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“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?”
“I am very cognisant of the hour and of what has not taken place here this night.” Adrian put pressure on the door. “I presume she is not sleeping. Tell Lady Wexin I wish to see her.”
The butler still hesitated.
Adrian lowered his voice. “Listen, man. The reporters are gone. No one will know I’ve come. I beg you, announce me to Lady Wexin.”
The butler opened the door and allowed Adrian entry.
Lydia sat in the rocking chair she’d had Dixon purchase for her. She’d hoped to be rocking her baby by this time.
It would be lovely if she could indulge in a fit of tears, yell and scream and pull at her hair, but instead there was only this cold stark terror inside her. By dawn, the world would know she’d become pregnant by another man, a man she’d lain with when her husband, vile man that he was, had been dead only a matter of weeks.
She would have to leave London. Go somewhere where no one knew her, where she could raise her child away from the newspapers and gossip-mongers. Her sister would surely not wish to see her; her parents, if they ever returned, would shun her as well.
How did one sell a house and its contents? Could she afford all the servants? Some would not wish to remain with her, she was certain.
“My lady, do you wish to get ready for bed?”
Mary sounded almost afraid to speak to her. Poor Mary. She had been so faithful, so good about not asking questions. Mary had been the only person who had known for certain this baby was not Wexin’s. Now everyone knew.
“In a little while, Mary.” Lydia tried to appear composed.
A knock sounded on her bedchamber door. Mary walked over and opened it a crack. “It is Mr Dixon.”
Dixon stepped in, looking distressed. “My lady, there is a gentleman to see you.”
Someone sent to verify that she had not given birth, she supposed. “Send him away.”
“It is Lord Cavanley.” Dixon wrung his hands.
Adrian stepped into the room.
“See here—” began Dixon.
Adrian ignored him and walked straight over to her. “Let us speak alone.”
Lydia’s heart pounded. She glanced from Mary to Dixon, both open-mouthed with shock. “It is all right,” she said to them. “I will see him alone.”
Dixon needed to take Mary by the arm to escort her out.
When the door closed, Lydia looked up at Adrian, so handsome in the lamplight. She continued to rock back and forth in her chair. “What do you want, Adrian?” she asked.
“Truth.” His gaze slipped from her face to the round mound of her abdomen. “Is the baby mine?”
She turned her head away. “I suppose you have surmised that I am not carrying Wexin’s child.”
“I never thought you were.” His voice was deep and angry. “Is the baby mine?”
Lydia glanced into his eyes, which were filled with pain. “Do you, like the newspapers, think it might be the child of a gypsy or a manservant?”
His gaze remained steady. “Answer my question.”
She bowed her head. “The baby is yours, Adrian.”
His anger, his pain, his very presence here confused her. She had already released him from any responsibility. Why had he come?
He stepped back. “Why, Lydia? Why keep this from me?”
The cold terror inside her was cracking like thin ice under his gaze. She did not wish to break apart in front of this man, who would be kind to her, as he had been before. His kindness was what had led her to seduce him, but that had been her doing, not his.
“I did not want you to know,” she managed to respond.
“You did not wish me to know.” He looked so wounded.
She could almost hear the crack-crack-crack of her control. Hot tears stung her eyes and her throat felt tight. She could not speak and so forced a shrug in response.
He swung away for a moment before turning back with a piercing gaze. “I offered you marriage, Lydia. I offered to acknowledge my paternity—”
She waved a dismissive hand and struggled to her feet. “You did your duty.”
He came closer to her. “Yes, my duty, but you preferred my child to have a murderer’s name.”
Her cheeks stung as if he’d struck her. He spoke the truth and hearing it made her ashamed. “I—I did not wish to be married, Adrian.” Her voice sounded too fragile, too vulnerable.
“Cut line, Lydia.” His eyes flashed. “You did not wish to be married to me.”
“I did not want to be married to anyone,” she shot back. He twisted away, making a sound of disgust.
She stepped towards him, placing her hand upon his shoulder. “Adrian, understand me. I thought I had a perfect marriage once. It was all lies, vile, evil lies. Do you really think I would trust any man after that?”
He straightened. “I am not Wexin.”
She dropped her hand and wrapped her arms around herself. “Yes. Yes. You are not Wexin, but you are—”
He swung around. “A libertine?”
Lydia turned away, but he circled her so she was forced to look at him.
“You have made it very clear what you think of me, Lydia, and you made your choice, preferring my son or daughter be thought the progeny of a murderer rather than a libertine, but that matters little now, does it not?”
She tried to meet his eyes, but could not bear to see her shame reflected there. “I had a chance to be free of a man’s control and I took it.”
“You gambled with my son or daughter.”
She inhaled a quick breath. She’d gambled and lost.
He took her chin in his fingers and lifted her face so she could not avoid looking at him. His touch, even in this circumstance, even in her condition, gave her a physical awareness of him.
“You cannot pretend my child is Wexin’s now. What were you planning to do?” A muscle in his cheek flexed and he bent closer to her.
