Love With a Scandalous Lord (30 page)

Rhys claimed her mouth with desperate urgency. She was his, now and forever. This woman who uttered his name like a benediction, this woman who claimed to need no tricks, to need nothing beyond him.

With every woman before her, he’d been extremely conscious of each touch, each stroke, each caress—determined that each should increase the woman’s pleasure.

With Lydia, he was beyond thinking. He simply wanted to possess, to share, to own her as she owned him. Her hands were in his hair, then rubbing his neck, caressing his face, as though she could not get enough of him. He’d never known such joy.

He bracketed his hands on either side of her hips and drew her forward. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her thighs soft and warm against his sides. He cut
off the kiss only long enough to order, “Hold on tight.”

Then he pushed himself to his feet, rising with her wound around him. He had one arm beneath her bottom, one around her back, while their mouths devoured, their bodies heated.

A litany raced through his mind: she was his, totally and completely. Absolutely. She belonged to no one else, had never belonged to another man.

And he’d never belonged to another woman. She alone had dared to breach his defenses and conquer his heart.

His steps quickened, his heart pounded. He carried her across the room, laid her on the bed, and followed her down, their mouths never separating, their bodies pressed close.

She said she needed no tricks. With her, he’d never used any. He touched her for his enjoyment as much as hers. Her skin was the softness of silk, the warmth of a newly lit fire.

Her sighs spurred him on, her moans drove him mad. She caressed him as though she would never get enough of him. She rubbed his back, his sides, his back again, his buttocks. Urging him on. With her soles, she stroked his calves, his feet. He’d never been with a woman who sought to pleasure him as much as he did her. He’d never known that in the taking, he also gave.

He’d planned a slow seduction, but his resolve withered beneath the eagerness he sensed in her. They would have time, much later. For now, the fires of passion ran rampant. And he wanted Lydia with a desperation he’d never known. Wanted her selfishly, for himself.

He trailed his mouth along her throat.

“Rhys.” She bucked against him, arched her hips
against him. “I want you. I want you now.”

Groaning low, he slid his hand between their bodies. She whimpered as he tested and stroked. She was hot and moist and ready.

He rose above her, held her beautiful violet gaze, and watched the wonder cross her face as he slowly slid inside her, inch by inch, filling her completely, claiming without remorse or guilt what he’d only recently acquired.

A woman who loved him.

Lydia welcomed his fullness, clutching her body around him. She cupped the back of his head and brought his mouth back down to hers. As he began to move slowly against her, their tongues parried and thrust in rhythm to the beat of their hips.

She tore her mouth from his. “You’re mine,” she growled.

“Always.”

Then she surrendered with wild abandon to the passion he stirred to life within her. He quickened his strokes, deepened his thrusts. She held his gaze, watched as the tempest brewing within him darkened his eyes, silvery-gray, pewter. There was such beauty in his restraint, such power in his resolve. He would not finish without her.

She cried out his name, he called out hers as together they reached the pinnacle of pleasure and toppled off. Slick bodies trembling, tired limbs quaking. She felt his heart pounding and wondered if he could feel hers.

Closing his arms around her, he rolled them both to their sides, their bodies still joined. Lethargically she trailed her fingers along his side.

“Rhys?”

“Mmm?”

“I want you teach me everything you know about pleasure.”

“You don’t need lessons, Lydia,” he murmured. “You possess a natural talent when it comes to lovemaking.”

She pressed a kiss to his throat. “I think I do need lessons. I’ve been thinking about the chocolate.”

“What about it?”

“I believe I’d like tasting where it’s been”—she leaned back and held his gaze—“if it’s on you.”

He rose up above her, smiled down on her. “Then by all means, let’s have the lessons begin.”

I
t was whispered about London that tonight’s ball was
the
social event of the Season, not to be missed by those fortunate enough to receive an invitation. Lydia had been anticipating this evening for weeks now.

“What do you think, Mary?” she asked, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the lines of her new gown.

“You look beautiful. His Grace will be most pleased, I’m thinkin’.”

“You’ve done wonders with my hair as always. Thank you.”

As Mary opened the door, Lydia heard laughter—a deep rumble woven through much lighter chords—float into the room.

Mary glanced over at her. “Sounds like the Duke and Lady Katherine at it again.”

“Indeed it does.”

Knowing that she and her husband would be late
once again, Lydia headed into the room across from theirs, the room designated as the nursery. Her heart expanded, and she wondered if she would ever not feel this immense contentment at the sight of Rhys holding his six-month old daughter. He rarely gave up any opportunity to take her in his arms. He was as attentive a father as he was a husband. Lydia knew that two females more fortunate than she and Katherine did not exist in all of Britain.

She watched as Rhys moved their daughter toward the mirror until her peals of laughter echoed around him and his chuckle joined hers. Of late, Katherine had become enthralled with her image in the mirror, and her father used her fascination to full advantage. Lydia didn’t think laughter had ever rung through this house as often or as loudly.

“Rhys, you do realize that it is exceedingly bad form for us to arrive late to a ball which we are hosting?” Lydia asked.

He quieted, but his smile didn’t diminish. “How can I be late when I live in the house?”

“You will be late by not being downstairs to greet our guests on their arrival.”

Holding Lydia’s gaze in the mirror, he said, “I understand that the Harrington ball is being touted as
the
social event of the year.”

Lydia couldn’t contain her grin. “That’s what I hear.”

“How about that, Katherine?” he said. “Tonight you shall attend
the
social event of the Season.”

“Rhys, you’re not thinking of taking her downstairs.”

“Why shouldn’t I? She’s as much of a joy as her mother. Everyone will adore her as much as I do.” He
moved Katherine toward the mirror and again her laughter bubbled forth.

“Listen to her, Lydia,” he said reverently. “She sounds so incredibly happy.”

“Perhaps because she is,” she said as she crossed the room and laid her head against his arm until the mirror reflected the family as a perfect portrait. The dark-haired, violet-eyed babe held by her adoring father. The mother and wife who loved them both so very much. “You sound happy as well, Rhys.”

“I am. More than I ever thought it possible to be. And you?”

She smiled warmly. “Do you not know without asking?”

“I know, but still I enjoy hearing the words.”

Rising up on her toes, she kissed him before whispering, “My dear Rhys, with you beside me, I’m living my dream.”

L
ORRAINE
H
EATH
credits her parents for her fascination with romance. She is the daughter of a British beauty and a Texan who was stationed at Bovingdon while serving in the Air Force. Lorraine was born in Watford, Herts, England, but moved to Texas shortly afterward. Since her “dual” nationality has given her a love for all things British and Texan, she enjoys weaving both heritages through her stories. Her novels have been recognized with numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s RITA, the HOLT medallion, and five Texas Gold awards. You can write to her via e-mail at www.lorraineheath.com.

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