Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe

by Cassandra Dean

  “You can read,” Alexandra said fiercely.

  “But not well.” He gave her a little smile. “Not well.”

  “Perhaps not, but we are seeking help.” She looked between Oliver and Stephen. “George will know of a treatment, and if he doesn’t, he will know someone who can.” She scowled. “Maxim is not stupid.”

  “Of course not,” Oliver said.

  Alexandra nodded, her expression still fierce.

  Suddenly, he thought of Lydia. He thought of her defending him as Alexandra did his brother, and he wanted her here. She should be here. His life was hers, and she should be present for every moment of it, especially the extraordinary ones. She should be here.

  But she wasn’t and it was his own damn fault. “This is why you and Father fought?” he said, focussing on his brother.

  Maxim nodded. “He said I should not return home. He said I should become a shiphand on a Roxwaithe ship, and so I did. I... It was a bull-headed move.”

  Stephen made a rude noise. “Father was the bull-headed one.”

  “He was wrong,” Oliver said. “Father was wrong. You should never have been made to feel you should have left, and that you were ever not welcome when you returned. You need never be unsure of your welcome, Maxim. You are always welcome.” He shook his head. “Maxim. You are alive.”

  The corner of his youngest brother’s lip twitched. “I am.”

  Oliver started to laugh. A smile stole across Maxim’s face, and even Stephen reluctantly smiled. Alexandra beamed, looking between the three of them.

  Christ. The three of them.

  And in the midst of it all, as he marvelled over the return of his brother, all he wanted was to tell Lydia.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LYDIA STARED DOWN AT the embroidery in her hands. She hardly knew what she was sewing, but she was sure she was making a muddle of it. It was impossible to keep her focus, when Maxim Farlisle had returned from the dead.

  Across the room, Alexandra sat beside their mother, her own embroidery lying forgotten in her lap. Her gaze was glued to the door, her attention clearly in the study with their father and Maxim.

  It had been over a week since Alexandra had returned from Bentley Close clutching the hand of the boy they had all believed dead. Her father had paled. Her mother had cried. Harry hadn’t known what to say, which was proof enough of his incredulity. Tessa had, of course, never known Maxim and had to be introduced, while letters were written to both George and Michael. As for Lydia... Her first thought had been for Oliver.

  Maxim himself, however, was now a man fully grown and, from the little Alexandra had told them, had experienced a myriad of trouble in his time away. Lost memories, servitude, a harrowing journey back to England, not to mention the shipwreck that had started it all. Then, to add to their shock, Alexandra had announced their intent to marry, practically glowing with happiness.

  Frowning, Lydia stabbed at the fabric.

  Once it learned of Maxim’s return, society had been in an uproar. A horde had descended upon Roxegate and, when denied admittance, had turned their attention to Torrence House. All were aware of the bond between the Torrences and the Farlisles, and when news had broken of Alexandra’s engagement to Maxim, the frenzy had intensified. It was such now Lydia could not step from the house without being accosted. Violet had attempted to brave the fray, but after fighting through the throng, she’d emerged white-faced in the entrance of Torrence House and had declared she would not attempt again until the fever had died down.

  “What is taking so long?” Alexandra burst out. Her sister now sat with arms crossed over her stomach, her foot tapping the floor wildly.

  “It will take as long as it takes,” their mother said calmly.

  “But they have been in there for an hour! What can they possibly be talking about?”

  “The weather?” Lydia offered.

  Alexandra shot her a dirty look. “That is not helpful.”

  Their mother frowned. “Don’t tease your sister, Lydia. Alexandra, you know they are discussing the legalities of Maxim’s return. Your father was closeted for over a day with Roxwaithe discussing the particulars earlier this week and that has barely scratched the surface. If you wish to marry him, we must ensure he is again legally recognised as Lord Maxim Farlisle.”

  At the mention of Oliver, Lydia stared hard at her embroidery.

  Alexandra sighed. “I know, Mama, it is only…. It is difficult to be patient. I have been eleven years without him.”

  Their mother’s expression softened. “I understand, dear. Your father is doing everything he can as quickly as he can.”

  Lydia bit her lip as the cloth before her blurred. How did Oliver feel about his brother’s return? He would be stoic and logical and methodical, but no one would think to ask how he felt. He would no doubt be alone in his study, working through the particulars of returning his brother to society, and no one was there to hug him and tell him it was all right to feel whatever he was feeling, and to let him talk, and vent, and whatever else he needed to do. Maxim’s return had rocked her own family, she could only imagine how Oliver’s had fared. He and Stephen were not close, and she held little hope Maxim’s return had magically reconciled them. It would have made a complex situation even more so, and Oliver would have no one to talk to, no one he could share any fears or trepidations, or express frustration or anger, or joy, or happiness, or whatever he felt. He had no one.

  No one but her.

  She stood. Both Alexandra and their mother looked at her in surprise. Awkwardly, she said, “I, um…I am going to my chamber.”

  “At this hour?” their mother asked.

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said unnecessarily. “I might take a tray for dinner. I—I can feel a headache coming.” Brilliant, Lydia. Just brilliant.

  Her mother did not look convinced, but she didn’t protest when Lydia left the sitting room. Instead of going to her chamber, however, she climbed the stairs to the attic. In moments she was through to the Roxegate side, and as she had a thousand times before, she made the journey to Oliver’s study.

  The door was closed. She stared at it. Should she tentatively knock, boldly enter, or just leave well enough alone and return home?

  Be damned to it all. Enough with this dithering. Boldly entering it was.

  Jerking the door open, she strode into the study. Oliver stood by the window, staring out on the throng of journalists and gawkers that had taken residence on the street. At her entrance, he turned and, brows drawn, he stared at her.

  She stared back. Now that she stood before him, she could only remember the flash of lightning across his face, his expression as he didn’t believe her.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, she remembered why she’d come. He looked tired, and his hair was falling from where it was gathered at his nape. He’d removed his jacket and his waistcoat was half undone. She took a step toward him. “Oliver, I—Your brother. Maxim. How are y—”

  In an explosion of movement, he strode toward her and gathered her to him, his arms around her tight. He was tense, his muscles jumping. Tentatively, she stroked his back. “Oliver?”

  Burying his face in her neck, he shuddered against her.

  Stroking his hair, she brushed her lips against his temple. “Oliver,” she murmured.

  He didn’t respond, his big body curling around hers. She felt wetness against her skin, and she bit her lip as she blinked away her own tears.

  With a shuddering breath, he pulled back, and wet grey eyes searched hers. “He’s returned, Lydia.”

  “I know.” She rubbed his back, her heart aching at his bewilderment.

  “My brother isn’t dead. He didn’t die. He’s…. Lydia, Maxim is alive.”

  “Shh. I know.”

  “I’ve had to apply to the crown, and see our solicitors, and your father has helped, but…. Lydia. Maxim is alive.” Gaze sharpening, he cupped her face. “I love you. I am in love with you. I’m sorry I
ever made you think I was not.”

  Every part of her froze. Like a fool, she stared at him. She couldn’t think. Everything seemed muddled and upside down and she couldn’t think.

  “I know this is most likely a shock,” he continued, seemingly unaware he’d just upended her whole world. “It’s only I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  She shook her head. He couldn’t be saying this to her. “Why?” she managed.

  “Maxim came home,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. “We thought he was dead, and he came home. He—I—” He shook his head. “I’ve been doing everything I can to legally bring him back, and your father’s been here, and Alexandra, and even your mother came once, and all I could think was I wanted you. I wanted to tell you he’d returned, and I couldn’t— No one knows me as you do. I am myself around you. I can tell you anything, and your opinion matters to me, the only one that matters, and I hadn’t told you he’d returned.” He swallowed. “Lydia, you should have been here, and you weren’t because I’m an idiot.”

  Violently, she shook her head in protest.

  “I am. I should have admitted long ago how I felt. I hurt you.” His thumb rubbed away a tear on her cheek.

  A hundred remember hurts slid through her. His rejection when she was eighteen. His insistence he only felt friendship. His resentment of Meacham as her suitor. His behaviour at the Sanderson’s ball. “You did hurt me.”

  “I know.”

  “You made me think I was imagining everything. I had to go to the Continent to recover. You made me leave my family, my friends.”

  “I know.”

  She hit his chest. “You hurt me, Oliver.”

  “I know.” Sorrow and regret in his grey eyes, he stood under her abuse. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving how sorry I am.”

  Half-heartedly, she hit his chest again and then she exhaled shakily. “I suppose I can forgive you. Your brother just returned from the dead, after all.”

  A pause. “I would be forever grateful.”

  “You should be. I am being very magnanimous.”

  “You are,” he said gravely.

  Wrapping her arms about his waist, she rested her forehead on his shoulder. His arms encircled her hesitantly, as if he were still unsure of her, and so she said, “I love you, too.”

  He stilled. “You don’t have to say it because I did.”

  “I’m not.” She pulled back to meet his troubled gaze. “Oliver, I’m not.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Confusion drew her brows. “Sure that I’m not saying it because you did?”

  “No. That you love me.” His gaze slid from hers. “Lydia, you decided you wanted to marry me when you were a child. How do you know?”

  Oh. The poor, sweet, dense man. “I love you, Oliver. I love your compassion.” She kissed his brow. “Your determination” She kissed his other brow. “Your wit. Your candour. The way you are with me. The way you are with everyone else. I love that you listen to me. That you look at me as if I’m the only person in the room. That you hold my opinion so highly, and that you want to share yourself with me.” Holding his face, she held his gaze. “I love you, Oliver. I always have.”

  Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch. “Lydia...”

  “You know I love you.” She brushed his lips with hers. “You know it.”

  “You love me?”

  The vulnerability in his voice just about broke her. “You know I do.”

  He opened his eyes and she drowned in grey. “I do.”

  Tossing her head, she said, “Of course you know. I’ve never been afraid of saying it, unlike some.”

  He started to laugh. Holding her to him, he buried his face in her neck. “I love you,” he said, his words muffled against her skin.

  “I love you, too.” And he, finally, didn’t protest.

  She didn’t know how long they stood in each other’s embrace but slowly, as it always did, lust and passion stirred. The air thickened between them. Her skin tingled, and she wanted to have his taste in her mouth. How utterly inappropriate. He had sweetly told her of his love and now all she now wanted was to make him groan as he lost himself in her.

  “Lydia,” he said thickly.

  Raising her head, she looked at him. Lust drew his features, his colour high.

  She licked her lips.

  His gaze zeroed on the movement. “Lydia,” he said again with a voice full of gravel. “Do you wish to enter our marriage bed a virgin?”

  Heat streaked through her, tightening her nipples and gathering low in her belly. Slowly, she shook her head.

  His eyes darkened. Untangling himself from her, he strode to the door and, deliberately, turned the lock. She watched him, unable to tear her gaze from the shape of his shoulders, the muscles moving beneath the fine lawn of his shirt.

  He returned to her and they stared at each other. “Are we to wed?” she asked.

  “Yes.” His gaze devoured her, running over her face, her shoulders, her breasts.

  Her breath felt as if it were trapped in her chest. “You aren’t going to ask me?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “No.”

  Her gaze flew to his. He met her eyes, his body strung tight with lust. “Oliver,” she said clearly. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Now kiss me.”

  Leaping at him, she took his mouth, kissing him with all the love and lust inside her. He kissed her back, wrapping his arms about her back and her thighs. Dimly, she realised he carried her to the chaise and he followed her down, pushing up her skirts as he reached for the fall of his breeches. Eagerly, she made room for him between her legs and they both groaned as he pressed against her, his hardness rubbing exactly right against her.

  Suddenly, he pulled back. “Lydia,” he said in a panic. “Lydia, I don’t think I can wait.”

  She arched against him. “Neither can I.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I have to... Lydia, this has to be good for you.”

  “It will be.”

  “Lydia, it will hurt you, and I don’t think I can control myself—”

  “Oliver.” Grabbing handfuls of his glorious hair, she forced him to meet her gaze. Fear and panic and lust met her. “You will make this good for me.”

  “But what if—”

  “Oliver,” she said, and there was steel in her voice. “You will.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “I will,” he said thickly.

  “Now.” Curling his hair about his ears, she gave him a sweet smile. “Make me yours.”

  Eyes dark with returned lust, he ran his hands along her thighs and then between them. Pleasure melted through her, but she didn’t break their gaze.

  “You’re wet,” he said, his fingers playing over her. “You’re so wet.”

  “Oliver,” she gasped. “You. I want you. Not your hand.”

  “I know, but you have to be ready.” His grin turned feral.

  The fingers between her thighs rubbed, his thumb catching something and she wanted to scream. “Oliver, you—”

  “Now,” he said in satisfaction. “Now, you’re ready.”

  She felt him against her entrance.

  “Tell me if it hurts.”

  Skin tight, she nodded. He pushed inside and she inhaled sharply.

  He froze. “Lydia?”

  Nodding, she said, “Keep going.”

  He pushed another inch. It was all right, it was going to be all right— She inhaled again.

  He stopped. He pushed and stopped, and let her get used to him before pushing again. He whispered against her ear, telling her she was beautiful and he loved her and he wanted her, so much, Lydia, so damn much, and then, finally, he was inside her

  It felt...odd. It burned, and was slightly uncomfortable, and she felt...full. She was full of Oliver. A wild laugh built inside her.

  “Lydia?” Features strained, he stared down at her.

  She shifted underneath him and he cl
osed his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath. It felt...better. The pleasure was returning with the knowledge Oliver was inside her. Oliver was inside her. “You may continue.”

  The arms braced on either side of her shook. “Christ, Lydia, don’t make me laugh.”

  “I wasn’t trying to,” she said. “It feels better now, so I was telling you you may continue.”

  His features softened. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with his. “I love you.”

  His hips moved against her, pulling out only to push him back in. She wrapped her leg about his hip, enjoying the pleasure flicking over his face.

  His gaze locked on hers. “What do you need?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This has to be good for you, Lydia.”

  “It is good.”

  “No.” He stopped moving, though it looked like it caused him pain. “You need more.” Staying still inside her, he moved his hand between them to where they were joined. Gently, he brushed the sensitive bud above their joining.

  Pleasure streaked through her. “Oh. Do that again.”

  He did. He did, he did, he did, and lightning streaked through her. He started moving again, thrusting in time with his touch, and it drove her mad, the pleasure too intense, and she moved with him, chasing something, chasing that pleasure he’d given her before. She moaned and bit and scratched and he groaned, panting that he was close, and she needed to come, dear god, Lydia please come, and she did. The pleasure blinded her, her body rigid, and he groaned in relief and bliss and he came too, he came inside her, and she loved him, she loved him so much.

  The quiet in the room absorbed their harsh breathing. He lay atop her, still inside her, his face buried in her neck. She played with his hair, the long, glorious hair she loved.

  After a time, he lifted his head to kiss her softly, his tongue lazily tangling with hers. Pulling back, he smiled at her, so sweetly her heart broke. She could never be without him again. “You’re mine,” she said fiercely.