Chapter Eight
Adelaide could hardly breathe as Graham drew her into a chamber at the end of the long hallway. She hadn’t given a damn about the rest of his house—she’d been in many a fine manor in her life—but in this room she took in every detail.
It was a large bedroom, with a roaring fire along one wall and large, four-poster bed opposite. The colors were masculine blues and steely grays, and they fit the man who now stood behind her, watching her as she looked over the room they would share for what she hoped would be a few hours.
There was danger in that, of course, but she’d manage it. She always did.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
His tone was so rough, so low and pulsing with desire that she couldn’t deny him. She slowly pivoted and faced him, sucking in a breath as she did. He was still perfectly done up, not a hair out of place or a piece of clothing wrinkled. And yet he looked undone, wicked, fallen. And she wanted to strip him down and give herself over in every wanton way she’d ever let herself imagine.
“You’ve done this before, I assume,” he said softly.
She tilted her head at the question, even as it struck terror in her heart. Why would he ask after her innocence? If she were Adelaide standing here, she could understand it. There was an act she performed in her daily life that would lead him to believe she hadn’t made love before. But as Lydia, he should have assumed she was not untouched.
“I have,” she said, keeping her tone cool and light. “I assume you have.”
His mouth quirked up in one of those rare and spectacular grins. “Oh yes,” he said, reaching out to catch the sash on her simple gown and draw her close. “Though I do admit it’s been a while.”
She shivered as he drew her up against him, her curves molding easily against his hardness and her body reacted accordingly. She was melting, burning, being assimilated by his desire. She might not survive it. And she didn’t care.
“I hope…” she whispered as she reached a hand up to touch his chest. He hissed in a breath as she did so, and that gave her confidence. “That this will be worth the wait.”
He growled rather than answer and spun her around so their positions were reversed. The door now pressed to her back and he loomed up over her, caging her in with strong, powerful arms as he stared down into her face.
They were too close, and she tensed again, terrified he would recognize something of Adelaide in her Lydia façade. But he didn’t. He merely leaned in and began to kiss the column of her neck. Of course he wouldn’t see Adelaide. He didn’t think of her. Not like this.
She pushed aside her disappointment at that stark fact and focused on the way his mouth moved against her. He was firm, sucking her flesh, but gentle enough that it didn’t hurt. She clenched her fists against his chest, shifting as pure desire flowed through her already ultra-sensitive body.
She loosened the button on his jacket and slid her hands beneath, and he hissed out a sound of pleasure that was all but lost against her skin. The wavering control of it spurred her on, though, and she pushed the coat to the floor. His waistcoat came next and she wrestled it open and tossed it aside just as easily.
She stopped then. She had to. He pulled away so she couldn’t do more. But he didn’t do it to stop her. He did it so that he could turn her, pressing her hands to the smooth, cool surface of the door with one hand and unbuttoning her dress with the other. She arched as the fabric parted, sending cooler air against her skin. She wore nothing beneath, after all, for her costume at the theatre didn’t allow for undergarments.
When he pushed the dress lower and discovered that for himself, he let out a low groan and then his lips were on her skin. He pushed her hair aside and dragged his mouth along the back of her neck, lower to trace her spine until her gown got in the way again.
Only then did he tug it down and let it pool at her feet, leaving her only in her plain slippers and equally plain stockings.
“Turn around,” he whispered, his voice a plea and an order and a prayer all at once.
She clenched her fists before she did it, screwing up her courage as best she could. Her experiences in the past, the ones she tried very hard not to think of, had not included a man looking at her utterly naked. And now it would be this man who did.
This man.
She turned and found he had stepped back. He stared at her, his eyes feasting from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She had no idea how he felt about what he saw, and she brought a shaking hand in front of her sex as she turned her face to escape his heavy scrutiny.
“Lydia,” he whispered, that false name now piercing her like a sword because every time he said it, for it reminded her what he really wanted.
She pushed those reactions away and said, “Yes?”
He folded his fingers around her wrist and gently pushed her hand away. “You don’t have to hide from me,” he assured her.
She forced herself to look up and found a gentle expression on his otherwise hard face. A strange dichotomy that she was drawn to, just as she was drawn to everything about this man.
“I’m at a disadvantage,” she managed to grind out, her voice roughened by desire and fear. “For I am undone and you are perfectly…perfect.”
“Far from that,” he reassured her with a low chuckle. “But I think you mean I’m clothed. Which is something I intend to remedy right now.”
He untied his cravat as he said the words, unwinding it in a few motions, then dropping it at his side. As he lifted his hands to unfasten his shirt, she found herself leaning forward. His body had been a fascination to her from the first moment he touched her, pinned her so mercilessly against that table. And as he parted his shirt and pulled it away from his body, she stopped breathing.
He was as hard as he felt when she was in his arms. All muscle and sinew, from his broad shoulders to his uncommonly perfect arms to the faint ripples in his stomach. He had a small scar on his ribcage and another up on his shoulder, but those things only made him more attractive, not less.
“Your eyes are wide as saucers,” he said, his tone laced with both humor and concern. “Are you certain you’ve done this before, Lydia?”
She swallowed. “Not with anyone like you.”
“What is someone like me?” he asked, but his hands dropped to the placard of his trousers and he slowly unfastened it, never taking his eyes from her.
“I hardly know how to describe you, for I only repeat the words others write and am no poet,” she murmured, her throat thick, her body trembling. “The Bard would compare you to a summer’s day.”
“That was written for a woman, wasn’t it?” he said with a shake of his head.
“I don’t care, it fits,” she choked as he lowered the placard and revealed the thick, heavy, hard thrust of his cock. “You are golden and not just because of the color of your hair. You are spectacular. And I am fully aware that this is fleeting and so I should enjoy it, much as one does a perfect summer day.”
His smile faltered at her last sentence, but she gave him no space in which to reply or argue. She stepped up to him, bolder than she felt, and wound her arms around his neck to kiss him. She felt him shuffle, kicking aside his trousers, and then he cupped her naked backside suddenly and drew her fully against him.
Her world all but shattered. There was nothing left except her soft body against his hard one, his arms cradling her so safe and tight and warm, his cock nudging her belly, so unsafe and so wanted.
He turned her once more, backing her toward his bed, and her legs began to shake as he lifted her on the edge. This was going to happen. It was happening. And she’d never wanted something more in her entire life.
He maneuvered her onto the pillows without breaking his seeking mouth from hers and she settled back into the softness as she glided her fingers into his thick blond hair and pulled it out of the queue that bound the locks.
He pulled back to look down at her and she couldn’t breathe. With his hair down he was the fallen angel he pretended not to be. Sinful and sensual and leading her into temptation from which she would not escape unchanged.
He grinned down at her, infinitely wicked, and then he lowered his mouth not to her lips, but to her chest. He traced her collarbone with his tongue and she gasped at the flood of unexpected sensation that raced through her. He dragged his lips lower, cresting over one breast before he latched firmly onto her nipple.
She drove her fingers into his hair once more, calling out his name in a strangled cry that seemed to shatter the silence of the room. He suckled harder, swirling his tongue around and around and around until she was dizzy with pleasure. Then he drew his mouth to her other breast and did the same, arousing her to a point where she feared she might combust.
But he didn’t take her. Not yet. His mouth moved lower, over her flat stomach, licking her hip, her thigh, and then he spread her legs wide and stopped.
She struggled to sit up, staring at him as he positioned himself between her legs. “What are you doing?” she gasped out.
His brow wrinkled as he looked up at her. “No one has done this for you?”
She shook her head slowly. She wasn’t even certain what this was.
He frowned. “Lydia, if you are untouched, I need you to be honest with me now. I don’t want to hurt you, and I will if you have never been with a man.”
She stared at him. Here he was, with a woman she had created, who most men of his stature would see as only just above a whore. And yet he was gentle with her. Tender, even. He didn’t want to hurt her.
“My experiences are limited,” she admitted. “One man, three years ago. He didn’t do any of the things you’ve done to me tonight. But he did take me. I’m not a virgin, Graham. And I don’t want you to stop, so please, please don’t.”
He tilted his head, almost as if he recognized that there was honesty here amongst all her other lies. There was, after all. The story Adelaide had just told was her own, not Lydia Ford’s.
“I’m not going to stop,” he promised. “And I’m going to make up for whatever bad experience you had in the past.”
As he said the words, he ducked his head and suddenly his tongue was on her, in her. She let out a shocked and gasping cry and lifted her hips. What was this? This powerful feeling that pulsed through her entire being as he licked her ceaselessly. She had touched herself in the past, of course. She knew about the release of orgasm. But this was something far more powerful than anything she’d ever done for herself.
This was magical.
He sucked her clitoris and she jolted as an electric current of pleasure seemed to lift her from the bed against her will. He smiled against her wet body and placed a hand on her stomach, holding her steady as he focused all his attention, all his passion, all his talent on that hooded bundle of nerves.
She ground against him, whimpering and murmuring along the building path of pleasure. And then, suddenly, she reached the edge of the cliff and she fell. Her hips jolted, unable to be tamed even by his strong hand. She let out a keening cry, clenching at the coverlet, tugging at his hair, digging her heels into his bed as wave after powerful wave of explosive sensation hit her. He continued to lick her through it all, dragging the moment out until she was trembling against the pillows, spent and weak with what she’d just experienced.
Only then did he crawl back up the length of her body. Only then did he kiss her and let her taste the flavor of her release. She clung to him, desperate as she returned that kiss and felt the ache of wanting him still pulsing low between her legs.
He positioned himself as they kissed, opening her wider, pushing his cock against her entrance. And then he was sliding inside.
Her previous experience had been a blessedly brief exploration of pain followed by humiliation and heartbreak. This was not that. Her body stretched, accommodating him like she was meant to do so, despite his size. And it felt good, which she had never expected.
He lifted his head, watching her carefully as he withdrew and returned in one skillful stroke. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, lifting to meet him as her world condensed down into this one act, this one place, this one man.
He began to take her, slowly at first, swiveling his hips, as certain at this act as he seemed to be in all else. But as her gasps and cries increased, as the pleasure that had receded after his skillful mouth returned with full force, she could see the edges of his control fray.
His neck tightened, the veins outlined against the flesh, and he grunted in pleasure, part man, part beast, everything she wanted.
Her world began to shatter for a second time as he ground against her, and his thrusts increased as she mewled and rubbed to find even more pleasure. She saw the strain as he tried to wait, tried to draw out her experience as long as possible. Then at last he shouted, “Lydia!” and pulled away from her, his seed splashing against her stomach as he spent.
She caught his shoulders, drawing him down against her, pressing her mouth to his in wonder and gratitude as she wished, hoped and prayed that this stunning moment could last forever. And knew it would be over far too soon.
Lydia lay across Graham’s chest, her hand gently clenching and unclenching against his skin and her hair tickling his arms. It had been twenty minutes since they’d made love. Normally by now he would be exiting the bed of his lover, making some excuse to send her away or to go himself.
Of course, the last time he’d taken a lover had been years ago. His engagement to Meg had made such things awkward and he hadn’t exactly wanted anyone near him in the months since their affiliation ended so badly.
But tonight he felt no desire to run, nor to send Lydia away. Tonight holding her felt…right. And that was slightly terrifying.
She lifted her head, almost as if she read his mind and smiled at him. “I should go.”
The comfort he’d been feeling fled with those three small words, and he examined her face to see what her motives were. He couldn’t tell. She was too good of an actress to let him see anything she didn’t want him to see.
“Back to Mr. Ford?” he asked, thinking of the story she’d told of one lover long ago. He believed that to be true, but she was a good actress. It might not be.
She arched a brow and leaned up on her elbow, tracing a light pattern on his chest. “I think you know full well that pretending to be married is one way women in the theatre protect themselves.”
When she said protect, his stomach clenched and his mind took him back to terrible images of screaming and thudding and death and loss. He only just reined in his anxiety at that and said, “Have you ever been threatened?”
She caught her breath, and he knew the answer. But she shook her head, lied. “Not as much as others,” she said at last.
His lips pursed. To be honest, he’d never put much thought into women of the theatre or the night or the servant quarters. His world felt so far removed from theirs until now. But he could see how what all of them did put them at risk. What could they do to put off men with more power? Men who didn’t accept no as an answer if they wanted something badly enough?
Hell, even women in his circle had very little recourse if they were threatened or harmed. He knew that from bitter experience.
“What you do is dangerous,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she conceded, trouble in her stare. Then it flickered away and was replaced by something else. Something hotter. Something knowing. She lifted up and brushed her lips to his with an easy sensuality that ground his thoughts to a halt almost instantly. “But dangerous isn’t always bad,” she whispered.
She pulled away and he let her go, for as much as he wanted her, she had set afire a flame in his mind. One that was far from pleasant. He watched her step into her gown, watched her get ready to leave him, and he sat up slowly.
“Lydia, I would not want to see you…hurt,” he said.
She paused with her back toward him, and there was tension in her body language that he didn’t understand. Was she upset at his confession? Was she fearful of consequences she would face, ones she didn’t want to share with him?
She looked at him at last and she had a smile so false that he almost flinched away from it. She leaned in and kissed him once more. “It isn’t your responsibility, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Good night.”
She left then, without so much as a backward glance. He did nothing to stop her, partly because he realized he couldn’t. Partly because he wasn’t exactly certain what he would do if he did. What would he say? She was not asking for help. He wasn’t even certain she needed it. And yet he was left with an uneasiness in his chest.
Like he’d just missed an opportunity that might never come again.