One Perfect Rose (20 page)

She swallowed, her smooth throat flexing. “You make me feel as if I really am.”

“Never doubt that, Rosalind.” He helped her onto the canopied bed. Then he removed his own clothing, very aware that, even though his illness had left no outward marks, he was thinner than he should be. Apparently vanity was another unsuspected vice. Well, his appearance would get no better than it was now, so he'd better bury vanity. He climbed into bed. “I'm tired, but I don't want the day to end so soon.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Rosalind took his hand as he lay down on his side, propping his head up so he could watch her. The room really was warm, so by mutual consent they left the turned-down counterpane at the foot of the bed and relaxed on the cool sheets, their hands loosely clasped.

She loved looking at her new mate, his long bones and the clean definition of muscles. The elegant patterns of dark hair that dusted his chest and arrowed down his torso. The sheer masculinity that had no need to prove anything to anyone.

It had been an evening of surprises, beginning with the revelation of her own capacity for passion. While she and Charles had enjoyed a healthy marital relationship, their couplings had been uncomplicated and ended quickly with him rolling over and going to sleep. While she sometimes found satisfaction, too often she had lain awake and stared into the darkness until her frustrated longings faded away. A single night of marriage had shown her that Stephen was a more generous, and more imaginative, lover.

The companionability of lying together unabashedly nude felt right. Comfortable. “There's an old term for being naked,” she murmured. “Sky clad. Isn't that pretty?”

“Sky clad,” he repeated. “I like that. It suits you to be bare. A pity you can't be like this all the time, but in the English climate it just isn't practical.” His tone became wry. “Nor would I want any other man seeing you like this.”

She thought of her unrespectable past. “Do you mind that I've played breeches parts in front of audiences all over the West Midlands?”

“How can I object to what you did before I met you? Although…” He hesitated. “It's really none of my business, but was there ever anyone else besides Jordan?”

“Any lovers, you mean? Never.” She rolled her eyes. “There was no shortage of men interested in bedding an actress, especially one with a rather overabundant figure. But there's nothing like being grabbed by an ale-scented oaf after a tiring performance to make one lose interest in the local swains.”

“You are not overabundant.” He pulled a long-stemmed rose from a bedside vase and gently stroked the undercurve of her breast with the blossom. “You are perfect exactly as you are.”

She laughed, enjoying the cool slide of the petals against her skin and the subtle fragrance that wafted from the blossom, a scent distinct from the massed floral arrangements. “I'm reasonably attractive, which is useful for an actress, particularly one of no special talent, like me. But perfect? Hardly.” Since he'd raised the subject of the past himself, she looked away and asked, “Were there many other women for you?”

She immediately regretted the question. Men with Stephen's power and wealth had access to the most beautiful women in England, both courtesans and the amoral wives of their own rank. From what she knew of the nobility, most would take advantage of such opportunities, and Stephen seemed to be a man of strong appetites.

To her surprise, he replied, “Not since before my first marriage. I had no taste for adultery, and after Louisa's death I…I suppose I wasn't in the mood to find a mistress.”

So he had loved his first wife that much. Rosalind recognized wryly that she might have preferred for him to admit to a string of dazzling conquests. Lord, she was a fool. He was hers, for now, and she could ask no more. She said simply, “I'm glad.”

He trailed the rose silkily to her other breast. “I must have known deep down that something better was waiting. Or rather, someone.”

“You have a gift for romantic words,” she said, distracted by the way he teased her nipple with the flower, causing it to tighten with tingling pleasure.

He chuckled. “Only if honesty is romantic.”

The rose dipped into her navel, then began gliding over her abdomen in lazy patterns. Lulled by the suede-like softness, she murmured, “It's ironic that we would never have married if not for your illness.” She stopped abruptly, wondering if she'd committed a horrid faux pas by mentioning his condition, then decided it would be best to continue. “If you'd seen me onstage, you wouldn't have given me a second thought.”

“Not true,” he protested, tracing the supple angles between abdomen and thigh. “You caught my attention as soon as you removed your Caliban head. I'd have gone to the stage door and joined the ale-scented oafs if we'd been in London, and”—he stopped, then said lamely—“and things were different.”

His words hung awkwardly in the air, casting a damper on their mood. Her first impulse was to introduce another subject, but then she realized that this would happen again. Carefully she said, “Your illness is like…like having an elephant in the room. Enormous, impossible to forget, always there. I don't know how to talk of it. I'm not sure either of us do.” She searched his eyes, trying to read his expression. “Do you prefer that I pretend you're not ill, Stephen? Or shall I speak of your condition matter-of-factly, like winter or taxes or some other regrettable subject that can't be ignored?”

His face went very still. It was so silent that she could hear the brush of rose petals against her skin before he repeated, “An elephant in the room. It's like that, isn't it? Both of us tiptoeing around the fact of my impending death as if we're on eggs.” He continued stroking her with the flower as he thought. “I think I prefer honesty. In fact, I know that I do. There isn't enough time to waste even a moment of it watching our words.”

Her intense relief made her realize how much she had been unconsciously worried about saying the wrong thing. “You are really a remarkable man.”

“Me?” he said with surprise. “The most remarkable thing about me is that I chose my ancestors well.”

She laughed. “You actually believe that, don't you? Trust me, as one who has seen men from all stations of life, and not always at their best, I can say with certainty that you would be remarkable no matter what ancestors you'd picked.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I'm glad you think so.”

The rose rolled along the juncture of her thighs with velvety intimacy. She caught her breath as light enjoyment intensified into something more.

He paused. “Sorry, am I tickling you?”

“Not in an unpleasant way,” she said a little breathlessly as the embers of desire stirred deep within her. “But I'm surprised to feel this way again, so soon after…after what we just did.”

“Interesting. I was thinking the same thing about myself,” he murmured. The head of the rose nudged the soft curls between her legs, cool against her warmth.

“This is absurd—who ever heard of being seduced by a flower?” she said with a laugh that was half amusement and half embarrassment.

“If we looked, I'm sure we could find a Greek legend where Zeus took the form of a sunflower in order to pursue a nymph,” Stephen said with mock seriousness. “Or perhaps—a turnip?”

“The king of gods, a turnip? Surely not,” she protested with a laugh. Her eyes drifted shut, intensifying the effect of his sensual stroking. Her legs separated and the petals danced over her intimately, delicately erotic. Blood began drumming through her most secret places. She pulsed her hips restlessly, wanting a pressure and fullness a flower could not provide.

Then the phantom touch of the rose vanished. Her eyes snapped open. “Wicked man! Or should I say wicked flower? You can't stop now!”

“I don't intend to. But this time, you can do the work.”

He drew her close and pulled her on top of him. He was as ready as she. Though she'd never made love like this before, the theory seemed straightforward enough. She raised herself on her knees and clasped him. Then, savoring every fractional inch of movement, she lowered herself on the heated length of his shaft until he filled her. Experimentally she tightened her internal muscles.

He gasped, and his hands went to her hips. “Now who's wicked?”

She laughed aloud and let her head rest on his shoulder as her hips slowly rolled against his. This was different from the frantic need of their earlier encounters, a sensual haze that suffused her entire body rather than concentrating in one spot. She liked that she controlled the tempo. That she could feel the acceleration of his heart when she teased him with a provocative thrust of her hips. Most of all, she loved the mutual awareness between them, a flowing into each other's beings that was very different from the violent passion they had shared earlier, yet equally profound.

Languor slowly became urgency until she was clinging to his shoulders, marking him with her nails as she ground frantically against him. When she cried out, he made a guttural sound, his arms locking around her waist as he surged convulsively inside her.

Their sweat-slicked bodies gradually relaxed. He began caressing her, his palm warm on the small of her back. Neither made a move to separate. She wanted to stay this close, their bodies intertwined, forever.

As she drifted into sleep, she felt tears sting her eyes that this harrowing beauty of love would soon vanish like the rose.

Day Fifty-four

Stephen awoke early, Rosalind curled against him and her arm across his chest. Rain spatted against the window, and pearly dawn light showed the fan of her tangled hair over his shoulder. He petted her head very gently. She sighed and snuggled closer.

Vastly content, he thought about the previous day. It had been almost perfect, apart from one moderate attack of pain, and his wedding night had stunned his senses. Now, selfishly, he wanted another such day. Another such night. Another such morning of waking with Rosalind in his arms and feeling utter peace. Surely today would be as good as yesterday. Better.

He drowsed, waking again to find the sky lighter and the rain over. Rosalind slept on. The mark of a good conscience, he assumed. He brimmed with energy, too much so to stay in bed. Briefly he thought about waking her so they could make love again, but a considerate man would let his new wife sleep—and gather strength for later.

Deciding to take a walk, he slid carefully from Rosalind's embrace and began to dress. She rolled toward where he had been, her arm going around his indented pillow. She was as relaxed as a kitten, and ten times more charming.

The thought reminded him of Portia, who had happily curled up in her box after being fed the evening before. She was snoozing still, so he picked up the small warm body and laid her beside Rosalind. The kitten yawned hugely, then went back to sleep.

He hadn't taken his medication the night before. Not an accident; he had not wanted to risk drowsiness from opium. From now on he would shift the time of his daily pill from night to morning.

He swallowed a pill and dressed, then jotted a note to Rosalind and left it on the bedside table. Her sleeping face and bare arms were so lovely that he stripped the petals from a pink rose and scattered them over his bride and her kitten. Portia opened her eyes and batted at a falling petal. Then she rolled onto her back with her paws in the air.

Donning his greatcoat, he went downstairs. It was still early and there was no sign of the Nylands. Outside the air was chilly with autumn and the sky overcast, only a few shades lighter than the iron sea. The tide was in, covering most of the sandy estuary, so he stayed on the low bluff that overlooked the water and headed north toward the Irish Sea. His skin tingled from the wind, and he felt intensely alive. Could passion be a cure for his illness? He laughed. That would be a shock for sober George Blackmer.

His exhilaration lasted for a mile or so. Because of the biting sea winds, there were no buildings this close to the shore, except for an ancient stone chapel that had served a long-vanished fishing village. He enjoyed the solitude. It was a new pleasure, one he'd only really discovered since leaving Ashburton Abbey and its army of servants.

He had almost reached the chapel when brutal pain sliced his throat and belly with a suddenness that made him stagger. He lurched to a wind-warped tree and clung to it, retching, his stomach too empty to bring up much. Then he pressed his forehead to the tree trunk, rough bark the sole reality in a world of devouring agony.

Slowly the pain ebbed to endurable levels, leaving him too weak to walk and shaking with cold. He turned and leaned against the trunk, fighting weakness and despair. His hands and feet were numb except for a faint, ominous tingling. Would paralysis render him helpless even before death?
Christ
. How could he have believed, even for a moment, that there was hope?

Unable to face the walk back to Kirby Manor, he lurched the hundred yards to the chapel. Luckily the heavy door was unlocked. He entered the dim sanctuary and slumped into the last of the oak pews. Though the air was stone cold, at least he was out of the wind.

Since the chapel stood on Kirby Manor land, Stephen paid for its maintenance. In fact, he remembered vaguely, he'd recently received a request from a group of Methodists to be allowed to use the chapel for services. It had been merely one of the constant stream of letters and requests that came to the Duke of Ashburton. He'd granted permission readily, for buildings needed to be used, even if only by a group of dissenters. The congregation had sent a letter of surprised, fervent gratitude. He'd been briefly pleased, then promptly forgot the matter.

His gaze went over the ancient leaded glass windows and came to rest on the plain altar, which held only a brass cross. It appeared that the Methodists had cleaned the interior and whitewashed the old stone walls but had not yet started worshiping here. A year from now, the chapel would probably have a welcoming air even when empty. Now it had the bleakness of a tomb.

Every morning his first waking thought was of the number of days he had left, but he was beginning to doubt that he would survive even the ninety Blackmer had originally granted him. How many days would he have after this one? Forty-five? Thirty? God, surely he would have at least another month with Rosalind.

But what kind of month would it be? And why was he invoking the name of God when he had no faith? His mouth twisted with bitterness. Even here, in a church that had probably watched the Viking longboats sail into the Dee, he felt no holy presence, no comfort, no sense of divine plan.

His depression was swept away by a surge of rage. It damned well wasn't fair that he should find happiness for the first time in his life, then be so swiftly jerked away to the loneliness of the grave.
It wasn't fair!

For the first time in many years, the infamous Kenyon temper scorched through him. He wanted to smash and destroy, punish life's essential injustice. The force of his feelings left him dizzy and gasping for breath. He crossed his arms on the back of the pew in front of him and rested his head as he struggled for control.

And underneath the red rage, he felt the cold, insistent beat of fear.

 

Rosalind woke when someone punched her in the stomach. Her eyes opened just in time to see a black-and-orange streak bound from the bed. Portia. She grinned as the kitten ricocheted from the chaise toward one of the chairs. Clearly Portia had recovered from the trip and had energy to burn.

But where was Stephen? She pushed herself upright, feeling rather decadent for having slept without a nightgown. There were rose petals all around her, a silent gift from her new husband. She lifted one and brushed it against her check, thinking about what he'd done with a rose the night before. That made her feel even more decadent.

Seeing a piece of paper on the bedside table, she reached for it and read, “Gone for a walk. Back soon. Whom shall we have for breakfast? S.”

At that she blushed outright and slid from the bed. With the fire burned out, the room was cold, so she washed and dressed swiftly. Then she made her way to the kitchen and begged a cup of tea from a flustered Mrs. Nyland, who wasn't used to duchesses in her domain.

Stephen still hadn't returned by the time Rosalind finished her tea, so she decided to go for a walk herself. She threw on her cloak and went outside. Surely he had decided to walk along the shore, and probably toward the north and the beckoning stretch of open sea. On the other side lay Ireland. Far beyond, the New World and its mysteries. An irresistible prospect.

She enjoyed the walk despite the raw, overcast weather, but there was no sign of Stephen. He must have chosen a different direction. When she reached the small church on the headland, she would turn back to Kirby Manor. He'd probably be waiting for her.

The chapel stood sturdily against the harsh wind, a testament to the skills of its builders. On impulse she tried the door. It opened easily under her hand. She stepped into the austere sanctuary, then stopped at the sight of a dark, familiar figure slumped in the last pew. Her blood froze. Dear God, Stephen couldn't be…couldn't be…

Before the horrifying thought had fully formed in her mind, he lifted his head and saw her. For a stark moment their gazes held. He must have had another attack, a bad one, for his eyes were a flat, lifeless gray and he looked twenty years older than the night before. Almost worse, she sensed that emotionally he had moved a great distance away, as if he were on the opposite side of a bottomless chasm that she could never cross.

The thought was almost as frightening as her fear when she first entered. Praying that her intuition was wrong, she pushed her hood back on her shoulders and moved forward with a bright smile. “Good morning. I decided to walk, too, in hopes of running into you.” She sat in the pew next to him and took his hand.

His gaze went to the altar, and his fingers rested unresponsive in her clasp. Her heart sank. The night before, they had agreed on dealing with each other honestly, and she'd broken that resolve within hours.

Perhaps he'd hardly heard her inane comment, for when he spoke, it was to ask bleakly, “Rosalind, are you afraid of dying?”

If ever Stephen needed honesty, it was now. “I'm afraid of pain,” she said slowly. “And because I enjoy life and don't want to die, I suppose one could say I'm afraid of dying. Yet oddly, I'm not afraid of death itself.”

“Why not? Do you believe in heaven and hell? Winged angels and nasty little demons with pitchforks?” he asked, his voice sardonic.

“I…I don't know.” She sighed, aware that she was failing him. “I wish I had better answers, but I'm afraid that I've never thought too much about religion.”

His mouth curved in a humorless smile. “I find myself thinking a great deal about such matters these days.”

“It sounds as if your thoughts are not satisfying ones,” she said quietly.

“Religion is a fraud, I think. Designed to offer hope to those whose lives are miserable.” His lips tightened. “Fool's gold, and fit only for fools.”

“I don't agree,” she protested. “Many wise men and women have been believers. I think the world is too grand and complicated a place to have occurred by chance.”

He raised their joined hands and kissed her knuckles. “Bring me the proof that there is more to life than what we see around us, Rosalind, and I'll be eternally grateful.” He smiled faintly. “No pun intended.”

She pressed his hand to her cheek, fighting back tears. The night before, the passion between them had been incandescent, so full of life that it had seemed eternal. This morning the mark of death was on him.

He released her hand and got to his feet. “You're shaking with cold. Time to take you home to a warm fire.”

She nodded and slid from the pew. When he started to follow, he lurched and had to grab the back of the pew for balance. Horrified, she said, “You aren't well, Stephen. I'll go to the manor and get the carriage to take you there.”

“
No!
” He straightened, his expression fierce. “I'm fine.”

“You're not!” she retorted, not wanting to go against his wishes but painfully aware of his weakness. “Wait here. I'll be back with the coachman in half an hour.”

His gaze turned to ice. “Marriage was a mistake,” he said harshly. “We had a perfect day together. Go back to your family, and remember me as I was yesterday.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You're sending me away the day after our wedding?”

“Don't worry. I shall fulfill the financial promises I made.” He flexed his free hand absently, unable to make a tight fist. “Do you want Kirby Manor? You seem to like it. Since it's not part of the Ashburton entail, I can leave it to you outright, along with the income to maintain it.”

Rosalind was an expert at suppressing anger, but not this time. “How dare you!” she exploded. “Did you think that I married you only for your damned money? If you ever suggest such a thing again, you'll be meeting your maker much sooner than you planned.” Tears began spilling down her cheeks. She wiped at them furiously. “Oh, the devil take you, Stephen. What have I done to make you want to get rid of me?”

After a moment of appalled silence, he stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms so tightly that her ribs hurt. “Damnation. I'm sorry, Rosalind,” he said painfully. “The fault is not with you. It's just that…I loathe the idea of you seeing me deteriorate. I told myself I could bear that, but the closer the reality comes, the more hateful I find it.”

She hid her face against his shoulder. He was so solid. So much a part of her, even though six weeks ago she'd never met him. When she was sure her voice would be steady, she said, “Didn't you listen to the wedding vows we took? For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part. I knew what I was doing when I agreed to marry you, just as you did when you asked. Don't let an episode of pain make you forget that.” She tilted her head back and glared at him. “Besides, there has to be some kind of rule that says you can't tell a duchess what to do.”

“You're taking to the imperious manner very well.” A spark of levity showed in his eyes before his expression sobered again. “I want to have you with me. Very much so. But I'm not sure if my pride or sense of justice can stand it.”

“What about my pride?” she said with self-mocking humor. “I'll never live it down if I get tossed out by my second husband after a single night: It took my first husband six months to become bored with me.” Her voice broke, and suddenly tears were welling up in her eyes. She hid her face again, hoping Stephen wouldn't notice, but he was too perceptive.

“Jordan's infidelity hurt more than you let anyone see, didn't it?” he said softly.

She nodded. “If my parents had realized how upset I was, holy hell would have broken out in the troupe. My father might have murdered Charles. Certainly he would have thrown him out of the troupe, and I'd have had to choose between going with him like a dutiful wife or staying with my family. So I covered up Charles's escapades the best I could and pretended that his behavior didn't bother me. I thought that in time it would become easier to bear. Instead, it became harder and harder. I was relieved when he went to Ireland. Relieved-and then horribly guilty when he was killed.”