“I guess we can do as you wish, but perhaps we should wait for Geddes’s return.”
He crossed to the water basin, splashed his face and chest with water, then lifted a towel off a post by the tack room and wiped himself. “I’ll wait for him, then. But no longer. I won’t sleep comfortably until this whole thing has been put to rights.”
“What would you have them do in return for their land, then?”
He stepped close to her, so close she could smell his maleness and feel his heat—again. “Ye’re a clever lassie,” he said, affecting a thick brogue. “Ye’ll think of something.” He got as far as the stable door and then turned. “By the way, tomorrow is Sunday.”
And then he was gone.
She stared at his retreating form and shouted, “What in the devil does that mean?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder and then laughed, continuing on toward the castle. Aye, she thought, tomorrow was Sunday, and the way their connubial bliss had been going, it mattered not one whit, for he hadn’t even attempted to touch her, so what difference did it make?
• • •
She stewed about his statement the rest of the afternoon, carrying the words with her as she did her chores, allowing them to gnaw at her insides. Did it mean he would finally visit her tonight? She stopped dusting the dining room table, her cleaning cloth held suspended midair as she imagined him coming to her, speaking to her in his low, sultry voice, perhaps saying something like, “It’s time, madam. It’s time we make perfect love together, beautiful, blissful love. I’m ready to make you my wife in every sense of the word.”
She snorted a laugh. Not likely. It was more like him to say something savage, like, “Are you wet for me, wife? Do you ache in that place between your thighs?”
She snorted again. “You’re daft, Rosalyn, that’s what you are.”
“Madam?”
She turned as Barnaby wobbled into the room, his stockings sagging on his chicken legs.
“Did you say something?” he asked, his face puckered like a dried apple.
“No, I’m just ranting to myself, Barnaby. All is well.”
He bowed. “Very good, madam.” He continued on past her to the kitchen and she noticed that his breeches were askew, as if he’d put them on backward or in the dark. As he went through the swinging door, he broke wind, not even bothering to excuse himself.
Poor old sod, she thought, smiling sadly. She glanced at the long, gleaming dining table and sighed. With Geddes away, the evening meal would be just the two of them—her and her husband. That ought to be a jolly affair, she thought, frowning.
Well, jolly affair or not, she had to get ready for it. She looked down at her gown and bit her bottom lip, trapping a smile. Perhaps it was time to do something drastic.
• • •
She studied her reflection in the mirror, posing this way and that, trying to decide if her gown was suitable. She stifled a laugh. Suitable for what, she didn’t know, but it certainly was not one she would have worn on a normal work day. Cut low, it exposed more of her breasts than it ever had before. She tugged the bodice upward, but it made little difference. Odd—this gown had always been more comfortable than this. Of course, she hadn’t worn it in a long time.
With a sigh, she said softly, “You’ve done it now, Roz, go through with it.” What was it Fen had said to her? Take a drink? Perhaps she would. Perhaps this one time she would.
Giving her hair one final pat, she left her room and moved swiftly down the staircase. She stopped short when she stepped into the dining room, for the table had not been set and there was no sign of either the duke or the kitchen help. But on further inspection she noticed a small table with a long white cloth that reached the floor and two table settings upon it in the corner by the window. The silverware shimmered with light from a single long, tapered candle that was sitting in the middle of the table.
“What is this?” she murmured, sincerely taken by surprise.
The kitchen door swung open behind her, and the duke came into the room. “Ah, there you are, madam. I thought it foolish to sit at that big table, especially since it’s just the two of us. I hope this suits you.”
It was actually very thoughtful and quite intimate. “’Tis a very fine idea.”
He pulled out her chair, and when she was seated he leaned toward her and whispered low in her ear. “You look absolutely delectable tonight. I could eat you up.” He added, his voice even softer, “And I just might.”
She blushed, sensing his meaning but not understanding how she knew. “You are not a proper gentleman,” she scolded, but the thrill of her tone said she didn’t much care. This just might be the best night of their marriage, so far.
He poured them each a glass of wine and she took a sip, then another.
“Don’t drink too fast, madam. It will go straight to your head.”
That is my intention, she thought, taking another deliberate swallow.
They talked of small things, table talk, really, and all at once she realized he was filling her glass again—and she felt a warm glow all over.
Annie brought out the soup, and when she had disappeared into the kitchen again, Rosalyn felt the duke’s knee touch hers under the table. Believing it was an accident, she said, “I’m afraid the table is a wee bit small for a man of your size.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, “it’s perfect.” And once again, she felt his knee touch hers, but this time he rubbed against it.
It was as if she wore nothing at all, for the touch was electrifying. Her soup was getting chilled, and she couldn’t even think to bring a spoonful to her mouth. The wine had addled her, robbing her of logical thought. What in the name of heaven was he doing?
The girl returned and removed the soup plates and came back with the stew. She made a swift curtsey and left them again.
“Madam,” he began.
She looked over at him, wondering if he could see the pulsing at her throat. “Yes?”
“May I ask you a question?”
She smiled at him. “Of course. Anything.”
He sat back and studied her. “Are you wearing underdrawers?”
Her jaw dropped and her spoon clattered to the table. “What?!”
“It’s a simple question, madam. Are you, or aren’t you?”
Her mouth worked a little before she was able to speak. The warmth from the wine continued to soar through her blood. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”
“Because I’m interested.”
“I…don’t think I have to answer that question.” Yes, he was a savage, indeed. Why, then, didn’t she just get up and leave?
“All right.”
She gave him a look of surprise. “All right?”
“Yes. That’s all right. I’ll just have to find out for myself.”
She gasped as she felt his foot slide up her calf to her thigh. When had he removed his boot, for God’s sake?
Just then Annie came in and the savage’s foot stopped, just at the top of her thigh, making her skin shiver and her womanhood throb.
“Is everything all right here, ma’am?”
She gave the girl a wobbly smile, praying that she would not titter like a silly unschooled milkmaid at her savage lord’s antics. “All is well. Thank you.” She glanced at him, and he was buttering a roll, appearing completely innocent of his actions.
When the girl retreated once again, her husband’s toe worked its way to the split in her drawers. The ache gnawed at Rosalyn, and she spread her legs, feeling wanton. It’s the wine, she told herself. It’s just the wine.
He looked across the table at her, his expression hot and dangerous. “How nice that there’s a place for me down there.”
She closed her eyes and allowed the thrill of his touch to wash over her. Oh, this was going to be some night, it was. When his toe left her, she felt bereft, and her expression must have said as much. She opened her eyes to find him watching her. And then he knocked his knife to
the floor and kicked it under the table.
“I suppose I should get that.”
He rose, pushed his chair back, lifted the long linen table cloth, and disappeared under the table. She bit back a cry of surprise when she felt him raise her gown above her knees and spread her legs apart.
“My dear sir,” she whispered, frantically looking around her, a bubble of shock rising into her throat, “what are you doing?”
From beneath the table, he answered, “I’m having dessert, madam.”
The moment she felt his tongue probe her opening, she began to shake. There was such an exquisite sensation radiating through her, she thought she might faint. “Oh, my,” she said on a breath. “Oh, my!”
“Mistress?”
Rosalyn hadn’t heard Annie enter. She tried to trap her husband’s head between her legs to stop his assault, but it only gave him closer access to his goal. She blinked and smiled nervously at the girl. “Yes, Annie?”
Annie frowned. “Are you all right?”
Rosalyn giggled, sounding daft, like a woman gone mad. “Fine, dear. I’m fine.”
“His Grace. He’s gone, ma’am?”
Gone off the deep end, Rosalyn thought, gone right out of his head. “He…ah…he had a brief errand. It’s fine, run along, then.”
Annie seemed to study the table for a long moment, a quizzical expression on her face, and then finally disappeared into the kitchen.
Rosalyn thought she heard the servant chuckle behind the door, but that thought slid from her mind when she felt the hot breath against her wet, swollen flesh as her husband said, “I have an errand, all right. But it won’t be brief, wife.”
The wine was truly getting to her, for she bit back a laugh. She could only imagine what it must look like under there, her legs splayed, her skirt up around her hips, and her husband’s dark head between her thighs.
She tried to relax and enjoy it, truly she did, but she kept expecting someone to walk in and discover her husband under the table, doing things to her with his tongue that she had no idea could be done.
“Perhaps we should continue this another time.” He moved away slightly, and then she felt him touch her with his thumb and she jumped. “Your Grace, please,” she pleaded.
“Oh, all right, if you insist,” she heard him say.
As he was crawling out from under the table, Annie came through the door with their dessert. Rosalyn looked up, saw Annie’s surprise, and suddenly couldn’t speak.
Her husband had no such problem. “Well,” he said as he picked up his fallen utensil, “so that’s where the knife went.” With all of the poise of a gentleman, he slid onto his chair and rested his arms on the table. “Now, my dear, where were we?”
“About to have dessert, I believe,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her.
The savage gave Annie a long, pleasant look. “Annie, just serve up some dessert for the lady. I’ve already had mine.”
Rosalyn pressed her lips together to keep from making a comment of any kind as Annie placed a tulip-shaped glass filled with pudding in front of her. When Annie was finished, she once again disappeared into the kitchen.
Then, truly then, one could hear her laughing, practically whinnying like a horse.
Rosalyn gave him a dark look. “You do know that whatever she thinks she saw or heard will be all over the island by morning, don’t you?”
He leaned back into the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then everyone will know that all is well at the castle, won’t they, Rosalyn?”
He pushed his chair back and rose. “Are you really hungry for that pudding?”
Her heart leapt against her ribs. “I…no, not really.”
He came around pulled her chair out. “Then I think it’s time to go upstairs, don’t you?”
Her head was dizzy from the wine and from the anticipation of what was to come next. She could feel every nerve in her body pulsating, her blood coursing hot through new veins. It was as if she was aware of her entire being for the very first time, and every feeling she had was centered down there between her thighs, radiating everywhere.
They climbed the stairs together, his arm around her shoulders, which was a good thing because she was a wee bit unsteady on her feet. “I feel a bit dizzy.”
He drew her closer. “It’s the wine, no doubt.”
“Aye, I rarely drink at all.”
“And you thought you had to fortify yourself tonight?” His voice had a slight teasing quality to it, but underneath, she thought she heard a touch of wariness.
She nodded. “But not for the reason you think.”
“What reason would that be, Rosalyn?”
She wasn’t sure how to put it, so she just blurted it out. “It isn’t because I find you unappealing or unattractive.”
He laughed quietly beside her as they arrived on the landing. “Well, I’m certainly glad I’m not repugnant.”
“You are far from repugnant, Your Grace.”
He stopped and swore. “Will you and your brother quit Your Gracing me? I will never get used to that. My name is Fletcher. Please, Rosalyn,” he said, adding softly, “please call me by my name. Now, say it.”
She turned to him in the upstairs hallway, his face in shadows except for the gleam of his dark eyes. She would do it. She wanted everything to be perfect tonight. “Fletcher.” It sounded so fine rolling off her tongue. She imagined crying out his name in passion, and it only made the fire within her body all the more urgent.
His fingers touched her chin, and he lifted her face toward him. “Was that so hard?”
“Nay, not when we’re alone, but when the servants are about, I’d rather be more formal, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish.” His fingers dove gently into her hair, pulling some of it loose from its pins. “Your hair is the color of Texas wheat,” he murmured against her ear.
Another shudder raced through her. Between the wine and her anticipation, she was nearly flying apart. When he pulled her to him, he touched his mouth to her forehead, her nose, and her mouth, their breaths mingling oh, so gently. Her knees went weak and she leaned against him.
He pulled away; she let him go reluctantly.
Touching her elbow, he steered her toward her room. In front of her door, he said, “I’ll let you get ready, Rosalyn.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Feeling giddy and a bit nervous, she went into her room and began preparing for bed—or for whatever it was her husband had in mind, she thought, her heart still drumming in her chest. After she had changed into a light cotton dressing gown, taken down her hair, and brushed it until it gleamed, she sat and waited.
After a few minutes she rose from her dressing table and went to the window. It was dreary and black outside. Not wanting the bleakness to spoil her mood, she strode purposefully to the door, opened it, and looked down the hallway toward her husband’s room. Nothing.
Puzzled, she crossed to her bed and crawled into it, pulling a light cover over her. What was he doing? What possible reason could he have for taking so long? She began to have a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach, not wishing to believe he wouldn’t come, not after what he’d put her through at dinner.
She was about to blow out the candle by her bedside when finally, finally, she heard a soft tapping at the door. Finally! “Please, come in.” She lay on her side, her breathing suddenly shallow with expectation as he watched him come through the door—but wait! It wasn’t her husband at all.
Alarmed, she sat up in bed. “Barnaby? What is it?”
He shuffled over to the bed and handed her a note. “From the master, my lady.”
Frowning, she relit her candle and took the note from him. “Thank you, Barnaby. I’m sorry you were bothered so late. Good night.”
He bowed, tilting precariously to one side, and then hobbled out, shutting the door behind him.
“What in the world,” she said to herself. She opened the note and read:
Just then the clock in the foyer chimed and she sat in her bed, the note crumpled in her fist, as she counted to twelve with the resonating gongs.
Suddenly she began to feel the rage building up inside her. Gone, gone was the fire of need and passion, replaced by anger, humiliation, and pummeled pride. Without a thought, she threw the covers aside, stormed out of her room, and stomped down to her husband’s chambers. Not bothering to knock, she flung open the door. He was in bed, reading.
Oh, the gall of the man!
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” she said without preamble. “You purposely whipped me into a state of frenzy and then simply dropped me like a bucket of rotten haggis.”
He gave her a bland look. “Now, why would I do that, Rosalyn? Why on earth would I want to punish you? Haven’t you been through enough?”
She was not assuaged. “You’re bloody right I’ve been through enough. And now, don’t go thinking you’ll get into my bed any time soon, savage, because I can play this game as well as anyone. Especially you. You haven’t seen determination until you’ve seen mine.” With that, she tore through the door and slammed it. Hard.
Chapter Sixteen
Fletcher woke up before the sun. He stretched under the covers, flexing his legs and raising his arms over his head. Sunday. Blessed Sunday.
He threw back the covers and bounded out of bed, sprinting to the commode where he washed his face. He checked his beard, deciding he wasn’t in need of a shave. His dressing gown lay draped over the back of a chair, but he ignored it and left his room, ambling casually toward Rosalyn’s.
He met Barnaby halfway down the hallway. “Good morning, Barnaby.”
The old servant nodded and said, quite matter-of-factly, “So it’s naked day today, Your Grace?”
Fletcher bit back a laugh. He had to wonder what sort of folly his grandfather had been up to if “naked day” didn’t even give old Barnaby a start. “All day, my good man, all day.”
The Pleasure of the Rose Page 14