Days of Rakes and Roses

by Anna Campbell

  He leaned forward to kiss her breasts. She shifted restlessly and sighed with pleasure. Burying her fingers in his hair, she brought him closer. He needed no further incitement. He worshipped her with his hands and his lips, loving that he gave her pleasure.

  Her scent, richer, more womanly than the scent of the girl he’d kissed as a youth, intoxicated him. She lay naked before him, all graceful limbs and creamy skin, tinted gold in the candlelight. She was a symphony in ivory and pink. The dark red curls at the junction of her thighs created an enchanting contrast.

  As very carefully he placed one hand on the feathery hair covering her mound, every ounce of his desire infused his kiss. She whimpered against his mouth and quivered with shyness. He expected a protest, but she parted her legs to his invasion. He pressed into her softness and slowly traced the sleek lips of her sex. When he found hot moisture, he groaned and buried his head in her bare shoulder.

  He heard her ragged gasps as he touched her, preparing her. He discovered the site of her pleasure and circled it with his thumb. She squeaked with surprise. Then, making his heart expand painfully, she lifted her hips in appeal for more.

  He craved to take her now. Before the world could rip her away from him as it had before. But the need to give her joy surpassed the roaring of his senses. He eased a finger into her, testing the tightness.

  “Simon—”

  “Trust me,” he choked out.

  She shuddered under his touch, then again, when he stroked deeply. A second finger slid in more easily and this time her moan conveyed pleasure rather than discomfort. He teased her until she started to clench rhythmically around his fingers. She was close but, selfish beast he was, he wanted to be inside her when she experienced her first climax. He burned to share that profound moment with her.

  He lifted himself on his arms and stared down at her face. He read powerful need in her toffee-treacle eyes. But it wasn’t enough.

  The first time he tried to speak, words failed. He sucked in a jagged breath and spoke roughly. “Is it yes, Lydia?”

  With glassy eyes, she stared up at him. Had she understood? Dear God, he didn’t think he could summon willpower to ask again. She spread below him like a banquet and he was a starving man. He prayed for control, telling himself he could hold back if he must.

  He watched her swallow, her slender throat moving as though mustering words was difficult for her, too. Then astoundingly, miraculously, her lush mouth curved into a luminous smile. She looked like the disheveled, bewitching girl who had come so close to yielding to him at Fentonwyck.

  “Yes, forever yes.”

  His lungs emptied in a massive exhalation and his heart slammed against his ribs. He rolled to the side and clumsily tore his breeches away. Finesse was beyond him. Her consent vibrated through him like a thousand cellos playing a triumphant major chord. Or like trumpets blaring to herald the conqueror’s entry into a fallen city.

  Balancing on his elbows, he rose, sliding between her legs. This time nothing separated them. Their bodies slid together with an ease that astounded him, as did the naturalness with which she bent her knees to frame his hips.

  He bent to kiss her, a kiss immeasurably different from all the others, a kiss to mark the moment that he presented his soul to her on a platter. When he tilted his hips and pushed into her, it was confirmation of lasting vows made in the silence. A silence broken only by their tattered breathing and the thunder of blood in his ears.

  The urge to drive into her threatened to overwhelm him. But when she whimpered, he paused, striving for control.

  Gritting his teeth, he slid a fraction deeper. She shifted to accommodate him. Her face was wan and tight and she bit down hard on her lip.

  “Am I hurting you?” he gasped, wondering what he’d do if she told him to stop.

  He’d stop. He could do that for her. It would kill him, but he could.

  Her gaze met his, dark, intent, urgent. “Don’t stop.”

  He hardly recognized the hoarse voice as hers. He inched farther still, meeting resistance, until he encountered the barrier of her innocence. He lifted her toward him. Still she stared at him out of glistening caramel eyes as if he encompassed her whole world.

  “Forgive me, my darling,” he groaned and pushed forward.

  Lydia gasped and her body clenched down on his. Then she curled her arms around him and arched until her breasts crushed into his chest.

  She closed her eyes and her face relaxed into shining peace. “Simon…”

  Joy flooded him, flung him high into a brilliant new world. Her body flowered to accept him and he sank completely into her, claiming her at last. He leaned his head into the smooth curve of her neck, feeling the warm dampness of her skin. How he longed to cling to this moment so that it never left him.

  All his life, he’d wanted to be Lydia’s lover. Now that he was, the magnitude of the experience beggared imagination. She was his whole life. Uniting their bodies united their souls in a way he didn’t understand but immediately acknowledged. The bond they forged tonight would outlast eternity. Her hands flattened on his back as she claimed him in return.

  The yen to linger and bask in this radiance was strong, even as the need to move surged. As he slowly withdrew, her nails dug into his back. He’d bear her mark tomorrow. The savage thought shot another burst of arousal through him.

  He moved back into her, this time more easily. Her body welcomed him and when he met her eyes, they shimmered with love. Brief sorrow struck him for the years they’d lost. Then he stared down at the woman in his arms and knew that she had been worth waiting for. What they had now was deeper and more powerful after enduring through adversity.

  She sighed, the sound a long exhalation of pleasure, and rose to meet him. The night fractured into dazzling passion. Simon took her faster and harder, feeling her response spiral with his own.

  He thrust one last time and heard her breathing change. Her body convulsed around his and she lost herself to her peak. As her broken cry echoed around the room, hot darkness swamped him and he gave himself up to her.

  At last his wanderings were over. He’d found his way home into Lydia’s arms.

  Chapter Seven

  Lydia stirred from the deep, dreamless sleep she’d tumbled into after all the exquisite, unprecedented things Simon had done to her in his bed. The candles on the sideboard guttered low. Outside along Piccadilly, she heard the rumble of early traffic as wagons laden with produce rolled into London from the countryside.

  She lay alone and naked. Any virtuous woman would blush red as a tomato, whereas Lydia just felt… loved. She couldn’t muster any remorse over giving herself to a man without benefit of wedlock. Simon loved her. It turned out that he’d always loved her. After accepting such a miracle as truth, she felt revitalized, brave, and ready to take on the world. Only now did she realize how fear had tainted every breath she’d ever taken, with perhaps the single exception of those untrammeled moments in Simon’s arms at Fentonwyck.

  And last night.

  While conventional morality might dictate otherwise, committing herself to Grenville Berwick had been a craven, dishonest act, whereas loving Simon set her free to pursue her destiny. She loved Simon with all her soul and she could never be ashamed of that, whatever cruel names the world might call her.

  Perhaps she was more her mother’s daughter than she’d ever realized.

  After last night’s revelations, Lydia finally found it in herself to forgive her mother for seizing what small joy she could, whatever the consequences. Love, it seemed, had its own imperatives.

  Love had proven itself more satisfying than she’d ever imagined. And in ten lonely years, she’d spent a lot of time imagining. As her sleepy mind winnowed the glorious events of the preceding hours, she stretched across the rumpled sheets in an excess of lingering physical pleasure. Each beat of her heart spoke her lover’s name. Simon. Simon. Simon.

  Simon…

  Where was he? Clumsily she rose, winc
ing as muscles she’d never known she possessed protested. When Simon had joined his body with hers, she’d suffered brief discomfort, but she’d trusted him enough to follow his lead. A wave of heat washed through her when she recalled where his lead had taken her.

  “Simon?” She tugged a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself.

  Her voice echoed around the silent rooms. A horrible presentiment struck a chill down her spine. Hurriedly she leaned down to test the side of the bed where Simon had slept. It was stone cold.

  Dear God…

  Her heart lurched with foreboding. She’d urged Simon to escape to the Continent. But surely he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye. Without asking her to go with him.

  Had he deserted her without a word the way he had ten years ago? The frightened, uncertain girl she’d once been might have believed that. The woman who had become Simon’s lover last night knew better. Whatever fate he faced, he’d face it with her at his side. They were united forever.

  Yet here she was alone.

  A frantic glance around the untidy bedroom revealed scattered clothes. Some, she blushed to acknowledge, were hers, but most belonged to Simon, who’d clearly retained his boyhood untidiness. The flickering candlelight gleamed on his brushes and shaving kit on the mahogany tallboy. If he’d fled for France, he’d abandoned all his personal belongings. Unlikely.

  Which meant she could think of only one other reason for his early departure.

  Last night she’d relinquished fear. But now fear surged anew, powerful as a king tide.

  * * *

  On this derelict farm near Hampstead, the forces of the law wouldn’t disrupt murderous intentions. Simon stood quietly at Cam’s side and watched the rising sun cast the dewy meadow in pure gold. Or perhaps after his night with Lydia, splendor tinged the whole world.

  It had been an agonizing wrench to sneak away like a thief just before dawn. But if he’d told Lydia he still meant to proceed with the duel, they’d have argued. Call him a coward, but he couldn’t bear rancor to stain his last memory of his beloved.

  Now, facing death, he’d never loved life so much. Had he left Lydia pregnant? He prayed that he hadn’t, although he’d sell his very soul to see her growing round and drowsy with contentment as she carried his child. He’d sell his soul twice over to make love to her again.

  Berwick’s second—for the life of him, Simon couldn’t recollect the fellow’s name—had been speaking in a low voice to the doctor Berwick had brought. Now the man left Dr. West and approached Simon and Cam. “Are you ready, Mr. Metcalf?”

  “Yes.” Simon turned to Cam, feeling awkward. So much to say. No time to say it. Painful to summon a farewell to his oldest friend. Even more painful to formulate a request for the care of his oldest friend’s possibly pregnant sister. “If this doesn’t go well, you’ll—”

  “Look after Lydia. Of course, old man.” Cam smiled and gripped his arm briefly in unspoken affection. Neither had imagined it would come to this when they’d set out to undermine Lydia’s engagement. The price of interference proved devilish high.

  The two duelists strode to the center of the field and faced one another. Berwick’s eyes sparked with outrage when they rested upon Simon, but otherwise his square face remained impassive. Simon had spent most of the last weeks denouncing this man’s existence. But as he regarded Berwick now, fatalistic ice set over his soul. All passion drained away, replaced with a dull determination to have this over and done with, however it ended.

  “Ten paces, gentlemen, then turn and fire at will.” Berwick’s second dropped a white handkerchief to indicate the duel’s beginning.

  Feeling as though his body no longer belonged to him but operated at someone else’s behest, Simon turned and took one pace, then another. Time seemed oddly stretched out. He was preternaturally aware of the light turning the trees into a tracery of color fit to match the stained glass in his family chapel. The birds sang to greet the spring day. Boots crunched across frosty grass with a relentless rhythm.

  Berwick’s second counted each pace, his voice reedy as he shouted across the open space. The gun in Simon’s hand was small and beautiful, chased steel and mother of pearl, one of a pair that Cam had owned since his twenty-first birthday.

  “Ten!”

  His legs firm, his breathing even, Simon pivoted toward his opponent. Berwick turned more slowly, with deliberate menace, and raised his gun in Simon’s direction.

  So this was it. A lifetime of loving Lydia. A handful of good friends. Some amusing hijinks. More experience of the wider world in his thirty-one years than was granted to most men. Now everything reached its end.

  As Simon drew what could prove his last breath, the image that flashed before his eyes was Lydia’s face as she lost herself in pleasure. A good memory to die on. With no intention of firing, he raised his pistol. A fellow must go through the motions, he supposed. The bright morning shrank to a narrow tunnel of light linking him with Berwick.

  “Simon, Grenville, stop!”

  What the devil?

  Shock held Simon motionless. He must be dreaming or going mad. He could swear that was Lydia’s voice ringing out across the field.

  “Good God, man, take care!” Cam shouted.

  Cam’s warning seemed to come from another universe, clashing with Lydia’s terrified cry. Wonderingly Simon veered toward his friend.

  As he shifted, a pistol fired.

  Something crashed into him with the force of a charging elephant. He staggered under a blow that at first he didn’t understand. Then excruciating pain streaked through him, left him stumbling.

  “Simon? Simon, are you all right?”

  He wasn’t going mad. That was definitely Lydia. As he struggled to maintain his balance and control the waves of pain, a palpably physical presence twined an arm around his waist. Immediately her warmth flowed into him, restoring life and hope.

  For one dizzying moment, he closed his eyes, wondering if he was about to make a complete fool of himself and collapse on top of his beloved. Who clearly hadn’t joined him in the afterlife. He was alive, all right. As if to confirm that welcome realization, his euphoria faded and the wound in his right arm flared to a blinding pitch.

  “Lydia, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked with difficulty, opening his eyes through throbbing agony. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of the shabby hackney carriage she must have hired to bring her out to the meadow. He’d been so focused on Berwick, he hadn’t heard its arrival.

  On a groan, he bent and buried his face in the thick auburn hair she’d piled into an insecure chignon. Her grip tightened and he felt her turn toward him. “Trying to save your life, you fool.”

  He bit off a choked laugh and muttered through his pain. “I love you too.”

  “Not enough to stay safe,” she retorted, even as she angled herself to support his ungainly height.

  Stubborn wench. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d have stayed away. If she had an ounce of sense, she wouldn’t strive to hold up a man who must weigh twelve stone. He tried to tell her so, but he couldn’t get the words out. His surroundings retreated in an alarming fashion, making his head swim. His arm felt like it was on fire. Sticky wet warmth saturated his right sleeve. Quickly he glanced down at the sodden scarlet linen covering his arm and closed his eyes, praying for strength.

  “Damn you, Lydia, you shouldn’t be here.” Through the thickening fog in his head, Simon heard Cam’s uncharacteristic cursing.

  Despite his best efforts to stand on his own feet, Simon leaned more heavily into Lydia. He wasn’t going to be able to save himself from fainting, blast it. “I think… I think I need to sit down.”

  “What in blazes is going on?” Berwick demanded from behind him, the question echoing oddly in Simon’s ears. “Lady Lydia, I must protest. A duel is no place for a woman.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Lydia snarled, making Simon laugh again. For about two seconds until pain swamped amusement. “You shot him, yo
u toad.”

  “Madam, I beg your pardon!” Berwick growled.

  “I’m sorry, Lydia, but I can’t—” Clumsily, with more haste than grace, using Lydia as a crutch, Simon lowered himself to the ground.

  As he slid downward, the meadow developed a disconcerting tendency to whirl around him. His stomach revolted at the reckless waltz. He squeezed his eyes shut, but lack of vision only worsened the vertigo. He started to breathe hard and heavy through his mouth, fighting the urge to crumple into unconsciousness or cast up his accounts at his inamorata’s feet. With a shaking hand, he laid his pistol on the grass beside him.

  Berwick’s voice still pricked at the outer limits of Simon’s fading awareness. “Of course I shot the scoundrel. If he imagines your presence to plead his case will make me relent—”

  “Don’t be a dashed idiot, man,” Cam said impatiently from somewhere above Simon’s left shoulder. “The affair is over. You’ve drawn blood. Honor is satisfied.”

  “Mr. Metcalf, I insist upon inspecting the wound.” It was the doctor, a small, rotund man in a black hat that sat low over his brow. He’d struck Simon as an officious weasel when they’d met and his pompous manner now confirmed that impression.

  “Of course.” Simon leaned back upon Lydia, who seemed to have settled herself on her knees behind him. He kept losing odd seconds, although now that he wasn’t struggling to stand, he felt more alert. He wanted to warn her that she’d be covered in mud if she wasn’t careful, not to mention getting blood on that deuced elegant green gown, but the world receded before he could speak.

  “Simon, how badly are you hurt?” He floated back to reality to hear the effort she made to keep her voice even. The soft body behind him trembled, but she did her best to hide her fear.

  Brave Lydia. She was a woman any man would be proud to call wife. As tenderly as a mother cradled a baby, she held him against her, propping him up. Even through crippling pain, he gloried in her embrace. An hour ago, he’d believed he’d never see her again. He still could hardly credit that he’d survived the morning.