A Reckless Desire (16 page)

How could she not understand what she'd become to him? What would he do if she didn't feel the same?

He pulled her closer, one arm tight around her waist while his other hand found that temptingly round bottom that had so tormented him this morning, and his fingers spread to cup her and pull her more closely against him. She not only yielded, but pressed shamelessly to him so that he was sure she must have realized how aroused he'd become. His cock was hard as iron, and because she wore no hoops, there was only the linen of his breeches and her petticoats between them. She wore no hoops because she wasn't a lady—a tiny, sharp dagger to niggle at his conscience.

She wasn't a lady, but she was Lucia, yet instead of that being a balm to his irritated conscience, it only served to remind him again of how she trusted him not to behave like this. He'd sworn not to dishonor her, not to take advantage of her station, not to do anything beyond what they'd both agreed.

And because she
was
Lucia, he couldn't bend that agreement to suit the other argument raging in his breeches. He couldn't. He'd given her his word. Because she trusted him, she deserved better from him, and reluctantly he broke his mouth away from hers, his heart drumming in his chest. Yet he couldn't part with her entirely, not yet, and he kept his arms still linked around her waist.

“Oh, my lord,” she said softly, pushing back but remaining in the circle of his arms. She looked up at him without raising her chin, her eyes filled with uncertainty and her breathing rapid. “This wasn't part of our agreement, not at all.”

“No, it wasn't,” he said. Loose strands of hair were tossing across her forehead in the breeze, and he lightly smoothed them away, not wanting even a single hair to hide her face from him. “But when you called me unfeeling—”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, and eased herself free of his arms. She didn't go far—only a step away—but she made it clear that she wished to be apart from him. He felt her separation keenly, a blow he hadn't expected nor wanted.

“There's nothing to forgive,” he said gruffly, wondering what in blazes he was supposed to do now. His arms hung at his sides, empty and useless. “At least not for you.”

“But there is, my lord,” she insisted. She bent to retrieve her hat from where it had fallen on the path and settled it on her head, reaching to tie the ribbons at the back of her neck: small, brisk, ordinary gestures that seemed only to emphasize how awkward he now felt, and how great a fool he'd made of himself.

It was at once the most wonderful, and the most awful, moment of Lucia's life. To have Rivers say such things to her, such beautiful, important things about what she meant to him, and then to kiss her in a way that proved he believed those things, was more than she'd ever dreamed.

But that was exactly why it had been so awful as well. Even asleep, she knew better than to dream something as impossible as this. She'd never met another man who came as close to perfection as Rivers, or another who could leave her breathless and quivering like this with a single kiss. Despite how hard she tried to pretend that everything was as it should be, fussing with her hat and retying her ribbons, she was sure he must see what he'd done to her. No, what he
did
to her, because the effects wouldn't end, her heart beating far too swiftly and her lips still burning from his, and her entire being yearning to return once again to his embrace.

Yet how could any of it matter? Along with being nearly perfect, Rivers was also the son of a duke, while she was far, far less in every possible way. She didn't doubt that he'd meant those lovely words when he'd spoken them, but she doubted very much that he'd mean them even next week. He couldn't, not when he'd spoken them to a woman of her station. Words like those could only mean misery to her if she believed them, and now it was up to her to remind him of that fact.

Unsure of where to begin, she gazed up at him with tears in her eyes. She'd never wish to hurt him, but the confused and wounded expression now on his face was undeniably her doing.

Tell him,
her conscience ordered sternly as the silence stretched longer and longer between them.
You've told him before. Tell him again, now, so he understands how it must be between you. Remind him of your agreement, and of the wager. Remind him of who he is, and who you are.

Unaware of her thoughts, he nodded curtly. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs. Willow. Rest assured that I will not bother you further, nor—”

“No!” she cried, and every good intention vanished. “Do not say that, my lord, I beg of you! What you've said—how you feel about these last weeks together—it is the same for me as well, only more.”

He stared at her warily, not trusting. “I do not believe that is possible.”

“Not possible, my lord?” She stepped forward, closing the short distance between them to stare up into his face. “How could it not be possible when it is the truth? I cannot begin to explain what you have come to mean to me, my lord, and the very thought of parting from your company when this wager is done grieves me beyond measure. How could that not be possible?”

“You do not say this from a sense of obligation?” he asked slowly, his expression unchanged. “Mind that you owe me nothing. I have never forced my attentions on any woman, and by God, I would not begin now with you.”

“But you haven't, my lord, not a bit,” she said fervently, searching his face. “When you gave me your word, you kept it, even to me.”

“Because you deserved that from me, Lucia,” he said, and finally smiled. “Because of who and what you are to me, I could do nothing less.”

Something squeezed tight in her chest. “Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “My lord!”

“Rivers,” he said, cupping her jaw in the palm of his hand. “I wish you to call me by my name, not my title.”

“Yes, Rivers,” she said shyly, realizing what an enormous freedom that was. Not even her cousin had been permitted to be so informal. “Rivers.”

His smiled warmed, and he rubbed his thumb lightly over her cheek. “How fine that sounds to me.”

“Rivers,” she repeated, her own smile tremulous with emotion. “You even left my vowels alone.”

“My name contains only short vowels, which you pronounce without difficulty,” he said. “It's the long vowels that tax you so. What will be next for us, Lucia?”

“Next?” she echoed. Part of her wished she could stop time and keep this moment forever as it was, but a man like Rivers would not be satisfied with that, nor would she. What better definition of temptation could there be than this man before her?

Lightly she laid her hands on his chest, her hands pale against the soft woolen superfine of his coat. He'd been right; without the rough toil that she'd been accustomed to and with the sweet-smelling balm that he'd ordered from the apothecary for her, her hands had become as smooth as any lady's. Only three weeks, and yet in how many ways she'd changed!

“Next,” he said more firmly. “What do you wish it to be?”

What she truly wished, she could never have. She was sure of that. But there was another possibility that, until this moment and this temptation, she hadn't allowed herself to consider. Even if Rivers could never be hers for life, she could still be his for a day, a week, a month. Joy, and pleasure, and love that she would never forget would become a memory that would be hers forever:
that
was what she could have, if she dared. The pain when he inevitably left—like every other gentleman had left every other woman like her—would be agonizing, but she would survive, and she would have the memory of his love always.

That was her choice. She wasn't a fine lady, expecting an offer of marriage. She was a Di Rossi, and Di Rossis knew how to seize whatever chance was offered to them, whether in Naples or Paris or London, or here at Breconridge Lodge. Fate had already brought her to Lord Rivers Fitzroy, and this moment. The rest was up to her.

She took a deep breath.

“I wish for things to fall as they will between us,” she said with fierce determination, her fingers spreading over his chest. “No plans, no regrets, for whatever time we have together. If you say you can care for more than books, Rivers, then show me. Be less a Fitzroy, and more a Di Rossi. Show me you can simply
live
instead.”

He turned his head slightly to one side, intrigued. “Live,” he said, “and love?”

She nodded, her cheeks hot with excitement. “Minute by minute, day by day, whatever fate and the stars decree.”

“Trusting to fate can be full of risk, Lucia,” he said, his voice seductively low. “Most women wouldn't wish it.”

“I am no ordinary woman,” she declared with a little flip of her wrist. “But you know that of me by now.”

“Indeed,” he said, touching his thumb to her lower lip. “You are most
extraordinary.
Have you the courage for such a course?”

“You know that I do,” she said fervently.
“ ‘My fate cries out, / And makes each petty artery in this body / As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.' ”

He chuckled. “That's not your line, Ophelia. It's Hamlet's.”

She turned her mouth against his hand and playfully nipped at his palm. “It is mine now.”

He laughed, and finally kissed her, a kiss that was both rough and sweet, mingled with promise and desire.

“Lucia,” he said. “
My
Lucia.”

“And now?” she asked, her voice a breathless whisper. For all her bold talk, she was still a virgin, and unsure of exactly how these things transpired. “What now?”

He smiled, all mysterious. Perhaps he was already being more like a Di Rossi, just as she'd hoped he could be.

“We'll go to Newbury, Mrs. Willow.”

“And after that?” she asked, her anticipation growing.

“Minute by minute, madam,” he said, kissing her again. “Minute by minute.”

Since Newbury was the nearest town of any size to both Breconridge Hall and Breconridge Lodge, Rivers had traveled the way to it countless times since he'd been a boy. The road had not changed in that time, either, remaining a seldom-journeyed path through green fields and a few small woods, all of it belonging to the Fitzroy family. Despite this lack of traffic, the road itself was in excellent condition, due to his father having invested a sizable amount in its annual upkeep. True, it made for an easier ride for the Fitzroys and their guests, but his father also believed firmly that his position as the highest-ranking landowner (and the only duke) in the county meant that he'd a duty to the others who lived there as well. His father had made improvements to the local roads, arranged for a new roof for the small parish church, supported the local charity school for young children and orphans, and allocated a substantial sum each Christmas to the largest public house in Newbury for the express purpose of having Newburians raise a seasonal tankard to His Grace's health.

It all contributed to the Fitzroys being regarded with great favor in the town, and as Rivers's carriage with its Fitzroy crest painted on the side rolled through the streets, townspeople bowed and curtseyed and raised their hats, and he nodded and smiled in return through the open window. He was accustomed to the attention, but for Lucia, nestled beside him, it was a stunning experience.

“I cannot believe it, Rivers,” she said, staring past him out the window. “I know your father's His Grace the Duke of Breconridge, but
dio buono,
the folk in this town treat you as if you were His Majesty himself!”

He laughed, his arm comfortably around her shoulder. If he'd been the true rake she'd accused him of being, he would have hurried her off to his bed this morning, as soon as they'd agreed that their agreement was to be no more, or perhaps even tossed up her petticoats and tumbled her there in his mother's garden.

But because he wasn't that rake, he wanted to seduce her properly so that it would be as enjoyable for her as it would be for him. Even though he'd said he'd live minute by minute, he wanted to make plans for a memorable evening, one that neither of them would forget, and so in the meantime he'd brought her here to Newbury. Not that the anticipation wasn't pleasurable in itself, because it was. He was so happy this afternoon that she could have said the sky was black with horned toads descending from the heavens, and he would have laughed, too.

“We do have royal blood, you know,” he said. “My great-great-great-grandfather was in fact the King of England.”

“No!” she gasped in awe. “You don't mean it, not truly.”

“I do so mean it, because it's true,” he said, relishing her response. “Of course, my great-great-great-grandmother was only his mistress, not his queen or his wife, but he did give her a dukedom for their bastard son, and declared the boy legitimate so he could inherit the title and the lands and estates with it.”

She fell back against the squabs with an extravagant show of shock. “Royal blood, Rivers! Oh, I cannot fathom it, even if you're only your father's third son. Don't you wish you'd been born first, so you'd be the duke, too?”

“Not in the least,” he said without hesitation. Many people had asked him that throughout his life, and the answer he now gave her had always been the same. “If I were to inherit the dukedom, it would mean that my father and both my brothers were dead before me, and no title under Heaven is worth that price. Their wives would also need to have borne no sons, which thus far is sadly the case. Three daughters for Harry and Gus, and one for Geoffrey and Serena, and though they are lovely little creatures, every one of them, the fact that none of them is male has distressed my father no end.”

She twisted around to face him, as fascinated as if he'd been telling her a fairy story.