Days of Rakes and Roses (8 page)

General opinion stated that Lady Lydia Rothermere was an unemotional creature, her enthusiasms focused on charity causes rather than flesh and blood individuals. Simon knew better. It would kill her to spend the rest of her life with that bloodless fish Grenville Berwick. She was born for love. She was born for Simon Metcalf.

Oh, Lydia, don’t you know what wretchedness you resign yourself to in this marriage?

As if she heard his angry question, she glanced up sharply to meet his gaze. For one turbulent instant, no longer than the space between one breath and the next, a resonant silence stretched between them. The crowd’s excited chatter, the violins tuning in the ballroom, the rattle of traffic along Brook Street, all receded to nothing. Half a huge room separated them and no words were spoken. But in that silence he claimed her.

Finally. Inevitably. Eternally.

A rotund lady in a purple turban intruded upon Lydia’s attention and the preternatural connection snapped as if it had never existed. Except that it had existed. Simon knew in his soul that she’d felt that link as profoundly as he had.

How could she choose another man over him? It was a travesty. Even if the fellow she married had proven himself worthy of her.

Lydia’s heightened color hinted at her awareness of Simon’s continuing attention. Of course she knew. She always had, even before that stirring moment of communication. She was the other half of his soul. The damnable tragedy of it was that he couldn’t get her to acknowledge that truth.

After another word to Lydia, Sir Grenville strolled through into the ballroom with a visible confidence that made Simon’s hands clench at his sides. The throng in the supper room thinned as people returned for the concert’s second half. A famous Italian soprano had been engaged this evening. People were more eager than usual to find their seats.

His stare unwavering on Lydia, Simon leaned against the wall near the glass doors onto the terrace. Feeding his longing only built his torment, like a dog choking on a chain too short to reach the water bowl.

But he couldn’t wrench himself away. Not yet.

At last the squat woman stopped haranguing Lydia and stumped away. By now, the supper room was almost empty and servants had started to clear away the silver and porcelain serving dishes from the long tables. Still Simon lounged against the wall with totally spurious indolence. Every instinct was on hunting alert. How could it be otherwise when the woman he desired above all others hovered within reach and unfettered by her usual entourage? He hadn’t missed the way, over the past days, Lydia had always been accompanied. A deliberate ploy to discourage him from approaching her, he guessed.

As if he read her mind, he saw her loop her gold and cream shawl more securely around her arms and turn away with a purposeful expression, intent on a fast escape. True to his promise in the carriage, he didn’t try to stop her, however swiftly the words begging her to stay leaped to his lips.

She’d made her decision. He had no right to interfere.

She took one step. Two. The third step was slower, as if she forced herself to move. Then she paused a few feet from the exit and her back tensed straight as a ruler.

She was still here. With him. Alone apart from the servants. Elation slammed through Simon. She wasn’t quite as ready to say good-bye as she wanted him to believe.

Hell, he knew he was wrong to pursue the fight. But he was merely human and tested to the verge of madness. Her hesitation had sealed her fate. He couldn’t let everything end like this and call himself a man.

Honor be damned. He surged forward, covering the space in a couple of quick strides. He grabbed her arm where it was bare above her long white glove.

“Simon, what—” Lydia gasped, jerking in his hold without breaking free. She turned on him in a swirl of green silk and a flash of golden eyes, bright with alarm and barely concealed longing.

“Five minutes. That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t all he wanted, but it was the most he could expect. More than he
should
expect.

“I can’t,” she stammered even as he swept her through the French doors and onto the terrace. “You know I can’t.”

Torches on the balustrades marked the limit of the outdoor walk above the gardens and bright light spilled from the house. Even now it would be easy to keep this encounter civilized, decorous, of no interest to an observer.

Except that he’d had it up to his damned neck with civilized and decorous. Only primitive, animal desire would get him what he wanted now.

With a ruthless deftness learned in the dangerous byways of Europe, Simon firmed his grip and shoved Lydia deep into the shadows between the open doors. Before she could protest, even, God forbid, call for help, he swung her around until her back hit the mansion’s stone wall.

She landed with a slight bounce and released a shocked huff of breath. His hold automatically gentled, even if nothing short of an advancing regiment could make him let her go. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d never wanted that, although he knew that his actions as a young man had exacted a painful toll.

Through the darkness, he saw the shine of her eyes and the rich cream of her skin. She was panting, each breath making her bosom rise and fall. The sight stoked the fever that had compelled him into this recklessness. His heedless haste had disturbed her coiffure, dislodging one long tendril of red to drift down over her shoulder.

He liked to see her looking less than perfect. His Lydia wasn’t the dignified paragon that she presented to society. She was the living, breathing woman who had kissed him until he thought he’d combust.

“Simon, let me go back into the house.” Her voice was low and unsteady.

“Just give me this much,” he said, hating his shaking desperation but unable to rein it in. “I need… something from you, something to keep as mine when you’ve given everything else to that blackguard.”

“You promised you’d stay away.” Her voice broke with strain.

Damn her for resisting him. Except even now when she denied everything between them, he couldn’t damn her. He loved her too much. He’d thought living with her absence had been the purest hell. Since returning to England, he’d discovered that having her near, yet out of reach, surpassed any torture devised by the Spanish Inquisition.

He leaned closer, inhaling her sweet scent, roses and Lydia and a hint of female musk that despite everything offered him hope. “This is the last time, I swear.”

“You’re being cruel.” She turned toward the doors. On her ashen cheeks, tears shimmered in the torchlight. He was a cad to torment her like this.

“I’m leaving, Lydia.” He raised an unsteady hand to caress away her tears. Her cheek was satiny beneath his fingers. “I can’t stay and watch you marry another man.”

He heard her breath catch and she swerved to peer at him through the gloom. “L-leaving? Where? When?”

“My aunt left me a small estate in Devon. I’ll go there tomorrow and stay until I decide what to make of the rest of my life.” His voice sank into bitterness, even as he knew that he was unfair to prick her guilt. “I don’t really give a tinker’s curse.”

“Oh, Simon…” On a shuddering sigh, she pressed back against the wall.

Recognizing with unworthy satisfaction that she wasn’t going to run, he released her. He placed his hands flat on the stonework on either side of her, trapping her with his body without touching her. He’d reached a stage of need where he couldn’t trust himself to stop if he touched her. He’d wanted her before he’d left England, but the way he wanted her now was excruciating.

The prospect of losing her forever tore his guts out with tweezers. He’d loved the young Lydia with a boy’s volatile passion, but the woman she’d become lived in every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every moment of his existence.

“This is ripping both of us apart.” His voice was thick with frustration and love and pain. “Better I go.”

“So this is good-bye?” She sounded dazed, as if his words made no sense. Distantly, a piano played a short introductory phrase and a meltingly sweet soprano began to sing in Italian.

Che farò senza Euridice?
Dove andrò senza il mio ben?
  “Hell, Lydia…” he groaned.

His heart pounded with a dizzying mixture of excitement and anguish. He felt as though he teetered on a precipice over a raging river. Around him the night whispered dangerous encouragement to him to make her his. Now. While he had the chance.

Lydia straightened, narrowing the space between them. She was so close that he felt the warmth of her body. Her rose fragrance made him crazy with desire. God in heaven, how could he resist her? Just one last kiss. Surely that wouldn’t tempt heaven to proclaim his destruction.

On another groan, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.

He gave her no quarter. He wanted to mark her soul, so that as long as she lived, part of her would always be his. He wanted her touch to burn a hole in his heart that would never heal. He wanted this final moment they shared to extend into infinity.

Unhesitatingly she kissed him back and he tasted more tears. But stronger than sadness, he tasted urgency. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and felt her shiver with arousal. Her shaking hands formed claws in his coat, drawing him roughly down to her. Everything vanished except explosive heat. He’d never known its like. He’d never know its like again.

“Oh, Lydia, I’ve missed you so much,” he muttered in despair, lashing his arms around her and crushing her to him. How could she marry Berwick when they created such magic?

“Simon, darling Simon…” she whispered, pulling away to place a hundred glancing, agitated kisses across his jaw. She clung so tightly that he felt the supple body beneath her silk dress.

He caught her face between his hands, holding her still. His mouth found hers again, submerging her wildness in the wildness of another kiss. She arched toward him, linking her hands around his neck, bringing him closer.

“Good God!”

The harsh exclamation seemed to spring from another universe. Simon’s hold tightened around Lydia’s waist. Until angry hands seized him and wrenched him away, sending him staggering against the balustrade.

“Grenville…” Lydia breathed in horror, rushing into the light toward her sputtering betrothed. The man jerked away as if she carried contamination.

Damn it all, this was like a grotesque repeat of that day ten years ago when Simon’s life had gone all to hell. The change from delight to danger was too abrupt for him to make immediate sense of what happened. He shook his head to clear it and lurched upright, reaching for Lydia. She brushed past him as if he didn’t exist.

Berwick didn’t glance at Lydia as she wrapped her arms around herself in a gesture that screamed shame. As she stood unspeaking beside her betrothed, she was visibly trembling. Simon hated to witness her humiliation. He hated that yet again he was the cause of her misery.

“You unmitigated swine!” Berwick drew back his fist and struck Simon hard on the chin, exploding his sense of unreality into a blaze of agony. Simon went down clumsily onto the paving.

“Simon!” Lydia cried.

Through the haze before his eyes, he watched Lydia make a convulsive movement toward him, then stop with a frightened glance at Berwick. Simon wanted her to be proud of what she felt for him, but she cringed as though their kisses had been a crime against nature.

“No damage.” Simon wiped his hand over his stinging mouth and felt blood well against his palm.

“I’m gratified to hear that,” Berwick said coldly. “In that case, you’re fit to meet me on the field of honor on the morrow. Name your seconds.”

“No! Don’t!” Lydia threw herself toward Berwick and clutched his arm with fingers that turned into talons. “It’s my fault, not his. Blame me. Hurt me.”

“Madam, I pray you, some decorum.” Berwick addressed Lydia with a disdain that made Simon’s gut sour with hatred. “You forget yourself.”

“Lydia, please—” Simon struggled to his feet. But what could he say to comfort her when this disaster was all of his creation?

“Although I’m the injured party, I will accept your choice of weapon, Metcalf,” Berwick said implacably, as if the woman he meant to marry the day after tomorrow didn’t tug at his arm.

“Don’t be a fool, man.” Cam burst through the French doors in time to hear the challenge. Behind him, Simon was appalled to see that the brawl had drawn a curious audience into the supper room. The soprano was no longer singing.

Cam slammed the door behind him and cast a quelling look at the onlookers. Ducal authority might keep them temporarily at bay, but Simon was sickly aware that Lady Lydia Rothermere’s public fall from grace would be the talk of the town tomorrow.

Futile guilt twisted his belly. He was such a deuced fool. He’d bleated to Lydia about how much better he was for her than Berwick. Yet now he’d ruined her in society’s eyes.

“I have been insulted, sir,” Berwick told Cam, sounding as pompous as Simon had ever heard him. “There is no other remedy.”

“Use your brain, Grenville.” Gently Cam untangled Lydia’s fingers from Berwick’s sleeve and drew her under his arm.

Lydia hardly seemed to notice. Instead her great dark eyes focused on Berwick as though he offered her only hope of salvation. Simon knew he had no right to the stirring jealousy that added a poisonous tinge to his remorse and anger.

Cam went on. “A duel will destroy your political career, not to mention tarnish my sister’s name irreparably.”