Red Roses Mean Love

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Stephen tapped his fingers against his chin. "Ah! I have it. The winner may ask the loser to perform a task of the winner's choice."

  "What sort of task?" Hayley asked, totally at sea.

  "Well, for example, if you should win, you might ask me to pull weeds in your garden, and if I should win, I might ask you to mend one of my shirts." A slow smile touched his lips. "Or perhaps shave me again."

  Her breath caught in her throat. Clearly he was teasing her. "But I would happily do those things for you anyway, Stephen."

  "Oh. Well, I'm sure I could come up with something," he said, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion.

  "Provided you are able to best me, of course."

  "Of course." He inclined his head toward the table. "Shall we play?"

  Anticipation skittered through her. It had been ages since she'd engaged anyone other than the boys in a game. She shot him a jaunty smile. "Prepare yourself to be trounced."

  Hayley quickly discovered Stephen was a very skilled player. Relishing the challenge, she attacked with an unusual offensive her father had taught her, and counteracted Stephen's every move. With each passing moment, they slipped back into their previous easy camaraderie. The awkwardness between them faded until they were chuckling and teasing each other after every move.

  After two hours of steady play Stephen leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face after making a brilliant move. "Top that."

  "If you insist." Hayley leaned forward and moved her queen. "Checkmate."

  The self-satisfied smile faded from Stephen's lips. His gaze dropped to the table, and he shook his head, clearly amazed. Then his surprised expression turned to one of clear admiration.

  "Checkmate it is," he agreed. "I don't know how you did it, but I never saw it coming." He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. "I'll have you know I haven't lost a chess match in years."

  "You don't seem very upset at your loss. You may not appear quite so happy when I collect my wager."

  "Why? Have you decided what you wish for me to do?"

  "Not yet, but weeding the garden does hold a certain appeal."

  Stephen clutched his taped ribs and bandaged shoulder. "Much too strenuous for a man in my weakened condition." He coughed several times for effect.

  Hayley pursed her lips in mock concern. "Of course. Perhaps I'll have you bathe Winky, Pinky and Stinky instead." She nearly laughed out loud when the color seemed to drain from his face.

  "The garden is quite all right," he amended hastily.

  "Calm yourself. I promise not to make you do anything undignified."

  "Thank goodness." Stephen rose and walked to the set of crystal decanters by the window. "Do you mind if I have a drink?"

  "Of course not. I told you, you must make yourself at home. Help yourself. I'm glad someone is able to enjoy Papa's brandy."

  "Thank you." He eyed her speculatively. Some inner demon, perhaps one that wanted to prove he, too, could behave unconventionally, prompted him to ask, "Would you care to join me?"

  She raised her brows. "Me?"

  "Yes. Your victory calls for a celebratory drink. Have you ever tried brandy?"

  "No, but then brandy isn't something women drink." She sent him an arch look. "Surely you know that."

  "I promise not to tell," he said in an amused, coaxing tone. "Aren't you curious how it tastes? I assure you it's excellent brandy." He poured two drinks, then joined her on the settee. He held the snifter out to her. "Taste it."

  Hayley eyed the amber liquid dubiously. Captain Haydon Mills often partook of brandy, and Hayley decided that if she wrote about it, she should at least taste it. For literary purposes, of course.

  Drawing a resolute breath, she said, "As Winston would say, 'Down the hatch!'" She tossed the entire drink back with one gulp. The potent liquor burned a fiery path down her throat, leaving her gasping. Tears puddled in her eyes.

  "Dear heavens!" she gasped.

  Stephen rose and pulled her to her feet. Stepping behind her, he clapped her on the back until the coughing stopped.

  "Are you all right?" he asked when she could finally breathe again.

  Hayley nodded weakly. "Yes, I'm fine now." She fixed him and his as yet untouched brandy snifter with a baleful glare. "How can you possibly drink that vile stuff? It's awful."

  He choked back a laugh. "You're supposed to sip it slowly. Not gulp it down."

  "Now you tell me." She shot him a sheepish smile, which faded as a spell of dizziness washed over her. "Oh dear. I feel rather unsettled."

  Stephen took her by the arm and led her to a long brocade sofa near the fireplace. "Sit down," he said, helping her then settling himself next to her. "Is that better?"

  Hayley nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry. I just felt so odd for a moment." She leaned back and closed her eyes. A wave of hot dizziness washed over her, leaving a strange, liquid languor in its wake. "Oh my."

  Stephen studied her, his gaze wandering slowly down her face, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the soft plumpness of her lips, the graceful bend of her long neck. "That was a hefty drink you belted back. And the fact that you barely touched your dinner is not going to help."

  A puzzled frown formed between her brows. "How do you know I didn't eat my dinner?"

  I couldn't keep my eyes off you. His gaze continued downward and settled on her gown. Instead of answering her question, he asked, "Is brown your favorite color?"

  Her eyes popped open. "I beg your pardon?"

  "All your gowns are brown. Is it a favorite of yours?"

  Her eyes drifted shut again. "Not particularly. Brown is convenient because it doesn't show dirt."

  "Don't you own any gowns in other colors?" Stephen asked, wondering what she would look like in an aqua gown the same color as her eyes.

  "Of course. I have two gray gowns."

  Two gray gowns. His heart pinched at her words. She said them without any signs of embarrassment. He'd never met anyone so without vanity. To stifle the need to touch her he forcibly cupped his palms around his brandy snifter.

  "Pamela has gowns in different colors," he pointed out.

  "Yes. Are they not lovely?" A tender smile lit her face. "Pamela is at an age where gentlemen are starting to notice her, and one gentleman in particular. It's important she look nice. I shall advise her to wear her new pale green gown to Lorelei Smythe's party next week." She opened her eyes and smiled dreamily at Stephen. "Pamela looks lovely in pale green."

  Unable to stop himself, Stephen reached out and gently touched her flushed cheek. "And will you wear pale green as well?"

  She laughed and shook her head. "No. I shall wear one of my gray gowns." As she continued to look at him, her smile faded. Struggling to sit up, she said, "You're frowning. Are you upset?"

  His gaze wandered over her face. "No. I was just thinking how lovely you would look in pale green. Or pale aqua. To match your eyes."

  An undignified giggle escaped her followed by an unladylike hiccup. "Oh dear. What on earth is in that brandy?" She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Now what were we saying? Oh yes. Gowns. Thank you for your kind words, but it would take more than a gown in any pale color to make me lovely."

  Setting his untouched drink on a small mahogany table, he cradled her face between his palms. "On the contrary," he said softly, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks, "I cannot think of anything that could in any way detract from your beauty, including gray or brown gowns."

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, and he easily read the confusion in her gaze.

  "It isn't necessary for you to say pretty things to me, Stephen."

  Her words pinched his heart. She was so lovely. Inside and out. "You're beautiful, Hayley. Absolutely beautiful."

  Color suffused her face, and a shy smile touched her lips.

  "Has no one ever told you that?" he asked.

  Her blush heightened. "Only Mama and Papa. Never a man."

  "Not even Poppledink?"

  "Popplemore. A
nd no."

  "The man's an idiot."

  Another hiccup and giggle escaped her. "Actually, he's a poet."

  "A poet? And he never told you you're beautiful?"

  "No. He apparently turned to poetry after he broke our engagement." She leaned forward and confided, "Clearly I wasn't the sort of woman to awaken his poetic soul."

  In spite of her casual attitude, Stephen was certain he detected an underlying hurt behind her words, a hurt he felt compelled to banish. "You could inspire any man to poetry."

  "Indeed?" Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "Even you?"

  "Even me."

  "I don't believe you."

  "I'd be happy to prove it … but it will cost you your wager."

  "You mean I wouldn't be able to make you weed the garden?"

  "Precisely."

  She tapped her chin with her finger and considered. "Very well. I choose the poem." Cocking a teasing brow at him, she added. "This will give me a chance to test your tutor skills and see how clever you are with words." She made a big show of arranging herself comfortably, noisily settling her skirts around her. "I am ready. Recite away."

  His gaze roamed over her face, resting for a long moment on her mouth before again meeting her eyes.

  "She's like a breath of sunshine;

  warm, enticing, yet impossible to define.

  There's something soft and tender in her eye

  that I cannot fail to recognize.

  She's miles away from typical,

  yet I find her irresistible…

  so much that I must bestow

  a kiss upon beautiful Hayley, from the hay meadow."

  He gently brushed his mouth over hers then leaned back. She stared at him, clearly bemused.

  "Well?" he asked. "Did I pass the test?"

  "Test?"

  "Of my tutor skills." He reached out and ran his finger down her smooth cheek.

  She stilled. "You touched me."

  "Yes."

  "But I thought you didn't like it."

  He couldn't stop staring at her. "I like it, Hayley. Very much." His eyes rested on a shiny curl that had slipped from her prim chignon. Instead of inspiring propriety, all he could think of was pulling the pins from her silky tresses and watching them cascade down her back. The need to kiss her again overwhelmed his senses, flooding them. This woman touched something deep inside him-some part of him he hadn't even known existed until he met her.

  "Thank you for the poem. It was lovely."

  Her soft voice brushed by his ear and his weak defenses crumbled. Pushing his common sense firmly aside, he gave in to his pent-up longing. He plunged his fingers into her hair and buried his lips in hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and parted herlips, welcoming the thrust of his tongue, returning his kiss with an abandon that fueled the fire burning inside him. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again, each kiss growing in length and intensity until he felt he'd burst. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he hauled her onto his lap, settling her between his thighs. He stifled a groan when she shifted her bottom, unknowingly pressing herself against his straining arousal.

  I have to stop. Stop kissing her. Touching her. But even as the thought entered his mind, he caressed the warm, full roundness of her breast. Her nipple beaded against his palm, and the war with his conscience was lost. With a heartfelt groan, he pressed her back against the sofa cushions, following her down, his body half covering hers.

  He tunneled his fingers through her soft hair, then ran his hands down her sides and back up to cup her breasts, reshaping them to fit his palms. Completely lost in the exquisite feel of her, the rose-scented fragrance of her, his lips traveled down her neck and lower, kissing her breasts through the soft material of her gown.

  He raised his head. "Open your eyes, Hayley."

  She dragged her eyelids open and the desire glowing in her aqua depths tightened his insides to a pulsing ache. He turned his face into her palm and pressed a heated kiss there. She shifted her lower body, forcing a groan from him when her thigh pressed against his arousal. Staring down into her luminous eyes, soft with wanting, slumberous with desire, he gritted his teeth against the waves of lust washing over him. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her.

  She was all warm, pliant, wanting female, and he was definitely all aching, throbbing, lusting male. The need to raise her skirts and plunge into her velvety warmth all but strangled him. She's mine for the taking. In less than ten seconds I could be inside her, easing this ceaseless, relentless ache.

  But he couldn't do it. She was a virgin, and no doubt muzzy from that hefty shot of brandy. And she deserved a hell of a lot more than a quick tumble with a man who wasn't going to stay with her. A man who'd repaid her kindness with harsh criticism and lies.

  But, damn it, she was like no virgin he'd ever met. He avoided innocents like a bad rash. They were silly, insipid, dull, and normally accompanied by a marriage-minded mother. Hayley challenged him, provoked him, confused and fascinated him. And worst of all, aroused him to the point of pain.

  Where he found the strength to move away from her, he didn't know, but muttering an oath of self-disgust, he pushed himself off her and sat up. Bloody hell! Bloody goddamn hell!

  Dropping his head into his hands, he closed his eyes and tried to calm his tattered nerves. He had to get away from this woman. She somehow managed to rob him of all his wits. He ached for her. His body screamed out for her touch. She was driving him absolutely out of his mind. I never should have started this. I should have let her remain upset with me. But he'd selfishly wanted to see that teasing warmth in her eyes again.

  She sat up and laid her hand on his arm. "Oh… my head," she groaned. "It's throbbing so."

  I know all about throbbing, believe me. Praying for strength, he arose. "Let's get you upstairs," he said, his voice terse. He grabbed her under her arms, pulled her to her feet, and all but dragged her across the room.

  "Wait!" she gasped. "I feel dizzy."

  Stephen didn't wait. He didn't dare. Holding her firmly under one arm, he half walked, half dragged her up the stairs. He didn't stop until they reached her bedchamber. Opening the door, he gently shoved her inside, then closed the door with a resolute click.

  * * *

  Entering his own bedchamber, Stephen restlessly paced the length of the room, dragging his fingers through his hair again and again until the dark strands stood on end. He desperately tried not to think of Hayley. Hayley warm and giving, reaching her arms up to him, her eyes heavy with want.

  He could think of nothing else.

  He could have had her.

  If his bloody conscience hadn't intervened, he could, this very minute, be buried deep between her soft thighs, touching her rose-scented skin, kissing her lips, relieving the tight ache in his groin.

  When the hell did I develop a conscience anyway? And what a bloody inconvenient time for it to come alive. Sinking down in a wing chair, he stared broodingly into the fire until the embers barely glowed. After an hour of soul-searching, he was only able to determine two things.

  One, no matter how he tried to deny it, and no matter how hard he tried to talk himself out of it, he wanted Hayley Albright with an intensity that shocked him. She affected him as no woman ever had before.

  And two, the only reason he wasn't with her right now, buried deep inside her, was because he cared about her too much to take her innocence and leave her with nothing when he departed.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

  God damn it. He cared. He didn't want to, but he did.

  He wished he didn't desire her to the point of distraction, but he did.

  He desperately wished he could take her and walk away without a thought, but he couldn't.

  Turning his head, he stared at the single yellow rose lying on the small table next to his chair. He picked up the withered bloom, touching the petals with hesitant fingers.


  Even with a killer after him, he somehow suspected he was safer in London.

  He really had to get away from here.

  And the sooner the better.

  SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT

  Chapter 13

  Hayley entered the kitchen late the next morning. "Where is everyone?" she asked Pierre. She'd spent a restless, sleepless night, not dozing off until dawn. Now she desperately wanted some coffee.

  "Your sisters go with aunt, Weenston, and Grimsley to zee market," Pierre answered, kneading dough. "Zee boys take Monsieur Barrettson fishing."

  "Fishing?" Hayley asked, surprised.

  Pierre nodded. "They left after early breakfast."

  After enjoying a quick cup of coffee, Hayley pilfered a piece of fresh bread and wandered into the study. The house was blessedly quiet, and if she could manage to keep her thoughts away from Stephen, she could probably get some writing done.

  Closing the door behind her, she sat down at her desk and pulled her papers from the bottom drawer. She tried to concentrate, but her efforts proved fruitless. All she could think about was last night. She was torn between utter shame and incredulous wonder. The sensation of Stephen's hands on her, touching her, caressing her, was like nothing she'd ever experienced. She had not wanted him to stop, but he'd pulled away from her without an explanation. In fact, he'd seemed upset with her. No doubt because of her shocking, wanton behavior.

  Hayley pondered that, and after nearly an hour of staring at a blank piece of paper, she was able to determine only two things.

  One, she wanted Stephen Barrettson with an intensity that shocked her.

  And two, the only reason she was still a virgin this morning was because he had stopped last night. She'd wanted to continue, eager to explore and learn more about the incredible new feelings bombarding her.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head. He was leaving in two weeks to take a job with a family that lived far away from Halstead. Her heart all but split in two at the thought.

  She really had to stay away from him.

  * * *