The Rogue's Last Letter by Daria Vernon

Author:Daria Vernon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance
Publisher: Daria Vernon
Published: 2022-02-03T21:07:01+00:00

Hayden held the front door as Allison passed him her Brunswick cape.

“A pleasant day, Lady Allison?” He always spoke softly to conceal informalities from the rest of the household.

“Very pleasant, yes.”

“Where did you go?”

Allison passed her gloves to him and cocked her head, thinking. “You know Hayden, I am not quite certain.”

“Then indeed it must have been a brilliant time.”

“Did my letter make the . . . post?” Allison’s voice trailed off enough that it warned Hayden not to respond.

There was a figure at the foot of the stairs.

“Mother.”

“Allison.” Lady Weldon did not look at her daughter but fixed cool eyes on Hayden. Her glare flicked up and down him before she finally turned to her daughter, holding out a hand. “Come tell me about your day with the marchioness.”

“Perhaps at breakfast. I am dreadfully tired.” Allison was already wedging past her mother. For once, she was not pursued.

She was out of her gown before the sun dipped behind the rooftops to the west. She donned her softest chemise, one of fine lawn that was like breath against the skin, and slid into bed.

For hours she stared at her canopy’s brocade underside, a royal court’s worth of thoughts competing for her queenly attentions. Her mother. Lady Merton. Faulkner—friend or foe? And of course, Harry. She possessed a novel’s worth of thoughts on the latter.

Her correspondence with him had once flowed with the poetry of easy love, but in one another’s presence, the air became harder to breathe and her mother’s voice whispered disheartening opinions from faraway rooms. Lady Weldon would never accept him.

Allison counted her troubles. Her eagerness to solve Harry’s problems? A flaw. Her frivolity? A flaw. Her family’s rank? A flaw. Her inexperience—

Stop. She had not crawled into bed for this. There had been a purpose—a purpose inspired by Harry’s humid breath upon her mound and reinforced by glimpses of anatomy at the theater. But she knew not where to start.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Find that thread.

She placed a hand on her stomach, letting its warmth permeate her chemise. She slid it downward, exploring the space between her hip bones. Paused. Moved lower. Into that dip between her thighs, where there was naught but a springy thicket of hair between her and—

Find that thread.

Her hand had not yet arrived where Harry’s had been, but already, there was a complex pleasure spreading through her. Thoughts were a powerful thing, it seemed. She noticed her breath, just as she had in the orchard. Her fingers swirled over the fabric, across flesh that felt full of blood and vividly attuned to every gentle pressure.

How? How had she never done this before? The sensation was intoxicating, yet achieved the very opposite of any wine she had ever imbibed. Instead of dullness, there was alertness. Instead of numbness, there was crushing feeling. Instead of heaviness, there was lightness.

A concert of information passed between her fingers and her folds. Touch here, not there. Press less, not more. The fabric she caressed became warm, dewy—vanishing from notice.

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