Because of the crowd, it was slow going leaving the theater, but he kept his hand on her elbow, creating a path for her. Once outside, he spotted his coach, guided her to it, handed her up. He settled in opposite her, but it was a few minutes before they were able to begin the journey home.
“It was truly wonderful,” she said on a sigh. “More than I could have imagined.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone quite so engrossed with a performance.”
“You must think me quite unsophisticated to get excited over something that you no doubt take for granted.”
“On the contrary, I was thinking how remarkable you are.”
She bit her lower lip, then ran her tongue over it. “I find you quite exceptional.”
He could not miss the desire that rasped through her voice, the sultry lowering of her lashes. He considered diminishing the flame in the lamp, but he wanted to see her. With briskness, he drew the curtains closed over the windows.
“What are you doing?” she asked as they were shrouded in shadows. He heard no fear, no trepidation, merely curiosity. Or perhaps a feigning of innocence for surely she knew what he wanted. He’d been forthright about it and would continue to be so. He wouldn’t force her, but he certainly intended to provide opportunity.
“Giving us some privacy.”
“For what purpose?”
“To do what I’ve wanted to do all night. Kiss you.” He removed his gloves before crossing over and drawing her into his arms.
She came willingly, eagerly, her mouth meeting his, her silken tongue stroking over his, stoking the flames of his desire. He’d had women aplenty but they always followed his lead. But not her. She met him without artifice, without hesitation. He’d known experienced women, but even they had held back. She withheld nothing. She explored, demanded he do the same. She might be a commoner, Society might have the audacity to place her below him, but when it came to passion they were on equal footing.
He liked it, he liked it a lot. He liked her. There was an honesty to the way she moved her mouth over his, plowed her fingers through his hair. There was truth in her desire. She wasn’t seeking an extra bauble or a few more coins. She wanted what could be between them.
He felt it in her slight shimmering, heard it in her sweet sighs and moans, tasted it in the eagerness of her lips, smelled it in the headiness of her perfume as it was heated by her skin. Her skin, flushed now, he had no doubt.
He dragged his mouth along her throat, not missing how she dropped her head back to give him more access. He nipped at her collarbone, dipped his tongue into the hollow of her throat before trailing his mouth over the upper swells of her plump breasts.
Peeling the silk down, he took a nipple into his mouth and suckled. She whimpered. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He skimmed his hand along her hip, her thigh, lower still until he reached the hem of her skirt, then he slipped beneath silk and satin, skirts and petticoats, gliding his hand over stocking until he finally reached the heaven of her skin. Silky smooth. Hot, damp. Higher yet, his fingers parting material until he reached curls and her simmering core. Wet, so wet, so hot. Heated honey.
She gasped, but not with indignation. With wonder. Her wide eyes met his, her lips formed a small circle. She panted. Short breaths. She clutched his shoulders as though she might fly through the window without purchase.
He stroked, long and slow, increasing the pressure. Fingers, thumb pinching, pressing, tiny loops, returning to her core, firmly—
With a cry, she shattered in his arms.
Drawing her in, he held her tightly, felt the tremors cascading through her. She buried her face against his neck, and he cursed the neck cloth that prevented him from experiencing the feel of her lips and rapidly falling breaths.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice rough and raw. “Oh my God, I had no idea.”
He went completely still, not even drawing in a breath. He could not have heard . . . she could not mean . . . “Your husband never—”
“My husband?” she repeated as though it were a word foreign to her tongue.
“Yes, your husband. Did he never give you those sensations?”
She shook her head. “No.”
She eased back until she held his gaze, her face wreathed in awe. She shook her head again. “No.”
“Then he was a selfish bastard.”
Wrapping her hand around the arm that was still buried beneath her skirt, she gave it a little push. “I need a moment. Please.”
Very slowly, he removed his hand, straightened her skirts and then her bodice. He pressed a kiss to her temple, kept his voice low. “Come back to my residence. I can show you so much more.”
“No, no I can’t.” She scooted back into the corner, licked her luscious lips. “I can’t.”
In spite of the fact that he had no desire to do so, he returned to the bench opposite hers and simply studied her. “Had I known—”
She held up a hand to stifle his apology. “Please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not. I just didn’t know.”
“I find that criminal.”
“Perhaps my husband didn’t know either. I don’t believe he had your experience.” She looked at the curtained window as though she could see beyond it. “I feel rather silly to have made such a fuss, to have cried out.”
“Trust me, I enjoyed very much your reaction.”
“I must trust you to have let you touch me so intimately.”
“Are you certain you won’t come back to my residence?”
She turned her attention back to him. “You are quite persuasive, but I’m not ready for the more you promise. I need to savor this for a bit. I don’t know if I’m quite comfortable with it. And I want to be if there is ever more between us.”
He almost reassured her that there would be more. He was not going to give her up without knowing her fully. As it was, his body was aching with need, but he’d never forced a woman. He wanted her willing, as she’d been before she understood the destination of the journey they were on.
He would have her, and it would be sweet, so sweet.
The coach slowed, came to a halt.
“Let me know when you’re ready to depart,” he said. “My footman will not open the door as long as the curtains are drawn.”
“Do you often misbehave in coaches?”
“I misbehave everywhere. I especially want to do so with you, as I seem to have little control when I am with you.”
“Yet you stopped when I asked.”
“I’m not a barbarian. I want you, I want you completely. But I want you willing.”
She released a long, slow sigh. “I should go in now.”
He drew back the curtains. The door opened and he stepped out. Then he handed her down, walked her to the door.
“It was a remarkable night,” she said. “Thank you.”
With one hand, he cupped her chin and tilted up her face. “We are not yet done, Rose. Take whatever time you need, but know that one night very soon you will be mine completely and absolutely.”
He brushed his lips over hers, then stepped back.
“Sleep well, Your Grace,” she said, before opening the door and slipping inside.
As he strode back to his coach, he doubted he’d sleep at all. Never in his life had he ever wanted to possess a woman as much as he wanted Rosalind Sharpe.
With tiny tremors cascading through her, Rose pressed her back to the door, surprised her legs had retained enough strength to support her. Never before had she lost such control of a situation, of herself. Never before had she been so frightened by the power that a man could wield over her. He could cost her everything.
She had to look beyond pleasure but it was so blasted difficult when her nerve endings had been transformed into tiny stars sparkling in the heaven
s, alive with some sort of electricity shooting through them. She loved kissing Avendale, loved the play of their mouths, loved the warmth he generated. When he slipped his hand beneath her petticoats, she knew he was traveling where he ought not, but she could not bring herself to stop him, to bring a halt to the wondrous sensations that he so easily brought to life.
Had she understood where the journey would end—
She’d not have stopped him. She was still struck by the magnificence of it. Who’d have thought? Could she bring the sensations to him without full copulation? She hadn’t considered it while in the coach, but now the possibilities were invading her mind. Unfastening his trousers would be the first step, obviously, and then—
“Are you all right? You look like you’ve had a bit of a shock.”
With a start she jerked away from the door, grateful to find her knees didn’t buckle. She bestowed upon Merrick a stern look. “I’m perfectly fine.”
And she hoped that nothing in her face gave away what she had experienced in the coach. It was too personal, too intimate, too wondrous.
“Will you be preparing for bed now?” he asked.
She wasn’t certain she’d ever sleep again. “No, I’m going to visit with Harry for a bit if he’s still up.”
He was, in the library sitting in a chair by the fireplace. The only light in the room was provided by the small fire dancing on the hearth. Holding a glass of amber liquid, he scrutinized her as she approached. She did hope the flush had left her skin, did hope she didn’t carry the fragrance of pleasure.
Bending down, she brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Hello, dearest.” She noticed the book resting in his lap. “What are you reading?”
“Last of the Mohicans.”
Straightening, taking the chair opposite his, she asked, “Is it any good?”
“It’s interesting. He put his hand on your back on the way to the carriage.”
She almost teasingly asked if he was referring to the last one of the Mohicans but she could tell that he was troubled. “You were watching from the window, were you?”
He gave a subtle nod, his eyes, the same piercing blue as hers, containing no guilt or remorse.
With a sigh, she said, “He was being solicitous. It’s how gentlemen behave.”
“It seemed—” His jaw tightened. “Possessive.”
“It wasn’t. He doesn’t own me, Harry.”
“He’s big.”
She offered him a slight grin. “Not as big as you.”
“Would I frighten him, do you think?”
It was difficult but she held his gaze, because she didn’t want him to suspect that Avendale might hurt him. “He’s a duke. I doubt he’s afraid of anything.”
Harry looked into the fire. “Will I ever meet him?”
“No, I don’t think so. We won’t be here much longer.” After experiencing a taste of Avendale’s talents, she couldn’t risk losing control again.
His gaze came back to fall heavily on her. “Do you love him?”
Even though her heart clutched at the question, even though she feared the next word she spoke would be a bit of a lie, she laughed lightly. “No.”
Not completely. But she could see the danger of it happening. A man as powerful as he, once he learned the truth, he’d take everything she held dear away from her.
“Because of me?” Harry asked.
“No, sweeting, because of him. His interest is purely—” God, the room was suddenly far too warm as she remembered where his interest had been earlier, where his hands, fingers, mouth had journeyed. “He’s a man who only enjoys the chase. It’s like that time when you and I went fishing and you insisted we toss the fish back after we caught them. The fun was in catching them, not keeping them.”
His brow furrowed. “He could have put his arms around you tonight and caught you.”
“It’s not quite that easy between men and women.” She needed them to tumble off this path before it became more awkward. “Shall I describe the theater to you?”
His eyes glittered with anticipation. “Yes, please.”
The towns they’d lived in before hadn’t had theaters, not that she would have taken Harry if they had. London offered so much more than any place else they’d visited. She was going to miss it when they left.
“Our seats were in the balcony and I could see everything. I memorized every detail.” As she began to elaborate, she couldn’t help but remember how difficult it had been to focus on them when she’d been acutely aware of Avendale studying her. She had been so cognizant of his presence filling the box, the nearness of his body. She was fairly certain he’d been bored with the play. Still she’d been unable to refrain from taking his hand during the climactic moment.
As much as she appreciated that Avendale had taken her, it saddened her that he took so much for granted. Had Harry been there, he would have been enthralled. It would have made attending the theater just a little bit sweeter.
It was an hour later before she bid Harry good night and retired to her bedchamber. Sally helped her prepare for bed. When all was done and Rose was again alone, she sat at the window and gazed out. She ran every moment of the night through her mind. Every subtle touch, every hungry look, every determined caress, every whisper. Her panting and gasping, his groans and encouragement. His holding her tenderly afterward as though he’d known how effectively he’d shattered her and how hard she was fighting to pull herself back together.
When she’d been struggling to regain control, to not beg him to take her away from everything, to do with her as he would. Her entire life had been lived for others, and he made her feel as though for once she came first, even as she recognized that it was his own selfish needs spurring him on. He wanted her. He would play any game to have her, just as she would embrace any tactic to best him.
She could not risk his gaining the upper hand again. Yet even as she sat there she knew how desperately she wanted him to have it. She cursed him long and hard for what he’d given her tonight. What woman could resist it? But she must, she would.
They would leave London sooner than she had planned, because she knew with certainty that he had the power to easily capture her, and once he did, all else would be lost.
Chapter 7
Avendale had never been a man obsessed. He didn’t care about anything enough to become obsessed with it. But he was obsessed with Rose.
She flittered into his thoughts, his dreams, his fantasies. His mind wandered to her at the oddest moments: while he was reading the newspaper over breakfast, sipping scotch, shaving, glancing out the window of his coach at the bustling city. He would see her in red, always in red. Sometimes in satin or silk, sometimes in a gossamer veil that swirled around her and taunted him with glimpses of what might lie beneath the cloth.
He had not called on her this afternoon, was debating whether to go to the club this evening, because he didn’t want her to know she had this power over him. But sitting at the desk in his library, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her trembling in his arms. He wanted to be buried deep within her during that climactic moment, wanted to be flung off the same peak at the same—
“Avendale?”
His eyes flying open, he found himself staring at the Duke of Lovingdon, a man who had once shared his penchant for wickedness, but who had recently married and become as docile and uninteresting as a sheep.
Lovingdon arched a dark brow. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No, I was merely resting my eyes.” He waved his hand over the papers scattered across his desk. “I’ve spent the afternoon going over the tedious reports sent by my various estates’ managers.” He realized the afternoon was waning, dusk was settling in beyond the windows. He shot up out of his chair. “Scotch?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Avendale went to the marbled table, lifted
a decanter, and poured its contents into two glasses. “What brings you here? Already bored with your wife?”
“Grace shall never bore me.”
Avendale heard the absolute conviction in the words. He couldn’t envision having such faith in one person, to know her so well. He had once had the same belief in his mother, but it had been a childish thing. He suspected Lovingdon would one day find his belief in Grace tested. He hoped not, but in his experience people were created to disappoint. Turning, he handed Lovingdon his glass, clinked his against it. “Cheers.” He savored a deep swallow before asking, “Then what brings you here?”
“Curiosity. I saw you at the theater last night.”
With a groan, grateful for the muted light of evening, Avendale dropped into a chair near the window. Lovingdon joined him. Both men stretched out their legs, lounged in comfort. They had been friends too long to pretend manners mattered between them.
“She was quite lovely. I can’t recall ever seeing you with a woman who appeared respectable at first blush,” Lovingdon said.
“She is a widow,” he felt obligated to explain. “I intend to teach her that respectability is overrated.”
“Who was her husband?”
“Some chap named Sharpe. She’s a commoner. I doubt we knew him.”
“A commoner, a widow, and a woman who is for the moment respectable. Not your usual fare.”
“She makes me feel as though I have spent my life sampling pudding. She is something far richer, far more tasty.”
“Where does she hail from?”
“I’m not really sure. Her husband died in India. A tiger apparently fancied him for a meal.”
“Recently?”
“Two years ago. Not to worry. She’s properly out of mourning.”
“I’m not sure anyone really comes out of mourning. They simply learn to live without the ones they loved and lost.” Lovingdon would know. He’d lost his wife and daughter. But then he’d found Grace and seemed to be embracing life again. He learned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and turned his glass between his hands. “It’s not my place to say—”
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