Authors: Melissa Lynne Blue
Earnestly she sat forward grasping his hands. “Does that mean you will take that job with Northbridge? Stay close to me?”
“Oh, Lydia, I don’t know what to tell ye. It all depends on what the future brings.”
“But, don’t you want to be with me?” Sadness laced her voice, reaching up to touch her eyes.
He released a haggard breath, knowing better than to be honest. “Aye, lass, I would be lyin’ to say no. I’ve tried to deny it, but I fear our lives are too different.”
“Then take me with you.” She breathed, reaching out to brush an errant lock of hair from his brow. “Let me make your life my life. We could run away together. Now. Tonight. I am to be married in one week, but…” She let the sentence hang.
For a single agonizing moment he could not halt his errant heart or head from jumping at the prospect. For one instant he actually considered absconding with her. Mrs. Brian Donnelly… Lydia Donnelly. The name fit as comfortably as the ring. Her beautiful face was pleading, bewitching, and he loved her with every breath in his body. But it was that love for her which
left him at war with his own desires. His hands caressed the expensive silk of her gown. “Do ye not understand, Lydia? I can give ye none of this? You are deservin’ of all the riches in this world, and a man like Lord Northbridge can shower ye in anythin’ ye wish for.”
The book slid from her lap as she scooted to the edge of the sofa. Intently she tightened the grasp on his hand. “I don’t care what the viscount can shower me with. It means nothing without you. I want you, Brian Donnelly, nothing and no one but you.”
“Oh, Lydia,” he groaned, all
self-control
shattered. Sliding his hand along the back of her neck, he leaned in to press his lips to hers. In that moment the heaven’s parted and the angels sang. Light cast upon the dreary state of his emotions, flooded his very soul. Lydia kissed him back with abandon, parting her mouth in innocent eagerness. Her soft hands cupped his face, lacing through his hair, and he was lost. He came off his knees, his arms slid around her, and he settled her back against the settee covering her with the length of his body. She felt so tiny and perfectly soft beneath him.
She moaned something, it may have been his name, but the words were swallowed as he plundered her mouth, greedily taking every stroke of the tongue and breath she offered. His hand wandered down her throat to the swell of her breasts. Her rapid heartbeat drummed against his palm. Her lips were so soft and round and tantalizingly sweet he could be content to taste them and nothing else for the rest of eternity. There was no need for food or water, Lydia alone could sustain him. Without her life was empty… colorless… devoid even of the light. Lydia was his life.
“Oh, love,” he groaned, trailing a path of steaming kisses along the tender flesh of her throat, “how beautiful ye are.” The tiny buttons and bows at the front of her gown lay at his fingertips, literally begging to be opened. Her breasts strained against the fabric, nipples hard beneath his thumbs. Dear God, he would die if he couldn’t have her, see her, sample the sweet flesh peaking over the lace of her gown.
A warning rumbled in the hollows of his mind. He ignored it. Instead of pulling away from her as any wise man would he tugged loose the silken pink bow holding the top of her bodice together, watching the corners fold away from her flushed milky skin. Her breathing quickened though she made no move to stop him. Nimble fingers slid down to the small button
below the ribbon swiftly unfastening it. A bit more fabric folded away revealing the sheer white undergarment and the last barrier between his lips and Lydia’s bare skin. Gently he kissed the hollow beneath her throat, and then the depression just above her breasts.
Lydia gasped.
He stilled, unsure how to proceed, and thoroughly shocked when her tentative fingers began to work at the fastenings of his shirt. The eroticism of her innocent fumbling was surpassed only by the touch of her smooth hands on his chest. All rational thought was lost to him. He made quick work of her bodice at last baring the tantalizing swell of her breasts to his gaze. The flesh was pink and smooth as porcelain. For a long moment he simply stared at her perfection, transfixed. A soft whimper floated from her lips, sending him into action. Slowly he leaned in to kiss her, fitting one palm around the curvature of her breast as their lips moved in smoldering tandem. Dear god, but he ached for her, physically hurt in ways he’d not known a man could feel.
His hand wandered further down, hiking the heavy skirts up around her knees. He shifted to rise above her, trailing a hand up the delicious curve of her thigh.
The naughty girl,
he fought the urge to smile,
was not wearing any stockings.
She’d called him here wanting
this.
The knowledge broke through the last of his resolve. Lydia wiggled beneath him, fitting herself perfectly against his hips, tentatively her legs parted ever so slightly, inviting him in. His ribs protested as he arched above her, but it didn’t matter, he was ready for her, to plunge into her heat, ravish her, make her his own. Better she was his for the taking, a sliver of heaven on earth.
Brian was no stranger to women. He’d known whores, widows, even genteel ladies, but he had no experience with innocents. Holding Lydia, teaching her the art of loving was better than anything he could have imagined. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this,
she,
was sure to be better than any previous conquest.
Instantly he stilled, disgusted with himself.
Conquest?
How could he think of Lydia as a conquest? She was the woman he loved. He wanted to marry her. Make love to her every night, wake beside her every morning and then do it all over again. No more did Brian want the fairytale he’d clung to these long years. He wanted the Lydia Covington he’d fallen in love with
over the last few days. The fear of loss he’d clung to all those years trembled in his mind. He gazed down into her eyes, wide and clouded with a mixture of passion and confusion.
“Brian?” she questioned. “What’s wrong?’
A clatter from the hallway drew him fully to his senses.
What the hell am I doing?
She deserved better than to be ravaged on a couch—taken and discarded. He pulled away from her throwing the edges of her wide open bodice together, and dragging the length of skirt from her hips to her ankles.
“Wait!” She followed him up, sitting sideways on the settee, clutching the edges of her bodice with her left hand and catching his arm with the right. “Where are you going? D-don’t you want me?”
The tremor in her voice, the pain of rejection in her eyes, was more than enough to gut him. His heart, the whole of his chest, clenched until he could scarcely draw a breath. “Lydia—” He grasped for the right words. “Ye are deservin’ of so much better than
this
.” He gestured to her compromising position on the sofa. Her cheeks flamed. “What I mean, lass, is that ye deserve better than the likes of me.”
Tears glazed the surface of her eyes as slowly her head began to shake. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head with more vehemence. The tousled tresses slapped her cheeks. “How can you say that?” Fat tears spilled over her lids, trickling small rivers down her face. “I don’t understand what is wrong with me. I even did my own hair today.” She grabbed a wad of loose tendrils as though holding them out for him to see explained everything. “And I dressed myself without any assistance.”
Just what did that have to do with anything?
“Well, uh, that’s very nice.”
Damn
, he hadn’t meant for the words to sound so flat, so indifferent.
“What is wrong with me, Brian? What? Why do you not want me?”
Again he dropped to his knees before her at a total loss. “Lydia, no, please stop cryin’. There is nothin’ wrong with you. Ye’re beautiful and smart and any man would be a fool not to want ye.” He grasped for her hand but she jerked away from his touch.
“So you’re a fool then?”
“Aye, probably…
Definitely
,” he amended after looking into her sad, broken eyes. “But, lass, that is neither here nor there because—”
“Because I’m not what you want.” She shoved him away, cheeks glowing redder by the minute. “Am I not self-sufficient enough? Or is it that I am not blonde? That must be it. My hair is boring and brown and I have boring brown eyes to match. We’ve already established that my breasts are not big enough.”
“Christ, Lydia, keep yer voice down.” He threw a nervous glance to the open door.
Her tirade proved insatiable. “I do not have perfect little dimples or blue eyes. I certainly do not kiss the way your little harlot does. What of Molly?”
“Who?”
“Does my maid kiss and touch you the way the harlot at the inn did? Is that why I am not enough for you?”
“Oh, my Lydia,” he rasped, cupping her face as the perceived rejection became clear. “Do not ever believe ye’re wanting. Ye’re perfect. I tried to explain about the woman at the inn, but—”
“Stop, Brian. I don’t want more of your excuses.” She heaved to her feet, fumbling with the front ribbons of her gown, but misjudged Brian’s proximity and toppled forward. He looped an arm about her waist, righting her position and pinning her to him. The position was awkward with Lydia standing and he on his knees. Lydia pulled against him, but he refused to let her go.
“You will listen to me.” He enunciated every word in a manner that brooked no argument. She stilled, continuing to hold the unfastened bodice closed, but unwilling to look into his eyes. His heart broke for the red splotches and tear stains marring her lovely face. The fact he’d caused her pain ate away his resolve. In that moment he’d give her anything she asked of him. Slowly he rose, keeping a secure arm about her waist, linking her to him. Gruffly he grasped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It matters not that I would ravage you here and now and gladly be shot in the back for it. It matters not a
whit
because—”
A second, much closer, crash emanated from the hall.
Lydia’s eyes widened suddenly. “Someone’s coming.” Her gaze darted from his face to the door.
Startled, Brian wasn’t prepared when Lydia wrenched from his grasp, and tore from the room.
Brian stared after her at a total loss for words, thought or action. The only certainty in his mind that he’d been within an inch of his dreams and let it all slip through his fingers. If someone had happened upon them… “It’s fer the best, Donnelly,” he muttered to himself, the words hollow. “Aye, and if ye believe that ye’re a goddamned fool.”
Brian spent the next hour pacing the house and grounds in total frustration. At long last he sought refuge in the kitchen with the elderly cook. The alluring scent of apple pie drew him in. Mrs. Porter’s pie was near good enough to die for. It could cure any and all ailments, something about the crust. He’d pestered her time and again for the recipe, but she swore to take the secret to her grave. Yes, something to eat would be just the thing to lift his spirits.
Popping his head around the corner leading into the kitchen, Brian inhaled deeply. “Do I smell fresh baked pies, Mrs. Porter?”
The cook smiled, wiping flour caked hands on her stained, once white apron. “Brian Donnelly, if I ever need to find you I’ll just put a pie in the oven to bake. This was supposed to be for Sir William’s desert but would you like a slice?” She lifted a knife, cutting a generous portion of steaming pie from the pan, and setting it on the scarred table along the wall. “Now sit down and keep me company while you eat. Molly told me you were severely injured. If you need anything at all do not strain yourself just ask me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brian instantly complied. Mrs. Porter loved to fawn over him. Apparently Brian reminded the widow of her late husband, also a retired Irish soldier. The woman was also forever dropping shameless hints in regard to her daughter Molly. No doubt the Molly Lydia had been so enflamed about earlier.
Brian speared a sliver of soft apple and popped it into his mouth.
Heaven…
At the very least blissful distraction. He took another bite, savoring every spice, but as he neared the edge of the crust he realized the food was little more than a temporary balm.
“Are you certain I can’t interest you in another slice of pie, Brian?”
He smiled into the cook’s twinkling blue eyes, the hue faded over the years, but lively and mischievous nonetheless. “Another time, Mrs. Porter, unless of course yer of a mind to share that famous recipe with me.”
“To the—”
“—grave,” he finished for her. “To the grave, I know. If that be the case then I’ll be off.”
“Pity,” the older woman cooed. “My Molly should be here any minute.”
Damn!
The last thing he needed was another Molly encounter. The girl had actually come to his quarters the day before! She’d done nothing untoward but he had no desire to give anyone an opportunity to cry impropriety. The woman he loved may be unmarriageable for a man of his circumstances but that didn’t mean he was ready or willing to look elsewhere for a wife. He leapt to his feet. “Thanks again, Mrs. Porter, but I really must be goin’.”
Swiftly Brian sidled out of the kitchen and into a main hall. What to do now? Normally he would have blown off a bit of his pent up steam by going for a ride—Morning Glory never failed to be a deliciously spirited mount—but the general’s leech had ordered no such strenuous activity for at least a week. At long last Brian elected to go to his room for a nap. Sleep and Mrs. Porter’s pie may not solve all of his problems, but at least he could forget for a while.