A Breach of Promise (The Rules of Engagement #1)(28)

Lydia was first to move, shifting tentatively, searching his eyes. At her silent urging, his hands gripped her hips. He began to rock his own. She ground against him and her mind went blank with the ripples elicited deep in her belly. He pulled back and returned with an experimental thrust. On instinct she rose to meet him, watching him as they began a slow, deliberate rhythm. His face was harsh in the dim firelight, his brows deeply furrowed over hooded eyes.

“Am I pleasing you, Marcus?” she asked.

“God yes,” he groaned with a deeper thrust. “I am engulfed in hot silk. You are exquisite.”

“You are not hurting me,” she said. “Don’t hold back your need.”

His lips curved as if she’d granted an unspoken wish. His eyes shut and Lydia followed suit, closing out the world to drown in the ineffable feeling of being filled. The plunge and drag of his shaft, the movements of his hips came quicker, harder, deeper. The friction increased, the tension in her belly coiling tighter. His breathing was harsh and ragged, her own coming in short gasping bursts.

He drove into her harder. She raised her hips, bucked against him, her body seizing, her sheath gripping and convulsing around him in spasm of rapture. Marcus cried out with short, jerky movement followed by a hot, liquid sensation, sending her tumbling into that blessed place of heavenly release.

Wordlessly he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms where they joined together in an exhaustive, well-sated slumber.

*



“What the devil can you mean by this, Marcus?” His Grace, the Duke of Bedford, thundered. Marcus knew better than to breathe a word of reply until the passionate tempest waned. “I spend years grooming you, paving your way in the most elite circles, only to be treated with insolence, with contempt? This Congress was to have made your career, yet you could not deign to make a punctual appearance for dinner? You’ve lost it, b’ Gad! Sandwich has promoted Edward Montagu to First Secretary—with my blessing, I should add.”

Marcus winced at the news he should have expected, but the stab to his pride was no less painful than the duke’s continued tongue lashing.

“You all but had it in your ill-begotten hands! It confounds me how my brother could have sired such an ungrateful whelp. Well?” the duke demanded, his gaze black and ominous. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I am wed.”

“What?” the duke scowled.

“Uncle, I got married yesterday.”

“Married? Who the devil gave you leave to marry?”

“You and my father both. Six years ago when I was betrothed to the daughter of Sir Timothy Trent. Do you not recall?”

“Sir Timothy? A capital man and a good, solid patriot. His presence has been sorely missed in the House of Commons.” The duke’s expression softened marginally. “His daughter, you say?”

“Aye, Miss Lydia Albinia Trent is now Lydia, Lady Russell.”

“Why the devil wasn’t I made aware of this?”

“I can only plead your forgiveness. It was an impetuous act on my part.”

“And damnably suspicious. Did you fill her belly, Marcus?”

Remembering the night before, he struggled to suppress his smile. “If you mean did I get her with child, the answer is no.”

“Then why such haste?”

“Sir Timothy’s passing left Lydia in uncomfortable circumstances, a situation I only learned of with my recent return to London.”

“Sir Timothy has been gone at least a six-month, and you only learn of it now?”

“I was a very remiss bridegroom.” Marcus looked abashed.

“A damned fool, you mean!”

“That too,” Marcus replied, suitably contrite. “I nearly lost her for it. Thus, you understand my haste in tying the knot.”

“I understand nothing of the sort! What a bungling mess you made of it. I would have expected far better of you after your work at Breda. Yes, yes,” the duke waved a hand. “You impressed the hell out of the Dutch and Bentick insists your return with Sandwich.”

“You mean I am still to join the delegation?”

“Against my first inclination, but our second Ambassador Robinson still has need of a secretary. He is not nearly as able a man as Lord Sandwich, however, and now you have a wife to settle. What will you do with her? I suppose your mother will care for her in your absence?”

“I think not. I intend to take her with me.”

The duke’s scowl returned. “Aix-la-Chappelle is no place for the daughter of a country squire.”

“She is not what you think, Uncle. I have complete confidence in her abilities. She will be a remarkable hit.”

The duke looked skeptical. “I say let Sandwich be the judge.”

“He will be charmed,” Marcus replied with a smile of utter confidence. “As they all will be.”





Chapter Nine


Aix-la-Chappelle—18 October, 1748



Catching sight of Lydia, the mincing little gentleman adorned in vibrant silks and elaborate white-powdered wig halted his progress through the crowded ballroom to make a beeline in her direction. In a manner bred exclusively at the court of Versailles, he placed his hand symbolically over his heart in execution of his bow, complete with an almost ridiculous sweeping flourish to accompany his words. “I lay my heart at your feet, Madame.”