One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  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 car
ried 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.”

  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 b
eautiful 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?”