Love With a Scandalous Lord (19 page)

“How was it?” her mother prodded.

Standing in the center of the room, looking uncertain, Lydia smiled softly. “Just as I thought it would be. I wish you’d been there. So many ladies wearing beautiful gowns. Gentlemen dressed in their finery. There was an orchestra.” She finally met Rhys’s gaze. “Back home, we usually only have a fiddle player or two.”

“Did you dance?” Abbie asked.

She nodded slightly, slipping the hand where her dance card dangled behind her back. “Oh, yes.”

Her mother smiled brightly and hugged her. “I’m so glad. I was worried you wouldn’t have a good time.”

“How could I not when I’ve wanted this night my whole life?”

Her mother patted her cheek. “It’s late and I know we’re all tired. You can give us all the details tomorrow.” She slid her arm around Lydia. “Let’s get you tucked into bed.”

“Actually I don’t think I can sleep just yet,” Lydia said. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask His Grace before I forget. Just some etiquette questions.” She looked past her mother to him. “If you don’t mind answering them.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he assured her, finding himself glad he would have a few moments alone with her.

Her mother bussed a kiss across Lydia’s cheek. “I suppose a few minutes will be all right. You’ll get Mary to help you undress?”

“Yes.”

Rhys watched as Grayson kissed his daughter’s cheek and murmured good night, before he and his wife quit the room. While avoiding his gaze, Lydia moved gracefully to the sofa and sat. With her eyes downcast, she slipped her fan and dance card off her wrist and set both aside.

“Did you really dance?” he asked quietly.

She lifted her gaze to his, tears pooling in her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks. He felt as though his heart had just been flayed.

“Lord Ravenleigh and Lord Huntingdon both honored me with a dance.” She released a tiny whimper and pressed her gloved hand against her mouth. “Oh, Rhys.”

His book landing on the floor with a thud, he surged to his feet. He crossed over to her, sat beside her, and took her in his arms. Her tears began in earnest then,
her delicate shoulders shaking with the force of her anguish.

“Shh, shh, my darling, it’s all right,” he murmured.

“It was awful. I didn’t expect to be the belle of the ball, but I had hopes I would at least be noticed by someone.”

“I’m sure you were.”

She leaned back slightly, her eyes searching his for the truth. “Then why didn’t anyone ask me to dance, why didn’t anyone approach me or speak to me? Lauren had so much attention paid to her. I don’t blame her for not spending more time with me. Honestly. I just felt like such a wallflower.”

“When I have little doubt you were the most beautiful blossom there.”

“Don’t do that, Rhys, don’t flatter me when you care so little for me.”

“How can I convince you that it is because I care for you so much that I will not consider marrying you?” He rained kisses over her face, tasting the salt of her tears. “It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy, but marriage to me would only deepen your sorrow. Of that I am certain.”

“I know I’m being silly,” she said breathlessly, as he trailed his mouth along the ivory length of her throat. “But tonight was to be the realization of my dream.”

He dipped his head lower, running his lips and his tongue along the gentle swells of her bosom. She dug her gloved fingers into his hair.

“I wanted you there so desperately. I kept thinking you’d surprise me and appear.”

Lifting his head, he held her tear-filled gaze. “I promise you that the next ball shall be all you’ve ever dreamed of.” His voice was hoarse with his need to
ease her pain. He’d lessened other ladies’ heartache, and he knew that his gifts rested not in the telling, but in the showing.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked softly.

“Trust me.” He stroked his thumb over her lips. “You’d better go to bed now. I’ll take you up.”

He stood and extended his hand. He could not explain why it felt so right to close his fingers around hers and draw her to her feet. Continuing to hold her hand, he led her from the room and up the stairs.

He escorted her down the hallway to the door that led into the room in which he’d slept when he’d visited here in his youth. Now he occupied the largest bedchamber, the one designated for the Duke, one that joined the room where the Duchess had once slept.

“I’ll let Mary know you need help preparing for bed.”

She shook her head. “Don’t disturb her. It’s late, and I really don’t want to see anyone.”

“You can’t sleep in your clothes.”

“I think I’m just going to sit and stare out the window.”

He glanced around the hallway. All the doors were closed. All was quiet.

“At least let me unfasten your gown,” he offered.

Her eyes widened fractionally.

“So you might rest comfortably,” he hastened to add.

She nodded slightly. He opened the door and followed her into the room. A lamp burned low. The coverlet had been turned down.

He closed the door. She spun around, but he saw no fear in her eyes. Only inquisitiveness.

“It would not do to be seen unfastening your gown,” he explained quietly.

She nodded once more and presented him with her back.

“Sit on the bed while I remove your slippers.”

“Maybe I should send for Mary.”

Coming up behind her, he whispered. “I have the talent to make you forget about this night, but only if you’re willing.” He touched his lips to the nape of her neck. “Be willing, Lydia.”

Be willing?
Lydia thought. Where he was concerned, when was she not? In a shadowy corner of her mind, she thought she was desperate to even contemplate sharing another night with him. But she loved him.

She was already ruined. What was one more night of bliss?

She stepped away from him and sat on the bed, her heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird. Anticipation shortened her breath. Kneeling before her, he placed her foot on his thigh. While he removed her slipper, she combed her fingers through the curling strands of his hair.

“No one tonight was as handsome as you,” she whispered.

He set her shoe aside. Holding her ankle, he rubbed her foot up and down his firm thigh, making her toes curl and uncurl. A delightful sensation ran the length of her sole.

“Although I was not in attendance, I know that no lady was as beautiful as you.”

“You’re so talented at flattery.”

He shook his head. “Not flattery, Lydia. The absolute truth. I swear to you that I have known many of London’s ladies, and none shine with your beauty.”

He placed her other foot on his thigh and was soon
setting that shoe beside the first. Standing, he took her hands and brought her to her feet. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips, almost a kiss of farewell before turning her so her back was to him.

She felt him working the fastenings of her gown while his lips played lightly along the side of her neck. His breath was warm, his mouth warmer.

During some distant evening, she might reflect on this moment and recognize she’d been wanton, but for now she wanted nothing more than to have what he would give her. He spoke of love. He demonstrated love. Yet he would not commit to it as though never having had it showered on him, he feared its power.

She thought he would have removed her clothes quickly, but his fingertips, lips, and tongue paid homage to each inch of her back that was revealed as he slowly cast aside her clothes, piece by piece, until she was completely uncovered like a newly displayed piece of artwork.

She continued to stand with him at her back. She felt the gentle tugging on her hair as combs and pins were removed. All this was improper, the two of them in this room, alone. But after an evening when everything had been so incredibly proper, when she’d worried over every moment, every look, every introduction, when she’d wanted so desperately to belong, she welcomed knowing that with Rhys, for now, she
did
belong.

Her hair tumbled around her. She was suddenly as she’d been before the party. Simple, unfettered.

Anticipating what was to come.

She went to turn, but he placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Not yet,” he said in a voice so low that she almost didn’t hear him.

He brushed the curtain of her hair over onto one shoulder. Then he began his sensual assault. Slowly, so slowly, he did nothing more than move his mouth across her shoulders, over her back, along her spine. A kiss here, a nip there, a swirl of his tongue that almost made her knees buckle.

His hands framed her hips. She glanced over her shoulder to see him lowering himself to his knees. She felt the press of his kiss high against her backside.

“Did you know you have a dimple?” he asked in a rough voice that somehow reminded her of the music he’d wooed from the piano.

He played her as skillfully as he had the ivory keys, each touch serving a purpose, each hesitation building the anticipation. She felt as though he’d poured warm brandy through her veins.

She shook her head lethargically. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

He drew a circle on her skin. “I adore it.”

He placed his mouth lower, against the curve of her buttocks, lower still to her thigh, to her knee, then up and over to the other side. Then back again.

Her hands furled and unfurled. She wanted to touch him, to kiss him as he did her. To have what he’d promised her: a night to remember.

“Rhys?”

“Lie on the bed. Face down.”

She did as he commanded. The sheets were cool against her skin. She turned her head to the side and watched as he removed his clothes, piece by piece, no hurry, no rush, as though he understood what each of his movements did to her. How simply observing him caused her heartbeat to quicken, her flesh to heat, and desire to stir the embers of passion to life.

She hadn’t forgotten how beautiful he was in his naked splendor, but she appreciated the sight of him all the more for having gone so long without seeing him like this. He was more than ready for her. And she for him.

As he neared the bed, she started to roll over for him. Reaching out, he touched her shoulder. “Not yet.”

Straddling her hips, he held himself above her, leaning low and whispering near her ear, “If you feel a need to scream, bury your face in the pillow to muffle the cry.”

She wanted to scream now with the burning need to have him inside her, rocking against her, heightening her pleasure while fulfilling his.

He skimmed his hands along her sides, over her hips. He returned his mouth to her back with feathery kisses and light touches. It was as though he were discovering all her secret, sensitive spots. Places she’d never dreamed existed.

He shifted, no longer straddling her, and his lips were trailing once again over her legs, kissing the backs of her knees while his hand kneaded one foot and then the other. Feet she’d expected to use for dancing all night—not standing and wishing.

Her body began writhing and undulating as she sought surcease. She was hot, so hot. No matter where he touched her, she felt a tug low in her belly. No matter where he kissed her, she felt a tingle between her legs.

“Rhys?” she whispered desperately.

He moved up, lying his body over hers, but not in hers, once again straddling her hips. He breathed as harshly as she did. He slid his hands beneath her, one cupping her breast. He squeezed and kneaded the pliant mound while his other hand glided along her stomach and then arced downward to nestle within her curls.

She released a tiny whimper as he continued to work his magic with his fingers.

“The pillow,” he reminded her hoarsely.

She buried her face in the pillow, stifling her scream, as he carried her to new heights, her body bucking, but held firm beneath his weight.

Her heart pounded as her limbs, if at all possible, sprawled over the bed. He slid his finger inside her, too late, she thought, for much purpose, until he whispered low, “I love the way that feels.”

She noticed it then, her body’s gentle pulsing and throbbing. She smiled lethargically.

He slid his hands away, levered himself away from her, and rolled her over. She went willingly, her melted bones happy to follow.

“Now for the other side,” he said in a seductive voice that promised more pleasure.

He stretched out beside her, shoulder to hip, and blanketed his mouth over hers, their tongues waltzing to what was becoming a familiar rhythm. But the familiarity did not lessen the excitement. Rather it enhanced it.

Lydia thought that must be an aspect of love. To never grow weary of a lover’s touch, to anticipate each kiss as though it were the first. To discover new wonder and delight in a caress, a stroke.

The pressure of his hands was deliciously sweet. On her shoulder, her breast, her hip. One hand traveling the length of her, while the other massaged her neck. His foot rubbed hers; then slid up to rub her calf. Back down to her foot.

Subtle movements, careful pressure as though they were in no hurry but had all night to simply enjoy the
presence of the other.

This was love, she thought. A quiet joining. Two souls, two hearts, two bodies.

Why could he not understand that she was willing to accept his past, look beyond it to their future? If giving everything to him could not convince him of her commitment to him, what would?

She slid her fingers along his neck, up into his scalp; then down again to his shoulders. She felt his muscles bunching with his movements.

He brought his knee up and nudged her thighs apart. He nestled his body between her legs. She wanted him there every night, until she was old and frail. She wanted to sleep with her body curled around his. She wanted to awaken with his face beside hers on the pillow.

His mouth began a slow, leisurely sojourn over her breasts. His tongue circled her nipple. She arched her back, raising her body to meet his.

He murmured sweet nothings, gentle words telling her how beautiful she was. She never felt as beautiful as she did when he was with her.

He moved his mouth lower, along each rib, lower still to her navel. With his tongue, he outlined her as though in reverence before sliding lower.