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Lydia

Thornfield Hall,

Jennings Family Country Seat

Kent, England

Summer 1784

OH, HEAVEN HELP HER, that was a naked man.

Lydia Jennings, the newly made Countess of Bentley, hastily stepped backward and darted behind a large tree.

She leaned against the coarse trunk, each heavy breath pushing her into the sharp bark, her thin summer muslin dress doing little to protect her skin.

Lydia closed her eyes, squeezed them achingly tight, her pulse pattering against her throat. Because of the captivating scene she’d just witnessed. The forbidden one.

You will not look again .

A warm breeze flitted over her skin, and her eyes fell shut, the soothing sensation nearly like the caress of fingertips. She drew in a deep breath and with it the scent of sunshine and loamy earth. The scent of summer.

You will not look again .

She slowly shifted to the side, turning and peeking around the large oak. And looked.

Her blood sparked and sizzled. Only the man’s bare torso was visible, lean muscles in his back rippling as his hands scrubbed soap quickly and efficiently through his hair. He drifted backward, submerging himself in the water.

And then burst back through the surface of the pond. He shook his head wildly, water droplets spraying from his locks, scattering away from him like they were desperate to flee. Foolish drops. They should cling to a specimen such as that.

He smoothed back his hair, a small stream of water dripping tantalizingly down his lightly tanned skin.

Her eyes devoured the scandalously nude man before her.

He must go without a shirt often to have developed that golden tan.

She winced. And how scandalous that Lydia was spying on him.

And she was a married woman. Her eyes flew wide.

Egads. She darted back behind the tree and thumped her head against the trunk.

She was a married woman! She shouldn’t be ogling another man.

Why not?

She furrowed her brows. Because it wasn’t proper. It was…It was an insult to her husband.

Is it, though?

She sank heavily against the tree, but not even the sturdy oak could support her. She slid until her bottom hit the dirt and sparse grass beneath the tree. Was it an insult to her husband when their marriage was entirely contractual?

Lord Bentley—no, Freddy, as he’d insisted—had been disarmingly candid.

He needed an heir. The woman he loved, his mistress of well over a decade, was barren.

And he could not—would not—allow the earldom to fall into the hands of his drunkard wastrel of a cousin.

The Bentley name was one of the most prestigious and wealthy families in society.

Between their tenants and the workers employed by the estate, thousands of lives depended on them, and he refused to allow that to be jeopardized.

So here Lydia was. His…womb for hire, she supposed.

That wasn’t quite fair. Freddy had been quite kind.

And he was surprisingly fun and jovial, a bit boyish, especially for a man of five-and-thirty.

And refreshingly honest. He’d also saved her from what would have most definitely been a terrible fate.

Their marriage was a common enough arrangement, each providing a purpose for the other. Safety and security for heirs.

It would, except for the rare occasion—and Freddy had been clear it would be rare —be a marriage in name only.

And last night was proof of that. It was to be their first night together…

in that way. They’d been married a week now, a quiet affair at the Bentley London residence.

Freddy had said they’d wait until they traveled to the Bentley estate in Kent to have relations.

Lydia’d had the distinct impression Freddy was delaying.

And last night was confirmation and eye-opening as to why.

He couldn’t bed her. Couldn’t touch a woman who was not the one he loved.

A band tightened around Lydia’s chest. Seeing the strain tightening his face, his fists balled, the bloodless color of his skin.

She had ached for him, for what he was going through.

And even through his torment, he had been nothing but kind. Assuring her that his inability to move forward with the deed had nothing to do with Lydia. That she was a beautiful woman and would tempt any man. Just not him.

Which was quite all right, of course. Lydia understood their arrangement.

She didn’t take offense. She actually thought it quite…

admirable? Touching? How deeply he loved his mistress, yet how unwaveringly he honored the duty that came with his title.

He was in an impossible situation. Having to choose between being with the woman he loved and destroying the lives of thousands of people—families, children. He was utterly selfless.

And fair. Because he’d said as soon as Lydia provided him with an heir and a spare, he held no qualms with her finding her own lover.

Even before then was permissible, he just asked she refrained from being intimate in the way that would produce a child.

Apparently, there were other things she could do with a man.

Lydia had never blushed so thoroughly before in her entire life than during that conversation with her husband.

She had sworn her cheeks had caught fire.

Which is why ogling the man bathing in the pond behind her wasn’t truly an act of disloyalty.

She bit her lip and rocked it back and forth under her teeth.

Just one more glance and then she’d go. Enjoy the dreamlike sanctuary she’d stepped foot into while exploring her new home.

One that came equipped with fallen angels like the man in the pond.

Her palms landed on the soft, damp earth, and she quietly crawled around the tree. Lord, she was going to be a mess when she returned to the manor. But she couldn’t stop. Something pulled at her, pulling her toward the mysterious man. Curiosity. Yearning.

Or perhaps she was just a ninny.

The man was just finishing buttoning up his trousers, his torso still bare.

He was tall, very tall. His shoulders were broad but lanky with youth.

Perhaps only a few years older than Lydia’s own twenty years.

His face was covered in stubble, but even so, his jawline looked sharp enough to cut glass.

Her breath hitched. And whatever his occupation, it was a physical one.

Her fingers dug into the cool soil. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man.

The muscles on his body were sharply delineated, a prominent V that disappeared into the band of his trousers.

They rippled in the soft sunlight, quivering like the flesh of a high-strung stallion.

She wanted to trace those grooves with her fingers.

She inched forward, her gaze locked on where he dabbed his towel over his throat.

Snap.

A broken edge of a stick stabbed into her palm.

His gaze shot to the wood in her direction.

She froze. In fear of making any more noise that would give herself away. But more than anything, it was the paralyzing shock at the sight of a piercing set of steely-blue irises.

He scanned the area, dark brows drawn together.

Fortunately, his stare remained well above where Lydia crouched, blessedly concealed by the forest’s bramble and vegetation.

Because truly, what kind of fool would be crawling on hands and knees, spying on a man bathing?

Dear Lord, there was something wrong with her.

The man shrugged into a shirt, gathered up his bathing supplies, and threw his towel over his shoulder.

Lydia sat back on her heels, a hollow disappointment carving its way through her chest. And it grew with each step he took as he left the clearing and disappeared from view.

How was it that a man she’d never met had managed to unsettle her in a way no one else ever had?

Perhaps one day—when she was ready to take a lover—she would seek one like that man. One with dark hair and chilling blue eyes.