He pulled his mouth free, ran his lips across her cheek to the long length of her pale throat. “I had to kiss you,” he rasped, skimming his teeth along the sensitive skin below her ear, eliciting a gasp from her. “If I didn’t kiss you this moment, I swear I would have gone mad.”
“I hoped I would find you here,” she breathed, her fingers grasping greedily onto his shoulders, bringing him closer.
The confession nearly buckled his knees. He found her lips again, plundered her mouth, drowning in the smell and taste of her until it was a part of him. She responded, matching every stroke of his tongue, every caress of his hands. He had experienced a taste of her passion before, when he had kissed her in the garden. This, though, was unlike anything he expected from her. Here was Rosalind unleashed, showing him a passion he never knew existed in her.
But even as he began to lose himself, the smaller, saner part of him took hold, reining him in. He forced himself to pull back, the soft cry of loss tumbling from her lips nearly breaking his resolve. With a shuddering breath and clenched teeth he held himself in check. Barely, but he managed it. He pressed his forehead to hers, knowing if he looked down at her, at the proof of her desire, he would be lost.
“I can’t keep kissing you, Rosalind.” The words were bitter on his tongue, even as her sweet breath fanned his face, further weakening his resolve. “If I do I won’t be able to stop.”
There was silence in the hall, broken only by the rasp of their uneven breath. Then her voice, so soft he barely heard it.
“So don’t stop.”
He let out a shuddering breath, the longing those words brought nearly unmanning him. He clenched his eyes all the tighter, shaking his head, her hair rasping against his. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.” Her voice was stronger now, and unbelievably calm.
He opened his eyes. Surely she was mad to suggest such a thing. After what she had divulged to him tonight, he knew now why she would keep her distance, would hold herself away from men like him.
Yet her eyes were clear, the certainty and trust in them wrapping around his heart.
His resolve began to melt like frost after the first rays of a spring sun. Still he must make her understand what was at stake.
“I won’t be able to keep myself from claiming you. You will be mine, Rosalind.”
“You won’t hurt me, Tristan.” She laid a soft hand against his cheek and smiled. “I know you now. I trust you. Make me yours.”
The remainder of his willpower vanished in an instant. With a groan he pulled her back into his arms, lowered his mouth to hers. Joy sang through his veins as a realization hit him: he loved her. By God, he loved her. Rosalind was his, and he was hers. He belonged to someone.
And he would never let her go.
• • •
Rosalind had known their kiss was getting out of hand. She was smart, after all, could take control of the situation and see that it did not go too far. She had been readying herself to pull away, to put a stop to it, to return to her lonely bed and spend the rest of the night dreaming of what might have been if she had less sense.
But then Tristan had torn his mouth from hers and dragged in that ragged breath. And the vulnerability in his warning to her had gone straight to her heart.
He was not that man she thought he was. Not even close. And she knew in that moment, despite her intentions, she had gone and fallen in love with him.
She, Miss Rosalind Merriweather, a woman of too little trust and too much sense, had gone and fallen for Sir Tristan Crosby, a London rake. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Instead she pulled him closer, running her hands over the incredible breadth of his shoulders, reveling in the strength of him. In answer he swept his arms beneath her, cradling her to his chest and striding to her bedroom. As if from a distance she heard the soft click of the door as he closed it, a metallic rattle as he turned the key in the lock. And then he lowered her feet to the floor, and she was against the door, his body pressing her into the wood panel, every hard inch of him demanding surrender.
She gave it, with a joy she could not remember ever feeling before. Spearing her fingers into the silkiness of his hair, her tongue met his with wild abandon. His hands skimmed down her body, brushing over the sides of her breasts, her waist, her hips. His fingers found purchase behind her knees, hitched her legs up to settle about his hips. He pressed into the cradle there.
Rosalind’s eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth tearing free on a gasp as sensation bombarded her. His lips found her throat, laving the skin there even as he pressed against her, rocking against her most tender flesh. The tension that had been coiling within her wound tighter, until she thought she might shatter. Yet with every press of him into the core of her, the feeling intensified. How was this bliss possible?
“Rosalind.” His voice was deep, moving through her, a raw and primal thing. “I will stop if you wish, I swear it. For there is no turning back if we finish this. But I beg of you, tell me now while I still have the strength.”
Her heart filled until she thought it might burst. She grabbed his face in her hands, forced him to look her in the eye. And said, with a certainty she felt down to the very depths of her soul, “Don’t stop, Tristan. Please.”
He searched her face, disbelief and desire and longing all coalescing in the blue of his eyes. Realization dawned, and a joy that seemed to match her own. He lowered her, and before her feet had even touched the floor his arms were beneath her, cradling her to his chest as if she were a precious treasure. His steps were long and sure as he carried her to the bed, his arms strong as he lowered her to the mattress, his body hard as he covered her. She opened her arms to him, eager for what was to come next now that she had gotten a taste of it.
“I need to see you.” His words were hot on her skin, scorching her. His fingers found the hem of her gown then. She expected him to yank it off of her in one fluid motion; instead his fingers began a slow climb up her body, grazing her sensitive flesh, exposing her skin to the cool night—and his hot gaze—inch by inch. She lay as still as possible, watching his face the whole while, for the first time doubt creeping in. What would he think of her? She, who was too thin, too small, with hardly a curve in sight. He must be used to voluptuous, desirable women throwing themselves at him daily. She had seen it for herself, seen the beauty and the sultriness of the ladies of society, the women who looked at him with blatant invitation.
Yet his gaze only grew hotter the more she was exposed to him. And then her gown was up and over her head, and she was bared completely to him as she had never been to another. And he looked at her as if he could not believe his fortune.
“You are beautiful, Rosalind.” His gaze skimmed her, over every dip and valley, and she felt it like a physical touch. “You are so damn beautiful.”
She felt the hot press of tears behind her eyes. She had never felt attractive. Yet now, with him, she was the most beautiful creature in existence.
Wordlessly she reached for him. She needed him in her arms. Instead of going to her, however, he rolled from the bed. Rosalind had no time to wonder at it, for his hands immediately went to the sash of his dressing gown. Soon the silky material was falling from his shoulders, his smalls soon following. She had only a moment to drink in her fill before he rejoined her. Yet what she saw was not something she would ever be able to forget. Smooth golden skin, a broad chest tight with muscles and covered in a dusting of pale hair, all tapering down to a lean waist, hard thighs, long legs. And that most private part of him, large and strong and ready for her.
She might have faltered then. But he was covering her, his bare skin pressed close to hers. And there was no more room for doubt or fear. For never had anything felt so incredible as this.
A low moan escaped him, the sound vibrating his chest against her sensitive breasts, the combination of sound and sensation going straight to the center of her. She though
t he would kiss her then. And he did. Only not where she expected.
He moved down her body, his hands large and warm on her skin, his lips following. Over her neck, her shoulder, her chest. Then he was cupping her breast, and his mouth settled warm over the nipple, drawing it into his mouth.
Rosalind cried out, her back arching off the mattress as heat speared her, shooting from her breast straight to the core of her. She writhed beneath him, pushing up into his mouth, her fingers diving into his hair, silently begging for more. He answered with tongue and teeth, heightening the pleasure until she thought she might scream.
His mouth lifted then, releasing her breast from his sweet torment. But the agony did not end there. For his lips trailed over her feverish flesh to her other breast, lavishing it with kisses, bringing her to even greater heights. His hands splayed over her abdomen, trailed lower, brushing the curls over her sex. The heat there intensified, scorching her very soul.
“Tristan.” His name escaped her on a desperate breath, begging him for something though she knew not what. He answered the plea immediately, moving up her body.
“Open for me, Rosalind.” His voice was raw, primal, touching something in her even as his trembling hands on her knees proved how deeply he was affected.
She did as he bid. At once he settled into the cradle of her thighs. A low hiss of pleasure escaped him, stirring the tendrils of hair at her temple, fanning the flame that was now raging in her. His hand moved between them, at once gentle and demanding as he searched out the heart of her. His fingers stroked her, working magic on her body, slick with the very essence of her desire. She cried out, pressing her face into his shoulder, pushing up against his questing fingers.
“You are so ready for me,” he rasped. Then his hand was gone, and he was there, the blunt tip of him pushing into her.
A memory flashed then, of the sight of him, large and so very male. She froze, her muscles tensing as he began to fill her. There was burning, stretching…
He stopped. “Relax, love,” he whispered against her lips, his hands stroking the hair back from her forehead, cradling her face. Then his mouth was covering hers. And there was no room to think as his lips made her forget her fears, as his hands on her body brought her back to that same place she had been.
He pushed forward then, until he was buried fully in her. She sucked in a shocked breath. But the pain was quickly gone, the warmth back. And then he moved. And the warmth turned to a blazing fire.
“Tristan,” she gasped, digging her fingers into his sweat-slicked back. She wrapped her legs about him, the new tilt of her hips sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.
The guarded care he had shown moments ago melted away at proof of her desire. With a growl he moved inside her, his thrusts coming faster, harder. She matched every movement, her hips rising to meet his with some ancient instinct. Their breaths mingled, coming in ragged gasps. A bright white light began to burn behind Rosalind’s tightly closed lids as her body tightened to an almost painful degree. She pressed her face into Tristan’s shoulder, felt his hand cradle her head to his chest. And then his voice was in her ear, desperate, urging her on.
“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered brokenly. “Let go for me. Come for me.”
His voice enveloping her, wrapping through and around her, she gasped and shattered. The white light behind her eyelids burst forth in brilliant color, fireworks that shot from the very top of her head to the tips of her toes. Even as her entire being floated in bliss, reaching the very heights of heaven, she was vaguely aware of his body tensing, of his shout of completion echoing in her ears. And then she was floating back to earth, and he was there, his arms tight about her as she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 22
There was a moment of utter bliss when Rosalind first opened her eyes the next morning. How was it, she wondered as she lay wrapped in the tangled cocoon of sheets, that the sun looked to shine a bit more brightly this morning, the birds to chirp a touch more joyfully? She smiled, and stretched…
And immediately froze. For she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
A scent reached her then, Tristan’s own spice. It was in the very pillow her head lay on, ensnaring her senses. Filling her with memory. How she had begged him to come to her bed, had opened for him, given him everything she was. How she had taken him into her body… into her heart.
In an instant she was wide awake. But there was no magic of the night before to ease her mind. No, the coming of the day had brought the return of reality. She had gone and done what she had vowed to never do, had allowed her heart to be touched, then had allowed it to reign supreme over the better sense of her mind.
But surely he had not merely used her, she thought. A pernicious voice sounded in her ear, asking if that were so, why was he gone from her bed without even a note goodbye? And, more importantly, without any idea what their future might bring?
She fought down the encroaching panic those thoughts brought. Curling onto her side, she wrapped her arms around the pillow, pressed her face into it. There, with her eyes shut tight, darkness and Tristan’s cologne her only companions, she was able to remember the feel of his arms about her, his tender words in her ear. He had made her feel so safe, so cherished. He must care about her. He would not have lain with her if he didn’t. Not after what they had become to one another. He was different from other men like him, would not take advantage of her.
But as she sighed and sat up, intending to put aside her anxiety and start the day, she caught sight of something gleaming amidst the white sheets.
A gold chain.
She gasped, her fingers going to her throat even as she knew there would be nothing there. Before her the chain lay broken, the clasp twisted beyond repair. She stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, only realizing as she reached for it that the locket was missing.
Once again panic took hold of her. She lurched to her knees, tearing the covers back, searching frantically. At last she found it beneath the pillow. The burnished gold winked feebly up at her in the bright morning light, the brilliant turquoise dull and lifeless.
She grasped onto it, her fingers folding around the small locket so tightly the stones bit into her palm. “Guinevere,” she whispered brokenly. How had she forgotten Guinevere? It was then the foolishness of what she had done hit her. Her sister had loved where she should not have, had made the mistake of surrendering her innocence for that love. And she had regretted it for what remained of her short life. All this time Rosalind had thought herself above such things. She would never be so naïve, would never make such a mistake.
Yet how different were they really? For Rosalind had done the very same thing. She had fallen in love with Tristan, had surrendered her body and her heart to him. All without the promise of tomorrows. He had never once said he loved her, had never spoken of marriage. The future had never been mentioned. And now he was gone, without a word or a note.
And she was the greatest fool that ever walked the planet. For she wanted nothing more than to find him, to surrender to his embrace again.
A sob escaped. Furious at herself now, she threw off the covers and hurried from the bed. A pitcher of chill water stood ready on the washstand. She dipped in a cloth and scrubbed herself with it, making her skin pink with protest, removing every trace of him from her body. She ignored the blood she wiped from her inner thighs, ignored the sore hidden muscles that groaned with every movement. She had made a horrible mistake. Over the course of the last few days she had allowed herself to be lulled by him, had even begun to find enjoyment in a kind of friendship with him. Then last night, with Vauxhall working its magic on her, she had been completely enchanted into giving up that which she should have protected at all costs.
She went to the wardrobe in the corner and pulled out a chemise, yanking it over her head. She wouldn’t let him see what he had done to her. He would have no cause to pity her. It was a brutal lesson she had learned, but
learn it she had. For she would never make such a mistake again.
• • •
Tristan whistled as he bounded up the steps to the townhouse later that day, letting himself into the front hall with a flourish that would have been impressive had anyone been about to see it. He had slipped from Rosalind’s bed before dawn, leaving the warmth of her arms reluctantly. But he could not chance anyone seeing him, would not have her talked about below stairs. Besides, he’d had an important errand to run, one that could not wait a moment longer.
He had not planned for it to take as long as it had. Rosalind had to have been up for hours now, and Grace with her.
But any annoyance she might feel at his absence would surely disappear in an instant when she learned the reason for it. As a matter of fact, he thought as he patted his jacket pocket and grinned, he expected she would be so delighted that they might wind up back in her bed again before the day was through. He chuckled as he mounted the stairs to the upper floors two at a time. He would have to see to it that Grace had something to do for the remainder of the day, far away from the house.
But his cousin’s room was empty when he reached the family quarters. Undaunted, he hurried down the hall to Rosalind’s chamber. However it, too, was empty. The bed was made, the room neat as a pin. In his mind’s eye he could see it as it had been when he had left, the bedding in complete disarray, waning moonlight bathing Rosalind as she lay amidst it all. Her eyes had been closed in a deep sleep, her face smooth from care. He recalled the fight he’d had with himself to leave her then. For he’d wanted nothing more than to return to her arms, to sink back into her welcoming warmth, to never let her go.
But his self-control would be worth it in the end.
A Match Made In London Page 21