He frowned as he turned to Rosalyn, who had found a place to sit and was idly contemplating a magnificent painting of a stag. ‘I am sorry, there is only one room. It seems we must try elsewhere.’
‘Why? I believe one room will be sufficient for our needs.’
As he saw the glow in her eyes, his own lit with fire. ‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
Damian nodded, making no further objection. He booked the room, which the landlord assured him was one of their best, then led her into the crowded dining parlour, where they were fortunate to find a table by the window.
Rosalyn had eaten very little at her brother’s wedding reception, and she enjoyed the poached salmon and asparagus spears in a light, creamy sauce that were served her. She drank two glasses of the delicious white wine Damian ordered; it went to her head a little, combining with excitement to bring a brilliant sparkle to her eyes.
She noticed that Damian ate sparingly, merely sipping his wine. He seemed a little reserved, a rather odd expression in his dark eyes. What could be troubling him? Rosalyn experienced a moment of unease. She did not really know this man to whom she had entrusted her life. The future would no doubt be a journey of discovery.
‘Would you like to go up now?’
Rosalyn felt a tingling sensation at the nape of her neck. She looked across the table, seeing the question in his eyes. Her cheeks took fire and she was aware of butterflies fluttering inside her. Now that the moment had come, she could not help being a little nervous—as all brides must be on their wedding night, surely? For though she was not yet wearing Damian’s ring, this was the first night of their marriage—the night when they would truly become one.
Rosalyn smiled and stood up. ‘Yes, I am ready,’ she said, and gave her hand into his keeping.
Alone in their room, which was clean and perfectly comfortable, Rosalyn untied the strings of her bonnet and laid it with her velvet pelisse on a small sofa by the window. She stood for a moment looking down at the inn yard, which was almost silent now, then reached up to draw the heavy curtains, shutting out the night. When she turned, she saw Damian watching her; again his expression was so strange that her heart caught with fright.
What could have brought that haunting sadness to his eyes?
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No…nothing is wrong.’ He moved towards her, reaching out to touch her cheek with his fingertips. ‘I was just thinking how lovely you are—and wondering what I had done to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rosalyn gazed up at him, her eyes dark with anxiety. ‘Damian? Don’t look at me so…it frightens me.’
‘Forgive me, I meant not to make you anxious. Are you certain this is what you want? It is not too late to change your mind.’
‘Do you wish to change yours?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why should I? Do you doubt my love?’ She frowned. ‘Is this because of something my brother said?’ She read her answer in his face and was angry. ‘Freddie had no right to interfere—no right to say the things he did to you.’
‘He accused me of murder…’
She pressed her fingers to his mouth. ‘Hush, my love. I know you did not kill Bernard Harrington. No matter what Freddie or anyone else may say—I know you are innocent.’
‘Have you so much faith in me?’
‘I have no choice,’ she replied. ‘I love you—would love you, whatever you had done. Nothing else matters. Surely you must see that?’
‘Then nothing can harm us,’ he said and reached out to draw her into his arms. ‘My lovely woman…my life.’
Rosalyn felt the heady desire move in her as he kissed her lips, her white throat and the sweetly shadowed hollow where her gown dipped to reveal a glimpse of her breasts. She turned, lifting her hair so that he could release the fastening of her gown, letting it slip down over her hips to the ground where it lay unheeded. Her chemise followed so that in a moment she stood before him in all her womanly beauty, the soft contours of her body arousing such a fierce need in him that he groaned and swept her up, carrying her to their bed.
Then he too was naked, his clothes cast away, his manly arousal so evident and needy that she gasped in wonder at the power of him. She yielded to him as he began his tender assault on her willing flesh, lavishing her with his tongue and lips to bring her swiftly to a quivering acceptance of his loving. So urgent was their mutual desire that Rosalyn knew only pleasure; the piercing of her maidenhead was a fleeting pain scarcely felt as she clung to him, her body arching, opening to accommodate him, to welcome him, deep inside her. Love consumed her in a golden flame, carrying her to a far distant place where she had never been.
When it was over, she nestled into him, her face buried against his chest. She loved the scent and taste of him, the tickle of masculine hair and the smooth hard contours of his shoulders as her hands roamed and explored him. To be held like this in the warm intimacy of love was beyond her expectations, opening up new possibilities, new realms of emotions and experiences. She had never been this close to anyone, never understood what love could mean—the pleasures it could bring.
Damian touched her cheeks and found them wet. He leaned over her, looking into her face, seeking the reason for her tears.
‘Crying?’
‘Tears of happiness.’ she assured him. ‘I did not know it could be this way—that I could feel such pleasure, such content.’
‘You are a very special woman,’ Damian said and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. ‘I was lucky no one else had snapped you up long ago.’
Rosalyn smiled but made no answer. What need for words when such glorious sensations were flooding through her whole body? She moaned with pleasure, giving herself up to his loving once more as his hands moved down to cup her buttocks, squeezing them gently, lifting her to ease himself inside her, gently, slowly, beginning to tease her until she whimpered and quivered with pure delight.
They had the rest of their lives to talk, time to tell him that she had never wanted any other man, that she had always believed her soulmate was waiting somewhere—that one day they would be drawn together by fate. She had refused to settle for less, to take a husband she did not love for the sake of comfort and her own home as so many women did—and now she understood why.
Chapter Eleven
‘At last! You cannot imagine how often I have hoped for this day.’ Charlotte Forrester enveloped Rosalyn in her warm, perfumed embrace. ‘My dear girl! You are beautiful. I can see why you achieved what none of the young ladies I thrust endlessly under Damian’s nose even came close to—though I must admit that some of them were exceedingly pretty.’
‘I am not pretty,’ Rosalyn protested with a laugh. She looked at herself in the large oval wall mirror, admiring the exquisite fit of her new evening gown. The colour was a wonderful sea-green, the material a fine silk that moulded itself to her figure in flattering swathes. ‘But Madame Yvonne has done her best to make me stylish—and I believe she has succeeded.’
‘She is an artiste,’ agreed Charlotte, ‘but she told me she has seldom had a better figure to dress. I only wish mine were half as good!’ She pulled a face at herself in the mirror.
Fair-haired and possessing a perfect English-rose complexion, Charlotte was what her husband termed ‘a luscious armful’ in their private moments. Reaching only as far as his shoulder, she was a little too plump—at least in her own estimation. However, she had such an infectious smile and her manner was so engaging, that she was generally admired and spoken of as a beauty.
‘You are pretty,’ Rosalyn said warmly. ‘And so kind to me. I was afraid you might think me shameless, for you must know Damian and I are lovers…’ She faltered and blushed.
‘That is not so very terrible. Especially after the way your brother behaved towards you, forcing you to leave your home so suddenly…’ Charlotte pulled a face. ‘Besides, you are to be married next week. As long as you are happy, my dear. Why should we qu
arrel over trifles?’
Although they had known each other only a few hours, Rosalyn realised it was typical of Charlotte to dismiss their unusual living arrangements as a trifle. It would, as she knew only too well, have shocked most women of her class, but once Rosalyn and Damian had made love at the inn, it would have been ridiculous to have insisted on separate rooms in their own house. Besides, she did not wish to sleep alone—why should she when she could be in his arms?
She had known more happiness in Damian’s arms than she could ever have expected, and if, sometimes, she still sensed that inner sadness in him, she accepted it as a part of the man she loved. She did not pry, for if Damian had a secret he would tell her when the time was right. It was enough that she loved and was loved in return.
‘Well, my love—shall we go?’ Charlotte asked, taking her hand to lead her from the bedchamber. ‘I am sure the gentlemen are becoming impatient. I must tell you that the play we are to see is a little naughty, but you will not mind that? Everyone says it is wickedly funny.’
‘Oh, I have read Mr Sheridan’s plays,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I like them.’
‘But you have not seen them performed in quite this way,’ Charlotte said with an enchanting lift of her fine brows. ‘The French manage to make everything that much more risqué.’
Rosalyn laughed but said no more on the subject. Since their arrival in the city some days earlier, Damian had already taken her to several of the Cafés Concerts, where the atmosphere was slightly decadent and the dancing girls so daring that she had felt her cheeks grow warm watching them. Yet she loved those nights, as she loved the days spent exploring the wonderful city of Paris on Damian’s arm, strolling in the warm sunshine amongst the busy streets with their flower sellers, artists and the constant flow of life. It was all so colourful, part of the new experiences she was soaking up, and she found everything so exciting, so different from the quietness of her family home.
Life was so much fuller for her now. She had not had time to look back, or to regret—for what was there to regret? Perhaps the quarrel with her brother, but that was his fault, and she would not let it spoil her happiness.
They were driven to the theatre in the Forresters’ carriage. Damian had not yet set up his own equipage. He was looking for the right horses, which were to be his special wedding gift to Rosalyn—though he had already given her so many gifts. Almost too many for her comfort.
Inside the foyer of the large and impressive theatre was a lush décor of crimson and gold with a grand, carpeted stairway leading to the private boxes. Ladies and gentlemen in evening dress were moving to and fro, meeting acquaintances or taking a glass of chilled champagne in the refreshment area. In the background, Rosalyn could hear the music of an orchestra.
‘This is wonderful,’ she whispered to Damian as she clung to his arm. ‘I am so glad you chose this gown! I should have felt positively dowdy in my old one.’
‘You could never look anything but lovely,’ Damian replied. ‘I think we should be finding our box. The play will be starting at any moment.’
‘We must not miss the opening,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Charlotte told me it is very naughty.’ Their friends were ahead of them, almost halfway up the stairs. ‘I am looking forward to the performance.’
Damian smiled. She sensed that he was about to say something concerning the play, but instead he became very still, a little nerve twitching at the corner of his mouth. She followed the direction of his gaze, feeling a coldness seep through her as she saw Freddie and Beatrice moving their way.
It was quite obvious that Freddie had seen them. He was glaring furiously, as though outraged that they should have the audacity to come to the theatre at all. Rosalyn hesitated. How unfortunate that this should happen. If she had ever known, she had forgotten that her brother intended to bring his wife to Paris on their honeymoon.
What ought they to do? She glanced at Damian uncertainly. He looked angry, but seemed to be hesitating. Then Beatrice noticed them. She touched Freddie’s arm, her manner indicating that she was urging him to go up to his sister. As Rosalyn watched, she saw Freddie say something sharp to his wife, then he took a firm grip on her arm and steered her away. Beatrice looked back, her expression one of both apology and acute distress as she was forced in the opposite direction.
Freddie had deliberately cut her! The hot colour washed into Rosalyn’s cheeks and then faded, leaving her pale and sick to her stomach. How could her own brother behave so badly?
‘I am sorry,’ Damian said to her. He held her arm protectively, his eyes glittering with anger. ‘That was a disgusting thing for him to do.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rosalyn replied, lifting her head proudly. ‘I had thought Freddie might have got over his temper and regretted his hasty words—but it seems he has not.’
‘He could at least have acknowledged you.’ Damian was furious. He was tempted to go after Freddie and demand that he acknowledge his sister. ‘He was abominably rude to you.’
‘Let us forget him,’ Rosalyn said, her hand tightening on his arm. The incident had shocked and distressed her, but she did not wish to make a fuss about it. ‘Charlotte will be wondering where we are. It is not important, Damian. If my brother chooses not to know me, that is his affair.’
Damian said no more as they continued on up the stairs. Rosalyn was pretending not to mind, but he knew the incident had hurt her. He was so angry for her that it almost choked him. He would have liked to pursue Freddie, to force him to apologise, even if he had to thrash him—but that would have ended in a terrible scene and made things worse than they were already.
Damian hardly heard a word of the play. He sat watching Rosalyn as she went through the motions of enjoying herself, knowing that the evening had been spoiled for her, and his inner turmoil mounted. What had he done to the woman he loved? She had given up so much for him, and he had so little to give her in return.
During their first few hectic days in Paris, he had bought her more clothes than she could possibly wear. She had a magnificent diamond and emerald ring, which matched the necklace and earrings she was wearing that evening—other costly jewels lay in their boxes, as yet unseen by her eyes, waiting for the right moment to be presented. She always smiled and thanked him warmly for his gifts, yet he knew she did not need them: no jewels could match the beauty and grace of this special woman. It was he who needed to give, to make up for all she had lost by coming away with him—but what could make up for the hurt she had suffered that evening?
Rosalyn too was thinking deeply. She knew that Damian was angry. She was aware of him watching her as she struggled to control her seething emotions. Damn Freddie for spoiling things! It was so like him to go his own way with no thought for her. She had been hurt many times in the past by her brother’s careless attitude, but never again. This was the very last time she would allow herself to care what Freddie said or did to her.
Rosalyn sat in her fine silk nightgown, brushing her hair. It fell like a shining curtain about her face, tumbling on to her shoulders and reaching almost to the small of her back. Hearing the door open, she turned to look as Damian came in. He had remained downstairs after their return from the theatre, and, as he came to her, she could smell the brandy on his breath. He did not often indulge in strong drink, and she knew she had her brother to thank for this: Damian’s pride had naturally been hurt, and he was upset for her sake. Somehow she must make him forget the unpleasant incident.
She stood up and moved to meet Damian, holding out her arms; the scent of her perfume enveloped him, filling his senses and driving the anger to a corner of his mind.
‘I was wondering where you were,’ she said as he drew her close, his lips moving against her neck. ‘Hold me, my darling. Love me. I want you, need you so very much.’
‘Rosalyn…’ He made a moaning sound in his throat, catching her to him in a desperate embrace. ‘My lovely woman.’
‘Make love to me,’ she murmured huskily. ‘Love me, Damian. L
ove me always. Never leave me.’
His answer was to carry her to the bed. Laying her down on cool, sweetly scented linen sheets, he lavished kisses on every tender, intimate place of her quivering body. His tongue teased and flicked at the deep rose of her gently swollen nipples, while his hand moved between her soft thighs, stroking and invading the centre of her femininity. The warm moistness of her invited his entry and, driven by his urgent need, he thrust himself inside her, deeper and deeper until she moved with him, gasping out her frantic pleasure as their passion intensified.
‘Damian…ahhh! Damian…my love.’
She screamed his name, arching her back to meet him, her nails scoring his shoulder as she felt herself falling into space: falling…falling into a state of being where she knew nothing except the endless, aching pleasures of love, which seemed to go on and on until she lost all sense of time and place.
‘You little witch,’ Damian murmured huskily against her throat when they lay finally entwined, exhausted and at peace. ‘My back feels as if I have lain with a tigress.’
‘Have I hurt you?’
She attempted to rise and look at his shoulder, but he laughed and rolled her back into the pillows, holding her there as she half-heartedly struggled to free herself.
‘Be still, witch,’ he said. ‘I was teasing you. I love it when you scratch me. I love it that you never hold back when we are together like this—you are a very giving, passionate woman.’
She gazed into his face, suddenly almost shy. ‘Are you saying I’m wanton? Is that a good thing in a wife, Damian?’
‘Very good.’ He grinned at her wickedly. ‘With you in my bed, I’m not like to look for a mistress. I wouldn’t have the energy.’
‘I am your mistress.’
The smile left his face as though it were a slate wiped clean. She saw anger spark in his eyes before he rolled away from her.
Anne Herries Page 21
