Page 103 of Miss Dignified
But Dylansawher, the real, true Lydia, and so she must see herself and admit that she was in the best position to make the choice, and that Dylan had handed her the authority to do so. More than that, shedeservedto pronounce sentence on Wesley.
“When does theRebecca Louisesail?”
“Tomorrow on the morning tide.”
Dylan put the cat out of the bedroom—he suspected he’d perform that little task often in the future—and locked the door.
“My sisters are off with Bowen terrorizing the milliners or mercers or some such. The house will be quiet until supper, and, Lydia, I havemissedyou.”
He tried to will her to grasp the rest of it: She was an earl’s daughter, and now that they were engaged, she would have to bide with damned Dorning, or somewhere other than Dylan’s house, until the vows were spoken.
He was desperate to make love with her, but had no idea if a long-overdue fit of the weeps, hundreds of miles of travel, and a reunion with her prodigal brother had left her in the same frame of mind. She had seemed so self-possessed, so much on her dignity when he’d come upon her.
Captain, what brings you belowstairs?
“Do you know why I sought you down here?” he asked as Lydia closed the lid of her trunk.
“You saw me come down the kitchen steps?”
“Not only today. Why I always sought you down here.” He sat on the trunk and held out his hand to her. “Because I wanted to behold you. To bask in the competence of a commanding officer who would never leave her wounded behind, never give quarter to the enemy, never abuse the sensibilities of her subordinates for her own convenience. I came to the kitchen to marvel at you and draw comfort from your very presence.”
He hadn’t admitted that to himself at the time, of course. Then, his stated motivations had been an empty belly or a nagging thirst.
Lydia took the place beside him and kept hold of his hand. “I delighted in your invasions and loved it when you’d sit at the worktable, demolishing a sandwich or a bowl of soup. I’d think, ‘This much I can make right. I can make this one man less hungry, cold, anxious, and alone.’ I drew strength from being a competent housekeeper.”
For Dylan, it was enough to sit beside Lydia, hand in hand. The silence that took root was comfortable and sweet, and he could not have said who turned toward whom, but then he and Lydia were kissing.
And that was comfortable and sweet, too, for a time, until Lydia rose and began to undress him, and he was tempted to toss up her skirts and yield to the urgency her touch inspired.
But no. No need to hurry, no need to snatch like a thief at what should be shared and celebrated.
“Mama will expect me to join her at the Dorning household,” Lydia said, draping Dylan’s cravat over the vanity mirror. “I want a special license, Dylan. Promise me you will go to Doctors’ Commons today.”
“I promise, and I will call upon you at Dorning’s every day for the next week, and he will have to be exquisitely gracious to me, or Jeanette will—”
Lydia stroked a hand over Dylan’s falls, and every thought left his head save for those having to do with shedding his clothes and getting himself and Lydia beneath the covers. At least one button went flying across the room before he’d accomplished his objective. That provoked Lydia to laughing, and then the cat started scratching at the door, which inspired Dylan to fling his boot at the door, and that sent Lydia off into whoops.
The sight of her, overcome with mirth, kneeling on the bed and clad in only a chemise, etched itself on Dylan’s heart.
“This is why I came so frequently across the lines to your domain,” he said. “Because I hoped you would take me captive, and, Lydia, you have. You absolutely have.”
Her laughter subsided to a smile. “We have captured each other, and I will never let you go.” She held out her arms, and Dylan joined her on the bed. The lovemaking was profoundly tender, and profoundly pleasurable, and the peace thereafter wonderful.
Dylan slept, his arms around his beloved, and he dreamed of Lydia, kittens, and home. And at long last, his dreams were sweet indeed.
“Today is the day,” Wesley said, drawing a finger along the elegant curve of Sybil’s naked back. “Today is the sweet, blessed day when my title becomes mine in all but name. How I wish I had time to tarry in your bed and celebrate with you for the next week.”
Sybil rolled over to face him, her gaze amused. “You are too concerned that something will wreck your plan, and so you will abandon me to see your cousin banished. You are a very naughty man, Wesley Glover.”
“You like naughty men,” he said, rousing himself to sit up. Last night, darling Sybil had worn him out, bless her, and she’d put her dainty finger on the truth. Nothing and nobody would stop Wesley from ensuring Marcus was on that damned ship. He’d carry Marcus up the gangplank bag and baggage if necessary. He’d even pawned a pair of sapphire sleeve buttons to ensure Marcus would have a few pounds to start life in Philadelphia.
A very few pounds, which could not be helped after that debacle at the Coventry.
Sybil rose from her side of the bed and stretched, not a stitch on her fair person. The view of her bum was eye-crossingly delectable, but as the poet had said, time and tide waited for no earl.
Or something like that.
Sybil assisted Wesley to dress, and he was lacking only his coat when somebody knocked on the bedroom door.
