Chapter 25
T hey’d found her.
But never—not in her worst nightmares—had Lydia imagined that a bloody marquess would be the one to do it.
What did he care? She had stolen one little trinket from him years ago. Had he truly spent all this time investigating such a minor loss just to hunt her down?
Arrogant. Petty.
She should have expected it. The most powerful were always the first to chase her down—and the first to find her.
And now that a marquess was involved, she had no doubt he would demand prosecution.
Which meant she couldn’t let Art get tangled up in her dealings.
Lydia took the letter in her shaking hands and read it for herself. Then she reread it.
Again.
And again.
Just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
The marquess claimed she had taken something very important to him. Invaluable.
Damn .
He also stated that if she didn’t come forward and return it, he would take the case to trial.
And if she or Art—or rather he addressed the Marquess of Wakefield—failed to arrive in London by the end of the week, he would ruin them both with a single stroke of a pen.
Lydia’s stomach twisted.
She had nothing to give back. She had sold everything she ever stole. That was how she had stayed undetected for years—using the most notorious underground auction house to ensure her name remained a ghost among thieves.
God only knew where that blasted locket was now.
The most reasonable course of action was to run.
So much for her dream of marrying Art.
But the marquess had made his threat clear. If Art didn’t give her up, he would be ruined too.
And that Lydia could not allow.
She had to go back to London. Had to strike a deal. If she convinced the marquess that she could find the locket—
“So it was you,” Art said suddenly.
Lydia looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“The locket. It was stolen right under our noses while we were in Rivendale estate. I should have known it was you when you revealed you saw me there.”
“Y-yes.” Lydia hesitated. Something about his expression gave her pause.
“Rivendale was raving mad that night. He’d alienated his closest friends and family that night, accusing everyone.”
“I-I… I didn’t mean for it—”
He raised his hand up sharply. “You couldn’t have known. But if Rivendale was willing to burn bridges for this locket with his closest kin… He won’t hesitate to burn you at the stake.”
“Can he do that?”
Art let out a deep breath. “He is a powerful marquess. His title is older, richer… but I am a marquess now too, his equal. He won’t hurt me. That’s why I am going to go to London by myself. I am going to have to hide you until I get back. Perhaps you can go to my sister’s… or… do your relatives still live in Penrith?”
Lydia shook her head. “They had passed away. Art, what are you talking about?”
“I will do my best to protect you, Lydia. But when I go to confront him, I can’t… I can’t leave you here alone, and I can’t take you to London with me. He can’t hurt me, Lydia. But he can—”
“Perhaps not physically,” she cut in, “but he can ruin you, Art. Even more than you already are. You don’t have a penny to your name. You have an estate to run, a title to uphold. You can’t risk it.”
He shrugged. “That doesn’t scare me one whit.”
“Then what does scare you?” she cried. “Because—”
“Losing you!” Art turned away in agitation, running his fingers through his hair. “What scares me most is losing you. I don’t think I can survive it again.”
Tears burned at the back of Lydia’s eyes. “And don’t you think I feel the same?” she whispered. “Don’t you think I want to protect you ? We can weather this. Just like you said—together.”
“How?” he demanded.
She hesitated—then squared her shoulders. “We can go to London—”
“Out of the question.” His voice was sharp. “The only way you’re leaving this estate is if you’re going into hiding. Otherwise, you stay here, where you’re safe. Under my protection. I will confront Rivendale. I will strike a deal—”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “If you go to Rivendale, then I will be by your side.”
“Then you’ll still be in danger.”
“At least we’ll be together. If only for a moment longer.”
Art chewed on his lower lip, deep in thought. Lydia would not let him go alone.
But she could come up with a plan.
Perhaps she could convince Rivendale that Art knew nothing of her past—that he truly believed she was innocent.
Perhaps the marquess would accept her surrender.
No.
Art would never agree to that.
Maybe she could contact Miss Monroe again. The woman had ties to all kinds of underground dealings.
Something flickered in Art’s eyes. Was he working out a plan as well?
“Fine,” he said with a nod. “Then we go to London. Together . ”
* * *
The rest of the day was spent packing and preparing for their return to London. With all their business taken care of, they agreed to set out first thing in the morning and retired to their respective bedrooms.
He didn’t know why they weren’t sharing a bed. He wanted to.
That night, when she had first moved into the viscountess’s chambers, he had been mad with… grief?
He hadn’t been himself for a long time—not since his father’s death.
And as much as he had tried to convince himself that he was doing well, that nothing was wrong, he now realized he had only been lying to himself.
It felt as though Rivendale’s letter had shaken him from the strange stupor that had enveloped him for days. He had ignored Lydia all this time. Pushed her away.
And now… Now, he didn’t even know what was happening between them anymore.
I guess it’s time to find out.
Resolutely, Art performed his nightly ablutions, then strode toward the adjoining door, determined to tell her just that. He opened it and nearly collided with Lydia.
She stood in her nightgown right before the door, her hand lifted mid-air, fingers curled as if she had been about to knock.
“Were you coming to see me?” he asked.
She lowered her hand. “Yes.”
Art crossed his arms over his chest, leaned his shoulder against the door jamb, and raised a brow. “Well?”
“And you?” she countered, jutting her chin out.
“I was doing the same thing, as you can see.”
Her breathing was slightly agitated.
Art’s gaze ran down her body, taking in every curve accentuated by the sheer fabric of her nightgown.
She swallowed. “What did you want?”
He shrugged. “You.”
She licked her lips. “I wanted to talk.”
Art shook his head, pushed off the door jamb, and stalked into the room, forcing her to step back with every step he took. She probably wanted to talk about their plan confronting Rivendale. Well, he didn’t want that. No matter what he’d told her, he would take care of it himself. He had failed her enough times already. He wasn’t going to risk it again.
He was going to deal with Rivendale. And he was going to come back. And then he was going to marry her.
“We can do that, too,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. Later. Much later.
“Too?” She moistened her lips again.
“After,” he murmured, ripping the shirt off his back and tossing it aside.
“After?”
He smiled.
Her gaze was locked onto his chest as if caught in a passion-filled daze. Her breaths were shallow, her words reduced to single-syllable questions.
It was safe to assume she was just as hungry for him as he was for her.
His hands moved to his breeches, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. He paused, then, with deliberate slowness, began working on the buttons.
Before he could finish, Lydia pulled her nightgown over her head, letting it drop to the floor. Completely bare, she stepped toward him, took his face between her palms, and kissed him.
Art chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. She slid her arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. A pleasure-filled groan ripped from his soul.
Taking advantage, Lydia slipped her tongue inside his mouth, teasing, taunting.
She broke the kiss, their breathing labored. Then, she kissed him lightly again. “Remove your breeches now,” she commanded and then tugged on his lower lip with her teeth.
He grinned. “I see my passionate vixen from the masquerade is back.”
She kissed his neck, then licked her way down his chest. Her warm hands, her wet tongue, the combination of her movements and her little sounds sent him into a frenzy. His cock, erect and swollen, strained against his breeches.
Sweat lining his forehead and running down his back, Art struggled with the buttons on his falls, trying to unsuccessfully free his cock.
Lydia reached his belly button. Then she lowered herself to her knees and raised her eyes to him. Art watched her from beneath his hooded eyelids, the vision of her on her knees in front of him almost sent him to his knees himself.
She lowered her hands and in one swift motion undid the last of the buttons on his falls. His breeches plopped down, freeing his cock.
Without breaking their eye contact, Lydia licked her lips.
Fuck.
His cock jumped.
Lydia smiled and took him in hand. She gasped, her eyes now on his cock, her entire attention devoted to the shaft squeezed between her hands.
It swelled under her touch so much, he was afraid it would burst. She ran her hand up and down his length, then ran a thumb over his tip, marveling at the little drop of pleasure that seeped from his core.
Art plunged his fingers into her fiery hair, massaging her scalp.
“Hmm…” she moaned, then she dipped her head and licked his length.
Art threw back his head with a groan. This was a sweet torture. She glanced up at him with a wicked smile, then ducked her head and licked him again.
“You vixen,” he murmured.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered. “What do you want?”
Art looked into her golden-brown eyes and licked his lips. “Take me. Take me into your sweet mouth.”
Her smile widened as she licked the top of his cock before covering his tip with her mouth. She lowered her head, taking more of him in, and suckled lightly.
Art tightened his grip on her hair and guided her down his length. “Yes, my love,” he muttered, “just like that.”
The soothing heat of her mouth and the shy motion of her sweet, wet tongue sent every nerve of his body into a spin. His hips jerked, stuffing her mouth with more of him, and she moaned in delight. Her hands were circling him at his base, stroking him slightly.
“Squeeze me,” he gritted between his teeth. “Squeeze me harder.”
And she did. At the same time, she lowered her head, taking in more of him, then returned to just encircling his tip.
Art groaned, his fingers fisting her hair and forcing her down the length again. She gladly took more of him, moaning, moving in agitation. Her hips moved together with her tongue, her sweet bottom bared to his view. He wished to trace the curve of her buttocks, grip her soft flesh, delve between the intimate hair hiding her feminine delights, and plunge his fingers inside her core.
Just as he thought that, Lydia placed her tongue under his tip and sucked. Hard.
He didn’t know what was happening anymore. His hips moved of their own volition, and his fingers tightened around her hair even more, tugging, jerking. His spine arched, heat and tension gathering in his loins until he couldn’t hold it any longer.
He tried to drag her face away, but his seed erupted before he could, covering her lips, her chin, and breasts. He breathed heavily, watching her through his slitted eyes, unable to move or say anything.
She watched him in turn, and without breaking eye contact wiped her chin with her hand, then slipped her fingers into her mouth and sucked them clean. Then, like a cat satisfied with her meal, she licked her lips.
That was enough for his cock to stir and rise again.
Fuck.
With a growl, Art lifted her up, took her face between his palms, and kissed her deeply, tasting his own essence on her tongue. She moaned, her hands finding his shaft and squeezing him between her fingers once more.
“The things you do to me,” he whispered against her lips.
“I want you,” she whispered back.
He pushed her onto the bed, and she chuckled, her eyes burning with passion. He reached her in one stride and flipped her onto her back. He traced her slit, encountering delightful moisture there, and plunged his fingers inside.
A growl left his lips. He withdrew his fingers and slapped both palms onto her bottom, then swiftly plunged his cock inside her core.
She cried out, and he groaned, his head falling back, his entire body taut with tension. She was so wet, yet so tight. So wonderful.
He had never felt as complete, free, and unburdened as when he was inside her.
She whimpered and pushed her backside into him, demanding more attention. Art leaned over her, his entire body covering her and slid his hand under her belly, lower and lower still until he encountered her little swollen nub.
Then he withdrew and drove back into her, the motion of his thrust forcing her nub to rub against his palm. He withdrew once more and thrust into her again.
He rocked his hips, thrusting his cock in and out of her, listening to her cries of pleasure with his every movement. He wanted to feel her come, wanted to be drenched in her juices before he succumbed to the oblivion of the little death again.
He wanted to die again and again in her arms. And come alive again with the magic of her touch, her kiss.
Her fingers dug into the sheets by her sides, her little cries getting more and more wild. Then she let out a shriek as her entire body arched, and her inner muscles gripped him, contracting and relaxing, until they drew his own orgasm from him.
He collapsed on top of her with a groan, and he thought he heard her whisper, “I love you.”