Chapter Sixteen
Lydia was not pleased that he’d ended the kiss just when it was getting interesting. She was tempted to give a petulant huff of annoyance but stopped herself. That would have been embarrassing—throwing a tantrum over a too-short kiss from a practiced seducer.
It would seem her dignity had wasted no time in fleeing.
She almost closed her eyes against his peering gaze, but fortified herself. She’d agreed to this…education, and she was going to stay the course.
“You stopped,” she muttered. “Why?”
He cleared his throat. His reply was a low murmur. “I don’t wish to overwhelm you.”
“You won’t,” she replied with an angled chin.
His eyes sparked and his mouth twisted into a wicked grin that triggered a cascade of sensations along her nerves. “Are you certain?”
His fingers tensed, and she was shocked to realize his hand was up her skirt, wrapped warmly around the back of her knee. How on earth had she missed that detail? Perhaps she had been too consumed by the kiss. Or had she just gotten comfortable with the idea of accepting his touch?
The sound of the carriage wheels on the road, the din of the city beyond, all disappeared. She heard only her heartbeat as she stared down at him on one knee before her, his other foot planted firm to the floor to keep steady. His stare was intent and piercing. Intimate and challenging.
It was unbelievably exhilarating to find oneself balancing at the edge of something dangerous.
And this man was very, very dangerous.
Yet, she sensed he was completely in control of his desires. And maybe hers, as well.
When she said nothing, his grin widened and his gaze held hers as he slid his hand just a bit higher to the long curve of her thigh, the brush of his thumb reaching past the edge of her garter.
Her breath seized at the feel of his touch on her bare skin. Heat flooded to the juncture between her thighs. Even though her heart raced and her belly fluttered wildly, she somehow maintained composure, arching a brow in her own silent challenge.
He chuckled. It was a rich, graveled sound that warmed her blood, igniting licks of flames in untouched corners.
Wickedness still curving his mouth, he murmured, “My bold Bluestocking wishes to learn a bit more?”
Though her body and mind barely still felt like hers, she managed a soft, taunting reply. “Our agreement involved far more than a kiss, Lord Darlington.”
His hand tightened around her thigh, pressing into the softness, as his eyes darkened with ravenous intent. “Ah,” he breathed thickly as his gaze fell to her lap, “but there are so many kinds of kisses to explore.”
A frightful wave of anticipation and hunger swept through Lydia.
She suspected that she knew what kind of kiss he was thinking of. Bridget had explained it to her once—how lovers might give intimate pleasure with their mouths. At the time, she’d struggled to understand how such a thing might be enjoyable. But now…
The tender ache between her legs deepened as liquid heat flowed to that core of her. She was afraid to move or breathe, lest he somehow discover her body’s reaction.
But then his gaze flickered to the carriage window. His form tensed and he muttered a heavy curse beneath his breath. When his focus returned to her, there was a ferocity to his manner and a raw texture in his voice. “We’ve entered Mayfair. I imagine we’ll reach your home soon.”
“Dammit.” Lydia shoved herself back on the seat.
He chuckled, no doubt at the unladylike vehemence in her curse. Though he removed his hand from beneath her skirt and swiftly reseated himself on the bench across from her, it was with an audible grunt of vexed reluctance.
Lydia tried to ignore the delicate and furious rioting in her body as she forced herself to a sedate, composed posture. It took a while before she felt steady enough to risk a glance in his direction, and when she did, her breath stopped again.
His stare claimed her.
That was the only way she could describe the rich amber light in his eyes.
Possession.
She wanted to dive into it.
“I shall come to your room tonight,” he said darkly.
Her laugh was half snort. “Are you mad?”
“Do you doubt me already?”
“I doubt you still, my lord,” she clarified. “You think you can simply stroll about my home without being seen or heard? Do you intend to peek through every door until you find my bedroom?”
“If I must,” he answered darkly.
Her heart fluttered.
“Or,” he added with a smile, tipping his head just as the cab came to a stop outside Loxmarch House, “you could just point out which window is yours.”
Lydia eyed him incredulously. Would he scale the wall?
With a shake of her head, she slid to the door and stepped down to the pavement. Gratefully, Darlington remained in the shadows to avoid being seen by anyone looking out from the house.
As she turned back to close the carriage door, she paused, then muttered, “The last room of the east wing, overlooking the garden.”
Turning away, she walked up the front steps and into her home with her usual casual stride. No one observing would have any idea that there was a revolution occurring inside her. Only she knew that from this point forward, she was never going to be the same again.
*
He wasn’t going to come.
Of course, he wouldn’t.
It was ludicrous. And unbelievably risky.
Still, Lydia remained in the fine gown she’d worn to dinner that evening.
Even though her parents had retired to their suite hours ago and the upstairs maid had long since finished her duties and the clock on her mantle had struck one o’clock in the morning, she could not compel herself to prepare for bed.
What if he did come to her and she was fast asleep?
She glanced to her large four-poster bed where her twin calico cats were curled into matching balls of sleeping fur. Her stomach twisted and her heart flipped over.
Perhaps she should retire.
She resumed her pacing.
If he found her asleep, would he just leave? That’s what she wanted, right?
Her insides twisted with contradictory emotions.
What on earth had she been thinking to give him directions to sneak into her bedroom? If he even somehow managed to make it through her house undetected, what would happen once he got here?
Stopping in the center of her room, she stared at her window, her thoughts traveling back to the hackney cab earlier in the day.
But that was the point, wasn’t it? To find out what happens after the kind of kiss they’d shared.
Lydia wasn’t ashamed to admit that she wished there had been more time to see if he’d have reached farther up her legs…between them. If he’d have kissed her mouth again so deeply…or if he’d have moved his lips to other sensitive spots.
It was in that moment, of course—while her body warmed and hummed with her imaginings—that the casement of her window should swing silently open.
She’d unlocked the casement earlier, not really thinking he’d enter her room that way.
It wasn’t as if there was a tree or trellis to assist such a feat.
Just some ornamental brick and the window ledges below.
But the cooling breeze of the night air swept around her and there he was.
She stared in disbelief and a ridiculous amount of admiration as he easily lifted himself through the large opening. He carefully relatched the window and drew the wind-blown curtain closed. Catching sight of her standing silent in the center of her room, he stopped and smiled.
Her trembling belly ignited. The only words she could form slipped from her lips, “You’re quite mad.”
He shrugged. “I’m determined.”
“Determined is sending flowers and composing sonnets,” she argued. “Not climbing through an upper floor window in the middle of the night.”
His chin lowered, darkening his eyes, as his lips curled with a boyish wickedness. “Desperate, then.”
“But why?” The question blurted free before she decided to say it.
His brow furrowed a bit but his smile didn’t falter. When he took a step toward her, Lydia took a miniscule step back. He immediately stopped his advance, tilting his head in question.
“Why are you desperate?” she pressed, an odd quiver in her voice. “Why me, when there are so many women—countless women of greater sophistication and beauty and experience—who’d fight to be an object of your interest?”
There was a subtle tensing in his expression. His smile slowly flattened and his gaze flickered briefly.
Lydia’s stomach clenched as dread crept through her. Would he finally admit this was all a ruse of some sort? A manipulation. A trick.
His gaze found hers again, steady and piercing. “I’m not interested in an object of diversion. I’m interested in you, Lady Lydia Balcomb.”