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?”
Shooting 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.”
“And what will that accomplish?”
He still regarded her warily. “I don’t know, but Lady Demartine will fix it. She’s good at fixing disasters.”
Her heart cracked. “This is a disaster?”
“No. No, of course not. Lydia….” Licking his lips, he ran his hand over his head, fingers snagging in the loose strands. She had pulled those strands free. When they were behaving disastrously.
“I see.” Numbness coated her. “You should go to Roxegate. I will find my mother.”
“Lydia—”
“No,” she said sharply.
Jaw working, he stared at her.
Suddenly, she was tired. So tired. Presenting her back, she said, “Please button me.”
Silently, he did as she bade and they were silent as they righted themselves.
“I will go first,” she said.
“Lydia.…”
Ignoring him, she left the orangery. Turning a corner, she leant against a wall and sagged. How could she argue in the face of such belief? She had never wavered, and yet still he disbelieved her, thought her silly and young and unable to make a decision. How could he think such of her?
Wrapping her arms about her middle, she pressed hard. It hurt so much he didn’t know her, he didn’t trust her. How could she want someone who didn’t trust her, trust she knew her own mind and had the courage of her convictions?
Exhaling, she rubbed her brows. This wasn’t going to be solved now. Now, she had to re-enter the ballroom and pretend all was well. Pushing away from the wall, she started down the hall only to stop in surprise.
Ahead, arguing in low tones, were Seraphina Waller-Mitchell and Stephen Farlisle.
They were close, barely half a foot apart, and Seraphina looked…distraught. Never had Lydia seen such an expression on the other woman’s face before. She didn’t even know Seraphina could display any emotion bar smug superiority. Stephen wore anger and a faint air of disappointment. He spoke urgently, and then he made to leave. Seraphina captured his arm but he shook her off and, with a final look, left.
Lydia didn’t know what to do. The only way back to the ballroom was to pass by Seraphina. The other woman looked miserable, her hands cradling her elbows as she stared at the floor.
There was nothing for it. She would have to pass her.
Seraphina looked up as Lydia approached and her expression changed, becoming the mocking smirk society knew. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lydia Torrence. Whatever are you doing here, Lydia Torrence?” Her tone held its usual mocking edge, but underlying it was a thread of tears.
Lydia squared her shoulders. “Are you crying?”
Seraphina started, and then her chin raised mulishly. “Why are you wandering the halls, or perhaps I can guess? However, I don’t really need to. I know it has to do with Lord Roxwaithe.”
Unease slithered down her spine. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you were in the orangery. I know you were…close.”
The face. Oliver’s conviction they were seen. “Do you?”
“It would be unfortunate if that knowledge were to become more widely known.”
Something inside her broke. First Oliver’s obstinacy and now Seraphina Waller-Mitchell’s spite. “You know what, Seraphina? I don’t care. Tell my family. Tell everyone. Do you think I care what other people think? Do you think I care what you think?”
Slowly the smirk faded from Seraphina’s expression. “You don’t?”
Lydia kept Seraphina’s gaze, refused to give her surcease.
The other woman swallowed. “Why don’t you?”
“Because...” Leaning close, she lowered her tone, so Seraphina knew just how much she meant it. “I don’t like you.”
Stricken, Seraphina Waller-Mitchell stared at her. Lydia walked off, not caring how Seraphina would react next. She didn’t care. She had her family and, damnation, she had Oliver. He was buffle-headed and wrong, but she’d be damned if he destroyed them because of some fool-headed notion.
Stopping, she took a shuddering breath. She’d just stood up to Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. She’d just looked her direct in the eye and told her she didn’t like her. Well. Wasn’t this a red-letter evening.
Clasping her hands together, she closed her eyes. The problem of Oliver’s disbelief would be solved. She would come up with a plan and she would make it work. She loved him too much not to and, damnation, she knew he loved her in return. She would make him see, even if it took her forever. So determined, she started again toward the ballroom.
Tomorrow. She would know what to do tomorrow.