Her hands left his face to smooth over his shoulders; then her fingertips stroked into the deep V of his open shirt. He shuddered, fighting the urge to take her in all the ways he’d dreamed about. Her touch threatened to unman him, as if he were a callow youth fumbling in the dark with his first love. And wouldn’t that just be the crowning glory of the night?
He broke the kiss and captured Rosamund’s questing hands. With an inner groan at his own restraint, he rose to his feet.
She gave an instinctive, protesting cry.
Then she opened her eyes and saw his face. “Why, what is it?” she breathed.
He stole one final look at the delicious, rose-tipped delights before him, then regretfully drew her chemise and bodice up to cover them.
“I’m taking advantage of your innocence,” he said, sounding, he knew, like the hero in a bad novel. “More of this, and you will no longer have a choice whether to wed me or no.”
There was a pause while she digested his words. He saw reality return to her sky blue eyes as if a chill wind blew the mist away.
“Don’t you know I’ve made my choice?” she said quietly. “I would not be here otherwise.”
He thought she based important decisions on remarkably little. But it was not for him to do her thinking for her.
A smart man would follow up his advantage. He ought to secure her agreement to wed him straightaway. He had the special license already, thanks to deVere’s interference. They could be man and wife in mere hours if he could find a willing parson.
He ought to take up where they’d left off, enjoy her body to the full. And in the morning, when the bitter taste of regret still lay on her tongue, he could present the matter to her as a fait accompli.
Then he wouldn’t have to go through this damnable charade squiring Rosamund to parties and whatnot. He wouldn’t have to suffer the constant disapproval of her family. DeVere would be obliged to keep his side of the bargain and refuse to marry Jacks off until she’d had her season and made her own choice.
And finally, Griffin could have Rosamund as his bride.
All this whirled through his mind in the matter of one moment. It took him only one moment more to reject that reasoning as self-serving tripe.
With a beleaguered sigh, he said, “My lady, you deserve better than a quick tumble in such a place. I know that, even if you don’t seem to. We’ll wait.”
Rosamund’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “So you’ve made the decision and I have to abide by it, is that it? Don’t I get a say?”
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
“But I don’t want to wait,” she said simply. “I want to keep doing what we were doing. I may be an innocent, but I know there’s more.”
Christ Almighty!
He jabbed a finger at her. “You are the female. It’s your job to stop me, not push me to go on.” Why should he be the one who held them both to standards of decency?
She laughed, a low, dirty, derisive sound that made his skin prickle and heat. “Why, Griffin, I’d no idea you were such a prude.”
If she didn’t stop this right now, he really would deflower her in her guardian’s summerhouse, and then there’d be Hell to pay. “You are clearly befuddled and incapable of making rational judgments. Therefore, I’ll make them for you. Let’s go.”
With a faint, knowing smile, she moved toward him with a sultry sway to her walk he’d never seen before. “Are you afraid I’ll seduce you?” She trailed a fingertip over his lips. “But how on earth would I go about that?”
I’m sure you can think of something,
screamed his eager male parts.
The struggle to beat down the demands of his lusty body cost him dearly, but there was too much at stake for him to mess this up now.
He grabbed Rosamund’s wrist to stop her teasing explorations, then pulled her toward the door.
“Back to the house,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“Rosamund, a word.”
Her brother’s voice flashed out from the shadows, steely and sharp as a rapier’s blade. He startled her so much, she gave a cry of alarm.
She’d parted from Griffin before they reached the house. Thank Heaven he wasn’t with her still, or there’d be trouble.
Rosamund pressed a hand to her chest as if to calm her pounding heart. “Xavier! You gave me a fright.”
She peered through the gloom, but she couldn’t make out her brother’s expression.
How much did he guess? She loathed lying, but to keep the peace between her brother and her betrothed, she wouldn’t hesitate. If Xavier discovered how close Griffin had come to anticipating his wedding night, he would make matters exceedingly unpleasant.
She didn’t believe Cecily when she insisted Xavier could kill a man with his bare hands. Yet, Xavier had always been a law unto himself. Griffin might be a big man, but Xavier was ruthlessness personified. He was also insanely protective of her.
Whoever might win the encounter, no good could come of a clash between the two men.
“Come,” Xavier said, turning his back on her and striding down the corridor.
Rosamund took a deep breath and followed her brother into the library. He gestured her to sit while he took the chair behind the mahogany desk. Only Xavier would ever dare to sit in Montford’s place.
With an arrogant jerk of his head that sent the inky waves of his hair falling over his brow, he said, “Enlighten me.”
She gazed back at him, her face impassive. “I don’t know what you think there is to explain.”
How much did he know, and how much was supposition? Had he actually seen them?
No, she thought that if he’d seen her and Griffin together, they would not be having this conversation.
He watched her with those blue eyes that were so very like her own, yet infinitely more jaded and cynical. “I confess, I am at a loss to even guess what game you think you’re playing,” he said. “The only solution that presents itself is one I cannot countenance.”
“Will you please stop talking in riddles?” she said evenly. “Of what do I stand accused?” She made as if to rise. “Forgive me, Xavier, but I am tired and wish to go to bed.”
“Sit down.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Since you choose not to understand me, I’ll make my meaning plain. Did you meet your lover in the garden tonight?”
“What?” She sank back into her chair. “No, of course I did not meet any lover.” Technically, that was true. “I don’t know why you should think it.”
“What
am
I to think when my sister lets herself into the house alone at this hour of the night?”
Holding hard to her composure, she arched a brow. “You jump to prurient conclusions, my dear. It’s not what it seems.”
His features tautened to a harsh mask. “Damn you, Rosamund, it is exactly what it seems! Look at you! Your hair is down, you are flushed, your gown is in total disarray.”
“I went for a walk in the garden,” she said. “I am flushed from the exercise, and my hair is down and my gown is all anyhow because I had to dress myself.”
“Good try, my dear, but it won’t wash.” With an impatient gesture, he said, “Do you think I don’t know what a woman looks like when she’s been thoroughly pleasured?”
She hit back. “I daresay you’ve seen quite a few in your time.”
The look he threw her could have melted steel. “It’s not the same for men, and you know it. If you won’t acknowledge that, then you’ve abandoned your wits as well as your body.”
Her voice shook. “You are insulting.”
“If you wanted him, Rosamund, why didn’t you say so? My God, you
begged
me not to interfere.” His voice rasped. “Rosie, I could have gotten him for you. I could have made everything right.”
Bewildered, she stammered, “But I—”
He dashed a hand through his hair. “
Damn
Montford and his bloody relentless matchmaking!” He jabbed his finger at her. “But you’ve been a willing accomplice in your own downfall, have you not, dear sister? And now you are doomed to a loveless marriage to that brute while you sneak around in gardens at night. Congratulations. You’ve managed the business to a nicety.”
The truth fell on her like an anvil. He thought she’d met
Lauderdale
in the summerhouse.
She felt the blood drain from her face. “Xavier, no! It’s not what you think. I was not with Captain Lauderdale, I swear it.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled. “If you insist on wedding Tregarth, the least you can do is wait until you give him an heir before you cuckold him.”
She wanted to burst into tears so badly, her head throbbed with it. That he could think her so base!
Why did they all believe that because she had a pretty face, she must have a shallow heart? Why did they all assume someone like her could not possibly prefer Griffin to a flashy peacock like Lauderdale?
Fury at the slur Xavier cast on her character made her stiffen her spine. She’d have pleaded her case had he accused her of endangering her reputation by meeting Griffin before they were wed. She’d been prepared to defend Griffin on that score, too.
But her brother had no authority over her and no right to berate her like this. She refused to apologize for anything when she’d been so grossly misjudged.
“You are wrong, Xavier. Even if such behavior weren’t abhorrent to me, don’t you think our upbringing would have served as a grim warning?” With quiet vehemence, she said, “I am not like our mother. Not in any conceivable way.”
Something flared in his eyes—shock, perhaps, and a dawning realization. Anger still simmered beneath the surface, but she suspected it was no longer directed at her.
He released a long breath and sat back in his chair.
After a tense silence, he said, “My apologies. If you say that you are innocent, I must take you at your word.” He paused, watching her. “Of course you are not like her. Rosamund, you are quite the best person I know.”
Which was why the conviction she’d become a sneaking, faithless baggage had affected him so powerfully, shaken him to the core of his cynical, arrogant soul.
She and Xavier both knew it was only by lucky chance—or perhaps by their clever mama’s judicious management—that they both happened to be legitimate. Thankfully, each of them resembled the late marquis in ways too marked to be denied.
Her own anger calmed enough to respond with forced lightness. “The best person you know? Your compliment would go to my head if it weren’t for the company you keep.”
His rare smile lifted the corners of his mouth. But he wouldn’t allow her to distract him for long. After a moment, he tilted his head and pinned her with that keen, penetrating gaze. “What
have
you been doing, I wonder?”
“None of your business, dear brother.”
His lips twisted. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“Yes,” she said. “You did.”
“I
could
inform Montford of your doings tonight,” he said, lowering his gaze to regard his long, elegant fingers as they toyed with the gold signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand.
“But you won’t,” she said gently. He sighed in silent acknowledgment that she was right. They’d always put loyalty to each other above their duty to anyone else. They’d had to stand together to survive.
Rosamund smiled sweetly and stood. “Now, dear brother, if the inquisition is over, I am for bed.”
* * *
The next morning, Rosamund woke late from a restless slumber with exhilaration flooding her chest and lifting her heart. Her body felt tender and sated, yet there was a yearning deep inside her that she didn’t fully understand.
After a few moments of sleepy confusion, her mind caught up with her body.
Griffin. The summerhouse. Last night.
She rolled over and drew a pillow to her chest, hugging it tightly as her mind replayed the evening, dwelling on the most delicious parts.
Echoes of sensation swept through her, pleasurable but also tantalizing in their shadowy vagueness. She could not wait to relive the experience in the flesh.
Now she finally understood what all the fuss was about! Well, some of it, anyway. The challenge was to persuade Griffin to show her the rest.
She was cheerfully confident she would succeed at that. They’d have to be more discreet than they’d been last night, of course, but—
“Hallo, sleepyhead!” Cecily walked in, brandishing the latest issue of
La Belle Assemblée.
“Are you ready for a big fat
orgy
of shopping today?”
“Oh, yes! I’d forgotten,” said Rosamund, stretching luxuriously and wiggling her toes. If anything had power to rouse her from sensual daydreams, it was the promise of new gowns. “I shall be ready in a trice.”
Ophelia had lumbered in at Cecily’s heels. With a sigh, the old dog collapsed on the hearth rug and propped her head between her paws. Her eyebrows lifted in turn as she looked from Cecily to Rosamund and back again, as if following their conversation.
Cecily maintained that Ophelia understood a smattering of English, even if Danish was her first language. The Great Dane seemed to find their topic of conversation too frivolous, however, because soon she fell asleep, emitting her habitual doggy snore.