Chapter 18

W ith all the guests having sought their rooms to rest before the formal dinner later that night, Livian stayed hidden in the Duchess of Argyll’s elegant music room.

Curled up on the Broadwood grand piano bench, Livian stared sightlessly at the gleaming keyboard.

She had never taken herself as a shining example of good or held delusions she’d lived a life without sin.

Neither, however, had Livian believed herself so bad as to be deserving of God’s wrath and ire.

Alas, along the way, she must have done something to earn her Maker’s enmity, for nothing, absolutely nothing, else could explain the everlasting hell he’d thrust her into at the Duchess of Argyll’s house party.

It’d been one thing when she’d planned to come find a gentleman to marry. But that’d been before she’d met Lachlan. For a fleeting time, she’d had a taste of what life could be like if she had a husband such as he in it.

God had put Latimer in Livian’s life and then took him away in the cruelest, most vicious, unendurable way imaginable—in a way where Livian would MISSING WORDS

For there could be no doubt, Latimer had an intimate relationship with the Duchess of Argyll.

A fresh wave of misery cut all the way through Livian.

Tears threatening, she touched the edge of her finger so gently to a cream-white ivory; barely any sound emanated from an instrument grander than anything Livian herself had personally owned.

“Ah, Miss Lovelace.” A soft, singsong voice swelled around the majestic room. “I’d hoped to have a moment alone with you.”

With a gasp, Livian came to her feet so quickly, she stumbled. Her hip collided with the keyboard, and she accidentally set a discordant symphony into motion.

Livian rushed to collect herself and sank into the requisite deep, deferential curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured.

The duchess offered a radiant smile that did not match the edge in her shrewd eyes. “This is where you’ve been hiding, my dear.”

Livian heart and stomach went pitching dangerously, at the same time.

“I stumbled upon your music room,” Livian said evenly. She carefully watched the other woman’s approach. “I hope you do not mind I took the liberty of availing myself of your pianoforte.”

In fact, that’s precisely what she’d done. In her earlier misery, she’d run and only raced into the room in question to avoid discovery by approaching guests.

“Not at all, my dear,” the Duchess of Argyll exclaimed.

The woman didn’t walk, but rather floated and glided over the parquet floor, with each graceful step that brought them closer reminding Livian of her inferiority.

At last, the duchess reached Livian, stopping just to the side of the gilded instrument.

Both women assessed one another: one noble born who’d enjoyed every luxury. The other, Livian.

“I must make my apologies to you, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess said graciously. “I regret you were caught unawares at breakfast earlier this morning.”

Guardedly, Livian considered the generous benefactress whom she’d met through her half-brother. They’d met any number of times before. The duchess had only ever been gentle, warm, and welcoming. Something about the woman, however, rang untrue.

“There is no need to apologize, Your Grace,” Livian murmured.

The beautiful widow inclined her head. “That is gracious of you. You see, Miss Lovelace, I was so eager for you to join the festivities I’d assembled, I fear I failed to think about how you’d respond to all my guests.”

Ha . And Livian was Joan of Arc risen from the grave. There wasn’t a thing this regal woman before Livian did without carefully planning each and every last detail. Nor did Livian fail to also hear something more in the duchess’ over-emphasis.

“My lady?” Livian ventured.

The duchess glided closer. She started to speak and then glanced about.

Livian tensed.

When the woman turned her focus back, she favored Livian with a charitable smile. “I trust it was not discomfiting for you find yourself presented before the other guests in such a way,” she demurred.

It hadn’t been, until Livian discovered Lachlan there. That’s when it’d all fallen apart.

She opened her mouth to give assurances.

“Truly, many people would have the very same reaction you did to finding Mr. Latimer in attendance, my dear.”

Livian’s muscles tensed. “M-My lady?” this time, her voice emerged threadbare.

“Come now, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess said succinctly. “You needn’t deny it. Your disdain for Mr. Latimer was clear to all.”

Oh, God. Her heart thundered against her ribcage. She tried to explain but couldn’t put her thoughts together to give the other woman anything that made sense—anything that wasn’t absolutely devastating and damning to Livian and Lachlan.

God help Livian—the duchess had more than enough words for both of them.

“I’d expected, Miss Lovelace,” this time, the duchess openly frowned, “given your own auspicious beginnings, you’d find yourself capable of more grace to one of Mr. Latimer’s origins.”

“No!” she cried out. Just like the obnoxious lords who’d surrounded Livian a short while ago, who’d assumed her response and reaction to be one of horror, the duchess too had reached the same opinion. “It was not that, Your Grace!” What other conclusion would Her Grace draw, though? “It wasn’t that at all. I neither know Mr. Latimer nor anything about him.”

It was the hardest lie she’d ever given—denying she’d never met the only man whom she’d ever love.

The duchess scrutinized Livian.

Some of the lady’s irritation dissipated.

“Forgive me, Miss Lovelace. It is not my intention to upset you. You must have assumed I’d included him as a potential suitor and husband for you, and, given Mr. Latimer’s background…”

Oh, what a world that would have been—one where after their fateful meeting, she and Lachlan, a man and woman each in search of a spouse, were brought together here, only to find one another.

She couldn’t hold back a pain-filled smile.

The duchess sighed. “I am so jaded by my own life, I sometimes forget how easily shocked or offended people are, and also how innocent and guileless young women are.”

Guileless women like Livian ? That was the conclusion the Duchess of Argyll reached? Livian could have laughed.

“Again, no apologies are necessary, Your Grace,” Livian said softly. “Truly.” And they weren’t.

Livian’s gaze drifted over the duchess’ intricate diamond-studded coiffure to the flames in the hearth. In her mind’s eye, Livian saw the different, older and cruder hearth Lachlan had lain before when they, two strangers at the time, shared the last room at an inn.

“Normally, I’d be more patient and understanding,” the duchess released another sigh. “I fear, however, since Mr. Latimer’s arrival, and seeing how he’s been looked down upon, I’ve become increasingly short.”

The young widow grew by bounds in Livian’s estimation.

“As Mr. Latimer will be my husband, any slight against him I simply cannot tolerate,” the duchess explained.

It took a moment before those words registered.

Livian shook her head. “Your husband?” she echoed dumbly.

“I should have known better than to judge you. It is simply since Mr. Latimer arrived, we’ve faced nothing but censorious looks and whispers.” Anger hardened the duchess’ eyes, and she began to pace. “In my own household, no less!”

Livian recoiled.

“ Precisely , Miss Lovelace,” the duchess exclaimed; the lady’s graceful strides grew quicker. “You share my outrage. And as kindhearted as you are, Miss Lovelace, I know what you are thinking.”

The regal noblewoman couldn’t, as Livian herself couldn’t put a single, rationale thought together around the incessant humming in her ears.

“Your Grace?” Livian’s voice emerged distant, far, and weak.

“The gall of each and every one of these distinguished peers,” she hissed, slashing a hand about. “They will accept my invitation and be recipients of my hospitality and yet would denigrate Mr. Latimer, the man I will make my husband?”

The widow fairly hummed with an outraged energy.

A buzzing filled Livian’s ears. She gripped the side of the pianoforte to keep from collapsing.

I will not survive this.

Livian’s face buckled, right along with her heart, soul, and stomach, and she gave thanks the duchess’ rage had become so inwardly directed.

Lachlan’s business—the business he hadn’t clarified—that he needed to see to, suddenly made sense.

“But you are not that way, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess’ soft praise recalled Livian from the perch of despair she hovered upon. “As such, you have my apologies for my displaced anger when you entered the breakfast room. I trust Mr. Latimer and I may count on your support.”

You have to say something, anything.

The duchess gave her a hesitant look. “I know, given his pursuits, you may not feel entirely comfortable, Miss Lovelace…”

Livian had to say something, if for no other reason than to end this torturous exchange, so she might find a corner and lick her wounds.

Livian found her voice. “Indeed, you may. You have only shown me kindness and grace. Even if you hadn’t, I still would not judge Mr. Latimer.” She made herself smile and forced a lightness she’d never again feel. “The gentlemen I do find wanting are the very guests who’d cast aspersions upon Mr. Latimer, though they are most certainly members of his club or other similarly scandalous ones.”

Her Grace drew back. “Hmm. I had not considered that.” A smile built slowly on the duchess’ full lips. “You’ve given me something to think about, Miss Lovelace.”

Livian’s throat worked uncomfortably. “Defending him as you do, you must love Mr. Latimer a great deal,” she said, thickly, hating herself. Hating Lachlan more. Just days ago, he’d made love to Livian like she was the only woman in the world.

“Love him?” The duchess laughed like Livian had told a jest to rival the Great Bard’s. Her radiant eyes twinkled. “No, my dear. When you reach my years and experience, you come to realize the rarity of love.”

Then why are you marrying him? she silently screamed. Why, when I ardently love him and yearn for him, and would lay my life down for his happiness, should you get to have him?

Perhaps that desperation accounted for Livian’s unwitting entreaty. “But…do you not believe, Your Grace, that in joining yourself forever with one whom you do not love, you are doing your heart and Mr. Latimer’s heart great injury.”

“I did not say I do not believe in love,” Latimer’s future wife corrected.

Confounded, Livian shook her head.

“I loved once and lost mightily, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess gently explained. Pain etched the corners of Her Grace’s eyes. “And one only has one great, true love,” she said thickly. “Would you not agree?”

Yes . “I…cannot say with any certainty, Your Grace.”

The duchess flashed a sagacious smile. “I respect Mr. Latimer. I admire him.” She paused. “I definitely desire him.”

Bile climbed Livian’s throat, and she fought to keep from throwing up at the worldly woman’s feet.

Alas, the Good Lord wasn’t done torturing her.

“And I know Mr. Latimer desires me,” Lachlan’s bride-to-be said, breathless. “Which, after falling in love and losing one’s true love is a small, but very important, consolation.”

And Livian knew the exact wicked thoughts playing in the other woman’s mind.

Livian knew because, in the matters of lovemaking, she herself had been the recipient of Lachlan’s masterful skill and rapt attention.

Please go. Please.

The duchess must have remembered herself.

A rose-pink blush filled the woman’s strikingly high cheekbones. “Forgive me!” the glorious beauty made her apologies. “Though, I trust, given the reason for my house party, Miss Lovelace, you, yourself should have a greater understanding that not all unions are born of love.”

Livian’s mind went blank.

How quickly, how easily she’d forgotten her own motives for being here were no different than the duchess’ unidealistic ones.

Fortunately, her gracious hostess steered this excruciating conversation to an end.

“I trust you are tired, Miss Lovelace,” she said. “May I escort you to your rooms?”

Livian didn’t trust her legs to keep her upright for much longer, let alone, be forced to march beside Lachlan’s betrothed.

“Would you mind terribly if I remain a bit longer?” To keep the duchess from seeing the tears building in her eyes, Livian glanced down at the grand instrument. “It has been so long since I’ve played.”

“Anything I have, you are free to make your own, Miss Lovelace.”

A fresh slash of grief cut across Livian’s heart.

Keeping her head bowed, Livian sank into a deep curtsy.

When the duchess had gone, the delicate tread of her footfalls fading into nothing, Livian stayed frozen that way.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t so much as breathe. For if she did, she’d break and shatter like the immense, needle-like icicles hanging outside the window frames.

He is to be married…

It’d been one hell pining for Lachlan and the future that would never be with him while hating the eventual woman who’d bear his name and children.

It was an altogether unremitting, black, hopeless one coming face to face with the woman he would call Mrs. Lachlan Latimer.

Suddenly, the chore of keeping herself together proved too much.

With a convulsive gasp, Livian crumpled against the pianoforte. She clutched onto the side and hung on for all she was worth.

All the time he’d been with Livian, Lachlan had been intended for some other woman.

She sucked in deep, jerky, breaths.

She hated him for hurting her so.

On what grounds is there to hate him?

A tear slipped free. Livian brushed the drop away. Another was there to take its place.

If Livian were truly being honest with herself, however, she had no reason to resent Lachlan.

After all, he’d never promised her more—he’d never promised her anything, other than a night of passion—now, she just happened to know why.

She took in an uneven breath and fought to compose herself. The last thing she could handle was for someone to discover her this—

Livian felt him before she heard or saw him.

Elated and anguished all at the same time, she looked up and found him, all in black, framed in the doorway.

A palpable, sizzling energy stretched from across the space that divided them.

As Lachlan reached behind him and drew the door shut, neither of them looked away.

Click.

That slight turn of the lock closing proved as painful as it was exhilarating…

Then, with a sexy languor so patently him, Lachlan pushed away from the door and strolled over.

Unblinking, Livian stared at him. She followed his approach; and thought of the last guest here—his future wife—who’d taken the same stroll.

A mental image melded together in her head of Lachlan and the duchess, their bodies—his all-masculine hardness and hers sensual, voluptuous curves—moving together in exquisite harmony…

“…I definitely desire him…”

Livian tried to get breath through her cinched lungs.

“…And I know Mr. Latimer desires me…”

The excruciating, hellish reverie continued wreaking havoc on her sanity as she saw Lachlan parting the duchess’ legs.

“…I need to be inside you, darlin’…”

Her lungs and throat burned from the weight of her sorrow.

“ …Tell me you want that…”

He’d slide his length deep inside the striking widow…

“…I want you to watch me as I make you come…”

So deep he touched her to the very core.

“I want to see the exact moment I touch you so high and deep, you reach your climax…”

And misery touched every part of Livian’s soul . She dug her fingertips into a talon-like grip that punctured the duchess’ opulent instrument and would leave lasting marks of Livian’s broken heart here for all time.

She managed to open her eyes and found Lachlan standing before her.

He dropped an elbow atop the pianoforte. “We meet again, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Yes, they did. “At your betrothed’s estate of all places,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice from trembling.

But not her heart.

That bloody, stupid, hurting organ mocked her with her pain for a man she’d known only the shortest while.

“She isn’t my betrothed,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

Until this very instant, until she’d heard it from this man’s lips, there’d been a fledgling hope inside Livian that the Duchess of Argyll’s words had merely been a hope she had for a future with Lachlan.

This confirmation from Lachlan was insupportable. She’d never survive this pressing grief.

Why? Why? Why would he marry her? Livian wanted to scream, sob, and tear at her hair like the Wailing Women who mourned the dead.

How was it possible for him to wear the same casual, half-grin he had when they’d sat across from one another at the St. George?

At her silence, Lachlan quirked a lazy eyebrow. “Not even a hello, darlin’?” he drawled.

Confounded, she just stared at this man who owned her heart.

How was it possible he should be so…so…unconcerned? Alternately, Livian wanted to rail and beat her chest, rage and pound at his broad, powerful one…and weep enough tears to fill the world’s oceans.

His grin slipped into a full frown. “Unhappy to see me, darlin’?”

“…I know Mr. Latimer desires me…”

Livian eyed him sadly. “Is that what you believe, Lachlan?” she asked softly.

Perhaps it was better, after all, that there wasn’t to be a future between them. Not when he knew her so little as to think that .

Lachlan quirked one corner of his mouth in a boyish grin. “Well, you certainly don’t look happy, darlin’.”

There it was again, that endearment he had for her, uttered in that bold, assertive way.

Or maybe it wasn’t just for her.

She briefly closed her eyes. Maybe he’d spoken so to all his previous lovers, and one day would, or maybe already did, his future wife?

She found Lachlan studying her with concern and some other emotion she couldn’t name.

“Sweetheart,” he said gruffly and reached for her.

Recoiling, Livian rushed around the other side of the keyboard and put the enormous instrument between them.

Shock replaced Lachlan’s earlier lightness. “You think I’m going to hurt you, Livian?”

“Do I…?” Her words trailed off and she shook her head. “You already did.”

Had she brought a knife down upon his chest, he couldn’t have appeared more gutted.

“What are you talking about, love?”

Love? A madness-tinged giggle bubbled past her lips.

Then, understanding lit his dark eyes.

“Because I didn’t say goodbye,” he grunted.

Thank God that was the conclusion he’d reached and not the actual one which would shred the last bit of her pride.

“I just thought…” he continued when she didn’t speak, “because you left the same way I thought…”

Tears burned her eyes. “You thought what ?” she entreated, desperately trying to understand.

“You didn’t like goodbyes, either, darlin’,” he said, his voice pained as she’d never heard.

She didn’t like goodbyes to anyone.

Parting from this man had left a gaping hole in her heart that’d never properly heal.

“You shouldn’t be here with me, Lachlan,” she said woodenly. “The duchess,” his future wife, “her guests…”

Lachlan traveled an impenetrable gaze over her face. “You want me to leave?”

She nearly cackled like the madwoman love had turned her into.

“Are you to be married ?” Livian made herself ask.

He grunted. “Details haven’t been worked out.”

Drowning in anguish and fiery jealousy that’d gripped her from the moment she’d seen Lachlan with the possessive duchess, Livian instead, fed her anger, otherwise she’d fall apart.

“You didn’t at any time believe that to be an important detail to share with me?” she whispered furiously.

Fire flashed in his eyes.

Latimer closed the gap between them so quickly, she gasped.

He took her firmly by the wrist and drew her close; his strong fingers scorched, his touch a brand he’d imprint all over her. “I have to marry the duchess.”

He had to?

She shook her head. “Why?” She hated the frantic plea.

Latimer frowned. “I’m forging a partnership with Dynevor; our business relationship will be cemented by my marriage to the duchess.”

“The Duke of Argyll’s stepmother,” she said numbly, beginning to understand. “You’ll have a new club and revenge.”

He nodded. “Precisely.”

“What more could you want?” she spat bitterly.

There was no way Livian could compete with either.

Lachlan’s eyes formed thin, razor slits. “What with this holier than thou judgment from you, Livian?”

She gasped. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” He sneered. “You wear your emotions on your sleeve, love.”

“How dare y—?”

His cynical laugh drowned out the rest of her charge.

“You find this amusing?” Livian gritted out.

She made another attempt to free herself of his touch.

Lachlan gripped her more tightly. “Oh, I find it utterly hilarious, sweetheart.” Snarling, he drew her so close their bodies touched. “Here you are, angry with me for not telling you about my arrangement with the duchess, as if you don’t actually have your betrothed here, waiting.”

Lachlan speaking of his impending marriage made it all the more real, and had he not held her, she’d have crumpled into a ball at his feet.

“At least I told you,” she whispered.

Color splotched his cheeks. Guilt?

Lachlan gave her a slight, but still gentle, shake. “What of you?” he ordered.

“What of me?” she cried softly.

“What of your betrothed, Livian? Forfar, is it?”

Forfar? That pompous, uncharitable gentleman who’d been all too comfortable besmirching Lachlan’s name—until Livian had put him in his place. “You truly believe I would marry a man like Forfar?” she asked, cut up by that assumption.

His thick lashes dipped. “No,” he said, his baritone all silky steel. “I believe you’re too intelligent to ever give yourself to one like Forfar. Who is he, then?”

She furrowed her brow.

Lachlan slipped a possessive arm about her waist and crushed her body against his.

She emitted another shuddery gasp.

“ Who ?” he seethed.

Heat blazed between them. The light in Lachlan’s eyes shifted and darkened, and he gripped her tighter. “Who is he, sweetheart, the fine gentleman you’ll marry?”

“We…” Only, there wasn’t a ‘we’ yet. There wasn’t even a betrothed. “I…we…” She sought for some way to explain she was so desperate that she didn’t actually have a bridegroom lined up, that she was so undesired and wanting, any willing men would be gathered for her to choose from.

“Yes, Livian?” he harshly prodded. “Tell me about you and your future husband .”

The already biting edge in his tone grew teeth.

“There’s nothing to say,” she murmured.

The glint in his eyes became grimmer, lethal. “You don’t want to tell me about him.”

She’d discovered in the short, but most intimate time she’d ever spent with anyone, Lachlan would never hurt her.

She shook her head. “No. I really don’t.”

“Good, Livian,” he whispered. “Because I find I don’t care to think about the bloody bastard now or ever.”

His mouth covered hers, and this kiss was the same possessive, overwhelming one of their parting. She opened for him, and Latimer swept inside to claim her as she ached to be claimed by him.

“What are you doing?” she moaned, even as she twined her arms about his nape and twisted her fingers in his hair.

“I think that should be clear, darlin’.”

His already hard member throbbed even harder against her.

“You’re to be married,” she whispered against his lips.

Hers was a reminder for herself as much as for him, and one he answered with his own charge.

“That didn’t stop you before when you were the only one to be married.”

“Yes, but this is…different,” she rasped, meeting each angry slash of his tongue against hers.

He growled his frustration.

“I don’t want to talk about my future wife or your future husband .”

No, neither did she—more specifically, she couldn’t let herself think about him and the duchess. and yet, how could she not? Soon Lachlan would marry and be joined with some other woman in name, body, and soul. She’d care for him. Bear his children.

Sorrow sucked her out of the aching bliss she’d thought to never again know with Lachlan.

He trailed a path of kisses down her throat. “You’re pulling back from me, darlin’.”

Lachlan sounded like the young boy who’d had his favorite dessert snatched away. If she could’ve smiled, she would have.

Drawing forth an inner strength she hadn’t even known she possessed, until now, she edged herself away from him.

“Don’t we have a problem, Lachlan?” Livian begged. She searched her gaze over each and every one of his beloved, hard, square features. “Isn’t it wrong we want to make love while sharing the same roof as our future spouses?”

He held her gaze. “Only if we let it be.”

Only, if we let it be.

An ache grew between her legs; her body reminding Livian, taunting her, tempting her, with thoughts of all the ways in which Latimer brought her to the greatest peaks of pleasure.

So, this was the real struggle that’d brought Adam and Eve to that greatest fall. It hadn’t been an apple, after all.

Like the devil who’d sensed her weakening, Lachlan cupped her face in his right hand.

Against her will, against all better judgment, Livian closed her eyes. She leaned into his caress.

“Neither of us are married yet,” Lachlan murmured, sliding his knuckles along her cheek. “Nor am I officially betrothed.”

With an agonizing slowness, he caught the edge of her hems and inched them up.

“We cannot do this.” Her protestations sounded weak to her own ears.

“Why?” he tempted like Satan himself, biting at her lower lip, sucking it.

She moaned. “I’ve already told you why.”

“Yea.” Lachlan gave her another little bite, this one, harder. “I decided those weren’t good enough reasons, sweetheart.”

“ You decided?”

“Yes.”

An anguished laugh spilled past her lips.

Lachlan swallowed that telling sound, keeping it for him, keeping it to them. Were anyone to hear, scandal would rain down—for both of them.

Would that be so bad … that desperate corner of her soul that marked Livian, her mother’s daughter, whispered.

Lachlan skimmed his hard, callused palms up her calves and knees. When he reached her thighs, he sank his fingertips into the flesh, and she moaned long and low.

“Would what would be so bad, darlin’?” he whispered against her mouth.

All the while he brought her skirts higher and higher until they were sprawled around them. Her center, bare before him, drenched and aching, and from just the faintest of touches and the power of his kiss.

Like he’d heard Livian’s innermost thoughts and sought to see for himself, Lachlan teased her with his fingers.

She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.

He slipped a finger inside her drenched channel. “Aww, your cunny is weeping, love.”

Livian moaned and wrapping her arms tight about his neck, moved urgently against his hand. How mad he could drive her with just the whisperings of his wicked words and the slightest of touches.

Lachlan chuckled. Though that low, sonorous rumble sounded strained. “I can feel how much you’ve missed me, darlin’.”

More than he could ever know, and not in the ways he spoke of.

“I’ve missed being inside you, too, love.”

That’s not all I want , she silently cried.

“I’ll help you, darlin’,” he soothed. “We’ll help each other. Would you like that?” he asked, his voice hoarsened with a passion to match her own.

She nodded shakily.

“I knew you would,” he said, sounding enormously relieved.

Lachlan released himself from his trousers; his enormous erection sprung free.

Like the tart Livian was, her mouth watered. She rocked her hips.

“The sight of my cock makes you hungry,” he purred. “Doesn’t it, sweet?”

He seated himself at the piano bench and then caught Livian by the skirts. Gripping her hems, Lachlan edged them up again, slowly, seductively, exposing each swath of skin to the cooler air.

Her lashes grew heavy, and she undulated, begging with her body when she couldn’t get out the words.

Lachlan touched that special place inside her that quickened her desire.

“I want you to ride me, love,” he cajoled. “Ride me like I taught you.”

He was already drawing her astride him and helping ease Livian onto his length. He paused. “Tell me you want this.”

“More than anything,” Livian said thickly. Not anything . His heart; she wanted that more.

The duchess, Livian’s future husband, all of it, be damned. The other woman didn’t even love him. Livian, on the other hand, would love this man until she took her last, living breath.

She’d come into the world with nothing. She’d allow herself this; the one and only man she wanted or ever would.

Livian sank all the way down until Lachlan stretched and filled her to the hilt.

He groaned. “I can’t be slow this time, love,” he whispered, kissing her violently.

Because they were no longer alone, tucked away from the world, hidden at an old inn in Hitchin.

Here, they remained on the fringe of Polite Society and discovery.

What wickedness dwelled within Livian that such a thought should fuel her desire?

Lachlan tipped his hips up and rocked against her.

“Lachlan, please,” she begged, panting.

“Tsk. Tsk,” he scolded. “You know what I like to hear her, darlin’. What do you want? What do we both want?”

“To make love,” she rasped. “Make love to me.”