The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton
Lily felt faint. “Upon my word, surely you are jesting.”
“No,” he murmured. “Are you married, or promised to another?”
“Of course not!”
“Ill-formed in some manner?”
The dratted man was turning her questions on her. “No.”
“We are suited in many ways.”
“Only between the sheets,” she snapped. “You have no notions of my connections or reputation.”
“So, inform me,” he rebutted lightly.
The low, rough dulcets had evened out into a smooth, clipped, but lushly sensual accent, quite reminiscent of the voice she imagined in her ears whenever she pleasured herself.
It was the voice of her nighttime fantasies and provocative dreams.
Panic crashed into her senses with the weight of a boulder. She tensed against her lover, and her fingers dug into his forearm. “You are no longer disguising your voice,” Lily said weakly. What had changed?
His breath caressed her ear. “Picked up on that did you?”
There it was again; it was undoubtedly him. “I… Good heavens,” she stammered. “Lord Ambrose?”
“At your service, my lady.”
Her head spun as if she was tippled. Sweet mercy. This was impossible. The marquess was her midnight lover. So many emotions jumbled through her—apprehension, guilt, triumph, pleasure, relief—and she was unable to halt the onslaught. There was a place in her heart where she hid dreams and impossible yearning. It cracked open, and the sweetest feeling of delight filled her. The most sought-after bachelor of the season, Lord Oliver Carlyle, the Marquess of Ambrose, powerful, charming, and kind, distressingly handsome, was her lover. And let’s not forget indecently rich.
They had held so many conversations this week. Dear God. “Do you have any notion of my identity?” she asked tentatively, careful to ensure her voice remained low and husky.
“I know who you are not.”
“I do not gather your meaning.”
“There are five widows in attendance. Viscountess Falconbridge, Mrs. Maryann Elliot, Mrs. Eleanor Bainbridge, Lady Henrietta, and the Dowager Countess of Melbourne. Which one are you? I am certain you are not Mrs. Elliot or Viscountess Falconbridge since you have no child.”
Lily’s heart stuttered with relief and troubling disappointment. Of course he would only consider the women his mother had invited to Belgrave Manor, not a widowed servant living under his nose. Dear heavens. That was why he had danced with Mrs. Elliot and Lady Henrietta earlier, and why he would court widows. The wretched man had been trying to find her. The notion of his mother’s paid companion being his notorious lover hadn’t occurred to him. It hurt, for it implied he had no thought of her beyond their easy banter and his charitable offer of money for little or no service.
It would have been wonderful to know a man like the marquess could desire her. A fierce stab of guilt pierced her. If he knew he lay with a servant, surely his noble senses would be offended. She would probably be relieved of her position before the month’s notice she had bee
n given. How would he bear to look at her, to see her in his house by his mother’s side, if he knew he had lowered himself so?
“Well?”
She twisted around in the cage of his arms so that his heavy body was now cradled between her thighs. Despite the leaden weight in her chest, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss in the hollow of his throat.
“Don’t,” he groaned. “Do not distract me from my purpose, you wicked minx.”
It was a distraction, but she couldn’t face any more questions or dwell too long on the tangle of emotions in which she was currently caught. Lily was truly at a loss that the man she was falling hopelessly in love with was the same man she had admired for so long. A man that she could never hope to have a future with.
“My lord,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
When she spoke, her voice cracked with emotion. “Call me Dahlia.”
He stiffened. “Is that your name?”