They’d retrieved Tabitha’s letter, and she’d gained an entirely unlooked-for bonus. A thoroughly wonderful and quite elevating—and illuminating—experience, one she wouldn’t have missed for the world. And all without any unwelcome consequences or costs; she’d seized the moment, taken a risk, and had come out the winner.
Her only regret was that they’d had to leave the white silk and blue lace gown at Upton Grange. From the moment she’d recovered enough to stand, Ro had been single-mindedly focused on getting her and Tab’s letter out of Barham’s house safely—preferably without meeting another soul. He’d whisked her back upstairs to the room they’d used, helped her change into her chemise and gown, then wrapped her in her cloak once more, with the hood up.
The last sight she’d had of the pretty white and blue gown, it had been lying on the floor in a silken heap. The gown had made her feel…different. Freer. It had brought out a side of her she hadn’t until then known existed, but allowing that self out had felt right. More, it had felt empowering.
“Empowering” was a word Tabitha often used, one Lydia hadn’t paid much attention to—until now. Now she knew what the word truly signified, she had to agree with her sister that empowerment was well worth pursuing.
The white and blue gown now held fond memories, a symbol of her moment, a memento of the one time in her life she’d broken free of the sensible, reliable mold and reached for what she wanted. The one moment in her life she’d acted on impulse, had let her inner self rule.
Perhaps she could have a modiste make up an identical replacement.
She was considering that when they reached the lane.
Ro turned Lydia to the left. The surface of the lane was still inches deep in mud, but the verges had drained enough to be easily and safely walked upon. Pacing beside her, he looked ahead, into the gathering dusk, then glanced back along the path; no one had noticed them, let alone given chase. “I think we’re safe. I don’t believe anyone saw us leave—all the guests and most of the staff would have been in or around the dining room, and that’s at the opposite end of the house. We didn’t actually steal anything—I seriously doubt Barham had realized the letter was there.”
Lydia’s hand rose to her bodice, wherein she’d secreted Tabitha’s letter. “It was only a single sheet.”
Ro nodded. “Barham will be surprised and puzzled—and suspicious—to find us vanished, but all things considered, in the end he’ll shrug it off, and ask me next time he sees me.” And as his and Barham’s paths rarely crossed these days, that was unlikely to be for some years, and by then Barham would probably have forgotten. “Only he and his staff saw us, so we don’t need to fear that anyone else might have recognized you.”
“Hmm.”
When Lydia said nothing more, he glanced at her face. In the post-twilight gloom, he could barely make out her features. When, lying slumped on his chest in Barham’s library, she’d finally stirred, she’d been gloriously dazed, but that he’d expected. By then he’d realized his first priority had to be to get her back to the inn safely, her reputation intact; he hadn’t encouraged her to chatter.
Now, however, with her safety assured and the inn a looming shadow rising up out of the night before them, he was starting to wonder at her silence.
About what it might mean. About how she felt about their interlude, their intimacy—a moment, a happening, etched in his mind as one of the more important of his life. Quite aside from the physical glory, there was that other, indefinable, elusive, but fundamental change that had occurred, one he, certainly, wasn’t going to waste time pretending hadn’t.
Drawing in a breath, he halted. “Lydia, about—”
“Ro, in the library—” She swung to face him, and broke off.
They’d spoken over each other. He nodded, a trifle tersely, for her to continue.
She drew in a breath and lifted her chin; in his experience, that was rarely a good sign.
“I wanted to make sure we understood each other”—she gestured vaguely—“about what happened in the library.”
Through the gloom, he caught and held her gaze. “When we found the letter, or later, when we were intimate?”
Her lips tightened, but she nodded. “The latter. I wanted to assure you that you need be under no apprehension that I will mention the matter again, and I most certainly will not expect you to make, nor encourage any notion of you making, an offer for my hand because of that…matter.”
Matter. He stared at her. “Didn’t you like it?”
She blinked at him, then swiftly searched his face. “What has that to say—”
“Lydia—did you enjoy the moment or not?”
She held his gaze for a long, tense minute, then tipped her chin higher. “Yes. Of course I did. But you knew that—you’re an acknowledged expert, so that can hardly come as a surprise to you.”
He snorted. “When it comes to you—and your sister—nothing would surprise me. But just so we have the point clear, you enjoyed the interlude.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you must know, I found it highly enjoyable. Quite lovely, in fact.”
Lovely. He supposed he could make do with “lovely,” although “eye-openingly, unbelievably, earth-shatteringly glorious” would have been more apt.
“Regardless,” she went on, her tone giving warning of rigid determination, “I want to make it absolutely clear that I neither expect nor wish to hear any nonsense about you being obliged to offer for my hand because we were intimate.” She turned and started walking on, nose in the air. “I want to hear nothing of an offer having to be made on the basis of honor. Aside from all else, if anyone ever hears of it and tries to press the point, I will make it perfectly plain that I seduced you, not the other way about.”
Wonderful. Ro gripped her elbow, steering her along the verge while he regretfully jettisoned the until-then attractive notion of disguising his offer for her hand as being prompted by the dictates of propriety.
They reached the point opposite the inn. Because they’d arrived at the Grange by cart, she wasn’t wearing pattens; he stooped and scooped her into his arms.
She didn’t squeak; he juggled her, settling her securely in his arms, then carefully picked his way across the lane, equally carefully mentally assessing his best and least painful way forward with her. He would rather not admit to the real reason he was determined to make her his wife—certainly not aloud in words. There were, however, other ways to undermine her arguments; he wasn’t called Rogue for no reason.
He reached the inn’s stoop. Her continuing silence registered; the quality of it had him glancing swiftly at her, alert and wary.
The faraway look in her eyes confirmed she was thinking, planning—again, from his experience, never a good sign. Not if one wanted a comfortable life.
“What?” he asked.
She blinked, met his gaze, studied his eyes for a moment, hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing.”
He gritted his teeth. Told himself it didn’t matter because he had no intention of letting her out of his sight, not until he’d spoken with her father, then received from her own lips a commitment to marry him.
Stooping, he set her down on the inn’s front step, and paused to scrape the soles of his boots. She remained on the step, glancing down the lane—away from the highway, in the direction she would take to return to Wiltshire.
He decided to be helpful. “The mud’s still too soft to risk a carriage—not even my curricle.” And certainly not his precious pair. “If there’s any rain at all overnight, we’ll be stranded here at least until the day after tomorrow. Even if there isn’t, it’s unlikely the surface will be firm enough to chance a carriage before then.”
She humphed and glanced the other way—back toward the highway and London.
“It’s even worse that way,” he told her. “The highway will be better, but there’s more than two miles of lane between.”
She looked at him as he straightened, then turned and walked into th
e inn.
He followed, inwardly smiling, and shut the door. He glanced at the counter, at Bilt hovering behind, ready to respond to any order he might give. “We should dine.” It was always wise to feed a woman after an afternoon of pleasure, especially if one intended the pleasure to be repeated over the upcoming night.
Bilt looked eager.
Halting, Lydia turned; she looked distracted again, a slight frown in her eyes.
He smiled charmingly, strolled to her, and took her hand. Raising it to his lips, he kissed—and saw again that dazed expression creep into her blue eyes. Still smiling, he held her gaze. “No doubt you’d like to refresh yourself after our adventure. Shall we say in an hour, in the parlor?”
She blinked, then inclined her head. “Indeed. That will suit.”
Releasing her hand as she turned to the stairs, he raised his brows at Bilt. “I expect Mrs. Bilt will be able to accommodate us?”
“Yes, indeed, my lord,” Bilt assured him. “In an hour in the parlor—we’ll have everything ready.”
With an easy nod, Ro slowly followed Lydia up the stairs. She wasn’t the only one who could plot and plan.
Ro was waiting in the parlor when Lydia came down for dinner. It was the more intimidating Ro who, arm braced along the mantelpiece while he stared into the flames, looked up, then straightened as she entered, the immaculately turned-out gentleman, exquisitely elegant but with disguised power radiating from him
A gentleman she seriously doubted many others thought to cross.
She let her eyes drink in the sight, then shut the door behind her and moved into the room. Only then did she realize Bilt was there, pouring wine into the goblets on the table set before the fire.
The table was set for two, and it was clear Mrs. Bilt had taken special care. The linen was crisply white; the cutlery gleamed in the light of a single candle in an ornate silver holder in the table’s center.
As she came forward, Ro took her hand and led her to a chair. He held it for her. As she sat, he murmured, low, so only she could hear, “No roses, I’m afraid, but it’s midwinter, and we’re too far from any of my succession houses.”
She inwardly blinked, turned her head to study him as he came around the table and sat in the chair opposite. Expression easy, charmingly in control, he nodded to Bilt, who immediately appeared with a tureen and served the soup.
That done, Bilt set the tureen on the sideboard and bowed himself out.
Not quite sure, wondering, Lydia lifted her spoon and sipped. The soup was delicious. She discovered she had a significant appetite, and Ro seemed ravenous. A companionable silence fell as they emptied their bowls.
The instant they had, Bilt was back to clear the dishes away; while he did, he answered Ro’s genial question about what Mrs. Bilt had in store for them with a detailed account of the dishes to follow.
Once Bilt left, Ro turned his gray eyes and his smile on her—and asked her about Tabitha. She wasn’t at all sure she trusted that smile—outwardly easygoing, yet she got the definite impression that behind it he was intent, focused, predatorily so—but she answered his question, then proceeded at his urging to fill him in on developments in her family over recent years.
Thinking to return the favor, and perhaps distract him if he needed distracting, she asked after his mother, the Viscountess Gerrard, with whom she was acquainted; somewhat to her surprise, Ro answered with more than simple statements, freely elaborating on happenings over recent years on his estate, at his country home, and in London. The last inevitably led to tales of the ton, and of those he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.
Entirely to her surprise, when they paused to allow Bilt to clear the remains of an excellent sherry trifle, she realized she’d laughed quite a lot, and was relaxed and at ease.
That was certainly not what she’d expected when she’d walked into the room. Her first sight of Ro had raised some sort of instinctive defense, a wariness, a need to watch; she’d been sure, in that moment when he’d looked up and she’d met his eyes across the room, that he was up to something—intent on some plan of his own, some purpose, on getting something from her.
What that something was she didn’t know, but her suspicions had largely died. He’d been a charming and entirely unthreatening companion; he hadn’t even done anything to make her nerves leap.
Now, reaching across the table, he took her hand. “Come sit by the fire. It’s early yet.”
She allowed him to draw her to her feet, then lead her to a settle angled to the fire. She sat, and he sat beside her; they both stared into the flames.
“Do you remember that time we cut across old Mrs. Swithin’s property and she set her terrier on us?”
She grinned. “Tabitha climbed onto your back.”
“You grabbed my arm and hid behind me.”
While they recalled such earlier innocent escapades, Bilt cleared the table. He offered Ro brandy, which he declined, then Bilt bowed himself from the room.
Lydia felt so much at ease, so comfortable sitting beside Ro—the man who had inhabited her dreams for years—solid and warm and oh-so-real beside her, his masculine strength an almost tangible aura seductively wrapping about her, that she couldn’t help but realize the threat. Not from him, but from herself—her other self.
Steeling her sensible self against temptation, she drew in a breath. “Ro.” She turned her head and met his gray eyes, then looked down at her hands, fingers twining in her lap. “I spoke to Whishart, my coachman. He said the wind’s coming up, and the lanes should be passable by morning.” Lifting her head, she looked into the flames. “So I’ll be leaving after breakfast.”
For a moment, Ro said nothing, then, “Back home to Wiltshire?”
She nodded. “I have Tab’s letter.” She glanced at him. “That’s what I came for.” But not all that I found.
He met her gaze, then nodded, lips lightly curving. “Do you remember all those times we met in the orchard?”
“Of course.” Those moments were the most golden of her girlhood memories.
“The last time we met there, we waltzed—do you remember?”
“Yes.” How could she ever forget?
His smile deepened; rising, he caught her hand. “Come, waltz with me again.”
She couldn’t resist; last time they’d parted, it had been like this—with a waltz to mark the end. As he drew her into his arms and stepped out, humming softly, exactly as he had all those years ago, it seemed entirely appropriate that this meeting, too, should end with a waltz.
Raising her head, meeting his eyes, she let herself flow into the moment; she was a more experienced dancer now—so, too, was he. He whirled her slowly around the room, and she’d never felt so entirely at one with any man. While her nerves might skitter when his hand brushed her back, might tense when he was close, now they’d been intimate, when she stood within his arms her body—nerves, senses, and even her wits—seemed to accept that that was where she should be. They relaxed, and enjoyed, and let the simple pleasure swamp them.
His gray eyes were locked with hers; slowly, step by step, she lost herself in the warmth of his gaze.
Gradually, his steps slowed. He stopped humming. And still she felt held, not trapped but held so gently, as if by fine spun glass. He searched her eyes, then he lowered his head.
Slowly, giving her ample time to draw back if she wished.
When he hesitated, their lips a bare inch apart, she lifted her face, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him.
He responded immediately; the kiss quickly became an all-absorbing interaction. The spreading warmth came again, welling through her. His arms rose and closed around her, locking her to him; she sank into him, into his embrace, eager to feel the seductive strength of him all around her.
She was leaving in the morning.
His hands roved her back, then slid down, shaping her bottom, flagrantly molding her to him so she couldn’t help but know how much he wanted her. How much he desired her.
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Just the thought sent shivery need lancing through her.
She didn’t need to think to know how much she wanted him; the burgeoning warmth turned to heat and poured down her veins to pool low. The soft flesh between her thighs throbbed; an odd, empty ache yawned within. Now she knew how it felt to have him inside her, she knew unequivocally what her body wanted, what it yearned for. What she yearned for…
What he was making her feel.
She drew back, struggled for breath as his hands—his clever hands—closed about her breasts. “Ro—what are you doing?”
His lips curved, although the planes of his face were set. “Seducing you. As you said, in the library you seduced me.” From beneath heavy lids, his silvery eyes met hers. “Now it’s my turn.”
He bent his head again and kissed her, long, sweet, achingly ardent. Then he released her lips, whispered in her ear, “Am I succeeding?”
She hesitated, deliberating over what was safe to say, to admit. In the end she sighed. “Yes.” Looking into his face, she studied it for an instant, the well-remembered—if she were truthful, well-loved—features. “Yes.”
“Good.” To her surprise, he lifted his head further. His hands lowered to her waist, steadying her. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She blinked.
He saw, elaborated, “I want you in a bed, beneath me. I want to show you what pleasure truly is, and for that, we need a bed.”
He was the acknowledged expert; who was she to argue? Anticipation tightening her nerves, she nodded. “All right.”
Her knees had buckled long ago, but he gave her his arm.
Ro opened the parlor door, and escorted her out. Her skin was delicately flushed, her lips slightly swollen; he looked around for Bilt—and saw him in the taproom, too far away to detect the telltale signs.
Leading Lydia to the stairs, he started up, steadying her ahead of him. They’d reached the landing, and Lydia was out of sight before Bilt reached the bottom of the stairs and breathlessly inquired, “Will you require anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Bilt, we’re retiring to our rooms for the night.”