lay beside her, his head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other hand barely touching her skin, but stroking slowly and gently until she forgot her confusion and became boneless and as pliant as putty. To her surprise, her desire grew again, but less urgent than before.
His lips traced where his hands had been, his tongue sending shafts of need wherever he tasted her. He touched her feminine place again, with such gentleness she thought she might weep out of sheer bliss. It still seemed it was her pleasure, not his, that guided his hand. He made her feel cherished, revered.
“Adrian,” she murmured, awash in this new sensation.
Slowly, very slowly, her desire escalated, until again she writhed with need.
“Now, Lydia,” he whispered into her ear.
He climbed atop her again and stared into her eyes as he slowly slipped his entire length into her, each second driving her mad with wanting. Lydia gasped as he began to move, still slow and rhythmic, like the intricate moves of a dance. She moved with him, but the pace he set kept the ultimate pleasure just out of her reach. He moved with such confidence, she gave herself over to him, trusting he would bring her to where she so very much wanted to go.
His pace quickened and her need grew even greater. The sound of their breathing filled the room, melding together like voices singing a duet.
Her release burst forth and she saw stars brighter than at Brighton. She thrilled when his seed spilled into her. They pressed against each other, moaning with a pleasure that burned away her desolation.
Gradually the pleasure waned, but left in its wake a delicious feeling of satiation.
He slid off of her and lay next to her, breathing hard. “Lydia,” he whispered.
“Mmm,” she murmured, snuggling against him.
She must have fallen asleep, but the knocker sounding on the townhouse door woke her with a start. She heard voices outside.
The newspaper people. Would they never stop hounding her? She sat up, covering herself with the bed linens and realising what she had just done.
She’d begged the dashing Adrian Pomroy, who conquered women more easily than Napoleon had conquered countries, to make love to her. And he had obliged.
“There is no one here to answer your door,” he said.
She groped around for her shift. “I do not want my door answered.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They must not see you here.” Finally her fingers flexed around the muslin of her shift. She pulled it on over her head and climbed off the bed. “You must get dressed.” Hopping on one foot, she tried to gather his clothes. “Leave here by the rear door.” She twisted his shirt in her hands. “The gate. You cannot lock the gate.” She shook her head and reached for his waistcoat. “Never mind the gate. The servants will be here soon and they will lock it behind them.”
He seized her arm. “Lydia, calm yourself. They will not see me.”
It was not only the reporters or creditors fuelling her alarm. Her own wanton behaviour had shocked her much, much more.
She shoved the shirt and waistcoat into his hands.
He dressed as quickly and efficiently as he had undressed. Buttoning his waistcoat, he said, “I will call upon you tomorrow.”
“No!” she cried. She forced herself to sound rational. “You cannot come here again, Adrian. If you are seen here, there will be more scandal.” She hopped over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a robe of Chinese silk. She wrapped the robe around her. “Please, just go.”
He strode over and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her ear against his beating heart. “Be calm,” he murmured. “Your troubles will vanish soon.”
She wanted to laugh hysterically. Once she had believed that troubles were what other people experienced, but she knew differently now. Now it seemed trouble would follow her to the end of her days.
“I’ll lock your gate and throw the key back into the garden.” He released her, but placed one light kiss on her forehead. “And I will return.”
“You must not return,” she pleaded.
He flashed a smile before walking out of the bedchamber.
She hobbled to a room at the back and peered into the garden, telling herself she just wanted to be certain he left by the rear of the house. She could never allow him to call upon her, but she could gain one last glimpse.
He, no more than a shadow now, appeared in the garden and crossed to the back gate with a long-legged stride. When he reached it he turned back towards the house and lifted his face to the upper windows. With a gasp, Lydia jumped back, although she doubted he could have seen her. Slowly he turned back to the gate, opened it a crack, and peeked out before walking through, out of her sight.
Out of her life.
Chapter Two
What magic allure does the Lady possess, to turn a man to such desperate acts? Who will her next victim be, this Siren, this daughter of Achelous, who sings men to their deaths?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
Adrian entered White’s gentlemen’s club, his senses still humming, the lovemaking with Lydia still vibrating through him so powerfully he wondered if others could sense it.
He felt strong and masculine and completely devoid of the amorphous discontent with which he’d been lately plagued. It had vanished when he had walked into Lady Wexin’s life. Adrian fought the impulse to turn around and retrace his steps to John Street, to scale the walls of her garden if necessary, to enter her house, and repeat the lovemaking that had stirred his senses to such heights.
The footman stationed at the door of White’s greeted Adrian with undisputed normality, chatting about the weather while assisting Adrian out of his coat. Adrian glanced over to the bow window, but no one sat there. He made his way through the club to the coffee room.
Several men nodded a greeting, and Adrian had to suppress a smile. They had no idea that he’d just left the bed of one of London’s most beautiful, and now most notorious, women. And they would never know of it.
A voice called from across the room, “Cavanley! Over here. Join us.”
Adrian glanced around, expecting to see someone summoning his father, but it was his father who was waving to him from a table in the corner of the room. Adrian rubbed his face in dismay. He, not his father, was Cavanley now.
Since Adrian’s father had inherited the title Earl of Varcourt from a distant and elderly cousin who had very recently passed away, Adrian now had the use, by courtesy, of his father’s lesser title of Viscount Cavanley. Inheriting his father’s titles with all their rights, responsibility, and property would only occur upon his father’s death. At present, he merely gained the privilege of being called Viscount Cavanley. Adjusting to the new appellation was more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The new Earl of Varcourt waved with more vigour, signalling Adrian to join him. His father sat with the Marquess of Heronvale and Heronvale’s brother-in-law, Lord Levenhorne.
Adrian
