Page 65 of Miss Dignified
Lydia had assured him—and herself—that they would sort out her true situation come morning, and she was certain Dylan would grasp why she’d done as she had. He would be unhappy about her close connection to Marcus, but not unduly so.
And yet, the corner of her mind that had been disappointed over and over, by Marcus, by Mama’s inability to confront Reggie’s mismanagement of Tremont, by Reggie, Wesley, and people in general, warned that even Dylan might prove less than steadfast.
“Leave the candle lit for now,” Lydia said. “I will feast my eyes on the bounty of your masculine splendor.”
Dylan climbed under the covers as casually as if he and Lydia had been cuddling up regularly for years. “Masculine splendor. That sounds like something Sycamore Dorning might say about himself, but coming from you, I like it. Budge up, and get comfy.”
Lydia most assuredly did notget comfy. She got bothered and aroused and so frustrated with Dylan’s slow caresses and sweet kisses that she was ready to bellow at him tobe about it. Quick time, forced march. Whatever the term was for consummating relations with a lady.
“You are in a hurry,” Dylan said, stroking his fingers over her brow, “but I promise you, Lydia, anticipation is part of the pleasure.”
He lay on his side, while Lydia was on her back. Somewhere along the way, her nightgown had bunched above her waist, and she was abruptly desperate to be rid of it.
“Get this thing…” She wiggled, Dylan drew back, and then she had the last, offending article of clothing off and stuffed under her pillow. “Now, Dylan. If you value your manly splendidness, you will stop dithering.”
“My masculine splendor,” he said, easing himself over her on all fours. “From the Latin,masculinus, andsplendor, meaning bright—”
Lydia kissed him, feeling an urge to both laugh and weep. She feared, in the small part of her that was always on the alert for the next disappointment, that this would be her last encounter with Dylan. She also hoped, in the equally small part of herself still prone to such foolishness, that he and she would frequently laugh in the course of lovemaking.
Dylan joined Lydia in the kissing, his tongue a wickedly subtle weapon parting her from her wits. She began to move, seeking him and seeking to part him from his wits too. The first near occurrence of joining was almost by happenstance, stilling them both when Lydia almost gloved him with a random roll of her hips.
“Steady there,” Dylan said, his voice a trifle raspy.
Lydia did not know if he was speaking to himself or to her, but that slight, glancing penetration only whetted her appetite for more.
“You be steady,” she said. “I cannot bear to hold still.”
Dylan grasped her suggestion and remained motionless while Lydia took him into her body on increasingly luxurious undulations of her hips. To share such intimacy with him was a pleasure and a wonder, also a maddening frustration.
“You too,” Lydia said, locking her ankles at the small of his back. “Please, Dylan.”
He began to move, and Lydia’s body became a firmament of starbursts. The pleasure he’d given her before had been magnificent, but this… this defied words. She gave herself over to his loving and to him, until the fading of one pleasure ignited the beginning of the next.
Lydia became a stranger to herself, wanton in the best sense, spontaneous, unrestrained, free of shame and self-doubt. Dylan was hers. He was declaring himself bodily, and Lydia responded with reckless joy.
From time to time, he would go still, holding himself inside her and stroking her hair while Lydia caught her breath. His generosity was as sumptuous as his tenderness, and when he finally withdrew to find his own satisfaction, Lydia had not the strength or the will to stop him.
He saw to the tidying up and blew out the candle—in that order, which should have been mortifying—then climbed into bed and spooned himself around her. She laced her fingers with his, wallowing in the pleasure of skin-to-skin closeness and wishing she had the resolve to remain awake.
“Thank you, Dylan.”
“One doesn’t thank a man for indulging his every selfish dream to the utmost.” He sounded both pleased and self-conscious.Now, he was turning up bashful?
“Yes, one does. Masculine splendor is an understatement for the glory you embody.”
He nuzzled her ear, which tickled. “Any claim I have to splendor or glory is thanks entirely to the inspiration of present company.” He rested his cheek against Lydia’s. “I was worried. Worried I’d be too hasty, too headlong. I was desperate to climb into this bed with you.”
“I have been just plain desperate.” Desperate to keep Mama happy, desperate to keep Reggie from bankrupting Tremont, desperate to find Marcus, desperately weary, and desperately lonely.
“You are,” Dylan said, kissing her cheek and easing back to the pillow, “splendid and glorious and mine to love, and I know of no more sincere prayer than the gratitude I feel now for having shared the past hour with you.”
Mine to love.Lydia rolled over to face him and wrapped her arms around him. That passionate, courageous declaration moved her to tears, and she fell asleep clinging to Dylan, and to hope.
Dylan awoke awash in benevolence. Beatitude beat in his veins, and good cheer filled every particle of his being. Hefeltsplendid because, in Lydia’s considered opinion, hewassplendid. She was beyond splendid. She was fierce and passionate and bold and affectionate and…his.
He had torn himself away from her in the middle of the night rather than take advantage of all the wonderful things she was. A lady needed her sleep, and she needed time to compose herself before facing the smitten swain she’d loved witless in the cozy hours of the night.
Lydia would have to face her future sisters-in-law as well, whom Dylan was counting on sleeping late on this most delightful of mornings. He found Lydia in the breakfast parlor, cap in place, a shy smile turning a lovely day transcendent.
