by Lavinia Kent
“Can’t say I’d know. He’s always outspoken. Very sure of the purpose of our class – maybe a little high in the step, but I am sure even if he didn’t want you managing the estates you could find some purpose. He’d probably favor some charity work, nothing too dirty, of course. Maybe, darning lace on socks for orphans or raising money for more attractive gates at a prison. I am sure a woman like you would find many useful activities.”
“I am not sure that I’d want to do such things.”
“You’ll find something. He is, after all, a most attractive man, and so well connected. A pity his estates just never seem to keep him in funds. I am sure if you marry and his managers take over yours, everything will progress nicely.”
“But –”
“Well, I am to bed. Anyway, Mr. Giddens will arrive on the morrow. I am sure you’ll be quite taken by him. You’re not the type to be put off by sour breath, or a few pimples. Yes, I am sure you’ll quite like him and then you’ll feel more up to making a choice. Good night.”
Before Rose could emit another word, the door snapped shut. With a soft sigh she turned, and headed back to her other guests. Hopefully, they too would be ready to turn in for the night.
An hour later, Rose finally found herself in her own room. Her spirits sagged. Her plan was not going as well as she’d hoped. Rose slipped her arms into her robe and dismissed her maid from the room. She had not expected it to be so difficult to find a matrimonial prospect.
Sir Barton really was a puppy, and a drooling lascivious one at that. If she’d had to endure for one more minute his uncompromising agreement with her every word and his unrelieved staring at her cleavage, she would have grabbed hold of his tongue and pulled.
And Lord Sommerton. Determining how serious his expressed views were had proved impossible, but she detected no warmth in him when he spoke of children. And she lacked all desire to be sentenced to spend the rest of her life performing only those leisurely activities suitable to woman of her station.
There was still Mr. Giddens to investigate on the morrow. He might dabble more in trade than most would consider seemly, but from their brief conversations in the past he seemed pleasant and not overly concerned with anything beyond his own business. Lady Smythe-Burke was correct about both his breath and the pimples, but surely Rose was woman enough to overlook such things. Yes, it might be a very good match.
And Mr. Williams, from the village. He would be riding over tomorrow to join the afternoon’s activities. If half the things Mrs. Huntley said were true, he might be just perfect, and there would be no difficulty deciding where they would make their principal residence.
That was something she should add to her list of desirable characteristics. Rose opened the drawer of her desk and drew out a paper and pencil. She noted that, while she would consider spending some time away at other estates, this was her home and she had no desire to abandon it. After some consideration, she added, “Must be interested in children.”
As if in response to her thought, a light rapping sounded on the door. She put her paper down and started to rise.
The rapping grew louder.
She shut her eyes and drew one deep breath. She knew who it was and what he must want. The only question now was what was she to do about it?
She walked to the door.
“Let me in.” Wulf’s quiet voice sent a quiver down her spine.
“Go away. I am not going to see you now. It wouldn’t be proper. Certainly, not in here. Besides, I’ve prepared for bed. I am not decent.”
She laid her face against the door, willing him to leave.
The tapping stopped for a moment, then the deep voice vibrated through the door.
“I am not about to argue your decency at present. But open up.”
“No.”
The rapping resumed and then grew louder.
“Let me in.”
“No.”
The knocking grew to a pounding.
Damn, blasted man. If she didn’t open the door he’d wake the house and then how would she explain? What questions would he raise? She remembered his cold determination at Burberry’s funeral, he’d talked of a soldier’s legacy. He was not a man with whom one could trifle.
“Be quiet. Do you want to wake everybody?”
“I don’t particularly care.”
She tightened her lips in frustration.
“Stop long enough for me to get the key.”
“I’ll give you one minute.” The unspoken threat of his words was unmistakable.
She forced the key into the lock and gave a decisive twist. Before she had even finished, the doors thrust open, forcing her back towards the bed.
Wulf strode into the room, his gaze grabbing and holding her.
“It’s time to talk. I’m tired of this pretense.”
Rose longed to look away, but could not escape his glare. With fumbling fingers, she drew her robe about her and forced herself to assume as much dignity as she could muster. She would not be cowed. She pulled her gaze from his and let her eyes roam over his body. God, he looked magnificent when he was in a temper! He moved toward her, almost stalking, his eyes cold. She could see his muscles bunch and relax beneath his shirt.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Stop pretending. I saw her today. Any possibility of denial ended the moment I met her eyes.”
“No.”
He had no proof. Anna was hers and she would fight with any means at her disposal. She let her eyes roam over him again – yes, any means.
“Yes. She is mine and I want to meet her. Tomorrow.”
“No, that’s not possible.” She turned from him. She had not missed the way his eyes raked over her, the way they’d lingered over the translucent fabric of her night rail where it peeked from beneath the robe, or the way his pupils had darkened as they paused on her lips. She loosened the tie of her robe. She fought to ignore her own response as her breath quickened and her heart pounded, fought to ignore the fear that flickered each time he mentioned Anna. She would be the one in control. Whatever flames he fanned, she would ignite them.
He strode forward until he stood before her. She could feel the heat seeping from his body.
“I will see her. It is my right as her father. Do not cross me.”
“She is Burberry’s. He claimed her and that takes away all claim you may have had. He was my lawful husband and he never denied my child. By every law of the land she was his.” She gasped for breath; she could not let him continue this train of disputation. He moved even closer. She let her wrap slip open.
“I will not be kept from my child. I will do whatever I must to gain her.” His eyes swept over her, his desire mixed with cold calculation.
Rose bit down on her lip, her mind striving to elude his questions. “I have just told you she is not yours.”
“Can you look at her eyes and then stare into mine and deny that I am her father?” He bent forward, forcing her to look deep into his emerald eyes, to stare at the fires flickering within.
“By law, Burberry was her father. That is all that matters now.” She dampened her lip, her tongue pausing, then darting, drawing his stare. His gaze moved and fastened. She licked more slowly. He swallowed. Her mouth grew dry.
“I sired her.”
“How can you be sure?” She backed away from him until her legs pressed against the bed. She let them part slightly.
“Do not play games with me. I was there. Or have you forgotten? I certainly have not.”
He pressed forward until his breath brushed over her, every word raising unwanted yearnings that made her fingers clench. She turned her face away. She would play his game, their game, but she would not answer his questions.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He caught her head between his hands, bringing her gaze back to him again.
“You don’t remember coming to me in the barn? Oh, not the elegant Lady Rosalind Burberry, to be sure – but Rose the country maid,
her hair loose about her shoulders. I’d waited anxiously for over an hour, afraid you would not come.”
As he spoke, he ran his fingers through her hair, loosening the one pin that still held it up. It fell, cascading about her shoulders.
“I was enchanted by that hair. Even in the dim light of the barn it shone like pure English sunshine. I dreamed of that glow while camped in the muds of Belgium, and for that brief moment I got to hold it to me, wrap it around me.” He ran one hand the full length of the strands until it curled about her hips. “It’s even longer, more glorious now.”
Rose felt panic rise within her in equal measure to desire. His words were soft, but his eyes shone hard and bleak. She tried to draw breath, to find her balance, but he pressed forward until their bodies touched, her soft thighs cradling his strength.
She had not expected him to push so far.
“Stop. We can’t do this. It will solve nothing.” She raised a hand to separate them, but somehow her fingers stroked down his chest instead.
“Can’t what? Remember what you deny?” His voice grew husky.
“Yes. I don’t know.” She swallowed, trying to quell the deep burn that flickered to life at his touch.
He pressed closer, forcing her to bend back over the bed. “Maybe I’d better remind you, then.” One hand locked about her, fastening her to him. The other dropped to play with the tie of her robe. With one swift pull he loosened it, and then pushed it back from her shoulders. His gaze lowered.
He ran his fingers down her neck, pausing at the hollow of her collarbone. “I remember just how sensitive you are . . . here. And here.”
He swirled a single finger about the hollow before dipping it beneath the edge of her gown. She could hear the edge of anger in his voice. “Do you remember how you begged me, just about undressed yourself, as soon as my hands touched you?”
Oh, she did remember, each touch, each stroke blending with those of that warm spring night. If she closed her eyes tight she could smell the hay, feel the heat of his gaze as he undressed her by the moonlight that shone through the half-open door. It was so easy to blur the line between dream and reality, to ignore the rage that now flashed between them.
But, the rage was there. She must not forget that. She was an experienced woman, not a young girl to be seduced with words. If she did this it would be by her own decision.
“You were so sweet, so soft. I’d forgotten what warmth was until I touched you. You were the most perfect thing I’d ever seen. You still are. I knew I should shut the barn door, bar it, but I needed to see you, to watch you, know you.”
His words were so sweet, but she could see the thoughts behind his eyes, see him hold himself back. She swayed forward, letting her breasts fall heavy in his hand. She could still say no, still send him on his way. He could open the doorway to heaven for her, but there’d be a heavy price to pay.
“Ah, these remember me. Look how they pucker before I even touch. You shiver at my every breath. No matter what you say, your body remembers.”
Rose could not help but follow his icy gaze to where her breasts rose and swelled. Her skin gleamed silver in the candlelight as he drew one tanned finger across the swollen tip. She could feel the insidious passion flowing from him, feel the dark desire, the want, the endless burn of attraction. She pressed her legs tight together, trying to fight the urge that grew between them, to give herself time to consider. She turned her face, breaking the gaze, felt, for that one moment, strength, control.
She knew his wants and his purpose, but she would not deny her wants, her needs. Let him play this game out. She would take what she wanted and then . . . then they would see who won the night. She smiled as she opened herself to him. He bent his head, his tongue flickering over her pulse where it throbbed at the base of her neck. She let herself go.
Chapter Five
This was madness. This was hunger. Wulf nuzzled his face at the base of her throat, drawing that same scent of summer that had clung to her before. As they touched he could feel the fire, the rough magic rise up between them, burning them both.
He’d knocked on her door desiring only to talk, to make her understand that he needed to see his child, but then he saw her bathed in candlelight, so ravishing, so tempting. Even her words, denying him his daughter, had not abated the demons of desire that sprang forth, the urge to make her his, to conquer her. Her eyes beckoned him on, promising salvation – oblivion from every torment, every memory of darkness and despair. In her glance was only heaven, in her body forbidden nirvana. She was the siren he could not resist.
He whispered kisses over her neck, across her chest. She shuddered and stirred beneath him, the sweet honey taste of her skin urging him onward, binding him with memories of that other night – that night when she’d begun and he’d followed. His anger and passion combusted with uncontrollable force.
“Do you remember how you held your breasts up to me? They glowed in the moonlight,” he growled. “I could see the desire in your eyes, feel how much you needed me. You shivered at my first touch, just as you do now.” He ran a single finger along her collarbone, his eyes glowing at her response. “I could have stared at you for hours, but your impatience drove me on. And then I touched, caressed, the velvet of your skin, fed upon the bounty of your breasts. You were all the sustenance I needed, all that I need.”
He finished speaking and lowered his head again. His tongue darted out and circled the pearled tip of her nipple. Each shudder shook her, spread the fire of his passion, drew him deeper into the tangled web of their desire. When he finally drew a nipple deep into his mouth, sucking, nursing, licking, she sighed once and then melted beneath him, her thighs opening in welcome as she collapsed backwards onto the bed.
Then he feasted. He moved from breast to breast and back again, unable to deny himself the dream that had tormented him these last years. He pushed her gown lower, delighting in her response, gaining recompense for all she had denied him. She raked her fingers through his hair, clenching, clawing, urging him on, until he was smothered in her welcoming flesh.
He drew back for breath and she moaned, opening her eyes to reveal dancing fires of passion that would know no denial. He felt the pounding of her heart beneath his hands, smelled the growing musk of her desire. He slipped over her until he lay nestled between her thighs, pressing hard against her, and only the thin cotton of their clothing separated them.
He pulled back, staring deep into her darkened eyes, the pupils huge and round, burning with a desire equal to his own. She was so damned beautiful, so perfect – the cream of her skin, the gold of her hair, the soft body that so well followed the contours of his own. He lowered his mouth roughly, catching her inviting lower lip between his teeth, and tugging. She moaned and stirred beneath him, pressing her pelvis up.
With one hand he swept up the loose skirt of her gauzy night rail, curling his fingers deep into the soft flesh of her hip. Her eyes flared at his touch. He nipped harder at her lip before joining his mouth tightly to hers, delving into the sweetness of her depths. His tongue swept, and teased, and played, seeking to consume her all.
He was lost in her, unsure where memory ended and reality began. Each move, each shiver, each caress blended with that afternoon so long ago. No other woman had ever tasted so sweet, ignited such fires within him, brought him to this peak of pleasure – or despair. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting for control, detachment.
“Is she my daughter?” He forced the words out. She could not deny him now. He pulled back, arched above her, poised, promising all and granting nothing. “Is she mine?”
“Damn you.” It was more of a cry than a word. She opened her eyes wide and stared up at him in the darkness. He thought she would answer, but then she moved beneath him, raising her hips to rub against him, blatant in her invitation, forcing his mind to the present, to the heat that sizzled between them. She clenched her thighs tight around him. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. She was as lo
st as he. If he asked again she would tell him the truth.
He started to speak.
Her legs moved up his thighs, clasping tight about him. He drew a sharp breath as she shifted until he lay nestled against her very core.
He was vanquished, his mind devoid of everything but his driving need. Self-loathing stirred and was forgotten. All was forgotten, all but the beckoning siren beneath him.
He didn’t know whose hands moved, unfastening his buttons until he sprung free, didn’t know which of them positioned, pressed, progressed. He met her eyes, knew the cold reality of the present. Then he was lost in the passion of the moment, his demons free. All he knew was the heaven of sensation as he drew back and pressed forward, burying himself to the hilt. Her inner muscles clasped him, pulling him deeper, pulling him home.
“My God, it’s better than I remembered, better than I dreamed,” he gasped against her hair, as he pulled back and surged forward.
“Is this real, then?” He almost missed her soft despairing question as her whole body drew taut beneath him. “Or a dream I cannot escape?”
Even as she whispered the last word, he felt her body shake, her inner depths pulsing against him. She buried her face in his shoulder, smothering her cry. He became still, holding himself with iron control until he felt her fall quiet beneath him.
Then he moved again, drawing them both back into the dance. Her response to his every move, every touch, every taste, shot through him. No other woman had ever moved as one with him, shown him all that could be.
Even now, in the midst of passion, in the midst of the fire, he wanted her to be the same as every other, needed to deny that there was anything unique or extraordinary about this encounter, this fire. His mind fought for independence, for what he took for sanity, even as his body merged and melded, drawing ever deeper into the dark flames until he knew nothing but the swirl of scent, taste and touch that were uniquely this woman.
He knew the end was near, knew he could not hold back longer, felt her fingers dig deep into his back urging him on, heard her cry, felt her dissolve, pulling him into a vortex of flame. He threw back his head, letting out his own cry of glory, of conquest, of homecoming. He had reached heaven and there could be no return.
