Sara Bennett by Lessons in Seduction

heir,” he had reminded her. “Anthony was groomed to head the family from the day he was born. They are rather large shoes to step into, Aunt. I’m not certain they fit me at all well.”
    “Oliver, you are not your brother, of course not. You are not Anthony; he was solid rock and you are quicksilver. The two cannot be compared. That does not mean you will not fit his shoes admirably.” Then, her eyes still delving into his, she had said, “When do you think this business with Lawson will all be over?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I know I said I would support you, but it has been a year now and nothing has come of it.” She had waved her hand with all the arrogance of her age, position in society, and wealth. “Let it go.”
    “No.”
    Lady Marsh had sighed. “You are a very stubborn young man. I don’t know why I bother with you.”
    “I don’t know why you bother with me either, Aunt.”
    Oliver had never imagined Anthony would die before him—it was as unthinkable as the sun failing to rise each morning. Fifteen years older than Oliver, Anthony was a man who took his responsibilities to his family, class, and country very seriously. He was a little dull and occasionally pompous, something which Oliver delighted in pointing out to him. But Anthony was a good and honest man, and until he set his heart and mind upon Celia Maclean, his only interest had been in the family and the Tory party. Once Anthony met Celia, however, his thoughts turned to marriage and fatherhood, and Oliver had been relieved to think that soon there would be lots of little Montegomeries to carry on the family name. That would leave Oliverfree to continue in his role as the disreputable younger brother, with no responsibilities but to please himself.
    Instead, tragedy had stuck. A little over a year ago Anthony had died, and the fate of the Montegomery family now rested upon Oliver’s unprepared shoulders.
    Lady Marsh did not, nor ever would, blame him for his brother’s death. Others did. Oliver certainly blamed himself. In the still darkness of the night, Oliver often lay awake, sick with regrets. There were ways of sending a man to his end that did not involve a bullet or a blade, and he knew that although he had not fired the fatal shot, he had been an unwitting accessory to Anthony’s death.
    The guilt weighed heavily upon him tonight, and the determination to have revenge on the one who had held the gun to his brother’s head—the man Anthony had loved and trusted and believed to be his friend. Perhaps Miss Vivianna Greentree had caused his black mood. She had been so very enthusiastic and sure of herself and her damned cause. She had shimmered with life, and she had wrung emotions from him he had thought firmly tamped down. Indeed, if he had been a sulky fire she would have had him burst into roaring flames in no time at all.
    Oliver snorted at the image—she had made parts of him hot, that was certain!—and swung his cane. But it was true, the woman had stirred sensations in him he had almost forgotten. When had he last felt so alive? Probably not since long before Anthony’s death. His brother had often chastised him for wasting his youth and vigor on less admirable pursuits. Of drifting without any real goals.
    Oliver’s reaction to Vivianna Greentree puzzled him. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense. Herhair had russet tones, and although it was knotted quite severely at her nape, there was a thickness to it, a sensual richness, that made him want to slip his fingers through the strands and press his face into it. Her skin was so fine that he wanted to smooth it with his hands and taste it with his tongue. Her lips were full and when he had kissed her, they had reddened, grown swollen, while her hazel eyes, so passionate and bright, had grown sleepy and dark. She had let him touch her, kiss her, as if she could not help herself.
    If he was really the unprincipled rake he was playing, he would have had her