“Yes.” He paused. “Are you marrying Grenville to make up for disappointing your father, Lydia? It won’t work, even if his late grace wasn’t dead and roasting in hell.”
“Stop it.” This time she meant it without shillyshallying. “You have no right to talk about my father that way.”
“Yes, I do. He damn well destroyed my life. And he came close to destroying yours. I wanted to kill him when he called you a slut.”
She winced. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to kill her father. Instead his withering contempt had made her want to die. She still had nightmares about the disgust in the duke’s voice when he’d wrenched her away from Simon and flung her viciously against the hayshed wall.
It was ironic that her father had died of heart trouble. As far as she knew, he’d never had a heart to begin with. Which hadn’t stopped her pursuing his approval with a desperation that still made her cringe. When he’d died without sparing her a kind word, she’d told herself she’d fought a losing battle from the first.
The late duke had been a cold man, cold to the bone. She could never forgive her mother for breaking her marriage vows, but she could understand what had driven the duchess into her rakish brother-in-law’s arms.
“My father caught me cavorting in the hay like a lusty milkmaid,” she bit out, shame tasting like bile on her tongue. “You had me half out of my clothes and ready to spread my legs like a whore.”
“Never, never say that,” Simon said savagely, tugging her across his lap with breathless dispatch.
“Let me go,” she choked out, as her pulses raced with illicit excitement and her body immediately softened to fit the contours of his. Her fists clenched against his chest while his warmth enveloped her, more alluring than brandy to a drunkard. The echo of her dead father’s scorn rang in her ears, but the reality of Simon’s presence muffled its power.
“Never.” His arms tightened, lashing her against him so that her head fell back against his shoulder, her face upturned. Even through the darkness, she caught the sparking fury in his eyes.
The ghost of unfinished business vibrated around them like a curse. Hating herself, she realized she’d been waiting for Simon to kiss her ever since she’d caught sight of him on the stairs at her betrothal ball. Her father had been right to deride her detestable weakness.
“I played the wanton with you once,” she muttered. “I’ll not fall again.”
Even as she spoke, desire weighted her limbs and made her heart thunder, proving her a liar. Simon could make her fall in an instant. One touch from those clever hands and she burned.
“Lydia, there’s no disgrace in what we feel for each other.”
“Then why are we embracing in a dark carriage?” she asked caustically.
“Because you’ve promised your kisses to another man.” His body tensed against hers. “Clearly, I have to convince you that your kisses are mine.”
His effrontery shocked her into speechlessness. His face was a pale oval above hers; it was too dark to make out individual features. The living reality of Simon engulfed her, his strength, his vitality, his evocative scent. For one blazing moment, they remained unmoving. Then he lowered his head and kissed her with a devastating mixture of anger and blind need.
She thought she’d impressed every detail of his glorious kisses on her memory. It turned out memory had misled her when it came to how she’d felt pressed against Simon’s long, lean body while his mouth plundered hers. She’d forgotten how the heated scent of his skin left her as intoxicated as if she’d swallowed a bottle of champagne in one gulp. She’d forgotten the wild tattoo of his heart against her breast and the powerful grip of his hands.
Closing her eyes, she prayed frantically for control, for the will to break the embrace. Moments ago she’d derided herself as a t
rollop; now she proved she was as brazen as ever. But only with this one man. Only with Simon Metcalf.
She struggled through rising pleasure to cling to the last strands of reason. Simon was manipulating her into doing what he wanted. She was too old to topple into his arms as readily as a ripe apple dropped from a tree. And Grenville deserved better, she thought on a flinch of shame even as delight snared her in its net.
She stiffened and placed a hand on Simon’s face. Under her fingers, she felt the faint roughness of beard. The sensation thrilled her, even as she told herself she must stop him. After mere seconds, she summoned every ounce of resolution and pulled far enough away to whisper. “Don’t kiss me.”
“I have to.” He sounded at the edge of his restraint.
“I’m marrying Grenville,” she said fiercely.
“I don’t care.” He tugged her closer to his body.
“I do.” She battled to sit up without success.
“You’re driving me mad,” he groaned.
“Then go away where you’ll never see me.” Even as she spoke, her heart clenched with denial. She didn’t want Simon to go away. She wanted him to stay close. As close as he was now.
Closer.
“I’ve been away too damned long.” His hands held her firmly against him.