Rumours in the Regency Ballroom: Scandalising the Ton / Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

“Oh, Sam,” she groaned, twisting to face him, straddling him.

He kissed her again, his hand cupping one of her pert little breasts. He slipped it under her dress and felt her soft skin, her firm nipple. All he need do was unbutton his trousers and he could couple with her.

“Sam,” she murmured into his ear, her tongue tickling the sensitive skin there, “I want to do this with you. I’m sure of it.”

He took his hand away from her breast and lifted her off him, feeling like a cad. She was young and fresh and virginal, and he was using her to get his story. How would she feel if he made love to her and then she discovered his real name and purpose?

“No, Mary.” She reached for him again, and he moved her arms away. “You are too tempting. I want you, but we cannot do this.”

She whimpered. “I know you are right. It is difficult, though.”

He laughed softly and brushed her curls from her cheek. “Very difficult.”

She took his hand in hers and laid her head against his shoulder. “I wonder if it was like this for my lady.”

Samuel jolted back to his purpose. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she must have been with someone. Maybe it was difficult for her, too.”

He tried not to sound eager. “Who was she with? Do you know?”

She sighed again. “I cannot think of anyone she could have been with. She’s been alone all this time, and it is so sad that her friends have left her. Even when she was going out a little, you know, after the Queen died. I can’t remember a time she went out alone.” She sat up straight. “Unless…”

His heart pounded. “Unless, what?”

She rested against him again. “It could not be. It is just that she went out once, before the Queen died, but it was on an errand, not to meet anyone.”

“It might have been then, though?” he asked, forcing a conversational tone.

“It might have been, but she was going to—” She broke off, as if catching herself in something she ought not to say.

Just the sort of information he wanted to hear.

They had talked of this before, but she was always so careful of what she said, protective of her lady even with the man pretending to court her. Samuel kept hoping that she would say something or remember something that would lead him to the baby’s father. Lord Chasey’s claim had been a false one, not that Samuel had been surprised. After one of their reporters said Lord Crayden had called upon her, Samuel had checked on Crayden, as well, but there was no evidence he had called upon her before.

Mary rose from the bench. “I should go back to her.”

Samuel stood as well, but was not quite as ready to end the conversation. “And you do not suspect anyone in the house.” He’d asked her that before, as well.

She shook her head. “I would know if that happened. Besides, our men are not like that and neither is my lady.”

He touched her cheek. “Indeed.” He spoke as reassuringly as he could. “It is a mystery all London is wondering about, is it not?”

She collapsed into his arms again. “I hate that my lady has to read her name in all those awful newspapers.”

“Indeed.”

Samuel gave her one more kiss before she walked him back to the gate.

Adrian sat back in his chair at White’s. It was past midnight and he’d spent the last three hours in the card room. He’d lost this night, not a great sum, but a loss, nonetheless.

He nursed a brandy, the first of the night. His parents would be proud that he had altered his behaviour of late. His parents’ concern and his own alarm had jarred him out of a downward spiral.

Adrian took a sip of brandy and glanced around the room where other gentlemen sat at tables, drinking as he was. None of them seemed to notice he had changed, that his good cheer was forced, that his usual pursuits were boring him.

He closed his eyes, savouring the woody taste of the liquid and the warm feeling spreading in his chest.

Laughter roused him.

Levenhorne, seated at a table in the middle of the room, seemed to find something extremely amusing. A footman stood at his elbow. Levenhorne held a piece of paper in his hand.

“Listen, everyone!” Levenhorne stood and held the paper high in the air. “At midnight tonight the ten months was up! Lady Wexin did not produce an heir. The estate and title are mine.”

“Bravo!” shouted one fellow. Others applauded.

Levenhorne bowed with a flourish.

“Dash it,” one man said, “I wagered on her having a son.”

Levenhorne clapped the man on the back. “You may still have a chance to win that wager. She has not yet given birth.”

The other gentleman joined in Levenhorne’s laughter.

Adrian’s grip on his glass tightened.

Lydia had not had her baby. She’d wanted him to believe the baby was Wexin’s, but now there was no chance at all.

Adrian rose and left the room. He retrieved his hat and walked out into the warm summer night.

He knew, had always known. Lydia’s baby was his.

Blast her. She must have known it as well.

Adrian walked fast, the idea of his child being born a bastard filling his mind. Before he knew it he was on Lydia’s street, in front of her townhouse. He stopped.

The reporters were gone.

They had probably dashed off to write their stories.

Adrian stared at her door for several seconds. It was an unforgivable hour upon which to call, but he suspected the household would still be awake on such a night.

He strode to the door and loudly sounded the knocker.

It did not take long for the door to open. “I told you all to bugger off—” Lydia’s butler’s fierce expression turned to surprise. “Oh! I—I beg pardon, my lord, I did not know…” The man peered at him. “What do you want, my lord?”

Adrian stuck his foot in the door. “I wish to see Lady Wexin.”

The butler’s brows rose. “Do you realise the hour, my lord?”