Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2)

by Cassandra Dean

  Sitting up, she dragged her nightgown over her head and suddenly she was naked. He barely had a moment to swallow his tongue before she leant over him, her lips hot against his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Her hair trailed through his fingers as she kissed down his chest, tonguing his nipple and lightly sucking, before kissing his stomach. Pushing at the sheets, she revealed his drawers and picked at the laces.

  Oh, Christ. Christ. What was she— “Lydia?”

  Fascination coloured her expression as she lifted his cock from his drawers and he hardened to stone. Holding him, she traced his length, rubbing her thumb over the tip. Lightning streaked through him and he swore.

  Delighted eyes found him. “Did you like that?”

  “Yes, I liked it,” he ground out.

  “What else do you like?”

  “Lydia, you don’t have to—”

  “I know.” Her gaze dropped to his cock. “I want to.” And she leant down.

  Warm breath washed over the head and then, Christ, then she licked him. He collapsed against his bed, sheets fisting in his hands as her eager tongue learned him. When she took him in her mouth, he just about swallowed his tongue. She was clumsy and sloppy and it was the best damn thing he’d felt in his entire life. Fire shot through him and he could feel climax storm through him, too damn quick but Christ, it was Lydia, and he better fucking warn her because he was going to come and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do— “Lydia. Christ, Lydia, you have to stop. I’m about to—”

  She released him, her fascinated gaze on his aching cock. “You’re about to what?”

  “Christ, I— Not in your mouth. Not this time. You— Here.” Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers around him and groaned at her touch. So good. She felt so good. He showed her how to touch him, how hard and how fast, and she watched avidly when in an embarrassingly short amount of time, he came all over her hand.

  Chest heaving, he collapsed against the bed. Fuck. That was—Fuck. Fuck.

  She stared at her hand. “Is this your seed?”

  Barking a laugh, he threw an arm over his eyes. Only Lydia. “Yes.”

  Sitting up, he wiped her hand with the sheet and then kissed her, and in his kiss was gratitude and laughter and how Lydia was just so damn Lydia and he liked her so much.

  It didn’t take much for his kiss to turn from sweet to carnal. He wanted to see her fall apart again, wanted to hear her choked breath and how she moaned his name. Wrapping his arms about her, he flipped her to her back.

  “Oliver, what are you doing?” she protested.

  Ignoring her, he pushed her thighs open. Christ, she was glistening. Giving him pleasure had aroused her so much it had spilled onto her thighs. Hooking his arms under her knees, he covered her with his mouth. Her flavour burst on his tongue, equal parts sweat and tart, and he growled, loving he now knew her taste.

  “No, Oliver, this was supposed to be for you,” she moaned, her thighs hugging his ears.

  He glanced up. Eyes wild with lust met his. She looked undone, and he loved he could do this to her. “This is for me.”

  Lowering his head, he set about driving her mad. Her back arched, her breasts thrust in the air. Reaching up, he covered them, her pebble-hard nipples stabbing his palms. Her thighs squeezed his head as she gasped and moaned, her head thrashing. Abandoning her breasts, he took hold of them and forced her open, holding her still for his lips and tongue. She was soft and wet and hot and he wanted inside her so badly. He ground his hips into the bedsheets, so damn hard even though she’d just made him come.

  Remembering how it had driven her wild that afternoon, he licked and sucked at her bud and, then, sank a finger inside her. She was tight and even hotter and wetter and he added another, finding that place inside her that made her scream.

  Pushing herself into him, her mouth opened on a silent scream as she erupted, squeezing his fingers as she came and flooding him with more of her sweet-tart flavour. He doubled his efforts and she bucked again, her body rigid as pleasure wracked her.

  “Stop. Oliver, stop. It’s too much,” she gasped, pushing at his head.

  With one last kiss, he reluctantly pulled away. Wiping his mouth, he placed a kiss on her belly, her sternum, her breast, before taking her lips. She kissed him back, her arms winding about him as her hands tightened in his hair.

  He kissed her again, and then again, and then, with a sigh, he settled on his back beside her. She lay next to him, dazed, and he smirked at the canopy. He had done that. He had pleasured Lydia Torrence into silence.

  After a while, she said, “We should do that again.”

  Unable to stop his grin, he turned to her. “Ready whenever you are.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” Leaning over her, he applied himself to tasting every single inch of her skin.

  ***

  Oliver lightly dragged his fingertips over Lydia’s back. She lay on her front, her cheek resting on her folded hands with her eyes closed. The sheet pooled around their hips, the light from the flickering candle picking out hills and valleys. Her skin was soft and warm, and he’d never felt such contentment as he did right at this moment.

  “You’re very good at this.”

  His cheeks heated. What the bloody hell could he say to that? He couldn’t—“How would you know?”

  “It’s good that you practiced,” she continued, ignoring him. “I shall only have to educate you slightly.”

  Jealously was a petty emotion and he would not allow it to control him. “Who did you practice with?”

  Her eyes opened. “What does it matter? None were you.”

  He supposed, but.… “Who?”

  “How many did you practice with?” she countered.

  “What?”

  “How. Many. Did you. Pract—”

  His face felt like it was on fire. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

  “Ha! It’s different now it’s on the other foot.” Grinning, she propped herself on an elbow, her red-gold hair spilling over his pillows. “How many?”

  “Enough to know what I’m doing.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I wish I’d waited.”

  She stilled. “Pardon?”

  “I wish this was new to me. That I only knew you.” He didn’t begrudge any of the women he’d been with—not that there had been many—but he wished he’d realised Lydia was the only one he wanted. “How did you know what to do?” Her eyes were soft and…wet? Christ, what had he said? “Lydia?”

  Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “Know what to do what?”

  “When we—” He gestured vaguely, feeling awkward as hell.

  “Ah. When we.” She settled into his side. “Harry and George don’t hide things nearly as well as they think they do. They have the most interesting books stashed under their beds.”

  “And that is where you learnt this?”

  “They had pictures, Oliver. If you think Violet and I didn’t study those books thoroughly, I will have to disappoint you.”

  “I am not disappointed. At all.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head, his hair falling forward at the move.

  She tugged at the strand before he could pull back. “I love this.”

  “My hair?”

  She nodded, watching the strands fall from her fingers. “More and more of it would fall about your face as the day progressed, and you would shove it back impatiently, not even aware you did so.”

  “You chewed on the end of your hair.”

  Hazel eyes flew to his, a question in their depths.

  “When you concentrated,” he clarified. “But then, you stopped doing it and you’d brush your lips with the ends instead.”

  “That was Miss Chisholm. She was quite aghast at the habit and set about correcting it.” She placed the ends of his hair against her lips. “I’ve not seen it fully down before. It’s quite long.”

  “Below my shoulders.”

  “Why is it so long? Tis not the fashion.”

  He
’d never actually said it out loud. “My father hated it.”

  It sounded petty and small, but words couldn’t come close to conveying the maelstrom that swirled within him. It had been his one small rebellion. His father had ruthlessly controlled every aspect of his appearance, and the moment his hair had touched his ears, his father had ordered it cut. Then, his father had died.

  Lydia ran her fingers gently over the beard on his chin. “And this?”

  “Same as my hair.” Twice a day he’d been compelled to shave, his father inspecting his jaw.

  Cupping his cheek, she placed a kiss on his chin. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “That your father was horrible.”

  He blinked. Christ. His father was horrible. He’d never thought of it that way, but he had been a terrible father. Wrapping his arms about her, he hugged her tight. She was everything to him. “You are so beautiful.”

  Her gaze flickered. “Oh. Thank you.”

  “No, I” He wasn’t explaining it well. He didn’t mean“You are beautiful. All of you. Every part of you. Your mind. Your compassion. That you say such a thing as my father was horrible and you are right. He was horrible. You say things and you make me think of it a different way, and I…. You are beautiful.”

  It still didn’t explain enough, didn’t convey what she meant to him, how she made him better, how she was the best person he knew. The one whose opinion, whose insights, he most wanted. The first person he wanted to discuss anything with, the first person he thought of each morning, the last he thought of each night, and how when she was on the Continent he’d missed her. He’d missed her so much.

  She bit her lip, her eyes wet.

  “You’re not—I didn’t—Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not,” she said as a tear slipped over her cheek.

  He captured it with his thumb. “Lydia—”

  Her hand wrapped around his, her fingers caressing his palm. “You mean everything to me.”

  The lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow. Bringing her hand to his lips, he brushed a kiss over her fingers.

  “Don’t let me fall asleep,” she whispered.

  “I won’t.” He stroked her hair as she settled against him, her fingers smoothing the smattering of hair on his chest, and he tried not to think about how perfectly she fit by his side. All night he held her, and neither of them fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Music followed Lydia as she made her way from the ballroom. The Sanderson’s ball had attracted those members of society still in London and was a fairly packed affair, though nowhere near the heights of a London in the full swing of the season. She offered distracted smiles to those revellers who wandered the same halls she did, her focus wholly on reaching her destination with as little notice as possible.

  Turning a corner into a hall devoid of people, she abandoned any pretention to decorum, lifted her skirts, and ran. Excitement thrummed in her veins and a wild laugh bubbled inside her as she raced through the halls.

  The orangery lit up with lightning, casting long shadows as thunder rumbled and, deep amongst the greenery, she found him. Oliver stood with his back to her, hands laced loosely behind him. She took a moment to soak him in. Broad shoulders. Slim hips. Long legs. His hair gathered into a knot at his nape, ruthlessly contained at the minute but it would take so little to ruin that precision. To ruin him.

  Lust punched her. Wetting her lips, she knew she could give in to that lust, touch him as she’d always wanted to touch him, and he would welcome her, and she revelled in that knowledge.

  “Oliver.” He turned, and his expression when he saw her— his eyes alight, his lips curving into a glorious smile—

  She threw herself at him. As always, he was surprised by her exuberance but surprise did not stop him from returning her kiss, wrapping his arms around her and hauling her close. He kissed her as if he hadn’t done so in months, though it had been last night she’d again crept to his bedchamber and they’d pleasured each other in his bed. For almost a week, she had shared his bed, and it had been the best week of her life. They had not yet crossed the final line in their passion, but she had no wish to endure the rumours that would follow a baby born less than nine months from their wedding, and she was certain Oliver felt the same.

  Resting his cheek against her hair, he gathered her close, his body hard and ready against her but holding her with such tenderness.

  Rubbing her lips against his jaw, she said, “Hello.”

  “Hello.” His arms tightened about her. “Is the door shut?”

  “I don’t know.” Eyes drifting closed, she breathed him in, that scent that was rosemary and leather and him.

  Concern on his brow, he set her from him. “We cannot be reckless.”

  “How is this reckless?” Another low rumble of thunder. The evening was yet dry, rain threatening with every peal. “Who would venture this far on such an evening?”

  “Plenty,” he said darkly.

  She bit her lip. “I wanted to see you, Oliver.”

  Expression softening, he said, “And I, you.”

  Contentment flowing through her, she traced his brow. “How was your day?”

  “Tolerable,” he said. “The stack of paper never seems to decrease.”

  She hummed, ghosting her fingers over his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard playing along her skin.

  “What did you do?” he asked, leaning into her touch.

  “Violet and I went shopping, though that was mostly for Violet.” His lips were so soft, and she loved that she knew that, she loved touching him, and she loved that he let her.

  “So you bought nothing?”

  “Perhaps I bought some ribbon. And a pelisse. And maybe a bonnet.” She inhaled sharply as he nipped at her skin. “I may have also ordered a dress.”

  “Bad Lydia.” His tongue flicked against the abused flesh.

  She gasped. With a feral grin, he took her hand and led her to a day bed, hauling her into his lap. Eagerly she went, pulling her skirts up to straddle him, and hands tugged at her bodice. The fabric fell away easily, as easily as his jacket, his waistcoat, the cravat from his neck. Tugging his shirt from his pants, she dug her fingers into warm flesh as she rocked against him, aching. He grunted, his mouth sucking at her neck, and his hand covered her breast, rubbed her nipple. Skin on fire, she arched against him.

  “You feel so good,” he ground out. She moaned in agreement, trying to get closer, wanting everything, wanting him. Lightning crashed to light Oliver’s face, his grey eyes dark with lust. Taking the lobe of his ear between her teeth, she bit gently and soothed with her tongue, bit and soothed. Muscles suddenly tense, he was still under her touch. Smoothing her hands over his shoulders, she nuzzled his neck, ran her tongue over his jaw.

  Jerking back, he grabbed her upper arms. “Lydia.”

  His voice was like a dash of cold water, cutting through her lust. “What?” She swallowed, her tongue thick. “What is it?”

  “Did you shut the door?”

  She couldn’t Shaking herself, she tried to focus. “Yes.”

  “Did you lock it?” he said, his expression hard.

  Hunching her shoulders, she pulled her bodice into place, of a sudden feeling horribly exposed. “I don’t think there was a lock.”

  He cursed.

  She flinched. “What is it?”

  “I saw someone,” he said grimly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A face. Over there.”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean, ‘so’? I saw a face. Someone could have seen us, Lydia.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters!” He exhaled harshly. “It matters, Lydia,” he said in a more measured tone. “If we’re seen, your options will narrow to one.”

  “But you are my option. My only option.”

  Jaw working, he stared at her.

  “Oliver?”

  S
hooting to his feet, he started to pace. “You don’t know what you want.”

  She rose, too. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

  “You’re too young—”

  “Damnation, Oliver!” Well, at least she’d shocked him to silence. “I am not too young. I am twenty years old, well past the age most women wed. I have travelled the Continent. I have refused numerous offers. I know my mind and I know what I want. I want you. I have always wanted you.”

  He shook his head.

  Unbelievable. He— Why couldn’t he get it through his thick skull? “Do you not believe me?”

  “You don’t know what you want. You’ve not…. Lydia, you haven’t the experience. You fixated on me, and I have taken shameless advantage. You don’t want me. You just think have no other option.”

  “Oliver,” she said. “Do you not believe I want you?”

  “I believe you think you want me,” he said wearily. “There are other men, Lydia. Better men. Younger men. This is temporary.”

  He was so infuriating. “Of course I want you, Oliver. I’ve always wanted you.”

  Jaw set, he turned his head.

  “No.” Grabbing his face, she forced him to look at her. “I love you.”

  His gaze slid from hers.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to beat at him, to force him to believe her, to make him as angry as she was with him. How dare he discount her feelings? How dare he dictate to her how she felt? He had no clue, not one. All her life, she’d known it was him she’d wanted. All. Her. Life. She shouldn’t have to convince him of this. Everyone knew she wanted him. Even Seraphina Waller-Mitchell knew. He was—

  Exhaling, she forced herself to calm. She would not deal with this now. She was too angry and she would say something she would regret. “I think we should return to the ballroom,” she said evenly.

  Uncertainty troubled his expression, but she found she didn’t much care to explain her sudden change in mood. “I will return to Roxegate. You should find your mother.”