Page 82 of A Lady in Name

“I love you, love you, love you…”

The words faded on a sigh and Lucy’s body softly sagged so Stefan felt more of her weight. He waited a moment.

“Lucy?”

Her even breathing answered him. She was asleep. Stefan threw his free hand under his head and stared into the darkness, resigning himself to hours of wakeful discomfort.

Lucy drifted out of sleep into a grey world of alien flesh and unfamiliar aromas. For several seconds she could not remember where she was.

Bit by bit it was borne in upon her she was lying face to face with Stefan with her head pillowed on his arm. Shock held her silent and still, her eyes roving the sleeping features on the pillow beside her. A patch of warmth gradually resolved itself into the realisation that Stefan’s hand was resting on her bare hip. Under her nightgown!

Flame burst into life inside her and shot downwards to roar like a furnace in her secret inner depths. A gasping cry escaped Lucy’s lips and her limbs shuddered uncontrollably, half flailing under the covers.

Beside her, Stefan woke with a jerk. He reared up in the bed, turned quickly and took in Lucy’s condition in one sweep across her semi-exposed limbs. Without thought, he threw himself half over her, catching her into him, and murmuring words of reassurance.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s no matter. Be still now, be still.”

Lucy was jelly, wracked by tremors she could not control. “It’s not all right. I am on fire!”

Stefan’s hand ran comfort all along her back and down her thigh, hushing her as he lowered his head to hers.

“There is nothing to fear, my sweet, I promise you.”

Then his lips sought hers and Lucy stilled beneath his hold. The sensation of his mouth upon hers was exquisite, the velvet softness of his tongue a touch of wine and magic.

Lucy felt his hand stroking the flesh of her thigh, and gasped, pulling out of the kiss. Stefan’s arm beneath her tugged her to him and Lucy uttered a little cry that was not of pleasure.

“You’re prickly!”

Stefan lifted his head, a laugh escaping. “I beg your pardon. Near a day’s growth of beard, I’m afraid.”

Lucy freed her hand and reached up to his face, feeling his cheek. It felt rough, but not unpleasantly so. She saw him watching her, a lurking smile in his eyes. A rush of affection flooded Lucy. “Oh, but I love you so.”

His eyes lit and Lucy impulsively reached behind his head and pulled him to her, setting her mouth to his again. She heard his indrawn breath and felt the muscles harden in his legs. Only now did she recognise how entangled were their limbs. And then she lost herself in the intense pleasure of his kisses.

The heat engendered by the ministrations of his mouth upon hers was so intense, Lucy could not have imagined anything could surpass it. But presently she felt the brush of his fingertips against her inner thigh. Heat streaked through her and she bucked.

“Gently, my love,” he said softly. “We have all the time in the world.”

Sighing, Lucy relaxed and gave herself up to his lovemaking.

They arrived in Upledon to a scene of disorder. The to-ing and fro-ing of workmen carting trunks and items of furniture from two wagons parked in the road, showed evidence that the new incumbent had arrived at the vicarage and was in the process of moving in. Upon enquiry of a burly porter, it was discovered the curate was at that moment showing the new vicar around the parish.

Lucy regarded the chaos with dismay. “We will never manage a private conversation with Mr Waley with all this going on.”

“Don’t fret,” Stefan advised, casting a look of disfavour upon the proceedings. “I will take you to the Half Moon, and then come back and extract the fellow myself.”

Lucy was sceptical that even Stefan could manage to interrupt the business of the day successfully. But having partaken of refreshment in her company, Stefan set off on foot while Cobbold attended to the horses.

Lucy chafed and worried for an hour or more over what she would say to Mr Waley, should Stefan manage to find him and bring him to their private parlour in the Half Moon. And then she recognised the curate’s voice.

Running to the door, she opened it and peered down the passage. There was Mr Waley, ushering a stout gentleman into the tap room. There was no sign of Stefan. Sheer luck had brought the man just where he was most wanted.

Lucy stepped out through the door. “Mr Waley.”

He halted in the doorway and looked back, starting a little. “Miss Lucy!”

Lucy took a few steps towards him. “Mr Waley, I must speak with you.”