Love With a Scandalous Lord (15 page)

“I attended plays because I had a soft spot for a lovely actress,” he murmured.

Rhys lifted his glass of wine and drank all that remained in one swallow before signaling for more to be brought to him. He wanted to yell at his father for ruining the pleasant evening.

His father met his gaze across the length of the table.
He didn’t know what his eyes reflected, but his father looked away. Taking the hand of his Duchess, the Duke pressed a kiss to her fingertips.

The Duke’s public display of affection was unheard of in this household, and Rhys was certain that fact was apparent to their guests since his mother wore a startled expression.

“Winnie, I can’t recall ever telling you that I love you,” his father said quietly.

His mother fluttered her free hand against her chest. “Your Grace, I’m certain—”

“No, Winnie, I never did tell you, and I do love you. More than I ever thought possible.”

His mother released a tiny whimper and pressed a clenched hand to her mouth. “Don’t do this to me now!”

He smiled slightly. “If not now, when? Come here, dear girl.”

She didn’t hesitate when he tugged on her hand. In front of their guests, she climbed onto her husband’s lap. “I shan’t forgive you for leaving me.”

“I know,” he cooed. “I know.”

Rhys caught Grayson’s attention and signaled for him and his family to leave quietly. As they did so, Rhys met and held his father’s gaze over his mother’s quaking shoulders. He raised his glass of wine in a silent salute, acknowledging what he understood with startling clarity: his father was not only a poet and a philosopher, but a damned fine actor.

L
ydia sat in the drawing room. A few lamps provided the dim light that seemed so appropriate for the occasion.

The Duke was almost swallowed by the oversized, overstuffed chair in which he sat. The Duchess was perched on the arm of his chair, her fingers stroking his face, neck, hair, and hand. Lydia was suddenly viewing the woman in a whole new light. She could not imagine the sorrow of losing a spouse.

Yet her mother had lost her first husband and married another man. Although Lydia barely remembered life with her first father, she knew beyond a doubt her mother was happier with Grayson Rhodes.

They sat side by side, holding hands, their younger children at their feet. Lydia had been certain the Duchess would have a conniption fit when the children had plopped onto the floor, but she seemed to have eyes only for her husband.

Even though her son was now entertaining them.

The music Rhys played was strangely dark, yet hauntingly beautiful, evoking images she wasn’t quite certain she wanted to explore. She imagined shadowy rooms and hot bodies pressed together.

She gave herself a mental shake. Surely no one else’s mind was filled with these lustful, carnal thoughts. She blamed her wayward imaginings on this afternoon, when he’d come so close to taking her down a path she’d never known how desperately she wished to travel.

She watched his fingers—long, slender, strong, skillful—dancing over the keys, and she could well imagine them plucking the buttons loose on her gown. His head was bent, heavy strands of black hair falling forward to brush his brow, his cheek. She longed to brush them back and watch them fall again. Over and over.

She wanted to go to him, press her breasts against his back, wrap her arms around his shoulders, and let the music flow into her through him. Although others were in the room, she felt as though only he and she existed, as though he played only for her, as though he was pouring himself into the music, pouring himself into her.

The music drifted into silence, and yet its existence continued to hang in the air as though to tease her ears. Rhys stood and bowed slightly, obviously not comfortable as the center of attention.

Lydia expected the Duke or Duchess to clap, or at the very least to announce their approval of his entertainment. When neither did, Lydia blurted, “I thought your playing was beautiful.”

Rhys angled his head slightly. “You are too kind, Miss Westland.”

Hardly kind. The thoughts running through her mind bordered on murderous. She could forgive the Duke his silence. He was ill. But the Duchess? How could she not praise her son’s efforts?

“The hour is late, Father. You must be weary,” Rhys said.

The Duke barely nodded. “Grayson can help me get to bed.”

“As you wish,” Rhys said. “Mother, shall I escort you to your chambers?”

She nodded and rose to her feet, bending slightly to kiss her husband on the cheek. “I shall see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“I look forward to it.”

She walked toward the door, stopping briefly before Lydia’s stepfather and raising her brow. “Take care with him.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

She placed her hand on her son’s arm and strolled from the room. So regally. Lydia was torn between despising the woman and admiring her.

“Lydia, will you take Colton and Sabrina to their rooms?”

Lydia turned her attention to her mother, realizing she’d been so focused on Rhys and his mother that she hadn’t noticed when her stepfather had moved to stand beside the Duke. She didn’t imagine the elderly gentleman wanted them to see him being carried as though he was a child. He’d been in the dining room when they’d entered, had already been sitting in this room when they’d been fetched to join the family here. How humiliating it must be for a man who had been ruler of so much to suddenly find himself a beneficiary of everyone’s tender mercies.

“Lydia?” her mother prompted again.

“I will,” she said, “but first…” She stepped nearer to the Duke, searching his aged face. Rhys had spoken on behalf of his mother—urging the Duke to tell her that he loved her. Lydia’s mother would speak on behalf of Grayson, making certain the Duke understood what a fine man his illegitimate son was. Who would speak for Rhys?

“I think, Your Grace, neither you nor your wife fully appreciate all Rhys offers.”

The Duke chuckled low. “Fancy him, do you?”

She darted a quick glance to her stepfather, who was scrutinizing her. She wasn’t certain anyone would understand her feelings for Rhys. She wasn’t sure she understood them herself. She met the Duke’s gaze. “I simply noticed he seems to bow to everyone’s wishes except his own.”

“A man who is to be duke should bow to no one.”

“Yet you bowed to convention when it came to marriage.”

“Lydia,” her stepfather warned. It wasn’t often he growled at her, and she knew she was close to being disrespectful. But she wanted the Duke to realize that his lastborn son was as fine a man as his firstborn.

“No, Grayson, leave her be. I like her spunk. But Winnie won’t allow you to be the new Duchess of Harrington,” the Duke said. “She’ll find Rhys some boring wife to bear him boring children.”

Not if I can help it
hovered on the tip of Lydia’s tongue. She bit back the words. “It never crossed my mind to become the new Duchess of Harrington.”

“As you wish, girl.”

She curtsied slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to
put the children to bed, and then I think I’ll take a walk in the garden. I could use some fresh air.”

Rhys stood at the window of his bedchamber and watched Lydia stroll through the gardens, captured in moonlight. That she had complimented his performance pleased him beyond measure.

How had she become so important to him in such a short while? He continually berated himself for seeking her out, and yet he seemed unable to resist her innocence.

Tarnished by all he’d seen and experienced, he worried he would taint her if he spent any more time with her. He should at this very moment go to his father’s bedchamber and visit with him while his father was more alert than he’d been in some time.

Rhys convinced himself, however, that his father was no doubt weary and in need of rest after such an eventful day.

Rhys was equally tired, but how could any man resist the temptation that awaited him in the garden? Even as he cursed himself for his weakness, he turned on his heel, strode from his room, and walked out of the manor house.

He found her at the far end of the lawn where roses grew in abundance and their scent still lingered on the breeze. She sat within a white gazebo, its walls serving as a trellis for the climbing flowers.

That she seemed neither surprised nor startled to see him appear within the opening gave him a moment’s pause, made him briefly wonder if she’d lured him out on purpose. If she’d known he’d been watching her.

But then he decided it didn’t matter. She was here,
and only she was important. Still, he kept his distance, not trusting his hands to remain off her, his mouth not to give in to the temptation to kiss her.

He walked around the circle until he stood opposite her. Then he leaned his hips against the railing. Through its opening she would be able to see the rolling hills of Harrington, while he saw nothing but her.

Now that he was here, he could think of nothing to say. It was simply enough to be in her presence, to locate her scent among that of the roses. To enjoy the sight of her silhouette in the shadows. She should have been lost within them, but her pale lilac gown and her hair that looked as though it had been spun from moonbeams gave her an edge against the darkness.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice floating toward him as gently as the clouds passed before the moon.

“Did you?”

“I saw you standing at a window.”

“Perhaps I was simply looking for a star to wish upon. Perhaps I noticed you not at all.”

“You noticed me. I can always feel when you’re staring at me.”

“Staring makes it sound as though I’m being rude, invading where I am not wanted.”

“What would you call it then?” she asked.

Longing for. A desperate yearning.

“I suppose staring is as good a word as any,” he said, unwilling to admit the truth of his obsession.

He glanced off in the distance, but nothing had the power to hold his attention as she did, and he soon found himself once again looking at her. The temptation to move closer was almost more than he could
bear.

“I adore the way you play the piano,” she said.

He dug his fingers into the railing, relishing the bite of wood cutting into his palms. “I thought it a very dark piece,” he admitted.

“I was mesmerized by it.”

“What sort of images did it conjure in your mind?”

She looked away, presenting him with her profile. As though he were an artist, he committed the sight of her to his memory, the sweep of her long throat, the curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulders. No aspect of her beauty went unnoticed by him. And he found every part of her beautiful. He could not have explained his reasoning, and he suspected a few rare men existed who would disagree with his assessment of Lydia. But he only cared about what he saw.

“The images,” he prodded.

“I found them very”—she bent her head—“sensual.”

“I thought of you as I played.”

As she turned her head toward him, he felt her gaze come to rest on him.

“Did you?” she asked.

“You’ve managed to bewitch me, and that is not good for either of us.”

“Why?”

“You are a woman who favors the glitter of London. I prefer the seclusion of Harrington. You want a man who is untarnished. I am so far removed from being one that all the polishing in the world will not make me shine.”

“Is that the reason you push me back every time I come close?”

“It’s one of many reasons.”

“And what if I don’t want you to push me back?”

She rose to her feet, and it suddenly occurred to him that coming out here was a very bad idea.

“You cannot be both a temptress and a lady,” he warned.

“Why?”

“Because a temptress has no virtue, while a lady must always maintain and guard hers.”

She crossed the gazebo, coming to stand beside him, not close enough for him to touch, but near enough that with no effort at all he could have her within his arms. She looked out on the countryside.

“I thought it was romantic that your father told your mother he loved her tonight during dinner.”

“It was a lie.”

She snapped her head around. “Do you have to be so cynical?”

“I’m a realist. I thought I would find satisfaction in his telling her, but instead I saw a measure of deceit in his actions.”

“Where is the harm in it when his words made her so happy?”

“I believe a relationship is better served with honesty.”

“You would never tell a woman you love her if you don’t?”

“Never. But then never do I expect to love a woman.”

“Not even me.”

“Especially not you.”

“So if I were to press my body against yours, you wouldn’t react?” she asked.

“A man may lust without love.”

“Can a man love without lust?”

“You tell me that you wish to be accepted by Society, and then you carry on conversations which are entirely inappropriate.”

“You’re pushing me away again,” she said in a voice that seemed to shimmer over his flesh. Low, provocative, inviting.

Then he was no longer pushing her away, but drawing her nearer.

He was not surprised that she welcomed his advance and sank against him in surrender. He settled his mouth firmly against hers, his tongue waltzing with hers, an ancient rhythm.

She tasted of the wine she’d sipped during dinner and the chocolate she’d nibbled when dessert was served. Her taste was rich, yet sweet, and laced with innocence. Her fingers clutched his jacket, and a purr vibrated within her throat.

Raging desire shot through him. If he’d thought to call her bluff, to tame her with actions rather than words, he’d grossly underestimated her power over him.

Or perhaps he’d simply chosen to ignore it. From the first kiss they’d shared, he’d learned she wasn’t a demure lady. She eagerly returned his kiss now as she had before. She was an active participant in what with most women he’d found to be passive enjoyment. The ladies he knew preferred to be acted upon, to have their senses heightened, while he was left to find his own way.

Lydia gave as much as she took. Her hands alternately touched his cheek, ran through his hair, and rubbed his shoulders. She was as aware as he that passion encompassed every aspect of a person: heart and mind, body and soul.

He glided his hand along her silky skin, revealed by the low cut of her gown. He trailed his fingers over the lush curves, bringing his hand down to cradle the delicious mound of one breast. Had he thought her smaller than most?

She was perfect in every way, every manner. He slid his mouth from hers. With a moan, she dropped her head back, giving him access to the flesh he so desperately desired. He skimmed his lips along her throat, the scent of roses increasing as he reached the hollow at its base.

Ah, so here was where she’d placed her perfume. He imagined her closing her eyes as she did so, her finger applying the tantalizing drops. Had she thought of him as the perfume dampened her skin?

Dampened her skin as he wished to dampen the silken haven between her thighs? A haven where he might find solace.

He licked her throat before journeying farther down. The scent faded away for only a brief time. He smiled, imagining her sliding her finger between her breasts to dab her perfume against a hidden spot only he would know of. A place his tongue now explored.

Shivering within his arms, she dug her fingers into his shoulders. He had but to peel back the bodice of her gown a little to reveal the treasure he sought. He closed his mouth around the satiny orb, his teeth around her hardened pearl. He tugged, suckled, and lathed her flesh with his tongue. She whimpered and jerked.

“Rhys!”