The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  It had to be good for her. She had to know some measure of the lust he felt. He had to give her a release. He slipped his arm beneath her and rose to his feet, still buried deep in her body. Her skirts rucked up around her waist, her breasts pushed over the rent neckline. She looked floozy and carnal, her hair wild about her shoulders, her nipples tight, mouth parted, panting and disoriented and needful. She gasped as he lifted her, rising to his knees and pivoting, turning, still buried deep inside her.

  He shifted her legs so that she straddled his lap, her knees resting on the cushion on either side. He lay back. She stared down at him, uncertain as he cupped the underside of her breast, massaging the soft flesh, his thumbs playing with the silky, distended nipples. Her back arched and her mouth opened as she drew in a shaky breath, her head falling back, her long brown curls sweeping over his thighs.

  He played with her until a moan escaped her lips. Then he caressed her in one long sweep from breast to belly to thigh and then to the soft triangle of mink brown curls between her legs. He found the hard nub between the hot, slick folds and pressed it with his thumb.

  She jerked, bracing herself with her hands spread wide on his naked chest. He stroked her again. She looked down, her hair falling like a curtain around them. He clasped her hips in his big hands and, holding her shadowed gaze, slowly lifted her up, her hot, tight core dragging against his sensitive member, sending a quake through the muscles of his chest and arms.

  “Ned?” She undulated against him and he ground his teeth.

  “Easy, love,” he murmured thickly. “I have far less self-discipline than you think or I shall need if you are to find your finish.”

  He pushed slowly up into her, seating himself deep within. Her eyelids fluttered. He withdrew again and this time when he pulled her down onto him, he thrust a little harder, his thumb covering her clitoris to make the contact deeper, richer. She cried out. She was so tight. Too tight.

  He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold back, to let her use his body to find her release. By God, he would last.

  Faster and faster she moved on him, her hips rocking in the instinctive rhythm, her hair dancing over his chest. Her eyes fell partially shut, violet lights glittering in their lash-shaded depths, and her lips on little puffs of exertion that were punctuated with throaty whimpers of frustration. And with each movement she made, he withdrew and thrust deeper, faster, harder into her, stroke by stroke building an inferno of pleasure within.

  “Please. Anything. Yes. Please,” she whispered as he crunched up to lick the salty dew from her shoulder and neck.

  Then her body was clenching, arching, and she shifted, taking every inch of him deep within her as she worked her hips in a circular movement against his groin. She cried out, tremors racking her, and the sight of her transfixed on the apex of pleasure undid him.

  With a growl he rolled her onto her back, lifting her hips and rocking into her in thrust after thrust while her fingers dug into his shoulders and she panted his name which each concussive movement.

  “Want me,” she whispered.

  The words finished him. With a powerful surge he filled her with his seed, holding there, tight within her, chest heaving, arms trembling as he held himself braced above her.

  After an eternity, the storm quieted and he could open his eyes again. He reached down and tenderly swept the damp curls from her face.

  “Marry me, Lydia. Tell me you will be my wife.”

  “But—”

  He would not let her answer, there was a desperation in his eyes and in his tone she had never heard before. “I don’t have the right to ask you. I know what I am asking you to give up. I have no wealth and soon, perhaps, no home. But I swear to you, Lydia, no other man would work harder or more tirelessly for your happiness. I need you, Lydia. I am a selfish bastard, but I need you so very much. Before you all the colors of this world were drab, all the flavors were bland, and every sound was muted. You have made my life . . . brilliant.” His gaze raked hers. He reached out and cupped her face between both large hands.

  “I love you, Lydia,” he whispered. “I could never give you up. Never.”

  “You will never have to,” she promised.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Lydia awoke in Ned’s bed to a gentle touch. She smiled without opening her eyes, luxuriating in the sensual feel of chamois soft linen against her bare skin and soft, firm lips brushing her temple.

  “Awake, my love,” a low masculine voice murmured. “Morning is racing to extract a toll for last night. Your reputation is at stake.”

  “I don’t care about my reputation.” She opened her eyes to find Ned already dressed and seated on the side of the bed, gazing tenderly down at her. “Let us elope.”

  “No,” Ned said, quickly enough that she suspected he’d already considered it. He lifted a tress of her hair between his thumb and forefinger and tested the texture. “I do care for your reputation. I would not have it said I took unfair advantage of ladies’ well-known penchant for gentlemen in costume to seduce you into a hasty and ill-considered marriage.”

  “I’ve never even seen you in your uniform.”

  “A minor point,” he said. “You have an excellent imagination.”

  “I do, indeed!” she declared, her eyes sparkling wickedly. She laughed and held out her arms. “If I tell you what I am currently imagining, perhaps I can convince you to stay a while—”

  His mouth descended hungrily on hers and she arched up, the bedsheet falling to her waist, the light from a single candlelight flickering over her skin. With an obvious effort, he set his hands on her shoulders and broke off their kiss. Then, abruptly changing his mind, he dipped his head and captured her mouth once again in a long, searing kiss, his lips parting before gently pushing her away.

  “Please, Lydia, allow me the illusion that I can resist you if I must. And for your sake, I must.”

  She read the plea in his eyes and stroked his lean cheek. It was rough, but his gaze was inexpressibly tender. “Very well,” she finally said. “If you must.”

  “I’ll have a coach waiting for you in the park across the street. My valet will escort you from the side of the house when you are ready.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a series of kisses on her knuckles. “I would not have you the subject of speculation.”

  How deeply he cared for this thing called honor that others only paid lip service to, but which he exemplified. As the captain of a ship, his men had depended on his honor. As did his family. As did she now. It was an integral part of him. Without it he would simply be another actor playing the part of gentleman, adopting fashionable manners and attitudes. But Ned was a gentleman. At his core. To his very soul. Her gentleman. “Do you forgive me for compromising your honor?” she asked, a little worriedly.

  He looked startled. “For what?”

  “Compromising you. For . . . finding your limits?” she asked, echoing their words from the night.

  He smiled. “You mistake me, Lydia. I care for your reputation only because it is the public face of your character. I am humbled by the trust you bestowed on me by putting your reputation in my care and I will not fail to look after it with all diligence. Now or ever. I love you. How is it a compromise to have everything I ever wanted, needed, or desired here in my arms?”

  She settled back, satisfied.

  “I am leaving you to go directly to Josten Hall to let my siblings know of their newly lowered expectations,” he said. “I would not like them to read of our betrothal in the papers.”

  “Will your brother be angry?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ned mused. “He never was comfortable with being responsible for so many and so much. I suspect he’ll learn easily enough the relief of being unburdened by responsibilities he is ill equipped to handle. He and Nadine were always most comfortable with their own society.” Now he took her hands in his and met her eyes. “They are not bad people, Lydia. They are simply nearsighted reg
arding their importance. As was I when I returned from sea. I believed nothing mattered more than to see the Josten traditions carried on.”

  “And why is that no longer important?”

  “It is still important,” he said seriously. “What has changed is my view of my role in that endeavor. I came home without any thought other than to live out my life amongst my family at Josten Hall. I needed and wanted nothing or anyone else. So when Josten suggested I marry someone with wealth enough to initiate my family’s financial recovery, it seemed like a small enough thing to ask. I had, after all, been asked to volunteer far more important things—my men’s lives.”

  She watched him carefully. He did not color up this time, uncomfortable with revealing his emotions. He may never share easily those things most deeply held in his heart, but he would with her.

  “Besides,” he said softly, his gaze tangled with hers, “it was easy to agree to Josten’s plans because I did not care. It would be no great sacrifice to promise myself to a woman I barely knew, because I barely knew my heart anymore. I had needed to quiet its demands for so long while I was at war, that it was unused and slumbering.

  “War numbs a man’s heart, Lydia,” he said quietly. “It must or he wouldn’t survive. But then I met you and . . . you would not let my poor heart rest. Just by being with you, you insisted I see the world through your eyes, with your heart—which is so demandingly vibrant—and you made me discover my own again.”

  Her gaze fell and he lifted her chin with his finger and leaned in to brush a kiss over her mouth. “You awoke me to pleasure, to beauty, to joy, and to hope again. Within a week of meeting you at Roubalais’s, all Josten’s hopes of my marrying for convenience was lost.”

  She was well aware that in marrying her Ned was relinquishing his family’s hopes for renewed prosperity. “What of your nephews?”

  A sort of rueful resignation filled his handsome face. “My nephews seem determined to ruin themselves. If they have no care for what will one day be theirs—or what would have been theirs—there is nothing I can do to change that. Even if I saved it for them now, they would only lose it themselves later.”

  “But what will you tell them?”

  He smiled. “The truth. No one else will have me now. I am too obviously smitten, too openly besotted. A woman might take exception to being courted by a man whose gaze is constantly, lovingly, adoringly fixed on another.”

  She smoothed her palm against his rough cheek, thrilled by his words. He turned his face and kissed her palm. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “There you go again, playing havoc with my resolve,” he said hoarsely. “But you must go and the sooner I see my brother, the sooner I can return to your side and we can wed. So, reluctant though I am to ask you to quit my bed, I must do so.”

  She nodded, determined to prove her intent to cooperate with his plans, which in effect would make her dreams come true, by hurriedly swinging her legs over the side of the bed in order to speed him on his way and thus back to her again.

  Lydia awoke for the second time that morning in her own bed. She rolled to her back and stretched her arms overhead in feline luxuriance, feeling well and thoroughly loved. How intoxicating this sensation, how addictive it would be. She hugged the idea close, unraveling the years ahead in her imagination. Years of mornings waking to this feeling, only better because Ned would be by her side.

  Ned.

  The thought of his beautiful body, the smooth skin taut over large muscles, the flat belly, the long, powerful legs and arms, set off a pulse of excitement that pooled between her thighs. She blushed, recalling the way he’d played with her body, the path his big hands had taken over her skin, the places he’d found that caused her to catch her breath or arch her back. The way he’d quaked when he’d allowed himself his release, the strain and beauty on his face . . .

  She blew out a steadying breath and got up. If just the memory of Ned’s lovemaking could make her limbs so weak, what state would she be in after they’d wed? And the week after that? And the next month? Would passion commit her to an invalid’s chair?

  She laughed and glanced over at the mantel clock. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Six hours since Ned had left and his man had escorted her back to her own house. He would be halfway to Josten Hall by now. Already she was anxious to see him again. If only she could sleep away the hours until his return.

  “Lady Lydia?” her maid asked, rapping on the bedroom door. “Ma’am?”

  “Come in.”

  The maid opened the door, looking nervous. “There’s a . . . person here insisting that he see you.”

  “A person?” Lydia repeated. It was too early for callers. “What sort of person? Is he a gentleman?” It couldn’t be a merchant here to collect money. She’d paid most all of her debts and the cent-per-center was not owed until the end of the month.

  “I can’t say, ma’am. He speaks well enough and he is dressed in a gentlemanly fashion, but . . .” She lifted her hands apologetically, unable to convey what about the man gave her pause. “He refuses to give his name, ma’am, but insists he has information of a vital nature that he says you will be most sorry not to hear in time. I didn’t know where to put him so he’s still in the hall.”

  In time? Whatever did that mean? Lydia’s brows knit together. Did he have news from Ned? She stood up. “Tell him I will be with him shortly,” she said, already shedding her nightgown.

  It took only a few minutes for her to dress and twist her long hair into a bun and then she was hurrying down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, she spied a big man she judged to be in his late forties, the buttons of a once-fashionable coat straining to hold the material together over a barrel chest. His boots told a similar tale of having come down in the world, well cut but scuffed and dull. He held a beaver hat in the crook of his arm. He looked up, spotted her, and bowed.

  “Lady Lydia,” he said and his accent was, indeed, that of a gentleman. She studied him, certain they had never before met. Coarse graying hair sprung over a sunburned balding pate, thick brows lowered over dark, intense eyes. Fleshy swags hung below them and seams bracketed his mouth. Tiny red veins scribbled over a Romanesque nose. “Kind of you to see me, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

  She did not like him. She did not like the feeling he gave her. “We shall see. If you would join me, please?”

  She did not wait for him to reply but instead led the way into the morning room. She did not bother sending for refreshments. She did not want him here any longer than necessary. She turned without sitting, obliging him to remain standing, too. Only he didn’t. He looked around and took a seat, placing his top hat on his knee.

  Lydia’s eyes widened at his forwardness. “Who are you, sir? And why have you insisted on seeing me?”

  The man looked up at her from his lengthy survey of the room. “My name is Bernard Cod. I believe you know my wife, Emily.”

  Emily Cod’s hand fell from the doorknob leading into the morning room and she wheeled sideways, an animal readying for flight. But the sound of his voice had dealt her a blow more stunning than a club, and her legs buckled. She half fell against the wall and braced herself, closing her eyes, refusing to believe this nightmare could be true.

  He was dead. Dead. DEAD.

  The matron at Brislington’s had told her, had explained that Cod had been lost at sea and that she would have to be transferred to another facility since there was no one to pay for her continued treatment at Brislington. Unless she could contribute.

  So she’d contributed. The odd thing had been that she had actually cared whether they sent her to Bedlam or not. By that point in her life, it had been a long time since she had cared about anything, not since Cod had pushed her down the stairs and she’d lost their baby. After that, life had become an endless series of one miserable minute draining into the next.

  The only respite from melancholy had been those times when “what if” had caught her
off guard and she’d envisioned a baby with auburn curls, tiny fingers, and a rosebud mouth. Then panic crashed in through the door her imagination left open. Her heart would race, her vision blur, and she could not catch her breath, she could not breathe, until something interrupted the terrible escalating hysteria.

  Something like stealing.

  She had no idea why taking other people’s little fribbles should afford relief. She didn’t care. She would have done anything to stop that nameless sense of being trapped, cornered, imprisoned in a dark hole and buried alive.

  But not long after she’d discovered the relief stealing could give her, Cod discovered her penchant, too. He’d had her committed. And right afterward, he’d gone away. And then she’d heard he’d died.

  Dead. He was dead, not in the morning room talking to Lydia. She was dreaming. Another nightmare. Because this couldn’t be real. It wasn’t fair. It had taken so long to piece herself together. It had taken effort and practice and Lydia.

  She should go in there, step through the door, and confront her nightmare. But she couldn’t. Because she knew he was real and she couldn’t bear to look at him. Not after what he’d done to her.

  But she could listen to him.

  Emily crept back across the hallway and pressed her ear to the door.

  Chapter Thirty

  “The reports were that you’d died,” Lydia said coldly.

  “You fell overboard off a ship.”

  This was the vermin that had committed Emily to an insane asylum. She stared down at him, willing him to shrivel under her disgust like a leech dosed with salt. But he was immune to her attitude.

  “It wasn’t me—it was some Belgian. But it was convenient,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “It made it possible for me to take his name and begin a new life.