by Sandra Heath
Gathering her skirts, she continued the ascent. Her steps took her unerringly along a wide candlelit passage with windows overlooking the courtyard. At last she reached the door of her private apartment, and paused again, her glance moving along to the door of Dane’s rooms a little further on. The fact that he and his wife occupied separate apartments had never signified anything, for the rooms were connected by a set of folding doors. Tonight she meant to go through those doors.
* * * *
She entered her rooms, and found Rosalind’s maid waiting. Josie Lloyd’s slight figure and dark coloring gave her Welsh ancestry away almost as much as her surname. She’d been in Rosalind’s service for five years now, and knew all about the affair with Thomas. When Rosalind wished to send messages to her lover, it was the maid who took them. Like Alice and the dressmaker, Mrs. Fowler, Josie was the illicit lovers’ accomplice. All three assisted in the tangle that was making a cuckold of Sir Dane Marchwood.
Josie curtsied. “My lady.”
“Josie.” Kathryn surveyed her surroundings. She was in a little blue-and-white drawing room. The blue velvet curtains were drawn at windows she knew faced over the terraced gardens and the meadows of the little River March to the south of the castle, and candlelight shone softly over elegant but feminine chairs and sofas upholstered in floral tapestry. Through a doorway she could see the lemon and gray bedroom Rosalind used when she slept alone, and just visible through an archway beyond that was the dressing room.
Like everything else in the castle, Kathryn was immediately acquainted with the rooms and their contents. She knew what was in every drawer and trinket box, and what gowns and other accessories were to be found in the dressing room wardrobes. But it wasn’t her own apartment that interested her; she was more concerned with what lay on the other side of the folding doors.
She turned to the maid. “Is Sir Dane in his apartment?”
“Yes, my lady, I heard him enter a minute or so before you came in.” Josie took a lighted candle through to the dressing room, and soon Kathryn heard the chink of porcelain as water was poured from a large jug into a bowl. The thought of being attended by a maid was strange, but Kathryn knew she must proceed as Rosalind would, so after a minute or so she followed Josie into the dressing room.
The maid unhooked the delicate emerald silk gown, and for the first time Kathryn realized she wasn’t wearing any undergarments. It simply hadn’t occurred to her before, but the moment the gown slithered to the floor, she found herself standing completely naked. She was startled. Rosalind didn’t even wear the proverbial stays? How very shocking of her. Or was it? She seemed to recall having read something about Regency ladies dampening their gowns to make them cling to their legs, but even so, it seemed a little daring to go out with only a gown to spare one’s modesty. Unless, of course, Rosalind had gone out that night prepared for her assignation with Thomas... Yes, that was more likely the truth. How convenient and time-saving to slip out of a gown and get down to business with only Thomas knowing about the absence of undergarments.
As she washed her face and hands she became aware that something very important about Rosalind was being withheld from her. She sensed it more than actually knew it, and the feeling was unsettling. Just as had happened earlier in the evening, when she didn’t know what vital thing Rosalind had told Thomas, she was conscious of another mysterious blank in her knowledge, although this one came unbidden and unprompted. What was it? Another skipped chapter or switched channel?
Josie brought a lace-trimmed cream silk nightgown and slipped it over Kathryn’s head, but as the maid began to tie the little pink ribbons at the throat, Kathryn shook her head. “I’ll finish things myself now, Josie. You may go.”
“But your hair, my lady ...”
“I’ll attend to it.” Kathryn knew the real Rosalind wouldn’t do her own hair, but every minute now was prolonging the wait before she could go through those folding doors to Dane.
Clearly taken aback, Josie curtsied. “Very well, my lady. Good night.”
“Good night, Josie.”
The maid went to the doorway, but then hesitated. “About tomorrow night, my lady. Do you still wish to wear the plowman’s gauze gown if Mrs. Fowler doesn’t complete the new one in time?”
“Yes.”
“My lady.” Josie withdrew.
Kathryn reached up swiftly to pull out the jeweled comb and countless hairpins keeping her coiffure firmly in place. How on earth Rosalind managed to make passionate love without disturbing so much as a curl, she simply didn’t know. Unless, of course, hairdressing was one of Alice’s many accomplishments. Yes, on reflection, it probably was.
She picked up a tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush and began to draw it gently through the long golden curls to which she was so unaccustomed. Her own bobbed style was so much easier to manage, she thought a little wistfully, but when she looked in the dressing table mirror and saw the sort of hair many Hollywood stars would kill for, the wistfulness evaporated. Maybe she should think of growing her real hair as long as this. She continued to study her new self, taking in the pale but beautiful face, and the enchanting wide green gaze. “Kathryn Vansomeren, you’ve become quite an eyeful,” she murmured.
The clock in the bedroom behind her struck two, and she put the hairbrush down and got up. It was now or never. She went to the folding doors, but then her nerve began to fail her. What if she couldn’t pull this off? What if the real plot went a way she didn’t like? Maybe there was a mistress her subconscious hadn’t remembered! No, that couldn’t be so, or Alice wouldn’t have promised what she did.
She lowered her eyes for a moment. Alice might have promised, but it all depended on Kathryn Vansomeren, who suddenly wasn’t quite as confident as she needed to be. During her fling with Harry, he’d done all the seducing, but now it was her turn. Playing the seductress was something she’d only thought about, a fantasy she’d toyed with in the hours of quiet frustration when Richard slept beside her. Was she really capable of putting those secret ideas into practice? Could she go through these doors now and use virtually untested erotic wiles successfully upon a man like Sir Dane Marchwood?
Her dwindling courage began to ebb away fast, but then she remembered the electrifying effect Dane had upon her. With him she knew the fantasy could become reality. Her resolve swept back again and she drew the doors aside to walk through.
Chapter Seven
The apartment beyond was in darkness, except for the moonlight in the bedroom, where she saw him standing naked by the open window looking out at the night. If he knew she was there, he gave no intimation.
Her gaze lingered upon him, taking in the perfection of his broad shoulders, slender waist, tight buttocks, and well-shaped muscular thighs. It was the sort of body that would look as good in modern designer jeans as in the best tailoring from Regency Bond Street, and he was the sort of man who’d been irresistible to women since time began. Dark, dangerous, devastating Sir Dane Marchwood.
She wanted to say his name, but although her lips moved, no sound came out. Then she knew he was aware of her presence, for he spoke without turning. “I believe you’ve made a mistake, madam, for this is my apartment, not yours.”
“It’s no mistake.”
“Then you come to me as a lamb to the sacrifice, to allay my suspicions.” He turned at last, and the moonlight caught a golden chain and pendant around his neck.
Now she saw all of him, the contemptuous twist of his lips, the dark hair on his chest and loins, and his potent masculinity, soft and slumbering now, but when aroused ... A powerful excitement began to flow through her, quickening her pulse and heartbeats, and tightening her breasts so her nipples stood out. She was conscious of a dull ache deep within, the ache of desire. How had she never realized just how erotically susceptible she was? Every sense was alive to him, the blood flowing warm and eager through her veins. There was no modesty in the way she felt. She wanted to be one with him, to feel that magnificent virility thrus
t in to the hilt. But though she thought all this, she made no response to what he said, and her silence was misinterpreted.
“So you are a sacrificial lamb,” he murmured sarcastically, going to a small table and pouring himself a glass of cognac from the decanter standing there.
For a split second she was reminded of Richard, and the Scotch he drank the day they’d quarreled about the vacation. But it was only a split second, and then Richard Vansomeren was lost in the mists of the future as she gazed at Dane. He wasn’t self-conscious about his nakedness; in fact, it was almost as if he used it to mock her, for he made no move to put on a robe or conceal his loins.
She met his eyes. “Dane, I’ve come to you tonight because I want you,” she said at last. How true that was right now!
“Perhaps I don’t want you, madam, or hadn’t that occurred to you?”
“Of course it’s occurred to me, and if you don’t, then I cannot blame you.”
“No, you certainly can’t,” he said coldly.
She was conscious of the pendant around his neck. She knew it was a miniature of his first wife, beautiful flame-haired Elizabeth. She of the mysterious bitter legacy. Kathryn went closer to him. “I want to make amends, Dane,” she said.
“Amends? I doubt you can, madam, for nothing can wash away the stain of adultery.”
“I haven’t committed adultery, Dane, but can you honestly say you’ve been equally faithful to me?” she countered.
He paused. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“Of course.”
He gave a short laugh. “My God, how desperate you are to creep back into my good books. Why, Rosalind?”
“Because I love you.”
“Forgive me if I take that with a pinch of salt. There’s still the small matter of the lover my intuition tells me exists.”
“I keep telling you I haven’t got a lover.”
“That isn’t how it appears to me, so go back to your apartment, Rosalind,” he said wearily.
She remained where she was. “If I must prove my love for you, then I will,” she said softly, undoing her nightgown and allowing it to fall to the floor.
His gaze moved slowly over her, but then returned coldly to her face. “I take no man’s leavings, madam.”
“If I’m any man’s leavings, sir, that man is you.”
Anger flashed into his eyes. “Don’t insult me with this charade, Rosalind. We both know you never wanted this match, and that during my absence you’ve been she-catting in another man’s bed!” Suddenly he flung his glass across the room at the fireplace, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.
She flinched at his fury. “No, Dane, it’s not true!”
“Oh, yes it is, madam.”
She went to him and sank to her knees with her head bowed. “Please don’t turn me away, Dane,” she whispered.
She heard him exhale slowly. “What’s this? Has that old harridan been brewing potions for you?” he asked softly. “Has she concocted something to turn my ice-wife into a creature of flesh and blood?”
He didn’t move away and for a moment she thought his fingers touched her hair. He was close enough to touch, to caress ... She longed to feel his warmth, and suddenly could no longer resist. Looking up, she reached out slowly to put her trembling fingertips against his thigh. The contact seared through her like a flame as she slid her fingers tentatively over his flesh. If this was a dream, it was headier than reality...
Still he didn’t move away, and so she knelt up to embrace him, her arms encircling his hips. All her sensual fantasies blossomed into vibrant life now; she was a temptress intent upon making him want her. Erotic sensations quivered through her. Even these first moments transcended everything she’d known before. She was conscious of a sexual excitement that was almost too intense to bear, and a soft sigh escaped her as she put her lips to the forest of hair at his loins. His masculinity brushed against her, still unaroused as yet, but only, she knew suddenly, because he was resisting.
His unwillingness to succumb heightened her desire. She wanted to feel him hardening against her, wanted to make him surrender to temptation. Slowly, she lowered her lips still more, this time to the velvet shaft itself. The scent of him filled her nostrils, potent and stimulating, and at last she felt him stir beneath her lips, becoming longer and harder as need began to pulse through him.
Her nipples brushed against his thighs, and more delicious sensation shivered through her veins. Still embracing his hips, she caressed his back and buttocks, then, almost weak with a sensuous craving, she moved her lips luxuriously against his shaft, springing like hot steel from his groin. How virile and hard he was, and how exciting. For a heart-stopping moment she took the tip in her mouth, sliding her tongue over it and savoring the intense erotic pleasure of such an intimate caress.
The seconds hung, as if time itself had ceased, and she was lost in a wild torrent of sexual sensations that seemed to tingle over her entire being. She knelt before him as if in subjection, but he was at her mercy now. With her lips and tongue she stormed his masculinity, until he could resist no more and with a low groan dragged her to her feet and into his arms.
His lips crushed hers as he pressed her against him. Her breasts felt tender as her nipples rubbed on his flesh, and he eased his shaft between her legs, lifting her a little so that she was held upon it. His fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of her neck and his tongue moved against hers as the kiss deepened.
She’d been kissed before, by Richard and by Harry, but it had never felt like this. Surely he would soon take her to the velvet-hung bed that stood in the flood of moonlight streaming through the window. Oh, how she longed to lie beneath this man.
He drew away suddenly and took her face in his hands, his eyes bright with desire as he looked at her. “Rosalind, if this is some trickery, I will never forgive you...”
In that moment she saw his raw vulnerability, and it affected her as much as everything else about him. Surely the real Rosalind was the only woman on earth capable of remaining immune to his fascination? Fate—or some forgotten author—dealt him a diabolical hand with such a wife. Kathryn smiled. “No trickery, my love,” she breathed. “I just know now how much I love and need you.” Her needful fingers sank into the hairs of his groin.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where she soon lay with her golden hair in confusion against the coverlet. She reached up to him.
He joined her, putting his lips to one of her breasts and drawing the taut nipple deep into his mouth. More exquisite sensations gripped her and she held him close. She ached for him to penetrate the fastnesses that for so long had craved full satisfaction, but he held back. She felt the pendant cold against her, as if Elizabeth’s ghost tried to come between them, but not even a beloved shade could dampen his ardor now.
Kiss succeeded kiss as their caresses became more intimate and arousing. She was caught up in an oblivion of sexual delight. This man knew things even Harry Swenson hadn’t heard of, but where Harry had led her to heaven’s door, Sir Dane Marchwood took her effortlessly over the threshold. He didn’t penetrate her, though, but skillfully prolonged her agony of desire. He was lord of his art, the lover of her most abandoned and shameless dreams, and she knew that when the final moment came she would soar to such heights of abandonment and ecstasy that nothing would ever be the same for her again.
At last he moved over her, and her legs parted longingly. She felt his shaft touch her, lingering tantalizingly at the entrance before he pushed each inch slowly and exquisitely inside. She gasped with pleasure, and there were tears on her cheeks as she felt his entirety fill her for a few moments before he pulled out again to repeat the movement.
The pleasure intensified as his strokes began to quicken, and he closed his eyes as his own gratification approached. He whispered a name, but she couldn’t hear what it was.
She exulted in his every thrust, and her very consciousness seemed in peril as at last an e
xplosion of emotion carried them both toward the brink of consciousness. She heard his shuddering breaths and felt him tremble against her and inside her, but her own body seemed to dissolve in joy as she clung to him, her lips pressed to the damp saltiness of his shoulder. The pendant shone in the moonlight, and she closed her eyes to shut it out. Please don’t let it be Elizabeth’s name he’d whispered. Please...
At last he sank against her, but they remained one, joined in that most exquisite of ways. Gradually he softened inside her, but as his lips found hers again, she knew they’d make love many more times before dawn lightened the sky.
This was a night she wanted never to end. But it was only a dream. Only a dream ...
Chapter Eight
Kathryn was asleep in Dane’s arms. Dawn lightened the sky, and Marchwood Castle was ghostly in a summer mist when Alice came quietly to the bedside.
“It’s time to go now, my dear,” the old woman whispered.
Kathryn’s eyes flew open. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, but then memory returned. Dane. She reached out toward him, but suddenly there was the loud and incongruous beat of rock music. Marchwood and its lord had gone, and instead she’d awakened in the Gloucester apartment. The music came from the alarm radio by the bed.
Shocked and dismayed, she could only lie there. She didn’t want to be here, she wanted to stay in her dreams with Dane! As the harsh music jangled her nerves, she reached out to silence it and then slumped back again. She felt oddly dazed, like she was just regaining consciousness after an operation.
Then she glanced toward the dawn shining palely through the open window. The cathedral rose above a low mist, and she could hear the birds beginning the morning chorus. Modern sounds drifted in vaguely through the air as Gloucester began to stir for a new day, and with them came cold common sense. It had only been a dream, none of it had really happened, so what point was there in resenting having awoken? Okay, so it had been a humdinger of a dream, but that still didn’t make it fact. It was just a very lucid dream.