“I, too, desired a stroll. It seems we are both restless and disenchanted with the house party. Our hunting lodge is close by. We could wait out the impending squall there.” He rested a palm on his chest and gave her a charming smile. “I swear on my honor, I will be the soul of politeness and discretion.”
“You always are, my lord.” Except for when he had taken her last night. That man had been raw and untamed. The blush she had been fighting rushed through her cheeks and flushed along her entire body. It would be prudent to go with him, for to proceed back to the main estate would see her caught in the downpour. She felt light-headed and hopelessly uncertain how to behave. The only thing she was sure of was that she couldn’t be enclosed with him in a confined space again.
“Are you well, Lily?” Those beautiful eyes were dissecting every nuance of her expression with a puzzled frown.
“Oh yes, I’m quite well. Just a slight headache.”
Unable to help herself she lowered her eyes to his firm, sensual mouth. She had kissed those lips, tangled her tongue with his, and dear God, the memory of what that wicked mouth had done to her pussy had unbearable heat twisting through her veins.
“My mother seems quite taken with Viscount Clayton. I doubt she will need you today. You do look tuckered—why don’t you take the day and rest?”
The Marquess of Ambrose was deliciously intriguing. The scoundrel and the gentleman. The two were melded into a beautifully appealing—but so dangerous—indistinguishable whole.
How courteous and gentlemanlike he had been on their walk.
Permit me to help you over the log.
Then last night…
Even though the darkness is a forbidden delight, I long to see you…and the pink folds of your cunt glistening with your need.
And he wanted to court her. No…not me, she reminded herself sternly. He wanted to court his adventurous and mysterious lover, the bold and lustful Lady Dahlia, not Mrs. Lily Layton, passably pretty, too rounded, no money or connection…and barren. No distinction that could recommend her to the role of a marchioness. She needed to remove the ache and want his words had placed in her heart.
“Lily?”
She struggled to recall his previous question. “The fresh, cold air will set me right, but I thank you for thinking of me.”
His gloriously wicked mouth curved into a small smile. “We could return to the manor and you sit for me.”
There was a watchful air about him that set her heart to pounding. “I…I do not believe it wise for me to pose today.” How could she sit for him in intimate seclusion knowing he was her lover? Surely, she would give herself away with her blushes. Last night in the library she had been filled with such indelible awaren
ess—her breathing had been too fast, and the flesh between her legs had been slick with need. And she hadn’t known, then, he was her secret lover. Surely her reaction would be more unpardonable now.
Something heated and dark flashed in his eyes before his expression shuttered. “Perhaps in a few days,” he murmured, his penetrating stare assessing every nuance of her face.
“Yes.” She took a small, steady breath. “Please, go on without me.”
“Of course,” he said with a dip of his head. “Have a pleasant walk.”
Then he sauntered in the opposite direction, without looking back. She watched him go, the most peculiar, desperate sort of ache working through her heart. If only…
She squeezed her eyes to banish the foolish dreams she would not allow to take root.
It would be foolish of her to venture into the secret passageway again. Now that he had revealed himself, he would be much more determined to uncover her identity. He thought her a woman of his society, that he could woo her. Were he to discover that he had been bedding a woman so far below him… Would he truly be disgusted? Would he remove his offer to pay her? The notion did not feel at all right to Lily. The marquess seemed too kind and honorable, but she couldn’t take the chance. She would simply treasure all the forbidden encounters from that wanton, secret place in her heart.
It had been truly glorious, and she would not have traded the past nights for anything, but she had to be strong and avoid the marquess—and his wicked tongue, fingers, and cock.
…
Lily Layton laughed, her head thrown back, her neck arched quite delightfully, her eyes filled with enjoyment. The sun struck her just right, and there was an indefinable sensation filling Oliver’s heart as he stared at her through his studio window two stories up. She sat with the other servants under a large oak tree, having some sort of picnic. Everyone had been thrilled when the sun had broken through the clouds, and had hurried outside to bask in the pale rays.
His fingers and paintbrush moved as if they had a life of their own, and Lily slowly appeared on his canvas. Oliver shifted closer to the window, pressing his nose to the cold glass pane. There…sweet Christ. That angle was just perfect.
He lost himself, painting the curve of her lips, the slope of her jaw, the arch of her neck. Suddenly he could imagine her…spread-eagle on his crisp white sheets, splayed wide and bound by silk as he spanked the wet folds of her cunt.
Oliver dropped the brush and raked his fingers through his hair, uncaring that he would transfer paint to his hair. Somehow, his fevered fantasy and desperate hope had conjured the idea that his mysterious lover and Lily Layton were the same. The image was evocative and vivid, down to the vibrant red of her hair, the high thrusting breast, and golden-brown eyes wide with pleasure and apprehension.
Mrs. Lily Layton…and Dahlia. The very notion was ridiculous, or perhaps he wanted Lily so badly he imagined that a demur and respectable lady like her could be so wanton. Was it possible two different women could so captivate him?