by Anne Barton
Dusk’s shadows accentuated the angles of his cheeks and jaw and his curls rustled in the evening breeze. He looked devastatingly handsome, so much so that she nearly trembled with wanting.
“Fine,” he said gruffly. “I won’t presume. You tell me… what do you need?”
“This.” Rising on tiptoe, she molded her mouth to his, kissing him with everything she felt—fear, desire, and yes, love. She let her hands roam beneath his jacket, over the hard planes of his chest, the taut ridges of his abdomen, and the firm contours of his bottom. She was no delicate, whimsical butterfly, and her kisses, full of raw, potent need, would surely prove it.
He seemed stunned by her sudden, heated display of passion, momentarily frozen by the urgency in her touch. She pushed him back until his shoulders collided with the stone wall, then pressed her body against his, giving him no room for escape.
He didn’t seem to mind. Moaning softly into her mouth, he pulled her hips toward his, letting her feel the long, hard length of him.
“This,” she breathed hotly, “this is what I need.” Burying her face in his neck, she savored the taste and scent of him.
“God, Rose.” In one smooth, lightning-fast move, he spun her around, reversing their positions. As he plundered her mouth, he eased up the front of her skirt—and the petticoat that she wore beneath it. Cold air rushed around and between her legs, reminding her just how exposed, how vulnerable, she was.
Charles slid his warm, rough palm up her leg and gently kneaded her inner thigh. His thumb circled closer and closer till at last he brushed the sensitive folds between her legs.
Her knees wobbled, but his chest firmly pinned her to the wall, allowing her to concentrate on the sweet, intoxicating effects of his touch. She leaned her head against the stone and savored the slightly abrasive feel of his hot, possessive kisses along the column of her neck.
She was floating, suspended by desire and pleasure, and spiraling higher by the minute. His wicked fingers teased and tempted, pushing her past mild arousal into raw need. Her whimpers echoed in the stark winter landscape and swirled around them in a rhythm matching his sensuous strokes, taking her higher… and higher…
“Charles!”
She shuddered, stunned by the power and sweetness of her release. Even a minute afterward, delicious tremors radiated through her, leaving her breathless, weak, sated.
He let her skirts fall back into place and kissed her softly as she floated back to earth.
“That was…” At a loss for words, she framed his handsome face with her hands. “Thank you.”
“Oh, Rose.” Chuckling, he nuzzled her neck. “You always surprise me—in the most delightful ways.”
She blinked. “You’re surprised? I honestly never knew…” And it was only the beginning. She had so much to learn and experience, a lifetime of loving ahead of her.
The problem was, she couldn’t imagine that kind of passion—that kind of intimacy—with anyone but Charles.
“We can’t stay out here much longer,” he said. “Someone might come looking for you.”
“But I’ll see you tomorrow night, at the ball?” How strange it would be to see him in Lady Yardley’s ballroom, with both of them dressed in their finery, awkwardly unable to acknowledge their feelings for each other.
“Yes, briefly. I’ll look for an opportunity to escape to the library, and if I’m able to retrieve a letter, I shall return to give it to you.”
“If you are discovered accessing the secret cabinet… it would look very bad.”
“Indeed. But I won’t be caught. Do not worry about me.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” she said.
He took her hand, pressed a kiss to her wrist, and shot her a knee-melting grin. “At the ball.”
She turned to go, surprised her legs still supported her, then stopped just outside of the folly. Facing Charles once more, she said, “The night of passion you promised me—I haven’t changed my mind about that. After this evening I’m looking forward to it more than ever.”
“So am I, Rose.” His voice, deep and promising, drifted over her, and her skin tingled in its wake. “Good night.”
Snow began to fall as the first guests arrived, and it didn’t stop. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lady Yardley’s spectacularly lavish ballroom, small flakes waltzed in an impressive imitation of the couples on the dance floor inside.
Rose wore a gown that her sister-in-law, Anabelle, had made for her. It was the most beautiful one she owned, a stunning pale blue silk creation. The shimmering dress draped across her arms, Belle had presented it to Rose solemnly. “You must never again think of yourself as an ugly duckling,” she’d said. “You are a swan to outshine all others.”
Ridiculousness, of course, but Rose loved Belle for believing it. And even though Rose was a far cry from swan material, she had to admit the gown made her feel graceful—gloriously so.
She’d started the evening at Lady Bonneville’s side, but the viscountess would not allow her to remain there. “I don’t need you hovering about,” she’d said, “fetching me tepid drinks and engaging me in inane conversation.”
“No? I’d rather thought that was what companions did.”
Rose’s quip had earned her a hearty cackle and an unceremonious shove toward the dance floor.
She was the odd debutante who wasn’t enthralled with dancing. She disliked the crowded jostling, the awkward hand holding, and the uncomfortable eye gazing. At least here, in Bath, Rose felt less on display than she did in London. Perhaps the thought was naught but a comforting fallacy, but if it helped her through the evening, she would happily delude herself. At the very least, dancing would take her mind off Charles and the risky mission he was undertaking for her sake.
He hadn’t yet arrived, and Rose couldn’t help noticing that Lady Yardley’s gaze was on the ballroom entrance almost as often as her own. Possibly more.
Confident that he’d show as promised, Rose dedicated herself to playing the part of a normal young lady enjoying a winter ball. Her first dance partner, Lord Westman, was a jovial, older gentleman who expounded on the snowy weather with great enthusiasm. “The almanac said nothing about snow this month, but mark my words! This will be a storm to remember if my aching knees are any indication.”
“If the dancing is making them worse—” Rose began, perhaps a bit too hopefully.
“Not at all!” Lord Westman bellowed. “Dancing is the best medicine for old joints, don’t you know.”
Rose was inclined to believe him, as he moved with the agility of a man two decades younger, leaving her slightly winded at the end of the first set. Gallantly, he insisted upon returning her to Lady Bonneville’s side before going in search of his next partner.
“A pathetic start,” the viscountess said.
“Pardon?” Rose blinked slowly.
“You aren’t even trying. Westman is too old, even for me.”
Rose gave the viscountess a mildly scolding look. “I cannot afford to be choosy when it comes to dance partners. It was kind of him to ask me.”
Lady Bonneville raised her lorgnette and squinted at Rose. “What utter nonsense. I expect your next dance partner to be both handsome and eligible.”
“What about wealthy? Shall I require him to provide a banker’s recommendation?”
“If you can manage it.”
Valiantly attempting not to roll her eyes, Rose said, “I will do my best.” She headed toward the perimeter of the dance floor.
“Not that way.”
Rose faced the viscountess. “Pardon?”
“That’s the old codger section. There’s more gray over there than in a London fog.”
A glance in that direction confirmed Lady Bonneville’s observation. “Where would you like me to go?”
The viscountess waved her lorgnette like a sorceress’s wand, pointing to a crowd of younger gentlemen standing near the front of the room, a mass of stylish jackets and colorful waistcoats.
Rose gulped.
“Hurry, gel,” Lady Bonneville urged. “The second set’s about to begin.”
Just to vex the viscountess, Rose moved at a leisurely pace, smiling sweetly over her shoulder as she made her way—along with every other young lady—toward the group of eligible bachelors.
She wished Olivia, Belle, or Daphne were here with her—there was nothing quite so humiliating as lingering on the edge of the dance floor by one’s self, desperately trying to appear as though one wasn’t, well, desperate. She looked forlornly at the entrance to the ballroom, wondering when Charles would finally appear.
“Lady Rose.” Lord Stanton glided to a stop in front of her. “I’ve found you at last.”
“Good evening.” She dipped a curtsy and tried to hide her disappointment that he wasn’t Charles.
“Would you care to dance?”
Rose could feel Lady Bonneville’s lorgnette trained on her, just between her shoulder blades. Although something about Lord Stanton made her skin prickle, she couldn’t very well decline. And at least she’d be spared the awkwardness of being a wallflower for the next set. “That would be lovely.”
As they slowly paraded to the dance floor, Lady Yardley nodded a greeting, smiling approvingly. She looked especially beautiful this evening. With her slender form wrapped in green silk, and her hair styled in cascading ringlets, she looked bubbly and youthful.
Rose knew precisely whom Lady Yardley hoped to impress—and couldn’t blame her.
When a flush stole over her cheeks, Rose followed the direction of her gaze… and saw him.
Charles hesitated at the entrance and let his eyes sweep over the crowd. Rose’s knees wobbled a little at the sight of him. Though his jacket wasn’t the finest in the ballroom, the shoulders filling it most definitely were.
When he spotted Rose, he gave an almost imperceptible smile. His gaze flicked to Lord Stanton’s hand at the small of her back, and his smile tightened. Rose had no wish to make him jealous… and yet it was rather thrilling to note that perhaps he was.
Before he’d taken two steps into the room, Lady Yardley waylaid him, smoothly steering him toward the dance floor. When the first strains of music began moments later, Rose whirled in Lord Stanton’s arms. Lady Yardley twirled in Charles’s.
Rose tried to focus on the steps rather than the unfairness of it all, but she stumbled twice. She couldn’t help but search for Charles in the throng. He towered above most of the guests and, while not the most accomplished of dancers, moved with an athletic ease and confidence that made him the object of many a longing sigh.
If Lord Stanton noticed Rose’s inattentiveness, he didn’t mention it. Feeling guilty, she resolved to be a better dance partner for the remainder of the set.
“Do you think it will snow all night?” she asked, grateful that the weather was a mildly interesting topic of conversation, for once.
“I hope not. Mother doesn’t like to travel in it and has warned me that she shall want to leave immediately if it starts to pile up.”
“I see.” Rose smiled sympathetically. “And you would rather not?”
“Not when this ball has so much to recommend it,” he purred with a hint of a slur. “I would not be denied a moment of the pleasure of your company, Lady Rose. Not if I could help it.”
He arched a brow, and Rose had the feeling he’d half expected his passionate declaration would cause her to swoon, or to blush at the very least. But as he leered at the swells of her breasts, all she felt was mild revulsion.
She was more than relieved when the dance ended and Lord Stanton reluctantly returned her to Lady Bonneville, who’d watched the proceedings with her feet perched on her red tufted stool. “You do not like him,” she pronounced.
“I don’t care for his company,” Rose said as diplomatically as possible.
The viscountess sucked in her cheeks. “Be that as it may, it is inadvisable to burn any bridges.” Pointing her lorgnette toward the dance floor, she added, “Lady Yardley certainly seemed to enjoy her partner. Mr. Holland, isn’t it? The steward?” The viscountess’s deceptively casual words were accompanied by a shrewd stare.
Rose knew better than to feign ignorance. “They make a striking couple.” Though it pained her to admit it, it was true.
“Just because one reaches a certain age,” the viscountess mused, “doesn’t mean one is through with passion.”
Good heavens. “Lady Bonneville, would you like me to fetch you something to drink?” She prayed for an affirmative response—some excuse to flee this conversation, fraught with equal measures of awkwardness and agony.
Ignoring her question, the viscountess continued. “Those of us with more years to our credit may not have the advantage of youth; however, we do have the advantage of experience.”
Rose didn’t want to think of Lady Yardley exercising her “experience”—or anything else—on Charles. But she did agree with the viscountess’s sentiment, in a general sort of way. “Every age is deserving of happiness… and love.”
Lady Bonneville nodded emphatically and focused on a spot somewhere behind Rose. “Well, well,” she said under her breath, “here comes the source of Lady Yardley’s happiness now.”
Rose turned as Charles strode toward them, and a surreal haze descended. Her two worlds—the real, intimate one with Charles, and the proper, apparent one with Lady Bonneville—collided in that moment. She was not ashamed of Charles or what she felt for him, and yet, there were reasons they had been meeting secretively, in the dark of the night.
“Good evening, Lady Rose.” His smooth, assured bow could have put a duke’s to shame.
“Mr. Holland.” She inclined her head, trying to contain the smile that threatened to spread across her face, then introduced him to Lady Bonneville.
The viscountess’s gaze flicked from Charles to Rose and back, and she arched a snowy white brow. “I presume you have come to ask Rose to dance.”
“I have, my lady.”
“Well then, I suggest that you do not dally. There are any number of gentlemen hoping to claim her. Go on.”
Rose refrained from rolling her eyes at the gross exaggeration. Men hadn’t exactly been swarming.
“It is easy to see why,” Charles said, the sincerity in his amber eyes nearly taking her breath away. Offering his hand to her, he said, “Would you care to dance?”
“I should be delighted.” Rose took his hand, catching a glimpse of the viscountess’s smug expression as they made their way toward the dance floor.
When the music began, they moved together—tentatively at first, adjusting not to each other so much as to the public setting. Soon, however, Rose was oblivious to everything but the pressure of his hand on her back, the nearness of their bodies, and the heat in his eyes. For a few blessed moments, she was able to forget about Mama’s troubling letter, Charles’s risky mission, and her own breaking heart.
She was just a girl, dancing at a ball, with the man she loved.
And then the music ended.
In the mild eruption of clapping, laughter, and conversation that ensued, Charles leaned close to her ear. “Keep dancing. I’ll return shortly.”
Her belly sank.
Sensing her anxiety, he squeezed her hand and grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s not as though I’m on an espionage mission for the king.”
She smiled and relaxed. “I wish you luck.”
Neither of them spoke as he returned her to Lady Bonneville. Rose was strangely reluctant to release his arm, but she did.
With a reassuring smile, he strode into the crowd… and was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Charles slipped out of the ballroom and headed down the corridor toward the library, apparently unnoticed. If he happened to encounter anyone in the hallway, he’d pretend to be foxed and claim that he’d lost his way while in search of a drink. Members of the staff seemed to expect and tolerate such behavior from the guests. Sad, but it served his purposes ni
cely.
He reached the library without seeing another soul, stepped into the darkness, and shut the door behind him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. No lamps lit the room, but light from the ballroom spilled onto the snow-covered lawn outside the library’s windows. Flakes continued to fall steadily, flying sideways when the winter wind howled.
Silently, he glided around the desk and seating area to the fireplace mantel. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the door was still shut, so he reached for the portrait of the late Lord Yardley and pulled on the corner.
It swung open with an eerie creak that echoed off the book-filled walls. The cabinet door opened easily as well, only it was too dark to see anything inside. He reached in, relying on his memory and hoping that the contents hadn’t been moved since his last visit. He felt a stack of papers, grabbed the entire bunch, and stalked to the window in order to examine them.
Even an expert reader would have had difficulty finding a particular letter in the dim light—at least, that’s what he told himself. But for him, it was nigh impossible.
Note by note, he searched for the duchess’s expensive stationery, her dainty handwriting, her distinctive signature.
And there it was.
At the very bottom of the stack, as though someone wished to bury it and forget it existed.
He shoved the letter into the pocket of his jacket, hastily coaxed the rest of them into some semblance of a stack, and returned the pile to the cabinet.
It took only a moment to close the door and return the portrait to its original position, and then the room looked just as it had before he’d come.
He exhaled slowly. Rose would be so relieved. Not only had he managed to retrieve the letter, but it was easier than he had even hoped. He walked to the door, smoothed a hand over the front of his jacket, and placed a hand on the knob. Which unexpectedly turned.
Before he could hide, the door swung open, admitting a shaft of light—and Lady Yardley.
“Charles,” she breathed, closing the door. “I was wondering where you’d gone. Something told me I might find you here.”
