A Pledge of Passion (The Rules of Engagement)

by Victoria Vane

  At the meal’s conclusion, after all had given up any hope, the antechamber echoed with the sound of raucous laughter. With glazed eyes and drink-induced affability, Marcus Russell burst into the dining room to execute an unsteady and over-flourished bow.

  “Marcus!” Lydia’s heart skipped a beat.

  Failing to acknowledge her, he announced to the room at large, “I offer my most profuse apologies to our dear host for my unavoidable delay, but I’ve just received news that is truly worthy of celebration.”

  The winsome smile froze on Lydia’s face.

  “Did you indeed?” Lady Russell asked, directing a sidelong glance to Lydia.

  The look only confirmed Lydia’s fears that Marcus’ high spirits were due to an event he deemed far worthier than this long-awaited betrothal party.

  Marcus paused for dramatic effect. “You are now looking at a newly appointed undersecretary to the Foreign Ministry. Word is that I’m to be assigned to Lord Cartaret at The Hague.”

  “Capital news, my boy!” Lord Russell beamed with paternal pride.

  “Congratulations are most certainly in order,” Sir Timothy agreed. “Simpson, bring the port!”

  To Lydia’s dismay, even her father seemed now to regard his tardiness as a venial offense. With the final covers removed, Lydia was forced to retreat while Marcus joined the gentleman for port and political talk with nary a thought to his fiancée.

  Darting sporadic glances at the door, Lydia stumbled over the keys of the spinet, fumbling the elegant notes of Scarlatti’s Sonata Number Twelve in B Minor, and then falling off completely once he deigned to appear.

  Marcus entered the drawing room with the deliberate gait of one who had over-imbibed and surveyed the occupants with an unfocused stare. “Sh-shampagne,” he cried when he finally lit upon Lydia, as if suddenly recalling the evening’s true purpose. “We must have champagne to toast the blushing rose that has now become my betrothed.”

  His lingering gaze sent a hot flush creeping from the base of Lydia’s neck to the tip of her nose, and when Marcus smiled, her breath seized as abruptly in her throat as her fingers on the spinet keyboard. To be the object of his full attention, even for this brief moment, was akin to the sun appearing from behind a dark and dismal cloud to blaze its full radiance upon her. And in that moment under the giddy glow of his smile, Lydia thought she could forgive him anything.

  Following the congratulatory toasts, Marcus’ much-relieved and overly indulgent parents suggested the newly affianced couple stroll the gardens. When Marcus offered his arm, a wave of panic flooded Lydia. All the pretty speeches and coquettish looks she had rehearsed before her mirror evaporated. Marcus’ abstraction only added to her discomfiture.

  “So the deed is done at last.” He broke the tense silence. “Our families are surely congratulating themselves on the success of their mutual machinations.”

  Lydia’s throat went dry at his edge of resentment. “Y-you did not wish this engagement?”

  “Did you?” he asked, but then failed to await her response. Marcus’ unsteady steps slowed. “It’s not like they ever gave us a choice, is it, my pet?” He chucked her under the chin. “Here you are, barely out of the schoolroom, with no experience of life. As for me, they wish to clip my bloody wings before I ever take flight. What a damnable life to have it all mapped out at another’s whim,” he added as if to himself.

  No. She hadn’t imagined the bitterness. The knot in her stomach tightened. “You don’t have to, you know—marry me.” She closed her eyes and choked out the words.

  Marcus’ laugh was a low, mirthless sound. “But there you are wrong, my sweet. As a younger son without a pot to piss in, I must do precisely as my family demands of me.” They had reached the huge oak where an old wooden swing was suspended. Without asking her leave, Marcus seized her by the waist and hoisted her onto the seat. He stepped back with another laugh. “There. You are dressed in virginal white and look upon me with wide, plaintive eyes. Proof positive that our scheming parents would plan weddings when you are naught but a mere child.”

  He threw himself to the ground by her dangling feet and turned his attention to the pilfered champagne. He popped the cork and covered the bottle with his eager mouth to catch the effervescent explosion.

  Her eyes burned at his scorn. “I’m not, you know,” Lydia said.

  “Not what?” He took several long gulps from the bottle.

  “A child.”

  “No?” He offered her the bottle. “I noticed you had none earlier.”

  “Papa says I am too young to drink.”

  Marcus smirked. “As I said, a child.”

  Lydia’s ire rose to inflame her cheeks. Her gaze darted from Marcus to the bottle.

  “What Papa doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” When he taunted her once more with the bottle, Lydia hesitated only a moment before snatching it from his grasp.

  Her first sip was tentative. The peculiar combination of sweet and acidic effervescence tickled her nose and throat. Marcus regarded her with surprise when she broke into a throaty giggle. “The bubbles, they tickle my nose!”

  “It’ll tickle elsewhere too if you give it half a chance,” he encouraged with a grin.

  She took several more draughts. A longer moment of silence stretched between them. She took another fortifying drink. “Do you wish to break it off?” she asked and reached a toe to the ground, idly pushing off to set the swing gliding and slanted a look at him, internally bracing herself for his answer.

  Propped back on his elbow, Marcus looked up at her and drawled, “A gentleman wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  It was not what she’d expected him to answer. His gaze followed the gentle ebb and flow of the swing. Sprawled as he was on the ground at her feet, she was aware that his position afforded a clear view of her ankles, and with the forward motion, an occasional glimpse of her calves. The attentiveness of his stare told her he had realized the same thing.

  The swing by now had ceased its motion. Lydia took another long drink. She no longer felt the chill in the air and her limbs tingled. Suddenly and uncharacteristically emboldened, she raised her skirts a few inches, as if to get them off the ground. Locking eyes with Marcus, she extended her pink-slippered foot to push off again, but he stole the breath from her body when he seized her ankle.

  “What are you doing?” Her breathless giggle was inspired more by nerves than champagne.

  Marcus held her, his eyes darkening with an unfamiliar stare that made her breath come back in a rush. If he anticipated her protest, it never came.

  “Perhaps you are not quite the infant I thought.” His voice was strangely husky. He inched his hand farther up her leg, creeping over her silk-encased calf. “No, indeed,” he drawled. “Definitely not the leg of a child.”

  His hand slid higher. His fingers skimmed her garter where he toyed with the ribbon and traced her bare flesh above it. She closed her eyes and shivered, knowing a proper young lady would never allow such liberties, but his attention and his warm hand on her cool skin excited her beyond description.

  With a smile, Marcus retrieved the now-empty bottle she clutched to her chest and tossed it to the ground. He guided her hands to the ropes suspending the swing and flipped her skirts above her knees to position his body snugly between her thighs. Lydia gasped at the boldness of the move. She tried to pull her legs back together but his body prevented her. Though she trembled, his heat warmed her to the core, pooling low in her belly and sending a flood of moisture to her secret place.

  “Shall I stop, Lydia?” he asked as if reading her mind.

  She responded with an unsteady shake of her head and a soft hiccup.

  With a low guttural sound, he slid his hands completely under her skirt, gliding over her skin to blaze a hot trail toward the apex of her thighs. She gasped again when his fingers found and grazed her soft, downy mass.

  Her breath seized but she failed to push him away. “Do you ever touch yourself here, Lydia?” he a
sked in a low, hoarse whisper.

  The question made her insides convulse. “N-no,” she lied.

  His voice coaxed, soothed. “Would you like me to touch you there now?”

  She answered with a helpless whimper, clutching the ropes while his skillful fingers explored, traced, and teased in rhythmic strokes. She knew she should make him stop but the pleasure of his touch was dizzying. Her world spun further out of control when he found and began circling her small hidden nub, increasing the pressure until her body racked with little tremors and a muffled cry.

  “You do like that,” he said. She bucked against him and set the swing back in motion. “Not so quickly, little one.” Marcus laughed and withdrew his hand. He grasped her waist to pull her down beside him and rolled on top of her with his arms anchored on either side of her head.

  Lydia lay stunned beneath him, her body still coiled with desire. At the press of his erection against her belly, she came instinctively to life and undulated against him.

  “God help me!” Marcus groaned. “I hadn’t planned this, but damn me if you haven’t given me a mind to finish what we started.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” she gasped. “We are not wed yet. I cannot lie with you!”

  “I’m not asking you to, Lydia. There are other, less hazardous ways to give a man relief,” he spoke with long-suffering effort. “I have already shown how I can pleasure you with my hands, now I want you to do the same for me.”

  “You wish me to stroke your…your privates?” she asked, wide-eyed in affright.

  “Yes, Lydia” he answered in a tight voice. “I want you to fondle my aching…” He grasped her hand to demonstrate, bringing it to his crotch, but Lydia recoiled. She squirmed beneath him in an effort to retreat, which only seemed to annoy him. “Bloody hell!” he groaned. “It’s not got teeth! If you won’t touch me, at least allow me to rub against your body. I must have release!”

  “Release?” She froze under him.

  Marcus took a deep, calming breath. “You enjoyed the friction when you moved against me. I enjoy that too. I can use it to come to completion.”

  “Completion? With our clothes on?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Yes! With our bloody clothes on if that’s the only way to cease this infernal throbbing.”

  “It’s painful?” she asked.

  “Bugger the questions, Lydia! It’s just damnably uncomfortable.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” Marcus groaned and stemmed her flow of questions with his mouth. Unlike his gentle hands, his kiss was hard and demanding, matching the urgent thrust and grind against her pubis that made her entire body thrum. Lydia soon met his rhythm, angling her hips to grind against that hidden place of exquisite sensation until her nubile, young body racked with the spasms of her climax. Marcus followed with a great, shuddering groan and collapsed atop her. They lay there in a stunned silence, punctuated only by their ragged breaths, until Marcus helped her back to her feet and escorted her wordlessly back to the house.

  * * * * *

  Lydia went to bed in a daze. It had been a night of many firsts—the upswept hair, the silk gown, the taste of champagne, but the most remarkable of all was her initiation to passion. Her hand swept her body and her lips curved at the remembrance of how Marcus had looked at her with desire in his eyes. The rapture she’d experienced under the swing had banished her virginal qualms, replacing them with eagerness for her wedding night with Marcus.

  She closed her eyes with a sigh of contentment. The evening that had earlier portended such disaster had transformed into a rite of passage from girlish innocence to awakening womanhood.

  Chapter One

  Bloomsbury Square, London—1748

  MARCUS, LORD RUSSELL, slumped in a chair indolently paring his nails while his former school chum, now personal secretary, attended to his correspondence.

  “You’ve a letter from Cotesfield Hall,” said Mr. Nicholas Needham.

  “Do I?” Lord Russell answered in a bored drawl, but then furrowed his brows in a fleeting frown. “I must say it’s been a very protracted interval since I heard from Miss Trent, but if she’s learned of my return to London, she’ll no doubt be importuning me to set a date. Will you fob her off for a while longer, Needham? Just use the stock excuse.”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes heavenward and answered by rote, “That to your everlasting and abject dismay, urgent business of State must take precedence over any private matters, regardless of your personal inclinations, etcetera and etcetera.”

  Marcus smirked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. That’s one of the chief perquisites of the Foreign Service, Needham; it gives one a valid excuse to ignore all domestic responsibilities, or at least to put them off until a more convenient time.”

  “But what if she’s already aware of your return? It has been well over a month now.”

  “You’re right, Nick. No doubt she’s already got wind of it from Mother.” Marcus gave a resigned groan. “I suppose there’s no avoiding her this time.”

  If given a choice, he’d have postponed the reunion indefinitely. He’d not seen Lydia for six years—not that he’d had any burning desire to do so. When Marcus had departed for the Foreign Service on the heels of their engagement, she was still far too young to wed. Although he had left with every intention of honoring his troth within two or three years, three had turned to four, and four became five. His string of paramours in this interim only compounded his guilt until it became easier not to think of Lydia at all. Now, the idea of facing her again as a husband-to-be seemed altogether impossible.

  “What does she write?” Marcus asked, his impatience growing with his agitation.

  Nicholas broke the seal and scanned the contents. He looked up at Marcus with a chuckle. “Why, it appears you may get your wish for perpetual bachelorhood after all. She wants to end your engagement.”

  Marcus started from his chair. “The hell she does! What’s possessed her?”

  “Perhaps she realizes your extreme reluctance to tie the knot after waiting…what is it? Five years since your betrothal announcement?”

  “Six,” Marcus snapped. “But who’s counting.”

  “Perhaps Miss Trent?” Nick needled with a quirk of his lips.

  Lord Russell squelched his secretary with a darkling look. “Read it to me, Nick.”

  “By all means.” Nicholas cleared his throat. “‘My Dear Lord Russell, I pray this finds you in good health.’” Nick paused. “I say, my lord, that’s quite a moving salutation from your beloved.”

  “Enough of the commentary,” Marcus growled. “Just read the damned thing!”

  “‘I was indeed in expectation of your answer after sending our melancholy news six months hence, but I quite understand the unreliability of foreign mail service and am thankful that my last letter found you safely, given your extensive foreign travels.’”

  “You see, Needham? The caprice of foreign mail. It’s an excuse that works every time.”

  Nicholas looked up from the page. “Indeed? Yet, I almost detect a hint of skepticism in her words.”

  Recalling her adoration, Lord Russell’s lips curved into a smug half-smile. “From Lydia? Don’t be absurd.”

  “Nevertheless, she’ll surely expect a prompt reply this time, given our own English mail suffers no such erratic service. Shall I continue?” Nick asked.

  Lord Russell nodded, abandoning all of his prior affectation. “Go on then. What else does she say?” He tilted his head in a more active listening posture as Nicholas read.

  As you must know, we have had both full hands and heavy hearts here at Cotesfield Hall following dear Papa’s unanticipated demise. Although he had wished to see you and I settled before his passing, as I am yet unmarried, the estate will now fall to Cousin James, whose wife seems somewhat eager to see me settled…elsewhere.

  I must also confess to the same desire, but given your continued reticence to set a firm date for our nuptials, I am confide
nt you will have no reservations regarding my respectful appeal to release me from our marriage contract.

  I look forward to your reply and am…

  Sincerely yours,

  Miss Lydia Albinia Trent

  Nicholas dropped the letter into Marcus’ lap. “Succinctly written, and she hardly appears to have spent any tears over it,” he drawled.

  “Damn the impudence of the chit!”

  “But I thought you had no desire to marry her.”

  “That’s not quite the case, Needham. I actually have no particular aversion to Lydia.” Nicholas regarded him blank-faced, forcing Marcus into an exasperated explanation. “You see, my friend, it’s not the idea of marriage that repels me, just the reality of it.”

  “Then where’s the rub? She has set you free.”

  “But you don’t understand at all. I was more than content with Lydia as my betrothed, just not as my wife. She has been my shield all these years, don’t you see? Only my attachment to her has protected me from all the ambitious mamas who only seek ties to a dukedom, even if remote ones. If I am freed, my life will become a purgatory of simpering debutantes.”

  “Surely a living hell,” Nick replied.

  “Precisely.” Marcus answered, ignoring the sarcasm. “And there is still the matter of her significant dowry. Should I release Lydia, God knows how long it could take to find another such prospect, let alone one acceptable to my family.”

  “I can see the dilemma. The Duke of Bedford would hardly look favorably upon any of his family matched with some merchant chit.”

  “Nor does my uncle wish to see me living indefinitely out of his pocket. I need a bride with a healthy dowry, Needham, and to be truthful, I haven’t the inclination to expend the effort of wooing another.”

  “But you never truly wooed the first time,” Nicholas corrected.

  “Precisely.” Marcus smiled. “Thank God I was saved that indignity. Our families arranged the entire business. I just showed up for the celebratory toasts. Poor thing was barely out of the schoolroom at the time. Quite a colorless little creature she was, though she did hold some promise.” Marcus’ lips quirked at the hazy memory of a young girl, whose blushing innocence he had corrupted under the tree swing.