‘Because I’m going to murder him.’
Lydia’s soft laughter was almost worse than shock. ‘Nothing can kill my father. One needs a soul in order to be killed.’
‘He must face justice.’
‘He is a personal friend of every cog and wheel that clatters through the courts.’
‘Personal justice.’
‘My mother and sisters will grieve.’ Lydia paused. ‘Perhaps not quite as violently as they are meant to.’
‘They should not have left you alone.’ Arthur’s voice shook. ‘They should have fought.’
‘Not everyone can fight like you.’ Lydia’s head rested more firmly against his shoulder, her breath hot on his neck. ‘And if you go to Surrey and murder my father, Mr. Weeks, you will be leaving me alone. Just like him.’
Arthur bent his head, covering his mouth with hers. A soft, slow, guilty kiss; one that begged for forgiveness with each breath.
‘I left you here. I left you here with them.’ He bowed his head, wincing at the horror of it. ‘What if the fever hadn’t broken? You would have—’
‘But I did not.’ Lydia’s hand moved to his neck, soothing him. Consoling him. ‘I did not.’
More silence. Arthur bent his head to Lydia’s shoulder, losing himself in the scent of her, thanking every steady breath that came from her lungs. Thanking every heartbeat, rapid but distinct, that came from her chest.
After a little while, Lydia tensed. ‘Do you hear a sound?’
Arthur slowly disentangled himself from her embrace. ‘There was a woman downstairs.’
‘Martha.’ Lydia shook her head, smiling. ‘She is probably singing… but it does not sound like singing.’
Arthur focused his hearing. There was a sound; faint, but oddly recognisable.
Moving to the door, brow furrowed, he quietly opened it. The strange sound filled the room, suddenly very familiar indeed.
‘Snoring.’ Lydia’s hand covered her mouth as her shoulder shook with laughter. ‘Poor Martha. It has been a trying day for her, and she has done so—so very much for me.’
Arthur, watching Lydia’s joy, couldn’t help but smile in response. ‘Your trials have been far more severe.’
‘Yes, they have. I have felt thoroughly unpleasant for a long time, and my spirits have been less than high.’ Lydia’s small, meaningful pause filled Arthur’s heart with tender pain. ‘But now you are here, and so I shall be well.’
Arthur went to her, clambering onto the bed without a second thought. Damn the linens, damn his boots—damn anything that wasn’t Lydia, with him.
Lydia was in his arms again. His again. Bending his head to her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, Arthur indulged in a brief moment of pure, sensual satisfaction.
His body didn’t understand the serious nature of the situation. He was already hard—being close to her made him hard. Whatever the circumstances were, Lydia appeared to have exactly the same effect on him that she always did.
Biting his lip, he attempted to shift his offending organ a little way away from her. Alas, he found himself thwarted as she sighed against him.
She was so soft. Divinely soft—as if every part of her were made to inflame him, to sustain his lust. Arthur bit back a sigh as Lydia shifted closer to him still, one arm slipping around his neck, the linen of her nightgown giving veiled, frustrating hints as to the lush abundance of the body beneath. Closing his eyes, wishing that he could remember any prayers, Arthur’s spine tingled as Lydia murmured in his ear.
‘You are so strong. Like wood—all hard.’
If only you knew. Arthur brushed his lips against Lydia’s cheek, unable to resist. ‘Rest. Don’t speak.’
‘I am resting. You are very restful.’ Lydia’s lips were deliciously, teasingly delicate as they played against Arthur’s earlobe, hardening his cock to a near-painful extent. ‘Am I not restful to you, Mr. Weeks?’
‘You know that you are the opposite of restful.’ Arthur brought his lips to Lydia’s jawline, kissing his way along it, acutely aware that he should be doing nothing of the sort. ‘You are most impertinent for asking.’
‘But I can be impertinent with you.’ Lydia’s teeth grazed cautiously against Arthur’s earlobe; Arthur shivered, his cock twitching as he moved his hands to Lydia’s warm, supple back. ‘Can you not be a little impertinent with me?’
Under such tremendous provocation, it seemed damn-near impossible not to kiss her. Arthur knew as he turned his head that lightness was warranted; a sweet, simple kiss, suitable for an invalid.
Lydia, evidently, had other ideas. Ideas that involved her parted lips, her closed eyes, and a sigh so thoroughly voluptuous as his lips met hers that Arthur knew he was out of his depth.
Hating himself for his lack of self-control, loving the feel of her too much to cease he leaned into the kiss. Lydia’s whimper of pleasure made it all the more impossible to stop, as did her hand around his neck; her fingertips gently scraped his skin, innocently thrilling, and Arthur bit back a growl.
‘We need to stop.’
‘We most certainly do not.’
‘The maid is downstairs.’
‘Martha is sleeping, and very unlikely to wake.’
‘Why are you so very determined to over-exert yourself?’
‘Because you are here, and my troublesome fever robbed me of any chance of exertion before.’ Lydia smiled, the tip of her nose brushing against Arthur’s. ‘We could consider this a resuming of activities.’
‘I see the fever took your good sense with it when it went.’
‘How very nasty of you.’ Lydia paused, her voice lowering a little. ‘Am I truly the only one of us to have thought about resuming from where we were?’
Arthur couldn’t help smiling. ‘You cannot catch me out that way.’
‘I caught you quite neatly with a letter about architecture.’
‘Yes.’ Arthur’s heart stilled briefly in his chest, the memory of Lydia’s first letter burning bright. ‘You did.’
‘Then kiss me again.’ Lydia paused. ‘Or… or do something else.’
‘The only thing I intend to do to you is feed you soup, and make you sleep.’
‘You are a tyrant.’
‘But a gentle one.’ Arthur brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of her fingers, wishing he didn’t feel such a tide of lust. It was wrong to want a woman who had recently been unwell, even if said woman seemed determined to convince him otherwise. ‘You need rest.’
‘I have had so many hours of nothing but rest. I am thoroughly bored of it.’
‘Then you shall be thoroughly bored with me a little longer.’
‘I am never bored with you. I never have been.’ Lydia looked up at him wistfully, her eyes full of sudden sadness. ‘I do not believe I ever would be.’
They would never be bored of one another. Not even for a minute. Arthur looked at Lydia in silence, sure that she could hear the passionate tenor of his thoughts.
‘Do not feed me soup.’ Lydia smiled. ‘I do not want soup. I want something else.’
‘If you say—’
‘Something helpful, and given to all sick patients as a matter of course.’
Arthur fought a stab of disappointment. ‘Name it.’
‘I wish you to draw me a bath.’ Lydia bit her lip, her smile a little more cautious. ‘I will be able to face you more securely, if I know I am clean.’
Arthur could draw a bath. He could draw a bath perfectly, from lugging the copper tub closer to the fire to bringing bucket after bucket of steaming water from the kitchens. Every part of the process was easy and productive—as long as he didn’t think about Lydia Holt, naked, covering herself in water and soap.
That was the kind of thought that could stop a man in his tracks. As was the thought of her pulling him into the bath, pulling off his clothes with damp, eager hands, and giving him the pleasure that he craved. Arthur tried to listen to the maid’s snores, sure that such a workaday sound would stop
him from hardening whenever he thought of Lydia, but to his deep annoyance it did nothing whatsoever.
Lydia had wanted to leave the door open, but he had insisted on shutting it. A firmly shut door made him feel less beastly—even if it did nothing to quell his lust. He leaned against the wood, his eyes closed, every splash and quiet sigh the most lovely, irritating music.
After a deliriously long amount of time, Lydia’s voice came through the door. ‘You will come in, when I have finished. Will you not?’
‘It would be better if I waited in another room.’ Arthur thought of Lydia’s bedroom, of her inviting bed, and cursed silently. ‘Perhaps a study.’
‘A study?’ Lydia sounded thoroughly confused; Arthur couldn’t blame her. ‘Is now the time for edifying literature?’
‘No. But it might be the time to wrap you in towels and read you a book.’
‘Oh.’ Lydia sounded as surprised as Arthur had been to say it. It had been a sudden inspiration—a desire to see Lydia, swathed in white and flushed from bathing, listening to him read. The idea warmed him like wine. ‘That sounds wonderful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I do not wish to do that.’
‘I know what you wish to do, and you are in no fit state to do it.’
‘I am far more aware of my state than you are, Mr. Weeks, and I consider myself ready for anything.’
‘Not for what I wish to do with you.’ Arthur pressed his forehead to the door, shaking his head at his own brazenness. ‘Believe me.’
There was a short silence from the other side of the door. Arthur, hoping he had made his point clearly enough, wondered if he could briefly excuse himself to take care of his hardened state.
‘All right.’ Lydia sounded suitably chastened; Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’
‘I have almost finished. Would you walk me to the bed? I fear that I will faint—the water is very hot.’
‘I am sorry. Was it too hot?’
‘No.’ Another pause. ‘Will you help me?’
‘Are you wrapped in towels?’
‘You are worst than a priest.’
‘Decidedly.’
‘Fine.’ Another, longer pause. ‘You may enter. I am ready.’
Arthur, his heart in his mouth, entered.
Lydia was not appropriately dressed. She was standing in the bath, not dressed at all. Arthur averted his eyes, biting back an oath as the image of her burned into his brain.
‘Is something wrong?’ The sudden vulnerability in Lydia’s voice sent a wave of tenderness through him. ‘Do I—’
‘You are perfect.’ Arthur said it as quickly as possible. ‘But you are sick.’
‘I am not sick anymore. I am weak, but I am not sick. I have not been feverish since I awoke, and I have no fever now.’ Lydia’s voice grew in firmness. ‘Please… look at me.’
He could no more disobey her than the sea could disobey the tide. Arthur, biting his lip, turned back to her.
She was perfect. Just as he had said. Every inch of her was glorious; every soft curve, every dimple. Arthur took it her damp hair, the swell of her breasts and hips, the soft, luscious tangle of curls at the meeting of her thighs, with a reverence that only heightened his lust.
How courageous she was, showing him her unadorned self. He had to show her how beautiful he found her, all of her, without trespassing upon the limits of her weakness.
His cock stirred. His body, despite fierce instruction, was responding to Lydia in a way he couldn’t control.
‘Well?’ Lydia’s voice quivered. What do you think?’
Arthur couldn’t help but smile. ‘I think that the Devil himself put you in my path, to test every ounce of self-mastery that I have.’
‘Then come closer. Test yourself with more vigour.’
‘Believe me—I am tested to my very limit, simply looking at you.’
‘And why am I not allowed to be tempted in a similar fashion?’
Arthur blinked. ‘In what fashion?’
‘Looking at you, as you look at me. Stripped of every artifice.’ Lydia paused, taking a deep breath; Arthur watched the rise and fall of her chest, transfixed. ‘Clothes included.’
‘You are too weak.’
‘Too weak to look at you without clothes? You underestimate me.’
‘You are feverish. Were feverish. I am not speaking of—of any other kind of—’
‘I know. I am being terribly cruel.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Come a little closer, at least. I feel so dreadfully exposed, here… please do not leave me exposed.’
How could he do anything other than make her happy? Encouraging any other feeling would be unspeakably cruel. Arthur moved closer, his eyes fixed on Lydia’s soft gaze, lost in the bright shine of her eyes.
She was smiling a little too much. That slight, feline curl at the corner of her mouth was bewitching. Almost as if she were concealing some sort of secret…
He jumped back, far too late, as Lydia sent a wave of water crashing over the side of the bath. Enough water to completely soak his breeches, making his hardness evident, and cover a large portion of his shirt.
‘Whoops.’ Lydia blinked. ‘How clumsy of me. I would hate for you to stay in wet clothes. It might be injurious to your health.’
Arthur could only stare at her, dripping, wordless.
‘Come now, Mr. Weeks. You’re a sensible man, are you not?’ Lydia paused. ‘Best… best to remove them. Please.’
Please give in. Lydia mutely begged Arthur in the privacy of her own mind, watching him from the bath-tub. Please, please give in.
She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear being naked before him, in a situation that all but demanded scandal, and have Arthur be nothing but gentlemanly. Her reason rejected it, her body rejected it—her hunger rejected it, a hunger that a day of fever hadn’t so much as tempered.
She stared, trying to see a decision in his eyes. That warm brown stare, so tender, so strangely complex…
Arthur began pulling his damp shirt over his head. Lydia, thanking a sympathetic universe, gave an audible sigh of relief. A sigh which became a gasp of surprise, once Arthur’s body was revealed to her.
The man was an Atlas. A titan. How had his clothes managed to cover so much muscle? Muscle that became more and more interesting as Lydia stared; strong arms, broad shoulders, the stamp of brutal training and efficiency on every line and hollow of his body. The faded blue ink of a tattoo on his left side sent a shiver of pleasurable shock through her; a shock that pooled at her core, sending wicked trembles through her extremities.
Lydia squeezed her thighs together, trying to control the shameful source of her pleasure. To her confusion, it only seemed to make her want worse. Worse by degrees, with every passing second, as Arthur’s hands moved to his breeches.
His eyes found her again; he was asking for permission. Lydia nodded, damp hands dreamily resting on the edge of the bath as she watched his fingers move…
… As his garments fell to the floor, her eyes widened. She sank back into the bath.
‘My goodness.’ She couldn’t say anything else. ‘My—my goodness.’
Arthur’s mouth curved into a crooked smile as he kicked away his discarded clothes and boots. ‘Am I surprising?’
Lydia nodded again, fervently. ‘Very. I have seen pictures of men without clothes, and—and they did not look like you. They looked… smaller.’
‘Smaller?’
‘I cannot specify.’ Lydia bit her lip, studying him from head to toe, the hot feeling between her thighs only increasing in power. ‘Just… smaller.’
‘And do I please you?’
‘Of course.’ Lydia was assailed by sudden doubt. ‘Do… do I please you?’
Arthur furrowed his brow. ‘How can you ask, after what I told you two nights ago?’
‘I am not sure.’ Lydia looked down at her own body, her view of it distorted by the water. ‘I believe I should ma
ke certain of your—of your feelings.’
She looked into Arthur’s eyes as he knelt. One large rough hand gently took hold of her own; Lydia gasped at the thrill that ran through her, the intimate knowledge of the man’s skin that came with the touch of his palm.
‘Would you like to feel how you make me feel?’ His voice was so gentle, underneath the gruffness. ‘So you are sure of yourself?’
‘I do not know how I could feel it. How I could judge it.’
‘Stand. Stand again, and touch me.’ Arthur brought Lydia’s hand to his mouth, kissing the underside of her wrist as Lydia sighed with pleasure. ‘You will see soon enough. Will you stand?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia almost slipped, so eager was she to get to her feet. She laughed, shyly hanging her head as Arthur’s hand seized hers to prevent her falling. ‘Do not worry. I will not fall.’
‘You will not.’ Arthur’s voice lowered, growing huskier as Lydia stood. ‘Not while I am here to catch you.’
Water-droplets ran down Lydia’s body as she stood fully, taking a deep breath as a wave of light-headedness ran through her. A little footnote of the fever, and the heat of the bath… and Arthur before her, holding her hand, more handsome than anything she had ever seen.
No. Not handsome. Something wickeder, wilder. Something so much more powerful than mere handsomeness.
‘Tell me no, if you don’t want to feel me.’ Arthur slowly moved his hand to her hips; Lydia wonderingly traced her fingers over the ridge of muscle she found there. ‘Please.’
‘But I want to feel you.’ Lydia bit her lip, the sandalwood scent of the man washing over her as she leaned closer. Her skin ached for his; burned for him. ‘Let me…’
Her words trailed away, her mouth a scandalised o as Arthur brought her hand to his cock.
‘Feel how hard I am for you.’ Arthur’s low, rough murmur in her ear was almost as good as his hand on hers, slowly guiding her along his rigid, silken shaft. Lydia flexed her fingers against him; he stiffened further, his cock harder still. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia whispered, her fingertips tingling as she stroked him. He was hard; he was ready. More than ready. ‘How—how does it work?’
Arthur’s low growl of laughter made her laugh. ‘Should I find a doctor to explain it?’
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 11
