Because of Rosemary.
All of it was because of Rosemary.
She’d healed his hurts and chased away his demons. She’d shown him that the future wasn’t something to be endured, but something to look forward to. And he was. Looking forward to it, that is. To the life they were going to build together. To the children they’d have someday. A boy and a girl, if he had his way. With his mischievous nature and her gentle, caring spirit.
But first…the kissing.
He slanted his mouth more firmly across hers and slid his tongue between her lips to sample the sweet nectar within. Since giving up alcohol, all of his surroundings–everything he saw, everything he touched, everything he tasted–had come into sharper focus, and passion was no exception. If he’d wanted Rosemary before, heneededto have her now. She was an aphrodisiac for his senses…and he was helpless to resist her.
A hard jolt went through his body when her small hands fitted themselves to his chest and began a hesitant exploration of all that laid below. Her gloved fingers traveled down the middle of his sternum and then flitted out to follow the rigid contours of his ribs before encountering the flat, clenched plane of his abdomen.
He wore a waistcoat and a linen shirt, but the heat emanating from her palms made it so that he might as well have been standing on the terrace in the nude. A quick, desperate glance at the French doors to ensure no one was about to come outside and interrupt them, and then he returned his full attention to the fog-eyed siren whose clever, inquisitive hand had just cupped his–
“Bollocks,” he cursed on a ragged breath, lifting his head to stare at her in a tortured mixture of desire and disbelief. “I cannot believe I’m about to be the voice of propriety, but we cannot do this here. Anyone could walk out at any moment.”
Her hand retreated as an adorably rosy pink blush spread across her cheeks. “Of–of course. You’re right. I don’t know what came over me.”
Sterling did. Since that first impulsive kiss in their library at Hawkridge Manor, they’d been drawn to each other. Two lost souls being pulled in the same direction. Two falling stars plummeting to the earth. It was inevitable that they would eventually come to this place, on this night. To where the anticipation was unbearable…and neither wanted to wait any longer for what was always meant to be.
“That’s not to say we couldn’t go somewhere else. Somewhere more private. There is a guest cottage on the other side of the manor. A discreet place for the prince to bring his paramours. But given that he is otherwise occupied this evening…” Sterling trailed off, allowing the choice to belong to Rosemary, who did not hesitate.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
It was all he needed to hear.
Moonlight nipped at their heels as they dashed off to the cottage. Open, airy, and lit with candles, it smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender. The ornate furniture was tastefully arranged, the walls a pale, creamy yellow. Ivory drapes danced in the breeze from windows left partially ajar, permitting a cool swath of autumn air into the cottage along with the strains of Beethoven’s seventh symphony.
Rosemary gasped when Sterling scooped her up into his arms, pink gown and all, and carried her effortlessly over the threshold. He kicked the door closed behind them, somehow managed to turn the lock, and didn’t set her down again until they’d reached the master’s quarters.
A canopied bed dominated the room. Acres of clean, fresh linens were layered atop the mattress. He set Rosemary on her feet, then turned her away from him to hold on to an oak bedpost while his fingers made quick work of the long line of hooks that ran the length of her spine.
He peeled the dress away, pausing to kiss the delicate vertebrae protruding from the nape of her neck. A few tugs, a gentle pull, and her petticoats fell, leaving her in her drawers and corset. After guiding her out of the pool of fabric, he merely stood and stared, his eyes devouring her with all the hungry possessiveness of a man half-starved who’d just been presented with a banquet to feast upon.
He’d known she was pretty. A sunny daisy growing in a garden of cultured roses. But silhouetted in the glow of candles with her hair tumbling onto her shoulders in loose curls of gleaming mahogany and her face slightly flush, she was…she was ethereal. The most magnificent, beautiful creature he’d ever seen. A fairy queen straight out of glen and glade.
“What?” she asked, covering her breasts as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Is–is something the matter?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “Nothing is the matter. I just…I just don’t know what the devil I’ve done to deserve you.”
A shy smile crept across her face.
“Silly duke,” she said softly. “You needn’t earn what is given freely, and I give myself to you. Heart and body. They are yours. I am yours. From this night forward into eternity.”
He opened his mouth, but was unable to form words past the lump of emotion lodged in the base of his throat. He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him. That she was everything he’d ever wanted but hadn’t known how to ask for. That he…that he loved her. That he would always love her. For all of the todays and the tomorrows and the months and years yet to come. But he couldn’t speak. For the first time in his life, he was rendered completely and utterly speechless. And so he let his hands say what his tongue could not.
He touched her flesh with reverence while he finished unclothing her, as if she really were a nymph from wood and wild that might spook and vanish at the smallest provocation. When she wore nothing but shimmering firelight, he took her by the hand and guided her to the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his weight as he climbed onto it and stretched out beside her, his head supported by his bent elbow as he used his other hand to trace ever lengthening paths across her ivory skin.
While she watched him with wide, slightly wary eyes, he explored the valleys and the hills of the body she’d gifted him. The generous curves of her breasts. The gentle swale between her last rib and the point of her hip. The soft roundness of her belly. The plumpness of her thighs.
When she asked what he was doing, his answer was simple.
“Memorizing you,” he said before he began to retrace the trails he’d forged with his mouth, pressing dozens of light, teasing kisses upon her skin until she was quivering from her head to her toes. Leisurely, he continued his descent, absentmindedly removing his boots, his pants, his waistcoat, and his shirt as he went.
She stopped him right before he reached the downy black curls at the apex of her thighs.
“You–you cannot kiss methere,” she said, stunned.
Grinning, he lifted his head. “According to whom?”
