As the snow drifted down around them, she urged her horse forward, the question unanswered still hung in the air between them, making it thick with tension.
"The curse," she said.
"I assume you know about it."
Nodding, she stopped her horse to look at Stefan. "I am aware."
Apparently that was all the information he was going to receive from her. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the house.
"Good day, Your Grace, and thank you for walking me home. As you can see, I haven't once fallen asleep in your presence, nor have I come to any harm. I trust you can see yourself out. The road," she gestured with a nod, "is just over that hill." Turning on her heel, she lifted her skirts to walk up the stairs. The girl sure didn't appear to be dying? Maybe his mother was mistaken; for the more primal parts of his body screamed that she was healthy — ripe for the taking. As unromantic as it sounded.
He waited and admitted to being transfixed. In all honesty, he was quite content to watch the slow sway of her hips as she ascended the stairs.
Smiling, he waited for the inevitable. At the top stairs, she paused, cleared her throat, and turned around. He waved, hoping for a reaction out of her.
"What are you still doing here?" Her voice sounded calm but did nothing to hide the tense jut of her chin.
Stefan laughed, loud and jolly. It felt good to laugh. And it seemed Lady Rosalind's every reaction made him feel a little less sad than before. "I thought that would be obvious. I'm here to rescue you." He made a gallant sweeping motion with his arm.
"From?" She put her hands on her hips in the most alluring way, drawing his eye to the spectacular cut of her Spencer jacket.
"Dragons? The evil godmother? Yourself? Take your pick, really. Or how about the curse that seems to be picking off our family members one by one."
She smirked and began descending the stairs.
"And how do you hope to fix this lovely spell?" Her eyes narrowed on him.
"We are to be married, of course."
Rosalind stopped walking, her once narrowed eyes widened in horror, and her face went a little white. Suffice to say, it was not the reaction he had hoped for. In fact, it was nothing close to what he had been dreaming nights previously. He could just see Lady Rosalind running into his arms, her soft lips against his, crying with relief over him saving her family. And in the end, him saving her from the terrible curse that seemed to plague them all.
"Absolutely not." She turned on her heel and went into the house, slamming the door behind her.
"Well, Samson, I think I could have done that better." He hit his gloves on his thigh and cursed. The horse nudged him in response and neighed, digging his hooves into the ground.
He swallowed his pride, because if he were being honest with himself, he had quite a lot of it to swallow, he took the steps two at a time and knocked on the door. No was not an option to either of them at this point, not when other lives hung in the balance. If need be, he would drag her kicking and screaming to the altar, witnesses and all. And when it was time to consummate the marriage, she would be screaming for other reasons entirely.
Stefan would start with her hair. Yes, her hair — letting it loose around her waist like the crowning glory it was. Then he would spend hours looking at her creamy white skin, fascinated with the glow of the candlelight upon it. Then when he could not bear it anymore, he would kiss every inch of that voluptuous body until she was panting — begging for more.
He raised his hand to knock again. She would marry him. It would just take more prodding than he originally thought. After all, he was a duke! What woman wouldn't jump at the chance to not only marry a duke, but save her family in the process? To say no was ungrateful, wasn't it?
He waited another few minutes and almost lost hope, when the door finally opened, and a short elderly woman looked at him with interest in her crystal blue eyes.
Her face was aged with wrinkles, her hair gray and pulled into a knot on her head. Though she was small, the gleam in her eye told him she could probably outsmart Samson and he both together. Regrettably, the courage given him by his own little day-dream spurred him towards more rakish behavior; he bent and kissed the woman on the hand, lingering as he did so.
Then things went horribly wrong. She kicked him in the shin because she was so blasted short. Then she cursed him for assaulting a woman in her own home. Add that to the already embarrassing state of arousal he felt after his vivid daydream about Lady Rosalind in his bed, and he was more mortified than he ever thought possible.
But things became worse when the woman, still yelping at the top of her lungs, pulled him by his jacket into the house and hit him across the thigh with her cane.
"What madness is this? Dear woman, cease your hitting at once!" He put his hands up in defense, which seemed to egg the lady on even more. Where was his good-for-nothing horse? "Samson! Help!" It was after that plea that he realized never had he been desperate enough in a fight to ask his horse to come to his aid.
Samson, however, did not come.
But Lady Rosalind did — slowly, around the corner — her eyes were twinkling with amusement. "Did you get him, Mary?
Get him? Was the girl implying he needed to be squashed like a bug beneath her boot?
"Aye, my lady, though the rascal pleaded for his horse to rescue him before I finished punishing him."
Lady Rosalind released a spurt of laughter before she covered her mouth with her hands, cleared her throat, and took on a solemn look. "Thank you, Mary. I am forever in your debt for welcoming his grace to Raven Court."
"It isn't polite to propose marriage to a woman after following her home, my lady, it really is not." Mary made a point to stare at Stefan longer than necessary, then raised her cane above her head again.
Stefan, quite alarmed let out a vivid curse, and backed away only to find that the woman was merely stretching her arms, as if the whole ordeal of attacking him had caused her muscles to be sore.
Feeling rather embarrassed, and for the first time in his life, horribly stupid, he waited for one of the mad females to say something — anything really. For he wasn't sure how to follow such an attack. A duke wasn't often welcomed in such a manner.
"Your Grace, dinner is served at eight o'clock sharp. If you are tardy, you will not eat, is that understood?"
When he didn't answer, the short elderly lady banged her cane dangerously close to his boot. "Well, are you mute? Or do you understand, young man? And for goodness sake, stand straight. You'll have a hump the size of London if you keep slouching." She continued muttering nonsense about dukes not knowing their place in the world as she shuffled off down the hallway.
And for the second time since meeting Lady Rosalind, Stefan was stunned into silence. Was nothing about this woman normal?
The silence was stifling, and he hated to admit that his breathing was anything but normal. But the woman had accosted him! With a cane! What man would be breathing normally?
"You're all mad!" he said, finally breaking the silence. "It's worse than I thought. The curse has reached the lot of you!"
"The curse? Oh no, Your Grace. That wasn't that dreadful spell. Just my godmother Mary, though I wouldn't take the chance of calling her cursed, lest she try to whoop on you again, and considering your horse is safely put away in our stables, You won't have anyone to call out to but me."
Irritated, he let out a bark of cynical laughter and gave her one his most rakish grins. "Are you saying you would not come to my rescue?"
Lady Rosalind mindlessly teased a piece of her hair that had fallen across her cheek. "Curious, and I thought I was the one in need of rescuing? Porter, please show his grace to his rooms. Apparently, he is to be staying with us a while." Lady Rosalind smiled and again left him alone.
Nostrils flaring, Stefan called after her, "Does this mean you accept my proposal?"
That stopped her dead in her tracks. He watched as her entire body stiffened. Stefan waited for her to
yell or at least respond in anger. Instead he noticed her body instantly relax as she called back to him without as much as a glance, "If that was a proposal, my heart bleeds for your idea of romance."
CHAPTER FOUR
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
~ A Midsummer Night's Dream — William Shakespeare ~
Rosalind kept her posture perfectly straight as she swept from the room into the kitchen. Clenching her teeth, she managed to hold in her scream until she calmly closed the kitchen door, turned to face the cook and stomped her boot into the ground, by then only letting out a tiny squeal.
Cook ignored her little episode as servants were taught to ignore all oddities of the gentry.
The absolute nerve of the man! To think that he could swoop in and propose to her without a care for her feelings! Curse or no curse, it would be a cold day in Hades before she made this little visit easy on him.
What was he thinking? That all he needed to do was smile and wink? Was that all ladies in London needed before they launched themselves into his very muscular arms?
She was no longer a debutante, and things had never been that easy. She would not stand idly by and pretend that all she needed was fake and pretty words from him in order to swoon as she did before. Not that she had actually swooned, rather she had fallen asleep in his presence, but he probably still thought it was the sudden sight of his beauty that set her off. When instead, it was her dreadful disease.
Her stomach grumbled. It was three hours until dinner, and her dancing and singing had her half-starved. Well, that and the kiss she had wantonly received in the heat of the moment.
A mistake she would not repeat. Ever. At least not today — tomorrow perhaps.
"Rosalind! Get a hold of yourself!" She chanted as she hit her fist against the wooden table in front of her. "You are a grown woman. You can handle a flirtation."
"But you don't have to make it easy on him — curse or no curse, my lady." Mary had entered the room, still carrying her cane. Not that she needed it, for she was a spry old thing.
"No." Rosalind smirked, gathering her strength for the onslaught of male beauty in the rooms above her. "I do not."
"We shall marry at once," the duke announced over dinner. It seemed he was not only lacking in romance but manners as well. They had sat in relative silence over the serving of the first course. Until, the unfortunate object of her disdain opened his mouth and announced their impending nuptials, in what had to be the second worst proposal ever to be heard. The first worst proposal had occurred only three hours prior, when the man had haughtily announced that exact same thing.
"Must women teach men everything?" She sent him a scalding look then lifted her napkin as if to instruct him how to use it. His barbaric face was clean-shaven, but covered in such a smug looking grin that she wanted to smack him.
Scowling, he wiped his face with his sleeve and continued to eat ravenously, much to Rosalind's dismay.
"Pardon my lack of etiquette, but before riding out to your estates, there was business I had to take care of. I took the liberty of obtaining a special license. As I said, we can be married at once. Forgive my haste in eating, it seems I was so overtaken with the thought of marrying you that I forwent my afternoon meal." He smirked, and with a wink, lifted more soup to his lips.
Closing her eyes, Rosalind tried to calm herself. She heard the barbarian curse as something hit the floor — her calming technique was not working. What type of women in London swooned over this man? Tales of his escapades had been the stuff of legends! The scandal sheets positively adored him! Even the most scandalous sheet of all, Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers, regaled him as a Nordic god come to save the women of London from pale and sickly English lords.
On cue, the barbarian dropped his spoon and let out another ear splitting curse, before looking up at her and winking. Yes, because apparently winking would cover a multitude of sins.
"Thirty seconds," she said, folding her hands into her lap.
"Pardon?"
Smiling, she answered ever so sweetly. "The time it takes to pick a flower for the woman you are courting."
"You assume too much! I know exactly how to court a wo—"
"Two minutes!" she interrupted. "The amount of time it should take for you to come up with a logical and romantic thought, beautiful enough to be made into a poem you can write for me."
He grimaced.
"My apologies," she added, cutting her meat. "It seems a brute like you may need far more time. Make that three minutes."
"Now see here—"
"Fifteen minutes!" Could she help that her voice was carrying from one end of the large dining hall to the other?
"Oh, I think I know what can be done in fifteen minutes." He winked again, ever so wickedly.
Pausing, she tilted her head, patronizing him just a bit. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I doubt even your barbaric virility could last all of fifteen minutes. And I was alluding to the time it would take to accompany me on walk."
"Why walk when you can ride?" He offered her a juvenile grin before blowing her a kiss.
"Not what I meant, and please keep your crude humor to yourself. I'm afraid it falls on deaf ears when you share it aloud. Not to mention, I cannot take you seriously when you have split pea soup dripping from your chin."
Brooding, Stefan swore under his breath and threw his napkin onto his plate. He leaned back, crossing his large arms across his broad chest. "Are you sure you want to make this so difficult?"
Difficult? More like aggravating, irritating, and impossible. At her silence he added, "Rose… dear sweet, Rose. I can guarantee that you will be on the losing end of this little battle. Just imagine, within days not only will we be legally wed, but I'll be having my way with you every night. I find that my carnal tastes are even more awakened when I gaze upon that glorious red hair, imagining it pooling by your waist, covering your breasts in a most scandalous manner. Alas, that is only the imaginings of a man. I can only assume the real thing is even better. Shall we take a look?"
"Barbarian," Rosalind snapped, though inwardly she couldn't help her treacherous body as it warmed to the idea. Liquid desire pooled in her belly as she thought about his large hands touching her bare skin, that sensual mouth bringing her to the brink of pleasure. Doing things she had only heard about but never experienced. "What makes you believe I'll even agree to this marriage? Your powers of persuasion are lacking, Your Grace. Why saddle myself to you when, according to your eloquent speech, I'm the stuff of dreams?"
The duke leaned forward, and candlelight bounced off of his high cheekbones. His eyes appeared black as he tilted his head to one side. "You will be my wife, Rose."
"Give me one good reason."
"The curse."
"That's it? That is your reason? No I love you, Rose — You're beautiful, Rose? Not even a I'm so glad it's you the curse requires I marry, for my heart couldn't bear to be without you?"
"You do realize you read too much, right?" At her grumbling response, he continued, "Love, is that your demand then? That I love you before I marry you?"
Rosalind looked away. How was she to answer that? Her heart screamed, "YES!" But, it was silly. How was he to fall in love with her in only a few weeks, and how could she tell him she would surely die early on in their marriage? But didn't she deserve, at least once, to be courted? To be wooed? Never had she had a chance. Not with all her betrothals. Sadly, her first kiss had been from the man sitting across from her. The same man who had soup on his chin and started proposals with, "We shall marry at once."
"Love." She heard her strong voice echo off the walls. "It is my only demand. You have to try, Your Grace. I am a woman. I wish to be pursued."
"And you think I have the ability to pursue you in the way you desire, Rose?"
Her eye scanned the man across from her. Every plane of his face. The shadows that danced in the evening candlelight. The strong arms placed on e
ither side of the table. His broad chest and easy manner. Not to mention his entire god-like presence. It also didn't hurt that every time she looked at his mouth all she could think about was his knee buckling kisses.
"Yes," she said more certain than previously. "I think you're up to the task. We have until the new year before the curse takes us all, correct?"
At his nod, she continued.
"I believe that will give you enough time."
"To woo?" His eyebrow rose.
"To woo and to make me believe that this will be the best idea for everyone involved. You have exactly twenty days before the new year, Your Grace. On the twentieth day, we will marry. If, and only if, you can prove yourself to be something other than the arrogant, spoiled, ill-mannered man sitting across from me now."
The duke leaned back in his chair. His body seemed too big for his seat. Suddenly nervous, she swallowed the fear in her throat.
"Shall we seal it with a kiss?" His loud chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back and rose.
Rosalind felt her breath quicken as the sound of sure footsteps reached her ears.
"Your Grace, I—"
"Stefan. My name is Stefan." He stopped in front of her, but she was still facing the table; he was to her side. Maybe if she stood still enough he wouldn't make her do anything but be immobile.
"Rose?" He held out his large hand. An invitation, and not one of force or brute strength, but that of tenderness. Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his. Stefan looked back at her through hooded eyes and smiled that devastating smile she had heard so much about. Deep inset dimples added a blindingly irritating sensuality to his smile. Straight white teeth glared against his still-tan skin. Oh my, what have I gotten myself into this time?
Rosalind pushed her chair away careful not to appear too eager to launch herself into his arms. Even as she rose to her full height, her chin still did not come up to his face, rather she received quite a view of his broad chest. The man was a giant, towering over her and everyone else he spoke to. Two of her could fit in his shadow.
"One kiss," he whispered, leaning towards her face. By the saints, the man was dangerous! At this distance, she could almost hear her own heart thudding in her chest. His soft lips inhaled and exhaled in such a slow erotic manner that she wondered for just an instant if he was using some sort of Hindu trance on her.
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