The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  When she pressed a hand against his shoulder, he released her with reluctance.

  Stepping back a fraction, she put her fingertips against her reddened lips. Her eyes swirled with emotions he didn’t recognize.

  He should not have rushed her. He got a grip on the powerful urge to swing her up in his arms and carry her upstairs. Don’t rush your fences. His father’s admonition to an impatient boy. Hell, he knew better. “Come,” he said. “Sit down.” He took her hand and led her to the sofa.

  Straight-backed, she lowered herself to the seat and perched on its edge. Her hands twisted in her lap. She stared down at them.

  A lump of something cold sank to the pit of his stomach. He’d felt it before, in the heat of battle. Dread.

  She raised her gaze. “My lord. Hugo. I have a confession to make.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A wary expression dampened the light in Hugo’s eyes and caused Lucinda to ease in a deep breath. No sense in beating around the bush. “I cannot move into the Grange.”

  A chill stillness seemed to descend on the room. A slight shift of his shoulders seemed to put miles between them. “Cannot, or do not wish to?” he asked coolly.

  Breathless, she recited the words she’d rehearsed in the small hours of the night. “I like my life the way it is. How would I explain my position to Sophia . . .” She gentled her words with a smile through lips so stiff, she wasn’t sure they moved at all.

  He pushed up to his feet, strode to the console, and poured a glass of brandy. He took a deep swallow, staring at her as if he could read her thoughts. “There is something else troubling you. I feel it. Do you fear me?”

  She jumped at the accusation in his tone, at his withering glance.

  Dear God, what could she say that would satisfy him without giving too much away? “We hardly know each other. I . . . I just do not wish to rush into something I may regret later.” As half-truths went, it made perfect sense.

  “You fear I will abandon you or otherwise cause you harm?”

  The words were flat and indifferent, and yet she sensed that the idea of her being afraid, her lack of trust, somehow wounded him deeply.

  She could not let him think her reluctance was his fault. She shook her head. “I am not afraid of you.”

  His gaze raked her face. Unable to bear the bleakness in his expression, she glanced down at her hands, plucking at a loose thread on her reticule.

  He crossed the room to her side, cupped her chin, and looked deep into her eyes until she was forced to lower her lashes or give away her heart. “If you do not fear me, then give me time to earn your trust.”

  He brushed his mouth against hers, and delicious shivers chased down her spine.

  The prospect was all too tempting. But with Arthur Dawson wandering the neighborhood and her blushing like a schoolgirl every time she laid eyes on Hugo, it was far too dangerous. The young man would notice her sooner or later. “I don’t know.” Blast it, was that the best she could do?

  “Let me help you make up your mind.” He tipped her chin, angled her face, and with one hand at her nape, slanted his mouth over hers.

  Just one kiss and she would go home.

  The kiss deepened and went on forever. Her body tingled with desire. Just this one last blissful encounter, and then she would put an end to it, telling him that if he would not accept her word as final, she would take the only course left. She would leave Blendon. She didn’t have a choice. She could not risk discovery.

  Thought, reason, and common sense floated away on the rising tide of passion until she came to her senses lying in the crook of the sofa’s arm panting with desire. Heavy-lidded, she watched him rise and lifted her arms to bring him back, but he chucked her under the chin, tossing cushions from the sofa onto the rug in front of the hearth before striding to the door and turning the key.

  Her heart knocked a steady rhythm against her ribs as if seeking escape. A lie. Her insidious longings, her need to feel wanted, held her captive. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.”

  With a lopsided smile he caught up a bottle of champagne, pressing his thumbs against the cork with a sly glance in her direction. “I hope you don’t object to a little nectar of the gods?”

  How could she resist the devilish twinkle that replaced his frowns? She shook her head, a flutter of anticipation stirring low in her stomach.

  The cork hit the ceiling with a bang. She squealed, then laughed.

  He filled the two flutes to the brim, first with foam and then with golden liquid dancing in their crystal depths. He lowered himself to sit beside her and held the glass toward her mouth. She reached to take it.

  He shook his head. “Close your eyes.”

  Surprised, but game, she parted her lips to drink. Cool bubbles burst in her face in a shower of mist. Instead of the edge of the glass, a warm finger moistened her lower lip. Instinctively, she licked away the bead of sharp-tasting liquid and opened her eyes. Shards of green crystal glinted among the brown flecks in his eyes, and her heart picked up speed.

  He dipped his thumb in the wine, traced the seam of her mouth with cool liquid, and then swooped down to lick it away. His tongue heated her chilled skin.

  “Umm. You taste like heaven,” he murmured against her lips.

  Pleasure hummed along her veins as if the bubbles from the champagne had somehow found their way into her blood and now sought an escape. Her eyelids drooped, weighted by desire. She let the sensation sweep her along.

  When he lifted his head to drink from the glass, she felt a brief sense of loss and then smiled a welcome as he leaned forward to claim her mouth.

  A froth of bubbles drizzled from his mouth into hers. Shocked and aroused by the strange sensation, she swallowed them down. Emboldened, she dove her cool tongue into the wine-flavored hot cavity of his mouth. Delicious.

  A groan vibrated his chest.

  She pushed at his shoulder, laughing as she came up for air. “Where on earth did you learn such wickedness?”

  He lowered his lashes, and his lips curved in a modest smile. “A soldier gets a broad education.”

  “I can see it now. Wellington’s manual on bedroom strategy.” She hiccupped. Good lord. Was she foxed on one sip of champagne? Or did the heady wine of lust pounding in her veins make her act like a giddy girl? She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Excuse me.”

  “There is more to come,” he said with a roguish smile, “but you have to sit up.”

  Intrigued, she did as he bid. In a smooth motion, he rose and picked her up. She expected him to head upstairs to his chamber and threw her arms around his neck, inhaling his manly scent, kissing his jaw, nibbling his ear, and feeling the rasp of his shadow of beard against her cheek.

  He stopped at the rug in front of the hearth and lowered himself on one knee. Though he tried to hide it, she felt him wince.

  “Your leg,” she cried out.

  He grimaced. “A twinge. Nothing more.”

  “Perhaps we should not—”

  “Oh, yes, we should.” His voice sounded rough, yet held laughter. He set her down beside the cushion and with swift tugs unlaced her gown. She helped him strip it over her head. Her stays and chemise swiftly followed.

  He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back, following the curve of her hip with long slow strokes that made her purr like a cat.

  In only her stockings and shoes, she felt strangely naughty and dreadfully vulnerable.

  “What about you?” she whispered. “Are you going to remain clothed?”

  Like Denbigh.

  The repulsive recollection chilled her to the bone. She stiffened. He must have seen it and interpreted it as fear, because he patted her shoulder as he might a skittish horse. “Easy,” he whispered. He undid the buttons of his shirt. Muscles stretching and rippling, he removed his jacket and then divested himself of shirt, shoes, and breeches.

  In fascination she raised herself on an elbow to watch. She ran her f
ingertips across the warm flesh of hard flank and skimmed the bandage around the breadth of his injured thigh. The man was gorgeous.

  He turned his head to look at her with a cocky smile and smoldering eyes.

  Her core fluttered, her body clenched in a shiver of delight. She rolled on her side as he stretched out beside her, stroking the sculpted muscles of his beautiful chest and shoulders. When he leaned over to snatch up a wineglass from the hearth, her gaze drifted over the ridged stomach to his rampant cock, the proud proclamation of his virility.

  The evidence of his desire. For her. Wild and wicked, female power surged in her veins.

  “Feeling more comfortable?” he murmured, taking note of the direction of her gaze.

  She cast him a sultry glance from beneath her lashes and nodded.

  It provoked an answering grin of appreciation. He held the glass to her lips, and she took a small sip at his hand. A tart burst of bubbles filled her mouth. He bent his head to kiss her cheek. His lips felt tender.

  The room blurred as if a fog had rolled in through the window. How could she have such bad fortune all tangled with so much good luck?

  “Lie down for me, sweet,” he whispered. “On your stomach. I’m not done with you yet.”

  Pinpricks of anticipation ran down her spine and yet she hesitated, suddenly shy and unsure.

  “Trust me, Lucinda.”

  The plea in his tone made her heart twinge. To show fear would hurt him. She did as he bid, her cheek pressed into the velvet cushion, her gaze fixed on his intent expression.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded, albeit gently.

  She let her eyelids drift closed. The heartbeat in her chest seemed to thunder. Blood rushed in her ears as she listened for movement, alert to his intentions. Her back muscles tensed against her will.

  A splash of cold hit her spine. She gasped. A second later his hot tongue swept it away. She shivered. Her insides convulsed. “W-what are you doing?”

  “Patience,” he murmured, drizzling more cold liquid onto the small of her back, only to suckle it up in an instant.

  Dear heaven, her insides were molten.

  He drew circles with a moist fingertip at the back of her knees. As they dried, shivers ran across her thighs and buttocks. He blew on the sensitive spot, and shivers turned to heat. He continued to tease and torture her skin. Heat, cold, moist, dry until the tingles of electricity sparking through her veins had her reaching for fulfillment.

  Pleasure, want, desire, he gave them to her as a gift of mouth and tongue and skillful fingers. She writhed and wriggled and gasped beneath one searing shock after another.

  She wanted it to go on forever and wanted to beg him to end it. She rolled on her back, tugging on his shoulders. She might as well have tried to pull a mountain off its base. A supremely self-satisfied mountain, she saw from his face as he sipped from the flute and then dipped his head to suckle her breast.

  Cold tightened her nipple. Pleasurable agony shot to her core. It tightened and clenched. She clawed his back, moaned her delight . . . and shattered.

  Pulsing waves of gentle pleasure rippled through her body, followed by blissful heat. Her heart thundered. Breathless, mindless, she stared up at her tormentor.

  A sensuous smile slowly curved his lips. His eyelids at half-mast, he looked boyishly proud and harshly handsome in the dim candlelight.

  “I love the fire you hide beneath your prim and proper gown,” he said. “Very erotic.”

  The woman in her purred with delight.

  “And you?” she managed to gasp, glancing down at his still turgid shaft. “Will you not take your pleasure?”

  “Oh, yes, my darling.” He rocked his hips against her thigh. The head of his cock, hot against her sensitive flesh, swelled and darkened to deep royal purple. He reached for his jacket and pulled forth a crystalline envelope.

  A condom. She forestalled him with a touch. “My turn.”

  A look of puzzlement and dawning hope crossed his face as, still staring into his eyes, she plucked the champagne glass from his hand and took a sip.

  She ducked her head and, gripping his rod lightly, kissed the engorged and gleaming tip. He groaned.

  The liquid gushed down his shaft and over her hand in a cold rush. It disappeared into the dark thatch of curls at his groin. He drew in a harsh breath as she followed its trail with her tongue, sipping and licking, tasting the essence of him amid the wine. His hands convulsed in her hair.

  Her pulse picked up speed. Would he reject her clumsy attempt?

  He moaned. “God’s bones. Where did you learn such a trick?” He sounded delighted.

  She glanced up with a sultry look. “I wasn’t sure it would please you . . .”

  He swooped in for a swift kiss. “Woman, you drive me mad. Each time I see you, I want to put my hands on you. I inhale your perfume and can only think about the feel of your body against mine.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “When I hear your voice I get so hard, I can’t think of anything but being inside you.”

  She glanced down at his rampant cock with a naughty smile. “So I see.”

  He crushed her against his chest and angled her head to match his lips against hers, filling her mouth with his tongue and the empty places in her heart with the beating of his. She wanted to cry for the joy of it.

  But he could never be hers. Not really. It was wrong not to tell him the truth, the nagging voice of conscience reminded. She thrust it aside. This was lust. Nothing more. No hearts, no souls, just the delight of male and female mating, something she would never have known without this man. She owed him this in return.

  “Now,” he said. “I have to be inside you now.”

  He sounded as desperate as she felt. “Yes. Now.”

  He quickly fitted the condom. With a gentle smile, she brushed his shaking fingers aside and tied the bow. She barely made it fast before he pressed her back against the cushion and thrust into her with a deep sigh.

  The muscles of her inner passage tightened around the invasion. He held still, giving her time to adjust, to relax, to feel the slide of his heat against her slick inner flesh. With strong fingers pressing into her thighs, he lifted her hips, tilting her, opening her to his deeper penetration.

  He drove home, to the hilt, his gaze on her face.

  The bliss in his expression, the taut grimace on his lips filled her heart with tenderness. She clenched her legs around his hips and felt his muscles hard against her inner thighs. She caressed his shoulders, opening to his next thrust with an encouraging tilt of her hips.

  “Dear God, you make me come too fast,” he bit out.

  “Really?” she asked, adjusting again.

  “Little witch.” He withdrew and pressed in and up.

  A wild burst of pleasure ripped through her. She shivered with ecstasy, hovering on the brink of another shattering release.

  Eyes glazed in passion, he drove deeper, his neck corded, his breath exhaling in a groan with each pounding stroke. His buttocks clenched beneath her wandering hands.

  Again the subtle shift of his hips, the shivering abrasion and the wild burst of pleasure. Her inner muscles squeezed his shaft, clenching so tight that the dam inside her broke.

  His rumbling groan of release joined her cry of pleasure and she flew apart, aware only of the slowing pulse of hips and cock as he prolonged their shuddering climax.

  For a long moment, head lowered, eyes closed, he hung above her, as if he had lost all of his strength.

  Somehow she managed to lift her mouth to his, to brush his lips with a kiss.

  His eyelids lifted. He returned the kiss with a sweetness that pulled at her heart and then rolled onto his side, drawing her into the circle of his arms, pressing her cheek against his rapidly rising and falling chest. To the sound of his heavy breathing, she drifted into a dreamless and bliss-filled doze.

  The clock on the mantel struck ten. She jerked awake. “Is it really that late?”

  His glance held a
touch of sly temptation. “If you moved in with me, you would not have to rush away. We could play all night.”

  The temptation tore at her heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He shook his head and smiled. “You have no need to apologize. Just think about it for a day or so.”

  “After the fête,” she said, watching his face. “Until it is over, I cannot think of anything else.”

  His expression tightened, but he nodded. “If that will help you decide in my favor, then I agree.”

  “Manipulator.”

  “Procrastinator.”

  She laughed. Freely, openly, laughed at his nonsense. The way she’d laughed at home with her family. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Foolish and wonderful.

  They dressed in companionable silence, helping each other, giggling, becoming a little breathless and a lot aroused, when they should be serious.

  “I will ring for Trent to take you home.”

  While they waited, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood staring out the window.

  “I wish you would not drink that stuff,” she said.

  His expression said she’d surprised him, before it turned politely blank.

  “My husband became violent in his cups.”

  He put the glass down on the nearest table as if it were hot. “I’m sorry. I wish you had said so before. I can easily do without.”

  Denbigh had said much the same thing after the accident with the cigar. He’d forgotten it was in his mouth, he had said, but there had been a mean glitter in his eyes. His sobriety had lasted less than a week.

  “I don’t expect you to change for me.” Would not hope.

  He came to her then, eyes full of tenderness. “There you go again, all stiff like the bristles of a hairbrush.”

  The image made her laugh. He folded her in a warm embrace and kissed her brow, then her nose, then her lips. The heat flared all over again. Only the sound of the carriage outside forced them apart.

  “Damn, Trent,” he said.

  “No,” she said softly, trailing her fingertips along his jaw. “I really need to go home.”