Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  “You have already secured a preliminary agreement, surely the peace will follow.”

  “Just so.” Marcus quirked a brow at her. The French delegate’s name she might have heard before, but she had just correctly interpreted Latin. The official diplomatic documents, however, were penned exclusively in French. “Vous avez une certaine connaissance de la langue Française? ” he asked.

  “Bien sûr. Je parle couramment,” she responded just as fluidly. “I pride myself with a working command of French, as well as a smattering of Italian. You may have already guessed that I read Latin. I have studied most of the classics in the original tongue. I am particularly fond of Ovid,” she remarked and averted her face back to the window.

  “Ovid.” He frowned. “How extraordinary.”

  “Not really, my lord.” He heard her deep intake of air. After a pause she released it in a long rush of words. “I wasn’t idle you know. For the six years of your absence, I applied myself with sedulous energy to geography, politics, and foreign customs. I took up French, knowing it the primary language of diplomacy, and even struck up a correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, to learn how she had served her husband in his diplomatic travels.” She faced him again with eyes ablaze. “I once thought it would be useful to know.”

  Touché. Marcus felt the sharp stab of reproach. If words could physically injure, he’d be maimed and bleeding by hers. “Damn it, be fair, Lydia! You were a child of seventeen and I had only just come into my majority!”

  Her gaze still spit fire. “I can pardon a year or even two, but six?”

  Marcus scowled. “You have no idea of the reality of a diplomatic life, Lydia, or the inherent dangers of foreign travel, especially in times of war. Even had I been inclined to wed early, which I confess I was not, I never would have packed up an innocent girl and taken her abroad in such times as these.”

  In all honesty, when he’d departed for the Foreign Service he’d intended to sow his oats while giving her time to mature, but as more time passed, the harder it had become to face her. Then his guilt had driven him to avoid her completely.

  “You have made it abundantly clear you never gave me the first consideration.

  Dreams, aspirations and adventure are not exclusively male prerogatives, Marcus. I had them too.”

  “Did you?” He looked surprised.

  “I did. I still do,” she answered.

  “And what were they?” he asked softly.

  “I once thought I might do some good as Lady Mary has.”

  Sitting back against the squabs, Marcus regarded Lydia as if he had never seen her before. “I had no idea.” Guilt needled him once more. Did he really know her at all? Perhaps not. Only now did it fully strike him what a complete ass he had been. Hoping his expression was suitably contrite, Marcus claimed her hand and raised it to his lips. “Ma cœur, je ne savais pas. Je suis désolé, mon chou. ”

  “Because you never made me your business to know.” She jerked her hand back. “And I am not your cabbage.”

  Damme! What woman didn’t melt with French endearments? Matters were far worse than he thought. One step forward, two steps back. It had become an exceedingly dull dance. As if to further confirm these thoughts, Lydia shifted closer to the window.

  Marcus suppressed an exasperated groan. Charming her had failed dismally. Perhaps it was time to try another tack. Maybe his mother was right about exploiting his adversaries’ weaknesses. One chink in Lydia’s armor was obvious pride in her intellect. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage. Marcus returned his attention to his work with a stifled curse. “I begin to think this an impossible task.”

  Lydia’s gaze slid to the papers in his lap. She pursed her lips as if fighting the impulse to speak.

  “I don’t suppose you would care to put some of that untapped knowledge to use as my surrogate secretary?” He offered the olive branch.

  Still wary, Lydia elevated her chin, but the flame in her eyes had dwindled to a mere flicker. “Do you mock me?”

  “Not at all,” Marcus said. “You surprise me with your accomplishments. Astound me, truth be told. I know of few women who would have even the remotest interest in such matters—let alone any who would have the slightest ability to comprehend them.”

  She bristled. “How patronizing you are!”

  “Because I speak the truth? Name three women who are so well-informed.”

  “There is of course your mother.”

  “You have me there,” he confessed with a grin.

  Lydia bit her lip. “And the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,” she added.

  “I would never dispute you on that account, but she is considered quite the oddity.”

  “Oddity?” Lydia repeated. “A woman who has saved countless lives by bringing the smallpox inoculation to this country. Do you apply such an unflattering label to any woman with a cultivated mind?”

  “No,” Marcus said with unexpected gravity. “I would describe you as quite remarkable. Remarkable, indeed.” He’d never before known such poised perfection, let alone one wrapped in such a delectable package and he wanted her more than any woman he’d ever known.

  “Your flattery is wasted, my lord.”

  “I do not flatter you, Lydia. I am expressing my sincere admiration.”

  Lydia flushed becomingly. He noted the excited rise and fall of her breasts. While her suspicion of his sincerity lingered, the hostile tension between had abated.

  “Yet, you have already revealed your contempt of women who endeavor to improve themselves.”

  “I don’t recall doing so at all,” Marcus argued. “I never disparaged the female intellect, but merely asked you to name three women with interest in matters of true import. You named two, but I plainly concede the third.”

  Her eyes flew to his face with uncertainty yet he thought he also read hope. “Please, Lydia,” his plaintive gaze met hers, “I’ve only a few hours to get through all this.”

  Lydia removed her gloves with the merest hint of a smile. “Very well, I would be happy to assist.”

  Chapter Six

  AFTER TWO HOURS of leaning over his shoulder, brushing fingers, inhaling the light bergamot-scented cologne mixed with the musky essence of male, Lydia hummed with an awareness of Marcus in every part of her body.

  More than once she had closed her eyes, ostensibly to search for a word, but more often to savor the sensation of his damnably appealing voice—low, fluid and smooth like warm honey—when he broke into French. At times he was even near enough for the faint cinnamon scent of his breath to evoke recollection of his ravaging kisses. His arm accidentally grazing her breast made her nipples tighten and sent warmth rushing to her core.

  Clearly, Lydia had not recognized the danger when she’d agreed to help him. She thought she’d breathe more easily when Marcus declared their work finished and slid the last documents into his case. But then he took her hand in his, setting her once again on the alert.

  “I do thank you for your gracious assistance. You performed admirably.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. His gratitude made her giddy and the light caress set her tingling from the inside out.

  He raised her hand to his lips. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, powerless to retreat from the tormenting play of his lips across her bare skin. He upturned her palm to plant a kiss upon it with an agonizing tenderness. “You amaze me, Lydia. You are not at all the woman I presumed you were.”

  His confession was unexpected, disarming and alarming. His words, his touch, and— God help me—his mouth, threatened to devastate her defenses. She swallowed hard, nearly losing herself in the depths of his blue eyes. “And what kind of woman is that?”

  “Timid. Complacent. Lacking imagination or any sense of adventure. One who would never seek anything beyond the comforts of home. I see now that I passed judgment too soon.”

  Seized by a sudden want that terrified her, Lydia tore her gaze from his mouth and her hand from his grasp to clutch frantically at her
disintegrating resolve.

  “You were sadly mistaken in me,” she said. “I do indeed desire a husband, a home of my own, and several children, Marcus…just not yours.”

  ****

  Marcus blanched. Her vehemence was not feigned. “Do you truly despise me so, Lydia?”

  She met him stare for stare as if she could find her own answer in his eyes. For the first time, the pain of six years of neglect reflected back at him.

  “Do you genuinely care if I do?” she asked, her eyes searching, probing. “Do you honestly care about me at all?”

  The answer came upon him as a sudden blow to the head. “Yes,” he said, sending his world off-kilter. Until this moment, the wooing of Lydia Trent had been little more than a game to him, but God help him he wanted her now. He was thunderstruck to realize he yearned for her good opinion and craved her respect as much as he desired her body. Bloody hell! When had this happened? He supposed it was somewhere between the first taste of her at the lily fountain and discovering her Latin scholarship.

  “I beg your pardon?” Lydia asked, as if seeking confirmation for her disbelieving ears.

  “Yes, Lydia, I care for you,” Marcus repeated with greater conviction than before, as if he’d gained confidence in the repetition. “I want you. Exceedingly. Desperately. And for the record, my sweet, they would be cherubic.”

  Lydia regarded him with stark incomprehension.

  “Our children.” He expounded in his most seductive tone. “The fruit of our loins that would be nothing less than heaven in the making.”

  Lydia regarded him as if stunned. He watched in fascination as the color slowly infused her pale skin to a rosy, telling pink. She was so incredibly responsive to her thoughts, knowledge that only further incited him to fill her head with nothing but lurid imaginings.

  Marcus had always taken pride in his ability to recognize and master the perfect moment and this was it. He moved in with confidence, cupping her nape and capturing her mouth, thinking to possess her while most vulnerable. Here and now. Do or die. If he had to truly play the scoundrel and exploit her own sexuality to make her his—so be it.

  ****

  Marcus’ new and sweet assault tore Lydia in twain. Part of her, the sensible part, cried out to retreat to the furthest corner of the chaise; but when he took possession of her mouth, the other part, the overwhelmingly devilish part, screamed for surrender. The devil won out. Scarcely aware of her own actions, she leaned into him with softly parted lips.

  The kiss, beginning as little more than a taste, sent fingers of warmth tingling through her entire body. When she yielded further, he slanted his head over hers, nipping and teasing the plump flesh of her lower lip. He stroked over it lightly with his tongue, tracing the seam of her mouth, lightly prodding and rousing her to flick out her own in a tentative exploration. The brief, wet, rasping contact sent a flare of heat straight to her core.

  Lydia gasped and he stole her breath only to return it mixed with his own when his tongue slid into her mouth, overwhelming her senses with the faintly cinnamon taste of him. The dance of their tongues was headier than any champagne and infinitely more addictive. Capturing and releasing, tongues tangling, breaths mingling, stoking the flame higher with every fervent stroke. The tone of the kiss intensified.

  Her arms entwined tightly about his neck and Marcus crushed her against his firm, hard chest. He cupped her face and his tongue dove deeper, his groan sending a delicious frisson straight to the damp throbbing region betwixt her thighs. She whimpered when he broke the kiss, and shuddered when his mouth found the hollow behind her ear. He sucked lightly on her neck. It was too much. She cried out but his teasing mouth continued playing erotic games on her skin while his hands found and cupped her throbbing breasts. His thumbs circled the tight buds of nipples pressing painfully against her gown, screaming to be freed.

  His mouth skirted over her collarbone, licking, kissing, finding the mounds of her breasts in fevered kisses that engulfed her mind. Her hands searched him out, shoving aside his coat, fumbling with buttons, roaming the hard plane of his chest, seeking the heat beneath. At her frantic urging, Marcus made a strangled sound and yanked her onto his lap.

  She arched her back in a silent plea. He answered by jerking at her bodice and freeing her breasts. She moaned, clutching at his hair, pulling his head to her, desperate for him to slake her growing need. Marcus buried his face in the valley, kissing and biting the soft mounds, rolling her ruched peaks between his fingers. Every kiss and caress pulled her further into some dark and sensuous place.

  Lydia was deaf to all but the thunderous pulse in her ears until he released her breast, amplifying the excruciating emptiness deep in her belly. She protested with a convulsive sob. He took a tight peak hungrily into the moist heat of his mouth, she threw her head back with a cry, lost in sensation, drunk with desire, blind and oblivious to all but the sensation of his mouth pulling and suckling. With each tantalizing touch, and every stolen breath, she succumbed a bit further, yielding to him, drawing his body to her own.

  “Please, Marcus,” she begged for she knew not what. By answer, he cupped her mons, sending her bucking against him with a soft wail.

  The sound shocked her back to herself. Heart hammering apace, her eyes flew open in apprehension only to meet the dark depths of Marcus’ passion reflecting back at her.

  His hungry stare, bespeaking only carnal awareness, raw desire, stole her breath. It was the headiest emotion she’d ever known to hold him in such thrall…until Marcus claimed her mouth hard and palmed her mons again, applying exquisite pressure that made her whimper, tremble and writhe with want.

  Yearning for nothing more than blessed release, her bewildered eyes darted to his face. “I know far more about what you need than you do, love,” Marcus whispered against her lips. “I can soothe the ache and show you indescribable rapture, Lydia, if only you will let me.”

  Her answer was a desperate prayer. “Dear God, Marcus, yes…”

  ****

  Marcus had seized Lydia in a weak moment, but her impassioned response was almost his own undoing. God help him, she showed every sign of becoming the voluptuary goddess he had fantasized about. Sprawled on his lap, heaving breasts delectably exposed, wide eyes filled with hungry yearning, the musky scent of her arousal perfuming the air, his senses swam in her. She brimmed with sexual promise and filled his mind with erotic images, visions of her quivering in spasms of ecstasy.

  Impaling his cock in her soft, wet, clenching quim. Thoughts that nearly sent him over the edge. Grappling mere shreds of self-control, Marcus pulled her from his lap, swearing to hold back his own pleasure, to show her pure, unadulterated bliss…if it killed him.

  With a groan, he released and laid her back against the velvet squabs. She watched wide-eyed as he shrugged out of his coat and cast it aside to kneel at her feet in the rocking vehicle. “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

  “Wh-what are you going to do?” Her voice was breathless.

  “As God is my witness, I’m going to bring you heaven.” He sealed his promise with a long, ravaging kiss that sent another white-hot jolt straight to his aching cock.

  ****

  Lydia shut her eyes to the sensation of her slippers sliding from her feet one at a time, the tingling tickle of fingers gliding along the arch of her silk-encased foot, the gentle scraping in the same place accompanied by moist heat. His teeth. Her eyes popped open when he nipped at her toes.

  “Shut your eyes,” Marcus chastised only to continue in a voice like silk. “I want you to savor every sensation, Lydia. Listen to your body. Think of nothing beyond your pleasure.”

  A whisper of satin awakened her to the sensation of his hands gliding beneath her petticoat to skim up her calves. Another rustle and cool air brushed her exposed legs. Her senses flared when Marcus nudged them apart. Her breath hitched when he found the sensitive spot just inside her knee, gently abrading it with the slight bristle of his cheek. The sensation tickled,
but sent flares of awareness straight to her private places.

  His practiced hands and skilled mouth ascended her thighs, tantalizing, teasing, approaching ever closer to her wet and wanting sex.

  When his fingers grazed through the nest of damp curls, her body racked with tremors. “Please, Marcus.” She reached blindly for him, begging for anything to fill the aching need.

  “Shhh. Trust me, my love,” Marcus kissed, caressed and soothed her back into an eroticized state of complaisance. His warm hand cupped and lifted her bottom and her skirts slithered to bunch around her waist. At the thought of his searing gaze on her bared sex, panic raced through Lydia’s blood to penetrate her pleasure-induced delirium. “N-no,” she whimpered, and tried to close her legs but Marcus barred her effort with his shoulders pressed between her knees.

  “Yes, love,” his lips languidly swept her inner thigh, “I’m going to touch you there and kiss you there the same way I kissed your mouth. I’m going to taste you with my tongue and immerse myself in your very essence.”

  “No! You can’t,” she gasped. “It’s too wicked!”

  “Yes,” he chuckled lowly, levering her feet onto his broad linen-clad shoulders. “Delightfully, deliciously wicked and I assure you I can. Tasting you is my most decadent desire and I swear you will know ecstasy in the doing.”

  Her next sound was a choking gasp when he bent his head to scorch a path straight to her core.

  ****

  Marcus’ mouth ascended, playing over the silky skin of her inner thigh, kissing, licking, softly biting. Nearing his goal, he shut his eyes to better take in her essence—that musky, womanly scent—the evidence of her desire that drove him mad with lust.