It Happened One Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  “No, thank you, Bilt, we’re retiring to our rooms for the night.”

  From above Lydia called, “I’ll ring if I require any assistance, Bilt. Please tell my maid I’ll ring if I need her. Good night.”

  “Good night, miss. My lord.”

  A second later, climbing steadily in Lydia’s wake, Ro heard Bilt’s footsteps scurry back to the tap. Inwardly smiling, blessing whoever was in the tap, he led Lydia to her room, opened the door, and held it for her, then he followed her in and shut it behind him.

  A single candle had been left burning on a small table beside a large four-poster bed set against the wall directly opposite the door. The hangings were loosened but not drawn, revealing a thick mattress, pristine linen sheets beneath a dimity coverlet, and thick, plump pillows.

  To the left, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, casting flickering golden light across the room. Lydia halted before the bed, and turned to him.

  He met her gaze; holding it, he unhurriedly crossed the short distance between them, then smoothly drew her into his arms, bent his head—and waltzed her straight back into the kiss they’d interrupted.

  Straight back into the flames they’d left smoldering.

  Instantly the fire between them leapt to life, as he’d known it would. For the first time in his life, he surrendered to it without thought or hesitation, gave himself over to it, to the steadily escalating heat, to the need that built within it…in that moment gave himself wholly and ineradicably to her.

  She was no more inhibited than he; he sensed it in her kiss, in the abandoned eagerness she made no effort to hide, even to disguise.

  They shed their clothes, hands busy, lips breaking apart only to hungrily come together again. Desire rose, passion in its wake, sending fiery tendrils of flame licking over and through them. Outside the wind howled; inside her room, despite the wintry chill, being naked, heated skin to heated skin, grew to an all-consuming need.

  Stepping free of the puddle of her gown and chemise, Lydia gasped as Ro’s arm banded her waist, and he pulled her to him, to the glorious expanse of chest she’d uncovered. Hands gripping, fingers tracing his ridged abdomen, she lifted her face and met his lips with hers, tasted the hunger and passion and sheer desire that flared through them both, that had set them both burning.

  She pressed into him, bare breasts to his chest, naked hips to his bare thighs. She shifted against him, wantonly inciting, glorying when she sensed his breath catch.

  His hand drifted from her breast, from the furled nipple he’d been worshipping; he grasped her waist, then raised his head and broke the kiss.

  Only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the line of her throat, over her collarbone, and then lower, over the swell of her breast to her aching nipple, to pay homage there before he sank lower, trailing light, nipping kisses down her midriff, over her waist, until he paused at her navel to circle it with his tongue, then lightly probe.

  Sensations lanced through her; her nerves flickered and jumped. He went to his knees before her, his hot lips pressed to the taut skin of her stomach. Lids heavy and low, she laced her fingers in his hair, felt his hands stroke over her hips, her thighs, then he gripped her garters and rolled down her stockings, first one, then the other.

  Obediently she stepped out of them; she’d kicked her slippers off long before. She waited, expecting him to rise and join her, to strip off his trousers and—

  He raised his head and set his lips to her curls, kissing, then—

  “Ro!” Lids falling, head tilting back, she gripped his skull—her only anchor in a world suddenly swamped with sensation. His tongue, too knowing, too clever, touched, probed. He licked, and her senses quaked; her knees buckled.

  His big hands steadied her; he shifted her back a fraction so her spine was braced against the bedpost, then he kissed, licked, laved—lifted her leg and draped her knee over one shoulder the better to open her, to gain access to the sensitive, private, intimate place between her thighs.

  He was thorough, and far too knowing; ruthless and relentless, he sent her senses careening, his ministrations perfectly gauged to send her spinning from this world…

  His tongue filled her and she screamed, a strangled sound as she fractured and fell, falling through the void.

  But he was there to catch her, to hold her, then he lifted her up and laid her on the bed.

  Naked, already boneless, yet with expectation and anticipation still thrumming through her veins, she waited, struggled to catch her breath while she watched him dispense with his shoes, then his trousers; she studied the long, muscled lines of his thighs, the thick, rigid rod of his erection lovingly bathed by the fire’s light.

  Then he put one knee on the bed, fleetingly considered her, then crawled across the covers; catching her ankles one in each hand, he spread them apart, and came to kneel between.

  Releasing her ankles, he ran his palms up over her calves. His eyes followed; slowly he ran his gaze up her legs, to the heated, swollen flesh he’d already tasted, then his gaze followed a path up her torso to her eyes.

  He held her gaze for a long moment; she felt her heartbeat in her fingertips, all over her body just beneath her skin. Then he leaned forward, bent, and gently kissed the curls covering her mons, then slowly trailed his lips higher, steadily, with both reverence and purpose working his way back up her body, lowering his hard, hot body to hers.

  When his lips finally reached hers she was frantic, more so than she’d been before. She clutched at him, arched beneath him.

  He took her mouth, filled it with his tongue, plundered and possessed, then he pressed deeper between her spread thighs, and with one powerful thrust filled her.

  In that instant her world teetered on some invisible edge, then he withdrew and plunged deeper. She gasped through the kiss, clutched his arms, arching beneath him, nails sinking in as passion crested, then he reached down, caught her knee, and wound her leg over his hip.

  And penetrated her more deeply still.

  She sobbed, clung as he started to ride her with a slow, steady, relentless rhythm. Deep, hard, intoxicating.

  A rhythm that gave her, her senses, more than enough time to absorb every nuance, every little facet of the overwhelming spectrum of sensations he evoked, and sent crashing through her. Of the deep, rhythmic, relentless pressure fluctuating within her, of the weight of him holding her pinned to the bed, beneath him as he’d said, of the slick friction as their bodies moved one against the other, of the elemental, indescribable sensation of knowing she was his, that he could do with her as he pleased, and yet…all he did, all he gave her, was pleasure.

  Soul-stirring, passion-steeped pleasure.

  He broke the kiss. Lifting her weighted lids, she looked into his face, close, mere inches apart as he rocked ever more deeply, more completely into her. Joining with her in this most flagrantly intimate way. The candle on the table beside the bed was on the side away from the hearth; its weak golden light fell on them, gilding his features, the harsh angular planes, the passionate, mobile mouth.

  His lids were low, lashes screening his eyes, yet they gleamed silver as she watched, then his lids fell.

  They were both beyond breathless, their breathing ragged beyond belief. She sensed the inevitable coiling tension, the inevitable escalation to the peak. He picked up the pace, drove even more forcefully into her; her lids fell as she cried out.

  And then they were there, whirling through the maelstrom, every nerve alive, every sense they possessed fracturing and shattering under the weight of an elemental pleasure too great to encompass, evoked by a reality larger than them both, too powerful to resist.

  Impossible to deny.

  Ro clung to her, the anchor he needed, the one he’d recognized and run from long ago. To no avail. As passion washed through him and pleasure wracked him and left his senses razed, he knew that, understood it, accepted it.

  As beneath him her body clenched, convulsed, and clutched his, her release calling on and
encompassing his, he held her close, and as the last aching gasp was wrung from him and he collapsed in her arms, he did what he’d never imagined he ever would. But for her and only her…

  He willingly laid his heart at her feet, and gave his soul into her keeping.

  Chapter Five

  “It’s all right! I’m her sister.”

  Ro blinked awake, lifted his head from the pillow and looked over his shoulder—more by instinct than intention—to the door of Lydia’s room.

  Just as it swung open and a lady with wild, frizzy red hair swept in.

  And stopped, jaw dropping, eyes popping.

  Then she made a strangled sound, eventually managed, “Ro?” in accents of utter disbelief.

  Then her eyes shifted to Ro’s left. And widened even further. “Lydia!”

  That came out as a high-pitched squeak.

  Ro groaned and closed his eyes. “Go away, Tabitha.”

  Lydia struggled up from beneath his arm. “Tab? Good Lord!” On her elbow, clutching the covers to her chest, she stared at her sister. “How…?”

  Then she stared past her. “Oh God! For heaven’s sake, Tab—go away and close the door.”

  Tabitha, whose expression had been blank for several seconds, blinked, then grinned hugely. “Yes, of course. We’ll wait downstairs.”

  Turning, she went back out of the door—joining the older couple hovering in the corridor.

  The door shut.

  Ro turned over and slumped back on the pillows. He didn’t bother groaning. “That was your parents, wasn’t it—the pair behind Tabitha?”

  Lydia nodded. She stared at the door, still stunned.

  “You left a note, I take it?” His tone was resigned.

  “Just to tell Tab not to worry. I told her I would stop at an inn near Barham’s house and steal back her letter—I told her to stay at home and leave me to handle things.”

  “Since when has Tab ever listened to orders—yours or anyone else’s?” Ro swung his legs out from beneath the covers and sat up.

  Still stunned, Lydia gestured to the door. “I never imagined she’d come, let alone bring Mama and Papa.”

  Pulling up his trousers, Ro shrugged. He fastened them, then reached for his shirt. His brain was functioning again; it might well be that Tabitha had done him a service. He could settle everything immediately without having to travel to Wiltshire first.

  Regretfully, he would have to face the senior Makepeaces without a cravat; tying one would take too long. He’d shrugged on his waistcoat, stepped into his shoes, and reached for his coat before Lydia realized.

  She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting dressed to go down and speak with your father. Probably your mother as well.”

  “What?” In a mad scramble, Lydia came off the bed. “Don’t be silly. What are you going to say?” She swiped up her chemise and dragged it over her head.

  Settling his coat, he frowned back. “What do you think I’m going to say? They just saw us in bed together, and with our clothes strewn between the door and the bed, they wouldn’t have had to wonder all that hard to deduce what we’d been doing there.”

  “But—” Lydia broke off to wrestle her gown down over her head. “I’ll speak with them—it’s nothing to do with—”

  Ro wasn’t where he’d been. Turning, she saw him going through the door. “Ro! Come back here!”

  She nearly tripped on her way to the door. She opened it a crack and shouted, “I forbid you to speak to them!”

  A hand flattened on the outside of the door and Tabitha appeared. “Much good that will do—he’s already on his way down.” She pushed through the door, forcing Lydia back.

  “Oh, thank God—Tab, help me with this.” Lydia’s gown had got tangled, hems tucked through the bodice, skirts wrenched the wrong way, sleeves inside out. “I have to get dressed and get down there before he does something stupid.”

  Tabitha regarded her for a moment, then walked to the bed, sat on it, bounced once, then let herself fall back. She stared at the canopy. “I’ve never known Ro to do anything stupid.” Turning her head, she looked at Lydia. “Why do you think he’s going to change and do something stupid now?”

  Lydia hissed. “Because he’s an honorable man—and the idiot is going down there to offer for my hand.”

  Tabitha nodded. “I expect he is. But why is that stupid?”

  “Because he doesn’t love me! He’s only doing it because he feels honor-bound, now Mama and Papa caught us together.”

  Tabitha grinned. “Do you know what Mama said?”

  “No—what?” Lydia couldn’t believe how impossible her gown was being; the more she tugged, the worse it got, as if it had a mind of its own.

  “She said, ‘Well, dear me—and with Lord Gerrard, too. I always wondered when she’d get to it.’”

  Lydia snorted. “You’re making that up.”

  “I swear on her grave. Anyway, you know that’s exactly the sort of thing Mama would say.”

  Lydia didn’t bother denying it; aside from herself, her entire family were eccentric beyond belief. Somehow they got away with it; she’d always suspected because the rest of the ton found them rather frighteningly amusing. “Tab—for the Lord’s sake get off that bed and come and help me! I have to get down there and save him! You know what he’s like—once he makes an offer, he’ll get stubborn and difficult, and refusing him will be impossible.”

  Shifting onto her side, Tabitha propped on one elbow and frowned at her. “Why do you want to refuse him? You’ve always been in love with him—everyone knows that—even, obviously, Mama. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  With her gown finally straight and the skirts shaken down, Lydia stared at Tabitha, then glared. “That’s immaterial. I might be in love with him, but he’s not in love with me—and that’s what counts.”

  “Don’t be silly—he’s as much in love with you as you are with him. He always has been.”

  Lydia growled.

  “No—it’s true. The year I made my come-out, when you were having your second Season, I used to see him at balls—but he took great care that you never did. He saw you though, and truly, just one look at his face, and even you would have known.” Tabitha grimaced. “If you must know, that’s why I took up with Addison—because I thought that any day Ro would surrender and speak for you, and of course you’d accept him, and then you two would have each other…I wanted someone of my own.”

  Lydia had stopped frantically tugging at her bodice to stare at Tabitha. “You encouraged Addison because you knew I was in love with Ro, and he was in love with me?”

  Tabitha nodded. “But then Ro slunk away and didn’t speak, and you know what happened with Addison.” She looked up and met Lydia’s eyes. “Incidentally, did you find my letter?”

  Lydia jerked her chin toward her bag. “It’s in there.” She’d wrestled the bodice and back of her gown into place, and got her arms down through the sleeves, but the laces defeated her—Ro had pulled them completely out of the eyelets. “Tab—please come and help me with this gown.”

  Tabitha frowned. “You’re not listening to me, are you? You don’t believe he’s in love with you. I can’t see why you imagine he’s down there talking to Papa otherwise.”

  “Because he’s Ro, and that’s exactly what he would do!” Exasperated, Lydia stamped her foot. “He thinks he’s ruined me, or some such twaddle, so—”

  Tabitha snorted. “Lydia—we’re talking about Ro—Rogue—Gerrard. You do know why he’s called that, don’t you? It’s not because he does sweet, roguish things, but because ‘rogue’ signifies a being beyond control. Uncontrollable. Ro does what he wants and always has. No one and nothing gets in his way. If he wants something, he’ll have it, and as he certainly wants you—”

  “Nonsense. He wants to do the right thing, but I have a say in this, and I won’t have it.”

  Tabitha shook her head. “He’s not going to let you get away this tim
e. Especially now he knows you love him.”

  Lydia gritted her teeth and tried to thread her laces behind her back. “He doesn’t love me, and he certainly doesn’t know I love him.”

  Tabitha stared at her, then looked at the rumpled, severely disarranged bed, then back at her. “Lydia—he knows. Of course he knows.”

  “Rubbish—I took great care to say nothing at all. Not even in extremis.”

  “You didn’t have to say a word. Great heavens, you’re twenty-six and you haven’t been living in a nunnery these past years. You’ve had countless gentlemen only too ready to marry you or seduce you, whichever you preferred. And yet here you are”—Tabitha waved at the bed—“finally having your first time with Ro—you think he’s not going to guess why, after all these years, you decided to give yourself to him?”

  Lydia sniffed. “That wasn’t the first time. The first time was in Barham’s library.”

  Tabitha’s eyes grew round. “In Stephen Barham’s library?”

  “In a courtesan’s gown.”

  Tabitha’s jaw dropped. “When you decided to let your Makepeace streak loose you obviously went to town. You must tell me all.”

  “I will if you’ll only help me with these damn laces!”

  Tabitha narrowed her eyes, then slumped back on the bed. “No. This has obviously required a huge turnaround in Ro’s thinking—he probably could use more time to convince Mama and Papa…although, of course, given you’re twenty-six anyway, even if they dismiss his suit, I can’t see him meekly going away. Perhaps he’ll kidnap you, and you’ll elope. That would be exciting.”

  “Tabitha!” Lydia stared at her turncoat sister. “What happened to gentlemen and marriage being the bane of a gentlewoman’s life? What happened to avoiding marriage with gentlemen?”

  Tabitha lifted one shoulder. “That dictum isn’t for ladies like you and gentlemen like Ro—it’s for ladies like me, who will never find a gentleman we can trust.”

  Lydia blew out a frustrated breath. Drew in another—and tried not to think how many persuasive arguments Ro had already brought to bear in the parlor downstairs. “Please, Tabitha—just be useful and do up these laces.”