His proposal at the pavilion had been in earnest, not that it mattered. She had turned him down then, and was preemptively curtailing any future thoughts of marriage now. Her only expectation was that he would leave when their time ran out.
The terms were clear.
It was up to Eli to decide which was better: a memory of having it all or not knowing what he was missing.
“Well, botanist?” She gave him an arch look. “Keen for a little deflowering?”
“There’ll be nothing ‘little’ about it,” he growled, and covered her mouth with a kiss.
She was right to keep the clock ticking. Perhaps the best thing for both of them was not to marry. If Eli defied his father, he’d suffer untold revenge, but would eventually inherit his father’s fortune.
Olive would keep her farm and own it outright without any potential ugliness.
Meanwhile, Eli’s medical funding… would not happen. All the people he could have helped would go unsaved. But at least Eli would be in London surrounded by the best apothecaries and physic gardens. He wouldn’t have a cure, but he could do something good.
He could not hurt Olive at any cost.
“Remember,” she murmured as they bumped against the bed. “This means nothing.”
It meant nothing to her.
For Eli, ten days wasn’t nearly long enough. But it was all they had.
If she could manage, so could he.
“This means nothing,” he echoed. “Don’t worry. I’m definitely not emotionally entangled.”
A blatant falsehood, but it seemed the one she wanted to hear.
Eli would lock away the part of him that had pined for her for years. The part of him that had fallen even harder once he came to know her, and discovered the real woman was far better than any boyhood fantasy. It was just his heart. Not required of him at all.
All Olive wanted was a memory.
It would have to be enough for Eli, too.
Chapter 12
Olive’s heart gave a leap of victory.
He said yes. She would have this. They would have this. A moment of their own choosing, to share with each other.
Not just one moment!
All night, and tomorrow, and the next night, too. She held him tighter.
Despite the sudden abundance of sensual playtime on their horizon, Eli’s kisses were every bit as hurried and hungry as her own. As though he, too, sensed no amount of time together would ever be enough. She pushed the thought away.
Now was not the moment to think of goodbye.
Now was the time to make the most of every second they still had.
Somehow, she managed to wrest her lips from his and say breathlessly, “My laces, if you please?”
“My pleasure.”
She turned around on legs trembling with excitement and rested her fingertips atop the soft blanket covering her bed.
Olive had worn this gown on purpose. It was her favorite. The slippery crimson sarsnet and gauzy white overdress had always made her feel almost pretty.
Until Elijah.
He made her feel ravishing.
She didn’t need him to unlace her dress. Olive was in and out of breeches and gowns so often that she was likely faster at it herself than any lady’s maid would be.
That wasn’t why she’d asked him for help. She wanted tonight to be something they did to each other, with each other. She wanted to feel his fingers on her spine and savor every tiny new sensation as the ribbon worked looser and looser.
She wanted tonight to last. She wanted a thousand little memories to turn over in her mind, rubbing the edges smooth with time as she relived them again and again.
When her gown gaped fully open, she turned back around to face him. She wanted to watch his face as she let her favorite evening dress tumble to the floor.
His gaze devoured her.
She still wore a ridiculous number of layers. Stays, shift. Olive didn’t mind at all. The more layers, the more there was to unwrap. To remember.
“They’re front-tying stays,” she said.
His eyes were hooded. “I see that.”
“It’s so I can unlace it by myself.”
His voice was low, husky. “May I help anyway?”
“Please do.”
Her short stays had barely six eyelets on each half, making them easy to loosen and toss quickly to one side.
Elijah took his time, sliding the ribbon free ever so slowly, one eyelet at a time, until her bosom nearly spilled into his hands.
Without the stays to bind her shift tight to her bodice, the soft linen billowed around her otherwise naked body. Beneath it, she wore nothing more than gooseflesh and silk stockings.
She reached for his cravat. “May I?”
“You’re certain?” His eyes were hot on hers. “Very, very certain?”
She plucked the cravat pin from the starched linen and tossed it atop her dressing table.
“I’m very, very certain,” she assured him.
For all the teasing of her beguiling botanist, Olive gave “deflowering” little to no importance at all. No one could know for certain what a woman had or had not experienced unless she told him. And it was absolutely ridiculous that women were to stay pure whilst men could be as wild as they pleased.
Who were they meant to be wild with, if not women who chose the same freedom?
Besides, she was no debutante. Those years were long past. Like her, Elijah had been manipulated by Olive’s father. Refusing to play by their parents’ rules gave them the freedom to do what they really wanted.
And what Olive wanted was Elijah.
She unbuttoned his jacket and took her time pushing it off his broad shoulders, tugging the sleeves down over the thick muscles of his strong arms.
How she had scoffed at women who claimed they could only fall for a specific type of man!
Olive’s type, apparently, was burly botanist.
Once she’d divested him of his jacket, she turned her attention to his waistcoat.
“This apparel is astonishingly well made,” he said. “The fine materials, the exceptional craftsmanship...”
“I’m throwing it all on the floor,” she assured him, and tossed the waistcoat to one side. “Boots, please.”
“Ah, yes. Boots can be difficult.” He sat down on her dressing-stool and pulled off his Hessians one by one. “May I stand them upright, or must I toss them willy-nilly to one side?”
“Only I can toss things.” She pulled him off the stool and to his feet.
He was now standing before her in his shirtsleeves and trousers, both of them in their stocking feet, his hands holding hers. She’d expected it to feel breathtakingly lascivious.
Instead, it felt intimate. Less like clandestine lovers meeting for a quick tup, and more like... the sort of moment shared between two people on their wedding night.
She tugged the hem of his shirt up from the waistband of his trousers.
“Shall I kiss your stomach, as you did to me?”
“You can do anything you want.” His gaze was intense, his eyes serious. “I’m yours.”
“For the night,” she reminded him.
“For two nights and a day,” he corrected her.
She smiled. He was savoring every moment just like she was.
She lowered herself to one knee to press a kiss to the strip of bare skin she’d exposed between his shirt hem and waistband.