‘Because—because I cannot quite believe that you are here.’
‘I cannot quite believe that I am here either.’ Lydia took another sip of beer, looking around as if the King’s Mount was the most refined of pleasure-gardens. Arthur realised that he hadn’t touched a drop of his own beer—he really had been staring, as if he were an inexperienced colt. ‘It is… it is most diverting.’
‘Walking the city until your feet hurt? Drinking in one of London’s less salubrious establishments?’
‘You are better-spoken than any titled gentleman I have ever met.’ Lydia’s tone was so simple, so sunnily assured, that Arthur knew she meant no insult. ‘How did you become so?’
‘Reading in-between prize-fights. I tried to knock the other man out as quickly as possible, so I could finish chapters.’ Arthur smiled. ‘And I like the word salubrious.’
‘I like it too. I like it when you say it.’ Lydia paused, her cheeks reddening a little. ‘I… I like it very much, when you speak to me.’
‘Then I shall speak to you about anything under the sun. Anything, for as long as you like.’
‘I wish to speak of what we couldn’t speak of in our letters.’
A bold declaration. One that spoke irresistibly of whispers, sighs, wrinkled bedsheets—of what Arthur had wished to do so very fervently, for so very long. Pausing, trying to control the sudden hardness between his thighs, he spoke more gruffly than usual.
‘I believe you are trying to lead this conversation somewhere particular.’
‘Can you blame me? I am full of high spirits. An excess of hem.’ Lydia leaned forward, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Arthur found himself leaning forward to. ‘I wish to speak of things that cannot be discussed in public places. Not even establishments like this.’
‘You sound as if you wish to visit the Cappadene Club.’
‘No. Not there.’ Lydia lowered her voice further. ‘I… I simply wish to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere private. With you.’
He could take her to his rooms, now. They weren’t all that elegant; they were clean but sparse, befitting a man of his station. He could lay her down on his starched white sheets, kiss her, bury his face in her breasts and between her legs until her fingers gripped his hair, until she cried out his name again, and again, and again…
… until morning came, and she left him.
‘Let us walk a little longer.’ He didn’t wish to walk with her again; he wished to touch her, hold her, but couldn’t. Not if it meant imagining a sad end to something that hadn’t even started. ‘I like walking with you, and listening to you, very much.’
‘Likewise, Mr. Weeks.’ Lydia looked down for a moment; Arthur watched her carefully, alert to any hint of disappointment. All he could detect was a slight sadness; how it hurt, making her sad. ‘I am happy to do anything you wish.’
What had she done wrong? She had to have done something wrong. Lydia found herself examining every word she had said, every overture that she had made, as she walked into the alley that bordered the King’s Mount.
Things were… unexpected. Not unpleasant—quite the contrary. She hadn’t planned on walking with Arthur, talking with Arthur—and she certainly hadn’t imagined seeing the pub he had caused mischief in as a boy. She hadn’t imagined asking so many questions; it was strange, still wishing to know more about a man she already knew so much about.
What had she imagined? That he would gather her into his arms as soon as she stepped out of the carriage, and carry her wordlessly to bed? Lydia, slightly unsteady on her feet, wondered how she had been so very wrong.
She was probably behaving incorrectly, despite Arthur’s protestations to the contrary. Thank goodness he was kind, as well as handsome. So handsome that she felt light-headed, faint, as he brushed past her.
She should have brought a ring with her. Some cheap, paste thing, that she could have worn with him in public. Then he could have taken her hand, despite the people in the streets—he could even pull her close, as the brazen couples did in this disreputable part of the city…
… but she was being foolish. The whole point of these few days was not to appear respectable. The plan was to hide in the rooms with Arthur Weeks, and be scandalous.
‘We shouldn’t have ever come to a place like this.’ What a gentle voice Arthur had; soft, with a hidden reserve of real strength behind it. Not like her father, who shouted from day to night. ‘You are too fine for muck.’
‘The King’s Mount drinkers would be very upset to hear their palace of pleasures described as muck. You must exercise your fantasy.’
‘Believe me.’ Arthur’s gaze was suddenly very direct. ‘I have exercised my fantasy to its fullest extent, whenever I have looked at you.’
What had he imagined, looking at her? Were they the same scenes she had pictured in the privacy of her own bed? They would have to be much more detailed; he had more experience than her, after all. Lydia, not knowing what else to do, stepped closer.
Arthur smiled. ‘You cannot possibly pretend that this alley is anything than a hole.’
‘I admit, it taxes my imaginative powers.’ Lydia laughed as she took in the rank, mossy corners of the buildings, the broken glass scattered on the cobblestones. Another strange, tingling shiver ran through her—she couldn’t be sickening for something. Not now. ‘It is difficult to make a bower where no flowers grow. And there could very well be bandits, hiding in the shadows.’
‘No bandits. Bad weather tonight, and it isn’t late enough yet.’ Arthur spoke easily; Lydia watched him, a different shiver running through her this time. He was so strong, so unashamedly himself. ‘And I wouldn’t let anyone get near you.’
A simple, straightforward declaration. Lydia, swallowing, moved closer to him still.
‘I know.’ There was nothing for it—she would have to be brave. Brave enough to ask for what she wanted. ‘I… I would permit someone to come closer. Someone who—who I wish to be closer to. Given the absence of onlookers.’
She waited, her heart in her throat. Arthur was still, stone-faced, for a tense second of what looked like calculation.
Then, with a glint in his dark eyes, he stepped forward. Lydia bit her lip, half-certain that her knees would buckle, as his hands reached for hers.
She gasped as their hands touched. The quick, lightning crackle of awareness that ran through her was undeniable. The catch in Arthur’s breath, the thrilling edge to his voice, only made the feeling stronger as he spoke.
‘I have been waiting for this. You—you cannot imagine how much.’
‘As have I.’ Lydia couldn’t agree quickly enough. She tightened her grip on his fingers, suddenly terrified that he would withdraw his hands. ‘With so much expectation.’
‘Expectation?’ Arthur raised his eyebrow as he moved closer still. Lydia repressed a sigh of satisfaction as she felt the rigid, unrelenting contours of his body against hers. ‘Now I fear your disappointment.’
‘Disappointment? Are you mad?’ Lydia laughed, hating how brittle she sounded. How artificially bright. ‘If anything, sir, it is I who—’
She stopped, shocked beyond measure, as Arthur’s lips met hers.
In the blinding moment that followed, Lydia knew that such a kiss could come from no-one else. Not a duke, not a gentleman of the ton—and definitely not the stilted, stuttering man who was destined to be her husband. This raw, trembling kiss, this harsh possession, could only come from Arthur Weeks—and thank God, thank God, that she was here to receive it.
She had picked the perfect man to be scandalous with. To be happy with, if only briefly, before her wedding day came. Lydia, another queer shiver falling over her like rain, leaned deeper into the kiss as her core burned with heat.
When Arthur finally pulled away, it was with a frustrated sigh. ‘Are we to speak plainly?’
‘I believe arrangements such as this are for precisely that.’ Lydia paused, biting her lip. ‘Well. That, and other…’
Her words tra
iled away as Arthur slowly, firmly pressed her against the wall. The strength of his body, the way he could hold her in place without any appearance of force, sent a wicked thrill of heat through her core.
‘As you know. I was a prize fighter, and a damn good one.’ Arthur murmured the words, his breath catching as he pressed his body tightly to hers. Lydia couldn’t help sighing at the feel of him; strong, hard from head to foot. ‘I have never wanted for women. Ever.’
Lydia fought an unexpected stab of jealousy. It was all very well that Arthur Weeks was her conduit for scandal—but other women should not be allowed to have similar ideas. ‘Why would you tell me such a thing?’
‘Because you seem to think that I do not want you. I referenced disappointment, and you were about to say that I should be disappointed in you.’
Accurate. Painful. Lydia, swallowing, spoke as bravely as she could. ‘I can only speak from a place of reason—’
She gasped as Arthur’s hands moved boldly, brazenly, to her hips.
No man had ever touched her in such a way. Gripping her tightly, as if he couldn’t bear to be rid of her. Lydia bit her lip, another thrill of deep, bodily bliss rendering her silent.
‘You are witty, and clever, and kind. I don’t deny that.’ Arthur’s voice in her ear was a low, devastatingly exciting note. ‘But I need you to understand, Miss Holt, that I have been dreaming of taking you to bed before I knew anything about what you were like. I saw you with your friend, and I wanted you. Not for lack of women. Not out of pity. Because—will you permit me to be coarse?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded fervently. She had never been quite so personally invested in a man being coarse before. ‘Please.’
‘Because I look at you, and I dream about taking you to bed.’ Arthur’s teeth slowly, wickedly grazed the lobe of Lydia’s ear; Lydia gasped in response. ‘Understood?’
‘I—’
‘When you got out of the carriage. When you sat across from me in the pub. When you took my hand a moment ago. The way you move, and look, and speak… it is alchemy, to me.’ Arthur paused, his breath hot against Lydia’s ear. ‘I need you to know that. To understand it.’
Lydia trembled in his arms. As he turned to look at her, his face deliciously serious in the moonlight, another light-headed wave of dizziness briefly overwhelmed her.
She had feared this moment of intimacy. In the privacy of her bedroom, she had wondered if she would find the courage to go through with it. If she would find herself in Arthur’s arms, and not be able to do so much as kiss him.
As it turned out, her problem was quite the opposite. She wished to do everything at once, as fast as possible, anyone who saw them be damned.
With a rushed, hungry sigh, she pulled Arthur to her again. Their lips met in a frustrated clash—an acknowledgement of how long they had both waited, both dreamed of such an outcome. Lydia cupped Arthur’s face with her hands, shivering at the feel of his rough stubble against her fingertips, curving her body to his in a desperate, amateur attempt to get closer still.
She sighed with happiness as she was rewarded. Arthur’s hands moved downward, slowly parting her thighs, his thigh now pressed firmly against her trembling core.
‘All these damned layers of cloth between me and you.’ His voice was full of a kind of amused frustration. ‘I’ve never hated clothes more.’
‘You insisted on coming here, instead of going straight to your rooms.’ Lydia traced the outline of Arthur’s lips, their softness filling her with wicked delight. ‘This is all your fault.’
‘I couldn’t have gone straight to my rooms with you, Miss Holt.’
‘And why is that?’
Arthur’s hand brushed her face with infinite gentleness. ‘Because the sooner this begins, the sooner this ends. Why would you ever think I want this to end?’
This was not meant to happen. Looking deeply into one another’s eyes—saying things of such import to one another. Lydia, resting her forehead against Arthur’s, knew she should probably protest.
But she didn’t want to protest. She wanted to continue. And Arthur’s voice in her ear, saying such divine words, only made the tingling awareness in her body more potent.
‘What will you do to me?’ She whispered the words, her throat tightening with the effort of saying them. ‘What will we do to one another, in your rooms?’
‘I will remove these clothes, Miss Holt. Garment by garment, kissing every inch of flesh I meet.’ Arthur moved a hand upward; Lydia gasped as his fingers stroked over her breast, his touch burning through her gown. The stars above her briefly blurred—was it normal, for one’s vision to fade with any pleasure that came? ‘I have read your words, and heard them. Now I want to hear the sounds you make when you’re wordless.’
Lydia was wordless. Completely wordless. With a sudden, growing sense of deep discomfort, she felt a deep shiver run through her again.
It was unconnected to the pleasure she felt. It was stronger, darker, than her pleasure.
‘Mr. Weeks.’ Her fingers began to tremble; another wave of weakness, of sickness, ran through her. ‘Put your hand on my brow.’
Arthur’s eyes flashed with concern. Lydia sighed, her hands beginning to shake in earnest as his rough hand settled on her forehead.
‘You are hot.’ The fear in his voice alarmed Lydia more than the chills through her body did. ‘Burning. Why did—how could you not tell me that you felt unwell?’
‘I did not wish to.’ Lydia spoke faintly, trying not to shake in Arthur’s arms. ‘This… this is a chance to be scandalous. To… to be happy…’
Her knees began to buckle. Now that she had admitted how unwell she felt, it was as if her body had given up the fight. She sank downward, too ill to be ashamed, Arthur’s arms taking her weight with quick, ready strength.
It still felt good, being in his arms. How strange, and how welcome.
‘Don’t close your eyes.’ Arthur’s frantic voice sounded further and further away. ‘Don’t sleep.’
‘I am terribly sorry.’ Another shiver ran through Lydia as the fever took full hold, her eyes closing. ‘I rather believe I have to.’
One hour later, James Hildebrande’s carriage sped through the London streets with a haste that passers-by found unseemly. Lydia lolled inside, her head on the lap of Catherine Hildebrande, while James Hildebrande stared in shock at a panicking Arthur Weeks.
‘She is burning hot.’ James looked at Lydia with a furrowed brow, before turning to Arthur. ‘What happened?’
‘She is feverish. She—she fainted.’ Arthur spoke grimly, trying to conceal his worry. His vicious panic—panic that had been growing ever since Lydia had swooned in his arms. Why had he stood in the alley with her, kissing her like some green-sick fool? ‘She comes to consciousness, and then swoons again.’
‘When did this begin?’
‘An hour ago.’ Arthur looked at Catherine, stroking Lydia’s hair as she lay in her lap. ‘I sent a messenger boy from the King’s Mount as soon as it happened. Thank God he knew how to find your street.’
‘The King’s Mount? Why on earth was she in such a disreputable part of London? How on earth did you manage to come across her—were you passing?’
‘I…’ Arthur could not bring himself to say it. James Hildebrande was a kind man, underneath the titled swagger he carried with him, but he was not a friend. Not yet. ‘Well, I—’
‘My love.’ Catherine looked at her husband after exchanging a soft, forgiving glance with Arthur. ‘Lydia and Mr. Weeks have… have developed an understanding.’
James’ face was a picture. Not necessarily a very pretty one; it could have been placed in a gallery with the title, flabbergasted. Arthur, determined to defend Lydia’s honour, spoke as boisterously as he could.
‘None of that. I’ll have you remember—’
‘How I met my wife. Yes.’ James looked down, evidently trying to choose the correct words. ‘Perhaps not the best time to recall such a memory.’
&nbs
p; ‘You were about to cast aspersions.’
‘Believe me. I was not.’ James’ voice carried a hint of steel this time. ‘I was about to ask if you had considered the practical implications of embarking upon such a fool’s errand. Miss Holt is—’
‘To be married. Yes.’
‘She is also—’
‘Above my station. No need to remind me.’ Arthur leaned forward, clenching his fists. ‘I sincerely suggest that you refrain from reminding me.’
‘So what on earth gave you the idea of—’
‘It was not Mr. Weeks’ idea.’ Catherine spoke softly, but her tone carried a seriousness that made James turn his head. ‘It was Lydia’s.’
James’ eyes widened. ‘Why am I the last to know these things?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘It hardly impacted upon Club business.’
‘But gossip is my lifeblood!’ James sighed heartily as the carriage picked up speed, rattling its way down the crowded street. He looked at Arthur, his face softening a little. ‘But I highly doubt this is something to gossip about. You have never seemed the sort of gentleman to court gossip.’
‘I am not.’
‘You… you care for her.’ James lowered his voice as Catherine bowed her head, looking at Lydia in polite silence. ‘Quite considerably.’
Arthur looked at Lydia’s wan, pale face, his heart bursting. ‘I do.’
He wouldn’t go further than that. He couldn’t. If he began speaking of the letters, of the looks, of the joy he felt when he looked at her, it would begin to feel like a funeral. As if he were exposing his soul, piece by painful piece, under the gaze of people that couldn’t be counted upon to understand.
‘Thank the Lord.’ Catherine murmured the words as the carriage turned a corner. ‘This is her street. Her family will be able to summon a doctor.’
‘Why did you not summon a doctor, Weeks?’ James spoke with frustrated patience. ‘Her condition is clearly serious.’
‘If I had summoned a doctor, he would have wished to know her name and address. It would be an invitation to the worst kind of gossipers to run rampant.’ Arthur shook his head, his eyes fixed on Lydia’s face. ‘Her reputation would have fallen beyond redemption. Especially if my name were in any way linked to hers.’
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