She gasped.
“Does that hurt?” he asked her.
“A little,” she whispered. “I—I should not be allowing you to do this.”
Indeed. He was enjoying it far too much, and desiring far more.
He cleared his throat. “I believe your ankle is sprained, not broken. I predict you will do nicely in a day or two.” He did not release it. “I should wrap it, though, to give you some support. Do you have bandages, or a strip of cloth?”
Her eyes were half-closed. She blinked and pointed to a chest of drawers. “Look in the bottom drawer.”
Adrian reluctantly let go of her leg and walked over to the chest. The bottom drawer contained neatly folded underclothing made of soft muslin and satiny silk as soft and smooth as her skin.
His thoughts, as if having a will of their own, turned carnal, and he imagined crossing the room and taking her in his arms, tasting her lips, peeling off her clothing, sliding his hands over her skin.
He gave himself an inwards shake. He would not take advantage of this lady. Her peace was disturbed by reporters hounding her for a story, and her whole world had been turned head over ears with news of her husband’s crimes. And his death.
He frowned as he groped through her underclothing, finally coming up with a long thin piece of muslin.
He returned to her and knelt again. “I must remove your stocking.”
She extended her leg.
He slipped his hands up her calf, past her knee, until he found the top of her stocking and the ribbon that held it in place. He untied the ribbon and rolled the stocking down and off her foot. Her skin was smooth and warm and pliant beneath his fingers.
Adrian quickly took the strip of cloth and began to wind it around her ankle.
“Did you study surgery?” she asked, her voice cracking.
He looked up and grinned at her. “I fear it is horses I know, not surgery.”
She laughed, and the sound, like the joyful tinkling of a pianoforte, echoed in his mind.
He tried to force his attention back to the bandage, but she leaned forwards and gave him a good glimpse of her décolletage. “Are you so gentle with horses?”
He glanced back to the bandage and continued wrapping, smoothing the fabric with his other hand.
“What is your name?” Her tone turned low and soft.
He glanced up. “I thought you said you knew me.”
“I do not know your given name,” she said.
“Adrian.” He tied off her bandage and reluctantly released her.
“Adrian.” She extended her hand. “I am Lydia.”
He grasped her hand. “Lydia.”
Lydia’s heart raced at the feel of his large masculine hand enveloping hers. His grip was strong, the sort of grip that assured he was a man who could handle any trial. She now knew better than to make judgements based on such trivialities as a touch, but she could not deny he had been gentle with her. And kind.
It seemed so long since she’d felt kindness from anyone but her servants.
And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch, since her husband left for Scotland, in fact. It shocked her how affected she was by Adrian Pomroy’s hand on hers. He warmed her all over, making her body pine for what only should exist between a husband and wife.
She took a breath. She’d always loved that part of marriage, the physical part, the part that was supposed to lead to babies…but she could not think of that. It was too painful.
It was almost easier to think of her husband. The Earl of Wexin.
The newspapers wrote that her husband had killed Lord Corland so that Wexin could marry her. Lord Corland’s death had been her fault.
She gripped Adrian’s hand even more tightly, sick that Wexin’s hands had ever touched her, hands that had cut a man’s throat.
She thought she’d loved Wexin. She’d trusted him with everything—the finances, the decisions, everything. But she had not known him at all. He’d betrayed her and left her with nothing but shame and guilt.
Her happiness had been an illusion, something that could not last, like the baby that had been growing inside her the day Wexin left.
The cramping had started the very next day after he’d gone, more than a month ago now, and she’d lost that baby like the two others before.
She swallowed a sob. Now she had nothing.
“Lydia?”
She glanced up into Adrian’s eyes, warm amber, perpetually mirthful, as if his life had been nothing but one long lark.
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are squeezing my hand.”
She released him. “I am sorry.”
He stood and took her hand in his again. “It was not a complaint. You look troubled.” He lifted her hand to his lips, warm soft lips. “You have been through a great deal, I suspect. I will act as your friend, if you will allow me.”
Her senses flared again and her breathing accelerated. “If you knew how I need a friend.”
He smelled wonderful. Like a man. And she felt his strength in his hands, in his steady gaze. She took a deep breath and reached up to touch his hair, thick and brown with a wayward cowlick at the crown that gave him a boyish appeal.
His eyes darkened and the grin disappeared, though his lips formed a natural smile even at rest.
This man pleased women, it was said. He was a rake whose name was always attached to some actress or opera dancer or widow. Well, she was a widow now and her whole body yearned to be touched, to be pleased, to be loved.
She spoke, but it was as if her voice belonged to someone else. “You can do something for me, Adrian. As a friend.”
He smiled again. “You have but to ask.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with her heart thundering inside her chest, she brought her lips near to his oh-so-tempting ones. “Make love to me.”
She felt his intake of air and watched his lips move. “Are you certain you want that?” he whispered.
“Very certain,” that voice that only sounded like hers said. Before she could think, she closed the distance between them, tasting his lips gently at first, then more boldly.
He tasted lovely, but this kiss was not enough, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth and allowed his tongue to enter, delicious and decadent. She slid as close to the edge of the bed as she could, as close to him. She pressed herself against him, loving the feel of his firm chest against her softer one.
While his tongue played with hers, she worked the buttons of his coat and waistcoat. He parted from her long enough to shrug out of them. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands over his muscular chest. She’d not known a man’s muscles could really be as sculpted as the statues of antiquity, nor as broad. No wonder women wanted to be his lover.
“Turn around,” he murmured.
She twisted around so he could reach the hooks at the back of her dress. He made short work of them.
She pulled her dress over her head, and he untied the laces of her corset with the practised ease of a lady’s maid. Lydia felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of coupling with a skilled lover. She had never even kissed a man besides her husband.