A Lady Unchained: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Two Page 6

  Rest. Arthur hadn’t planned on rest—he hadn’t planned on anything that had occurred, in all of its shocking pleasure. Lydia’s cries, Lydia’s sweet, soft murmurs in his ear, the feel of her in his arms… oh, it was so much better than he had ever dreamed.

  Despite not coming, he had never felt more sated. More satisfied, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Arthur, lying in Lydia’s bed as Martha’s snores hummed through the house, watched her as she reached for her nightgown.

  ‘Leave it off.’ He bit his lip as she turned; he had made it sound like an order. He didn’t wish to order her to to anything. ‘Please.’

  ‘Truly?’ Lydia’s slow smile brought the familiar ache to his loins. What was it about the woman that had him ready to begin again, even though they had just finished? ‘I believe I would feel strange, in bed without a nightgown.’

  ‘And I would feel strange, having you lie next to me in linen. You are perfect without clothes.’ Arthur smiled, watching Lydia beam with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I would be forced to remove whatever nightgown you put on.’

  ‘You would be forced?’ Lydia laughed, her curls bouncing in the candle-light. ‘Does your lust really compel you do forcefully?’

  Not lust. The power of the thought was blinding. Love.

  He had been holding the word at bay for so very long. Dismissing it as foolish, as useless, as impossible… but oh, love had already caught his heart, gripping it tight, leaving him no escape.

  He didn’t want to escape. He wanted Lydia naked, in his bed, until they were both dust. Arthur, nodding tightly in response to Lydia’s question, felt as if he were drowning in tenderness.

  He needed her. Needed her now, so he could forget how soon he would have to give her up.

  ‘As much as I cherish your belief in my perfection, Mr. Weeks, I am forced to disappoint you. Not least because I rather enjoy the idea of you removing my nightgown.’ Lydia stroked along the ruffled column of linen; Arthur followed the movement of her fingers, graceful as a dance. ‘I shall dress for bed, as a respectable woman should.’

  ‘You are thoroughly respectable without a nightgown.’ Arthur watched Lydia put on her nightgown with a soft sigh of disappointment. ‘I’ve known nuns who lack your air of respectability.’

  ‘I have a former prize-fighter in my bed.’ Lydia smiled as she approached, sinking into the blankets with a sigh that made Arthur’s heart ache. ‘I am the very opposite of respectable. All the better for you.’

  Arthur tried to smile, the comment wounding him all the same. He had no business being wounded—Lydia was right. Her appetite for scandal only benefited him, in the short term.

  In the long term, of course, it practically ensured a broken heart.

  ‘I used to lie here and read your letters.’ Lydia snuggled closer to him; Arthur put his arm around her, holding his breath as she put her hand on his chest. Even after what they had done in the bath-tub, her touch still thrilled him. ‘I used to dream of you here.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Arthur breathed in the scent of her hair. ‘How did the dream differ from the genuine article?’

  ‘Oh goodness. It was little more than a rough sketch.’ Lydia smiled. ‘I would close my eyes, and imagine you sternly sweeping me up in your arms and carrying me to bed…’

  ‘Stern? I do not see myself as stern.’

  ‘You are delightfully stern in crucial moments.’ Lydia looked up at him, her gaze bright and wicked. ‘Did you imagine me, when you read my letters?’

  ‘How could I not?’

  ‘A most correct answer.’ Lydia moved closer still; Arthur tightened his arm around her, trying to learn the feel of her. He would need this memory when he everything was over, and he was alone. ‘But can you not be a little more specific?’

  ‘You were as teasing as you are in real life.’

  ‘I can only compliment my imaginary self.’ Lydia laughed. ‘What else?’

  ‘Hmm.’ The bed was too warm, the house was too quiet; he was forgetting himself. ‘Like a Greek goddess. Like Diana. Proud and beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful, proud, teasing… you imagined me quite splendid.’ Lydia paused. ‘I am no Diana.’

  ‘I do not wish you to be Diana.’

  ‘And who do you wish me to be?’

  ‘... Mrs Lydia Weeks.’

  There. He had said it. As Lydia paused, clearly confused, Arthur hurried to correct himself.

  ‘Forgive me. Forget what I said.’

  ‘How am I supposed to forget what you said?’ Lydia’s eyes were very wide, her voice soft. ‘You said—’

  ‘But it does not matter. It signifies nothing.’ Arthur shook his head, self-loathing filling him from head to foot. How could he have been so ridiculous? ‘You were very clear—a few days of scandal. A thrill.’

  ‘You said Mrs—’

  ‘I know what I said. Do not say it again. I am sorry for saying it.’

  ‘Are you? Truly?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Arthur looked away, staring furiously at the wallpaper of Lydia’s bedroom. You have ruined everything. ‘However I reply, it changes nothing.’

  The moment was broken. Twisted beyond repair. He had to take his loose tongue and ridiculous ideas away from here; back to the Cappadene Club, back to solitude. Arthur moved away, reaching for his discarded clothes at the foot of the bed.

  He stopped, a tremble running through him, as Lydia gripped his arm. Slowly, gently, she pushed him back onto the pillows.

  ‘Say that we were to be married.’ Lydia’s voice broke the fraught silence of the room, shattering the tension to fragments. ‘Say… that we were already married.’

  ‘But we are—’

  ‘I know that we are not. That… that we cannot.’ Lydia paused, taking a deep breath. It was as if she needed courage to continue. ‘But it can exist here, as a fantasy. As a dream.’

  ‘A dream that pains me because it cannot come true.’

  ‘But here, now, it can be true. And we have nothing more than here and now.’ Lydia’s voice trembled. ‘We can pretend. Can’t we?’

  ‘Would it make you happy if we did?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘And… and would it make you happy, even if it pained you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur couldn’t lie. ‘Of course.’

  The tension in the room was growing again; energy, swift and bright, was growing between the both of them. An energy that Arthur knew he should resist with all his might… but the moment was far, far too strong.

  ‘Husband.’ Lydia smiled. ‘I can call you husband, here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur’s breath caught in his throat at the sound of the word. ‘You can.’

  ‘And you should call me wife.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Wife.’ Arthur moved closer, pressing his forehead to hers. He needed to feel her skin on his as he said the word. ‘My… my wife.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Yours.’ Lydia kissed him gently; Arthur leaned into the kiss, helpless. ‘You are a good husband to me.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘And what do you say to me?’

  ‘I would say that I—’

  ‘No. No would.’ Lydia stared at him, unblinking. ‘Say it as if it were true.’

  ‘You…’ Arthur bit his lip, lost in the beauty of her face, the bravery in her voice. ‘You are the best of wives.’

  ‘Good. I know I am.’ Lydia moved a hand to his head, stroking his hair; Arthur closed his eyes at the feel of her fingers. ‘And… and I like to hear you talk, husband. Tell me about our wedding.’

  ‘Our wedding?’

  ‘Yes. I was so overcome with nervousness, I believe I have forgotten certain parts of the day.’ Lydia leaned forward, kissing his forehead. ‘Help me remember.’

  A seductive, poisonous fantasy. Arthur, knowing he shouldn’t, began to speak as the dream filled him.

  ‘We married in summer. Full summer—everyone was
complaining of the heat, but we didn’t care. We wanted the sun on our backs as we left the church.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia’s sigh was wistful and content, all at the same time. ‘The church was so full of flowers that the vicar kept sneezing.’

  ‘We should have asked for another vicar.’

  ‘Oh, but who cared about the vicar? All I cared about were your clothes, and my gown.’ Lydia moved closer. ‘What did my gown look like?’

  ‘Bright. No cream or ivory nonsense—you didn’t want a funeral shroud.’ Arthur sighed, summoning up an image that inflamed him as much as it pained him. ‘You… you wore purple.’

  ‘Purple?’

  ‘Yes. Like the queen of Sheba.’ Arthur looked at Lydia, his voice breaking. ‘Like a queen.’

  In the reverent hush of the bedroom, he could almost picture it as if it were a memory. The church closest to this house—was it All Souls? That would be Lydia’s church; their church. How beautiful it would look, hung with flowers.

  How proud he would be, walking Lydia out into the street, showing the world the splendour of his wife.

  ‘I have a confession.’

  Arthur opened his eyes, his hand caught tight in Lydia’s. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened in the bath?’

  ‘Intimately.’

  ‘What… what I said about your words.’

  Arthur bit his lip, a rush of lust moving through him as he remembered what Lydia had said. How she had spoken of her own passion. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is happening again. You—you have the strangest of powers.’ Lydia laughed guiltily; the sound had Arthur’s cock stiffening. ‘I have never heard of wives being thusly inflamed by their husbands.’

  ‘More common than you’d think.’

  ‘Good. I assume we spend much of our married life in bed.’

  ‘Days and days.’

  ‘But we have been curiously unproductive. If we are married for a good while, now, why do we not have children?’

  ‘Children cannot be planned.’

  ‘But they can be expected, if both parties are young and willing.’ Lydia laughed gently, her eyes still full of cautious daring. ‘Or perhaps you are a little too old, for children to be expected?’

  Arthur couldn’t help but smile at such a blatant provocation. Pulling her closer, a warm thrill moving through his body at the feel of her linen-clad skin against his, he found himself submitting to the fantasy.

  ‘If you were any sort of obedient wife, you would refrain from making comments about your husband’s age.’

  The soft smile that spread over Lydia’s face was the best kind of reward. ‘But you did not wed me for my obedience.’

  ‘No.’ Arthur stroked her face, speaking as softly as he could. If he spoke too loudly, he would disturb the gossamer contours of this forbidden dream. ‘I wedded you because I could not bear not to.’

  ‘Well then, husband.’ Lydia’s breath caught a little on the word. ‘I cannot bear to be wed to you without at least trying to have children. And thanks to your gentle instruction, I believe I know at least in theory how they are made.’

  ‘In theory?’ Arthur couldn’t help but smile. ‘My wife should be a member of the Royal Society.’

  ‘Your wife lacks practical experience.’ Lydia looked at him cautiously; the fantasy of the moment quivered at the edges. ‘Experience which could be gained here, and now.’

  She was ready. His body was ready, if not his heart. Arthur stroked Lydia’s hair, suddenly assailed by doubt.

  ‘I worry terribly that it would hurt.’ He spoke as gruffly as he could, not wanting Lydia to understand the extent of his fear. ‘I cannot hurt you.’

  ‘I believe we demonstrated in the bath-tub that you will not hurt me.’ Lydia paused. ‘Is that all you are afraid of?’

  No. Arthur shifted uncomfortably. He had already said so many things to Lydia that he shouldn’t—but this felt like a step beyond everything he had previously expressed. ‘I am afraid of more than you would think.’

  ‘Then tell me.’ Lydia smiled, moving closer. ‘Problems shared are problems halved, no?’

  Arthur reached out. He stroked Lydia’s face, saying the words as slowly and clearly as he could. ‘I am worried about hurting you. But more than that. I worry about it being exquisite—perfect.’

  Lydia’s eyes widened. ‘Why are you worried about it being perfect?’

  ‘Because when it ends, I won’t be able to let you go.’ Arthur paused. ‘I… I could not bring myself to do it.’

  There was a short, blistering moment of silence. Lydia’s gaze burned into his, fear and excitement both evident in her gaze.

  ‘We could cross that bridge when we come to it.’ She paused, one hand picking at the blanket. ‘Couldn’t we?’

  ‘I already know what’s on the other side of the bridge.’

  ‘You can’t know.’

  ‘Solitude. Loneliness.’

  ‘Arthur.’ Lydia’s use of his Christian name startled Arthur into silence. ‘If I can’t know, you can’t know.’

  This was meant to be free of sentiment. Pure scandal. Arthur, looking at Lydia as a tide of feeling overwhelmed him, knew that they were both swimming in much deeper waters than they had ever imagined.

  He repressed a gasp as Lydia moved closer to him. He had been wrong to judge her nightgown; it made her softer, more infinite as she slowly, gently sat astride him. She settled upon him, her weight bringing a delicious tension to his thighs and core, his cock hardening despite the turmoil in his mind.

  ‘If I do this, you will stop thinking.’ Lydia straightened her spine, sitting erect; Arthur’s gaze moved over the bountiful curves of her body, the linen of the nightgown only accentuating her curves. ‘Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Lydia smiled; Arthur smiled back, unable to resist. Every overture this woman made could never be denied. ‘And as you can see, I grow less weak by the minute.’

  ‘I have started to have doubts about your weakness.’ Arthur moved his hands to her waist, his fingertips tingling as he touched her. ‘I believe it has all been an elaborate plan to snare me.’

  ‘No snaring. We are married, remember—a wife cannot snare her husband.’ Lydia looked at him with shy, teasing glee. ‘Or can she?’

  ‘You are capable of snaring a unicorn with a spider-web.’ Arthur stroked Lydia’s waist, marvelling at her contours.

  ‘How very complimentary.’ Lydia pretended to preen, collapsing into soft laughter. ‘Say other pleasant things about how excellent a wife I am.’

  ‘You… you keep a wonderful home, and plan excellent menus.’

  ‘Pleasant, but not specific enough. What is the dish I order Cook to make when you are in need of comfort?’

  ‘A trick question. I do not want food when I am in need of comfort.’ Arthur gently moved his hands to underneath Lydia’s breasts, tracing their full, ripe curve.

  ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘You. Like this. Without the inconvenience of a nightgown.’

  ‘I feel it again. The heat.’ Lydia laughed quietly, pleasure mingling with shame in the sound. Arthur let his hands settle on her hips, still astonished at the abundance set before him. ‘What must I do?’

  ‘What aided you before?’

  ‘It—it is shameful to say.’ Lydia shifted atop him; Arthur bit back a sigh as his cock twitched. ‘I am embarrassed.’

  ‘You need not be embarrassed in front of your husband.’ It was addictive, saying the word—it made the fantasy more real. More potent. Arthur could understand now why people kept returning to the Cappadene Club, determined to act upon whatever strange desire filled their idle thoughts. The joy of it was better than any drug. ‘Tell me.’

  The new light in Lydia’s eyes, the slight catch in her breath, let him know that she was as enchanted by the conceit as he was. ‘Your fingers. Your words. They—they helped. They were divine.’

  ‘Do you want my fingers and wor
ds, wife?’

  ‘Yes, husband. Yes, I do.’ Lydia bent down, kissing him with soft, yielding hunger as her full breasts pressed against Arthur’s chest. Her skin on his, the warm, clean scent of her, felt like home. ‘I want your fingers, and your words, and—and then I want still more of you.’

  ‘Remember I haven’t had your schooling.’ Arthur enjoyed the slight reddening of Lydia’s cheeks. ‘You’ll have to be clearer. When you say you want more of me… which part of me do you want?’

  ‘You are a beast.’ Lydia’s teeth shyly grazed Arthur’s bottom lip. ‘Don’t make me say it.’

  ‘But I love to hear you say things you shouldn’t.’ Arthur murmured in her ear, acutely aware of how hard he was. How ready he was. ‘Say you want me in you. My cock, inside you.’

  ‘I will die of shame.’

  ‘Says the woman who sews scarlet into her skirts. Who threw water over me, to make me remove my clothes. My disobedient wife.’ Arthur ran his hands along Lydia’s back, gently stroking the sides of her breasts, moving his hips so that his cock rested snugly at her entrance. Now she could ride him—now she could do anything she wished to him. ‘Say the words.’

  Lydia’s laughter was sweeter than any music. ‘You are cruel to me.’

  ‘If this is cruelty to you, I shall never stop being cruel.’ Arthur moved his hand upward, gently pinching Lydia’s stiff, swollen nipple. ‘I’ll set my honour to it.’

  ‘I… I want your fingers. I want you to stroke me as you did before—that, that bud. The bud that makes me quiver. I want you to stroke it, and pet it, as you did before. I want you to kiss me everywhere.’ Lydia sounded slightly scandalised at the words coming out of her own mouth; the thrill in her voice had Arthur’s cock straining. ‘And I—I want you in me. Want your—your cock, in me. I want everything, everything at once, and I—’

  Arthur kissed her. He put all of himself into the kiss; his passion, his fear. His certainty that she, Lydia Holt, was the only woman he would ever need. ‘I’ll give you everything. Let me try.’

  Lydia’s lips met his again, her sigh of surrender thrilling against his lips. For a few fitful moments all was arrangements, organisation, changing of position. More pillows were pushed under Arthur’s head, more laughter as the blanket fell away, a thrilled gasp as Lydia’s nightgown, the thinnest of linens, tore in Arthur’s clumsy fingers as he pulled it from her body… and then, and then, his palm was at her mound. His fingers were gliding over her slick, waiting lips, brushing the tight cluster of nerves that had Lydia trembling atop him.