Her lapis eyes opened wide. “Do you never claim the credit for anything good?”
“Claiming the credit for the pleasure in sex would be an act of hubris of which even I am not capable.”
“You are not an overly proud man, though I think you imagine you are. And if sex is naturally pleasurable, why are there so many married ladies who go about with their faces pinched in dissatisfaction?”
He laughed and kissed her, and for some time there was no haste, only the warmth of her lips and her body in his hands, her fingers pressing into his shoulders. When she began to make soft sounds of want in the back of her throat, her thighs clasping his hips as she moved herself against him, seeking pleasure, he saw no need to delay further what they both wanted. He slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her. Her fingers plucked at his shirt and waistcoat impatiently.
“Oh, please remove these,” she said upon a hard exhale, pressing to him. “I want to touch you.”
“There is a bedchamber not twenty yards distant.”
“I am rewriting Rule Number One.” She unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it over his shoulders. “ ‘Deny her nothing, even if she is not particularly virtuous.’ ”
“I am obliged to submit, for kind of heart and generous you are in spades, Diantha Lucas.” She slipped from his lap and he drew off his waistcoat, but the twinkle in his gray eyes stole her attention from even the sight of him undressing. “And, of course, I am complicit in your loss of virtue,” he added.
“Only because I forced you.” She touched him and the thrill of it shivered through her. Touching him was not a dream. It was beyond sublime.
“No one forces me to do anything I do not wish to do.” He took up his shirttail.
“Allow that I badgered, at least.” She helped him with the linen, wanting the excuse to run her hands over his back, to feel the strength beneath his skin and revel in the eagerness of her own body. “It’s true that if others don’t initially accede to my wishes, I usually convince them in one manner or—” Her fingertips arrested on his spine. “What—”
“Don’t”—he whipped around and clamped her wrist in a brutal grip—“touch.”
Circular scars ascended in a line from the base of his spine, each the size of a man’s thumbprint, their texture hard and rough.
“Why not?” Her voice was a rasp.
Wyn’s iron grasp loosened. “Diantha, I beg your pardon.” He took a deep breath.
“They are very old. Do they still pain you?”
“No.”
“They look like burns.” Vicious marks. “Intentionally inflicted.”
“Indeed.”
“Was it a fireplace iron?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Merely cigars, my father and eldest brother’s fondest tools of chastisement.”
“Why did they do that to you?”
He stared at the ground. “Because I read books that they did not.” He released a rough laugh. “Because I read books, full stop.”
“Because you read books? Why, that is evil.”
“Diantha.” His voice was quiet. “It is ancient history. Twenty years.”
“If it is truly ancient history, then why can’t I touch you there?”
His silvery gaze swung to her, searching her face. He reached forward, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him. He kissed her, and it was not a kiss intended to distract, but something else, something more. After a moment he simply held her, their hearts beating against each other’s, and she vowed to herself that she would ask for no more than this in life.
“Let me touch,” she whispered.
He set his lips to her brow and remained still while she slipped her hand around his back and beneath his shirt.
“One. Two. Three.” Her fingertips explored the damaged skin over bone, where the pain must have been agony. “Four. Five. Six.”
“Seven.” He brushed his cheek to hers. “The first time, I was reading a book about the seven wonders of the ancient world. After that, it amused them to try to confine their efforts to trodden paths. Proving their marksmanship despite the whiskey they’d consumed, you see.”
“What are the seven wonders of the ancient world?”
“Were, mostly. Magnificent structures wrought by man. I told my father and brother that I aimed to visit the great pyramid at Giza someday.” He was silent a moment. “I believe I was six at the time.”
“You were precocious.” She slid her hand up his broad back beneath the shirt fabric. “Too clever for them.”
“Too clever for my own good.” His thumbs skirted the undersides of her unbound breasts.
“I like you clever, Mr. Yale.”
“And I like you sitting in my lap, minx.”
She kissed his shoulder, pulling the linen back to place her lips against his skin. “Will you make love to me now?”
“Will you allow me to do so in a bed rather than on a pile of musty hay?”
“I like musty hay.” She nibbled his unshaven jaw. To touch him and see him like this, less than perfectly groomed, made her heart do deliciously uncomfortable tumbles. “Though I suppose I should acquiesce to the superior experience of the elegant London gentleman.”
“The elegant London gentleman napping on a haystack.” His thumb passed over her nipple. She shivered and tilted her head back. The sun shone brilliantly through the stable’s half door. Somewhere not far away a dog’s bark mingled with birdsong.
“Have you experience in making love on haystacks, Mr. Yale?”
“If I reply in the negative will you be vastly disappointed, Miss Lucas?”
“That was evasive.”
“Old habit.” He slipped his thumb beneath her bodice. “Must see to that.” He caressed and her breaths caught and she needed to be kissing him.
Ramses’ barking grew frantic. Wyn’s hands stilled.
“Diantha.”
She pressed another kiss onto his lips. “Must we leave here this morning?” She ran her hands down his chest. “I am determined to be in Calais as soon as possible. But I like this place. It will be difficult to leave, especially now that the sun is shining.” She smiled against his jaw. “I’m glad we got lost here.”
“Diantha.” He gripped her waist and held her off him. “Get up. Straighten your hair and gown.”
“What?”
“Please. Now. Someone is arriving.”
“Someone— Here?”
He grasped her hand and she stood, and he helped her brush the straw from her skirts then took up his waistcoat and coat. Now she heard the rumble of hooves and clatter of carriage wheels on the pebbly drive.
“Oh, no. Do you think the owners have returned? If only we’d left an hour ago . . .”
His gaze scanned her. “Go around the path from the shed to the back of the house, and bid Mrs. Polley dress you properly.”
She nodded but went to the door. “I want to peek first.”
“You needn’t.” He remained where he stood.
“But I cannot wait another moment to see if she is very grand or—”
The carriage drew to a halt on the drive before the house, an enormous, black, shining traveling chaise drawn by four beautifully matched horses. The servant sitting beside the driver atop wore blue livery.
“There is a crest on the door,” she whispered. “Our hostess is noble!”
He hadn’t moved, his face sober, and disquiet tickled in Diantha’s belly. She glanced back at the carriage. “And . . . it has blue-rimmed wheels. It’s the strangest thing, but I . . . I think I recognize that carriage.”
“I suspect you have seen it at Savege Park before.” He came to her side finally. “It belongs to the Earl and Countess of Blackwood.”
Descending from the carriage onto the drive with the assistance of her servant, as beautifully regal as ever, was Lady Katherine Blackwood—Serena’s sister-in-law and the wife of Wyn’s closest friend.