William had made Oliver look at dozens of different plans for Penelope’s greenhouse—so many Oliver could build one himself by now. This one was in a slightly older style and lacked the fashionable glass roof, but if Lord Horace was wintering his exotic plants and fruits here, the building must be heated by a system of stoves beneath the floor.
They might tidy and warm themselves inside, and perhaps snatch a few moments of rest before they met with Lord Horace. It would be dreadful indeed if they were caught out, but it was early yet, and none of Lord Horace’s gardeners seemed to be about. Oliver glanced at Dinah, and the blue tinge to her lips made up his mind.
She turned to him in surprise when he pointed the horses’ heads toward the building. “Where are we going? Don’t say you mean to break into Lord Horace’s greenhouse.”
“I mean to get inside, yes, but I’m hoping we don’t have to break anything.” Oliver brought the coach to a halt and jumped down off the box, wincing a bit as the blood rushed back into his stiff legs. Dinah offered him her hand to help her alight, but he ignored it and grasped her around the waist.
“Oliver! What are you—”
“Making certain you don’t fall.” He swung her down from the coach. “Your limbs will be numb by now.” He waited until he was certain she was steady on her feet, then he reluctantly released her and retrieved the puppy and the carriage rugs from the coach. He led Dinah toward the greenhouse door, and offered her an extravagant bow. “After you, Miss Bishop.”
Dinah hesitated. “Perhaps this isn’t a good idea. I daresay the door is locked, in any case.”
“It’s a perfectly wonderful idea, by virtue of it’s being our only idea. As for the door, there’s one way to know whether or not it’s locked.” Oliver grasped the latch and let out a sigh of relief as it turned easily in his hand. “See, Miss Bishop? It’s as good as an invitation.”
He pressed a hand to the small of her back to usher her inside. It wasn’t as warm as Oliver had hoped it would be, but it was certainly warmer than it was outside, and with a pleasing scent of soil and green, growing things.
Oliver set down the pup, who immediately went off to explore, tail wagging. He turned his back to give Dinah privacy, then tossed his hat aside, tore off the damp cravat that had been driving him mad for the past few hours, and removed his coat and waistcoat, hoping the damp linen shirt he wore underneath would dry before he was obliged to meet with Lord Horace.
Dinah removed her hat and cloak and shook out her limp skirts while Oliver gathered up the pile of carriage rugs and arranged them on the floor. “There. Your makeshift bed awaits. I doubt it will be terribly comfortable, but given the…” He turned to face Dinah, and immediately forgot what he’d been about to say. “Your hair.”
She let out a self-conscious laugh and reached a hand to her head. “Oh, yes. It will dry more quickly if it’s loose.”
“It’s…” Oliver began, but none of the words that rushed to his tongue could begin to do justice to the sight before him. Fragments of extravagantly romantic poetry floated through his head—odes to ribbons of dark silk, effusions on dusky, magical locks and waterfalls of sable curls— but no poem could capture the pure, raw beauty of Dinah standing before him with her hair tumbling down her back.
An ache pierced his chest, joy and paid at once, because she was so truly herself like this, so perfect in her vulnerability, so much the woman he’d dreamed of making his, and he may never have the privilege of seeing her this way again.
“W-Will you lie down? That is, not lie down. I didn’t mean…” Oliver stammered, trying to gather his wits. “What I mean is, if you’d like to rest, I’ve made a place for you here.”
Dinah glanced uncertainly at the nest of rugs spread on onto the floor, then back to Oliver’s face. “Yes, I…thank you, I will.”
Oliver waited until Dinah had settled herself among the rugs, then he seated himself on the floor and leaned his back against the wall. For a while the only sound was the faint hiss of steam from the pipes. Oliver was certain Dinah must have drifted off, but then she stirred.
“Can’t you sleep?” he asked.
She sighed. “No. I’m too agitated, I suppose.”
Oliver remembered something then, something he hadn’t yet shown to her. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He darted out the door, rummaged about inside the coach until he found what he was looking for, then went back inside, closing the greenhouse door behind him.
“Oliver?” Dinah was sitting up.
“I know you said you won’t accept a gift from me, but it’s just a small thing, and I want you to have it.” Oliver knelt next to her, the ivory music box with the blue cornflowers cradled in his palms. He turned the silver knob on the bottom, then set the box carefully on the floor beside her. “Maybe this will help you sleep.”
Dinah sucked in a breath as the first tinkling notes of Voi Che Sapete drifted through the air. “The music box.”
Her soft voice, the wonderment on her face as she gazed up at him…it took every bit of control he had not to touch her, stroke his fingertips down her cheek. “Yes. You said your grandmother used to sing this song to you at bedtime.”
They were both quiet as they listened to the music, then Oliver started to rise.
Dinah stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, Oliver.”
Oliver caught his breath at the softness in her dark blue eyes. “Yes?”
She lay back down, then shifted the rugs aside to make a space for him. “Don’t go. Stay with me.”
Dinah didn’t wait for Oliver to gather her against him, and she didn’t wait for him to kiss her. Instead, without a word she opened her arms to him and brushed her lips over his.
She’d regret it later, perhaps, but she wouldn’t think of that now—not with his lips on hers, his soft exhalations drifting over her face and his breathless murmurs in her ear. Not when he told her with his every word and touch how much she meant to him.
How much he loved her.
And he did. For now, he did.
As for later, well…some things were only meant to be for instant, suspended and breathless and out of time. Once, when Dinah was very young, she’d held a butterfly in her palm. Its wings had stilled for only a heartbeat before it fluttered away, and even as young as she’d been, she’d understood the moment was more precious for having been fleeting.
This time with Oliver was the same—precious, but fleeting.
But that didn’t matter now, not when he was kissing her, his lips trailing over her cheek, the shell of her ear, her throat. He found every inch of her bare skin and caressed her until her body grew restless under his.
“Oliver, please.”
Dinah wasn’t sure what she was asking—a plea for his hands, for his mouth—but she didn’t need to beg for him, because she’d hardly breathed the words before his lips found hers. He kissed her and kissed her—deep, drugging kisses that left her breathless and dazed. He teased his tongue over the seam of her lips again and again, soft groans tearing from his chest when she opened her mouth under his.
“Arms over your head, sweetheart.” He didn’t wait for her to obey but wrapped his fingers around her wrists and raised her arms over her head, then held them there as he scraped his teeth lightly over the curves of her neck. “I’ve dreamed of tasting you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “If I had you forever, I’d still never have enough of you.”