Fear stabbed through Paris, along with guilt at his selfishness, his callousness. Close in age, close in temperament, he and Cami had always been prone either to squabble or to conspire. A year ago—less—he’d insulted her about Ashborough’s intentions. Thinking to divide them from one another, he’d separated himself from her instead. He’d cut off his nose to spite his face, as the saying went. And as a result, he’d been missing her as he’d miss a part of himself.
But he was here now. Did he mean to squander this chance? If he did, and something happened to Cami, it might mean he’d go on missing her forever…
He put an arm around Erica’s shoulders. She was frightened too, he realized. She’d never had much luck at hiding her feelings, though she tried, even now, to muster a smile. “I should think he would have learned by now that nothing will stop our Cam,” he reassured her. “She’d survive anything for the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so’ to the person who said she wouldn’t.”
The curve of Erica’s lips strengthened. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
Then, because Erica never could sit still for long, she freed herself, leaped to her feet, and strode to the window overlooking the garden. She might be the Duchess of Raynham, but she was still a little wild thing at heart.
Which reminded him… “Whatever became of that hedgehog you found and kept as a pet?” he asked.
She turned away from the window with a puzzled expression at the turn in the conversation. “Henry persuaded me to let it go. He said it deserved its freedom. I figured he knew a thing or two about that.”
Paris let himself marvel at her for a moment. Had he imagined her unchanged? In some ways, perhaps. But the Erica he’d thought he knew would have gotten flustered in the attempt to take him to task and looked to Cami to set him straight instead. Today, Erica had managed just fine on her own. She still radiated energy—perhaps the difference now was that she made no attempt to hide it. Somewhere in the last few months, she had discovered its power and now expected others to recognize its value.
And he supposed her husband might have something to do with that discovery.
“I hope, Erica,” he said gently, “that you are incandescently happy too.”
She turned back toward the window and nodded with an eagerness that spoke what words could not. “You’ll get along well with Tristan,” she insisted after a moment. “You’re very much alike.”
Paris made a soft, scoffing noise. What could an Irish barrister and unrepentant rebel possibly have in common with an English duke and officer of the British army?
“You’re both so determined to do the honorable thing. To see justice done.”
That was how his sister saw him? Even now? He didn’t deserve her faith. Anyone’s faith…
For a long moment, she said nothing more. Then, “Had you heard he’s taking me to the West Indies?”
“Yes.” In the letter announcing their sister’s impending marriage, Cami had also explained that Raynham did not intend to resign his officer’s commission in favor of the title he’d inherited, but rather had agreed to an assignment that would take him to a place rife with disease and disorder. Paris wanted to caution Erica against going, to urge her to think of the dangers. But he thought of what she’d just told him. Perhaps he was finally beginning to understand that people had to make their own choices. And that some risks were worth taking. He rose and went to stand beside her, looking down at the garden just beginning to come to life. “Think of the botanical specimens you’ll bring home.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you, Paris.” After a moment, she said, “Tell me about Miss Gorse.”
The request caught him off guard. “You might have heard all you wished, questioned her to your heart’s content, if you’d stayed put in Cami’s drawing room.”
“It was not she I wished to question.”
He hadn’t the strength for an interrogation. “She’s a young woman of respectable birth whose brother has tried to ruin her life. I’m sure you’ll get along famously,” he added, a trifle more sharply that he had intended.
“Indeed, I hope we will.” She tipped up her chin enough for him to see her topaz eyes, bright with mischief. “It would be a shame if we did not.”
“Don’t,” he breathed. He couldn’t bear the implication in her teasing words. “She and I… It would be a dreadful mistake. I’ve made so many—you see? I—I couldn’t even be bothered to find Daphne and Bell a proper governess.”
She sighed and turned to face him, laying her palm against his chest. “You still don’t understand, do you? You’ve been looking everywhere for forgiveness. But first you’ve got to forgive yourself. Your family loves you. And,” she added with a significant look, “I don’t think they’re the only ones.”
Where was the balm he had found in her words earlier? He didn’t think his heart had ever felt so raw. “Love? I don’t—”
“No,” she agreed readily, “You don’t. You don’t get to decide when it comes. And you don’t get to decide what it looks like—not for me. Not for Henry. Not even, dear brother”—a soft, sly smile curved her lips—“for yourself.”
The future he’d once dared to imagine for himself certainly had never included anyone like Rosamund. But that future was gone. He recalled Erica’s wise words about forgiveness. Did he—did he dare to let himself dream of a different one?
With a gentle push, his sister slipped past him. “Now, I have to get ready to attend a lecture. A Mr. Geoffrey Beals, former ship’s surgeon in the West Indies, is speaking this evening about his findings pertaining to yellow fever. I wish to learn all I can before I go.” At the doorway, she paused. “One of the footmen will show you to your room. You’ll have the house practically to yourself.”
When she was gone, he leaned his aching head against the cool glass. A house to himself. Quiet in which to sort his troubled thoughts. He’d never needed it more.
Nor wanted it less.
Chapter 21
When the last servant left the bedchamber, taking with him the empty supper tray, Paris let himself sink into the bath that had been set before the crackling fire—not an ordinary hip bath, but a real tub, filled with steaming water up to his chest. Clean clothes awaited him in the dressing room, and a well-stropped razor and shaving soap lay atop the washstand. Unimaginable luxuries after the past week’s discomforts. Perhaps having a duke for a brother-in-law had its advantages after all.
He’d heard Raynham arrive, an hour or more ago. A bustle of activity, doors opening and closing somewhere down the corridor. Voices, muffled by well-built walls. Then, half an hour later, Erica and her husband had gone out to attend that lecture. A deep stillness had settled over the house, the sort of stillness he’d once craved. Lately, however, quiet prompted reflection, and he did not want to think—not about his family, nor Erica’s sharp reprimands. Certainly not about Rosamund.
Not that he ever really stopped thinking about her. Her strength and her courage. The armor of thorns, beneath which hid something so soft and delicate and… A groan shuddered through him. He’d told himself again and again this past week to be content with having kissed her and slept with her in his arms. There could be nothing more. But what if Erica were right? What if he took just one more chance and let himself…
Beneath the water, his hand slicked over his hardened cock. Just one stroke. Or two. Something to take the edge off his madness. You don’t want this, he’d told her. You don’t want me. Almost convulsively, his grip tightened and pleasure stabbed through his groin. Yes-s-s. No. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him. His head tipped back against the rim of the copper tub as his legs grew taut. He wouldn’t let her…
It was up to him…
“Paris?”
His whole body jerked at the sound and his head snapped upright to locate the speaker. Rosamund stood in the doorway, wearing a pale silk
dressing gown, her hair hanging free, dark gold and still damp from her own bath.
Based on the blush staining her cheeks, he must’ve let loose an oath or two, though he could not remember a time when intelligible words had been more remote from his consciousness. Or perhaps she blushed for another reason. It would not be difficult for even the most innocent young lady to figure out he was doing more than having a wash.
Fighting the impulse to sink beneath the surface of the water entirely, he laid an arm on either edge of the tub instead and pushed himself more upright. After clearing his throat twice he managed to say, with absurd formality, “Miss Gorse.”
Chidingly, she shook her head, and took a step closer.
“Rosamund…” In his head, it had been a warning. On his lips, it became an invitation.
Two steps more. “Your sister told me I’d find you here.”
“Ah. I thought—” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “I expected you’d be staying with Cam.”
Eyes wide with something he could only call pretend innocence, she shook her head. “Mm, no. Mr. Remington brought me here.” Another step closer and she’d be able to peer right into the tub.
Her boldness didn’t entirely surprise him. After all, he’d seen signs of it from the beginning: in the woman who’d fled Kilready Castle in the dead of night, in the woman who’d faced him across that attic schoolroom, in the woman who’d pressed her lips, and her body, to his.
“Why are you here?” He’d meant his voice to sound stern. Instead, he sounded desperate. This spark between them…it mustn’t reignite.
“I have a question.”
“And I’ll be happy to answer it. Just—just go out and I’ll meet you in the library in a quarter of an hour.” Time to dry off and dress. Time to get his desire under control.
She shook her head. “I’d rather not wait. I’ve been thinking about that night in Wales, you see, beside the fire…”
Beneath the water, his cock bobbed in agreement. He’d been thinking about it too.
“You asked me what I wanted. My answer hasn’t changed.” As she spoke, she closed the remaining distance between them. No hiding the state he was in now. But her steady gaze hadn’t left his face. “And I wondered, if I asked you the same question, what would you say?”
You. In my arms. Not just tonight. Every night, for the rest of my life.
“I would say that sometimes we want things we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t?” One golden brown brow arched. “I thought you were a rebel, Mr. Burke.”
Did she think to—to tease him with that? He snagged her by the wrist, his touch far from gentle. She needed to understand. “Do you know what you’re saying, Rosamund? Do you know what that means?” Do you know what I’ve done?
She did not flinch at his touch. Or at his harsh words. With her free hand, she lifted the hem of her dressing gown a few inches and knelt beside him. “I do. It means taking risks. Making sacrifices for something that truly matters. Something you believe in with your whole heart.”
Her voice was earnest, her gaze unwavering. Was she truly prepared to take this risk…for him?
“Ah, Roisín,” he whispered, releasing her. “Don’t say any more. I can’t…”
“Can’t what? Can’t hold me in your arms?”
“Not again. Not without making love to you.” There. Surely she’d come to her senses now and go scampering back to her own chamber.
She didn’t. She matter-of-factly picked up a washcloth, dipped it into the water, and began to scrub a bar of soap across it. “Good. Because kissing you, lying all night in your arms… It left me with such an ache. And I know you can make it better.”
He was powerless to protest as she laid the hot, soapy cloth across his chest and began to bathe him, her fingertips tracing his collarbone and the curve of his muscles, stirring the dusting of hair along his breastbone. Then upward, across his shoulder, the back of his neck. He wanted to close his eyes and absorb the sensations, wanted to watch every movement of her hand and take in every detail of her face. Her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, and her lips parted without making a sound. God, but she was perfection, with her pink-stained cheeks and her rose-scented hair and her…
“Rosamund.”
He had no idea what he’d been going to say next, but she stopped further speech with the tip of her finger. It tasted of soap, and still he wanted to draw it between his lips. “Don’t say we shouldn’t. Don’t say we can’t. Tonight may be all we have. Tomorrow could change everything.”
It will, he vowed silently. Tomorrow, he would find a way to protect her from her brother. Find a way to turn this one night into forever.
“Oh, Paris,” she sobbed. “I’ve been allowed to make so few choices in my life. Don’t tell me I’m making the wrong one now. Or if I am, let me make it anyway.” She lifted her finger away. “Please.”
If there was a man alive strong enough to say no to that, Paris hadn’t met him.
As he turned toward her, water sloshed out of the tub and onto the floor, wetting her dressing gown and making it quite clear she wore nothing beneath it. Lifting one hand, he cupped the side of her head and drew her close for a kiss. Her lips parted eagerly, but he did not immediately press his advantage. She deserved the utmost care, the sweetest caresses. He brushed his mouth across hers, softly at first, taking in each curve and line. Then firmer, more demanding, devouring her little gasps of pleasure, more tantalizing than the richest feast.
When he let her have her breath again, she whispered, “This is the most improper thing I’ve ever done.”
“Ah, my sweet Roisín.” He bent to nuzzle beneath her ear and knew by the kick of her pulse beneath his lips that she liked that bit of Irish lilt in his voice. “You’re just getting started.”
But the bath water was growing cold. “I think we ought to make ourselves more comfortable.”
“Drier too,” she said, reaching for the stack of towels on a low stool closer to the fire.
A rough, knowing laugh burst from him. “I wouldn’t go so far as that.”
Whether she understood the meaning of his words, he couldn’t be certain. She’d hidden herself behind an outstretched towel, held up so he could step out of the bath behind it. He stood, let the water run down his arms and back, then took the towel from her hands to dry his face and hair. When he tossed the towel aside, he discovered she’d overcome her momentary shyness. Her gaze was fixed on his half-hard cock.
“I, er…” She couldn’t seem to make herself look away, even as he stepped from the tub and began to dry the rest of his body with another towel. “I, uh, don’t… Why, I should think that would make things ache worse,” she finally blurted out.
A proper reply to such a statement required some thought. Feeble though the gesture might be, he wrapped the towel around his waist and secured it as tightly as he could, hoping the cool, damp linen would exert a calming influence. When he was done, he stepped closer and dipped his head to meet her eyes. “It could,” he said honestly. “If I were careless. Or a cad. But I want only your pleasure, love. Which, let me be perfectly clear, can be ensured without any reference to…that.”
Her blush deepened. “But I understood—that is, from what Mrs. Sloane told me, you have to…”
“Hang Mrs. Sloane.” Doubtless the woman had regaled her with some horror story. He’d heard a few himself. “I don’t have to do anything.” He reached for her hand. “And I want to do only what you wish.”
Her eyes were so incredibly blue. Every cloud had been driven off. “I want you to kiss me.”
“Gladly, love.”
He claimed her lips, let himself taste her at last, teasing her tongue with his until she caught the rhythm, the playful dance, the flicks and licks and strokes that set them both ablaze. Driving his finger into her golden hair, he kept her a willing prisoner to
his mouth as he dragged his lips over her jaw to her ear, ever watchful for her response. A suckle here, a nip there—which sensations produced a sigh of pleasure, which a gasp of delight?
Her own hands were not idle, traveling across his shoulders, down his chest, then rising to bury themselves in his hair, pinning him as he had pinned her so that she could kiss him back. While his mouth trailed over her throat, she rubbed the palm of her hand along his jaw, against the grain of his beard. Five days since he’d last tamed it. “You look the veriest rogue,” she teased. She liked that too. He could hear it in her voice, feel it in the thrum of her pulse.
He pulled away just far enough to trace his fingertips along the curve he’d been kissing. “I ought to shave. It’s too rough against your skin. Every place I want to kiss you is so soft, so tender.” She tipped her chin back as he stroked down her neck. “Here. And between your breasts.” His fingertips slipped lower, into the hollow of her breastbone. “And most especially between your thighs.”
Her chest rose with a sharp intake of breath. “You want to kiss—?”
“Your sweet quim?” He was determined to match her boldness. He couldn’t let this chance go by. He dropped his hand lower still, tugging loose the tie of her dressing gown. “God, yes. Surest way I know to help you with that ache. Climb onto the bed and I’ll show you.”
For just a moment, she was too stunned to comply. But before he had a chance to reassure her, she slipped from his embrace. Her dressing gown slid over her shoulders and onto the floor as she scampered to the giant four poster and sat on its edge.
He’d cradled her in his arms the night they’d met. He thought he had some familiarity with her body. But what could have prepared him for the reality? The small high breasts with pale pink nipples. The surprisingly generous hips and thighs, and that thatch of curls a few shades darker than the hair on her head.
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