“Why, Lord Meacham. Do you mean you enjoy my company?”
“Always, Lady Lydia.” He leaned back. “What is your opinion on the discussion?”
“I enjoyed the argument juxtaposing Wren’s contributions with those of early Roman architects. I’m not certain the scholar completely made his argument, however, Oliv—Lord Roxwaithe thought perhaps the argument could have been better constructed.”
Meacham’s eyes flickered. “I was unaware Roxwaithe attended the lecture.”
“Oh, no, he didn’t.” She’d discussed it with Oliver. She knew he had no particular interest in architecture, but he always listened when she had an insight or a thought and offered insightful comment, sometimes tying it to his own experience managing Roxwaithe estates.
“I see.” He was silent a moment. “Will you be attending the Garfield’s musical?”
“Of course. Mama has informed me anyone who is anyone will be in attendance. I am, by all accounts, anyone, so I must attend. Tell me, Meacham, are you also anyone?”
“I am,” he said.
She nodded. “I thought so,” she replied with a grin.
“I hope you will allow me to escort you to the refreshments once again.”
“I believe that can be arranged.” Memory sparked. “Actually, I believe Roxwaithe is escorting us to the musical.”
He rubbed his lip. “Roxwaithe will be there, will he?”
“Yes. He is usually bored by the third movement, however, and will probably wander off to where all the gentlemen congregate. Wainwright is still in town, and those two will find their way to each other at most events if left to their own devices. I will be left all alone.” She arched a brow.
He didn’t respond.
“Or I could arrange to meet you somewhere a bit more private,” she said to cover the silence. “Perhaps in the gardens? Lady Garfield always displays her statues to best advantage during a musical. Perhaps she knows not everyone attends for the love of music.”
“Perhaps.” Finger rubbing his lip, he said, “You are happier than you were in Vienna.”
“Of course. I am home.”
“Yes.” He fell silent. She resisted the urge to shift under his scrutiny. “Lady Lydia, I cannot imagine you are unaware my intentions are serious.”
She would have to be blind and foolish not to realise. “I do.”
“I believe we would suit admirably. I believe, with time, I would love you dearly. I should like to enter a room and know you are mine. I had every intention of asking you to marry me.”
Had? “However?”
“I should like to be first in my wife’s heart,” he said.
Mute, she stared at him. He met her gaze levelly. That had not been what she was expecting at all. Silence stretched between them, becoming more uncomfortable with each moment that passed.
The corner of his mouth lifted ruefully. “I am surprised, actually. I never thought I should like such a thing, but I find I do.”
“How do you know you would not be first in my heart?” she finally said.
“I am sorry, my dear, but it is obvious. You have strong feelings for Roxwaithe.”
“I…did. I— That is…”
Meacham smiled gently. “You are different around him. You are…happier. He enters a room and your gaze finds him. He is first in your thoughts. Even today, you spoke of him and his opinion, which you clearly place above all others.”
“I—I am sorry—”
“Don’t be.” His gaze shifted, becoming distant. “I should like to know how it feels. To put someone above all others. To want the best for them, always. To have their presence make me happier than anything else.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I like you. I do. I wanted….” She gestured helplessly.
“But you do not like me as much as you like Lord Roxwaithe.”
Emotion swelled inside her. Stupid, useless emotion. “It does not matter. He thinks of me as a sister. A much younger sister.”
“I have no sister, but if I did, I cannot imagine I should look at mine as he does you.”
Shock stole her tongue. “I beg your pardon?”
He looked at her curiously. “He watches you. Always.”
That was not why. It wasn’t because he felt… He had told her…. That wasn’t the reason. “It is only to display his concern.” It had to be that.
“I don’t know what to tell you. If I looked at a woman as he looks at you, I would not hide how I felt.”
It was as if the world stopped. She stared at Meacham, unable to comprehend what he had said. Oliver had told her he felt nothing more than friendship, that he regarded her as a younger sister. He’d broken her heart, and then broken it again, and she had bashed her head against that wall too many times to believe…to think….
“I should go,” Meacham said softly.
Thoughts a whirl, she looked at him. His expression held compassion. “Yes. Of course. I—” He didn’t deserve this. Her distraction. Taking a breath, she said, “I hope we may continue our friendship.”
“I, also.” He paused. “If I am wrong, and you find your heart is free, I hope you would allow me to renew my suit.” Bowing deeply, he gave a little smile and then departed, closing the door quietly behind him.
For the longest time, Lydia remained on the chaise, her thoughts in tatters. Meacham could not be correct. Surely. All her life, she had wanted Oliver. All her life. And he….
Shoving to her feet, she bolted from the sitting room. She didn’t remember climbing the stairs or making her way into Roxegate through the shared attic. All she knew was she was suddenly before Oliver’s study door, staring at the wood as she wavered on the threshold. Was he in there? Surely he would be, he was always working, and she used to sit opposite, watching him surreptitiously as he wrestled with the weight that was Roxwaithe. The real question was…would the handle turn under her hand?
She stared down at it. It was so innocuous. She used to turn it without a thought, without concern that he would shut her out. That he would deny her anything. That he didn’t love her as she loved him.
She took a breath. She had to know. She had to know if Meacham was right.
The handle turned easily, the door opening silently. Oliver was seated behind his desk, his hand buried in his hair as he wrote. He was so beautiful to her, and she desperately wanted to believe Meacham, to believe that maybe… “Oliver.”
Brows drawn, he looked up. His expression lightened when he spied her. “Lydia.”
He looked so happy to see her. Maybe…maybe Meacham was not wrong. “Can I?” She gestured at her chair.
Half-standing, he stopped, as if not sure how to greet her. “Yes. I would Yes. Of course.”
Closing the door behind her, she made her way to her chair. A stack of books stood on the table beside it, seeming odd and out of place. She ran her fingers over the stack, the titles jumping out at her. They were architectural tomes. More specifically, they were her architectural tomes. The stack she had left behind.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Was there something you wanted?”
They held no dust, and they looked as if they had last been touched not more than an hour before. For over a year they had sat here, through countless cleanings. It wasn’t that they’d been forgotten. They sat in clear view of Oliver’s desk, and even now his cheeks ruddied, as if he had been caught in something embarrassing. As if her books remaining here meant something.
She rested her fingers lightly on the stack. “Yes. I do want something. I want to know—” Her voice cracked. Taking a shaky breath, she continued, “I want to know how you feel.”
“How I feel?”
“How you feel.” She couldn’t look at him. “About me.”
Silence, and then, “Lydia….”
“It is only I have to know,” she said in a rush. “MeachamThe Duke of Meacham came to Torrence House just now, and he said he intended
to propose, but he said he would not be first in my heart. And he was right, Oliver. He was right because you are first in my heart. I have tried and tried to remove you, but I can’t. I can’t, Oliver, and then he told me…. He said…” She shook her head. “Oliver. How do you feel about me?”
He sat motionless behind his desk, a muscle working in his jaw.
Silence stretched, becoming more tense with each moment that passed, and with each moment that passed, she knew Meacham was wrong. He was so, so wrong, and Oliver wasn’t going to say anything. He was going to leave her here, again, with her heart exposed and devastation in her future. It would be like when she was eighteen, except it would be worse because that would be it. She would not be able to be his friend, and she would only see him occasionally, at family gatherings and social events, and she would smile and pretend her heart wasn’t breaking with each beat.
This was the end of them.
“Christ, Lydia. Don’t cry.”
Biting her lip, she shook her head. She couldn’t stop the tears, the steady stream.
In a stride, he was by her side, his hands cupping her face. His thumbs swiped her cheeks. “Don’t cry.”
Closing her eyes, she gripped his biceps, wishing he felt as she did, wishing….
Lips brushed her forehead, her brow. She leant into the touch, into the moment where she could pretend….
A whisper over her cheek, her jaw, and then his lips were on hers. He kissed her softly, sweetly, and she fell into it, fell into him, in this kiss she’d always, always wanted, that made every other kiss she’d received fade into nothing, made her remember the night of her eighteenth birthday and how giddy and nervous and excited she’d been. How she’d kissed him and it had been everything she’d dreamed, everything, and then he’d pushed her away.
She pulled back. His eyes drifted open, his thumbs stroking her jaw. She searched his gaze. “Oliver?”
She saw no rejection. Instead, he lowered his head and kissed her again.
This kiss was even better. He licked at the seam of her lips and she opened, welcoming him into her. A hand slid to her neck and then covered her chest, warm and heavy against her skin, while an arm wrapped about her waist, drawing her to him, her hips against his, so close she could feel every hard inch of him against every inch of her. She’d wanted him for so long, and now he was kissing her, he was touching her, and he hadn’t stopped when she gave him the opportunity. Instead, his fingers were sliding under the material of her sleeve, cupping her shoulder, warm and sure.
Lips and tongue feathered over her jaw. She arched her neck and he trailed the cord, his teeth a gentle scrape. Fingers ran over her back and her bodice came loose, gaping around her chest. She pulled her arms through, drawing his mouth back to hers as the material bunched around her waist. She pushed at his coat, and then his waistcoat, and he shucked both, bending over her, his loosened shirt gaping as he moved his lips over the top of her breasts. Hooking a finger in her corset, he said, “How do we get this loose?”
“At the back, you have to—”
He turned her around. A sharp tug, another, and her corset was loose, her chemise slipping from her shoulders as he spun her again. His throat moved as he ran his gaze over her.
Lifting her chin, she resisted the urge to cover herself. She wanted him to see her.
Finally, his gaze met hers. She drew her breath. His grey eyes had darkened until they were almost black, his features stark. This was how Oliver looked when lust held him in thrall.
Gaze still holding hers, he cupped her breast. Her breath caught in her throat as he shaped her flesh, his large palm warm and strong and sending fire through her veins. Her nipple tightened almost painfully and his thumb circled the puckered flesh, playing with her as his gaze burned into hers.
Wetting her lips, she barely kept her feet as her limbs turned heavy, an ache low in her belly. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his, could only watch as he came closer, as he bent to her breast and replaced his thumb with his mouth.
She cried out as he tugged at her, his teeth holding her gently as his tongue lathed her. Burying her hands in his hair, she held him to her, whispering his name over and again. Suddenly, he placed an arm at her back and beneath her legs and she was in his arms as he carried her to his desk. Pushing books and papers and blotters aside, he lay her down and followed her, his bare chest—when had he lost his shirt?—against her breasts as he made a place for himself between her thighs.
“Oliver,” she murmured. He growled in return, his mouth tugging at her breasts, pushing himself between her thighs. “Oliver,” she murmured again, her hand stroking his hair.
He looked up at her. She curled his hair around his ear. Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch, his hands hot on her thighs through her gown.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was their breathing, hers light and fast, his heavy.
“Lydia,” he said, his voice gravel and dark.
She pulled him up to her and took his mouth with hers. He took control and it deepened into something carnal. Pushing her thighs apart, he dragged her skirts up to her waist and trailed kisses down her chest, her sternum, her belly.
Rising up on her elbows, she said uncertainly, “Oliver?”
Grey eyes met hers, full of passion, drunk with lust. “Let me. Please, Lydia. Let me.”
She nodded, not really knowing what she agreed to but knowing she would refuse him nothing. Holding the back of her knees, he kissed the soft skin of her thigh and she gasped, her breath strangled in her chest. He placed a kiss higher on her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh, then higher, and then he kissed her between her legs.
Her head thunked against the desk as sensation streaked through her. His hand covered her breast, shaping her in concert with the movements of his mouth, the licking and sucking driving her wild. Arching beneath him, she pushed into him, her hands scrambling for purchase and finding his head, his hair, the long strands she loved loose. He grunted under the tug of her fingers, his tongue finding something that made her mad, made her want, made her empty.
A finger slid inside her and she gasped loudly, the sensation almost too much. Something built, something wild and fierce, and another finger joined the first, stroking and finding something that killed her with pleasure. Her world centred on him and how he made her feel, on how much she loved him, and then everything inside her exploded.
He held her as she shuddered, whispering how glad he was he’d pleased her, how much she pleased him. Aftershocks of emotion coursed through her as he slid up her body, his mouth taking hers, and she wound herself about him, feeling drunk and dazed, and all she knew was she wanted to hold him forever.
The world came back slowly. The room was filled with the sound of their harsh breathing and a strange kind of tranquillity. Oliver’s big body surrounded her, his face buried in between her shoulder and her neck and his lips brushing her skin as he panted against her, his muscles tense.
Tightening her arms around him, she held on as tight as he would let her. And she would continue to do so, for as long as he would let her.
Chapter Twelve
Hands laced over his belly, Oliver stared at the canopy over his bed. Darkness greeted him, the faintest outline of the canopy barely visible.
He deliberately did not think of Lydia.
Tomorrow would be a full day. He had a stack of paper as tall as himself to wade through, Lord Demartine had given him a new proposal for a shipping venture, and the estate in the Cotswolds needed a new roof. And he deliberately did not think of Lydia.
Exhaling, he placed his hands behind his head. Who was he trying to fool? He’d never stopped thinking of Lydia.
Earlier, she’d left with a cheeky grin and his euphoria had lasted for all of two minutes before the reality of what they had done set in. He still didn’t know what had possessed him. One minute she’d been standing there, and then next she’d been in his arms and a dam, once broken, was impossible to stop. He wasn
’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry he’d touched Lydia, kissed her, made her come. Finally, he could admit to himself he wanted her. Maybe he was too old for her, but for the moment, she had chosen him and he was finally ready to admit he had chosen her in return. From the moment he’d looked at her and realised she was a woman, he’d wanted her. He’d always been hers, and so he would enjoy it for as long as it lasted. It couldn’t be forever. She would realise she didn’t really want him, that there was someone younger, bolder, more amusing. Her crush would dissipate and he would let her go, never allowing her to see the broken man left behind.
The door to his bedchamber opened. A figure darted in, closing the door behind them lightning-quick. Pushing himself to his elbows, he watched as— Lydia. It had to be Lydia.
The Lydia-shaped figure moved towards his bed. The strike of a match threw light about the room. “Why is it so dark in here?” she demanded.
Of course it was Lydia. “Because it is night and I am attempting to sleep?”
Making a rude noise, she placed the candle on the fireplace mantle.
“You are where you should not be,” he said mildly.
“That could be the story of my life.” In a flurry of movement, she leapt upon him. Automatically, he circled his arms about her. “You’re not wearing a nightshirt,” she said conversationally.
“I don’t.” He still couldn’t reconcile she was in his bedchamber.
“Are you naked?”
“I wear drawers. Lydia, why are you here?”
“I realised something,” she said, her thighs hugging his hips.
“And what is that?” Hands tightening behind her back, he relished her weight upon him.
“This afternoon, you gave without taking.”
Lust pooled in his groin as he recalled the taste of her, the feel of her beneath him, and the heady knowledge he was the one to afford her such pleasure. “Did I?”
“Yes.” Taking his hands from her, she trapped his arms above his head and leaned over him. “I’m here to rectify that.”
“How?”
“Like this,” she said, and she covered his mouth with hers. Letting go of him, her hands were warm on his face as she held him still for her kiss, a perfect, hot, delicious kiss. Splaying his hands on her back, he pulled her into him, her nightgown-clad breasts flattening against his naked chest. He groaned into her as her tongue flicked at his lips, teasing him with her taste.
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 10