The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (19 page)

“Spencer Joscelin, the third Baron Dillwood,” she supplied, doing her best to sound as nonchalant as he did, although it was hard to maintain a casual tone when he was so near to her. “I understand he wasn’t overly fond of sitting for his portrait. It’s the only one of him as an adult.”

Chestleton looked at the portrait a bit longer, before moving them on. “Then I expect he did not always wear that particular expression.”

“Oh, no!” Araminta found herself giggling unexpectedly, though it sounded just a bit hysterical. “No. In fact, I am given to understand, Lord Chestleton, that the third baron was quite a disreputable figure in his day.”

“Was he?” murmured Chestleton. His voice was a caress. She realised that they were quickly nearing her room.

“I believe he was quite fond of the married ladies at court, and they were certainly fond of him.”

“He sounds quite the vagabond. I daresay the husbands objected.”

“He died in a duel before his fortieth year… So I expect they did.”

They were outside her room now, and her voice trailed away into breathlessness as she met his shadowed eyes, which smouldered down at her. She suddenly realised just how close to her he was standing: much too close for any semblance of propriety, should a servant happen upon them. But it was late at night and she was sure all the upstairs staff had already retired to their beds — at least, she hoped they had.

Araminta found that she couldn’t speak and she couldn’t breathe. She felt as if her skin were on fire at his proximity, every nerve tingling. He was looking at her as if he would devour her with his very eyes.
Not so unaffected then,
she thought with a giddy rush, both flattered and abashed by his obvious desire for her.

She returned the intense look on his face with one of her own, ignoring the alarm that was tolling in her mind, urging her to flee and lock her door behind her, reminding her of duty and purity, and other concerns that suddenly seemed to belong to someone else.
Just for tonight
, she decided,
that woman does not exist
.

He was scanning her face to gauge her reaction, and apparently he found what he had been looking for, because in the next instant, Chestleton’s sensuous mouth descended on hers, and at the first brush of soft flesh, all reason was lost.

It was as if the world had exploded in flashes of glorious light and colour. As Chestleton’s demanding mouth pressed hard against hers, Araminta clung to him desperately, her small hands clutching at the lapels of his coat.

She responded to his kiss impatiently and wantonly, all thoughts of propriety and modesty forgotten as she gave in to the passions she had attempted to deny for so long. Araminta parted her lips to allow his skilful tongue entry. He pushed her into the heavy door behind her, eliciting a surprised squeak from her kiss-swollen lips as his own charted a path across her jaw and down towards her collar bone. He pressed her soft body shamelessly against his hard, muscular one, and Araminta felt her knees give way. If one of his steely arms had not shot out around her waist to pull her tighter against him while pinning her to the door, she was sure she would not have been able to remain upright.

She gasped at the new sensations that were pulsing through her every nerve ending. She had never imagined, never even dreamed, that a simple kiss could feel like this.

One of his hands turned the door handle, and they both stumbled inside, where there was no chance of being discovered in their moment of forbidden passion.

Chestleton broke another kiss to look at Araminta’s face, her eyes aglow and her face flushed with desire. She looked unearthly and ravishing in the pale orange glow of the fire that provided the only light in the room, like some pagan goddess of debauchery, all hints of the prim English rose utterly vanished.

It was as if all the pent up desire he had been suppressing was unleashed at once, and he was momentarily afraid of the consequences of letting himself go. He had to have her. He had waited for this moment for much too long, and finally all his efforts had come to fruition!

Her mouth curved in shy invitation, and his sense of reason was washed away in a flood of yearning as he took her delicate frame in his arms yet again.

There was little gentleness in his kiss, Araminta noticed, as he pressed his lips against hers once more with a passion that bordered on ferocity. He was like a dam breaking free, like a hurricane of carnality sweeping her up along with him. She knew that she was lost. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she was overcome by a need she had no words to explain or understand. All she was sure of was that the marquis was the only man in the world who could ever satisfy it. She wondered if this was what it was like to be seduced by a demon.

She made no protest as his strong fingers began to unlace the top of her gown, pushing the collar down, so that more pale flesh was revealed to his feasting eyes. Her perfect bosom, held up in the short corset which could be glimpsed under her silky chemise, was heaving as she gasped for breath. One of his hands lifted to stroke the swell of flesh reverently, his touch feather-light.

Fumbling with the buttons on his elegant woollen frockcoat, her nimble fingers wasted no time in pushing it off his shoulders, so that he stood before her in his embroidered silk waist coat and shirt sleeves. For some reason, this sight made her more abashed than any of their previous touching. She had never seen a man in just his shirt sleeves before, and the intimacy of it left her breath constricted in her throat.

Chestleton was mere seconds away from picking her up, tearing off the rest of her ridiculously modest gown and having his way with her over and over, until her eyes no longer appeared in his dreams and her delicate scent of lavender and honeysuckle no longer drove him insane with lust. He was consumed by the thought of her pliant, soft body entwined with his, her dark hair spread across his pillow as she called his name for all the house to hear… But the shy appraisal, followed by a trusting invitation, stopped him cold, more effectively than a bucket of ice water could ever have done. His desire was instantly suffused by guilt, though it still pulsed with the most predatory of urges. The Marquis of Chestleton had not felt guilt in a long time, and he did not like it. Mentally he cursed her trusting, innocent eyes, so willing to offer him things she could not even begin to understand.

Araminta watched him in confusion, breathing hard, as he stepped away from her. “We must stop, Miss Barrington.” He told her. Instantly, he read the confusion and hurt on her flushed face. Regretting his brusqueness, he felt another stab of guilt — it seemed that no matter what he did he ended up hurting the beautiful rose before him.

“I…I don’t understand,” she stammered, making an attempt to pull her gown up, only to have it slip back off her slim shoulders. He had instigated the kiss, and she had no doubt in her mind that his desire matched, indeed,
exceeded
hers. Had she done something wrong? Had she offended him in some way? Perhaps she had been too forward in her enjoyment of his honeyed kisses.

He did not know why this woman affected him so, why he suddenly felt like such a cad for seducing her, and then for hurting her feelings by changing his mind. Jasper Devereaux had never had qualms about being a cad before. But something about the girl before him had changed that, had changed everything. He knew only one thing, Araminta Barrington was nothing if not a woman of quality and integrity, and he could not treat her like a common strumpet.

Shaking his head gently, he approached her, and took her small, beautiful hands in his big ones. She appeared to be shaking, though now it was from hurt or embarrassment rather than passion.

“Miss Barrington, I am very flattered, and just now, I fear I am very close to continuing where we left off, but I fear it wouldn’t be at all the thing. You deserve much more than to throw away your honour on a night of passion.”

Araminta stared in incomprehension until his words registered. He was concerned for her honour. He, a notorious rogue! Could it be that deeper feelings lay beneath his amorous advances than even he was willing to admit?

She surprised him by smiling, and extricating one hand to run it along his cheek. He found himself instinctually leaning into her touch.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, looking deep into his eyes, which were the colour of storm clouds. “Thank you, Lord Chestleton.”
For protecting me, for thinking of me, and perhaps
— and she barely allowed herself to think the words —
for loving me.
She quickly scooped his coat off the floor, stroking the expensive fabric pensively, and he looked away so as not to indulge in another glance at the beautiful curves of her body which were still on display.

He nodded briskly without acknowledging her thanks. He had certainly done neither of them any favours. With an inexplicable, sinking, feeling in the pit of his stomach he realised that she must have been thanking him for stopping her from throwing herself way on one lurid encounter with him.

“I will bid you good night, then.” With a polite bow, for all the world as if they had been chatting at a dinner party, rather than standing half-dressed in her room after a very salacious series of kisses. Now she had the feeling that
his
feelings had somehow been hurt. She watched his strong frame retreat to the door, coat still in hand. The white shirt only served to emphasise his broad shoulders and trim waist, and she was hard-pressed to imagine a more perfect embodiment of masculinity.

“Lord Chestleton,” she called softly, as he stood in the doorway. “My favours were freely given, and I don’t believe that I would have considered continuing what we had begun throwing myself away, not with you.”

Before her common sense could protest her rashness, she crossed the room and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, which was beginning to be roughened by stubble. Chestleton froze, and looked down at her. His eyes were again unreadable, but he captured her hand and placed a sensuous kiss on the back of it, his lips barely brushing her skin.

“Then perhaps we will continue at a more suitable time. Good night, Miss Barrington.” With those words, he was gone, leaving Araminta staring breathlessly at the door as his words raced through her mind over and over again. She did not know what he had meant by
a more suitable time
, but the implication that there
would
be another time suffused her with hope that he would soon permit himself to return the soft feelings that had lately began to develop in her.

Brushing out her hair, and putting on her night dress over the corset that she realised she could not unlace without assistance, she flushed at her own brazenness, her eyes sparkling at her reflection. She remembered the feel of his hot mouth against her flesh, the searing kisses and the strange sensations he had awakened within her, and Araminta’s hand flew to her rosy mouth to stifle a giggle as she remembered her wantonness.

She could only imagine how horrified her Aunt Worthing or Harriet would be, if they ever somehow got wind of her behaving in such a manner. She knew that perhaps she should be feeling ashamed at having behaved in a way so ill-suited to a lady. And yet, the only emotion she felt was a delicious bashfulness and a soaring feeling in her heart, which skipped every time her thoughts strayed back to the virile marquis who had captured her heart.

Araminta was not as surprised by the realisation that she had somehow fallen in love with Jasper Devereaux as she knew she ought to have been. Perhaps she had been aware of her growing love even as she had tried to deny it, so that now that it had come to the fore in a way that was entirely undeniable, she found she was not surprised.

Whatever the circumstances, in love with him she was, and tonight’s encounter could not help but stir up the suspicion, the faintest, glimmering, hope, that he returned her affections.

***

“Miss Barrington?” a tentative voice spoke above her, waking Araminta up from a deep and pleasant slumber.

Long dark lashes fluttered open, and the young woman looked sleepily into Lucy’s apologetic face. By the brightness in the room, Araminta assumed that the maid had taken initiative to draw the curtains.

“Good morning, Lucy,” she greeted brightly, pulling herself into a sitting position. “But you look so very flustered. Is anything the matter?” Araminta thought of the revelations of the previous night and felt sure that nothing at all could ever possibly hope to spoil such a lovely morning as this promised to be.

“Oh, no, Miss. I am only sorry to have to wake you, but I thought you might like some breakfast. You do not usually sleep in quite so late, and Mrs Becker thought it best to check on you.”

“Check on me? Oh dear, have I slept very late?”

“It is half eleven, Miss.”

“So late as that!” exclaimed the young woman, hurrying out of bed and startling the young maid further. “But then I have missed breakfast.” She was sure that she had missed seeing Chestleton over his coffee and paper. She had so looked forward to the time spent quietly together over breakfast, and this breakfast, following the previous night, was to be like no other.

“There is breakfast waiting for you in the morning room, Miss. Cook has been waiting for you to come down.”

“Then we must hurry. Come Lucy, I need you to help me dress.”

Araminta wondered what Chestleton had made of her absence at breakfast. For a dreadful moment of panic, she wondered if perhaps he had taken it as a sign of regret at what had passed between them the previous night, and felt anxious to find and reassure him.

It wouldn’t do to hint of her inner turmoil to any of Chestleton’s household, however, and so she was careful to maintain an impassive appearance as she had her breakfast muffins and tea. Her hands were perfectly steady, even as a storm of impatience raged within her.

Araminta waited for a footman to come and collect her breakfast things before rising to seek out Lord Chestleton. He was not in the library or the music room, and a more detailed search revealed that he was also absent from his private study and a number of sitting rooms. She was not so bold as to go in search of his bedroom, and wondered how else she might find out where he was.