Love With a Scandalous Lord (29 page)

“The only time it hurt me was when it kept me away from you. I love you so much.”

“There is a good chance we’ll have nothing. The Queen could take it all away.”

“Then we’ll have nothing together.”

He removed his gloves, then slowly peeled hers off. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips, inhaling the sweet scent she’d placed on her wrists.

“I have searched my whole life, not truly knowing what I sought. Until I looked into your eyes, until I saw your acceptance of me. I would see you happy at all costs. I love you more than life. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She released a joyous laugh. “Oh, yes!”

She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. With her, there would seldom be decorum. And yet when it was most needed—as she’d proven tonight—she had the regal bearing of a queen.

“Make love to me, Rhys.”

How he was tempted to do just that. Instead he drew back. “No, the next time I make love to you, darling Lydia, it will be after we’ve signed the marriage agreement. I’ll not have my son arrive only months after we are wed and have his mother whispered about. There will be whispers enough where we are concerned.”

She kissed his chin. “I don’t want to wait.”

“We’ll send for your parents tomorrow.”

She pressed her head into the nook of his shoulder.
“We’re going to be so happy.”

He only wished he could be as optimistic.

“You’re quite ruined,” Lauren announced.

Lydia closed her book. She’d been reading in the parlor for most of the afternoon, while Lauren had been sleeping. She’d gotten home rather late last night.

“But I’m so happy,” Lydia said.

Lauren sat down. “You were going to be introduced to the Prince of Wales.”

“And instead I’ll be married.”

“Everyone was quite shocked when you left with him.”

She leaned over and squeezed Lauren’s hand. “I love him, Lauren. I don’t care that he pleasured countless of London’s ladies. I care only that he pleasures me.”

Lauren’s eyes popped. “Did he? Last night? Everyone speculated that he did.”

She shook her head. “No, we just drove through the streets of London, kissing, talking, and planning our wedding.”

Lauren looked toward the doorway. “Yes?”

The butler entered with tray in hand. “Some ladies are here to see Miss Westland.”

Lauren took the cards. “Ladies Reynolds, Kedelbrooke, and Wrotham.” She looked at Lydia. “Are you at home?”

Lydia nodded. “Certainly.”

The ladies entered with bright red cheeks and gazes that danced around the room as though they weren’t certain they wanted to look directly at Lydia. Lauren invited them to sit and offered tea. They all sat quietly sipping.

Finally, Lady Reynolds said, “Miss Westland, I hope you won’t consider me impertinent, but we are dying to
know—do you intend to marry the Duke?”

She smiled, wanting to express her absolute joy that she could answer as she was. “Yes.”

Lady Reynolds looked incredibly delighted. “Splendid. My dear girl, you are so lucky. He has such wonderful hands. Honestly, once you are wed, you must have him rub your feet.”

Lydia suddenly wished Lauren hadn’t invited these ladies in. It had never occurred to her that she would speak to women and know that they’d known her love’s touch. It was one thing to accept he’d bedded some ladies. Quite another to sip tea with them.

“He rubbed your feet?” she dared to ask.

Lady Reynolds nodded. “I’d gone to see him because my dear husband was a bit
hasty
at times.” Her blush deepened. “His Grace—of course, he wasn’t His Grace then—shared with me several strategies for curtailing my husband’s eagerness, and the entire time he explained the matter, he rubbed my feet. It was quite delicious.”

“He rubbed my back,” Lady Wrotham admitted. “I sat on his lap like a child and bawled my heart out. Hence the reason I had his handkerchief, which my husband discovered. In my marriage, I found no semblance of the passion that I read in Jane Austen’s books.”

“Yes, he’d given me his handkerchief as well,” Lady Reynolds said. “I wept abominably in the beginning, as I recounted my sad tale.”

“He fed me chocolates until I thought I would pop,” Lady Kedelbrooke offered. “It was a most pleasant evening.”

“Pleasant?” Lydia asked. Pleasant didn’t begin to express what it was like to have Rhys make love to a
woman.

“Oh, yes. He has a passion for books. As do I. We contrasted Dickens and Twain.”

Chocolates and books. Foot rubs and advice.

“Have you told your husband exactly what transpired between you and Rhys?” Lydia asked.

“Oh, no,” Lady Kedelbrooke said. “I much prefer my husband think I was naughty. He has been most attentive, striving to make sure I do not stray again.”

When she’d never really strayed to begin with.

Lydia had no doubt some women had received much more from Rhys than what these ladies had. But she felt no jealousy or envy. She would have what all these ladies had never had.

A husband who adored her, who would be attentive, and who would never cause her to stray.

Lydia’s family had arrived in force three days before. Her wedding gown had arrived yesterday. In the weeks since the
infamous ball
, as it had come to be known around London, whispers were growing quieter.

A few more ladies had come to call. Lydia was quite the envy of many.

The day after tomorrow she and Rhys would get married. She had one more thing she wanted to do.

She stood in the entrance hall of the house the Duke had set aside for his Duchess. A house she supposed in some way belonged to Rhys. Yet neither of them had been invited there. She’d given her card to the butler, a card that would soon be different, would soon carry her married name.

She heard the butler approaching and steeled her resolve.

“I’m sorry,” he said coldly. “The Duchess is not at
home.”

Lydia smiled. “Then I’ll wait here until she is.”

He blinked. “Her Grace is
not
at home.”

She nodded. “I heard you. I’ll wait right over here by the potted plant until she returns.”

He spun on his heel and walked back down the hall from which he’d come. A moment later, the Duchess was trudging toward her.

“Do you not understand when you are told I am not at home, that it simply means I am not at home to
you
?” she asked.

“I understand perfectly, Your Grace.”

The Duchess came to a stop as though she’d hit a brick wall. “Then why did you tell my butler you would wait until I returned?”

“Because I want to speak to you, and I’ll wait all day if I have to.”

“I don’t wish to speak to you, and you can wait all month. I am not at home.”

Lydia smiled. “Then I’ll wait all month.”

“Impertinent chit!” With a flourish, she headed back down the hallway.

“Would you like a chair in which to wait?” the butler asked.

Lydia shook her head. “No, I’ll stand.”

And she did. While the butler occasionally checked with the Duchess, only to return with the message that she was not yet at home.

If the Duchess wanted a test of wills, she was going to discover Lydia was not one to be trifled with, not where Rhys was concerned.

“The Duchess is at home,” the butler said quietly.

Lydia glanced at the hallway clock. Four hours. She hadn’t had to wait as long as she’d expected she would.

She followed the butler into the parlor.

“There,” the Duchess said, from her chair by the window. “You have been received. You may now leave.”

“I don’t think so.” She walked farther into the room and studied a portrait that was hanging on the hall. The man was indeed handsome, but he also caused a shiver to skitter down her spine. “Is this Quentin?”

“Yes.”

“You had two sons, Your Grace.” She faced the woman. “The day after tomorrow, I’m going to marry Rhys.”

“You are not telling me anything I do not know. I saw the announcement in the
Morning Post
.”

“It would mean a great deal to us if you would be there.”

“I am not giving my blessing on this union. Quentin is dead because of Rhys. Rhys betrayed him.” She lowered her gaze. “Quentin began to drink quite heavily after Annie died. It was that drink that caused him to stumble into the family pond. Caused him to drown.”

“I did not know Quentin, Your Grace. But I know Rhys is a good man.”

“Ha! He sent for the Duke’s bastard against my wishes.”

“Do you see no good in him at all?”

“I cannot see what does not exist.”

Lydia sighed deeply. She so desperately wanted to make this woman understand how precious Rhys was. But the only way to do that was to destroy Quentin. Or to reveal that Rhys had asked the Duke to tell her that he loved her. To snatch away what she held dear.

She could do neither.

“I love your son, Your Grace, with all of my heart. I have been unable to find any time in his life when he
placed himself before anyone else. He is a good man, an honorable man. The day after tomorrow, all of my family will be with me in the church. Rhys will have no family. You loved your Duke. I will love mine. I would ask that you love him as well. Join us when we begin our life together. We can’t change the hurts of the past. But we can see that there are fewer in the future.”

“You are most ill-bred,” the Duchess said. She looked out the window. “Name off all the reasons you love my son.”

Without hesitation, Lydia did.

R
hys stood within a small room not far from where he would enter the church. Lord Sachse waited with him. He’d wanted Grayson to stand by him, but his half-brother had a more pressing position. He was to give the bride into Rhys’s keeping.

Rhys had thought the chapel would suffice since he was certain that only Lydia’s family would be in attendance. But Lydia had wanted the church. As always, he found himself unable to deny her anything.

A brusque knock on the door, and then Camilla strode into the room. Rhys had never thought he would ever again associate with her, and yet somehow, he found himself doing just that. He’d forgiven her for her lies and deceptions, perhaps because when all was said and done, he’d recognized that she’d suffered far worse than he. She’d had an unkind husband as well as Quentin to deal with. And in her own strange way, she’d believed that she was giving the ladies of London
something they might never acquire otherwise.

“The guests are arriving,” she announced. She crossed over to Rhys and patted his lapels. “You may thank me properly later.”

“If guests are here, I suspect it is more Lydia’s doing than yours,” Rhys said.

“Don’t be so abominably
correct
, Rhys. It doesn’t become you.” She patted his lapels again before stepping back. “Although I must admit, you look terribly handsome today.” She turned to Lord Sachse. “And you as well.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Lady Sachse.”

“Honestly, Archie, you need not be so formal. We’re practically related.”

“We’re not related at all, madam.”

Rhys was startled by the man’s comment and the predatory warning he heard shimmering within the quietly spoken words. Had Rhys not said the same to Lydia, in the same manner, at one time?

Camilla blushed, actually looking flustered. “Perhaps next Season you will have a bit more luck at finding a wife.”

Archie shrugged. “I prefer to choose wisely rather than hastily. Now that the Season is coming to a close, however, I need to look over all the Sachse properties. I was hoping you might accompany me. I know nothing at all about managing so large an estate. You have done such a splendid job of acquainting me with London, I thought you might make a fine tutor as I learn what I must to keep Sachse from ruin.”

“I am quite ready to leave London,” Camilla said. “I shall be more than delighted to accompany you.”

Rhys watched the exchange with interest. Camilla was a flirtatious wench, her every word and action de
signed to control a man. But Archie? What was his interest in Camilla?

Camilla walked over to Rhys, placed her hands on his shoulders, rose up on her toes, and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I do wish you well, Rhys.”

When she stepped back, he was shocked to see tears welling in her eyes. He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket. “Here.”

Upon seeing his offering, she laughed lightly and took it. “Honestly, Rhys, you must see to having a different monogram placed on your handkerchiefs. These are known all over London.”

“You are quite right. I shall see to it after my wedding.”

“She is a lucky girl, Rhys. I’ll leave you gentlemen now.” Walking toward the door, she fluttered her fingers in the air. “Archie, I expect you to call this evening.”

“It shall be my pleasure to do so…Camilla.”

She stilled and glanced over her shoulder. Rhys had never seen her look so soft, so vulnerable. “So we might discuss our plans for touring the estates.”

“Of course,” Lord Sachse said quietly.

With a bob of her head. Camilla left the room.

“Take care with her heart, Archie,” Rhys said in a low voice, not certain why he felt the sudden need to protect Camilla.

Archie faced him and gave him a brusque nod. “I intend to do just that. I suspect no one ever has, although you’ve probably come the closest.”

“I must confess to never understanding why I liked her as much as I despised her.”

“Perhaps because you recognized that she is not as callous as she appears. The previous Earl of Sachse—
may he rot in hell—kept a journal which I discovered when I spent the night at the manor home before coming on to London. While she and I are touring the estates, I intend to convince her that I am nothing like my predecessor.”

“She will not be able to give you an heir.”

Archie shrugged. “We shall see. I am more inclined to believe the fault lay with her husband.”

Before Rhys could say more, another knock sounded. His heart jumped, and he took a deep breath. It was time.

The door opened and his mother strode in, regal in all her bearing. He could not have been more surprised had it been the Queen herself. He’d called on his mother shortly after the debacle of the ball to announce his intention to marry Lydia. She’d refused to see him.

“Mother, what are you doing here?”

She sent a haughty glare Archie’s way. “Will you please excuse us?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Archie left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Your lady came to see me,” his mother announced. “She is rather…ill-bred, insolent…stubborn. Do you know she stood in my entrance hall four hours waiting for me to receive her? Impertinent woman.”

“I will not have her day ruined,” Rhys warned. “If I have to cart you through the church like a sack of potatoes, by God, I will do it.”

“Honestly, Rhys, must you continually compare me to a sack of potatoes? I find it most unflattering.”

He stared at her, unsure how to respond. Was she teasing him? Surely not.

She approached him, and just as Camilla had before her, she began to straighten and brush lapels that needed no attention.

“Every day you must tell her that you love her. Do not wait until you are on your deathbed. A woman needs to hear those words often.”

“As does a son,” he said quietly.

She stopped fiddling with his lapels and lifted her gaze to his. Tears welled in her eyes. “I loved you best. I always did. I felt guilty for that, and so I spoiled Quentin. But you were always so sweet. Until the affair with Annie. It broke my heart that you would betray your brother in that manner. And I felt that I’d failed you both. I am so sorry.”

The tears rolled over onto her cheeks. He drew her into his embrace. “You never failed me.”

She shuddered with silent sobs. “I felt as though I had,” she rasped.

He tucked his knuckles beneath her chin and tilted her face until he could look into her eyes. “I love you, Mother.”

More tears surfaced, and he had no handkerchief to give her, Camilla having taken his last one with her when she left. So he collected her tears with his glove. “Now, now, no more of this. I want to see a smile.”

She gave him one, and he returned it in kind.

“Lydia will make a wonderful duchess,” she said.

“Indeed she shall.”

“Then you’d best get on with the wedding. I’m anxious to have grandchildren.”

Rhys stood at the front of the church, quite unable to believe his change of fortune. His little dreamer had
come to him seeking lessons in how to be accepted among the aristocracy, and in the end, it was she who’d gained him acceptance.

Rumors regarding his past had begun quieting. If the Queen was displeased with him, she’d yet to make her annoyance known which gave him further hope that all might be well. That and the fact that the church was packed to the rafters.

Archie stood beside him. Rhys turned slightly, and his gaze fell on his mother, sitting at the front. She smiled at him, a smile that brimmed with love. She placed her hand over her heart before pressing her fingers to her lips and blowing him a kiss.

He returned the gesture and could have sworn he heard some sighs.

The organ suddenly filled the church with the glorious chords to announce the arrival of his bride. He looked down the aisle and knew he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

Tiers of lace cascaded over white satin. Billowy whiteness flowed along the long train behind her. A gossamer veil fell over her face to her knees. Yet through it, he could see her brilliant smile, her sparkling eyes.

She carried a bouquet of white orchids. She walked slowly, elegantly with her arm wound around the arm of the man who’d been her father since she was a young girl, the man who’d unintentionally brought her to Rhys. He could not help but believe that Fate was a mischievous lady, weaving the most elaborate of tapestries with people’s lives.

But he knew the remainder of his life, at least, would be woven with threads of gold.

Lydia stopped at the front of the church, beside the
pew where the Duchess sat. She pulled a flower from her bouquet and offered it to his mother. The Duchess rose and gently hugged Lydia before taking the orchid and returning to her seat.

Then Lydia was at his side, her hand on his arm, her gaze holding his, her smile radiating her love for him.

And all that mattered was that she would be his for the remainder of his life, that she had taught him—a realist—how to dream.

“What have you done with my mother?” Rhys asked from the doorway that separated his bedchamber from Lydia’s. “The woman who is claiming to be the Dowager Duchess of Harrington is not a woman I know.”

Smiling at her husband’s reflection, Lydia slowly moved the brush through her hair. “I simply reminded her that she had another son, and a very worthy one at that.”

“Where you are concerned, nothing is ever that simple.”

He walked toward her. Her body trembled with need and want. He wore a silk dressing gown. It wouldn’t take her any time at all to get that off him. He was holding a tiny silver pitcher, the size of a teacup.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

He set the pitcher on the vanity and took her brush. She watched his slow, unhurried movements, the way his hand held her hair before he glided the brush through it.

“What did my father say?” she asked.

He stilled his brushing and knelt beside her. He turned her so she faced him. “He’ll take William back to Texas with him.”

And in his voice, she heard the cost. She combed her fingers through his hair, trailed them over his face, and cradled his jaw. “You’ll miss him.”

He nodded. “We traveled together through the darkness. He has yet to find his light. While you, my darling Lydia, are all the light I shall ever need.”

His kiss was the sweetest of desperations, claiming her mouth with bold strokes of his tongue. As he carried her over into the realm of pleasure she’d only ever shared with him, only wanted to share with him, she was vaguely aware he’d worked the sash on her wrapper free and was now hard at work on the buttons of her nightgown. Fifteen buttons, and his mouth never strayed from hers while his hands worked.

A talented man. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him in place so her tongue could dance with his. She took such delight in his eagerness, discovered that it served to ignite hers, to make her impatient.

She wanted to be on the bed, opening for him, welcoming him. He was her husband now, and this joining would sanctify their marriage, would not leave guilt hovering at the edges of her conscience. Although she’d enjoyed every encounter she’d shared with him, this one held no sorrow. She had no need to offer him comfort. He had no need to offer her any.

They were free of all constraints, free to celebrate their love. To celebrate each other.

He ended the kiss but not his attentions to her. He traced his fingers around her face, his gaze following the trail, along her throat. Lower. His hands slid into the opening of her gown, his palms resting against her warm skin, capturing the beating of her heart.

Provocatively, with the ease of a master seducer, he moved his hands, and the gown skimmed off her shoul
ders and down her back to pool at her waist.

“Lift your hips,” he ordered.

She obliged him. He slid her nightgown over her hips, past her thighs, knees, and feet.

“I’ll never grow tired of looking at you,” he rasped.

“Nor I you,” she promised as she leaned forward and tugged on his sash.

He latched his mouth onto her nipple while she fought to untie the knot that kept his flesh from hers. When she achieved success, she pulled his dressing gown back until it fell to the floor.

She wondered if her breath would always catch at the sight of him, if her heart would always beat more rapidly, if her joy would always expand to fill her chest to near aching.

Cradling her breast, he asked, “Do you remember when I told you that I preferred where chocolate had been?”

His kneading fingers were distracting, causing the warmth between her thighs to increase. “Yes.”

He lifted the tiny silver pitcher. “Chocolate. Warm. Melted.”

Her eyes widened as he trickled a line of chocolate over the breast he still held with one hand. He gave her a wickedly delightful grin, and the gray in his eyes darkened to pewter.

Then he was licking up that which he’d poured.

“Goodness gracious,” she purred as she dug her fingers into his shoulders, dropped her head back, and wound her legs around his waist.

When the chocolate was gone, he continued to swirl his tongue over her breast.

“Now I understand.” She sighed. “Where the chocolate has been.”

“I know all sorts of little tricks,” he assured her.

She raised her head, slipped her hand beneath his chin, stopping his tender ministrations and lifting his gaze to hers. “You don’t need tricks with me, Rhys.”

Within his eyes, he laid bare his love for her. She almost wept for the depth of it. No cynical rebuff, no protective denial. He’d lowered his walls, revealed his true self.

“Lydia, I want you to know I never made love to any of those women. I’ll admit to pleasuring a few of them, but I never enjoyed a single one as much as I enjoy you. My purpose was to spoil them, to give them everything, to take nothing for myself. Not one ever gave to me as you do.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Not one ever called out
my
name,” he rasped.

“Rhys,” she said softly.

“My God, but I do love you.”