Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  The seduction was overwhelming; dangerously close to losing his control, he groped for her, yanking her up to him like a rag doll and encircling her tightly in his arms. Her lips landed softly on his, and she continued the wild seduction of his soul with the thrust of her tongue into his mouth.

  Adrian fought her skirts until they were hiked above her hips, then slipped his hand between her legs. Lilliana gasped against his lips; he breathed a silent moan into her body upon discovering she was slick with desire. His fingers slipped inside her heat; his thumb stroked her mindlessly until she made a little cry and shifted suddenly, lifting herself above the hardened length of his passion.

  Adrian impaled her. Fiercely, completely, he thrust into her, again and again, burying his face in the valley of her breasts, struggling to take them as fully into his mouth as her body took him. Over and over again he thrust into her, rashly seeking to touch her very soul. With every stroke he came closer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he was unable to contain the powerful need to release his life’s blood into the very core of her.

  It was Lilliana who cried out first. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she shuddered, contracting around him and drawing a powerful climax. With a strangled sob of ecstasy, Adrian released himself into her with a potent thrust. And another. And one more, until he was spent, drained, and in absolute awe of what had just happened. He somberly gathered her in his arms and pressed his face to her neck, rocking gently as the heat ebbed from their bodies. Lilliana held him just as tightly, her arms wrapped around his head, her breath ragged in his hair, the dangerously erratic beating of her heart keeping time with his own.

  Slowly he leaned back, taking her with him until he was prone on the bed, and leaving himself buried somewhere near the warmth of her womb. “My darling Princess,” he whispered reverently. “My demon Lillie, what have you done to me?”

  A sob lodged in her throat; she buried her face in his neck. He felt the hot path of her tears and he finally, finally understood them. He had been almost moved to tears himself.

  They lay entwined in each other’s arms for what seemed hours, until he could tell from her breathing that Lilliana was sleeping. Still, he did not let go of her, afraid of losing the magic they had just shared. He felt alive, and Lord save him, he had never made love so intensely or experienced such heartfelt emotions, such wondrous joy at giving her the fulfillment he so desperately wanted and received for himself.

  And as he held her tightly to him, he was, strangely, reminded of what the vicar had said at Phillip’s funeral. Know ye the quality of love, the quality of life, and the quality of mercy.

  What a mockery those words had seemed then. How extraordinary they seemed now. He must be incredibly unperceptive, but now he understood with vivid clarity. This Princess of the Grange, the woman he had married in an act of revenge, had shown him the quality of mercy. Had been showing him, many times over, forgiving him everything he thought had damned him, even though he had begged God for mercy, had deemed himself cursed and unworthy of it. And all along, unrecognized and unappreciated, his unremarkable country wife had been trying to show him the true quality of mercy. But he had been too damned blind to see it.

  God forgive him! He had been blind long before the accident—blind to her many qualities, to her unique and forgiving spirit, to the life she could give him, whether he deserved it or not. She had not turned away, not once, not even when he had been so brutally honest. She had heard the whole ugly truth and had responded by showing him what it meant to make love, guiding him through one of the most extraordinary experiences of his life—if not the most terrifying!

  He had no idea what it meant to feel like this, no notion of what would come, if the feelings would be as intense on the morrow, or if they would only grow stronger.

  If only he could see her! He would give his life to look into those wide, gray-green eyes once more, to see the dimple of a cheerful little smile that seemed glorious in his mind’s eye. Dammit! Why hadn’t he looked at her more often? Why hadn’t he memorized her features, her luscious body, her silky hair?

  Adrian suddenly came up on his knees.

  Liliiana thought she was dreaming; the soothing caress felt like a whisper of a breeze on her skin. She drowsily opened her eyes to find him bent over her, on his knees, his face burrowed in a frown of concentration that looked quite fierce in the dim light of the waning fire. With his hands, he was touching every inch of her. But not just touching her—examining her. She stirred,

  “Be still, love,” he murmured, “be still.” Her heart fluttered wildly; she watched in fascination as he continued his examination, leaving no patch of skin untouched in a trail of tingling warmth. Slowly, methodically, he traced her body with his hands, moving from her toes, to her knees, drifting over the apex of her thighs, then her torso. Reverently, he stroked the skin of her arms, her breasts, and then her neck.

  “W-What are you doing?” she whispered as his fingers curved around her ears.

  “Seeing you,” he muttered, and traced a line over her lips before moving to her eyes, then her hair. When he reached the top of her head and ran his fingers through the curls there, he sighed longingly and lowered himself to her, kissing her tenderly as his hand slipped down to her breast again.

  He made love to her with great deliberation, taking his own sweet time to touch every part of her with his hands and mouth, stroking and tasting her skin and the heat of her desire between her legs. His tongue was everywhere, in every crevice, in all the places that she was certain would condemn her directly to hell—but she didn’t care. This glimpse of heaven was worth every moment of eternal damnation. The warmth began to build in her belly as he laved the tender flesh between her legs. She squirmed as his tongue flicked in and out of her, then over the most intimate part of her. Adrian grasped her hips in his hands as she began to thrash beneath him, holding her firmly as he buried his face in the valley between her legs, torturing her with his teeth and tongue.

  Intense pressure was reverberating through her, but Adrian did not allow it, not yet. He rose up, and slowly he entered her while he feathered her face and neck with kisses. Smoothly and gently, he provoked her with a tantalizing rhythm, pausing when she was on the brink of losing herself, then starting the whole extraordinary experience again, all the while touching her, feeling her. Seeing her. When she at last begged him for mercy, he took her to yet another pinnacle of ethereal fulfillment, whispering her name again and again … groaning it one last time as he found his own release. And Lilliana felt as if she was floating far above herself as he wrapped her tightly into his arms and rolled to his side. It wasn’t until she heard the deep breath of his sleep that she finally floated back to earth, secure in his arms.

  When Lilliana finally roused herself from a deliciously deep sleep, Adrian had gone. Her first thought was that he had left her again, just as he always did. No, no, she thought frantically, not after last night! She climbed out of bed, wrapped a sheet around her and rushed to her own rooms, where she washed and dressed quickly while fighting a growing sense of urgency and fearfulness. What had occurred between them last night was a dream—and she couldn’t be entirely certain it wasn’t a dream. Had she imagined an outpouring of emotion? The desperate way he clung to her? Had she somehow seen emotions he truly did not have? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she had done so. But last night—last night had been different than all the times before. He could not be so unfeeling!

  She rushed downstairs to the foyer, where the footman Bertram was at his post. “Good morning, milady,” he said, peering curiously at her hair.

  Lilliana quickly raked her fingers through the unruly curls, self-consciously stuffing as many of them as she could behind her ears. “Good morning, Bertram. Have you … ah, have you seen Lord Albright?” she asked nervously.

  Bertram suddenly grinned. “Aye, milady. He’s gone to his study.”

  His study. To lock himself away from her? Lilliana nodded, walked cal
mly in that direction until Bertram could no longer see her, then flew anxiously down the corridor. The door of his study was closed, naturally, and she reached for the brass knob, but quickly withdrew her hand. What if it had been a dream? How would she bear it if he were indifferent to her this morning? Or worse yet, what if he began his insistence that she leave all over again? She would never be able to leave him! Never. It would be impossible to live without his touch—her body was still warm from his caress!

  She reached for the brass knob again, and just as quickly withdrew her hand with a confused shake of her head. No, no, no! It would be impossible to stay if he had not felt the same as she did last night! But she had seen him—she had felt him—give in to her passion, and oh God, what passion he had shown her in return!

  Yes, but he had been passionate before. All right, he had, but not with the same … intensity. Nonetheless … he might insist that she leave Longbridge for her own good. The moon has, apparently, turned to cheese, he had said, throwing her oh so elegant refusal to leave back in her face. What if he did tell her to go? Oh, but that was simple, she thought, rolling her eyes. She would die. Straightaway and without ado.

  This was ridiculous! Lilliana took a deep breath, reached for the brass knob, and pushed the door open. Nerves attacked her with surprising force; she had to make herself poke her head into the gap between the door and its frame and glance toward his desk.

  Her husband was there, all right, looking impossibly handsome. Max sat across from him, reading a weekly paper. Aloud. Mesmerized, Lilliana slipped inside the room, self-consciously remaining at the door as she listened to Max.

  “The two percents have ex-hibed a tenderly—”

  “Exhibited a tendency,” Adrian muttered patiently.

  Max glanced at him, then squinted at the paper. “Ah.” He cleared his throat loudly. “Exhibited a tendency to … to rubbish goat—”

  “I think you mean rapid growth,” Adrian said, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Max frowned and squirmed in his seat as he squinted at the paper. “Rapid growth and sharp designs,” he muttered quickly.

  “Declines,” Adrian said, his smile growing broader.

  “Blast it all, my lord, but I can hardly see the words on this page!” he blustered in frustration.

  Adrian laughed. “That’s a bit better than I can do!” He laughed again, unaware that the blood was rapidly draining from his butler’s face. “Perhaps Lady Albright will relieve you,” he said, and cocked his head toward the door.

  Lilliana’s mouth dropped open. How in God’s name did he do that? As if reading her thoughts, Adrian chuckled. “I cannot see, but I can certainly hear well enough. Please, Lilliana, do come in and relieve Max. He is pathetically farsighted.”

  “Please, milady,” Max implored her, and leapt to his feet, waving the paper at her. Lilliana walked forward uncertainly, taking the paper he thrust at her. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I should really be about … something else,” Max muttered, and bobbing a quick, birdlike bow to her, bolted for the door.

  Adrian chuckled warmly as the door closed behind him. “He has a fine head for house management, but the man is hopeless with the written word. Perhaps you would be so kind as to finish the business news?”

  “Of course,” she murmured and, sitting on the edge of the chair Max had vacated, began to read, her mind whirling as she mouthed words about securities, a shipping company gone under, and the latest news from Paris. She stole surreptitious glimpses of him, looking for something, anything to suggest he had not felt as deeply as she had last night, that it was just another coupling to him. But he gave her no indication—his eyes were fixed straight ahead as though he were casually studying one of her paintings.

  When she began to read the news of the coal industry, he muttered softly, “You smell heavenly.”

  “W-what?”

  “The scent of roses. You put the scent of roses in your hair.” His eyes still fixed on the painting, he smiled faintly. “What is the weather today?” he asked.

  A deep smile curved Lilliana’s lips and she lowered the paper to her lap. “The sun is shining.”

  “Ah. I had heard it is still there. I suppose if I were to indulge in a turn about the gardens, I might feel it fall down around me?”

  Her heart surged with renewed hope. “Every ray, I should think,” she answered, smiling.

  Adrian flashed a charming, boyish grin. “Then might I ask the enormous favor of your company? I couldn’t possibly absorb all that sunshine alone.”

  She wanted to cry. Good heavens, the urge to weep with joy was overwhelming. He had felt the depth of their lovemaking! He had given in finally, he had given in to some feeling for her! Lilliana leapt to her feet, oblivious of the paper’s slide to the floor. “I would like nothing better. But wait!” she said brightly, and rushed to the door. “I have something for you.”

  He responded, but Lilliana did not hear him. She was already flying down the hall to the foyer, where she came to an abrupt halt in front of Bertram. “The walking stick, Bertram. Do you recall? I gave it to you a few weeks ago.”

  The footman grinned widely. “Yes, the walking stick. Fine day for a turn about, indeed, milady.”

  Lilliana shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. “Indeed—the walking stick, Bertram?”

  “It is just here,” he said reassuringly, and fished about in an umbrella stand, producing a cane of fine mahogany wood with a brass top shaped like the head of an eagle. Having discovered it in the first days she had roamed Longbridge, Lilliana had retrieved it after Adrian’s accident, hoping he would learn to use it to walk freely about. With a smile she snatched it from Bertram’s hands and hastily started back to the study, but halted in midstride.

  Adrian was walking down the corridor unaided, as easily as if he could see, using the cords she had strung as a guide. Lilliana bit her lip against a sudden surge of grateful tears.

  Adrian would live again.

  Eighteen

  THE TRANSFORMATION IN Adrian was miraculous.

  With a fervor that left the inhabitants of Longbridge breathless, he began to tackle the enormity of adjusting everything he had ever known to a dark world. No one could keep up with him—except for Lilliana.

  Her fervor was just as intent because she had at last found her freedom. It did not occur as she might have expected, but came to her in the days she spent exploring a new world with the man she loved. She became Adrian’s eyes, and as such, was suddenly seeing familiar things as she had never seen them before. Objects she had taken for granted she now viewed through new eyes. This new vision of inanimate objects made them almost animate—and her paintings took on that quality, a depth she humbly recognized as art. This was soaring; this was experiencing life, deep in her heart where it counted most.

  And oh, how Adrian had changed! It was preposterous, she knew, but it seemed to Lilliana that in blindness, her husband was more the reckless adventurer than he possibly could have been before. He knew no bounds—his desire to get on with his life was earnest and contagious. To think that he was the same person who had hobbled about like an old man in the first weeks of his blindness was almost laughable. Now, with the walking stick she had given him and the cords that were strung all over Longbridge, Adrian strode down the corridors and grounds as purposefully as he ever had—a stranger had to look very closely to know he was blind.

  He insisted on “seeing” the estate. They walked at first—miles and miles they walked, Adrian’s stick striking the path determinedly ahead of them. Lilliana strolled beside him, happily smiling like a half-wit at everything around her, lost in the magic of just being with him. Her admiration for him grew in leaps and bounds on those walks—the more time they spent together, the more freely Adrian spoke of himself and his life. Amusing anecdotes from his youth, scandalous acts committed with the infamous Rogues, dangerous adventures abroad. Instead of being shocked by the things he told her, as any proper lady would be, she was enth
ralled by them. She could almost imagine herself there when he reminisced, could almost feel the heady senst of recklessness.

  On rare occasions in those moments of reflection, Adrian would speak of his birth. He bore clearly painful memories, particularly of his mother. She was a broken, desolate woman, he said, living a quiet lie. “Imagine, no siblings or friends to speak of, and only two small boys to rely upon. It is a wonder she endured as long as she did.” Lilliana’s heart went out to him—that so-called quiet lie had defined his life. She had not been raised so far removed from society that she didn’t understand how that secret would ruin his life if it were to be made public. Nonetheless … something nagged the back of her mind, a vague sense that not everything about the secret fell neatly into place.

  The one topic Adrian refused to discuss with her was Phillip Rothembow. It was poignantly clear how distressing it was for him, and while he seemed to have come to some sort of peace with himself, he would not mention Phillip’s name nor allow it to be mentioned in his presence.

  Actually, much to Lilliana’s sheer mortification, Adrian preferred she talk of her simple life. Embarrassed to the core by her own undistinguished and uneventful upbringing, she hesitantly gave him the dull details and waited for the smirk or the signs of tedium. So it was nothing short of miraculous that Adrian never seemed bored with her life. He laughed when she sheepishly admitted the most contemptible thing she had done was to put pepper in Mr. Willard’s snuffbox. He arched a brow when she reluctantly admitted her habit of racing Jason behind her mother’s back, but smiled broadly when she informed him she won nine times out of ten. He nodded sympathetically when she wistfully spoke of her mother and the constant struggle to be good as was expected, of never quite measuring up to those expectations. And when she admitted her lifelong fear of perishing at Blackfield Grange without so much as seeing London, he pulled her into his embrace. “I know how heartbreaking it is,” he mumbled, “to want something so desperately and believe you can never have it.”