by Stacy Reid
“Where have you been all my life?” he whispered, making her heart leap.
She got so wet, so fast, as she rubbed him in circles, trembling at the sensations quaking through her. She should be mortified at the ease at which her sex was soaked with her arousal. The wretched man did not help her, only holding himself still, his forearms braced above her head locked with tension.
With a muttered curse, he fisted his cock, pushed it against her opening, and shoved to the hilt. She cried out, distantly hearing his groan, Dahlia a rough entreaty on his lips. He paused to take her hands and draw the curtains attached to the canopied bed, firmly binding her hands with the silk. Lily tugged at the restraints, a weak, hungry sensation flowering through her.
“I want my name on your lips,” he ordered, shoving his cock deep into her in one smooth stroke. For an instant, they both lay unmoving at the exquisite fit.
“Oliver,” she instantly breathed.
Wet heat trailed at her neck, his teeth nipping and delivering sharp stings. One of his hands slipped between them, down to her mound, to pinch her sensitive nub. She jerked under the sharp lash of sensation. Her wail echoed in the dark chamber as he started to ride with shocking depth and strength. His devilish finger stroked her throbbing clitoris while his hips surged into her with erotic power, sinking her deep into the mattress as he ravaged her.
The friction of his thumb against her clitoris as he rubbed it hard, and his rough pounding, had Lily biting into the muscles of his shoulder, her pussy quivering helplessly around his almost punishing thrusts. Raw, piercing sensation filled her, and Oliver overwhelmed her senses with a pleasure so brutal, Lily arched her neck and screamed his name as shards of ecstasy consumed her.
“I need more of you,” he groaned, his breath feathering over her damp forehead.
“Yes,” she sobbed, caught between wanting to rest and drowning in flames of delight once more. Sharp bursts of pleasure sizzled along her nerve endings as Lily responded to his urgings with flaming sensuality. There was enough length on her silken restraints for her to loop her bound hand around his neck and pull his lips to her. Oliver pressed their mouths together in a hungry kiss, his tongue teasing and plundering her mouth as he rode them to fulfillment.
Chapter Ten
An hour after she had slipped from the chamber and hurried through the secret passages, Lily groaned as she sank into the heated depths of a bathtub. She had fretted she would be discovered as she’d furtively heated the water in the kitchen and lugged it up the stairs to her large copper tub in her bath chamber. Her muscles had protested, but she had marshaled on without rousing any of the other servants until her bath had been ready. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips as the water soothed the aches and pain in her body. Though the tender ache in her core would last for days, she wouldn’t trade her experience for anything, for now she would have several memories to cherish when the nights were cold and lonely.
A face to picture, and a deep, masculine, and achingly sensual voice to remember.
What would he have to recall? Her throat tightened, and tears splashed her cheeks, the salt stinging her bruised lips.
How delightfully thorough he had been as he had debauched her at least twice more before they had fallen into a slumber. She had eased his arm from her waist, slithered from the bed, and donned her nightgown as quickly as possible before fleeing. Under no circumstances could she see him again. To think she had been silly enough to entertain the notion of something more lasting, like an affair. The marquess was hunting for a bride, one who had impeccable connections and who could give him children. Any of the widows in attendance could give him that, along with the added benefit of being a woman of experience.
Lily refused to linger over impossible dreams—she had dreamed enough of those over the last eight years. Only her shop and building her clientele needed her attention.
…
The very next morning was dreary. The clouds were dark, and rain hovered on the horizon. Lily had still ventured outside for her morning walk and to also escape the discontented guests in the drawing rooms and music room. They most certainly believed grumbling about the weather was warranted, and she had wanted to escape it.
A gust of wind tried to tug the bonnet from her head, whipping her pale-yellow day dress high around her legs. With a scowl at the sky, she turned around and hurried back to the manor. Perhaps she had lingered too long and most certainly had strolled too far. She had taken the path that led to the village, and Belgrave Manor could not be seen from where she stood.
“Mrs. Layton…Lily?”
She whirled around and slipped, cursing when she tumbled. The marquess lunged and grabbed her, steadying her with strong arms.
“It seems as if all I do around you is trip, my lord.”
“I startled you, forgive me.”
She pulled from the clasp that still lingered. “Forgiven.” It took an inordinate amount of strength to contain her blush when she peered up at him. Did he truly not know she was his lover? She assessed him from beneath her lashes. The marquess did not look at her as if he had ravished her for hours last night. “I…I was taking a walk, but the weather has forced me back to the manor.”
He glanced over his lands in the direction of Belgrave manor.
“I, too, desired a stroll. It seems we are both restless and disenchanted with the house party. Our hunting lodge is close by. We could wait out the impending squall there.” He rested a palm on his chest and gave her a charming smile. “I swear on my honor, I will be the soul of politeness and discretion.”
“You always are, my lord.” Except for when he had taken her last night. That man had been raw and untamed. The blush she had been fighting rushed through her cheeks and flushed along her entire body. It would be prudent to go with him, for to proceed back to the main estate would see her caught in the downpour. She felt light-headed and hopelessly uncertain how to behave. The only thing she was sure of was that she couldn’t be enclosed with him in a confined space again.
“Are you well, Lily?” Those beautiful eyes were dissecting every nuance of her expression with a puzzled frown.
“Oh yes, I’m quite well. Just a slight headache.”
Unable to help herself she lowered her eyes to his firm, sensual mouth. She had kissed those lips, tangled her tongue with his, and dear God, the memory of what that wicked mouth had done to her pussy had unbearable heat twisting through her veins.
“My mother seems quite taken with Viscount Clayton. I doubt she will need you today. You do look tuckered—why don’t you take the day and rest?”
The Marquess of Ambrose was deliciously intriguing. The scoundrel and the gentleman. The two were melded into a beautifully appealing—but so dangerous—indistinguishable whole.
How courteous and gentlemanlike he had been on their walk.
Permit me to help you over the log.
Then last night…
Even though the darkness is a forbidden delight, I long to see you…and the pink folds of your cunt glistening with your need.
And he wanted to court her. No…not me, she reminded herself sternly. He wanted to court his adventurous and mysterious lover, the bold and lustful Lady Dahlia, not Mrs. Lily Layton, passably pretty, too rounded, no money or connection…and barren. No distinction that could recommend her to the role of a marchioness. She needed to remove the ache and want his words had placed in her heart.
“Lily?”
She struggled to recall his previous question. “The fresh, cold air will set me right, but I thank you for thinking of me.”
His gloriously wicked mouth curved into a small smile. “We could return to the manor and you sit for me.”
There was a watchful air about him that set her heart to pounding. “I…I do not believe it wise for me to pose today.” How could she sit for him in intimate seclusion knowing he was her lover? Surely, she would give herself away with her blushes. Last night in the library she had been filled with such indelible awaren
ess—her breathing had been too fast, and the flesh between her legs had been slick with need. And she hadn’t known, then, he was her secret lover. Surely her reaction would be more unpardonable now.
Something heated and dark flashed in his eyes before his expression shuttered. “Perhaps in a few days,” he murmured, his penetrating stare assessing every nuance of her face.
“Yes.” She took a small, steady breath. “Please, go on without me.”
“Of course,” he said with a dip of his head. “Have a pleasant walk.”
Then he sauntered in the opposite direction, without looking back. She watched him go, the most peculiar, desperate sort of ache working through her heart. If only…
She squeezed her eyes to banish the foolish dreams she would not allow to take root.
It would be foolish of her to venture into the secret passageway again. Now that he had revealed himself, he would be much more determined to uncover her identity. He thought her a woman of his society, that he could woo her. Were he to discover that he had been bedding a woman so far below him… Would he truly be disgusted? Would he remove his offer to pay her? The notion did not feel at all right to Lily. The marquess seemed too kind and honorable, but she couldn’t take the chance. She would simply treasure all the forbidden encounters from that wanton, secret place in her heart.
It had been truly glorious, and she would not have traded the past nights for anything, but she had to be strong and avoid the marquess—and his wicked tongue, fingers, and cock.
…
Lily Layton laughed, her head thrown back, her neck arched quite delightfully, her eyes filled with enjoyment. The sun struck her just right, and there was an indefinable sensation filling Oliver’s heart as he stared at her through his studio window two stories up. She sat with the other servants under a large oak tree, having some sort of picnic. Everyone had been thrilled when the sun had broken through the clouds, and had hurried outside to bask in the pale rays.
His fingers and paintbrush moved as if they had a life of their own, and Lily slowly appeared on his canvas. Oliver shifted closer to the window, pressing his nose to the cold glass pane. There…sweet Christ. That angle was just perfect.
He lost himself, painting the curve of her lips, the slope of her jaw, the arch of her neck. Suddenly he could imagine her…spread-eagle on his crisp white sheets, splayed wide and bound by silk as he spanked the wet folds of her cunt.
Oliver dropped the brush and raked his fingers through his hair, uncaring that he would transfer paint to his hair. Somehow, his fevered fantasy and desperate hope had conjured the idea that his mysterious lover and Lily Layton were the same. The image was evocative and vivid, down to the vibrant red of her hair, the high thrusting breast, and golden-brown eyes wide with pleasure and apprehension.
Mrs. Lily Layton…and Dahlia. The very notion was ridiculous, or perhaps he wanted Lily so badly he imagined that a demur and respectable lady like her could be so wanton. Was it possible two different women could so captivate him?
Moving to the small table near his easel, he picked up the diary. The hunger in his heart to know both women was driving him mad.
Dearest Diary,
I had cake for breakfast. Three wonderful slices. I even licked the icing from my fingers, quite unladylike, I know, but it was glorious. I believe I shall have cake again at luncheon.
Oliver smiled, fancying he could feel the defiant joy in that simple statement. Devil take it. He wanted his secret lover and Mrs. Lily Layton to be the same, despite its impossibility. With a curse, he snapped the journal closed, put it back on the table, and exited the room, moving down the corridors then the winding staircase at a quick pace.
“Branson, where is my mother?” Oliver asked the butler.
“Her ladyship is taking tea in the Rose drawing room, my lord.”
Grateful he wouldn’t have to search Belgrave Manor and possibly find her in a compromising situation with the viscount, Oliver made his way to the drawing room. Despite what his mother thought, he wasn’t oblivious to her liaison with the much younger viscount. If Oliver recalled correctly, the man was at least ten years her junior. But he would not interfere, not when his mother seemed so happy for the first time in years.
He entered the drawing room, his gaze settling on his mother. She was alone, busy writing by the windows overlooking the gardens she tended herself.
“Mother.”
She glanced up with a warm smile. “Oliver! I missed you at breakfast…and luncheon. Oh, I see, you’ve been painting. You are a mess,” she said, giving a delicate sniff.
Dahlia had exhausted him, and he had been mildly surprised to wake and find her gone. “I overslept, and then I went on a long ride to clear my thoughts.”
His mother frowned and gently put down her quill. “Is everything quite well, my dear?”
“Yes.”
“Are you here to discuss Lady Emma?”
“No, Mother. Vicar Layton.”
She frowned. “What about him?”
“Would you confirm his Christian name, please?”
“I believe it was Robert.”
Oliver contained his reaction, though his heart wanted to burst from his chest. Robert had been the name in the diary. Lily Layton and his mysterious stranger were one and the same. “Thank you.”
“What is that about?”
“Nothing of import, please return to your writing.”
The marchioness harrumphed and once more dipped her quill into the ink pot.
Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face. With all the examination he had done of widows, he had never thought…never in his wildest imagination had he thought to consider the widow who had been living under his roof for months.
He left the Rose drawing room then headed to his chamber and called for a bath. The evidence was still flimsy at best, but what were the chances of two widows’ departed husbands being called Robert. And it hadn’t been Oliver’s imagination that she had behaved oddly this morning. She had stared and acted so flustered. She had seemed different today, and there had been knowledge, and also something heated and elusive, whenever he met her regard.
Impossible…yet probable.
A groan whispered past his lips. Dahlia could only be Lily Layton. Had he unwittingly bedded an employee in his household? The even more distressing realization was that he wanted to do it again, and again.
He shrugged from his jacket, removed his waistcoat, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. This bore further investigation. He would clean the paint from his body, dress, and return downstairs to mingle with his guests before going over the investment portfolio his banker had sent down this morning. Then, after dinner, he would wait a reasonable time then venture into the secret passages.
Only this time, he would take the one that led to Lily Layton’s bedchamber.
Several hours later, Oliver felt like an ass, standing at the threshold of Lily’s room. He lifted his hand to draw back the portal that would show him the entrance, yet he hesitated. What if he was wrong, and he intruded on her privacy for no bloody reason? The dark voyeur in him stirred, the need twisting through him, suppressing the doubts.
He slipped open the portal and stepped closer, so he would have the perfect view. Oliver’s knees almost buckled, and he braced his forearms against the wall.
Lily lay on her back, her head arched on the pillow, breasts swollen and hard, her thighs opened, her slender fingers moving desperately over the slick folds of her pussy. Her voluptuous beauty screamed of wicked nights and sultry mornings, and he allowed his eyes to devour every silken curve the soft light bathed in a warm glow.
“Oliver,” she whispered.
It was a sigh of regret, of longing, and his mouth went dry at the echo of need in it. She spread her legs farther and stroked her swollen clitoris. Oliver’s jaw clenched, and the hunger that coiled in his gut shocked him. He bit back the groan of need as she whispered his name again before stiffening with a cry of delight. His heart nearly explo
ded from his chest. Yet this was not proof that Lily was his mysterious lover, only that she pleasured herself when the need overtook her.
Relief almost made him sag.
Thank Christ. Lily Layton wanted him with the same visceral intensity with which he wanted her. It truly seemed impossible that he would desire a separate woman with the same chaotic hunger. And what if she was? He slid the portal closed and leaned against the cool wall. He’d unwittingly bedded a worker in his household after vowing never to act in any manner reminiscent of his father’s proclivities. He wasn’t foolish to believe he was just like his father, who had used his rank to take advantage of several servants within his household with his wife only a few rooms away. Oliver assessed the facts, recalling every minute detail of his encounters with Dahlia, and concluded that every filthy thing he had done with her delightful body, she had wanted. There had been no coercion on his part, and she certainly hadn’t thought so, or she wouldn’t have returned.
He closed his eyes briefly in relief. Could Lily Layton be his lover in the dark? And if she was, what would he do about it? Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a savage curse. He was getting ahead of himself. The pressing question to be answered was whether Lily and Dahlia were truly one person. There was only one way to find out. But he wouldn’t act the bumbling fool and intrude upon her now. He would be patient, and observant, and when the time was right…
God, Oliver hoped he wasn’t making a mistake, and hoped he wasn’t being a damn fool in planning to confront her and rip away the anonymity she’d desired.
Chapter Eleven
Lily lay in the dark, unable to sleep. For the last days and nights, she had avoided the marquess at all costs. Though she had been so very tempted to allow another encounter, she had restrained herself with a will she hadn’t realized she possessed. Except now she was filled with regret, for she had lost the opportunity to have one last wicked tryst. The house party was over, and throughout the day, all the guests had departed to Town. Even Lady Ambrose had taken herself off to Bath, not too discreetly, for she traveled in the same carriage as her viscount. The large manor house was empty…save for Lily and the marquess.
