Sweet Torture

by Dayna Quince

  “We don’t have much time, Devon. We have to take this moment now,” Lydia urged.

  He rolled, pinning her beneath him and sliding her nightgown over her hips and onto the floor. “I want to make love to you all night, Lydia, for eternity.” He looked down at her body, now bared to him in the dim glow from the fire and two bedside candles.

  “All we have is now,” she pleaded with him. She was not embarrassed to be naked in front of him. The way he was looking at her made her feel like the most beautiful and wanted woman in the world. His hands reached to undo his breeches as his eyes worshiped her from head to toe. He eased them down over his hips, and Lydia held her breath as the fine dark hairs trickling from his navel directed her gaze lower. Reaching his knees, he stopped to pull off first one boot and then the other. His manhood jutted out, engorged and firm. His legs were lean and corded in muscle. Lydia’s eyes roamed everywhere, and she wished they did have all night. There was no way she could be satisfied with exploring his body in the limited time they had.

  “Turn and slide back on the bed,” he directed her as he climbed up over her. She adjusted the pillows behind her head, and he looked down at her with hungry anticipation. He trailed his fingers from her left ankle to her knee and pushed it up and wide. He did the same with her left knee, leaving her bare to his gaze, every secret uncovered. She shivered uncontrollably, watching him with eyes filled with need. He held her gaze as he bent forward. “Whatever you do, don’t move. I promise you will love every second of this.”

  Lydia nodded. Her body strung incredibly tight from the sheer anticipation of their lovemaking. It took all her concentration to be still. He bent lower, gently parting her folds with one hand, kissing her in the most intimate way imaginable. Lydia felt like jumping out of her skin. She jerked when he first touched her, but the sensation was so exquisite, her body immediately complied to receive more. He placed both hands under her hips to hold her while he feasted. Lydia gripped the coverlet with white knuckles as he tasted and licked her most delicate and private place. Every caress shot liquid heat through her body and only made her want more. Uncontrollable moans and gasps began to escape her as Devon skillfully teased and soothed her delicate flesh.

  He entered her with two fingers, stretching her passage and preparing her for what was to come. He stroked her rhythmically in time with her own thrusts, working her into a frantic dance of want and need.

  “Devon,” she moaned, her eyes closed tightly. It was all she could do, caught up as she was in her body’s desires.

  He moved up and positioned himself at her entrance, lifting her hips with one hand as he slowly penetrated her. She arched as he entered her, tensing and squeezing him unmercifully.

  “God, Lydia, you have to relax, sweetheart.” He panted as little by little he thrust, sliding back and forth, telling her body what his wanted, what hers wanted. Lydia relaxed a little, easing his passage and allowing him to settle deeper. They both took a deep breath, pausing to appreciate the new sensation of being joined together, of being one.

  So many sensations and emotions collided together inside Lydia. She looked up at him, tense and flushed above her, and imprinted the image on her mind. His eyes glittered in the dim light, entrancing her in their depths, and holding her as he slowly began to move. He bore his weight on his left arm and hooked his other arm under her left knee bringing it higher. They moved in rhythm, give and take, holding tightly to each other, sharing each breath. The cadence of his thrust increased slowly as little moans and gasps escaped unbidden. Lydia was completely absorbed in him. He encompassed all of her senses and infiltrated every part of her heart and mind. She could not look away from him, despite the urge to close her eyes and give into the inferno of desire threatening to overtake her. She was desperate to stay with him, to stay in the moment, and not miss a single second of him over her, around her, and inside her.

  Her climax was sudden and unexpected. It crashed on her like waves on jagged rocks and she screamed. Devon covered her mouth with his to smother her cries of release, lest they be heard and concerned servants come to investigate. He followed her quickly, unable to stem his own overwhelming tide of completion.

  He collapsed on top of her, after releasing her leg and exhaling heavily. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tightly and burying her face in his neck.

  “I’m crushing you,” he said into her hair.

  “No, I like it,” she murmured against him. “I want to remember you like this forever.”

  “You don’t have to remember me. You have me forever.” He nuzzled her hair, inhaling the scent of them.

  Lydia didn’t speak but instead breathed in the scent of his skin. Already the pleasure of the moment was receding, and reality crept in like a thief, stealing the happiness and joy from the room.

  The cold, clammy fingers of warning penetrated Devon’s sated mind. Lydia was tense beneath him, and as he rolled away from her and looked into her eyes, he saw her try to blink away the pain. “What is wrong, Lydia? You’re hiding something from me, I can feel it.”

  “I am not hiding anything, you refuse to see the impossibility of the situation.”

  “What impossibility? We will be married. I thought that’s why you invited me here tonight, to show that you had chosen me, and that you wanted me.”

  “I do want you, Devon, but I don’t have a choice.” She rolled away from him, covered herself with the coverlet, and curled into a ball.

  Devon stared at her, unbelieving of what he was seeing and hearing with his own senses. She used him. Gave herself to him for her own pleasure. His heart thumped painfully in his chest, and his vision blurred with rage. His breathing sounded harsh in his ears, but slowly he moved out of the bed and put on his breeches. He wanted to shout, to yell, to break things, and to curse the world, but most of all he wanted to hurt her, and he hated himself for it. He wanted to lash out at her and see her flinch. With deliberate movements, he harnessed his anger and put on his boots and shirt.

  “How sophisticated of you, Lydia, not even wed, and already you have mastered the art of an affair. Will I be compensated for my services?” He saw her tense beneath the covers.

  “That’s not what this is, and you know it.”

  “Do I? Who has more experience than I do in these delicate situations? This is exactly how it goes, you know. An invitation is issued and accepted, bed sport ensues, and then there is an awkward farewell. I usually give jewels, but given that I am the wronged party…”

  “Devon, please.” She curled tighter under the coverlet.

  “Lydia, I know you think I am like your father, but I am not,” he ground the words out through clenched teeth. “I love you and would never do anything to hurt you. I would never stray from our marriage bed or do anything to embarrass you. Why can’t you see that? I know you love me, you can’t hide it, even from yourself. Why must you torture us like this? I am here begging, Lydia, stop being afraid to admit you love me. You say it’s impossible, but we can marry, we can love each other openly and have everything we want. All you have to do is have the courage to reach for it.”

  “Our love is madness,” she whispered.

  “Pardon?” Devon nearly bellowed. “Our love is not madness—it is beautiful and real. Your notion that it isn’t good enough to please your mother or strong enough to form a lasting marriage is madness, and I won’t hear it, Lydia. I can’t stand by and watch you dance with another man, marry another man, and bear his children when you belong to me.”

  “Devon, please.”

  Lydia sat up and turned to him, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Someone will hear you.”

  “It does not matter. Nothing matters if we are not together.” His voice choked with emotion, pain, anger. His mind struggled to make sense of all he was feeling, but his mind couldn’t fathom the idea of life without Lydia. “I cannot be ice like you. I cannot pretend to feel nothing when I see you. If you deny me one more time, I will never ask again. I will never set e
yes upon you for the rest of my days or even acknowledge you.”

  “No,” Lydia begged.

  “Marry me, Lydia, or know that I will hate you for the rest of my days.” The words were spoken with such agony it hurt to speak them. They ripped from him, pulsing and reverberating throughout the room. They were the sound of his heart breaking, tearing from his chest and shattering in her hands.

  She sobbed, her body wracked with shuddering convulsions of raw emotion. “Don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything we had with such words. I love you, Devon… But I can’t—”

  He turned his back on her and strode to the door. He gripped the knob with white-knuckled rage before unlocking it and pulling the door open savagely.

  Lady Covington stood there, hand to her throat, tears in her eyes. She stared at Devon in shock, at his open shirt, waistcoat and jacket in his hand, eyes narrowed at her.

  “It seems congratulations are in order, my lady. Your daughter has chosen to be Lady Caverly rather than waste her existence loving a man like me.” He shouldered past her, meeting the eyes of startled servants as he passed. He made his way down the main stairs and exited through the front door. He didn’t care that his bold exit would effectively ruin Lydia. By morning, word would spread throughout London.

  She deserved it.

  My dear family,

  It is with regret that I must leave England. I will send word when my wretched wandering soul finds an anchor. Until then… I am sorry.

  * * *

  Devon sanded the letter with numb fingers, the only part of himself he couldn’t feel. The rest of him, from crown to sole, felt like an open wound. Jagged, dry, and embedded with salt and dirt. It was all metaphorical, of course, but it suited his dark thoughts to give imagery to his pain. His body was a cage of pain, betrayal, and many emotions he had not yet experienced in his previously blessed life. Now he knew. He knew the bitter taste of betrayal, the hot tang of real hate. The kind of hate that burns in your mind, and you wish you could release it with words, but mere words are not sufficient enough to rid yourself of the poison. Your only recourse is to hold it inside yourself and try not to moan from the agony of it.

  He didn’t always succeed.

  He hid from the light in his apartment. Even the silence pained him. It mocked him with its patience, waiting for him to call to mind the reason for his suffering and when he did… He was fit company for no one. All his civility fled, reducing him to the bare essence of his humanity and the weight of his shattered heart. He didn’t know he was capable of feeling like this, feeling everything at once one moment and then nothing but darkness the next. It was too much for one person to bear and too much to burden his family. He could no longer be the man they once knew, so damaged was his soul.

  So he fled like a coward, like a monster one could not bear to look upon, and left London for whatever distraction he could find to overcome his pain. He took very little with him but money and a change of clothes. He didn’t care where he ended up as long as it was different and no one knew him. He would do his damnedest to forget his pain, forget his broken heart and the cause of it, and forget love.

  He contemplated writing her a letter. Of wishing her well in her cold convenient marriage, and warning her that when she lies beneath her wrinkled thrusting husband that she dare not think of him. But he didn’t. He was afraid if he even went as far as writing her name, he would implode upon himself and from the wreckage of his broken body, a true monster would emerge.

  Leaving was best. If God favored him, he would never see hide nor hair of Lydia Covington again, and never again hear her name except in his own tortuous thoughts. He would sail far from London, far from polite society, and bury himself in debauchery. He only prayed that one day, he would be able to lift his head again and return to his family with some semblance of his normal self, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

  Chapter 13

  Three months later…

  Time whispered by in the change of shadows across the canopy. His bed, though comfortable and surrounded by a luxuriously decorated room, was like a cell. A prison of his own making and a constant place of torment. He felt trapped in his thoughts and emotions. As the opium faded from his blood and the tremors and sickness ceased, he was left with a heavy feeling of heartache. These were the things he had been trying to escape. The loss, the pain, the anger, the want, the need. All of them were like a disease, only quieted by the opium but never gone. He was not proud of himself, he was ashamed and a coward. He swallowed his self-hatred, refusing to even allow himself to think of her. But thoughts of her lingered like a halo of light around his dark vision, at times blinding but sometimes soothing. He deserved all of it, even the good thoughts. He had given his heart to her, and she had turned away from it, disgusted. To him, that was his one saving grace. He had loved and lost and lived to tell the tale, only he didn’t want to, he wanted to forget. He wanted to revel in the pain and anger, so that he could not remember the good. He wanted to forget the soft feel of her skin, the smell of her hair as he buried his face in it, and most of all he wanted to forget her smile. There were so many things he wanted to forget, if only he could remove them from his mind. God knows he tried, but that bloody fool Colton—damn him and his incorrigible and reckless sister, had to come and rescue him resulting in their hasty marriage. As if he needed rescuing...

  Now here he lies in Colton’s home, a gentle breeze wafting through the lacy curtains and the smell of steeped tea coming from his bedside. He closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t alone. Pretended she was there glaring at him and admonishing him for daring to be naked under his sheets in the light of day. But no longer was she the puritanical ice queen. Devon had thawed that heart and body thoroughly, by his own hand, and would live to rue that first kiss for the rest of his life.

  If only he could stop craving her.

  The door opened and Devon cracked an eyelid to see who was disturbing his mausoleum. Olivia entered with a tray of food. It must be time for luncheon. If he squinted through the gloom, he could make out the clock on the mantle.

  “Are you awake?”

  “No.” Devon’s voice cracked from lack of use, and he had to clear his throat.

  “Good. I thought you could try some solid food today. How does cold chicken and cheese sound?”

  “Like hell,” he said dryly.

  “Splendid, I’ve brought you pudding, too.” Olivia winked. “But I won’t give it to you until you’ve finished with your lunch.”

  “You sound like Mother,” Devon mumbled.

  “Then I must be doing something right.”

  “You’re too happy, Livie. Get out.”

  Olivia just smiled as she set the tray on the bedside table beside the untouched tea. She fussed with the things around him, fluffing his pillows and straightening blankets, her aura of happiness impenetrable against his scowl.

  “Why must you be in here picking at me? I will eat when I wish without your insufferable presence,” Devon said.

  She shooed at him as if his words were an irritating nat. “I’m taking care of you whether you like it or not. You wouldn’t except my help before, and now look what you’ve gone and done.”

  “I don’t need help, I need to be alone. I did not ask to be rescued nor did I request to be taken here. I’d rather be in my apartment in London where I can—”

  “Molder in misery and self-exile?” Colton entered the room.

  “Whether you wanted to be rescued or not is irrelevant,” Colton said. “You were in no position to save yourself. Therefore, I had to step in. Your apartment has been leased to someone else, and your man is on his way here. I suggest you sit tight and wait for your sanity to return without blistering our ears with your unpleasant attitude.”

  “Bloody hell I will,” Devon grumbled mutinously.

  He was being an ass, he knew, but it could not be helped. His body was sick with the need for opium, and his head was sick with his miserable thoughts. And he was jealous. Watc
hing his friend and his sister so obviously in love burned him like a hot poker in the eye. It was the last thing he wanted to see, and they were merciless about it—always touching and smiling. Bloody fools.

  He turned his head to the windows and looked away from them, disgusted, envious. Why did it still hurt so much? He hated them, and yet he loved them. They did save him from himself and kept him here away from prying eyes and insufferable questions. He had a lot to answer for, especially to his parents, but first he needed to regain control of his head and body. He would have to face the music eventually but not yet.

  The crunch of carriage wheels could be heard on the crushed shell drive, and Olivia and Colton looked over at the windows in puzzlement.

  “Who could that be?” Olivia frowned as she turned to Colton.

  He shrugged. “Your parents?”

  “Father said he had business in London, and he would return next week.”

  Devon groaned aloud. “The speculation is riveting. Why don’t you go down and see who it is, for God’s sake?”

  Colton frowned at him as Olivia tossed a glare at her brother and left the room.

  “Remind me to blacken your eye when this is all over,” Colton growled.

  “You could have left me in Amsterdam.”

  “You don’t yet realize what hell you put your family through, so I will forgive you for that, but know this—there will come a time when I will pull you from that bed and force you to stand on your feet again. We’ve all suffered over a woman, Devon. Stop letting it eat you up inside.”

  “I’m in hell,” Devon said gravely.

  “You’ve made your own hell. It’s time to claw your way out of it.”

  Devon remained silent. He bunched the sheets in white-knuckled fists because, for the first time, he felt the burn of tears threatening, and he did not want to give into them. What kind of man cried over lost love? The effort made him weak, and after a few moments, he heard the scrape of Colton’s boots as he left the room. Thank God. Devon squeezed his eyes shut and willed the tears away. He had not cried since he was a small boy, and he would not give in now. He could feel the brim of his lashes become wet and still he squeezed. He rolled over and punched the pillow with his fist—venting his rage and his lack of self-control. He hated this—he hated the weakness he felt and the things he said.