The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “Oh, my,” breathed Miss Crotchet. “There is his lordship. Talking to the vicar.”

  Hugo? Here? Lucinda’s body quickened at the mere mention of his name. She drew back into the shadows, afraid others would notice the intensity of her reaction.

  “My, doesn’t he look fine?” Miss Crotchet cooed. “Such a handsome figure of a man, such military bearing. How kind of him to drop in to see how we are going on.”

  The older lady cast a speculative glance in Lucinda’s direction. She kept her expression blank and watched the lord of the manor visiting his peasants. She repressed the unkind thought. Hugo had done a great deal for his tenants and dependents today. He had no need to show his face to curry their favor, yet here he was mixing and mingling. More evidence that he no longer needed her to get him involved. Her heart contracted, even as her mind took pleasure in her triumph.

  In deep conversation with the vicar, Hugo allowed his gaze to sweep the room. The moment it alighted on her, she knew for certain he’d been looking for her. He didn’t single her out or dash to her side, but his lingering glance contained so much warmth, she could almost feel it on her skin. Her eyes drifted half closed with pleasure, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. Swiftly, she caught her unconscious response, straightened her shoulders, and fixed her gaze on the dancers.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the two men shake hands. Good. He was leaving. If she was glad, why did her stomach dip in disappointment and then rise again as he circled the tent toward her?

  Casual, bluff, and extraordinarily attractive, he traversed the tent, shaking a hand here, slapping a back there. The villagers in their turn greeted him with respect. The charming smile he bestowed on Mrs. Peddle at the bar didn’t sit so well. Especially not when Mrs. Peddle actually simpered. He also had a few words with Trent.

  From beneath her lashes, she watched him accept a mug of ale from the blacksmith anchorman on the squire’s rope-pulling team and down it in one draft. The other man, who matched Hugo in breadth, looked as pleased as punch.

  The man had turned from sullen bear into charming man-of-the-world. If only fate had been kind and they had met earlier. It would be wrong to continue their meetings and not tell him the truth. His anger at Denbigh’s vile treatment had been palpable. What would he do if he knew Denbigh still lived? Might he think it his duty to send her back? A chill ran down her spine. Hugo would never betray her to her husband. Would he? She daren’t take the risk.

  The sadness she’d been ignoring all day welled up in her throat, clogged her nose, and burned at the back of her eyes. It didn’t matter what she wanted or how she felt about him; she had to end it before it developed into something meaningful. The wave of pain that hit her heart told her what her mind refused to believe. For her, it had already gone too deep.

  A sense of loss seemed to fill her with a strange sense of detachment.

  She forced herself to watch the dancing instead of his progress through the room, not sure she could hide her grief.

  And then he loomed in front of her.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said with a flash of white teeth and a small bow. “I trust you are enjoying yourselves?”

  “How good of you to ask, my lord,” Miss Crotchet gushed. “I was just telling Mrs. Graham, it is just like the old days.”

  He turned the full power of his penetrating gaze on Lucinda. Her heart clenched. She could not breathe. It was as if he held her close against his beautiful hard body. Her heartbeat thundered loud in her ears. “I didn’t expect to see you here, my lord. I understood you were to attend the Dawsons’ ball.”

  He stiffened slightly at the edge in her tone, an edge she really hadn’t intended to show, but he retained his pleasant expression. “I thought this might offer more entertainment.”

  Was he mocking her? Farmers and laborers in homespun trousers cavorted on the dance floor. They were all hearty laughter and red faces, sweating in the confines of unaccustomed cravats and partnering women in outdated gowns. And there he was, magnificent in the finest black evening clothes, eyes glinting a challenge.

  “Will you honor me with a dance, Mrs. Graham?”

  She drew in a quick, surprised breath at the sensation of longing and the quickening of her heart before common sense took command. She opened her mouth to refuse.

  A mere flash of bleakness darkened his gaze, but she caught it, even as he braced his shoulders and schooled his face into bland unconcern.

  What harm would one dance do? She’d sat in the shadows all through her marriage, and now she wanted to dance. Her feet could barely remain still.

  She placed her fingers lightly on his large warm palm, feeling the shock of his touch all the way to her toes. The hard line of his mouth softened as he brought her to her feet, his gaze one of warm approval, as if she’d done more than agree to dance. Her heart fluttered. Much more of this and she would lose what was left of her mind and her resolve.

  He led her to the orchestra dais as the set drew to a close, his military background apparent in the set of his shoulders and the precision of his stride perfectly adjusted to hers. “A waltz, if you please,” he commanded of the conductor.

  A waltz? How shocking. Only the raciest of hostesses allowed the dance at their balls. Geoffrey had taught her one rainy afternoon while Denbigh had been off on a hunting trip. It was scandalous. And fun. Surely a country band wouldn’t know such a thing? But after barely a moment’s pause, the orchestra struck up the music.

  Hugo pulled her into his arms and guided her into the steps as if no one else existed, just the two of them. It dawned on her, looking at his smug expression, that he had planned this in advance. The man was impossible, as irresistible as a cavalry charge. And against her will, against what she knew to be right, she found herself loving every moment.

  A smattering of exclamations rippled around the room. Some of the younger members of the party joined them on the dance floor. None of them danced as smoothly as Hugo. He had the grace and control of a warrior. Held firm in his embrace, her bones absorbed his strength.

  Since this might well be her last chance to feel his arms around her, she would make the most of it. Indeed, she ought to be grateful they were in full view of the rest of the village. Given the way her heart was beating and the fire low in her belly, heaven alone knew what would happen if they were alone.

  Liar. She knew only too well.

  She glanced up at his harsh face, at the polite expression and the fire in his eyes, and knew he felt exactly the same. “You dance well,” she said.

  “As do you.”

  “You took a chance that I knew how to waltz.” She glanced around at the handful of couples on the floor, one of them Trent with the boisterous miller’s daughter, who seemed more inclined to polka.

  He rumbled the rare chuckle that always caused her inner muscles to squeeze in a most pleasurable fashion. “After today’s display at the butts, I am not in the slightest surprised at your many talents.” His intent gaze fixed on hers contained a question she would never answer. “And besides,” he went on, “Wellington insisted that all his officers dance. I could have got you through it, if required.”

  She glanced at Trent. “Did the same order go for batmen?”

  “No. Trent’s is a whole different story.”

  Lucinda didn’t care about the valet. The music lulled her mind while her feet moved with the joy of dancing, and her sinful body simmered with sensual longing.

  Hugo was a good and kind man, and he had come here tonight to dance with her. More important, he had given her the gift of her femininity. Her marriage hadn’t failed because she was frigid. If her body’s lustful demand right at this moment provided any indication, the case was quite the opposite. Making love to Hugo had become an addiction. The fact that she’d lost a piece of her heart in the process was, as Father would say, another of life’s little tragedies.

  The rhythm in his stride broke the tiniest bit. He winced.

  “Is
your leg strong enough for dancing?” she asked.

  “Always concerned for someone else, aren’t you? You worry about the villagers and the vicar’s new roof, not to mention Sophia. Have you added me to your list of responsibilities?”

  If only she could. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “Who cares for you, Lucinda?”

  She jumped at the sound of her first name and looked around, but no one seemed to notice. “I am perfectly content. I have my home, my work in the parish, and my child.”

  “You deserve so much more, you know.”

  Not so long ago, she had started to believe she deserved nothing. And now she had taken all she dared, indeed far too much, but she would not regret one moment, not tonight.

  They danced in silence She could not help but be aware of his desire, the heat from his body, the feel of his hand at her waist—firm, strong, protective, the warmth in his gaze when his eyes met hers. And yet the forced restraint gave her the sensation that they communed on a different plane, not bodies, but hearts and minds. The music ended all too soon.

  Hugo bowed his thanks, and she swept a curtsey.

  “Walk with me outside,” he murmured.

  Her mouth dried. Outside in the dark, where no one could see them, was a very different prospect than dancing before a room full of people. Her pulse raced and her insides clamored for attention, for his touch in her most intimate places, for the joy of mutual fulfillment. She swallowed in an effort to regain control of her voice. “Very well. I will meet you outside by the tree where we picnicked.”

  He escorted her back to her table and bid good evening to Miss Crotchet, who, far from seeming shocked by their dancing, looked, well . . . misty-eyed.

  Lucinda watched him greet a few more people as he passed by their tables and saw him acknowledge the vicar’s farewell before disappearing into the night. Should she join him? Or would it be best to slip away home? And what then? He would only search her out. There really was no avoiding him.

  She gathered her shawl and her reticule.

  “Leaving already?” Miss Crotchet asked with a sly little smile.

  “I have to collect Sophia,” she said, trying to repress any sign of anticipation, the patter of her heart, her shallow breathing.

  Miss Crotchet’s pale blue eyes danced with curiosity. “I’d offer to go with you, but John Cawfield asked me to dance the next Scottish country dance.”

  “Oh, please don’t think of leaving on my account. As you said, there will not be another celebration like this for a while.” Lucinda patted her bony shoulder. “Good night.”

  Miss Crotchet smiled. “I will see you in church in the morning. And there will be a few thick heads sitting in pews alongside us, I’ll be bound.”

  On that note, Lucinda slipped out of the tent and into the starlit night.

  With no moon, the shadows beneath the trees thickened to impenetrable. She peered into the dark, seeking a different and more solid shape, yet she jumped when his arm went around her waist and pulled her close.

  The scent of bay and the smoke from a wood fire filled her nostrils. His lips, warm and velvet and very inviting, claimed her mouth. When he broke away to inhale, she leaned her cheek against his solid wall of chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart, relishing his protective embrace, committing it to memory.

  “I wanted to do that at the end of our dance,” he said. “I started to think you would not come after all.”

  “I had to take my leave of Miss Crotchet.”

  “I hoped it was something like that. I’m glad you agreed to meet me.”

  It would never happen again, once she gave him her decision. After tonight she’d have only memories. Regret hung over her like a shadow.

  A couple emerged from the tent giggling and laughing.

  “I don’t think we should stay here,” she whispered. “Someone might see us.”

  A sigh wafted past her ear. “Dammit. I hate this skulking around.”

  Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. A sense of urgency sent blood flying around her body. There was so little time left. “Do you have to leave for the ball soon?”

  Another faint sigh in the dark. “It starts at eleven. The ladies need time to change their gowns. I must leave in a half hour or so.” So little time, Hugo thought. Tomorrow he left for London.

  The way she relaxed inside the circle of his arms sent his elation spinning out of control. She trusted him. God, he needed that from this woman. “Walk with me a little way.”

  She nodded.

  He took her hand and guided her along the riverbank. Enveloped in warm night air, they strolled beside the starlit ribbon of water.

  Walking hand in hand beneath the arching universe with Lucinda. Could anything feel more right? A mantle of peace descended on his shoulders. A willow tree leaning over the chattering stream trailed fronds like fingers against the flow. Music wafted on a light breeze, fading in and out of hearing as if Pan darted back and forth to tease them with his merry pipes.

  Thank God he’d decided to drop in on his way to the Hall. Decided? Hell. He couldn’t stay away. He swung her around.

  She tipped her chin in question, cupped his cheeks, drew him down, and kissed his parted lips, soft and sweet.

  He thought his heart might burst.

  As she nibbled his bottom lip and swept his mouth with her tongue, reason fled. Blood, hot and heavy, pooled in his groin. Lust, never far below the surface in her presence, gripped him in iron claws.

  He grabbed her bottom, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh. She pressed against him, her breathing impatient, her hands caressing his neck, kneading his shoulders and his back. She burrowed against his chest, widened her thighs to take his leg between hers. He growled his pleasure.

  His woman. The savage need to brand her as such boiled in his brain and his veins. He wanted her. Now. He caught himself up, hard. He must not take her here on the ground like some rutting beast. He pulled back, inhaled, struggled to think.

  Her hands went to the buttons of his coat. Her breathing sounded ragged, desperate, wanting.

  Undone, he backed her through the screen of willow and pressed her against the tree trunk.

  The music of her whispered laughter clutched at his heart as she glanced around. “It is like a fairy bower.”

  And did he play Bottom to her Titania, an ass who would awaken and find it all a dream? He felt more like a starving lion. He nibbled her ear.

  She sighed and tilted her hips, offering him heaven on earth. He took her mouth, hard, savage, and hungry.

  She kissed him back and fought him for control, sweeping his mouth with her tongue. Her hands clawed at his back as if she would pull him inside her body. The desperate urgency in her kiss heated his blood to steam and fried every thought in his brain.

  He fondled one delectably full breast through her gown. She whimpered her approval.

  His cock hardened to rock.

  With a groan, he slid his hand down her ribs, spanned the hollow of her waist, and caressed the swell of her hip, her buttocks, the thigh pressed against his so sweetly. He needed to die inside her.

  He must not let it go that far. One small taste of heaven, no more. He dragged her skirts up to her hips, skimming the butter-soft flesh above her stocking.

  Her hand went to his erection and traced the ridge of its length through his satin breeches. He hung by a thread to fragile control.

  Control. He must keep control. He hauled in a breath and raised his head, staring through the dark into a face full of shadows, inhaling the scent of lavender and peat moss and summer.

  Her fingers petted his swollen cock. Too gentle, not nearly enough, he wanted to growl. He pressed her fingers against his hard flesh, closed them around his shaft through the fabric.

  “Hugo,” she whispered, “Can I . . .”

  “God, yes.” He ripped open his falls.

  Cool fingers burrowed beneath his shirttails. Nails scraped his scrot
um, a chilly palm closed around his heavy balls and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe for the agony of pleasure.

  Her leg lifted, hooked around his good thigh, leaving her open, vulnerable to his questing fingers. Wet, hot, her narrow passage welcomed his touch, pushed down on his fingers, tightened.

  She wanted him. He needed to be inside her. All the way. To the hilt, just for a moment.

  In one motion, he lifted her high, resting her back against the tree. He guided the head of his cock to her entrance, felt her heat and the wet. He could not go any further without protection. He bathed the head of his cock in her generous moisture.

  Goddamn it. He might not see her for weeks. Taking a couple of minutes of pleasure for himself would not hurt before he saw to her need.

  She gripped his shoulders, threw her head back and lowered herself onto his straining cock. Shocked, he couldn’t move for pleasure. Heat enveloped his shaft. Flesh slid and joined, and thrust and squeezed. She’d driven him to her womb, deeper than any woman before.

  She was the light in his darkness.

  She nuzzled his neck, licked his ear, captured his mouth.

  Waves of pleasure rocketed outward from his balls. They tightened to unbearable hardness. But bear it he must. He would not lose control. He would not risk anything so dangerous, not with his woman.

  He shielded her back and head from the rough bark with his hands and drove deep.

  She opened, accommodated, took his length with a murmur of encouragement. He pressed harder, deeper, faster, barely withdrawing before the next stroke, pounding into her, and she onto him, setting a pace with the clench of her tight muscle around his yard.

  Blissful agony held him on a tight rein.

  Death beckoned.

  Not yet. Not inside her and not until she met her end.

  His hips pumped and drove; his cock begged for release. He denied it. Fought it. Held on by the shred of a primal need to conquer.

  She took him and gave back hard, raising and lowering her hips until his vision darkened to one small pinpoint of light in his mind, his only awareness, the place where they joined.