A Rose at Midnight

by Jacqueline Navin

  His hand started to wander, touching lightly here and there. Caroline noticed how the languid feelings his caress elicited were starting to muddle her thinking. “Now, understand I am not unconfident in my ability to do exactly as I say, but neither am I a braggart. One of the reasons you were so excellent a choice, Cara, was your physical appeal. I was attracted to you from the beginning. I wanted to kiss you, taste you, since the moment I first laid eyes on you. And when I finally did, I knew I had found a matched desire. You don’t know it yet, but you want me. Either that, or you are an excellent actress.”

  “What do you mean?” His long, sun-browned fingers were fiddling with the blue ribbon at her breast. One tug and the wrapper would fall open. When he did it, she offered no more than a soft gasp.

  The low rumble in his chest sounded like a distant thunder. “No, darling, don’t think I suspect you of artifice. I know a genuine primal response when I see one. Or feel one, as the case may be.” He had somehow managed to get the robe off her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a silken puddle. Then his hand slipped to the small of her back and pulled her forward.

  He was so gentle now, seductive and exciting, titillating her with his words as well as his unpredictable touch. She felt like an instrument in a master’s hands. A part of her brain warned her not to be lulled too far off guard. She already knew he was capricious. Tonight his mood had run the gamut from rampant belligerence to tender desire. And they had been in each other’s company less than half an hour.

  But her mind seemed unaccountably sluggish, unable to comprehend these cataclysmic events. The barrage of sensations he was eliciting shook her to her core, leaving her dazed.

  “I am going to kiss you,” he murmured, lowering his head and doing just that.

  He had been gentle the first time. Now, he extended no such courtesy. His mouth captured hers in fierce possession, sparking a hunger that compelled her to moan softly and -arch against him, answering without thought. Pure instinct reigned as his tongue invaded, plunging deep into the recesses of her mouth, stroking, parrying until she was aquiver. It felt like madness. Maybe it was the sherry, she thought fleetingly as his mouth left hers, trailing a hot path to her earlobe.

  “Ah!” she cried at this new sensation. His voice, a soft, husky whisper, tickled her enough to raise gooseflesh. “Do you like this?” he asked.

  “Ummm,” was all she could manage to answer.

  “And this?” His tongue traced the delicate shape of her ear. She whimpered, but he demanded, “Tell me what you like.”

  “I like that!” she said before she could stop herself.

  “I am going to lick you like that everywhere. And yes, even the parts you are saying to yourself right now ‘surely he doesn’t mean there.’ Most especially there. All in good time, and when you are ready.”

  Oh, dear God! It was impossible to feel this way. She thought she might expire, for the exquisite passions he commanded were unbearable. “What are you doing to me?” she gasped.

  He had traveled to her neck, making good on his word to apply his outrageous kiss to every inch of flesh in his path. “I am making love to you,” he said huskily. “Exactly as I promised I would.”

  She clung to his shoulders, wanting him to stop. It was too intense. Her stomach hurt, her body danced with live sensation like lightning in her veins and a strange achy yearning was asserting itself in her most intimate parts—a shameless desire to be touched.

  In perfect harmony with her sensate overload, Magnus pulled upright and stared down at her. His eyes had darkened to the color of jade, holding her for a moment before he reached for their glasses. “More?” he asked as he splashed a generous portion of sherry into his.

  “I don’t want any more sherry. It’s making my head all fuzzy.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not the sherry, sweet. Come to the bed, and I will get you some water.”

  Her limbs were rubbery feeling, but she managed not to look ridiculous as she obeyed. Magnus returned with a glass of water, as promised.

  Dear God, he was a handsome man. His dark, glossy curls fell in soft disarray over his forehead and down the nape of his neck, barely touching his collar. Her hand itched to feel its texture. She wanted to kiss him the same way he had kissed her, make him weak and gasping for air as he had done to her.

  “Touch me,” he said, reading her thoughts yet again. How did he do that? He took the glass from her, then grasped both her wrists and brought her trembling hands to his chest. His gaze was fastened on her mouth, leaving her feeling self-conscious. At her first touch, her inhibitions ebbed away. He felt glorious. Under her fingertips pulsed warm flesh covered with crisp, feathery hair. His skin was surprisingly soft, smooth over rock hardness beneath. He moved his arm and muscle shifted under her questing hand. She trailed her fingers over his breast, across his massive chest to the wide reaches of his shoulders, opening his fine linen shirt farther for her perusal of his masculine form.

  His body was magnificent. As her hands slipped under the material of his shirt, he closed his eyes and his broad, sensuous mouth fell open just a little bit, a sign of reaction. It turned her innards to aspic to see it, and emboldened her as well. She stroked his back where granite-hard muscle rippled against her palms. With a low growl, he grabbed her arms and dragged them away. His eyes opened, fixing her with a steady stare. Bringing her hands up, he kissed each palm, first one then the other, then traced tiny circles with his tongue in the exact place his lips had touched.

  “So, Cara, are you still afraid?” His voice was as soft and smooth as a purr.

  Caroline blinked, trying to focus on his words. “My lord husband,” she nearly gasped, “I am more terrified now than I ever was.”

  He grinned impishly. “Now, isn’t this far better than some clumsy groping in the dark? Tell me, love, what do you think of the joys of the marriage bed so far?”

  “I think it is heaven,” she breathed just before his mouth possessed her once again.

  Chapter Seven

  Magnus was in hell.

  Had he been flayed alive, his body would be in less torment. Every nerve screamed, every inch of flesh danced with unendurable fire. The places where her touch had been felt singed. His gut churned and his manhood was hard as stone, aching with insistent need.

  He had only himself to blame. It had started as another of his games, a game of mastery. To overcome his distaste at having to take a cringing bride to his bed. When he had walked through the door tonight and seen her sitting bolt upright, staring with round eyes and tightly compressed mouth, something inside him had rebelled against a wife who would submit her body only out of duty. Thank God he had the presence of mind to laugh. As much as she had chafed under his mockery, it was better than the blinding rage that flashed in his brain for an instant.

  But he had made her want him, made her whimper and moan and go limp at his touch. For the past week, he had wanted her like this, but all he could envision of their first night together was her lying under him in resolute submission, eyes squeezed shut, thinking about all his lovely money while he rutted over her still body.

  Well, she was not thinking about money now, he was willing to wager. Since he had first kissed her, he had known she was capable of this, yet even he was not prepared for how potent it was, this passion between them. And now, as he possessed her mouth with harsh thrusts of his tongue, she answered with soft parries of her own. His hands kneaded her shoulders, slid down her back to mold the contours of her tight little bottom.

  She was losing herself to him, and he was in control of her senses.

  The problem was, he was not in control of his own.

  Had he ever felt skin this soft? Had he ever seen so erotic a vision as Caroline in her girlish nightdress with white-blond hair falling about her like a curtain and her perfect features stained with the flush of desire?

  He pushed her back on the bed, laying her ever so gently on the tufted counterpane. Her hair spilled across the pillows, catchin
g the candlelight like the purest, palest gold. His breathing grew shallow, and he could only stare for a moment. She was so lovely.

  Her gaze flickered to the bedside candelabra. “Are you going to douse the lights?”

  He was about to say no, for he wanted to experience every nuance of her reaction, every sweet, soft inch of her flesh. Yet, she was a virgin, he must remember, and surely he had already pushed her modesty beyond her expectation. Grudgingly, he blew out the three candles. As he visited the others about the room, he began to strip off his clothes.

  His hands trembled as he undid his trousers and tossed them on the floor, there to join his discarded shirt, shoes and stockings. Easing next to her, he marveled at how small she seemed. His large hand easily spanned her waist and her hips. Ah, he remembered how they curved. On their first meeting, he had groped her crudely and joked about the slimness of her long, lithe figure, but the truth was it excited him to feel the supple flesh so firm and lean under his hand.

  She stirred. Perhaps she was growing restless with his lazy exploration. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and there was enough moonlight coming in the windows by which to see. Her eyes were closed, and that luscious mouth parted slightly to facilitate her quickened breathing. He groaned and covered her, crushing his mouth over hers, devouring her while his hands moved swiftly to drag the hem of her ridiculously modest garment to her waist. Leaning back for an instant, he pulled her upright and jerked it off over her head.

  His mood had changed from languorous exploration to greedy need. When she brought her hands up to cover her breasts, he grabbed her wrists and held them at her sides as he tumbled her back onto the bed. Now, flesh to flesh, he came over her once again, and her sharp hiss of surprise whispered against his own lips.

  “Magnus. Is this. I-Is this proper?”

  “Lovemaking has nothing to do with proper, Cara mia. Intercourse is proper and dull, but this, what we are doing tonight, is wild and wicked and the only rule is,” he paused, touching his tongue to the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat, “there are no rules.”

  His hand slid up her side, stroking the beginning swell of her breast. She made a sound like a whispery “Ah,” and stiffened. Bolder, he closed over the warm, round flesh, rubbing his thumb over the hardened nub of her nipple. The sounds she tried not to make nearly reduced him to insanity. Sampling the other, he played while his mouth nibbled and kissed her jaw, her shoulder, then lower until he took one of the hard tips into his mouth and sucked gently.

  She arched violently, hands on his shoulders to push him away. “Magnus, no, you mustn’t. Oh, God, what are you doing?”

  He smiled and moved his hand over the flat of her stomach, down to her hip to caress her thighs. She was a tall woman, her legs exquisitely long. She clamped them together protectively as if anticipating his intended destination.

  “Open your legs for me, Cara,” he whispered, straightening so he could gaze into her face. He was certain she was as heedless as he was, but her inexperience made her shy. He cautioned himself to control his impulses enough to be soothing, to ease her into the intimacy he was determined they would share. “I want to see if you are ready for me.”

  “I—I am ready,” she stammered.

  He kissed her lightly. “Not only in spirit, love.” Obediently, hesitantly, she allowed him to nudge her thighs apart.

  “It’s time,” he whispered at her ear. “Trust me, I will be gentle. I cannot take away the pain, though.”

  Raising his hips, he positioned himself at her entrance and slowly, slowly eased inside.

  She stiffened, resisting this unfamiliar intrusion. Though he had no doubts she understood the mechanics of intercourse, her reaction at this first time was natural, he supposed. He had never taken a virgin before. At least he had spared himself that one depravity. Yet, for him, the sensation of her slick heat was madness itself, and he gritted his teeth against the insistent urge to bury himself inside her.

  He felt the barrier, meant to pause, then it seemed to give way of its own accord. Going deeper, he was all at once sheathed inside sheer sensation. She hadn’t made a sound, no cry, nor had she flinched. He looked down. “Are you all right?” His voice was strained, barely a rasp. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Was that it? It hardly hurt at all.” She sounded amazed. And relieved. What dread the weaker sex must feel in anticipation of the rending of their precious membrane. He felt her body ease in his arms. Tentatively, he pulled out. Then, again slow and easy, he slid inside.

  Her hands began to move, running short trails down his back. Her touch was featherlight, creating tremors of feeling that radiated throughout his body like ripples on a still lake. His hips thrust, harder this time, and her fingers curled into muscle. He wanted to bring her pleasure, but his body was about to explode. He had never craved release like this before and as he moved rhythmically, it became inevitable. Swift, sharp, almost violent, his climax slammed into him, wracking great shudders as a deep, hoarse growl escaped from his throat.

  He lay still, braced on his elbows, head folded into the curve of her shoulder, until his body returned to some semblance of regularity. Regularity. He felt certain he would never feel the same again.

  “Caroline,” he murmured gruffly.

  “Yes.” Her husky voice sounded so sensual, still breathy and tinged with uncertainty.

  “You didn’t feel release, did you?”

  “Ah. I-don’t know what that is.”

  “The pleasure, I know you felt that.” Silence answered, and he knew she was too timid to comment. “It builds toward a kind of crescendo, a completion. Did you experience anything like that?”

  “Like what happened to you?” she asked. He nodded, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “No,” she said.

  “I will teach you how to enjoy the act, and I shall endeavor to give you that ultimate pleasure.”

  “Tonight?” came her weak, nearly baleful cry.

  He almost chuckled. Having assaulted his poor, innocent bride with all manner of fleshly sensation, he had quite overwhelmed her senses, it seemed. He hauled himself up on one elbow and smiled down at her as he traced his fingers over her lips. “When you are ready. And I didn’t forget my promise to taste every inch of you, but, again, not tonight, love. You have had enough new experience for now.” He withdrew and stretched out next to her, lying with his head propped up on one hand and twirling her hair with the other. “Sleep, Cara mia.”

  Settling the sheet around her, he watched her nest into the softness of the bed. “Magnus?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused. He sensed whatever it was she had intended to say, she decided against speaking it. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Caroline.”

  It was not long until her breathing fell into a deep, regular pattern. The moonlight waned, and the room darkened, but Magnus’ eyes remained fixed on the slender female beside him in the bed. After a while, his body began to rouse, wanting to repeat the fiery union they had shared a short while before. Even in sleep the siren called out to his flesh, and it answered with ready desire.

  By God, she was a terrifying creature! He rolled onto his back and folded his hands under his head while he stared into the darkness. He had wanted to stir her passions, give her pleasure, so she would never come reluctantly to his bed. Only his cunning had worked so well, it had ensnared him as well. He had felt like a callow youth, aquiver and overcome in the presence of the object of his infatuation.

  Again.

  He closed his eyes, but the memory would not be stayed. He mustn’t equate his bride with that unfeeling bitch. It had been more than twenty years since he had succumbed to such intense feeling. The wash of remembrance emerged, unbidden and full of long-suppressed emotion.

  She had been one of his mother’s friends, so lovely he could think of nothing else for months. Then the depraved object of his obsession noticed him, a boy of only fourteen years but already showing early signs of a tall, well-formed fram
e and strong, regular features. She had set her sights on seducing him. Although his mind yearned for poetry and flowers and the gentle romanticism of idealistic youth, his body was ripe for her enticements. One night she bade him come to her chamber. There she initiated him into what she termed “the arts of love.” It had been so beautiful, so tender, he had wanted to weep afterward. What he did instead had been a disaster. He had told her of his devotion, his love. She had merely stared at him and then, to his utter humiliation, she laughed.

  In that single instant, he realized in retrospect, he had had a choice. Leave in unspeakable shame. Or laugh too, and thereby turn his back on everything tender and good inside him.

  And so he had pretended he intended the joke to amuse her, and something inside him died. It was his first step in becoming the brazen wastrel everyone knew him to be. “Come, Magnus,” she had cooed, “Come love me some more.”

  They had laughed as he had climbed on top of her, and this time it was not beautiful. It was sordid and base and mere primal need for release. Over the years, he had learned many tricks in bed and become adept at giving and taking pleasure. He had experienced debaucheries not even the most vicious gossips had the courage to repeat. He had followed the road taken those many years ago, when a sexsated jade had laughed at his heart. Yet, never had he experienced the same wonder, the same reverence, the same ecstasy as he had tonight.

  Beside him, Caroline stirred. He glanced down, able to see her in the first pale streaks of dawn creeping into the room. As his long-ago countess had defiled him, did he now corrupt his new wife? She was all the things he had never allowed himself to have.

  He was a rake, a scoundrel, a cad of the first rank. With a hellish temper. An insatiable sexual appetite. A viciously brutal wit and a cold, remote manner. No one could touch him.

  All true.

  Except, behind it all, he loathed himself more than any of his countless enemies. More perhaps, than had his own father.