Things were running away from him; they always did, when Lydia Hereford was involved. He moved from one peak to the other, more and more merciless with every slow, shivering pull of his mouth, more and more attuned to Lydia’s murmurs of pleasure. None of this had been meant to happen; he was meant to have finished everything, and be prepared to sail…
Sail. He had to tell Lydia; tell her now, before he threw her into the grass and showed her exactly how ungentlemanly he could be. Andrew moved his head away, wondering how on earth he was going to say it… and then Lydia’s hand was firm against his breeches, her delicate fingers tracing the outlines of his cock, and Andrew forgot everything he’d ever learned.
‘May I?’ Lydia’s lips were flushed from kissing; she looked, Andrew noted distractedly, like a blooming flower. She pressed harder; Andrew gritted his teeth, bliss shuddering through him as his body responded to her touch. ‘I want to. Ever so much.’
‘Gentlemen give ladies what they want. Other men don’t.’ Andrew bent his head back to Lydia’s breasts; his tongue sought her nipples as Lydia’s gasp of pleasure rang through the trees. ‘Are you saying you wish me to be a gentleman again?’
The hum of frustration in Lydia’s voice sent sparks through him. ‘Why must you be so irritating?’
‘Force of habit.’ How strange that he could joke with her like this; he had never been able to laugh easily with the women who had previously shared these moments. ‘Admit it. You want me to be a gentleman.’
‘... No.’ Lydia smiled wickedly. ‘Be a beast, and prevent me from touching you. Do you want to prevent me?’
Damn her. ‘Of course I don’t.’ Andrew fought through the mass of skirts, straining his hips against her hand. ‘That should be evident.’
‘Then it appears I have the upper hand.’ Lydia ran her thumb over the bulge in Andrew’s breeches; Andrew swore, breathing hard, Lydia’s delighted burst of laughter ringing in his ears. ‘Perhaps you should ask me if I wish to be a lady. Because ladies definitely do not do things of this nature.’
‘Oh, God.’ Andrew bit his lip. ‘How you vex me.’
‘As utterly as you vex me, Lord Balfour.’ Lydia’s breath was hot on his neck, her whisper suddenly quieter. ‘Who am I to be? A lady, or not?’
Andrew couldn’t take it anymore. His voice hoarse, his nerves frayed with lust and something he couldn’t name, he covered Lydia’s hand with his own. ‘Lady or not, Miss Hereford, I cannot resist you.’
It was a truth he hadn’t wanted to reveal, not even to himself. But as Lydia’s mouth sought his again, her kisses full of a new, throbbing tenderness that made his body feel as if fireworks were running through it, Andrew decided that honesty would forever be his new best policy. Honesty and truth, in all his dealings… wasn’t there something that he was supposed to tell Lydia, in the interests of honesty?
He had to tell her—really tell her. This was yet another opportunity to say what needed to be said; that soon he would be gone, and this strange flowering between them would be ripped up at the roots. But Andrew, to his deep shock, realised that he didn’t want to say anything.
Not because his lust had overcome his reason. He was still an honourable man, even if at this point he was decidedly not a gentleman. But Andrew felt overcome all the same; caught in the grip of an immense, overwhelming urge to pretend that his life would not evolve as planned. That what he was creating now, here in a sun-drenched garden with Lydia Hereford, would somehow become more than a moment destined to be abandoned.
‘You torment me.’ He said it pleadingly, trying to say the unsayable, before Lydia’s kisses made silence infinitely more interesting than words. Her hands fumbled with his breeches; Andrew helped her, his heart in his throat, his hands returning to her breasts as soon as Lydia’s fingers reached beneath the buckskin. He was desperate for her touch, more desperate than he had ever been for anything—God, please let her touch him.
As Lydia’s fingers wrapped around his cock, Andrew moaned. He couldn’t help it; the feeling was too good, too spectacular, to hold back. He bent his head to Lydia’s breasts, kissing them with passionate reverence, moaning again as Lydia began to tentatively stroke his shaft.
This was new, extraordinary; this was play, but far deeper, war, but far sweeter. This was what he and Lydia should have been doing from the first, not wasting time with barbs and cutting comments; this was how they were meant to connect. Two bodies exploring, two minds concentrated on one another—two hearts, revealing themselves, slowly and shyly.
‘Show me how.’ Lydia’s fingers traced to the tip of his cock, lingering there, and Andrew wondered if he had died and entered Paradise. ‘I want to know.’
‘I really cannot—ah!—fault your natural technique.’ Andrew bit his lip, blindsided by the soft warmth of her hand. ‘A bad teacher can ruin a good student.’
‘How you are always ready with the perfect response, I cannot begin to imagine.’ Lydia gently squeezed; Andrew closed his eyes, caught in the pleasure. ‘How I wish I could make you inarticulate.’
‘You consider me articulate? How flattering.’ Andrew moved his hands to Lydia’s hips, unable to resist bunching her skirts into his fists. He needed to see her thighs; needed to see her as dishevelled as she felt. ‘You speak so much more readily than I.’
‘Is that your way of calling me a useless, chattering creature?’ Lydia’s teeth grazed Andrew’s earlobe as she squeezed him a little more tightly.
‘No.’ Andrew turned to kiss her, revelling in the feel of her bare thighs resting against his own. He risked moving one hand downward, tracing his fingers over her thigh, and was rewarded with an ardent sigh that thrilled him to his core. ‘I am saying that one would need to have considerable expertise to make you inarticulate. I am a simpler creature—I have need of only one thing.’
‘Oh yes?’ Lydia’s hand moved slowly over his cock. ‘And what is that?’
You around me. Me inside you. Andrew ached to say it, even though he knew he couldn’t. To distract Lydia, as well as quell the aching desire within him, he moved his hand to her inner thigh, stroking her soft skin.
‘Oh, who can say.’ He smiled, hoping that Lydia would believe him. ‘But given that we are both so very verbose… I can give you instruction, if you give me instruction in kind. Consider it a wager. We can see who is the first to become inarticulate.’
Lydia’s tone was threaded with excitement. ‘You said you did not have the expertise.’
‘No. I said one would require considerable expertise.’ Andrew moved his hand a little higher, inwardly sighing with pleasure as his fingers brushed against damp, unseen curls. ‘And I am patient, and relentless—and as you mentioned before, horribly sure of myself… why, it’s a wager only a coward would refuse.’
‘Are you calling me a coward?’ Lydia’s voice was now a delicious mixture of shock and curiosity. She shifted her thighs; Andrew bit his lip as his palm closed over her mound. ‘And I am relentless too. More relentless than you know.’
The mere idea of Lydia relentlessly pleasuring him was almost enough to bring Andrew to the finish. ‘Prove it.’
The next few moments came in a sweet, swift rush of pure sensation. Lydia’s hand began to move again, more deliberately this time; Andrew gently covered her fist with his own, guiding her, wordlessly teaching her the strength and speed that made his toes curl with fierce, uncontrollable bliss. At the same time he gently parted the soft lips of her mound, stroking along the slick channel he found there, watching Lydia’s nipples harden further in response to the new, tentative invasion.
For two such talkative people, there now seemed very little need for words. All could be done with the body; the kisses, lengthening and deepening with time, the breathless gasps that slowly became soft moans against shirt-collars and bare shoulders. Andrew took his hand from his cock as soon as he could—all he wanted to feel there was Lydia, her palm strong and warm against his shaft as she pleasured him. Leaning his head against her breas
ts, he took a nipple into his mouth as he stroked his fingers over her uncovered skin.
Had he ever had a partner so responsive? No—but then, he had never been so fascinated, so focused on his partner’s pleasure. Andrew concentrated to his utmost, listening to every sigh and whimper from Lydia’s lips with the rapt attention of a pilgrim, letting her teach him exactly where his fingers felt best.
‘Oh… oh.’ Lydia’s cry was soft, wondering, as Andrew’s fingers brushed against the tightly-furled bud of pure feeling that lay nestled at her centre. She gripped his cock tighter, as if responding to his provocation; Andrew panted out a moan in reply, softly caressing her most sensitive place as Lydia writhed against him, her hips moving ever more insistently in a rhythm that brought Andrew to a frenzy. Wanting more, but fearing it at the same time, he moved a questioning finger closer to her entrance… and paused.
It was a silent question, and he had been expecting a silent answer. Only as Lydia’s whisper reached his ear, her voice full of a timidity that Andrew hadn’t previously heard, did he remember that expectations were useless when it came to Lydia Hereford.
‘I have ridden quite extensively.’ She paused; Andrew was half-certain he saw the slightest hint of a blush at her hairline. Had she ever blushed before? ‘Horses, I mean. I… I do not wish to cause you…’
It was the most embarrassed Andrew had ever heard her sound; a deep empathy rose within him, tempering and fuelling his desire in equal measure. He knew she wouldn’t want sympathy; to be petted and consoled, as if she were an animal. He would have to trust his deepest instincts, instead of relying on force of habit.
‘I see.’ He curled his fingers against her bud more firmly than he had before, relishing Lydia’s quiet gasp of pleasure. ‘It sounds as if someone is attempting to distract me from winning my wager.’
‘I… oh, you are cruel.’ Lydia’s soft, delighted smile melted a formerly brittle part of Andrew into seafoam and stars. ‘Or worse—you are a gentleman, unwilling to use the tactics of a rogue.’
‘Now you are most definitely attempting to distract me.’ Bracing himself, Andrew gently slid his finger a little way into her hot, tight entrance. The effect was immediate, joyous; Lydia’s eyes widened, her thighs clenching around him. ‘Is someone afraid they might lose?’
‘How—ah!—dare you?’ Lydia’s hand gripped his cock with new urgency. ‘You impugn my honour.’ She began to move her hand again, this time with much less fear in her touch; Andrew moaned with renewed bliss. ‘Do your worst.’
His worst? Worst wasn’t a word that made sense; not here, not now. Lydia’s hand slid over his shaft again and again, smooth as water; her brow was furrowed, concentrated on Andrew’s pleasure, and all Andrew could do was pay her back in kind. He worked through the rising tide of sensation, curling his fingers deep inside Lydia as she quivered and sighed in his arms, both of them reaching a point of no return.
No. Not worst, not even better—not even best. When Lydia’s cry grew high and broken, when she tightened around him, it was perfect, so perfect that Andrew couldn’t hold back anymore. He coaxed her through her peak, showering kisses on her neck and shoulders, waiting with a patience that bordered on madness for his own turn to come.
Perfect. He cried out harshly, falling against Lydia as he came. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Lydia lay in weary, smiling bliss, watching the clouds pass along with the last minutes of the afternoon. Every so often a butterfly drifted into view, flying in lazy curlicues through the warm air, and she watched those with the same sunny indifference as she did the clouds. Her attention, or what little of it remained, remained focused on the male body curled tight against her.
‘Your favourite food?’
‘Strawberry ices. Anything with strawberries.’
‘Horrible.’ Andrew’s quiet laughter tickled the back of Lydia’s neck. ‘I never allow strawberries to pass my lips.’
‘And if I were to kiss you with strawberry jam smeared all over my lips?’
‘I would be forced to retaliate in cruel and creative ways.’ Andrew’s hand traced over her thigh; Lydia shivered with pleasure, the dappled afternoon light dancing on her skin. ‘Your favourite drink?’
‘Tea. I adore cups of tea in cold weather.’
‘Ugh. How anyone can choose tea over coffee, I really cannot fathom.’ Andrew kissed the back of her neck, light and sweet. ‘Although I make an exception for chamomile.’
‘What a splendid coincidence.’ Lydia sighed happily. ‘My favourite.’
‘I can hardly imagine a woman so wild drinking such a calming tea.’
‘Is that what I am?’ Lydia turned, a strange shiver of fear running through her. ‘Wild?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Andrew’s smile was radiant. ‘Without a doubt.’
‘Like a hare. Or a rainstorm.’ Lydia shifted, preparing to take offence. ‘Men manage wild things. They pick and prune at them.’
‘Have I ever seemed the type to manage things?’ Andrew bent his head to her shoulder, kissing her. ‘Maybe I am simply fascinated by the wild. Maybe I worship wildness.’
‘You are the neatest, most manicured man I know.’ Lydia laughed. ‘Hardly a devotee of the wild.’
‘I’m hardly neat now.’ Andrew’s whisper sent a delicate thrill through her. ‘And have you ever looked at the flowers I paint? All wildflowers.’
‘I see.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Am I to be painted?’
‘Oh, no. I do not want to paint you.’ Andrew kissed her neck, more slowly and reverently this time. ‘That would mean… that would mean being far away from you, on the other side of the canvas.’
His voice sounded slightly strange. Lydia wondered if she should ask why—but better thoughts, nicer ones, crowded out her doubts.
What, exactly, did Andrew wish to do with her? What did she wish to do with him, now that the world had expanded in such a surprising, deeply pleasurable way? She knew what should be done; what the ton would insist on being done if they saw she and Andrew lying in the grass…
She smiled silently to herself. If, one week ago, she had been told that the idea of marrying Andrew Balfour was something to look upon with excitement… well, it was difficult to imagine what her reaction would have been. Still; now was not the time to frighten Andrew by discussing it.
‘If you do not wish to paint me, sir, then please do more of this.’ She curled closer to him, sighing happily as the warmth of his body flowed through her. ‘I enjoy it very much.’
‘This?’ Andrew turned her head, kissing her, and Lydia throbbed with renewed feeling. ‘This, I can do with pleasure. I… I believe I have always wanted this. Among many other things.’
‘Thank goodness.’ The relief was overwhelming. ‘I was beginning to think I was mad, and had somehow managed to pull you into my madness.’
‘That also sounds convincing, to tell the truth.’ Andrew smiled as Lydia slapped his shoulder. ‘Oh, now, such violence! This behaviour will not go unpunished.’
‘Punishment. Yes.’ Lydia closed her eyes, snuggling closer; she could spent the night like this, and the morning after, and a good number of the days that were to come. ‘That seems like rather a fine—’
‘Lord Balfour!’ A shout drifted over the woodland. ‘Your visitor has arrived.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Lydia held a hand over her mouth; she and Andrew hurriedly rose, listening tensely for voice. ‘Someone requires your presence.’ A seed of curiosity flowered. ‘Who is your visitor?’
Andrew was silent behind her. Lydia, listening for the voice again, began to feel slightly uneasy.
‘Lord Balfour! Are you there? Lord Westlake has arrived!’ It was Susan Colborne; her voice rang through the garden; Lydia stiffened, feeling Andrew tense beside her. ‘He wishes to discuss preparing to sail!’
Sail?
Andrew was expecting to sail? Where?
Lydia turned to Andrew. An innocent question was on her lips; was it a spring jaunt around the coast, or a fishing expedition
… but when she saw Andrew’s face, she stopped.
Andrew looked shocked. Haunted. Lydia put a hand up to his face, concerned—and was even more unsettled when Andrew flinched backward.
This wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.
‘Sailing.’ She spoke slowly, her thoughts coming into being as each word passed her lips. ‘You are sailing with this… this Lord Westlake.’
Andrew looked at her, his face torn between panic and what looked like creeping misery. Susan was shouting Andrew’s name again; Lydia concentrated, blocking out the sound.
‘For how long?’ She said it softly, wonderingly; she had never managed to use intuition before, not successfully, and it was an atrocious time to find that she could indeed use it. ‘How long will you be sailing for?’
‘Lydia.’ Andrew had turned ashen. ‘Lydia, I—’
‘Miss Hereford.’ Ice was slowly, surely pouring into each and every one of Lydia’s veins. It couldn’t be; she couldn’t have divined all this from a single look, but Andrew wasn’t stopping her. He wasn’t stopping her at all. ‘How long?’
‘L—Miss Hereford.’ Andrew sighed. ‘Please—’
‘No.’ Lydia moved away from him, twigs cracking under her knees. ‘Tell me how long you will be sailing for, Lord Balfour. Immediately.’
Andrew, kneeling, slumped as if all the life had gone out of him. ‘I… six months. Perhaps a year.’
Six months?
A year?
Marriage, then, had not been Andrew’s goal. Lydia looked down at her shaking hands, wondering when she had ever felt so sick, or so stupid.
‘I…’ It was stupid, useless; no words could possibly mean anything now, but Andrew was inexplicably continuing to talk. ‘I very much did mean to tell you—’
‘But you did not.’ Lydia stared at him, her face crumpled; she knew she was not like Anne or Henrietta, who could keep their faces composed under even the most extreme provocation. Tears were already beginning to fall—she could feel them, sliding down her cheeks. ‘You did not.’
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