Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

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.

      “Now, Lydia,” he whispered into her ear.

      He climbed atop her again and stared into her eyes as he slowly slipped his entire length into her, each second driving her mad with wanting. Lydia gasped as he began to move, still slow and rhythmic, like the intricate moves of a dance. She moved with him, but the pace he set kept the ultimate pleasure just out of her reach. He moved with such confidence, she gave herself over to him, trusting he would bring her to where she so very much wanted to go.

      His pace quickened and her need grew even greater. The sound of their breathing filled the room, melding together like voices singing a duet.

      Her release burst forth and she saw stars brighter than at Brighton. She thrilled when his seed spilled into her. They pressed against each other, moaning with a pleasure that burned away her desolation.

      Gradually the pleasure waned, but left in its wake a delicious feeling of satiation.

      He slid off of her and lay next to her, breathing hard. “Lydia,” he whispered.

      “Mmm,” she murmured, snuggling against him.

      She must have fallen asleep, but the knocker sounding on the townhouse door woke her with a start. She heard voices outside.

      The newspaper people. Would they never stop hounding her? She sat up, covering herself with the bed linens and realising what she had just done.

      She’d begged the dashing Adrian Pomroy, who conquered women more easily than Napoleon had conquered countries, to make love to her. And he had obliged.

      “There is no one here to answer your door,” he said.

      She groped around for her shift. “I do not want my door answered.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They must not see you here.” Finally her fingers flexed around the muslin of her shift. She pulled it on over her head and climbed off the bed. “You must get dressed.” Hopping on one foot, she tried to gather his clothes. “Leave here by the rear door.” She twisted his shirt in her hands. “The gate. You cannot lock the gate.” She shook her head and reached for his waistcoat. “Never mind the gate. The servants will be here soon and they will lock it behind them.”

      He seized her arm. “Lydia, calm yourself. They will not see me.”

      It was not only the reporters or creditors fuelling her alarm. Her own wanton behaviour had shocked her much, much more.

      She shoved the shirt and waistcoat into his hands.

      He dressed as quickly and efficiently as he had undressed. Buttoning his waistcoat, he said, “I will call upon you tomorrow.”

      “No!” she cried. She forced herself to sound rational. “You cannot come here again, Adrian. If you are seen here, there will be more scandal.” She hopped over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a robe of Chinese silk. She wrapped the robe around her. “Please, just go.”

      He strode over and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her ear against his beating heart. “Be calm,” he murmured. “Your troubles will vanish soon.”

      She wanted to laugh hysterically. Once she had believed that troubles were what other people experienced, but she knew differently now. Now it seemed trouble would follow her to the end of her days.

      “I’ll lock your gate and throw the key back into the garden.” He released her, but placed one light kiss on her forehead. “And I will return.”

      “You must not return,” she pleaded.

      He flashed a smile before walking out of the bedchamber.

      She hobbled to a room at the back and peered into the garden, telling herself she just wanted to be certain he left by the rear of the house. She could never allow him to call upon her, but she could gain one last glimpse.

      He, no more than a shadow now, appeared in the garden and crossed to the back gate with a long-legged stride. When he reached it he turned back towards the house and lifted his face to the upper windows. With a gasp, Lydia