Love With a Scandalous Lord (7 page)

“Are all Texas ladies as candid as you are about revealing their thoughts?” he asked.

“Most are. I suppose I shouldn’t be. Especially if I want to play the games over here.”

“What do you know of our games?”

“Only what I’ve gleaned from books and Lauren’s letters. It’s not quite the same as experiencing it.”

He wasn’t certain when his hands had begun traveling past her soles to her ankles and a little higher. He remembered Grayson warning him that Lydia was not
accustomed to the games played here. The women he’d entertained in recent years had continually dared him to break the rules with them. He had to take into consideration that simply bending the rules with this one could very well cause him to end up shattering her heart.

A risk he was unwilling to take.

“Tell me of your life in Texas,” he demanded, wanting the distraction, wishing he’d never begun to rub her feet, but unwilling to separate himself from her.

She shrugged slightly. “Not much to tell. Papa pretty much explained everything during dinner. We work the fields, clean the house, and cook the meals. Boring.”

“The gown you wore this evening was hardly boring.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and he could sense she was pleased by his comment.

“You must have occasion to wear it,” he murmured. “And I should think the occasion would be quite exciting indeed.”

She smiled fully. He was grateful to both the lanterns and the moonlight for allowing him to see her so clearly.

“It was a gift for my eighteenth birthday.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two years.”

“Is that so?” He knew her age for certain now. Twenty. Much too young for his cynical years.

He gave his gaze the freedom to travel the length of her. How he was tempted to draw her onto his lap and warm every inch of her.

“I find your world fascinating,” she said in a sultry voice that carried a hint of twang.

She spoke as though she was in no hurry to get the words out. He found himself savoring every syllable,
every inflection. Her wholesome speech contained an honesty that lured him in.

“I find
you
fascinating, Miss Westland.”

He heard her breath catch. Her eyes were limpid pools with the ability to take a man under and make him not care that he might never again surface.

“We’re practically related. You could call me Lydia.”

“We’re not related at all,” he said, while not revealing the honest truth: that he was absolutely grateful they weren’t.

“You play with fire, when you approach a man wearing nothing but your nightclothes,” he informed her.

Lydia felt as though she weren’t only playing with fire, but completely surrounded by it. When had the night grown so incredibly warm? When had heat begun to pulse through her like sweltering springs?

“It wasn’t my intent to approach you in my nightclothes.” Holding his gaze, she was aware her voice sounded as though it came from far away.

“Your intent hardly matters when I find you so distracting. Have you any notion how truly lovely you are?”

“You ignored me for most of the evening,” she pointed out.

“Not for one moment.”

His hands left her ankles to cradle her face. “You tempt me, as I have not been tempted in a good long while.”

She found it difficult to draw in air, to think. She was certain she was supposed to respond with some sort of witty repartee, but she couldn’t think of anything clever or interesting.

“I’m hardly dressed as a temptress.”

“You’re hardly dressed at all. That was your second mistake.”

“And my first mistake?”

“Was not returning to the house when I ordered you to go.”

Before she could protest that she wasn’t one to take orders, he settled his mouth against hers, demanding, insistent, giving the one command to which she was more than willing to surrender.

She was no stranger when it came to kissing. Chaperones were practically unheard of in Texas. Ladies went on picnics with gentlemen and took rides in buggies. They went on walks and swam in rivers. They shared each other’s company, and on occasion, they shared a kiss.

Lydia had never believed in encouraging men in whom she had no interest. But neither had she discouraged them from giving her kisses. She understood some things in life were better learned by doing, and she’d certainly been unable to learn how to kiss by reading a book.

But the men who had kissed her before had failed to teach her what Rhys was skillfully teaching her now. Their kisses had captured her mouth. His enticed her entire body into participating.

She’d never experienced anything like it. Total and complete surrender.

Lydia didn’t remember Rhys easing her down so she was lying on her back. She only knew she was suddenly aware that his large hands pillowed her head, protected her from the hardness of the bridge. His arms, trembling, were braced on either side of her, while his mouth continued to work its magic over hers.

Of an English lord, she’d expected restraint, some
thing a bit more proper, more refined. She certainly hadn’t expected him to build a raging fire deep within her belly, to have his tongue swirling and dancing within her mouth with a wildness that bordered on primitive. To have his chest pressed against her breasts, causing her nipples to harden into sensitive pearls.

In the farthest recesses of her mind, it occurred to her that what they were doing was entirely improper. Yet he possessed the power, the skill to make her not care.

If Englishmen kissed with such passion, then it was little wonder that her mother had married one. As the flames of desire licked at her flesh, she set her sights not on scouting out the lords in London, but on conquering one.

And she realized the one she was with now might be an excellent choice. Something had sparked between them the moment they’d met on the stairs. Something that took little more than a kiss to change it into a tempestuous inferno.

She’d never in her life experienced the tumultuous sensations she felt now. She twisted her body against his, caressed her bare foot along his calf. She ran her hands over his back, his shoulders, his strong arms, arms that supported him above her while she wanted to be crushed beneath his weight.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he rolled away from her. She heard his harsh breathing echoing around them.

“Return to your bedchamber, Lydia.”

Reaching out, she touched his back. “Rhys.”

“Do it now!” He shot to his feet and looked down on her. “Or by God, I swear I’ll take you to mine.”

Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs, while her
stomach knotted with trepidation. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise. A promise I swear you’ll not want me to keep.”

She scrambled to her feet and slowly began to back away from him. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Not intentionally, no. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cause you pain. Now run!”

He lunged toward her. She spun on her heel and raced toward the house. She traveled a good distance before she dared to look back. Standing on the bridge with his head bent, he stared into the dark waters below.

The woman inside her screamed for her to return to him. But the lady insisted she continue on. She wasn’t afraid of him, but of herself, of what she was feeling. She was incredibly tempted to let him make good on his threat.

L
ydia Westland was a temptation any man in his right mind would find difficult to resist. But for a man who had been without a woman in his bed for several long months…

Rhys sat at the table, glaring at his cold poached eggs. He’d always prided himself on his mastery of his baser instincts. He could pleasure a woman and, if need be, refrain from experiencing his own satisfaction.

He approached lovemaking as a form of art, a well-choreographed series of movements designed to enhance sensations, stimulate, and titillate. But he kept himself at a distance. The master in command of the production, watching from the wings, but never fully participating in the play.

Why did Lydia Westland make him feel like a lion that had pounced on his prey? A beast that had yet to be tamed? Why did she make him feel as though he was auditioning for a role he had no desire to play?

She was the sweetest of creatures. During their kiss, he’d become lost, completely and absolutely. Adrift in the sea of her innocence. Her sighs and moans had ignited tiny sparks within him that had quickly flared. His own groans had filled the night, echoed around him, the growl of an animal seeking its mate, laying its primal claim. He wanted to declare her as his: possess her heart, her body, her soul.

“The physician looked rather grim when he left Father’s bedchamber this morning,” Grayson said as he took his place at the table.

Rhys looked up. So wrapped up in his thoughts, he’d been unaware his brother had entered the dining room or that he’d already loaded his plate with the offerings from the sideboard.

“Yes, well, old Fitzhugh always looks grim,” Rhys assured him. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch. He wouldn’t have left had he expected this day to be Father’s last.”

“I wasn’t aware that death kept a schedule.”

“You’re quite right. I misspoke. I suppose we must all face the inevitable in our own way.” Anxious to change the subject, he said, “You look as though you rested well.”

“You look as though you didn’t.”

An understatement. He’d lain in his bed with the scent of Lydia still filling his nostrils, the feel of her soft skin a memory against his fingertips, the taste of her lips remaining on his tongue to be savored awhile longer. He shifted in his chair in a futile effort to ease an ache that refused to be eased. He’d never been obsessed with women.

They used him. He used them. It was the way of things.

“I simply have a great deal on my mind,” he murmured.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Grayson asked.

Take your stepdaughter and get the hell out of here.

“No, but I appreciate your offer.”

“I’m not accustomed to a life of leisure, Rhys. While I intend to visit with Father often, I’m also quite sure frequent visitors tire him. So if there is anything I can do to ease your burden, I’m serious about wishing to help.”

“I’ll keep your offer in mind. I take it Father was awake this morning.”

“For a short time, yes. He fell asleep before I was able to usher in the children. But it was good to have a few minutes with him.”

“His moments of lucidity are rare. I’m glad he’s aware that you’re here.”

He unfolded the newspaper and stared blankly at the words that seemed to run together, a string of letters that made no sense. He could scarcely concentrate for thinking of Lydia. In the moonlight, in the library, during dinner. He was aware of her every movement, her every sigh, her every smile. She unsettled him, and he was not one who cared to be unsettled.

“I suppose you’re kept quite busy fending off the young bucks where Lydia is concerned,” he said lightly.

“She has her share of suitors, but she’s hardly shown a bit of interest in any of them—to their everlasting disappointment, I might add. She and Abbie should be down any moment.”

Rhys set the newspaper aside. His chair scraped across the floor as he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of a few matters.”

He strode from the room, a man bent on escape.

Lydia sat in a cheery room the butler had identified as the morning room. He’d also assured her the Duchess rarely made use of the room anymore, so Lydia needn’t worry about being disturbed.

Sabrina was napping. She hadn’t quite recovered from their long journey. Lydia knew she should probably rest as well, but she was loath to give up a moment in sleep.

Her stepfather had taken everyone into the Duke’s bedchamber shortly after they’d finished breakfast. The Duke had failed to wake up while they were there.

Lydia was saddened whenever she realized she might never have a chance to talk with this man. She hoped he’d at least have an opportunity to get to know Colton and Sabrina.

The immense size of the house helped to take them away from the sick room and made it easily forgotten. The fact that none of them was needed—or truly wanted—caused her to often overlook the reason they’d come. Although her parents had explained before they left Texas that they didn’t expect the children to spend their time here with puppy dog eyes, Lydia still felt guilty whenever she snuck away to have a few minutes to herself.

Now she tried to concentrate on reading her book, but her efforts were futile. She’d memorized so many little rules. How one left a calling card—which she did not possess. When it was appropriate to wear gloves. When one should don a hat.

Her problem was that for all the rules she knew, she didn’t know exactly how to put them into practice. Her
studying had prepared her for much of what she would experience over here, but she was quickly discovering many subtleties were still unknown to her. Something she hadn’t considered when she was half a world away, but something that was suddenly glaringly obvious to her.

Her mother would have had a conniption fit if she’d seen Lydia last night—wearing her nightclothes and traipsing over the lawn with Rhys. And if she’d happened to spot Lydia lying on the bridge with Rhys hovering over her, his mouth devouring hers…

She fanned her heated face and tried to erase a memory she had no wish to forget.

What happened last night could not be repeated. Not at Harrington, not with Rhys. While he’d claimed to be intrigued by her, and she was completely fascinated with him, she was fairly certain she could expect little more than misery by marrying into this family when the Duchess so hated her stepfather.

No, she’d definitely started out on the wrong foot where Rhys was concerned. She needed to prepare herself for a possible sojourn into London. As soon as the butler brought in the tea, she would begin practicing. Meanwhile, she turned her attention to memorizing more rules she would probably never have an opportunity to put to use.

But at least concentrating on them took her mind off Rhys and the inappropriateness of her behavior last night.

The last thing she wanted was to be embroiled in any sort of scandal. Her mother’s experience with Grayson Rhodes had taught her that.

As strange as it might seem, English society appealed
to her because of all the rules. No behavior was left to chance. Etiquette dictated every action. It seemed such a safe world, a world where men of rank were as anxious to avoid scandal as the ladies were.

Grayson Rhodes’s birth had excluded him from that upper tier. Lydia was certain that within London’s high society, a lady was protected at all costs. Lydia dearly wanted what the Duchess possessed: respect that came from one’s position regardless of one’s actions.

She could only achieve that by conquering London.

Rhys spent the early hours of his morning secluded in his study. He reviewed the ledgers and studied the copious notes his father had made some months earlier regarding improvements he wished to make at Harrington.

Then Rhys met with Mr. Willis. The man was nearly as old as his father and as steadfastly set in his ways. He’d overseen Harrington long before Rhys was a disappointment in his father’s eyes or a curse upon his mother’s lips.

That Mr. Willis failed to comprehend the significance of modern technology was only mildly troubling. That he was nearly deaf, blind in one eye, and suffering from rheumatism that caused him to move in what appeared to be an extremely painful shuffle was more disconcerting.

He would have to be replaced soon, and that action would not sit well with those who held an allegiance to Mr. Willis. He’d always been well liked and treated the workers fairly. It was unfortunate enough that everyone was going to have to grow accustomed to a new duke. Change was seldom welcomed, and Rhys had hoped to keep it at a minimum.

He was strolling through the manor, pondering his dilemma, when he passed by the morning room. Usually he found the gloom of the room’s darkness, with its heavy drapes that were never drawn back, somehow comforting.

This morning, however, the room was awash with sunlight. Rainbows danced over the walls, reflecting off the crystals on the lamps on either side of the sofa. And through the windows of the closed French doors, he could see Lydia pouring tea.

He was so ensnared by her joyous smile, her sparkling eyes, and her tinkling laughter that he was halfway tempted to overlook the fact that she was absolutely, completely alone.

Surely not
.

Keeping to the side so he was neither directly in front of the door nor squarely in her view, he eased closer and peered through a window, striving to see into a corner. No one came into his vision. He glanced the other way. The room appeared to be quite empty—except for the intriguing Miss Westland.

He directed his attention back to her. She was no longer entertaining an imaginary friend, but had shifted on the sofa and was running one of her fingers over the page of an open book.

What a strange creature she was.

Was she perhaps practicing her role in a play?

He contemplated the advantages of silently stepping back, out of sight, and pretending he’d never spotted her to begin with. But none of the advantages outweighed his desire to remain as he was and simply watch her.

He could not remember a time when anything had brought him as much pleasure. Yet he knew he was be
ing unaccountably rude, invading her privacy, behaving as a voyeur. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to nobly retreat.

She’d apparently lost interest in whatever she was reading, because she began to turn to the tea service resting on the small table in front of her. At the same moment, her body twitched, her eyes widened, and she pressed her hand just above her left breast as though to still her pounding heart.

The fact that her gaze was locked on his revealed the cause of her surprise. He should have been ashamed to be caught as he was, longingly peering through the glass of the closed doors, but he could not manage to feel anything except grateful that he was now forced to speak to her.

And more gratified that he’d failed so miserably at his attempt to escape her.

Gathering his wits about him, he quietly opened the door and strived to sound as though he were the master of decorum and had not just been caught with his hand deep in someone else’s pocket. “Miss Westland.”

“My lord,” she responded breathlessly, her raspy voice causing his insides to tighten. “How long have you been standing there?”

“As a gentleman, I should say I only happened by at the exact moment you managed to look up—”

“If that were true, I don’t think your breath would have fogged the window.”

He glanced back at the door. No evidence of her claim remained. Not that it mattered. Unless she’d purposely fibbed to test his words. Was she that clever? He was certain she was, and more. He turned back to her. “It is impolite to interrupt.”

“It’s impolite to spy!” The teacups rattled with the
force of her rising to her feet.

“I believe I spoke similar words last night,” he reminded her.

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“Concern took me into your father’s room.”

“And concern brings me into this one. I assure you that I was not spying. I was merely…” What could he admit? That if he was wise, he would steer clear of her? That he found himself drawn to her as the waters of an ocean were drawn to the moon?

“I merely wished to apologize for my behavior at the pond. It was entirely inappropriate and shan’t happen again.”

“You mean your kissing me?”

Kissing you, ravishing you, enjoying you.

“Quite so.”

She visibly relaxed. “I’d come to the same conclusion earlier. That my behavior was inappropriate for a lady.”

“Then we’re of a like mind. I find that rather reassuring.”

“You were looking for me then? To apologize?”

“No, I was simply passing by when you caught my attention, and I thought to make the most of the moment. It has been some time since I’ve seen sunlight allowed in here.”

He walked farther into the room bathed in yellow, orange, and green. He’d always thought it looked as if his mother had planted a garden within the fabrics of the furniture and draperies. It had been a place that had once sparkled, where she had always seemed happy.

But as he looked toward a window, he understood now that his mother had turned the morning room into
a mourning room, because a small sliver of the window had the misfortune of bringing into view the family pond.

“I didn’t think I’d bother anyone here,” she said defensively.

He studied the high color in her cheeks, a red almost as vibrant as her lips. “And you are quite right. I was not bothered by your presence. Merely intrigued.”

He tilted his head toward the tea service and the two cups filled to near overflowing with tea. “Were you expecting company?”

Her blush, if possible, deepened. She appeared positively mortified and so breathtakingly beautiful he thought he might be content to simply sit and watch her for hours on end. He’d never before felt this way about any woman. Perhaps because he’d always known he’d had no hope of ever winning any woman’s favor on a permanent basis. Yet that explanation fell short, because he knew he had no hope of ever having anything permanent with Lydia, either.

“I was…uh….” She cleared her throat. “I was very thirsty.”