One Perfect Rose (19 page)

Blushing a little, she sat up and stretched her cramped muscles. “Have we really arrived already?”

“Indeed.” Stephen captured Portia and returned her to the travel box. “You have a great talent for sleeping. You hardly stirred through two changes of horses.”

“Being able to nap anywhere is very useful for a strolling player.” She glanced out the window. Well-kept parkland rolled away in front of her, gradually dropping to shimmering sands. And on the horizon, a blood-red sun was dropping toward the sea, the molten rays transforming clouds into drifts of hot coral and deepest indigo. “How beautiful! What is this place?”

“Kirby Manor. You're looking across the estuary of the River Dee to the Irish Sea.” He unlatched the carriage door and helped her out. “The house is behind us.”

He started to turn, but she caught his hand. “The house can wait.”

Silently they watched the sun slide into the sea, the sky and clouds darkening. The day passed so swiftly at the end. She thought of Stephen's approaching demise and felt the tightness of regret in her throat.

She turned to the house. Kirby Manor was half-timbered in the local style, a sprawling, magpie building with crooked beams and diamond-paned windows that glowed orange-gold in the last light of the day. It, too, was beautiful. She studied the elaborate herringbone timber patterns with fascination. “It's wonderful, but certainly not my idea of a small house.”

“The smallest residence I own. Only five bedrooms.”

A man and woman who had apparently been waiting for the ducal attention came forward. “Welcome to Kirby Manor, Your Grace.” The man bobbed his head and the woman curtsied. “I hope you find things to your satisfaction. If we'd had more time…” His voice trailed off nervously.

“As long as the main rooms are clean and you have some good Cheshire food, we'll do very well.” Stephen drew Rosalind forward. “Rosalind, here are Mr. and Mrs. Nyland. Allow me to present the Duchess of Ashburton.”

She almost winced when Mrs. Nyland curtsied again and her husband made an awkward bow. Rosalind wasn't a duchess, for heaven's sake; she was an actress with her hair around her ears like a schoolgirl.

But apparently she
was
a duchess, and she must act like one for Stephen's sake if not her own.

The solution came in a flash: play the part of duchess as if it were a stage role. She inclined her head and smiled, gracious but not overly familiar. “It's good of you to be ready on such short notice. When you take the baggage in, please use special care with my kitten's box. Portia travels very well, but I expect she's ready for some supper.”

The Nylands collected Portia and the other luggage and went inside. As the coachman drove off toward the stables, Rosalind and Stephen climbed the front steps arm in arm. He opened the front door, then unexpectedly bent and swept her up in his arms. As she laughed and clutched him for balance, he explained, “Though it isn't Ashburton Abbey, it is my threshold.”

“Will this happen at all six of your houses?” she asked as he carried her inside.

“If you like, but I shouldn't think you'd want to set foot in the hunting box. All dark wainscoting and stuffed animal heads.”

And there would not be time to get to all of his houses. “You're right—it sounds dreadfully dismal,” she said in a more subdued voice.

He carried her down a dim passage and into a sizable hall. She had an impression of carved oak and softly muted carpets. Then he lowered her to the floor, letting her slide slowly down his body. She was breathless by the time she was on her feet again.

Laughter died away. His expression was somber, as if he was memorizing her face in this moment. Then he kissed her with aching tenderness. Her mouth opened under his, and carnal shivers danced over her skin. The four days since they had made love seemed like forever.

When he'd reduced her to the pliancy of wax, he raised his head and said huskily, “After we've refreshed ourselves and eaten, may I come to your room?”

She stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Stephen, my dearest husband, nothing more clearly illustrates the difference in our rank. Among my kind, there is never a question of whether or not a couple share a room and a bed. I suspect that it helps people make up their quarrels more quickly.” She brushed his hair back from his forehead, wishing she could say words of love. “You will always be welcome in my bed. In fact, I shall feel offended if you sleep elsewhere.”

His gaze intensified. “So I can assume that your answer is yes.”

“It most certainly is.” She touched her tongue to her lips. “In fact, since it's been a long day, perhaps we should skip supper and go to bed now.”

“No.” He stepped away and caught her hand between his. “The first time everything happened too quickly. Tonight, let's savor the pleasures of anticipation.”

Too much more anticipation, and she would be wild as a panther. But he was right. There was no need to rush, and many reasons to take their time. “That makes sense, though I can't say that I feel very sensible at the moment.” She cocked her head. “I have a suggestion. Give me a tour of the house while supper is prepared. Then we can dine informally in our rooms.”

“A splendid notion.” He kissed her fingertips, then tucked her arm in his elbow. His voice took on the pompous tones of a really superior butler. “This, my dear duchess, is the main hall. The oldest part of the building is believed to date from the early fifteenth century. Pray observe the splendid ornamental plasterwork.”

She chuckled, thinking that he really could have had a future as a good comic actor. “Splendid indeed, Your Grace,” she said in the role of admiring visitor. “But are fornicating cherubs really proper on the ceiling of a hall?”

“They are not fornicating, madame. Merely great and good friends.” He guided her around the ground floor, pointing out interesting features and making similar remarks that kept her laughing.

As in all half-timbered buildings, the floors rose and fell, leaded windows sagged gently askew, and there wasn't a straight line in the place. She loved it. She also loved how they managed to touch in seemingly innocent ways, each encounter another stick of kindling on a growing fire.

As they started up the stairs, she asked, “How often do you come here?”

“Perhaps once a year. I usually stay for a few days when I visit my business interests in the north.” He smiled ruefully. “I know. A sad waste, isn't it?”

She shook her head in amazement. “Aren't there any impoverished Kenyon cousins who need a home?”

“Yes, but they all prefer living farther south. Closer to civilization. One cousin stays at my Norfolk estate, where Ellie Warden and her baby went to liye.” His smile became satiric. “No matter what I might say, Cousin Quintus and his wife will assume the baby is mine, which ensures that the child will be well looked after.”

“I'm glad for Ellie and the baby's sake, even if your reputation is impugned.” She hugged his arm as he led her down the lamp-lit, irregular hall. Though she'd dreamed of houses for years, none was as fine as this. She hoped that someday there would be a Kenyon cousin who would have the sense to appreciate it.

When they reached the end of the hall, he said, “The master's room is on the left, the mistress's on the right, with a dressing area and connecting door between.” He opened the door on the right.

She stepped inside, and once more caught her breath. The left end of the long room was dominated by a massive, canopied four-poster bed, while the right end was a sitting area with a chaise longue, comfortable chairs, and other furniture. But what riveted her was the roses. Every table and bureau was covered by vases full of fragrant flowers, red and pink and white, the colors glowing in the light of a crackling wood fire. The scent was intoxicating.

Wonderingly she touched a crimson blossom. “Stephen, this is stunning. How on earth did you do it?”

“I'm rather good at arranging things.” He kissed her on the incredibly sensitive jointure of throat and shoulder. “The idea was natural: roses for my perfect rose.”

She swallowed hard, hoping he would never realize how imperfect she was. “The flowers are exquisite. But they'll be gone so swiftly.”

“That is much of why they are beautiful,” he said quietly.

Their gazes met for a charged moment. Even now, on their wedding night, it was impossible to escape intimations of mortality. But while he lived, she promised herself fiercely, they would wrench every moment of joy they could from the tempest of time.

Stephen sipped some wine from his goblet, his gaze on Rosalind, who sat on the opposite side of the round table. She'd brushed out her hair and left it hanging loose around her shoulders, the heavy sweep shimmering with dark gold and amber lights whenever she moved her head. Her suggestion to eat in her room had been inspired, for there was an intimacy here they would never have felt in the large dining room.

He'd asked for anticipation, and the fire-lit room was ripe with it. Every bite of food, every sip of wine, was enriched by the knowledge of how the meal would end.

He felt an absurd ambivalence about this wedding night. On the one hand, he wanted her with a fierce, unwavering hunger. He wanted to make love until they were sated, sleep the rest of the night with her in his arms, then wake and do it again.

Yet at the same time, he felt as awkward as a callow boy. Before his first marriage, he'd had the usual experiences of a wealthy young man, bedding several of London's finest courtesans with uncomplicated enjoyment.

That had ceased when he married. Not that Louisa would have reproached him for having mistresses; she had been raised to believe that a well-bred wife should not notice her husband's peccadilloes. But her pride would have been hurt, and there had been so little he could do for Louisa that he could not deny her his fidelity. Nor did he wish to follow in his father's promiscuous footsteps.

It had been difficult, at first, to restrict himself to a cold and unsatisfying marriage bed. On countless lonely, restless nights, he had yearned to lose himself in warm, willing female flesh. But in time he accepted the limits of his life. After all, he was not of a deeply passionate nature, nor did he expect doing the right thing to be easy.

At least, he'd thought he was not particularly passionate. Then he had met Rosalind. Making love to her had been the most intense, satisfying experience of his life. But that had been a swift tempest of sensation, over far too soon. He intended to make sure that it would be different tonight, and whatever other nights they might have.

How well would he be able to please Rosalind? She was a sensual, responsive woman, while he hadn't even seen a naked female body since he'd married Louisa. His first wife had found sex so distasteful that it must be done in the dark under blankets and nightclothes, and she'd recoiled whenever he had attempted anything but the most basic coupling. As a result, he was hardly a master of the subtle carnal arts.

Nor did he have much time to learn them. Though his hopes for a relatively good day had been answered, there was always pain to remind him of his failing body. He was losing strength, too. Only a little so far, but all too soon the day would come when he would be no use to Rosalind as a husband. She would not reproach him; she was too compassionate for that. But he had a powerful desire to leave her with some memories that no other man would be able to obliterate. That meant that he must discipline himself, make love to her slowly rather than with the fevered haste his body craved.

He smiled wryly at the thought of practicing discipline when he was already halfway to being mindless with desire. She still wore the magnificent Ophelia gown, and her cleavage was dazzling whenever she leaned forward. He had seen more of her in the hayloft than of Louisa in all their years of marriage. In fact, he was seeing more of her right now.

Not only was Rosalind irresistibly appealing, she'd been telling wonderful theatrical stories throughout the meal. Laying down her fork, she concluded, “Then the cat, which the stage manager had sworn was perfectly docile, woke up and pushed its head from the basket in the middle of the scene. Mama simply shoved it back and said very firmly, ‘Don't be such an ambitious pussy, this isn't
Dick Whittington
!'”

Stephen laughed. “I wish I'd seen that. Is there really a play about Dick Whittington and his cat?”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled. “It's not very good, but I have fond memories of playing the cat when I was little.”

He imagined her as a charming child equipped with tail and whiskers, and laughed again. Setting aside his wine, he sliced several small pieces of cheese from the chunk on the table. “Would you like some of this excellent Cheshire cheese?”

Rosalind gave him a lazy-lidded smile. “Yes, please.”

He leaned forward and fed her the piece. Her soft lips closed on his fingertips as she took the crumbly cheese. “Delicious,” she murmured. “Would you like some?”

“I believe I would.”

She lifted a slice and held it to his lips. Her fingers were slim and strong. He sucked them into his mouth, his tongue sensuously caressing.

She withdrew her hand slowly. “H-have you noticed how warm it is?”

“Shall I bank the fire?”

“I have a better idea.” She got to her feet and turned her back to him. “Since Jessica is not here to be my lady's maid, will you unlace my gown?”

Blood quickening, he stood and untied the bow at the top of the crisscrossed lacing. Even in her stocking feet, the top of her head reached his nose. He liked that she was tall and full-figured, not fragile, like Louisa.

Forget Louisa; comparisons were not fair to either woman. He began pulling the laces through the eyelets. “This is the loveliest wedding gown I've ever seen. Much too fine to be wasted on a watering pot like Ophelia.”

She chuckled. “I've always thought this costume fit for a queen. Or a duchess.”

As he undid the laces, the back of the gown fell open, revealing the elegant curve of her spine. The skin above her low-cut chemise was satin smooth, like warm cream.

She'd liked it earlier when he'd kissed her shoulder. He bent and lightly nipped her nape through the glossy veil of her hair. She made a small, breathy sigh and arched her neck. Wanting to hear that sound again, he trailed kisses along her throat and traced the rim of her ear with his tongue.

Her whole body quivered. “This…this is much nicer than having a lady's maid.”

“I aim to please, my dear duchess.” He loosened the rest of the laces, then pulled the gown down her arms.

She gave a ravishing shimmy to help free herself. The bodice and sleeves crumpled around her waist. His mouth dried as he drew the heavy silk downward over her ripe hips. The garment fell to the floor with a rich rustling sound, and she stood clad only in chemise, stockings, and the quilted cotton stays required by the clinging gown. He tugged the strap of her stays and the sleeve of her chemise from her right shoulder so that he could kiss the flawless flesh.

“I'm wearing less clothing, but feel even warmer than before,” she said with a ghost of laughter.

“Then you're still wearing too much.” The laces of her stays unfastened much more easily than those of the gown. He removed the dimity undergarment and caressed the supple arc of her waist. “Ah-h-h. Much better.”

She leaned back against him. Her aureoles were tantalizingly visible through the fine lawn fabric of her chemise, and her seductive personal scent twined through the heavier fragrance of the banked roses. God.
God
. Mouth dry, he cupped her breasts in his hands. They were a warm, sumptuous weight against his palms. She gave a shuddering sigh as he caressed them.

“Have we spent enough time anticipating?” she asked throatily, underlining her words by wriggling her round buttocks against him. His groin tightened.

No
. There would be so few nights like this. But she was right that the room was too warm. He stepped away and peeled off his coat. He was wondering whether to also remove his embroidered waistcoat when Rosalind turned and began to unbutton it. “My turn, Your Grace,” she said with a teasing smile.

She released the last button and removed the garment, tossing it over her shoulder to land on the chaise longue that stood at right angles to the fireplace. Then she skimmed her hands over his shoulders and chest. His heart quickened and small jolts of sensation followed the track of her touch.

As she began to untie his cravat, her gaze went over him admiringly. “If you hadn't the misfortune to be a duke, you could have had a grand career in the theater playing dashing heroes and causing ladies in the audience to faint with longing.” She dropped the length of crumpled fabric and caressed his neck with cool fingers.

He caught her hand and kissed the palm. “I've no desire to impress nameless ladies in a hypothetical audience. It's enough if I interest you.”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes hazy with desire. “You do, Stephen. More than anyone I've ever known.”

Her lips were luxuriantly full, absurdly erotic. He leaned forward into a kiss. She tasted of the fine French wine they'd drunk. Sweetly tangy. Intoxicating.

His attention concentrated on the endless, drugging kiss, he scarcely noticed as she tugged his shirttails loose and unbuttoned the fall of his breeches. Then she caressed the heavy length of his erection through the fabric of his drawers.

He went rigid, blood pounding through his veins, blinding him to everything but the touch of her hand and his raw need. The bed was too far away, at the opposite end of the room. Urgently he swept her up and carried her the two steps to the chaise longue, laying her on the worn brocade and coming down beside her as he succumbed to madness. How many times would they be together like this? His life and passion were like a candle in the dark, swiftly burning away until nothing would remain. How often would he feel the silk of her tawny hair? Smell her entrancing, mysteriously female scent? Taste the salt of her skin? How many more times would his blood burn in a red rage that only she could quench?

He pulled her chemise down, and his mouth descended on her left breast. Her choked moan was ambrosia, an aphrodisiac that made him suck harder as the nipple stiffened against his tongue.

“Stephen. Oh, Lord, Stephen.” She caught handfuls of his hair with ragged kneading motions that matched the roughness of her breathing.

He lifted the hem of her chemise above her knees. Her stockings were secured by garters embroidered with red rosebuds. He untied the bow of the right one with a jerk of his teeth. The garter fell away, but his mouth stayed. He licked her inner thigh, feeling the pulse of her smooth flesh beneath his tongue.

The soft hair between her thighs was darker than the hair on her head, a demure chestnut. She gave a startled squeak when he exhaled warm breath into the gentle curls. But there was pleasure in that surprise. Pleasure, and eagerness. With a heady sense of power, he kissed the concealed cleft, sliding his tongue into the slick, succulent folds below. She cried out and arched her hips, pushing into the rhythmic strokes of his tongue.

He felt the increasing tremors in her body and was prepared when her hips heaved convulsively. He stayed with her, stimulating her heated flesh until her contractions had faded and her body wilted against the cushioned chaise.

He rested his head on her belly as he caught his breath. Her hand drifted over the disordered waves of his hair. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “I had no idea….”

There was a long moment of mutual stillness. Then, shaking with tension, he wrenched his clothing open and mounted her, spreading her legs with his thighs. His excitement was almost unbearable as he pushed into her. Heat surrounded him, silken and welcoming.

She gasped and her eyes widened. Then she drew her right knee up against the back of the chaise while her left leg dropped to the floor, opening herself as her arms slid around his waist to lock him close. Her hips began moving against him. He thrust into her again and again as pleasure washed over him in hot, mad waves. Rising. Soaring…

Crashing in jagged ecstasy. He pressed his cheek to hers, groaning helplessly at the intensity of a climax that came swiftly and lasted long. Death and transfiguration.

He sagged against her, his exhausted body throbbing as he struggled for breath. When he could move, he pushed himself up on one elbow and studied her flushed face. Tawny ringlets clung to her forehead, and her eyes were languorous with satisfaction. The sight gave him equal satisfaction. Though he might not be an expert lover, he had managed to please her while finding shattering ecstasy for himself.

He kissed her temple. “I can't believe that I did that again,” he said ruefully. “I had such good intentions of taking my time and celebrating every inch of you.”

“Does it count that I celebrated every inch of you?” she said naughtily.

He laughed as he lifted himself away and sat on the edge the chaise. The crumpled folds of chemise did more to reveal than conceal her lovely body. “You are the most deliciously wicked woman I've ever known.”

Her face froze, and he realized that he'd made a mistake. She must think his words were an allusion to her actress past. He touched her face, brushing the damp curls from her forehead. “That was entirely a compliment,” he said softly. “Having too often been staid, I treasure your openness. Your responsiveness.”

Her expression eased, but unselfconsciousness was gone. She tugged at her chemise, covering her breasts and pulling the hem down over her knees.

He extinguished the candles, leaving the room lit only by firelight, then offered his hand. She rose and took his hand, and they crossed the room. When they reached the bed, he turned and put his hands on her shoulders. Though desire was satisfied for now, he still loved looking at her—and would like to see even more.

A gentleman would respect her modesty, but a man who was running out of time could not afford such a luxury. He slid his hands slowly down her arms to her waist, then caught the folds of chemise. “May I?”

A little shyly she nodded. He tugged the garment over her head. Then he knelt and untied her remaining garter—this time with his fingers—and rolled down her stockings. Her calves and ankles were delightfully shapely against his palms.

He stood, feasting his eyes. Freed from the tyranny of clothing, she was magnificent. Made for love, to give and receive pleasure. “You are beautiful,” he said huskily. “Terribly, heartbreakingly beautiful.”