The Rose's Bloom

by Danielle Lisle

  Oh, what he would have given to be inside her, experiencing her shattering climax with her! But he was as close as a man had ever been and, for now, Damon knew this was all he could have.

  He did not dwindle in his assault on her, and her climax lasted longer than any he had experienced. Even after her screams diminished, still her body did not relent. He slowed his tongue strokes, but her body still milked his finger, refusing to permit his retreat.

  Allowing his mouth to travel down her slit, he sipped up her honey, a token he would need to get him through what he knew would be a long and sleepless night. Damon then slid her shift back over her thighs to cover her. He caressed her skin from her ankles to her knees, then to her waist and belly. He had never met a more alluring woman. She was perfection, and a lady. Yet he did not know her name and refused to spoil the moment by asking.

  Damon did not want to reveal his identity. He had seen she was an innocent, not only by her actions but also by her comments to her steed. He was not a tempter of innocents, or had not been until her. He did not want to mar his reputation or have a father trap him into a marriage contract with a manipulative woman. Yet Damon knew she had not sought to trap him. Her fear and desire could not have been faked. She was simply a welcome temptation.

  Kissing and licking his way to her mouth, Damon was not disappointed when he touched her lips, receiving a tentative and weak response. She was half asleep from the pleasure he had bestowed on her. Damon knew he needed to take his leave, but he would follow her in the shadows, ensuring her safe journey home. She would not see him.

  Moving his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “It has been a pleasure, my rose. I will now think only of you when I come upon this stream. For the gift of watching and experiencing your pleasure, I must thank you.”

  Claire lay breathing heavily as a feeling of pure bliss floated around her. That feeling was squashed as she acknowledged what she’d done.

  Gasping, she sat up, moving to uncover her eyes from behind the cloth which still hindered her vision. He was gone, but she knew it had not been a dream. Still, she scanned the woods around her, finding nothing but her mare, which stood watching her mistress with what Claire deemed a judgmental stare. She turned away in shame, although it was not as if her horse could relate the tale to her father.

  A sigh escaped her lips and she looked at the cloth she held, only to discover it was not a cloth—instead, a man’s cravat. Deep blue, with tiny flecks of silver sewn though the delicate fabric. Claire realised he had been a man of means, if not nobility. Had he known who she was?

  Scanning the woods a final time, she found no one and was disappointed, yet she accepted that he had fled. After dressing in a rather hasty manner, Claire was soon mounting her mare, conscious of the dampness between her thighs but uncertain whether it was from her swim or her folly. She clutched the cravat of the man she would dream about, then tucked it safely within the confines of her dress’ pocket. It was a token she planned to keep.

  The ride home was not too long, but wearying nonetheless. Claire pined for the loss of a man she could not even name. The way he had called her his rose would be forever imprinted in her memory. His deep voice and the affection his tone had held brought a smile to her lips. None, not even her father, had blessed her with such affection. No, she was simply the older sister with little chance of securing a good marriage. Her sister had assured her it was only her fine dowry that would attract a husband at tomorrow’s ball. Claire feared she was correct. Her champion in the woods hadn’t cared enough to stay. Why would any other man?

  Tears threatened as she entered the gates of Deonsay, but she would not allow them to fall. In his embrace today, she had felt cherished and cared for. It was a memory she would hold onto, no matter who she wed. She would always dream of the man she had never seen, of a voice which could awaken her desires from within.

  Chapter Two

  So, she was a daughter of the Lord of Killory, he had discovered the day before as he’d followed her to Deonsay, but which daughter? Damon knew the man had two, but he had not paid much attention to the particulars over the years. He never did when it came to matters of gossip.

  As he rolled onto his back and stared into the darkness of the canopy above him, Damon could not allow his mind to drift from the memory of the woman by the river. The golden glow of sunlight as it had framed her beauty, the droplets of water upon her flesh, sparkling with her every motion. It had been as if the Lord Himself was caressing her from the heavens. He could not blame the Creator for his lack of restraint. After all, Damon had not been able to resist her, either.

  Her moans and mews of pleasure still echoed in his tired mind, still called to the primal man within him who wanted to take her, pleasure her with more than his hands and mouth. Oh, how much passion he knew resided in that lush body! Her heat and arousal still lingered on his tongue. He feared the memory would remain with him forever.

  His soft sigh filled the quiet chamber. How could one woman leave such an impression?

  Damon was not a man who neglected his needs, but it had been some time since he had settled between a woman’s lush thighs as he had yesterday. In truth, his desire to partake in any sort of dalliance had been nonexistent since last spring, when curiosity had taken the better of him and his desires, in turn, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Yet as he rolled his tongue over his lips, a new taste lingered there and he was very glad of its overwhelming potency.

  A good friend had encouraged him to attend Goodrich Hall, a society event only open to a privileged few, a place where lust and fornication wandered the corridors without judgement or care. It was a place where he had let a neglected fantasy crawl to the surface, a fantasy that had since dwindled from his mind—until yesterday.

  In his youth, he had taken up with a woman who had loved to take his passion with vigour, not minding his forceful thrusts or heavy touch. That relationship had been short-lived, like so many of his past, and he had found himself pining for that type of partnership again. He wanted neither restraint nor judgement in a tryst—a chance to truly be himself.

  He sighed loudly into the stillness of his chamber. That possibility felt so distant.

  That night, when he had attended Goodrich Hall, groups of his peers had openly fornicated, sharing their husbands or wives and holding no regard for society or its rules. Damon had been pleased to meet a woman who had sought a heavy hand, or so she had thought. In truth, it had not been what she’d desired at all. He shook off the memory; it did nothing to arouse him. The pain she had inflicted in return had soon turned his mind from any thoughts of desire for another. Except the woman by the river—nothing could turn his mind from her.

  Reaching between the cool covers over him, Damon found his cock rising at the thought of the woman. His lips again parted and allowed his tongue to sweep out for a taste. Where a moment ago he had been as flaccid as a wet cloth, he now grew, thickening with lust for the maiden woman.

  As he stroked the heat of his cock, his mind drifted back to the image of her flushed features, her shattering calls and her potent climax that had almost claimed his own. How her hungry cunt had milked his fingers as he’d worked her from the inside, while his mouth had suckled, absorbing as much of her essence as he’d been able to. He felt the tingling at the base of his spine, the clenching of his balls while they pulled close to his body and the rush of pleasure that surged though him as his seed shot forth, his mind on the rose by the river.

  * * * *

  The night before, he had slept but a wink. She, as he’d expected, had haunted his thoughts and dreams. Never had a woman affected him so. It irritated him that his mind could not move away from the memory of the woman by the river. His mother’s voice snapped him out of his wandering thoughts.

  “Darling, I know you do not wish to attend and do not care for such events, but spare a thought for your mother, yes?”

  He looked at his sprightly and cunning mother, a woman whom he cared for more than any
other. He saw she did not jest with him—in truth, he knew she missed the ton and its events, but wanted to be close to him, and while he remained at his country estate, so would she.

  “What is it that you require, Mother?” he asked, feeling somewhat guilty he had not been paying attention to the conversation moments earlier. His thoughts had been nowhere near appropriate enough to be mulled over in his dear mama’s presence.

  She beamed at him. “Only to attend the ball being held at Deonsay this evening. Lord Killory will make it a grand event, to be sure. Both his daughters are coming out, I am told.”

  Damon’s eyes snapped up from the letters his steward had just brought to him.

  “His daughters?”

  Seeing she had captured her son’s attention, Lady Yvonne continued, “Yes, I believe his eldest is not known as a beauty, yet her dowry will surely attract a man in need of coin. His youngest by only a year is said to be the beauty, with hair of spun gold.”

  Damon’s eyes narrowed. The temptress at the river had not been blonde—instead, her hair had been the shade of a roasted chestnut. His mother must not have her gossip correct. The woman he had pleasured by the stream had been bestowed with more beauty than any other he had ever seen.

  “What of the eldest?” he asked.

  “Lady Claire? I have never had the pleasure of meeting her. I have seen her sister, Lady Elizabeth. She accompanies her father when he travels, but the eldest does not. It is not a secret he is besotted with his youngest. I have heard the eldest daughter is not as refined, preferring to hunt and the like.”

  “What of their mother?”

  “Ah, the eldest daughter’s mother died during her birth. Lord Killory remarried, as you know, to the Lady of Beverley and I believe Lady Elizabeth was the result. He does not have a male heir.”

  Damon nodded but did not have time to ask anything further before his mother continued.

  “So, my dear, can we travel to the ball this evening? I sent our acceptance in the hope you would feel like attending,” she added, looking hopefully at her son.

  His brow dipped in irritation at his mother, not caring for her pressure, yet somewhat interested in attending. He now wondered if the woman he had pleasured had been the Lord’s daughter. She did not have hair of spun gold, nor was she displeasing to the eye—quite the opposite, in fact. Who was she? Curiosity was sure to burden him with another sleepless night, if not kill him beforehand.

  “Yes, Mother. We shall attend.”

  * * * *

  “I have not seen so many men in a ballroom outside of London,” Lady Margaret whispered with awe, while she and Claire stood to the side of the room, watching Lady Elizabeth beam.

  Demurely hiding her pleasure behind her fan at the attention men were displaying her, Elizabeth radiated delight as she stood beside their father, chatting with several gentlemen.

  “Yes, they have all travelled far to court her tonight,” Claire agreed.

  Margaret turned to her with a frown. “That is not true. Sir Gerald has asked you for a dance this evening,” she said, pointing down at the dance card which hung loosely around Claire’s wrist.

  The smell of the man’s breath had made her recoil, and she had made no attempt to hide her distaste. However, Sir Gerald had not appeared to mind, or to notice. Indeed, he had barely glanced at her as he had asked for a dance, looking longingly instead towards her sister. Claire had heard the gossip of his struggles. Apparently, there were several gaming hells in London where Sir Gerald was no longer given credit. His need to marry, and marry well, was not a shock. She had had the urge to decline his request, but her stepmother had introduced them, giving Claire a stare that was not to be challenged.

  Glancing at her friend’s card, she noted no dances were left without a partner. Men had been quick to ensure they got a dance with the Lady Margaret. While Claire did not harbour any jealousy or ill will towards her good friend, she did envy her proper appearance and slim figure. Fortune hunters were all who paid Claire any notice.

  Claire had been graced with a larger body than many would deem beautiful. Her height caused her to come eye to eye with most of the men in the room. They never appeared to like that. Her hands were not petite as they clasped her punch glass; instead, her fingers outsized her friends’. Her maid called her stocky, while Elizabeth often likened her to a carriage horse. Claire did not take offence to this, or anything her sister had ever said to her. They did not have a special bond like most siblings. There was nothing remotely resembling affection between the two.

  Attempting to take a deep breath, Claire felt the binding under her dress hinder the attempt. Her stepmother had insisted she be bound at the waist to hide as much ‘excess’ as possible. It did nothing but press her breasts higher and hamper her ability to breathe. She was glad she had no partners for the quicker dances. Claire worried she would swoon from lack of air if forced to move with such vigour.

  As another guest was announced, Claire simply opened her fan, attempting to cool herself in the hot room, caused in part by the many bodies in attendance, the glowing candlelight and her lack of ability to take in air.

  “Oh, my!” Lady Margaret gasped.

  Claire paused, noting the surprise in her friend’s voice. “What is it?”

  “It’s Lord Belfort and his mother, Lady Yvonne.”

  Claire had never seen the lord or his mother. She rarely left the estate with her father when he travelled, preferring to remain, while her sister favoured the excitement of the city. What was surprising was that, since this man’s estate bordered Deonsay, they had never met when he went to town on matters of business.

  As the Belforts descended the grand stairs into the ballroom, Claire saw that his mother was quite tall. Despite her height, the older woman still appeared dwarfed next to the man who escorted her. His broad shoulders looked powerful as he held his mother’s elbow. His long legs took sure, powerful steps down the winding stairs without his having to check where he walked.

  Claire’s gaze moved down the extended length of his legs before slowly making its way back up his body, lingering on the well-fitted flap at the front of his navy breeches. Heat pooled at her core as a shiver raced through her body. She felt her nipples tighten against the binding surrounding them. She took a deep breath and almost whimpered as more pleasure raced through her blood and body.

  Looking back to the man who had unexpectedly released these desires in her, she noted he carried himself with confidence and assurance. Several gentlemen attempted to start a conversation as he walked past. He ignored all of them. Claire smirked, unable to control herself. He did not care to be here either, but she saw with fondness that as his mother spoke to him, he gave her his full attention. While he was harsh, he was also soft. Claire found that a rather endearing quality.

  * * * *

  Lady Yvonne did not care as much for balls or the ton life as her son thought she did. No, she had merely tried to encourage him to attend with her in the hope he would find a girl who captured his attention, and would provide her with a home full of grandchildren for Yvonne to spoil and adore. She had reached her fiftieth birthday last spring, and Yvonne worried she would soon be too old and frail to appreciate the children when they did come.

  Damon had surprised her with his quick agreement to attend the night’s ball. His enquiry about Lord Killory’s daughters only intrigued her more. Did he fancy the beautiful Lady Elizabeth? He would not be alone, if that were the case. Yvonne had met the woman in the past and while she deemed her a selfish and dim-witted child, Elizabeth’s beauty was dazzling. Yvonne had not thought her son so shallow, but if that was who he chose she would not chastise him, simply assist him in his quest.

  As they approached Lord and Lady Killory, she noted her son did not glance once at Lady Elizabeth, who stood at her father’s side. She inwardly sighed. It appeared this lady had not been the reason for his quick agreement to attend, after all.

  Introductions were made and, as at many of
these events, Damon appeared bored, gracing the girl with nothing more than a nod when she curtseyed. Yvonne resisted the urge to chuckle in amusement when she saw the young girl’s irritation at this—a rarity, to be sure.

  “You have two daughters, do you not, my Lord?” she asked. “Did I hear correctly that it was the coming out for both tonight?”

  “Yes,” Lord Killory confirmed as he looked around the room, before gesturing to a girl who had been watching them.

  As she approached, Yvonne noted the way she studied Damon. She was rather tall and had a large frame. She was not portly, simply hardy looking, as if she could handle anything which tested her. Her dress was a size too small and her bosom almost popped out of the top of her gown. Who had dressed this poor girl? Though what did not escape her notice was how her brown hair was pinned upon her head, exposing her long neck, or how her light blue eyes moved over Damon. She appeared intrigued.

  Interesting.

  Damon’s sudden stiffness at her side also made his mother curious. Could this girl be the reason?

  “And this is my eldest daughter, Lady Claire. Claire, this is Lord Belfort and his mother, Lady Yvonne.”

  The young woman smiled at Yvonne warmly, then her eyes flicked back to Damon as she curtseyed. Damon responded by bowing slightly. Yvonne almost screamed out for joy. So, this was the girl he was interested in. He had never cared for manners or politeness when in the presence of nobility. He only showed respect to his employees and servants. His regard for those in their own class was sadly lacking.

  “Are you enjoying the ball so far, my dear?” Yvonne asked Lady Claire.

  Her sister, the Lady Elizabeth, giggled and lifted the dance card that hung around Lady Claire’s wrist by a thin, blue ribbon. “Oh, sister, you only have one dance partner for the evening. Such a pity. My card is already full.”

  Yvonne looked sharply to the girls’ parents, only to see them beam down at the younger sister in devotion, not chastise her for her foul treatment of her kin.