Page 49 of Lyon on the Loose

Reaching her arms around Roland’s neck, she pressed her breasts against his chest so she could feel the faint buzz of his chest hair rubbing her nipples. Now, his hands had access to any part of her body they cared to reach. Was this how it was meant to feel between lovers? Nobody ever taught one the etiquette of the bedchamber, and she and Oscar had very carefully avoided such things.

This was no moment for melancholy imaginings. The past was behind her, and she was going to fill her future with Roland Chetwynd, the most handsome, most desirable man she had ever met, whose knowing hands seemed to understand her body even better than she did. Wherever his warm, firm palms touched her, she quivered, feeling the throb of his heat through her body, uniting every point with rivers of fire, melting her, opening a deep chasm of yearning. But he took his time, savoring each slope of her flesh, caressing her curves, investigating the secrets of her body. Suddenly, without warning, he swept her up and laid her on the bed, then closed the old-fashioned curtains around them so they were in a warm, dark cocoon.

“But I can’t see you,” she complained.

“No matter. I already know the power of your imagination, my love.”

Pushing her down on the bed, he proceeded to suckle and nip at her breasts, while his hand ran over her stomach and down between her thighs, seeking her secret folds and the velvet passageway to the center of her being. His expert fingers stroked and tormented her there until she was bucking against his hand, stifling the urge to cry aloud and afraid that she would burst asunder from so much pleasure.

Then he shifted his weight and hung over her—a dark, intense shadow in the muffled warmth of the enclosed bed, and then she felt that potent, magical part of him that she barely understood probing the place where his fingers had been.

Miraculously, she felt him slide farther inside her, gently and rhythmically deepening their connection. Gradually, the pressure built up until, with a sharp stab of pain, he entered her completely. She thought she would burst because he felt so huge, so hard inside her.

Was that it? Was the deed now done? She’d expected him to be satisfied, now that he had claimed her body for his own, but it seemed there was more to come. Roland continued to move, sometimes almost all the way out, seemingly so he could enjoy the pleasure of plunging back in again, pushing deeper with every stroke. She could feel all of him, all along his shaft, and each stroke was like a bellows fanning the fire in her loins, which threatened to consume her. She clutched at his arms where the muscles stood out as he supported himself, buried her fingers in his hair, moaned against his face, and struggled to kiss him despite the uncontrollable pitching and flexing of their two bodies.

Shifting her hips, she felt him penetrate still deeper, groaning as he did so, and as she thrust herself up to meet him, she knew they were both consumed by the same uncontrollable passion, and she let go of all thought and burst through into the brilliant blaze of ecstasy.

Panting, Roland lowered himself until Lissy was nearly pinned down by his weight, but she felt no discomfort, only the most wonderful feeling of safety and contentment. Her lover was still joined with her; they were one, a unity of his strength and her nurturing, blossoming body. This, this was what true happiness felt like. She was unable to speak but responded with great enthusiasm when he began kissing her.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her lips. Then he held her as if she were something fragile and priceless, his forehead pressed to her damp hair, both breathing hard, wrapped in the heavy quiet that follows when two bodies have joined in the most fundamental way.

She curled against his chest, dizzy with warmth and wonder.

“I meant everything I said before. And yes—I will marry you.”

He made a low sound—half laugh, half sob—and kissed the top of her head.

“I don’t deserve you, Lissy. But I swear before heaven, I’ll spend my life trying to.”

She smiled against his shoulder, her fingers sketching idle patterns along his ribs. Outside, the rain had eased to a gentle patter against the windowpanes. Here, in the circle of Roland’s arms, the world was perfect.

All that now remained was for them to tell Mama that they wished to be married. How was she going to react to the second shock of the day? And what on earth was Lissy going to do if Mama refused her permission?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Roland barely noticed when the rutted country roads gave way to the busy cobbled streets of London—he only had eyes for his bride-to-be. Lissy had been permitted to accompany him back to Town, to be conveyed to her cousin Sarah’s house while preparations for their wedding proceeded.

It was quite remarkable how all of this had come about, and he often caught himself staring at Lissy and wondering if he was dreaming.

“I can’t believe your mother accepted the idea of me as a suitor so readily.”

Lissy’s grin warmed him from top to toe. “Nor can I. But in the light of what we’ve done, it’s just as well.” Her fingers went fleetingly to her throat, and her eyes shone.

“I sincerely hope she never finds out about that,” he muttered. “Seducing you in the middle of the day, in your own room, with the risk of being discovered by a servant at any moment—I don’t think I’ve ever done anything quite so dangerous.”

“You’re not afraid of my mother, surely? Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“No. However, people with domineering natures need delicate handling.”

“Indeed. I can’t believe I’ve had to deal with her for nineteen years. Except when I was away at school, of course.”

Roland toyed with the end of his lion-headed cane, which had been mended again, with glue and a leather band. “It still seems incredible to me that Lady Ashby did not demur when I asked for your hand. Your brothers were shocked, I know.”

“They’ll soon lose themselves in their sermons and their secret tunnels. Besides, they still have the enjoyable task of ensuring that Sutton and Treadwell get their just deserts and will forget about my hasty marriage in no time. Men tend not to question that kind of thing, do they?”

Some men might. Particularly those at White’s, who’d wagered that he would wed a scandalous hoyden, an epithet which could, if the truth came out, be applied to Lissy. But now, gazing at her, he didn’t give a jot about their opinion. He’d been presented with a prize beyond his wildest dreams, and he would do what he could to make her happy. They might have to live on air for a while, once Mrs. Dove-Lyon dismissed him from her service, but he’d find a way to manage. No more chancing his luck at the card tables, however. Lissy had already expressed her firm dislike of gambling.

“Jeffrey Metson has done an excellent job on my cane,” he commented, trying to forget about the fellows at White’s and about his confederates at the Lyon’s Den. “It will serve for show. I just hope I don’t have to defend you with it, for it will surely break.”