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

Lydia’s heart raced at the feel of his large masculine hand enveloping hers. His grip was strong, the sort of grip that assured he was a man who could handle any trial. She now knew better than to make judgements based on such trivialities as a touch, but she could not deny he had been gentle with her. And kind.

It seemed so long since she’d felt kindness from anyone but her servants.

And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch, since her husband left for Scotland, in fact. It shocked her how affected she was by Adrian Pomroy’s hand on hers. He warmed her all over, making her body pine for what only should exist between a husband and wife.

She took a breath. She’d always loved that part of marriage, the physical part, the part that was supposed to lead to babies…but she could not think of that. It was too painful.

It was almost easier to think of her husband. The Earl of Wexin.

The newspapers wrote that her husband had killed Lord Corland so that Wexin could marry her. Lord Corland’s death had been her fault.

She gripped Adrian’s hand even more tightly, sick that Wexin’s hands had ever touched her, hands that had cut a man’s throat.

She thought she’d loved Wexin. She’d trusted him with everything—the finances, the decisions, everything. But she had not known him at all. He’d betrayed her and left her with nothing but shame and guilt.

Her happiness had been an illusion, something that could not last, like the baby that had been growing inside her the day Wexin left.

The cramping had started the very next day after he’d gone, more than a month ago now, and she’d lost that baby like the two others before.

She swallowed a sob. Now she had nothing.

“Lydia?”

She glanced up into Adrian’s eyes, warm amber, perpetually mirthful, as if his life had been nothing but one long lark.

He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are squeezing my hand.”

She released him. “I am sorry.”

He stood and took her hand in his again. “It was not a complaint. You look troubled.” He lifted her hand to his lips, warm soft lips. “You have been through a great deal, I suspect. I will act as your friend, if you will allow me.”

Her senses flared again and her breathing accelerated. “If you knew how I need a friend.”

He smelled wonderful. Like a man. And she felt his strength in his hands, in his steady gaze. She took a deep breath and reached up to touch his hair, thick and brown with a wayward cowlick at the crown that gave him a boyish appeal.

His eyes darkened and the grin disappeared, though his lips formed a natural smile even at rest.

This man pleased women, it was said. He was a rake whose name was always attached to some actress or opera dancer or widow. Well, she was a widow now and her whole body yearned to be touched, to be pleased, to be loved.

She spoke, but it was as if her voice belonged to someone else. “You can do something for me, Adrian. As a friend.”

He smiled again. “You have but to ask.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with her heart thundering inside her chest, she brought her lips near to his oh-so-tempting ones. “Make love to me.”

She felt his intake of air and watched his lips move. “Are you certain you want that?” he whispered.

“Very certain,” that voice that only sounded like hers said. Before she could think, she closed the distance between them, tasting his lips gently at first, then more boldly.

He tasted lovely, but this kiss was not enough, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth and allowed his tongue to enter, delicious and decadent. She slid as close to the edge of the bed as she could, as close to him. She pressed herself against him, loving the feel of his firm chest against her softer one.

While his tongue played with hers, she worked the buttons of his coat and waistcoat. He parted from her long enough to shrug out of them. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands over his muscular chest. She’d not known a man’s muscles could really be as sculpted as the statues of antiquity, nor as broad. No wonder women wanted to be his lover.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

She twisted around so he could reach the hooks at the back of her dress. He made short work of them.

She pulled her dress over her head, and he untied the laces of her corset with the practised ease of a lady’s maid. Lydia felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of coupling with a skilled lover. She had never even kissed a man besides her husband.

Her corset joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor, and Lydia made quick work of removing her shift. She wanted—needed—to feel her skin against his, but he held her at arm’s length and caressed her with his gaze.

Her breathing accelerated. She reached for the buttons of his trousers.

He smiled and his hand rose to stroke her cheek. “I was merely savouring you for a moment.”

He stepped back and pulled off his boots and trousers. Lydia removed her remaining shoe and stocking, taking in his naked body through half-closed eyelids.

He was indeed a magnificent man.

And an aroused one. Her eyes widened. Here must be another reason he pleased women so well.

Lydia extended her hand to him and pulled him towards her, making room for him on her bed, pulling the blankets away as she did so. He joined her and covered her with his body, warming her—she had not realised she’d been so very cold. His hands stroked her with exquisite gentleness, relaxing her in places she’d not known she’d been tense. She stretched, arching her back like a cat. He closed his palms over her breasts and need consumed her.

She grasped his neck and pulled him down to her lips again, wanting him to breathe his strength into her. She longed for him to join himself to her. She longed not to feel so alone. So betrayed. So abandoned.

He broke the kiss and, as if reading her mind, took charge, moving his lips down her neck, tasting her nipples. Then he slid his hand to her feminine place and slipped his fingers inside her.

She had never experienced such a thing. Wexin had never done anything like this with his fingers. The intensity of the pleasure stunned her. Adrian seemed to know precisely where to touch, how to touch, until she was writhing beneath him, moaning in a voice that sounded more primal than her own.

Her climax burst forth inside her, so intense she cried out and clung to him as the waves of pleasure washed over her, and washed over her again.

When it ebbed, confusion came in its wake.

“But what of you, Adrian?”

Her husband always saw to his own pleasure first. She did not know her pleasure could come in such a different way.

He held her face in his hands. “We are not finished, Lydia.”

She took in a ragged breath.

He lay beside her, his head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other hand barely touching her skin, but stroking slowly and gently until she forgot her confusion and became boneless and as pliant as putty. To her surprise, her desire grew again, but less urgent than before.

His lips traced where his hands had been, his tongue sending shafts of need wherever he tasted her. He touched her feminine place again, with such gentleness she thought she might weep out of sheer bliss. It still seemed it was her pleasure, not his, that guided his hand. He made her feel cherished, revered.

“Adrian,” she murmured, awash in this new sensation.

Slowly, very slowly, her desire escalated, until again she writhed with need.