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I gloried in the memory of when, not long after we were wed and he’d already thoroughly introduced me to our lovemaking, how I tempted him, teased him, pushed him beyond the endurance of his control, forcing him to snap and bend me naked over the desk in his study in our rooms, pressing oil up my backside with his fingers before he invaded it with his cock.
Oh, the growl that came when he sunk completely inside, his grip on my flesh leaving bruises I wore proudly for days. The power I had over him, and he over me, him and me, always.
I gloried in every time after, when he’d turn me to my belly and fill me there.
I thrilled in remembrance of the heady looks he sent my way at Marlborough’s ball, before he secreted us to a dark parlor, pressed me against the back of a settee, sunk to his knees and dove under my skirts.
I rejoiced at recollecting the night he ordered the staff out of the dining room, swept my wedding china to shattering on the floor, my beef and sauce a stain for the maids to clean, and he’d planted me on the table at my setting. He’d tossed my skirts up, and I watched the savage intensity of his face as he held me still just at the waist and pounded inside. And I delighted in his surprise when I climaxed for him, simply with the brutality of our lovemaking. How he’d then torn my bodice down and pulled at my nipple, making the sensation last for hours, days, decades.
Eons.
Oh, how I reveled in him enjoying the fruits of our love, our children who raced to him every time he was anywhere near their vicinity with excited cries of, “Papa! Papa!” their arms stretched out for his touch.
But I cared not what it said of me as a woman, a mother, a lady, that as much as I loved this, what was ours, only ours, what we’d created, our family.
It was him.
Only him.
I had nothing in this world that was mine. Even my children would grow and leave me.
But I had him.
I would always have him.
“Addie,” he called, stretching a long arm to me.
“Coming, my love,” I called in return, not hesitating to make my way across the moor to my husband, my lord, my love.
Augustus.
My eyes snapped open to see only dark, and I felt the slumbering heat of Ian’s body spooning the back of mine.
And I lay there, at first feeling good and right, perfectly both, the like I’d never had in my life. This faded to feeling funny, strange, right and wrong, knowing and bewildered, scared and safe.
I remembered. I remembered the dream.
No.
I remembered everything.
I remembered the memory.
I remembered that day on the moors. I remembered the morning orgasm. I knew that night I’d have another…and another.
And I knew I hadn’t been dreaming.
Nor had I been remembering.
I’d been possessed.
No. That wasn’t right either.
It was me doing the possessing.
I had been Lady Adelaide.
And she had been me.
