A Breach of Promise

A Breach of Promise

Victoria Vane

On the night of her betrothal, Lydia Trent receives just a taste of what ecstasy will be at the hands of her fiancé…and then he leaves her wanting. After waiting six years, and tired of being neglected by her exceedingly reluctant husband-to-be, Lydia decides to break it off.

When Marcus, Lord Russell, receives Lydia’s letter requesting a release from their contract, he is stunned by her audacity. Confident he’ll have her eating out of his hand with his usual wit and charm, he’s determined to repair the damage. However, the headstrong woman she’s blossomed into is equally determined to thwart his every effort to win her back.

Marcus discovers, in spite of her conviction to end the union, Lydia is more responsive to his touch than he ever imagined. He just needs to get her alone to unleash the promised passion he sees within his wanton virgin. Marcus will use any tool in his arsenal to exploit her weakness—his kisses, his hands, his mouth…her own body. In short, he’ll just have to ruin her!

Prologue

Derbyshire, England—1742

Lydia Albinia Trent was giddy with anticipation as her new abigail Molly slid the fine silk over her petticoat and stays. Lydia ran her fingers over the luxurious fabric with sheer delight. It was a custom-made confection of soft, petal pink with white bows and matching pink, satin slippers specially ordered for this momentous occasion and her first silk gown.

Now dressed, Molly put the finishing touches to Lydia’s hair, pinning her usual braids into a ladylike coronet atop her head and ornamenting the coiffure with pink ribbon and white roses.

A soft tap sounded at the door. “Are you ready, my dear?” her father called through the wooden panel. “The guests are nearly all arrived.”

“One minute more, Papa!” Lydia called. With a deep intake of breath, she stood and turned to the pier glass, expecting to behold a young lady of sophistication, one who would prove to Marcus she was now a woman grown. To her chagrin, the image that greeted her fell short of her expectations. Beribboned and bowed in pink and white, Lydia was struck by the ludicrous thought that she more closely resembled her birthday cake.

She exited her room and dipped into her well-practiced curtsey. “Do you approve, Papa?” she asked with uncertainty.

His warm, dry lips brushed her cheek. “You are the image of your dear Mama.” He pulled her hand to the crook of his elbow. “Shall we, my dearest treasure?”

Lydia had looked forward to her engagement party to Marcus Russell since…well…since as long as she could remember. She had thought herself the happiest girl in the world to know that such a dashing, young man would one day be hers. Now, with the arrival of her seventeenth birthday, it would become official at last.

Although the event was an intimate gathering with only family and close friends in attendance, Lydia was still a bundle of nerves, descending on her father’s arm with a tremulous smile and a racing pulse. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she bit her lip and her gaze flickered over the assemblage of well-wishers, seeking the one who made her heart race and knees quiver.

“Where is he?” she whispered. “Where is Marcus?” She had expected him to be first to receive her. Seized with trepidation, she looked to her father for reassurance.

Sir Timothy covered her small hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Have no fear, child, he will be here. Any number of things might have delayed him in London.”

Though her father’s words and manner were confident, she could detect the anxiety behind his eyes. “Of course you are right, Papa,” she replied with a serenity she could not feel. In this nightmare daze of distraction, Lydia moved about the room to greet her guests.

“Lord and Lady Russell.” With heat stealing into her cheeks, Lydia made her deepest obeisance to the parents of the elusive groom-to-be. Pasting on a false smile, she fought the nervous churning of her stomach and grappled the powerful urge to flee back to her chamber.

“My dear girl, how lovely you look!” Lady Russell kissed both of her cheeks and gushed, “Your mother would have been so very proud.”

“Enchanting, simply enchanting,” Lord Philip Russell agreed, all the while stealing anxious glances to the doorway. In obvious embarrassment, he conjured several possible, if unlikely, scenarios for Marcus’ delay. Lydia murmured an appropriate reply but refused to meet their discomfited gazes.

After waiting nearly two hours for the missing bridegroom, the elaborate dinner proceeded in an awkward but telling silence. Too mortified to raise her eyes from her plate, Lydia picked at each course, fighting back tears and wishing with all her heart that the earth would just swallow her up.

At the meal’s conclusion, after all had given up any hope, the antechamber echoed with the sound of raucous laughter. With glazed eyes and drink-induced affability, Marcus Russell burst into the dining room to execute an unsteady and over-flourished bow.

“Marcus!” Lydia’s heart skipped a beat.

Failing to acknowledge her, he announced to the room at large, “I offer my most profuse apologies to our dear host for my unavoidable delay, but I’ve just received news that is
truly
worthy of celebration.”

The winsome smile froze on Lydia’s face.

“Did you indeed?” Lady Russell asked, directing a sidelong glance to Lydia.

The look only confirmed Lydia’s fears that Marcus’ high spirits were due to an event he deemed far worthier than this long-awaited betrothal party.

Marcus paused for dramatic effect. “You are now looking at a newly appointed undersecretary to the Foreign Ministry. Word is that I’m to be assigned to Lord Cartaret at The Hague.”

“Capital news, my boy!” Lord Russell beamed with paternal pride.

“Congratulations are most certainly in order,” Sir Timothy agreed. “Simpson, bring the port!”

To Lydia’s dismay, even her father seemed now to regard his tardiness as a venial offense. With the final covers removed, Lydia was forced to retreat while Marcus joined the gentleman for port and political talk with nary a thought to his fiancée.

Darting sporadic glances at the door, Lydia stumbled over the keys of the spinet, fumbling the elegant notes of Scarlatti’s Sonata Number Twelve in B Minor, and then falling off completely once
he
deigned to appear.

Marcus entered the drawing room with the deliberate gait of one who had over-imbibed and surveyed the occupants with an unfocused stare. “Sh-shampagne,” he cried when he finally lit upon Lydia, as if suddenly recalling the evening’s true purpose. “We must have champagne to toast the blushing rose that has now become my betrothed.”

His lingering gaze sent a hot flush creeping from the base of Lydia’s neck to the tip of her nose, and when Marcus smiled, her breath seized as abruptly in her throat as her fingers on the spinet keyboard. To be the object of his full attention, even for this brief moment, was akin to the sun appearing from behind a dark and dismal cloud to blaze its full radiance upon her. And in that moment under the giddy glow of his smile, Lydia thought she could forgive him anything.

Following the congratulatory toasts, Marcus’ much-relieved and overly indulgent parents suggested the newly affianced couple stroll the gardens. When Marcus offered his arm, a wave of panic flooded Lydia. All the pretty speeches and coquettish looks she had rehearsed before her mirror evaporated. Marcus’ abstraction only added to her discomfiture.

“So the deed is done at last.” He broke the tense silence. “Our families are surely congratulating themselves on the success of their mutual machinations.”

Lydia’s throat went dry at his edge of resentment. “Y-you did not wish this engagement?”

“Did you?” he asked, but then failed to await her response. Marcus’ unsteady steps slowed. “It’s not like they ever gave us a choice, is it, my pet?” He chucked her under the chin. “Here you are, barely out of the schoolroom, with no experience of life. As for me, they wish to clip my bloody wings before I ever take flight. What a damnable life to have it all mapped out at another’s whim,” he added as if to himself.

No. She hadn’t imagined the bitterness. The knot in her stomach tightened. “You don’t have to, you know—marry me.” She closed her eyes and choked out the words.

Marcus’ laugh was a low, mirthless sound. “But there you are wrong, my sweet. As a younger son without a pot to piss in, I must do precisely as my family demands of me.” They had reached the huge oak where an old wooden swing was suspended. Without asking her leave, Marcus seized her by the waist and hoisted her onto the seat. He stepped back with another laugh. “There. You are dressed in virginal white and look upon me with wide, plaintive eyes. Proof positive that our scheming parents would plan weddings when you are naught but a mere child.”

He threw himself to the ground by her dangling feet and turned his attention to the pilfered champagne. He popped the cork and covered the bottle with his eager mouth to catch the effervescent explosion.

Her eyes burned at his scorn. “I’m not, you know,” Lydia said.

“Not what?” He took several long gulps from the bottle.

“A child.”

“No?” He offered her the bottle. “I noticed you had none earlier.”

“Papa says I am too young to drink.”

Marcus smirked. “As I said, a child.”

Lydia’s ire rose to inflame her cheeks. Her gaze darted from Marcus to the bottle.

“What Papa doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” When he taunted her once more with the bottle, Lydia hesitated only a moment before snatching it from his grasp.

Her first sip was tentative. The peculiar combination of sweet and acidic effervescence tickled her nose and throat. Marcus regarded her with surprise when she broke into a throaty giggle. “The bubbles, they tickle my nose!”

“It’ll tickle elsewhere too if you give it half a chance,” he encouraged with a grin.

She took several more draughts. A longer moment of silence stretched between them. She took another fortifying drink. “Do you wish to break it off?” she asked and reached a toe to the ground, idly pushing off to set the swing gliding and slanted a look at him, internally bracing herself for his answer.

Propped back on his elbow, Marcus looked up at her and drawled, “A
gentleman
wouldn’t do such a thing.”

It was not what she’d expected him to answer. His gaze followed the gentle ebb and flow of the swing. Sprawled as he was on the ground at her feet, she was aware that his position afforded a clear view of her ankles, and with the forward motion, an occasional glimpse of her calves. The attentiveness of his stare told her he had realized the same thing.

The swing by now had ceased its motion. Lydia took another long drink. She no longer felt the chill in the air and her limbs tingled. Suddenly and uncharacteristically emboldened, she raised her skirts a few inches, as if to get them off the ground. Locking eyes with Marcus, she extended her pink-slippered foot to push off again, but he stole the breath from her body when he seized her ankle.

“What are you doing?” Her breathless giggle was inspired more by nerves than champagne.

Marcus held her, his eyes darkening with an unfamiliar stare that made her breath come back in a rush. If he anticipated her protest, it never came.

“Perhaps you are not quite the infant I thought.” His voice was strangely husky. He inched his hand farther up her leg, creeping over her silk-encased calf. “No, indeed,” he drawled. “Definitely not the leg of a child.”

His hand slid higher. His fingers skimmed her garter where he toyed with the ribbon and traced her bare flesh above it. She closed her eyes and shivered, knowing a proper young lady would never allow such liberties, but his attention and his warm hand on her cool skin excited her beyond description.

With a smile, Marcus retrieved the now-empty bottle she clutched to her chest and tossed it to the ground. He guided her hands to the ropes suspending the swing and flipped her skirts above her knees to position his body snugly between her thighs. Lydia gasped at the boldness of the move. She tried to pull her legs back together but his body prevented her. Though she trembled, his heat warmed her to the core, pooling low in her belly and sending a flood of moisture to her secret place.

“Shall I stop, Lydia?” he asked as if reading her mind.

She responded with an unsteady shake of her head and a soft hiccup.

With a low guttural sound, he slid his hands completely under her skirt, gliding over her skin to blaze a hot trail toward the apex of her thighs. She gasped again when his fingers found and grazed her soft, downy mass.

Her breath seized but she failed to push him away. “Do you ever touch yourself here, Lydia?” he asked in a low, hoarse whisper.

The question made her insides convulse. “N-no,” she lied.

His voice coaxed, soothed. “Would you like me to touch you there now?”

She answered with a helpless whimper, clutching the ropes while his skillful fingers explored, traced, and teased in rhythmic strokes. She knew she should make him stop but the pleasure of his touch was dizzying. Her world spun further out of control when he found and began circling her small hidden nub, increasing the pressure until her body racked with little tremors and a muffled cry.

“You
do
like that,” he said. She bucked against him and set the swing back in motion. “Not so quickly, little one.” Marcus laughed and withdrew his hand. He grasped her waist to pull her down beside him and rolled on top of her with his arms anchored on either side of her head.

Lydia lay stunned beneath him, her body still coiled with desire. At the press of his erection against her belly, she came instinctively to life and undulated against him.

“God help me!” Marcus groaned. “I hadn’t planned this, but damn me if you haven’t given me a mind to finish what we started.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” she gasped. “We are not wed yet. I cannot lie with you!”

“I’m not asking you to, Lydia. There are other, less hazardous ways to give a man relief,” he spoke with long-suffering effort. “I have already shown how I can pleasure you with my hands, now I want you to do the same for me.”

“You wish me to stroke your…your privates?” she asked, wide-eyed in affright.