Rose stood and regarded herself in the mirror with less certainty but equal wonder. Madame Delacroix and her workers had brought the outlined gown on that plate to life and fitted it faultlessly to Rose’s figure. Feeling almost unworthy of such a gown, Rose recalled the portrait of Duchess Juliana yet again and tried to channel some of that great lady’s physical assurance.
“You’ll be the belle of the Carforth ball tonight, Your Grace,” her maid told her. “His Grace’s eyes won’t be off you either, I’ll wager.”
Yes, she did look well, didn’t she? The light blue silk of Rose’s gown matched her eyes and complimented the daisy-whiteness of her skin. Her thick waves of fair hair were pinned up looselyand crowned with a few curls and a tiara whose simplicity belied the value of the diamonds adorning it.
The neckline of the dress still made Rose swallow nervously as she perceived her breasts almost entirely uncovered and herdécolletagefurther highlighted by the refurbished diamond necklace Dorian had presented to her earlier that week. As she touched it, Rose’s face flushed and her eyes glowed.
The duke had given the necklace to Rose while they were actually in his bed, naked and eager for further embrace after a hurried earlier union. Fastening the matchless diamonds at her throat, Dorian had then brought Rose above him and taught her better how to ride him in that position, so that her breasts and the gems both danced before his eyes as she worked herself to ecstasy.
The thought of appearing in public like this made her tremble, but Rose was willing to endure it, only to see that now-familiar fire spark again in Dorian’s eyes. Why was a man’s lust always spoken of as something wrong and shameful, whether by priests in churches, characters in novels or by wary chaperones wishing to instill fear in young ladies?
It presently seemed to Rose to be something glorious when it resulted in such pleasure, and opened the door to the possibility of children one day. She welcomed and returned Dorian’s lust in full measure, with the additional satisfaction that while she was in Dorian’s bed, there could be no room there for Lady Lepford or any other woman.
“Your gray velvet cloak is being warmed for you downstairs,” added Mabel. “There’s plenty of blankets and cushions in the carriage too. Mr. Smithers has seen to everything for your comfort, Your Grace.”
Rose nodded and smiled, thanking her maid sincerely for such care, before making for the door.
“Are you trying to seduce your husband, Duchess?” said the Duke of Ravenhill with a wolfish smile, as he watched Rose descend the main staircase at Ravenhill House. “If so, it is working.”
Dorian was already dressed in an impeccable evening suit, his slightly overlong hair mostly neat but with that one forelock threatening to break free as it always did. Contentedly lost in his dark gaze, Rose returned his smile. It no longer bothered her that the entire household must know how she spent her nights.
“I was not aware that my husband required any attempts at seduction,” she said pertly. “In my experience, he will unfasten my clothes and subject me to the most indecent pleasures at every opportunity without the slightest provocation on my part.”
“Without provocation? Ha! The invitation in your eyes and the curves of your body are provocation enough, sweet Rose,” he breathed, pulling her close and kissing her delicately, careful not to undo Mabel’s hard work. “Your sighs and moans areincitements to continue. Your loudest cries tell me that I have done my conjugal duty.”
“Duty?” Rose giggled. “Is that the only reason you take me so often?”
“You need another reason?” he joked back. “Perhaps I…”
Then Dorian checked himself and fell silent, before his regular charming smile returned to his face and he called for their outdoor clothes.
As they approached the front door, servants came forward bearing cloaks warmed at firesides, or rushing out to the coach with hot bricks wrapped in blankets.
“I hope there is hot mulled wine when we arrive,” said Rose, her eyes shining with excitement and nervousness as the carriage proceeded towards Carforth Hall. “It is so cold tonight that I would rather have a warm drink. It will be hard to take off my cloak.”
“It will be warm enough in the ballroom,” Dorian assured her. “With so many candles and so many people, it could not be otherwise.”
“I suppose you’re right…”
That thick gray cloak covered her to the top of her neck, thank God, or Dorian did not think he could have kept his hands from Rose for the hour’s journey. His wife always seemed so sweetly astonished to find herself claimed on the seats of the carriage and it drove him wild.
But not tonight. The Duke of Ravenhill was determined that they would arrive in good order at the house of the Earl and Countess of Carforth and Rose would make the impression he intended on his arm. Such display was not purely for his own delectation, as he teased Rose. It was also important in establishing Rose as Duchess of Ravenhill and overwhelming all potential gossip and sniping.
Dorian had seen how hurt Rose had been by those women in the street outside the atelier in London and did not wish it to happen again. It was absurd to speculate that an inexperienced girl like Rose could ever have seduced a man like Dorian Voss. In other circumstances, he might have laughed at the idea. With Rose involved, however, it enraged him in an unfamiliar way.
If a gentleman had implied such things of Rose, Dorian might even have struck him. Given his usual cool head and general urbanity, this was an alarming and sobering realization. Certainly, he had a duty to protect his new wife, but he must not let his head be ruled by…other portions of his anatomy.
“What are you thinking about?” Rose asked him innocently, perceiving his frown.
“Duty,” he answered shortly, putting on a smile and seeing her concern evaporate into laughter at their private joke. “I think you know how seriously I take duty…”
In the carriage, as her head leaned gently on his shoulder, Dorian smiled at his own foolishness, setting his brief alarm aside. God only knew what a delightful bedmate Rose was proving to be. Surely any man could be excused if his actions were a little swayed by enjoyment of such beauty and sweetness, especially when she took such delight in learning all he could teach her.
His shaft stirred and his hands itched as he remembered taking Rose in the library a few days earlier. The door safely locked against intruders, Dorian had led her to the nook where the shelves contained books deliberately hidden from public view. There, he had placedMadame Martine’s Swiss Finishing School for Young Ladiesin Rose’s hands and insisted that she read aloud as he kissed and caressed her.
By the time the heroine of the story, a blonde young woman of one-and-twenty who rather resembled Rose, was having her first erotic encounter with Hans, a lusty young climber as keen on mounting maidens as alpine peaks, Rose herself was on her hands and knees on the chair, being rodded firmly from behind by her husband.
Trying hard to obey his instruction and continue reading, the words fell in gasps from her mouth. Undone entirely when the stroking of his fingers on her mount had joined the working of his organ, the story was lost and the pages fluttered freely underRose’s exploding breath as she was overwhelmed by her final pleasure.
