He had been a fool. But he’d managed to make a total mull of things without any help from Lydia. He’d been ignorant and selfish, and unaware of the value of anything. But what good would it do to dwell on what he’d lost, when he’d lost her? Hadn’t he also gained much? The shock of hearing she’d married Colonel Morgan had given him a well-needed kick in the breeches. It had jolted him out of the complacency that would have made him just as bad a landlord as his father had been. He’d become a better man because of it. Besides, the past was gone. It was the future that mattered.
And the future looked bright.
The attraction between them was so fierce that it had broken through not only his own resentment, but also whatever barriers she’d felt she had to erect. In the night, when they were alone, she’d turned from the demure woman who was sitting primly chalking up the scores for a children’s game, to a siren who’d flung her clothes aside, pinned him to the bed and had three orgasms in rapid succession.
It was a start. A foundation upon which he could build. Good God, he’d turned his practically bankrupt estates around, so there was no reason why applying the same energy and resources upon Lydia would not result in success.
He had a lot of ground to make up with her, what with one thing and another, but the point was, he had a second chance. Lydia was a widow now. They were already lovers. Even if it had only been sexual frustration that had driven her to his bed—and he didn’t really think that was all there was to it—if he played his cards right she would never want to take another lover.
But there had to be more to their relationship than just sex, even if it was spectacular sex. He was going to have to start courting her in earnest.
To start with, he was going to have to convince her that he had changed. The way he’d treated her the first time round, and the way he’d behaved at the outset of this affair was bound to make her think he would let her down.
He sauntered up to the refreshment table to take a much-needed glass of lemonade from Marigold, who complimented him on the number of runs he’d made.
So far, he hadn’t bothered with the girl. He’d been too busy pursuing Lydia. But that would have to change. He was going to show Lydia that he could get on with her family, this family. Prove that he could fit in with them. Because they mattered to her.
And win their approval for his suit, while he was at it. Getting them on his side would be half the battle.
* * *
Lydia tried not to mind when he paused only to pick up his jacket, then made straight for the far end of the orangery and the tea table. They needed to be discreet. Of course they did.
And she might well have given her feelings away while she’d been watching him in bat. A curl of something positively primitive had sizzled inside her when he’d stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves before taking the bat from Lieutenant Smollet. He’d stalked on to the lawn, swishing the bat as if he was striding on to a quarterdeck, preparing to repel boarders, rather than going to play a game invented to while away a sunny afternoon.
She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes off him. She’d never seen him looking so very nearly...deadly. Such strong, dark emotion was something she found hard to equate with Lord Rothersthorpe. He had always been so easy-going in his youth.
Yet he defended his wicket against Lieutenant Tancred as though his very life depended on it. For the duration of their contest it was a no-holds-barred, edge-of-the seat spectacle of male pride and aggression.
She almost wondered whether she ought to get the children off the pitch and out of their way. But Robert was cheering Lord Rothersthorpe’s hits and applauding his rapidly accumulating tally of runs. He was still in bat when Lieutenant Tancred finished his stint as bowler and handed the ball to Lord Beagle’s sister.
She gave a quick frown. She really ought to try not to think of the girl by the name people had started to use after Cissy had made a mangled attempt to pronounce her brother’s title. Especially since she was rather heavy jowled.
She got to her feet when Mr Bentley caught him out, half-wondering if the aggression would spill over in that direction.
But no. He’d sauntered back to the orangery with a cocky grin on his face, acknowledging the applause of his team with an airy salute.
Whatever mood had darkened his expression before he’d gone into bat had passed. Typical, she huffed, sitting back down and adding his score to the tally.
Nothing too deep, nothing too serious. A mood might darken his brow for a few minutes, but his propensity for making light of everything soon reasserted itself.
Just listen to him! Laughing and chatting to Marigold as she indulged in a fit of hero-worship over his prowess as a batsman, then turning his charm upon Rose, casting the poor tongue-tied lieutenant completely in the shade by making her giggle and blush.
She ought not to have seen the blush. She ought to be keeping a close watch on the game. But she just could not help darting him thirsty little looks whenever there was a lull.
She couldn’t blame the girls for hanging on his every word, she supposed, for he was putting on exactly the kind of display that had so enchanted her when she’d been their age. She had no right to feel searing pangs of jealousy, or wish she could be part of that golden circle glimmering around him.
It put her right back to her disastrous Season. Always on the outside looking in. Never part of the fashionable, self-assured, successful set.
Only now she felt old and tired as well as unappealing. And very aware of the fact that she was a widow. Not worth the effort of flattering and charming.
Especially not after he’d discovered how very easily he could get her into bed.
The fielding team had got the hang of things by now and got the remaining batsmen out in rapid succession.
She managed to smile and say all the right things as the players came inside, but half her attention was always with Lord Rothersthorpe. During the interval he moved from one group to another, congratulating Lord Beagle’s sister for the throw that had resulted in his dismissal so gallantly that it brought a flush to her cheeks. Commiserating with Cynthia Lutterworth, with apparent sincerity, for her failure to hit a ball even once. Which was kind of him, going some way to ameliorate the damage her brother had done with the heavy scowl he’d bestowed on her when she’d returned to the orangery after all too brief an interval in bat.
This was how she remembered him. This was Rothersthorpe at his charming best. Dispelling gloom and spreading cheer.
And creating such a fierce yearning for him that she had never known quite how to handle it.
But it wasn’t long before Michael ran out of patience with the adults, who would have stayed chatting and sipping lemonade in the orangery all afternoon if not reminded of the importance of finishing the match.
Which meant that Lord Rothersthorpe’s team all went out to field.
He stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves again. And her stomach swooped at the sight of the hair-roughened forearms.
He smiled at her as he went past. A slumberous, knowing sort of smile that made her heart beat faster. How did a man do that? Smile with perfect innocence, yet convey a message that was totally indecent, at the same time?
Still, it made up for the way he’d avoided her during the break. More than made up for it. Even though he’d not spoken one word to her since coming in from his turn in bat, he’d managed to convey his meaning.
He still wanted her.
She’d half-wondered if he’d had enough of her. After talking about her marriage, he’d seemed to withdraw from her. And he’d definitely been angry when he’d gone outside.
She sagged back into her chair, almost faint with relief. He wasn’t angry any more. Whatever had provoked his mood had passed. If she had said something to annoy him he was over it now. And he was eager to continue with their liaison. She would never be able to explain to another living soul how she’d managed to deduce all that from one smile, but his meaning ha
d been perfectly clear to her.
She recognised the look that came to a man’s eyes when he wanted to take a woman to bed. Her husband had employed it, usually with an interrogative lift of one eyebrow when he wanted to know if he could visit her room at night. And of course, she’d always allowed him to have his way. It had been her duty.
It most certainly wouldn’t be her duty to sneak up to Lord Rothersthorpe’s room as soon as it was safe, but, oh, he only had to give her that slow smile and she could hardly wait to be alone with him. Preferably naked.
She watched him take to the field, all athletic grace, stripped down to his shirt sleeves. And what a treat for the eyes he was. He had the best body of any man on the field. He could afford better tailoring than either of the naval officers, he had broader shoulders than Mr Bentley and slimmer hips than Lord Abergele. All in all, he was utter masculine perfection. And having seen him unclothed, she could vouch for that in a court of law.
What woman wouldn’t derive pleasure from feasting her eyes on him, on a sunny afternoon?
When he’d been batting, the energy and strength he’d applied to the game had made her breathless. The way his thighs had bunched when he’d been running had made her recall the delicious feel of those hair-roughened muscles on her own softer flesh.
But now the way his shirt moulded to his lean frame when he leapt to catch a ball gave a teasing hint at the perfect musculature she’d seen gilded by moonlight. And when he bent over to ruffle Slipper’s ears, she recalled how those long, supple fingers had skilfully roused her to orgasm. He brought her pleasure just from watching him move, did her lover.
There, she’d formed the word in her own mind. Her lover.
She reached for her fan, plying it briskly in a vain attempt to cool down. He’d come here looking for an uncomplicated affair with a sophisticated woman. That was all. So she would have to play along and hope she could make him believe that was exactly what she was.
‘What is the score?’
She jumped, startled to find that Rose had wandered away from the refreshment table and was peering down at the slate which lay in her lap. To her consternation, she saw that she’d smudged the chalk markings.
Rose grinned at her.
‘Mama Lyddy,’ she said, shaking her head in mock reproof. ‘You do not seem to be concentrating this afternoon.’
‘It is so hot,’ she said lamely. ‘And...’
‘You simply cannot take your eyes off Lord Rothersthorpe, can you?’
‘I...that is...’ Her cheeks glowed with guilt and shame.
‘I knew I was right to invite him along,’ said Rose with satisfaction. ‘You used to look so wistfully after him in town, whenever you thought he would not notice. And now he is here, you practically devour him with your eyes.’
‘I do no such thing. I—’ Did she? He’d accused her of more or less the same thing, before he’d thrown his insulting proposition at her.
And if she really had devoured him with her eyes, no wonder he’d thought she was casting out lures.
Rose was shaking her head again. ‘You do. And I am glad. I want you to find someone. You deserve to find someone. And you may be surprised to know that, for once, Robert is in perfect agreement with me.’
‘E-even if it is true, what you said,’ she replied, stunned to hear that Robert was in league with Rose’s matchmaking attempts, ‘that does not mean that Lord Rothersthorpe returns my feelings.’
‘Oh, I think he does,’ said Rose. ‘Else why would he spend so much time whispering into your ear and making you blush? If he didn’t return your feelings, he would stay well away from you,’ she ended on a note of triumph.
‘He flirts with everyone,’ she retorted. ‘He was making you giggle and blush just now.’
‘Ah, but he took great care to ensure that everyone else could hear what he said to make me laugh. When he flirts with you, he gets you on your own first. And he murmurs right into your ear.’
‘Rose,’ she replied slowly, choosing her words with great care, ‘men of his class may admire a widow, may even flirt with her a little, but that sort of thing does not generally result in a proposal. Not a marriage proposal, at any rate.’
Rose looked crestfallen. ‘Are you sure?’
When Lydia nodded, she sighed, then pursed her lips in a way that so nearly matched Marigold’s pout it was hard not to smile.
‘Well, I’m sorry I invited him down then, if all he is going to do is behave like a rake.’
‘I am not,’ she said with quiet certainty. She was actually relieved to have left her girlish hopes and dreams about him behind. That did not make her old and jaded. No, she preferred to think of herself as more mature and wiser.
When she’d been a girl, it was true she had needed someone strong and dependable to rescue both her and Cissy. But she didn’t need rescuing now. She’d gained her security. So it didn’t matter that he wasn’t the type of man upon whom a woman could depend. He pleased her eyes and thrilled her senses, and had made her poor frozen heart come roaring back to vibrant life.
This affair was turning out to be a bit like a firework. Spectacular while it lasted.
And when it was over...well, she would just have to get over him. She’d adapted to life without him before, and at least this time round she’d have a handful of utterly glorious memories to warm herself at in the long lonely nights that would follow.
‘At my age, it is most flattering, I can tell you, to be on the receiving end of that kind of attention from a man of Lord Rothersthorpe’s undeniable attraction. Yes, indeed,’ she said, fanning herself and gazing at him across the width of the lawn.
Rose, to her great relief, broke into a giggle. ‘Mama Lyddy, I declare, I never thought you would have such a wicked side.’
If only you knew, thought Lydia, if only you knew.
Chapter Twelve
‘I still cannot believe you declared Slipper the winner,’ grumbled Lieutenant Tancred at the dinner table that night.
Lydia blushed. It had been impossible to say who had actually scored the most runs, since she’d wiped the tally off the slate with her sleeve whilst daydreaming about Lord Rothersthorpe’s prowess as a lover. And granting Slipper the victory had at least made everyone laugh.
‘The game was only intended to amuse and entertain the children,’ put in Robert in her defence.
‘And some of you took it far too seriously,’ said Rose, darting the lieutenant a teasing look.
Lieutenant Tancred shrugged. ‘I play to win,’ he said without trace of apology.
‘And you—what have you to say for yourself, my lord?’ said Rose to Lord Rothersthorpe with an engaging smile. ‘What excuse do you have for looking so put out when Mama Lyddy did not grant your team the victory?’
Lydia’s blush grew hotter. What was Rose doing? Well, she knew what she was doing. In spite of warning her that Lord Rothersthorpe didn’t have any serious interest in her, she just would not relinquish her belief she could promote a match between them.
‘I, too, believe that if a game is worth playing, a man should give it his all,’ he said.
What fustian! Lord Rothersthorpe never took anything seriously. At least...well, she supposed she had noticed an intensity to him this afternoon she’d never seen before. And by all accounts, he had worked hard to halt, and then reverse, his family’s declining fortunes.
And he himself had declared he had changed over the years. He’d told her that he was no longer content to play the clown.
Not that it made any difference to her. His very public hunt for a wife might be a signal to the world that he was now a man who did intend to take certain responsibilities seriously. But all she was to him was some kind of...temporary aberration. A last-ditch attempt, perhaps, to recapture something of his carefree youth before settling down.
Settling down with some innocent, young, wealthy girl of good breeding.
‘Never seen a dog to match Slipper, though,’ put in Mr Bentley. ‘Re
markable animal. Seems to understand every word one says.’
‘A great pity the same cannot be said for some of the people on the field,’ remarked Lutterworth sourly.
‘Words are strange things, though, are they not?’ Lord Rothersthorpe was the first to break the rather shocked silence that followed his remark, a remark that had made Cynthia shrink into herself. ‘For someone who writes poetry, for instance, finding just the right one requires a level of concentration that sometimes takes precedence over other things. Would you not agree, Miss Lutterworth?’
‘You write poetry, Miss Lutterworth?’ Lieutenant Smollet briefly tore his eyes away from Rose, to give the cringing, red-faced girl his attention.
‘Y-yes,’ she replied, darting Lord Rothersthorpe a look brimming with gratitude. ‘And sometimes...well, like this afternoon. The grounds are so lovely and the way the shadows from the trees dappled the lawn, and the sound of the water just lapping on the edges of hearing...well, it all created such a tumult of images...and I wanted to find just the right phrases to capture the moment...’
‘There is no need to make any excuses,’ put in Robert, gently. ‘It was just a game. But being able to write poetry is a gift.’
‘If you can call it poetry,’ Lydia thought she heard George mutter. Cynthia must have heard him too, for after her brief foray into dinner-table conversation, she went right back into her shell. Throughout the rest of the meal she hardly said a word, apart from pleases and thank-yous as the dishes were passed round.
Though she did dart Lord Rothersthorpe soulful glances from time to time.
He’d done it again. Captured another poor girl’s heart with his careless kindness. Had he any idea that he left a trail of hopelessly smitten females in his wake? Even Lord Beagle’s sister was under his spell. Though she barely deigned to be polite to the naval officers, and positively turned her nose up at Mr Bentley, she...she simpered whenever he drew her into conversation.
And she was turning into a jealous cat. She lowered her eyes to her plate and concentrated on rearranging her features into a mask of calm serenity.
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