The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

There has always been this wicked desire in me to be a slave to the pleasures a man can give me. Though, I very well question if delights between a man and a woman exist. In all the drawings I’ve seen, the women appear as if they are thoroughly enjoying themselves. Is it selfish of me to want that? Was it terrible of me to dream last night of Lord Ambrose parting my legs and kissing my inner thighs? I am terribly attracted to him, and it seems even my wits have deserted me when I sleep.

Oliver gave a rough sigh as he closed the diary, placed it in the top drawer of his desk, and locked it with a key. Picking up the whisky he’d been nursing, Oliver finished the drink in one long swallow. He had spent the better part of the day in the library poring over investment reports. A luncheon tray had been sent in by his mother, which he had quickly consumed without tasting what he ate. Only a couple of hours after that, he had pushed aside the papers and dismissed his secretary, admitting his concentration was not at its peak. He felt like a damned fool, but the dark pull toward the hidden passageways couldn’t be denied.

Yesterday, after his outing with Mrs. Layton, a restless need had kept him from his bed. The games in the drawing room, the flirting with the ladies, the conversation at dinner hadn’t left him invigorated, merely bored. Last night, he had haunted his own house like a specter, roaming those secret crevices hoping he would encounter his mysterious lady. And now, instead of directing his effort to his varied business interests, he was thinking about her.

With a curse, he glanced at the paper on his desk. He was perusing the wrong pages. Oliver moved over to his desk and retrieved the list of viable candidates his mother had made. The young lady at the top of his mother’s list was Lady Emma Sinclair, the oldest daughter of the Earl of Preston. The only aspect of their match his mother objected to was that the lady was three and twenty, far too old in her estimation. What nonsense. Oliver liked that she wasn’t a fresh debutante and had at least two seasons under her cap. She was very pretty, with a lively and charming demeanor, and he quite enjoyed her intelligence. His mother had given Lady Emma the honor of sitting beside Oliver at last night’s dinner, and he had been pleasantly surprised by her charming wit.

He liked her, yet he was not attracted to her gentle beauty.

His mysterious lover was one of the widows under his roof. But only one had made it on to his mother’s list: Lady Falconbridge. She was young, four and twenty, well-connected in the ton, and had the bluest of blood, as the daughter of a duke.

Without warning, the library door opened, and his sister sailed inside.

Oliver placed the list on the desk and sat on the surface. “Have your manners departed you, Lucinda?”

“I knew you were in here alone,” she said with an impish smile, dark blue eyes so much like his own dancing merrily. “Oliver, please, will you speak with Mother? Within a few months, I’ll be seventeen, and I dare say I am responsible enough to attend a ball held in our own home.”

“You haven’t had your come out yet.”

Her eyes flashed, and her chin tilted stubbornly. “When did you get so priggish?”

“Lucinda,” he started warningly.

She hurried over to him. “Oh dear, it was the word priggish, wasn’t it? Mrs. Layton has a delightful way with phrases, and I find myself borrowing a few.”

Mrs. Layton. Not the woman he wanted to think about now. He’d already endured a frustrating night, vacillating between wanting her and craving his mysterious lover. There had even been a time he wondered if she could be her. He’d dismissed the ridiculous notion, of course. He had been in her presence for hours yesterday. Surely, he would have detected something familiar? The rasp of her voice, that elusive scent of honeysuckle.

“There will be no one for you to converse with.”

She wagged a finger. “That is not true. Lady Henrietta and I are very close in age. She is only one year older.”

Swift distaste filled him that a young lady so close to his sister’s age was on his mother’s list. Christ. Such innocents shouldn’t be marred by the kind of cravings he harbored in his soul. He mentally struck another woman from his list.

“I will speak with Mother.”

“Oh, Oliver, thank you.”

He grunted as she flung herself at him and hugged him with exuberance. She released him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“There is more.”

He arched a brow.

“Charlotte is here.”

“When did she arrive?”

Lucinda frowned “Only an hour past. She is with mother. I…think she is unhappy, and Mother seemed angry. I heard her tell Charlotte that she has a duty to her husband, and she should return to Chadwick Hall and await her Lord Beresford.”

A cold knot formed in Oliver’s gut. His sister Charlotte was two and twenty and had been married to Viscount Beresford for three years. She had declared herself in love with him, and the viscount had seemed equally besotted. Oliver had given his blessings to their union despite his mother’s disgruntlement, as she had wanted her daughter to marry the Duke of Milton.

“I’ll speak with Charlotte,” he promised. “Now go, and stop eavesdropping.”

Lucinda giggled and all but skipped from the room.

A full minute did not pass before a gentle knock sounded on the door. Charlotte. His two sisters could not be more different. Whereas Lucinda was irrepressible, Charlotte was very sweet and well comported. Oliver could not recall ever hearing a cross word from her, nor would she ever think to just barge in on him in his private sanctum.

“Come in, Charlotte.”