He adored her breast, bringing her nipple into his mouth, doing wicked things with his teeth and tongue that had her panting and writhing beneath him. His hands were as busy, splaying across her lower belly before trailing between her thighs. He slid one finger inside her, his groan of satisfaction as he found her wet and ready for him vibrating against her breasts, driving her to new heights.
Rosalind’s body went tight as a bow as his finger was joined by a second. His fingers moved within her, his thumb rubbing circles over her swollen flesh. She gasped, her body bowing. Her fingers dove into his hair, grasping tight, feeling as if she were in the midst of a maelstrom and he was the only safety in the storm.
“I want to feel you come around me,” he gasped. Then his hand was gone, and Rosalind, nearly mad with desire, wanted to cry from the loss. But then his mouth was back on hers, and he was at the entrance of her. There was no hesitation, no resistance this time. In one smooth thrust he was seated to the hilt.
He growled low, the sound vibrating through her. And then he began to move. Slow at first, drawing nearly out of her before he slid inch by glorious inch into her again. Her arms came around him, her legs clasping about his lean flanks. She met each movement of his hips thrust for thrust. Their breaths mingled, coming in harsh pants as their movements quickened, taking her higher. The pleasure built until it was almost pain, until her breaths turned to sobs, begging him for release.
In answer his mouth found hers, swallowing her cries, and his movements became frenzied. She dug her fingers into his sweat-slicked backside, urging him on. Finally, with a hard thrust, she shattered around him. She was flying through the night sky, stars blinding in their brilliance all about her. And Tristan was with her, flying beside her. As he would for the rest of her life.
• • •
Later that night, bundled up in blankets and giggling like a pair of children, Rosalind followed Tristan down to the garden, her hand tight in his. The moonlight was full and fat in the sky, bathing the landscape in a bright, shining silver.
As they hurried down the garden path, the brilliant glint of her engagement ring in the moonlight caught her eye. She grinned, then laughed, the sound freer than it had been in years.
He answered it with a chuckle of his own. Stopping, he spun around, pulling her into his arms. And for the millionth time that night, he kissed her senseless, until she could hardly remember her own name.
When he raised his head, he gave her a lopsided smile. As dizzy as she was from his kisses, she was pleased to see he looked decidedly loopy himself.
“Now tell me,” she said, breathless, “Why you had to come out in the garden in the middle of the night when we could be curled quite warm and cozy in bed.”
“Oh, you may be assured, I have every intention of finding our way back there again, and with all haste.” He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “But for now, I wished to return to where it all started.”
He turned and, with a sweep of his arm, indicated the stone bench when she gave him a curious look. “The place of our first kiss.”
She laid a hand on his cheek. “My, but you are a romantic, aren’t you?”
“You’ve no idea.”
A shiver of anticipation skittered up her spine. For she could not wait to find out how romantic he could be.
For now, however, she joined him on the cold bench, glad for the layers of blankets he had wrapped her in. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The scent of roses enveloped them, and she recalled that long-ago day when she had wished to be a bee so that she could fly over the garden wall and away from him.
What a fool she had been.
They talked there in the garden, their voices low and intimate. Dreams and plans all coalesced in the cool summer night air, brought into being under the endless night sky: when they would marry, where they would live. The stars twinkled their approval from above in the cloudless, inky heavens.
Soon they turned to matters more immediate. Tristan told her of Josephine, how he had gone to her, what they had said. And she told him of Mr. Carlisle’s revelation, of her sister’s child. And that she had learned of Tristan’s fight with Lord Kingston.
“And so poor Miss Weeton is without a beau after all we have put her through in the last weeks,” he mused into the crown of her head. “I feel so horrible that she is alone. She deserves to be happy.”
Rosalind snuggled closer into his warmth, and his arm tightened around her. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, trying and failing to keep the amusement from her voice. “I do believe Miss Weeton will be fine.”
He pulled back, eyeing her suspiciously. “What are you keeping from me, you minx?”
She did grin then. “Only that Grace and I learned right before we left that Miss Weeton shall not remain Miss Weeton for long. That cousin that she was going to be married to at the end of the Season should she fail to find a husband? He came to London when he learned of her sudden popularity. From all accounts it was love at first sight. They are to be married by the end of the month.”
He gaped at her. “You must be joking.”
“Not a bit. Although,” she said, forcing her expression into one of concern, “this does pose a problem for us.”
He cocked his head. “Does it now?”
“Oh, certainly. For we had agreed on the payments that must be made only if Miss Weeton should marry men of our choosing. We did not even consider her marrying a third option.”
His lips turned up in a smile, his eyes growing heavy-lidded. “And what do you propose the remuneration should be?”
She pretended to consider but could not remain serious. Instead she melted against him, eyeing his mouth. “I do believe that making me happy all the days of your life would be ample payment.”
“Well then, I’d best get started on that right away,” he murmured with a smile before pulling her close and covering her mouth with his.
Epilogue
“I do believe we need another trunk,” Josephine murmured with a chuckle a little over a week later.
Rosalind surveyed the piles of colorful dresses and delicate underthings, the hat boxes and shawls and gloves and shoes that had yet to be packed, with no small amount of embarrassment. “I told Tristan I did not need so much.”
“He loves you, my dear.” Josephine smiled and patted her arm. “Let the boy pamper you. I have never seen him as happy as he’s been the last few days since his marriage to you.”
“You have some part in that happiness as well,” she replied with a gentle smile. “It means much for him to have you here.”
Josephine looked at Rosalind with glowing eyes, pleasure in every line and curve of her face.
After sending one of the footmen into the attic for another trunk, the two women went back to work alongside the maids, gently folding away the newly acquired wardrobe between sheets of tissue paper, packing the items away for their coming journey. In a matter of days, they would be leaving London on a wedding trip. First, a visit to his friend Lord Willbridge in Northamptonshire, after which they would head north to visit Grace in Scotland. Only then would they make the trek to Tristan’s childhood home, Sainsly. Once there, they would remain for the foreseeable future. Rosalind could not wait to create new memories with him there.
She cast an affectionate look at Josephine as the older woman guided one of the maids into packing some gloves. Tristan’s stepmother had welcomed Rosalind into the family with open arms, standing by their side during the quiet wedding ceremony that had joined them forever as man and wife. She had been nothing but supportive in the days afterward, too, as Rosalind and Tristan prepared to depart for their new life together. Rosalind was glad Josephine had agreed to go with them, for after nearly a week of having known her, Rosalind could not now imagine life without her.
A short while later the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lady Crosby, Sir Tristan has asked that you join him in the drawing room presently.”<
br />
It took Rosalind some moments to realize the man was talking to her—her new title would take some getting used to. Her face warmed as she gave the waiting butler an apologetic look. “Thank you, Danielson.” She turned to Josephine. “I shall return momentarily.”
“Take your time, my dear,” the other woman said with a smile before returning her attention to the maid.
Rosalind removed her apron, patting down her hair before hurrying out the door. She wondered what Tristan could want. Surely nothing untoward. She blushed, for it was certainly not out of the question. He seemed to find the most incredibly imaginative ways to get her alone.
Their last encounter flashed in her mind then, memories of bared limbs and soft sighs echoed back at them by the soaring walls of books in the library.
So flustered by her musings, she very nearly lost her way to the drawing room. Which, of course, brought to mind her first day at the Upper Grosvenor Street house when she had thought Tristan an intruder and had been bound and determined to put the man in his place.
She smiled. How long ago that seemed. And how wrong she had been about him.
Caught in her reverie, she was still smiling when she turned into the drawing room. The sight that greeted her, however, stopped her cold.
Tristan was not alone but had company. Several people sat about him, one of whom was—
Mrs. Gladstow?
She stood in shock for a moment. The natural instinct in her from her months of service in the woman’s household flared, bidding her to slink into the room, to sit quietly and await the curt orders the woman never failed to throw at her.
But she was no longer this woman’s companion. She was, in fact, above Mrs. Gladstow in station now. Yet the urge was there to make herself small, to avoid detection. Utterly confused by the warring sides of herself, she stood stupidly, frozen in place.
“Ah, my dear, there you are,” Tristan said, smiling as he stood.
He held out his hand and Rosalind thawed enough to gracelessly enter the room. As they sat, he slipped his arm about her and the world was righted.
“We have guests who have heard of our marriage and come to wish us well.” He turned to the older woman. “Mrs. Gladstow, I’m sure you remember my wife. She was in your employ for a time, if I recall.”
The woman looked as if she’d sucked on a lemon. “You are Sir Tristan’s wife?” The implication was as blatant as it was insulting: she could not countenance her former companion having risen so far above her.
Anger boiled up, blotting out the numb shock that had taken over her. Rosalind opened her mouth to give the woman a scathing retort. Before she could, Tristan spoke up, his voice cool, the warning in it clear. “She is. Aren’t you going to offer her the same congratulations you gave me, Mrs. Gladstow?”
The woman’s mouth pinched tight until it was a thin line slashed across her face, holding her two pale, sunken cheeks together by sheer spite. With obvious distaste, she forced out, “Congratulations, Lady Crosby. You are lucky to have landed such a husband.”
A horrified silence fell upon the room. But Tristan’s voice pushed on. “I assure you, Mrs. Gladstow, I am the lucky one.” He smiled down at Rosalind, his heart in his eyes. Rosalind melted into him, feeling the effects of it straight to her toes.
He seemed equally as moved. Until, that was, a gentle voice broke through their blissful moment.
“My fiancé and I also wish you congratulations, Lady Crosby.”
Rosalind gasped and turned, for though she had not often heard that voice, she knew it well. Sure enough, Miss Gladstow was there, seated beside Mr. Marlow. Rosalind had not fully registered their presence until this moment, so focused had she been on the girl’s mother. “Miss Gladstow. I did not expect to see you again.”
The girl appeared a different person. Gone was the pale, anxious look that had been constant when Rosalind had been in their employ. Now Miss Gladstow’s skin held the healthy blush of a true happiness of heart. To Rosalind’s everlasting surprise, the girl leaned forward and embraced her.
“I was so very sad that you left us with such haste so many weeks ago,” she said, releasing Rosalind and giving her mother a faintly censorious look. “When I learned of your new position as Lady Belham’s companion,” she continued, smiling gently at Rosalind once more, “I was so very relieved. But hearing you are the new Lady Crosby gave me great joy.”
“You knew of this before we came?” Mrs. Gladstow’s voice was shrill as she eyed her daughter in outrage.
“Of course, Mama.” Miss Gladstow replied. “Sir Tristan sent word of it himself. He knew we would want to know.”
As Rosalind watched Miss Gladstow and Tristan exchange small smiles, she knew exactly what this strange visit was about: Tristan was giving her the opportunity to close this still painful part of her past for good. He was bringing Mrs. Gladstow to her like a gift, to punish as she wished. And as she gazed into his blue eyes, patience and love clear in their depths, she knew he would be behind her whatever path she chose to take. She could rail at the woman, could ruin her, and he would support her.
The temptation was there, so strong she could taste it. How many times had she sat helpless as this woman reproached her? How many sleepless nights had she spent terrified that the next day would see her on the street without food or a roof over her head?
Rosalind turned to Mrs. Gladstow and took a deep breath, finding strength in Tristan at her side.
As he would be for the rest of her life.
Her breath caught in her throat. For it was in that moment that it truly hit her: Tristan would be there always. She never again had to walk through life alone and frightened.
Any animosity or bitterness she had toward this woman melted away in an instant. She smiled and sat forward, taking Mrs. Gladstow’s hand. The woman froze and blinked in shock.
“Mrs. Gladstow, I want to thank you,” Rosalind said. “If you had not freed me from your employ I would not now be married to the best, most loving, most wonderful husband. Because of your actions all those weeks ago, I was able to carve a new path for myself and find the greatest happiness imaginable in the process.” She squeezed the woman’s cold fingers before releasing them. “Thank you so very much.”
Mrs. Gladstow paled even further, all manner of emotions flooding her face from incredulity to fury to horror to guilt. There was a time Rosalind would have waited with bated breath for the woman’s reaction. No more. She turned with a smile to Miss Gladstow. “When do you wed?”
“In a month’s time. We are for home at the end of the week.”
Mr. Marlow took Miss Gladstow’s hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles before looking to Tristan. “It is our especial wish that you and your bride attend. You would be our guests of honor, you see, considering how instrumental you were in bringing us together in the first place.”
Tristan smiled sheepishly. “Ah, you know about that then, do you?”
“Sarah and I do not keep anything from each other,” Mr. Marlow said with a loving look for his fiancé. “Not any longer.”
Tristan looked to Rosalind, who nodded happily. “I do believe a short detour in our travel plans can be managed. We would love to attend,” he said with a grin, shaking the other man’s hand.
It seemed with the revelation of Tristan’s interference in her daughter’s engagement, however, Mrs. Gladstow was breaking free from her stupor. She sputtered, gaping at all parties involved.
Miss Gladstow and Mr. Marlow stood, bidding their farewells with hugs and handshakes before ushering Mrs. Gladstow from the house. After the sounds of their retreating footsteps and the closing of the front door faded, Tristan took Rosalind in his arms and gazed down at her. Rosalind couldn’t be sure, but she thought there was a new respect in his eyes.
“Why, Lady Crosby,” he murmured, “you surprise me more every day.”
“Do I?”
He nodded. “I thought you would jump at the chance
to give that horrid woman her comeuppance. And yet you thanked her.” He shook his head, all amazement. “How did I ever deserve the love of such a woman?”
“You have always deserved everything your heart could ever desire, you silly man,” she murmured, twining her arms about his neck.
His eyes softened. “Then it is lucky I have you. For you are all I ever want,” he said before claiming her mouth with his own.
It was some time later—and with fewer clothes on than before—when Rosalind laid her head on her husband’s bare chest. With the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, she asked the question that had been on her mind for the past week.
“Except for that one last hiccup, you were quite a successful matchmaker. Do you see any more matchmaking in your future?”
His arms tightened about her. “What need have I for more matchmaking, when I have been so happily matched myself?”
Rosalind rose up on her elbow, staring down into Tristan’s beloved face. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, tracing her finger over the hard planes of his chest. “There may come a time when your talents for matchmaking are needed. You would not want to deny the world of your talents, would you?”
He raised one golden eyebrow. “Why, Rosalind, never tell me you have got a taste for it yourself.”
She shrugged, trying to hide her smile and failing spectacularly. “You never know. It may come in handy one day.”
He growled, rolling her onto her back. “Woman, I dearly hope you never stop surprising me.”
She grinned. “I think it is safe to say I never shall,” she said before pulling him down for a kiss.
Acknowledgments
I have been so blessed that these characters I’ve created, once mere wisps of an idea in my head, have been embraced so wonderfully. Thank you to the readers for taking them into your hearts and showing them such love.
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