A Breach of Promise (2 page)
“Yes, Lydia” he answered in a tight voice. “I want you to fondle my aching…” He grasped her hand to demonstrate, bringing it to his crotch, but Lydia recoiled. She squirmed beneath him in an effort to retreat, which only seemed to annoy him. “Bloody hell!” he groaned. “It’s not got teeth! If you won’t touch me, at least allow me to rub against your body. I must have release!”
“Release?” She froze under him.
Marcus took a deep, calming breath. “You enjoyed the friction when you moved against me. I enjoy that too. I can use it to come to completion.”
“Completion? With our clothes on?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yes! With our bloody clothes on if that’s the only way to cease this infernal throbbing.”
“It’s painful?” she asked.
“Bugger the questions, Lydia! It’s just damnably uncomfortable.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Marcus groaned and stemmed her flow of questions with his mouth. Unlike his gentle hands, his kiss was hard and demanding, matching the urgent thrust and grind against her pubis that made her entire body thrum. Lydia soon met his rhythm, angling her hips to grind against that hidden place of exquisite sensation until her nubile, young body racked with the spasms of her climax. Marcus followed with a great, shuddering groan and collapsed atop her. They lay there in a stunned silence, punctuated only by their ragged breaths, until Marcus helped her back to her feet and escorted her wordlessly back to the house.
* * * * *
Lydia went to bed in a daze. It had been a night of many firsts—the upswept hair, the silk gown, the taste of champagne, but the most remarkable of all was her initiation to passion. Her hand swept her body and her lips curved at the remembrance of how Marcus had looked at her with desire in his eyes. The rapture she’d experienced under the swing had banished her virginal qualms, replacing them with eagerness for her wedding night with Marcus.
She closed her eyes with a sigh of contentment. The evening that had earlier portended such disaster had transformed into a rite of passage from girlish innocence to awakening womanhood.
Chapter One
Bloomsbury Square, London—1748
Marcus, Lord Russell, slumped in a chair indolently paring his nails while his former school chum, now personal secretary, attended to his correspondence.
“You’ve a letter from Cotesfield Hall,” said Mr. Nicholas Needham.
“Do I?” Lord Russell answered in a bored drawl, but then furrowed his brows in a fleeting frown. “I must say it’s been a very protracted interval since I heard from Miss Trent, but if she’s learned of my return to London, she’ll no doubt be importuning me to set a date. Will you fob her off for a while longer, Needham? Just use the stock excuse.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes heavenward and answered by rote, “That to your everlasting and abject dismay, urgent business of State must take precedence over any private matters, regardless of your personal inclinations, etcetera and etcetera.”
Marcus smirked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. That’s one of the chief perquisites of the Foreign Service, Needham; it gives one a valid excuse to ignore all domestic responsibilities, or at least to put them off until a more convenient time.”
“But what if she’s already aware of your return? It has been well over a month now.”
“You’re right, Nick. No doubt she’s already got wind of it from Mother.” Marcus gave a resigned groan. “I suppose there’s no avoiding her this time.”
If given a choice, he’d have postponed the reunion indefinitely. He’d not seen Lydia for six years—not that he’d had any burning desire to do so. When Marcus had departed for the Foreign Service on the heels of their engagement, she was still far too young to wed. Although he had left with every intention of honoring his troth within two or three years, three had turned to four, and four became five. His string of paramours in this interim only compounded his guilt until it became easier not to think of Lydia at all. Now, the idea of facing her again as a husband-to-be seemed altogether impossible.
“What does she write?” Marcus asked, his impatience growing with his agitation.
Nicholas broke the seal and scanned the contents. He looked up at Marcus with a chuckle. “Why, it appears you may get your wish for perpetual bachelorhood after all. She wants to end your engagement.”
Marcus started from his chair. “The hell she does! What’s possessed her?”
“Perhaps she realizes your extreme reluctance to tie the knot after waiting…what is it? Five years since your betrothal announcement?”
“Six,” Marcus snapped. “But who’s counting.”
“Perhaps Miss Trent?” Nick needled with a quirk of his lips.
Lord Russell squelched his secretary with a darkling look. “Read it to me, Nick.”
“By all means.” Nicholas cleared his throat. “‘My Dear Lord Russell, I pray this finds you in good health.’” Nick paused. “I say, my lord, that’s quite a moving salutation from your beloved.”
“Enough of the commentary,” Marcus growled. “Just read the damned thing!”
“‘I was indeed in expectation of your answer after sending our melancholy news six months hence, but I quite understand the unreliability of foreign mail service and am thankful that my last letter found you safely, given your extensive foreign travels.’”
“You see, Needham? The caprice of foreign mail. It’s an excuse that works every time.”
Nicholas looked up from the page. “Indeed? Yet, I almost detect a hint of skepticism in her words.”
Recalling her adoration, Lord Russell’s lips curved into a smug half-smile. “From Lydia? Don’t be absurd.”
“Nevertheless, she’ll surely expect a prompt reply this time, given our own English mail suffers no such erratic service. Shall I continue?” Nick asked.
Lord Russell nodded, abandoning all of his prior affectation. “Go on then. What else does she say?” He tilted his head in a more active listening posture as Nicholas read.
As you must know, we have had both full hands and heavy hearts here at Cotesfield Hall following dear Papa’s unanticipated demise. Although he had wished to see you and I settled before his passing, as I am yet unmarried, the estate will now fall to Cousin James, whose wife seems somewhat eager to see me settled…elsewhere.
I must also confess to the same desire, but given your continued reticence to set a firm date for our nuptials, I am confident you will have no reservations regarding my respectful appeal to release me from our marriage contract.
I look forward to your reply and am…
Sincerely yours,
Miss Lydia Albinia Trent
Nicholas dropped the letter into Marcus’ lap. “Succinctly written, and she hardly appears to have spent any tears over it,” he drawled.
“Damn the impudence of the chit!”
“But I thought you had no desire to marry her.”
“That’s not quite the case, Needham. I actually have no particular aversion to Lydia.” Nicholas regarded him blank-faced, forcing Marcus into an exasperated explanation. “You see, my friend, it’s not the idea of marriage that repels me, just the reality of it.”
“Then where’s the rub? She has set you free.”
“But you don’t understand at all. I was more than content with Lydia as my betrothed, just not as my wife. She has been my shield all these years, don’t you see? Only my attachment to her has protected me from all the ambitious mamas who only seek ties to a dukedom, even if remote ones. If I am freed, my life will become a purgatory of simpering debutantes.”
“Surely a living hell,” Nick replied.
“Precisely.” Marcus answered, ignoring the sarcasm. “And there is still the matter of her significant dowry. Should I release Lydia, God knows how long it could take to find another such prospect, let alone one acceptable to my family.”
“I can see the dilemma. The Duke of Bedford would hardly look favorably upon any of his family matched with some merchant chit.”
“Nor does my uncle wish to see me living indefinitely out of his pocket. I need a bride with a healthy dowry, Needham, and to be truthful, I haven’t the inclination to expend the effort of wooing another.”
“But you never truly wooed the first time,” Nicholas corrected.
“Precisely.” Marcus smiled. “Thank God I was saved
that
indignity. Our families arranged the entire business. I just showed up for the celebratory toasts. Poor thing was barely out of the schoolroom at the time. Quite a colorless little creature she was, though she did hold
some
promise.” Marcus’ lips quirked at the hazy memory of a young girl, whose blushing innocence he had corrupted under the tree swing.
His smile then altered into an exasperated grimace. “Now, this letter? Damn it all! I can’t afford this kind of distraction right now, not with final peace negotiations with France imminent. If I ever wish to advance beyond the post of undersecretary, we must accompany Lord Sandwich to Aix-la-Chapelle. If I don’t, the consular position I’ve worked three years for will surely fall to some far less deserving sod. It’s an opportunity I can’t afford to miss.”
“Do you not think taking a wife would be expected at such a point in your career?”
“I had hoped to postpone the dreaded deed, but I suppose you are right.” Marcus heaved a martyr’s sigh. “Perhaps I am only kicking at the pricks and fighting the inevitable.”
“But now you have little choice in the matter. The lady herself is calling it off.”
Marcus laughed aloud. “No, Nicholas. I beg to differ on that front. She has
asked
to be released. ‘Tis quite another thing.”
“I hate to gainsay you, but she was only providing you an opportunity to save face and bow out with grace. But it hardly matters. She’s clearly breaking it off. The world at large knows it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. ‘Fickle thy name is woman,’ and all that rot.”
“Then I’ll just have to change it back,” Marcus said.
“How?”
“You will write… No, wait.” Letter in hand, he flung himself from the chair with the graceful energy of a pouncing cat. “On second thought, since this is a matter of considerable delicacy, I’d best handle it myself.”
Needham gave him a dubious look.
“What? I’m a damned statesman, aren’t I? What kind of diplomat would I be if I could not even make peace with my own betrothed?”
“I only question your ability to sound suitably contrite. Humility has never been your strong suit.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Marcus drawled. “Lydia is nothing if not malleable. She will be begging me to wed her when I am finished with her.”
“Indeed? And just how do you expect to achieve such an about-face?” Nick asked.
Marcus stood at the mantel mirror, fussing with his lace cuffs, adjusting his cravat and openly admiring his reflection. “I’ll beguile her with the full power of my persuasive charm.”
“And should that fail?”
Marcus turned to his secretary with a slow, devious grin. “Why, Nick, I’d have thought it obvious. I’ll just have to ruin her.”
Chapter Two
Derbyshire, England—1748
“Ha! What absolute taradiddle!” cried Miss Lydia Trent.
“What is it, Lyddie?” Her cousin Mariah looked up from her book.
“I have a letter from Lord Russell.”
“Then he’s deigned to answer you after all these months?”
“Yes,” Lydia said, “but only after I wrote a second time, requesting an end to our engagement. It’s probably only fear of his mother’s wrath that even prompts his response.”
“Wait!” cried Mariah. “Did I hear correctly? You actually wrote to break it off with him?”
“I did.” Lydia gave a firm nod of resolution. “He has left me in quite an untenable state.” Although no one had expected an early wedding, neither would any have believed over half a decade would pass with no move on Lord Russell’s part to enact the promised nuptials.
“But I thought you loved him madly,” Mariah said.
“Yes. Loved. Past tense. When I was a girl, I believed him the most handsome and dashing man in the universe, even after he showed up foxed to the gills for our betrothal party.”
“But no more?”
Lydia shook off any remaining wistfulness in her reply. “No, Mariah. His extended absence has been the cure for my madness. My mooncalf days are long expired.” Every night Lydia had replayed the memory of the moonlit garden in her dreams only to awaken breathless and aching with frustration. Marcus had initiated her to passion only to leave her to her own devices for six unfulfilled years. “I shall wait upon Marcus Russell no longer.”
“I still can’t believe you decided to break it off with him after waiting so very long.”
“Neither can Lord Russell fathom the notion, if this preposterous reply is any indication.” Lydia chuckled. “It must be more than his vanity can bear. The man is truly an incontestable cad. Do you know I never even received a word of condolence from Marcus upon Papa’s passing? Laughably, he now thinks to atone with some flimsy excuse about his duties abroad and the Continental mail service.”