The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

Lily lay on her back, her head arched on the pillow, breasts swollen and hard, her thighs opened, her slender fingers moving desperately over the slick folds of her pussy. Her voluptuous beauty screamed of wicked nights and sultry mornings, and he allowed his eyes to devour every silken curve the soft light bathed in a warm glow.

“Oliver,” she whispered.

It was a sigh of regret, of longing, and his mouth went dry at the echo of need in it. She spread her legs farther and stroked her swollen clitoris. Oliver’s jaw clenched, and the hunger that coiled in his gut shocked him. He bit back the groan of need as she whispered his name again before stiffening with a cry of delight. His heart nearly explo

ded from his chest. Yet this was not proof that Lily was his mysterious lover, only that she pleasured herself when the need overtook her.

Relief almost made him sag.

Thank Christ. Lily Layton wanted him with the same visceral intensity with which he wanted her. It truly seemed impossible that he would desire a separate woman with the same chaotic hunger. And what if she was? He slid the portal closed and leaned against the cool wall. He’d unwittingly bedded a worker in his household after vowing never to act in any manner reminiscent of his father’s proclivities. He wasn’t foolish to believe he was just like his father, who had used his rank to take advantage of several servants within his household with his wife only a few rooms away. Oliver assessed the facts, recalling every minute detail of his encounters with Dahlia, and concluded that every filthy thing he had done with her delightful body, she had wanted. There had been no coercion on his part, and she certainly hadn’t thought so, or she wouldn’t have returned.

He closed his eyes briefly in relief. Could Lily Layton be his lover in the dark? And if she was, what would he do about it? Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a savage curse. He was getting ahead of himself. The pressing question to be answered was whether Lily and Dahlia were truly one person. There was only one way to find out. But he wouldn’t act the bumbling fool and intrude upon her now. He would be patient, and observant, and when the time was right…

God, Oliver hoped he wasn’t making a mistake, and hoped he wasn’t being a damn fool in planning to confront her and rip away the anonymity she’d desired.

Chapter Eleven

Lily lay in the dark, unable to sleep. For the last days and nights, she had avoided the marquess at all costs. Though she had been so very tempted to allow another encounter, she had restrained herself with a will she hadn’t realized she possessed. Except now she was filled with regret, for she had lost the opportunity to have one last wicked tryst. The house party was over, and throughout the day, all the guests had departed to Town. Even Lady Ambrose had taken herself off to Bath, not too discreetly, for she traveled in the same carriage as her viscount. The large manor house was empty…save for Lily and the marquess.

If she stepped into the secret passages tonight, that would be owning up to her identity. All her feminine instincts said he would be there, despite all the guests having left. Or perhaps she was just being silly. What reason would he have to roam those corridors? It was distressing to know their affaire de coeur, or whatever their nightly assignations had been, were over. The pang of loss that tore through her heart was frightening.

With an irritated huff at herself, Lily pushed from the bed and tugged her robe from the peg, slipping it on over her nightgown. She moved at a sedate pace as she made her way down to the library. A solid, good book was what she needed before turning in to bed. And if that didn’t work, she could also do some sketches on an idea she had for a gown.

The house echoed with emptiness, and she wondered if the marquess was still in residence. She had taken a tray into her room earlier to work on the designs for a peignoir, which was scandalously sheer. It was clear the household was abed, and as she sauntered down the hallway, she glanced at the grandfather clock near the library’s entrance. It was twenty-five minutes past midnight. Though it was unlikely Oliver was up if he was in residence, she knocked on the library door and waited a few beats. When no answer came, she entered, grateful that a fire blazed and that several candles were lit, bathing the library in a warm, inviting glow.

Lily went over to the bookshelves and perused several tomes. Her fingers danced over the spines as she tilted her head, reading the titles. With a triumphant grin, she selected The Lady of the Lake, a book she had been longing to read.

There was a creak, and she spun around to see Oliver close the door and then lean against it. His thick hair was disheveled, and a stubble of beard shadowed his strong jaw. He was without a jacket, his cravat was loosened, and he was…he was barefoot. Something elusive pooled in the gaze that regarded her. He had never looked at her like that before. As if he was captivated.

Her heart pounded with equal measures of delight and apprehension.

Don’t be silly, Lily! Though at times she had caught a lingering stare from him, it was not one filled with any fleshly longing. Unless… Dear God, the very notion left her mouth dry and her heart trembling.

He noticed her looking at his toes and a lazy smile swept his face. “I was in the process of undressing. I assure you, my valet is even more perplexed, since I simply left my chambers.”

Her smile dwindled at his intense regard. “Is everything well, my lord…Oliver?” Of course something was the matter, or he wouldn’t have abandoned getting ready for bed.

“It is.” He lifted a chin to the book clutched in her hand. “You are unable to sleep.”

“I…yes.” Alarm slithered through her when he closed the lock with a snick. He had never been anything but proper with her, even when his stare had said he wanted to do wicked things with her.

“My lord—”

“We are on more intimate terms, Lily.”

“Oliver—”

“I know who you are.”

His pronouncement crashed into her chest like a wave, drowning her senses with panic. “I am not sure I comprehend your meaning,” she said with impressive calm.

He pushed off from the door and prowled over to her, darkly dangerous and imposing. His cobalt eyes pierced her with an awareness that was disturbing and electrifying. Oliver paused only a mere inch from her, the hem of her nightgown curling around his shin. His warmth surrounded her, at once soothing and perplexingly intimidating. She knew this man…carnally…and the gentleman at the heart of him. She had nothing to fear. Yet Lily felt vulnerable in a manner she had never endured before. There could be no denying the knowledge in his eyes or the thick, heavy, predatory tension that rode the air. He lifted his hand and, with painstaking slowness, removed her mobcap and every pin that held her hair together. The risk she was taking by allowing his ministrations was so enormous she couldn’t contemplate it. Nor could she move away.

“For the last few nights, I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you, Lily Layton. In the days, you smell like lavender…but in the nights, I can smell honeysuckle wafting from your chamber. You walk in a room, and I am aware of every breath you take. You smile, and suddenly I know the sweetly sensual shape of lips in the dark are yours.”

Nerves and anticipation clutched at her throat. If she possessed any wisp of rationality, she would flee from this encounter. If he thought she was Dahlia, why wasn’t he disgusted at the notion? He seemed remarkably accepting of the fact that he’d been bedding a servant.

The wavy strands tumbled down her shoulders to her mid back. “Glorious,” he murmured. “What are you going to do…run…or fuck me?”