“When I came to your study ten days ago, you were writing a letter. What was it?”
Dorian’s brow creased in thought, as though the answer was not immediately at the front of his mind. It was a good act, if it was indeed an act. It seemed not to be, but Dorian Voss was a very good actor.
“Likely I was writing back to Levi Collins, the new Duke of Hawcrest, and a friend of Cassius Emerton,” he said slowly. “We’ve been arranging to meet. I also wrote that day to Mrs. Chatham, a woman of my close acquaintance with whom there can be absolutely no question of impropriety, and to whom I hope one day to introduce you. Can I ask what prompts your question?”
So, letters to another man, and to a woman who sounded like an elderly family retainer, perhaps once a loyal nursemaid or housekeeper. Rose could hardly object to either, if he spoke the truth. She looked him in the eye, unable to guarantee her husband’s sincerity but determined to maintain her own.
“I could not get the thought from my head that you were writing to some old lover and inviting her to the ball tonight,” she confessed. “I thought that was why you had been so distant.”
Dorian gave a yelp of incredulous laughter but then composed his face as he saw how seriously Rose spoke.
“You are right that there has been a certain woman very much on my mind in recent months. As she is my lawful wedded wife, I don’t think that anyone has the right to object, perhaps not even you.”
What did this even mean? Was Dorian saying that he could not stop thinking of her? Or that he wished he could? Or both together? Rose was even more lost.
At that moment, the introductory bars of the next measure sounded and a young man in military uniform came over and asked for Rose’s hand. When she looked to Dorian, he shook his head with a grin.
“The duchess must refuse you, Captain Renford. I always exercise a husband’s privilege for the waltz.”
As Dorian took firm but gentle hold of Rose’s hand and back, the familiar rush of warmth and longing coursed through her. From his change of expression, she guessed that Dorian felt it too, the guess becoming certainty as they began to move with the music.
She knew his desire now, clothed or naked, the signs of it obvious in his smallest expression, inhale of air or pressure of his hands. Dorian wanted her, just as Rose wanted him. But why were things so hard between them?
The music of the waltz eventually faded but the sensual tension between them did not. At Rose’s side, as he had promised, Dorian’s presence now created as much longing as reassurance although his touches were subtle. When he pressed quick kisses into her hair or caressed her hip it was done quickly, as though he were trying not to but could not help himself.
The praise heaped by guests on the decorations, the musicians and the food at supper were pleasant enough, but nothing touched Rose as much as when she found Dorian’s eyes resting hungrily upon her and heard his whisper in her ear:
“I have never seen you lovelier than tonight, Rose…”
Almost at fever pitch as the ball went on, Rose despaired of understanding what was happening between her and her husband. Their guests likely thought them a couple of typical newlyweds, entranced with one another and very much in love. Rose was also quite sure that Dorian was not acting, at least with her. But nor was he being entirely open.
What was the truth? Was it that they were two confused people making the best of a necessary but unwanted marriage? Was it that they were too different to one another to live easily together? Was it that, despite Dorian’s worldliness and Rose’s romantic obsessions, neither of them fully understood the emotional complexity stirred when men and women lay together as closely as they had done?
As the sound of the last carriage rolled away and the tired servants were dismissed to their rest, Rose turned to Dorian in the hallway, her body throbbing and aching for the fulfillment only he could give. The neckline on her dress felt tight and constricting, even more so when her dark haired duke abruptly began dropping kisses on the swell of her breasts above it.
“Take me to bed now,” she demanded, her voice imperious but catching in the back of her throat with need.
Dorian obeyed immediately, lifting Rose into his arms with ease and carrying her up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom, his breathing ragged with lust and exertion by the time they arrived.
As soon as they were through the door, his hands and lips were all over her and Rose tore frantically at both Dorian’s clothesand her own. Shoes were kicked off and hair pins scattered at random on the floor.
“Take it off, take it off!” she pleaded as her own fingers failed to unfasten the bodice of her dress.
Surely it had not been so tight when it was fitted before her wedding? Rose supposed it was only that it was new and unfamiliar, and that she so desperately needed to feel Dorian’s touch on her naked skin.
In response, his deft fingers made short work of the dress and underskirts, while her own hands managed to push away Dorian’s jacket and waistcoat. Rose heard the fabric rip as she pulled at his shirt and stock and soon they were on the floor beside her dress.
The intoxicating scent of the duke’s woody cologne and hot male skin filled Rose’s nostrils as he caressed her breasts with both mouth and hands. Then his palms were about her hips, her buttocks and her stockinged thighs.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, you must take me, Dorian. You must!”
“I shall,” his voice almost growled. “God, Rose, you are so beautiful, and you are mine, aren't you..?”
“I am yours,” Rose moaned, her hand now resting and pressing over the substantial bulge at Dorian’s groin that spoke of his need in fullest measure.
Unfastening his trousers and undershorts, Rose pushed the fabric away and then caressed that manly shaft with her hands.
“Beautiful, beautiful Rose,” he groaned, fondling her breasts once again and kissing her lips.
