by Stacy Reid
“No, thank you, Lily. I’m quite pleased to see my son so delighted.”
Then, after kissing Oliver, the marchioness swept from the room, leaving them alone and the door slightly ajar.
Lily smiled. “Do you suppose she does not realize how improper and scandalous we’ve been?”
He tugged her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The sweetest ache filled her heart. “Oliver?”
He pressed another impossibly soft kiss on her throat. “Hmm?”
“I feel as if I am in a dream.”
“You’re my heart, Lily. I promise you won’t regret marrying me. All who don’t approve of our union can go hang.”
“I promise you won’t regret marrying me, either. I’ll read all the books on etiquette, and I’ll be a very attentive student as you teach me all the dances.” She gasped as he placed another kiss on her throat and tilted her head back, allowing him access to the curve of her jawline. “I’ll not shame you,” she vowed fiercely. “I’ll be a wife you will be proud of.”
Her marquess took her lips in a fiery kiss, and Lily giggled as he swept her into his arms and walked with her over to the door. Without releasing her lips, he managed to push it closed.
She pulled from him. “They’ll know what we’re doing!”
“They’ll need to get used to doors in our homes closing for hours in the middle of the day.”
She laughed.
He dropped his forehead to her with a sigh. “Are you desiring a large wedding?”
“This was never something I had to think about. What do you want?”
“You,” came his swift and possessive reply.
What if this is naught but a dream?
“Something small and beautiful,” she whispered. “With our families and close friends. And I’ll be wearing the most glorious dress, inspired by a Parisian design, with layers of silk and the hem trimmed with lace and beads.”
“Pearls and diamonds.”
Lily laughed. “Oh, Oliver, this feels too wonderful to be true. I never thought I would ever be this happy.”
And as her lover kissed her, Lily dearly prayed the hope that bubbled in her soul would flower and bear fruit.
Chapter Sixteen
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Ambrose!”
A hush fell over the elegantly decorated ballroom of the Duchess of Basil as Lily and Oliver appeared on the landing, their first public appearance after the news of their marriage had roared through the ton several weeks ago. She glanced at her husband, not liking the anxiety that scythed through her heart. The dratted man winked.
“They will love you,” he murmured. “And remember, if they don’t, they can…”
“Go hang,” she finished with a wide grin.
“You are the most ravishing woman here.”
Lily felt particularly beautiful in her emerald high cinched waist gown, with its short, ruffled sleeves and scandalous décolletage. Her dancing slippers were golden and matched the gold threads woven through her upswept hair.
“Flattery will always get you whatever you wish, my husband.”
Their hosts and hostess, the Duke and Duchess of Basil, greeted Lily and Oliver. “You are a curiosity, my dear—the commoner who snagged one of the most eligible lords of the season,” the duchess said, her eyes twinkling with pure devilry.
It seemed as if all of refined society had crammed into the duchess’s grand ballroom and were staring. Lily never imagined his set was so ridiculous.
“My dear friend, how truly marvelous you look tonight,” Elizabeth said, the duchess of Basil, looping her hands through Lily’s. The duchess glanced at Oliver. “Allow me to introduce your darling to a few ladies who have been quite eager to make her acquaintance. Everyone has been clamoring to meet her after the scandal of your marriage and departure to Venice.”
Lily nodded, amused despite the collective throng following her and the duchess’s progress through the room. Lily glanced back at Oliver and winked, letting him know she was quite unintimidated by society’s rabid curiosity. She hadn’t idled the weeks away while they had been abroad. She had read many books on the proper decorum a lady should possess.
They had shocked society when they had wed within a week of Oliver asking Lily. The scandal that had roared through the ton had been blistering, if the numerous newspaper articles were anything to judge by, but they had weathered it by traveling from Dover to Calais on her marquess’s private yacht. They had visited Paris, mostly to shop, and then traveled onward to Venice, uncaring of the rest of the world as they burned in mutual sensual delight. He’d shown her all the wonderful places that had inspired the artist in him, and she had posed for him many times. Now his private collection had erotic paintings of his marchioness the rest of the world would never see. Well, at least not while they were alive.
“My dear Minerva,” Elizabeth said to Countess Brenton. “May I present my dear friend, Lily, the Marchioness of Ambrose.”
The countess dipped into an elegant curtsy, and Lily gracefully inclined her head. The many introductions blurred, and she felt like an insect under a microscope as they analyzed and dissected the commoner who had somehow beguiled their charming marquess.
“Lady Ambrose, rumors suggest you have a personal stake in a dressmaker’s shop.”
“How outrageous!”
“You were married twice before, I’ve been told?”
“Your ball gown is the most delightful I’ve seen this season.”
“Upon my word, it is true what they say? It’s a love match between you and the marquess?”
Varied conversations swirled around her, and the heat of the ball was almost stifling. Lily pulled away from the ladies as a waltz was announced. She turned on her heel, and suddenly her love was there, gathering her in his arms and leading her to the dance floor.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing a fleeting kiss to her lips and ignoring several shocked gasps.
Lily laughed, delighted with his wickedness. He twirled her across the floor with his unique grace, and Lily had never felt happier. After the waltz ended, they scandalized the society present by dancing at least three more times together before Oliver whisked her away from the ball toward a darkened hallway.
“I’ve been burning to kiss you,” he murmured.
She paused and lifted her mouth to his.
“Not on these lips,” he said dragging his thumb across her mouth.
A blast of heat tore through Lily, thinking of where he wanted his mouth and how he would make her burn.
Her marquess stealthily opened a door and urged her inside a room where a fire burned low in the grate. Shadows danced from the low flame, but Lily recognized they were in the library.
She froze as a whimpering cry echoed in the room. Lily’s breath strangled as she realized Elizabeth was seated atop her duke, riding him with wanton intensity.
Oliver pressed into her back as he closed the door gently, so as not to startle the duke and duchess.
“We shouldn’t be here.” She shivered even as a flash of arousal burned through her.
“I thought you would approve,” he growled.
“You knew they’d be here,” Lily whispered, entranced with the picture the duchess presented, seated on her duke’s cock, her mass of dark hair rippling down her back, his large hand firmly gripping her buttocks as he slammed her down on his shaft, over and over.
A soft moan whispered past Lily’s lips as the duke lifted his duchess off him, spun with her, and placed her on the desk and buried his face against her cunt.
The fire burned lower and lower, painting the lovers in soft, erotic light. The duke was well muscled, his form powerful and lean, and with a large and ruddy cock. As if they had a will of her own, Lily’s feet moved soundlessly over the plush carpet as she crept closer. A dark, wanton heat speared her. She liked watching, and she enjoyed it all the more knowing the duke and duchess had no notion they had a voyeur.
He flipped his duchess around, then reached for
something on his desk. A lavender scent rode the air. Oil. He pushed a cushion beneath her hips and splayed her wide.
Lily shifted so she could see around the duke’s broad shoulders. He did not reach for his wife’s wet quim, but the forbidden entrance below. He oiled her and his cock, then positioned himself and drove deep until he was buried to the hilt.
The duchess’s wild cry was one filled with pain…and pleasure.
Laden heat surged through Lily as she watched her friend’s ravishment. Was this how Elizabeth had felt when she had watched Oliver debauch her? This heat? This clawing lust to spread her own legs and beg her husband to fuck them to repletion?
“Do you want to join?” Oliver growled at her ears.
Lily sagged against him, grateful for the support of his strength. She never knew hunger could be this painful…this needy…and yet, she only wanted to be an observer.
“I just want to watch.”
“Then watch,” he murmured, kissing along her neck. “Look at how his cock is parting those tight muscles. He isn’t treating her like a glass that can be broken, or a lady that should be coddled. His duchess is his wife, his queen, but she’s also his mistress, his whore. He doesn’t hold back when he’s fucking her because he loves her and can be unrestrained with his duchess without judgment.”
Lily swallowed. “Look at her face,” she whispered. “Do you see the love, the lust, the knowledge that she’s more than his duchess? She knows, Oliver…just like I know I am your everything. Your lover, your wife, your marchioness, your whore. What he’s doing to her is wrong, depraved, maybe a sin, but she doesn’t care, and I don’t care. All that matters is the pleasure, the trust, and the love that blaze in her soul for her duke right now. I know because the same love and wanton submission burn in my heart for you.”
With a scream of her husband’s name, Elizabeth unraveled, and her duke gave a hoarse shout, then jerked in her arms and thrust several more times before stilling.
Then the duchess laughed, the sound soft, and loving. The duke bent his head and kissed her lips, his actions so tender a lump formed in Lily’s throat…and then he bent even farther and kissed her stomach.
“Your mother will be the death of me,” he whispered.
Lily and Oliver both froze.
“We should leave now, “Lily whispered, as the duke and duchess hugged each other.
Oliver deftly opened the door and ushered Lily into the hallway. There, they paused and took a few breaths together.
“That will be us soon,” Oliver said. “I cannot say what I desire more, a son or a daughter with your eyes and smile.”
This was the first in the three months they had been married her marquess mentioned children. Dear God. Guilt and fear wrapped their terrible hands around her heart and squeezed. “I…”
Concern flashed in those beautiful dark blue eyes peering down at her. “My sweet, are you well? You’ve gone terribly pale.”
“I need a breath of fresh air,” she gasped, deftly slipping from Oliver’s arms and hurrying down the hallway toward the terrace door. Lily spilled outside, heaving, her throat tightening.
She had seen her brother-in-law a few weeks ago in Hampshire when she had presented to him and Mary Rose the keys for a large and well situated five-bedroom cottage. Lily had once again mentioned her lack of conceiving. David had tried to reassure her it was still possible, but she had seen the pity in his eyes. Her husband made love to her over and over, in so many varied ways, and she remained a hollow husk. Lily hated that she was once again reducing herself to despair, when she had clawed from it once already and had been content to remain in the life she had carved for herself.
It had taken some time to admit it to herself, but she wanted a family, too, and not just for Oliver, but for herself. She had buried the hope so deep inside, refusing to let it out…but now, she felt scraped raw with tearing emotions she had no notion how to accept.
Damn Oliver for making her feel again, damn him for making her hope for the impossible, damn him for being a marquess, and damn him for making her love him so desperately she could not imagine life without him. There was no doubt she would lose him once she revealed her condition. He would have the grounds for a divorce, and while the scandal of it would be terrible indeed, surely, he would prefer that to the end of his lineage.
“Lily, my sweet, what is it?”
Her love clasped her hand and spun her to face him.
She was perilously close to tears. She hugged his arms to her body. “Oh, Oliver…I…I am simply overwhelmed with Elizabeth’s news. I do so hope very much for a similar joy for us. In fact, I feel quite desperate to secure an heir for you.” She hadn’t brought anything to their marriage, and she dearly wished she could at least give him what every lord needed. And she wanted it so very much, too.
Oliver smiled. “Don’t be. I am too enraptured by what we have to want another in our life just yet. Perhaps I should even be taking precautions, for I want you to myself at least for another two years before we start making heirs and spares.”
Tell him it may never happen… “I—”
He kissed her, over and over, stealing her fear and replacing it with love and arousal. And as she burrowed into his wonderful warmth, Lily once more suppressed the insidious doubt.
He whisked her deeper into the gardens, away from the revelry of the ball, his devilishly skillful fingers quickly arousing her to a fevered pitch. He rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, gentle, then hard. They tumbled to the grass, and with a grunt, he took the brunt of their fall. Lily giggled, and he captured the sound with another deep kiss. He intoxicated her senses so.
Her husband ravished with devastating expertise, and she responded, unable to deny what he did to her body. Oliver made love to her in the dark and secluded gardens, compelling Lily to remember nothing but this burning need that existed in their hearts.
Chapter Seventeen
Six months later…
Oliver closed the business ledger, unable to concentrate on his investment reports. A cold knot of dread had been lingering in his heart this past week. His wife was unhappy. The shift in her temperament had first appeared five nights ago when, for the first time since their marriage, she had not slept in his arms. His wife had used the connecting door to their chambers to slip into her room. He had stirred awake as the door closed softly, and he had pushed from the bed, opened her door, and almost roared in denial as her soft sobs had reached his ear.
Had he been too rough? He had taken her mouth with his cock, then her ass, and he hadn’t been gentle. She had hummed with pleasure and had been just as eager, but there had been an unfathomable emotion in her beautiful eyes that had given him pause several times.
Had he disgusted her when he had held her throat and massaged, urging her to take his thickness all the way to the back of her throat? Or had it been when he had closed her legs tightly together, placed them over his right shoulder, and slipped his oiled prick deep into that forbidden entrance? That had been the third time he had taken her like that, and Oliver admitted he had ridden her a little longer, a little harder, and had been extremely filthy with his praise.
He had slipped into the bed beside her and held her while she cried. Oliver had probed and demanded an answer, but Lily had provided none. They had been so open and wonderful with each other for the past several months that a terrible sensation had started to grow in his heart.
Was it that she no longer enjoyed the way in which he made love with her?
Oliver had then made a concentrated effort to make love to her, sweet and gentle, for the last few nights, suppressing all his carnal inclinations. Yet it did not work. She grew more distant, the brightness of her smile had dimmed, and last night, when he had pressed a kiss against the hollow concave of her stomach and dipped his tongue into her navel, she had been frozen like a block of ice. And once again she had slipped away to her chamber when she thought he slept.
He pushed from behind his des
k and strode from his private study. He climbed the steps rapidly and made his way to his bedchamber. It was empty. Biting back the frustration, he spun on his heel. He would check the drawing rooms, and perhaps the gazebos outside. An awareness had him faltering, and he spun around to consider their connecting door. He prowled over to it, and faint sounds reached his ear. Without knocking, he opened the connection and hesitated at the threshold of his marchioness’s chamber. She was sitting on the sill of the large window overlooking the graceful gardens of Belgrave Manor. There was an air of melancholy about her he did not like.
No more. He would not have a marriage that was cold and filled with doubt and fear. He was not his damned father, and if his marchioness was disgusted by his constant depraved demands, he would do everything in his power to curb his dark needs. She had always been genteel, and he had corrupted and debauched her purity with his unceasing lust. His Lily was worth anything, even giving up the desires he thought he couldn’t do without. Nor would he take a mistress if she wanted a gentler brand of loving, and it was time he proved it to her.
…
The joy had slowly been dimming in Lily’s heart, and as she rubbed the ache in her stomach, which heralded the arrival of her monthly courses, the last vestige died. She had been the Marchioness of Ambrose for nine months, and her husband made love to her with unwavering passion almost every night. She adored him with a breadth and intensity she had not thought possible, and she had failed him. The loss of something that she hoped so much for was unbearable. How silly it had been for her to believe not one, but two husbands had been the failure and not her. And her foolish hope had allowed her to commit a most unforgivable and grievous sin. How would she inform Oliver?
The fear and doubt that knotted through her was crippling, and she wanted to sink to her knees on the plush carpet. Instead, she remained frozen where she sat, overlooking the beauty of their estate. A light snow blanketed the landscape, the blood red roses a shocking contrast to the white purity. Lily hugged herself and struggled for strength. How long could she continue to keep her silence? The more time she allowed to pass, the more Oliver would judge her.
