She gasped, caught her breath on a sob, then followed his direction of her own accord, slowly lowering herself, impaling herself upon him.

He stopped her when he felt the resistance of her maidenhead, eased her up, then guided her back down. The look on her face as, eyes closed, she felt him slide inside her again, stretching her virginal flesh, was one of sheer wonder.

She understood, caught the rhythm; she rose up twice more, then he gripped harder and she plunged down, breaching her maidenhead as she took him fully, as, a cry strangling in her throat, she sank fully down, enclosing him in slick, scalding heat.

A sensation so intense it had him gritting his teeth, muscles locking against the urge to lift her and bring her down hard again, to thrust into her willing and oh-so-tight sheath. But the look on her face, the fleeting tension of pain washed away by sensual delight, was one that struck to his soul.

“Gently,” he murmured, guiding her again.

She followed his lead, carefully at first, then with increasing eagerness, increasing enthusiasm as she realized the pain had faded and only pleasure remained.

Pleasure, it seemed, she was intent on claiming, and equally intent on sharing.

She cracked open her eyes, found his. Breathlessly, imperiously, demanded, “Show me how to do this-how to please you.”

“You are pleasing me-immensely.” But he kept hold of her hips, kept hold of the rhythm, of their joint reins, and set the pace-let it build, escalate, until need broke through and drove them.

On a desperate gasp, she bent forward and found his lips with hers. They kissed deeply, without restraint, tongues twining and probing to the same plunging, insistent rhythm with which she rode him. He thrust upward and met her, gripping her hips and holding her down to penetrate her more deeply…until the dam broke and passion’s fire poured through and seared them.

Filled them, consumed them.

Until there was only heat and that driving, relentless rhythm. Until reality fractured and they flew through the void, tense nerves unraveling, senses spinning…

Until, like a sunburst, ecstasy broke upon them and shattered them.

Leaving them drifting, wracked, sated, buoyed on dreams come true, safe and content in each other’s arms.

He’d been taken advantage of. He’d been accused more than once of taking advantage of ladies-usually by the ladies themselves afterward, and always falsely-but now he, Rogue Gerrard, had been seduced.

He’d been swept off his feet and into an act of intimacy he’d never before engaged in. Had been forced to surrender and be ravished.

Gazing up at the ceiling, Lydia a warm bundle of boneless sated female slumped on his chest, his arms locked around her holding her in place, he couldn’t stop smiling.

He’d always suspected that those ladies had protested too much.

The sky outside, gray, overcast, heavy clouds louring, seemed to his eyes to be rosy and glowing. All he now needed to make his life complete was to find some way to break it to Lydia that she wasn’t destined to die an old maid.

And that, as he’d now accepted, resistance was futile.

An hour later, Lydia let Ro hurry her across the unkempt lawns of Upton Grange and into the cover of the surrounding trees. It was close to five o’clock and already dark; once swallowed by the gloom of the wood, Ro slowed, and they walked on, his hand beneath her arm as he steadied her over fallen branches and through undergrowth until they reached a path.

Ro turned down it. “This is the way we went back to the inn this morning.”

Lydia nodded. Her mind still wasn’t functioning in its usual reliable way; she was perfectly aware, yet felt as if she were detached, floating…as if none of the day-to-day, ordinary worldly things truly mattered.

Ro said little, making her wonder if he knew of her mental distraction. Perhaps mental disconnection was a well-known aftereffect of the activity they’d so recently engaged in. If so, he would undoubtedly know, although it didn’t seem to have afflicted him; he was calm, collected, and decisive.

She looked at him, watched him glance behind them, watched his eyes rake the surrounding trees and the shadows pooling beneath. There was a tension in him, one she recognized as stemming from protectiveness, but it seemed heightened, intensified. She looked forward. Perhaps the effect on males was different.

Regardless, she still felt buoyed, had to fight to keep a silly smile from her lips; she wouldn’t have bothered fighting if she’d been alone and able to wallow, to hold the glorious golden glow to herself and examine and delight in it in private.

They’d retrieved Tabitha’s letter, and she’d gained an entirely unlooked-for bonus. A thoroughly wonderful and quite elevating-and illuminating-experience, one she wouldn’t have missed for the world. And all without any unwelcome consequences or costs; she’d seized the moment, taken a risk, and had come out the winner.

Her only regret was that they’d had to leave the white silk and blue lace gown at Upton Grange. From the moment she’d recovered enough to stand, Ro had been single-mindedly focused on getting her and Tab’s letter out of Barham’s house safely-preferably without meeting another soul. He’d whisked her back upstairs to the room they’d used, helped her change into her chemise and gown, then wrapped her in her cloak once more, with the hood up.

The last sight she’d had of the pretty white and blue gown, it had been lying on the floor in a silken heap. The gown had made her feel…different. Freer. It had brought out a side of her she hadn’t until then known existed, but allowing that self out had felt right. More, it had felt empowering.

“Empowering” was a word Tabitha often used, one Lydia hadn’t paid much attention to-until now. Now she knew what the word truly signified, she had to agree with her sister that empowerment was well worth pursuing.

The white and blue gown now held fond memories, a symbol of her moment, a memento of the one time in her life she’d broken free of the sensible, reliable mold and reached for what she wanted. The one moment in her life she’d acted on impulse, had let her inner self rule.

Perhaps she could have a modiste make up an identical replacement.

She was considering that when they reached the lane.

Ro turned Lydia to the left. The surface of the lane was still inches deep in mud, but the verges had drained enough to be easily and safely walked upon. Pacing beside her, he looked ahead, into the gathering dusk, then glanced back along the path; no one had noticed them, let alone given chase. “I think we’re safe. I don’t believe anyone saw us leave-all the guests and most of the staff would have been in or around the dining room, and that’s at the opposite end of the house. We didn’t actually steal anything-I seriously doubt Barham had realized the letter was there.”

Lydia’s hand rose to her bodice, wherein she’d secreted Tabitha’s letter. “It was only a single sheet.”

Ro nodded. “Barham will be surprised and puzzled-and suspicious-to find us vanished, but all things considered, in the end he’ll shrug it off, and ask me next time he sees me.” And as his and Barham’s paths rarely crossed these days, that was unlikely to be for some years, and by then Barham would probably have forgotten. “Only he and his staff saw us, so we don’t need to fear that anyone else might have recognized you.”

“Hmm.”

When Lydia said nothing more, he glanced at her face. In the post-twilight gloom, he could barely make out her features. When, lying slumped on his chest in Barham’s library, she’d finally stirred, she’d been gloriously dazed, but that he’d expected. By then he’d realized his first priority had to be to get her back to the inn safely, her reputation intact; he hadn’t encouraged her to chatter.