinct lack of interest on his part for any female companionship of late. Oliver delved into the pages, engrossed in her musings. He vacillated from anger to amusement.
Her husband had slapped her because of her unladylike desires, and the shame she expressed for having them made Oliver wish the man were alive so he could call him out and put a bullet through his priggish soul. What a blathering fool, to have been blessed with a woman of unrestrained passion, only to reprimand her harshly for what appeared to be her natural sensuality. Her husband had been a man like Oliver’s father, who believed wives should display no cravings of the flesh—those were reserved for mistresses.
As he read further, a pattern in her artful words emerged. Each time his mother had hosted an event, the mysterious author had made use of the secret passages of his estate. The widow was, indeed, someone intimately familiar with his mother, for her to have been invited to the last two balls and the garden party last month.
His heart slammed hard inside when his name leaped from the pages.
Dearest Diary,
The Marchioness of Ambrose introduced me to her son a few months past at her garden party, and I do not believe he even glanced at my face. I, however, was inexplicably aware of him, in a manner I have never felt with another man. He hardly notices me, nor do I recall the marquess ever favoring me with his charming sensuality. But I notice him—the width of his shoulders and the power in his body. I’ve found no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist, and long limbs. Ambrose intrigues me. There is something lonely about his eyes, and those unsmiling lips have been haunting my dreams of late. What would it be like to be held, kissed, and taken by such a man? This inappropriate need I can feel stirring inside must stop. However, I am at a loss how to do so. No doubt the marchioness would be appalled if she had an inkling of the cravings her son has been inspiring inside me.
Oliver chuckled. Sweet Mercy. With one entry, his interest multiplied infinitely. What he would do if he discovered her—or what he would say—eluded him, but now it seemed as if his entire existence hinged on meeting her. His mouth went dry, and anticipation scythed through his heart, the eager feeling making him falter.
He was not a reckless man, nor was he the sort to be controlled by his desires. If that had been the situation, he would have been haunting the darkest and most decadent brothels in London to purchase women to sate his rougher cravings. His friends had never understood the desire he had for a lover…someone with whom he had more of a connection than simply riding them to fulfillment and never seeing them again.
He’d tried it once, had traveled to Soho Square and visited London’s premier brothel and pleasure palace—Aphrodite. After several hours of debauchery, he had been wrung dry and his cock had hung limply, but inside there had been the echo of emptiness and unfulfillment that had lingered for months. He hadn’t repeated the experience, to his friends’ dismay.
Find her…
The temptation whispered in his mind and arrowed down to his cock. Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, unable to accept that he wanted to act with such recklessness. For it was certainly foolhardy to be so consumed with trying to find the author. Where in God’s name would he even begin? The secret passages spanned both wings of Belgrave Manor, but from what he could tell, she only seemed familiar with the eastern one. What could he do? Haunt the corridors of his house simply to uncover her identity? And then what…seduce her?