Love With a Scandalous Lord (16 page)

His name, a breathless whisper in the night. His name. Not an errant husband’s or a scorned lover’s.

Damn her! Damn her for imagining she was within his arms and not another’s.

He told himself that he wanted her all the more because he could not have her, but the truth mocked him. He wanted her because she was all he was not, all he’d long ago lost. Innocence and beauty. She still believed in dreams.

Her hands closed around his upper arms like a vise, while he felt her lethargically slipping away. He snaked one arm around her waist and held her against his hard body, his throbbing body.

In the moonlight, he could see her watching him through half-closed eyes, waiting, waiting, trusting, wanting, silently pleading for the release he could give her. The pleasure he could grant her.

With his head bent, he continued to play his lips and tongue over her bared breasts, giving attention to one and then the other, suckling and stroking, caressing and nipping, while his free hand gathered up her skirt until it was bunched between them, held in place by two bodies pressed together so tightly not even the breeze could ruffle the cloth.

Skimming his fingers up her warm, velvety thigh, he heard the sharp intake of her breath, welcomed the heating of her skin beneath his mouth, and rejoiced in the quivering of her body.

He trailed his fingers down, then back up. Down again, capturing her knee, lifting it, slowly, provocatively until he hooked it over his hip, held it with his arm, spreading her until the sweet, musky perfume of her desire wafted upward.

He skimmed his fingers back along her thigh to the heart of her womanhood. This time he moved aside the last bit of delicate lace that served as a barrier to her fulfillment. She whimpered again, her body shimmering against his palm, as he threaded his fingers through her
curls. She was sinfully hot and moist. Velvet and silk woven together. Swollen. Ripe with desire.

He slowly stroked her. She released a tiny cry, a resounding plea.

He returned his mouth to hers, deepening the kiss as his fingers increased their pressure. She writhed against him, a woman seeking to escape, a woman desperate to remain. She suckled his tongue as though she wanted to draw him into her.

He captured her cry as her body arched. He slid his finger into the silken cavern where her body pulsed with the force of her journey into ecstasy.

He slid his mouth to her ear, breathing heavily, listening as her quick breaths filled the night air. She slumped against him, her arms limp across his shoulders, her face pressed to his chest.

He had pleasured many a woman in a similar manner, but never before had he felt such satisfaction, such enjoyment, such…pleasure. Victorious. He felt victorious.

It mattered not that he still ached with need. With her trembling in his arms, he found a fulfillment such as he’d never known.

“Goodness gracious,” she said on a sigh. She lifted her gaze to his and laughed, a tinkling of pure joy like a thousand bells ringing out the jubilation. “My books certainly never explained anything like this.”

The rumble started deep within his chest, like thunder preceding a storm, and when the laughter erupted from within, he nearly wept for having gone so long without hearing it. It held no cynicism, no biting edge. It was simply joyous.

“Imagine how it would have been if you hadn’t instructed me to curb my enthusiasm,” she said.

Laughing harder, he pressed his forehead to hers and shook his head. “Perhaps by morning I shall remember what lesson it was that I came out here to teach you.”

“Something about lust and love, I believe,” she murmured.

Ah, yes, lust and love. He’d thought he was the master of one and a stranger to the other. Now he was no longer sure of either.

“There’s more that happens between a man and a woman, isn’t there?” she asked quietly.

“Not for us.”

“Why?”

“Because I find myself caring for you more than I should, and I would not see you hurt.”

He eased back slightly, and her skirt floated back into place. “It would probably be best if you returned to the manor ahead of me. We would not want the servants’ tongues to wag.”

She cradled his cheek. “How can you give so much to me and think I wouldn’t be happy with everything else you have to offer?”

Taking her hand, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Because everything else would fall far short of what I just gave you.”

“I don’t think you know your own worth.”

“I know exactly what I am worth. I also know you can ill afford me.”

L
ydia awakened, not certain why, with darkness hovering around her. She put on her night wrapper and peered into the hallway. Muffled sobbing escaped through the open door that led into the Duke’s bedchamber.

She crept down the hallway, not wanting to intrude, but wanting to be available if needed. Peering inside, she saw the Duchess holding the Duke’s hand, her head bowed, while a woman who seemed to be more of a companion than a servant—perhaps she was the nurse—rubbed the Duchess’s quaking shoulders. The Duke looked to be completely and forever at peace.

Lydia had not expected to feel such sorrow for both the Duke and his Duchess.

Her parents stood off to the side, holding each other. Lydia crossed over to them, and her stepfather welcomed her into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a low, respectful voice.
For him, she
had
expected to feel the immense sorrow that welled up inside her now.

“He went peacefully with those who loved him nearby. A man can ask for no more than that,” her stepfather said.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“No.” He released Lydia and drew her mother against his side. The woman who would comfort him and lend her strength. “I’ll be all right.”

Lydia glanced around the room, noticing Rhys was absent, knowing he’d probably been there earlier. Had probably been the one to deliver the sad news.

With her emotions raw after their encounter in the garden, she’d decided not to join him there that evening. Now she wished she had.

She kissed her stepfather’s cheek, squeezed his hand, and then walked out of the room.

In spite of the manor’s grand size, it suddenly felt very small as Lydia made her way along the shadowy hallways. Everything was incredibly quiet, as though even the flames in the candles and lamps were in mourning and had retreated into silence, with no sputtering or crackling to keep her company.

She’d known where she’d find Rhys. She’d known she’d find him alone with his grief. And she’d known her heart would nearly shatter at the sight of him moving his fingers over the piano, creating melancholy chords that reached into her soul and wrenched her emotions.

Who would offer comfort to Rhys?

Not his mother. Not a wife or a lover. Not even a friend.

He lifted his head and pierced her with a gaze that reminded her of an untamed, trapped animal. His
hands stilled, but it seemed as though an eternity passed before the haunting strains drifted completely into silence.

“You may address me as Your Grace now,” he said in a low voice devoid of emotion.

She took a step toward him. “Rhys—”

“I was never supposed to be the Duke!” he roared, as he came to his feet, swiped at the nearby harp, and sent it crashing to the floor. He plowed his hands through his hair, his gaze darting around him as though he desperately wanted a sanctuary in which to hide.

“You’ll make a wonderful duke,” she promised.

His harsh laughter echoed around them. “Oh, my dreamer, you don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“I know you’ve rescued children and horses and even your mother in a way.”

“Leave, Lydia,” he commanded as he moved into the shadows that hovered in the corners. “Leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t know what I’m feeling right now; you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

His voice seethed with fury. She didn’t know with whom he was angry: himself, his father, perhaps even his mother. Maybe he was even angry with Lydia.

She wasn’t afraid of the anger. He was wounded, deeply, with no one to ease the ache in his heart, no one to offer him comfort.

“I know you hurt,” she said soothingly, as she crept closer.

“Hurt? You think I hurt because he’s dead?”

She nodded, her chest tightening until it ached. “You loved him, Rhys. You can deny it all you want, but he was your father and you loved him.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes,” she insisted.

He shook his head more fiercely. “No. Don’t you understand? I was nothing to him. Simply the spare. Hopefully never to be used, but on hand, in case the unthinkable happened. He did not love my mother. Passion did not drive him to her bed, but obligation, obligation to provide an heir and a spare.”

Reaching up with trembling fingers, she laid them against his neck, felt the rapid beating of his pulse, the warmth of his skin. “You’re not a spare to me,” she rasped, tears for his anguish burning her throat.

“No one has ever loved
me
,” he croaked. “I’m so damned alone, Lydia.”

The flames burning in the nearby fireplace reflected in the tears welling in his eyes.

“No, Rhys, you’re not alone. As long as I’m here, you’re not alone.”

He drew her to him as the shore draws the ocean, with yielding insistence. His mouth was moist and hot against hers, his tongue sweeping inside as though he felt a desperate need to journey through every part of her mouth.

She angled her head and felt a tear on his cheek slide onto hers. He growled low in his throat, as he crushed her to him. Her breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest. She slid her arms up over his shoulders, marveling again at the strength she felt shimmering beneath her fingertips. She could run her hands over him all night and never grow tired of doing so. She scraped her fingers up into his hair.

Sensations swirled through her as desire burned deeply within her like a fire on the prairie with nothing
to contain it. She was vaguely aware of his fingers drawing her wrapper aside and loosening the buttons on her nightgown.

A distant part of her mind began quoting rules of comportment—just as she had earlier in the garden—as though she still possessed her senses and would care that a lady would not sigh with pleasure as her clothing was peeled away and a man’s mouth was suddenly blazing a hot trail along her throat.

She knew she was going to lose the battle to remain a lady again, yet in the losing, she would win. Because Rhys was all that mattered, and she would willingly give him anything he needed.

She shivered even as she burned. She dropped her head back, and he nipped at the tender flesh of her shoulder.

“Tell me you want me,” he growled.

“I want you,” she repeated, dazed by desire.

She’d wanted him in the garden. For all he’d given her before, she’d felt slighted, cheated, that he’d withheld himself, had not sought his own pleasure with her.

She’d wanted him from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. How could anyone not see what a good man he was?

She saw it. She saw it in all the little things he did, things she’d never considered a nobleman would care about.

He moved his lips lower, his tongue licking and tasting, his mouth kissing. She gasped as he closed his mouth around her nipple. She felt a tug as he suckled, a tug that seemed to reach through her body to touch the most intimate of places. Before Rhys, she’d never realized how connected different parts of her body were.

Her knees weakened and trembled, and she might
have crashed to the floor if he hadn’t been supporting her, easing her to the carpet, following her down.

When she’d asked him to instruct her, she’d had no idea the lessons he could teach. This time, however, she was determined the lesson would not fall short. This moment was not hers, but
theirs
.

She tried to work the buttons free on his shirt, but her fingers quivered.

He moved his mouth to her ribs, his breath wafting over her flesh as his lips paid homage to each bit of skin he revealed as he worked her clothing aside.

“Your shirt,” she said breathlessly.

Sitting up, he jerked his shirt over his head, and she wanted to laugh, because she hadn’t needed to bother with buttons after all. Stretching out his body beside hers, raising himself up on an elbow, he began unbraiding her hair.

“I want your hair loose,” he said, a fevered pitch in his voice and a purpose to his fingers.

Reaching up, she shyly pressed her palm to his bared chest. Velvet against steel. Then her hair was free, and he was fanning it out around her, across her shoulders, her chest.

“Glorious,” he told her just before he returned his mouth to hers.

Eagerly she welcomed the kiss, while her fingers outlined each of his ribs, then each muscle, her hand easing lower, following the light sprinkling of hair down until it reached the waistband of his trousers. She heard his breath catch as much as she felt it.

He dragged his mouth from hers, his breath coming in harsh, heavy gasps as though he were fighting to draw in each bit of air. Raising himself up on his knees, he held her gaze, while he worked her nightgown
down, down, down…past her hips, her knees, her feet.

She’d always thought she’d feel a measure of embarrassment at this moment—the first time she was fully exposed to a man’s gaze. Yet she felt nothing beyond gladness that she was sharing herself with this man.

“Dear God, but you are beautiful,” he whispered, as he glided his hand along the length of her. “So beautiful.”

He quickly unfastened his trousers and shed them, revealing the magnificence of his body, the power of what he had to offer her.

She would have told him that she thought he was beautiful as well, but he kissed her again, deeply, hungrily, pressing his chest against hers, his hand cradling her hip, rolling her toward him until she felt his heat pressed against her stomach.

Moaning low, he skimmed his hand up the inside of her leg. She shivered as his fingers reached the apex between her thighs. His exploration was gentle but thorough, as sensations mounted deep within her and expanded outward.

That she was moaning and writhing beneath him might have mortified her if her needs weren’t so strong. He led her toward the pinnacle and then eased away.

Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she urged him to complete what he’d started. He parted her thighs further and nestled himself between them.

She bit her lip as he stretched her, filling her…only to retreat.

“No,” she rasped.

He stilled, his breathing labored. “No?”

“Don’t stop.”

He released a low chuckle that sounded like relief. “Thank God.”

He lifted his head and held her gaze. “I don’t know how to make it not hurt.”

She cradled his cheek, welcoming his bearded stubble scratching her palm. She adored every aspect of him. “I love you, Rhys.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her cry as he buried himself inside her. She dug her nails into his back, holding onto him as she kept herself as still as possible.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, a sensitive spot below her ear. “The worst is over. ’Tis time to dream, my little dreamer.”

He began to rock against her, and the burning lessened, while another sensation began to take hold. Something far more intense than what she’d experienced in the garden. He was offering a new promise, a stirring so deep, so profound that it frightened her to think of the promise being kept, terrified her to think of it being broken.

Her body tightened around his, and instinctually she moved in rhythm with him, meeting each thrust, greedy for the next.

Then the promise was upon her…“No!”

“Yes,” he commanded, as he ground his body against hers and catapulted her over the edge.

She cried out as she at once arched and somehow still managed to curl around him. His guttural cry quickly followed, his body shuddering as he folded his arms around her and pressed his face against the curve of her neck.

Lethargically she realized that tiny jerks continued to cascade through him. Several moments passed before she realized it wasn’t that he was caught in the throes of passion, but that he wept.

She trailed her fingers up and down his damp back and watched the firelight and shadows play over his glistening flesh. He was mourning at last, could let go of the past, and embrace their future.

What had he done?

Rhys tasted the salt of his tears coursing toward his lips and wanted to weep all the more.

Sanity had returned at last, but at what price had he lost his hold on it? And more importantly, what would the cost be to Lydia?

“I love you,” she’d said.

But she could not, because she did not know him, didn’t know all the dark secrets he harbored deep within himself.

Of all the women he’d carried to his bed, not one had granted him true affection. The fault could only rest within him.

With one hand, he managed to erase the evidence of his tears. Slowly he lifted his head and met Lydia’s gaze.

She looked at him with languid eyes, a woman who had been well and truly sated. Yet for all his experience, he had taken her too quickly, too roughly. He’d used none of the finesse or skills he’d acquired over the years.

He’d completely lost his head, and all semblance of control.

She bestowed upon him a lovely smile, a smile that he did not deserve. He shook his head slightly. “We
should not have done this.”

Her smile withered as hurt filled her eyes. “Rhys—”

“Shh.” He combed his fingers through the strands of her hair that lay against her cheek. “You were a virgin. I have compromised you.”

“I wanted to be here.”

“Be that as it may, the fact that I showed no restraint is unforgivable.” And that he continued to show none was disconcerting. Yet here he remained, raised up on his elbows, still cradled within her body, stroking the silky smoothness of her face as though his fingers intended to memorize every aspect of her.

Her smile slowly returned, her eyes growing as warm as her skin where it still touched his.

Lying beneath him, Lydia studied the manner in which his gaze roamed over her—with such tenderness that it caused her heart to ache. He had no reason to chastise himself for his actions when she’d never known such joy, such incredible fulfillment.

He was her tormented love, yet she was certain that over time she could help him smile more often, laugh heartily, and enjoy all life offered. Convince him that he was indeed loved and loved deeply.

He eased off her, and the chill of the night crept over her skin. Sitting up, she began gathering her clothes and putting them on, while he did the same with his.