One Perfect Rose (15 page)

She and Stephen kissed each other breathless. Then, in a cloud of sweet herbal scents, he caught her in his arms and rolled them over so that he was above, his body pressing hers into the deep hay. “I want to make love to you, Rosalind,” he said hoarsely. “If you have any doubts, act on them now.”

The loft glowed with honey-gold light, haloing his broad shoulders and chestnut hair. Like an angel?

Like a lover. She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek with the back of it. “I have no doubts, Stephen. Only regrets that we didn't do this sooner.”

He enfolded her with his body, kissing her throat as he deftly untied the drawstring that secured the gathered neckline of her gown. Then he slid his hand behind her back, loosening her stays so he could pull them and her shift down from her shoulders. His mouth followed the swelling curves, leaving a scalding trail. When her breasts were bared, he cupped them in both hands, kissing the tender skin with an ardor that left flagrant marks of possession.

She stiffened when his tongue lapped her nipple. When it had been teased erect, his mouth descended, tugging with an intensity that found the ravishing point just short of pain. Sensation flooded her, driving out all thoughts and leaving only desire.

She slid her hands below his coat and yanked his shirt free, then laid her palms on his bare flesh. The long, taut muscles jerked convulsively at her touch. She caressed the smooth skin of his back before she slid one hand between them, seeking and finding the hard ridge of flesh that strained against his clothing.

He groaned, his whole body going rigid as she squeezed him. Then he shifted his weight to one side, kissing her throat as he stroked the length of her body like a skim of fire. Catching her skirts in one hand, he raised the crumpled fabric to her hips. Then he slipped his hand between her inner thighs.

She gave a suffocated cry when he touched her intimately. As his long fingers probed the sensitive folds to find moist, hot readiness, her legs separated and her back arched involuntarily. She was brazen, a wanton, to feel such arousal. “Please,” she said hoarsely, “please, now…”

There was a pause that seemed to last forever while he wrenched at his clothing. She ached with emptiness, not only for the weeks she had known him but for all the years that she hadn't. Then he settled against her, hot and heavy. Her hands gripped his buttocks, rough with impatience, as she pulled him closer.

“Oh, God,” he groaned as he buried himself in her welcoming warmth. She felt a spasm of discomfort because it had been so long since she had lain with a man. It passed in an instant, overwhelmed by a firestorm of desire.

He began driving into her again and again. She responded with her whole being, panting and straining and clawing as they found a savage rhythm together. Heaven and hell, bliss and frantic need.

The climax was a mutual shattering, a vortex of sensation where her fierce contractions triggered his own shuddering response. She felt as if she were being flayed alive—yet in the same instant she found balm, and sweet release.

Then the storm passed, leaving her weak and utterly spent. She gulped for breath, her whole body trembling as she clung to him. The wildness of what had just passed between them was almost frightening. Yet she knew with every fiber of her being that nothing could ever make her regret what she had just done.

Day Fifty-nine

His awareness returned in fractured pieces. No longer could he wonder if he was capable of passion. He had not dreamed that desire could be so violent, so swift and heedless. He would have been shamed by his blind selfishness, except that she had shared his madness, and his fulfillment.

For the first time, he understood why sexual congress was sometimes called the little death. He had been annihilated, yet still he lived, suspended in a time where there was no past or future, only an eternal present. And he had never felt more profoundly alive. He was almost painfully conscious of the perfumed softness of the hay, of the fevered pounding of his heart, of Rosalind's yielding body trapped below his.

He rolled to his side and drew her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her breath tickled his throat, and her skin was salty when he kissed her temple. Their clothing and limbs were tangled with profound intimacy.

He experienced a sudden, vivid memory of the dream he'd had the night after rescuing Brian from the river. He had pursued a laughing woman—Rosalind—through a field of sunlit flowers that glowed with the colors of autumn. When he had caught her, she had swung around into his arms, giving herself with an eagerness that had matched his. They had tumbled to the ground and made love deliriously.

Today the dream had become reality, and the only cause for regret was that it was over so quickly. That, and the bitterly ironic fact he had discovered passion too late.

No, not quite too late. He could not—
would
not—let her go.

He'd done his best to stay detached, to admire and flirt without entanglement. He had tried to behave honorably and avoid a situation that might cause harm.

But honor be damned. He wanted her, and his ruthless Kenyon blood said that he must have her for as long as there was breath in his lungs.

He considered what that meant, and saw that the price would be steep. She would cost him his pride, for he would be unable to conceal his increasing weakness from her. The stunning pleasure they had just shared would not last until the end. No matter how intense the passion that bound them, the day would come when his body would no longer be capable, and that would be bitter. And his need for her would become greater and greater as his weakness increased, and that was the most bitter thought of all.

Even at such a price, she was worth it. Unconsciously he had been treating her like a glasshouse flower, a fragile blossom that could not bear a harsh breeze. Like Louisa. But Rosalind was strong. She had survived the waterfront slums when scarcely more than an infant. She had adjusted to the demanding life of the theater, becoming the heart and soul of her family and their troupe. Her wisdom, good sense, and optimistic nature had carried her through more than her share of life's vicissitudes. And luckily her coarse fool of a husband had cured her of romantic illusions.

There was friendship and passion between them. That would be enough. Though she didn't love him, Stephen thought she would find it no great burden to share his life and bed for a few weeks. Not when security for her family would be the reward.

Tenderly he stroked her nape, feeling the dampness of the curling tawny hair as he considered the best way to speak. He didn't want to overlook anything, for there was no time to waste in courtship.

At length he decided it would be best simply to ask. She was intelligent enough to see the advantages of an arrangement. And tenderhearted enough, perhaps, to stay with him from pity…

He winced at the thought but knew that even that would be acceptable, as long as she stayed.

“Rosalind,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him with a dreamy smile. “Yes?”

He felt like melting. Reminding himself to keep to the point, he said coolly, “I have a proposition to make. Would you consider marrying me?”

Marriage? Startled almost speechless, Rosalind said stupidly, “Surely an offer of matrimony is a proposal, not a proposition.”

He smiled without humor. “Usually, but under these circumstances, ‘proposition' is a more accurate term. We would not be husband and wife long enough to really settle into marriage, and there is no love between us. However, there is friendship.” His gaze went to her half-uncovered breasts. “And most certainly desire.”

Embarrassed at the reminder of her brazen behavior, she sat up and restored herself to respectability while she tried to collect her thoughts. “This is…unexpected.”

His smile widened and became real. “I believe that the correct line is, ‘Sir, this is so unexpected.'”

She laughed, and some of her shock faded. “Well, it is a surprise.” She began combing hay from her hair with her fingers. “You truly want to wed?”

His face sobered. “I realize that there can be little attractive about marrying a dying man. However, there will be compensations. I'll be out of your way in a few months. I will not ask you to be with me at the distasteful end. In fact, I shall insist that you leave.” He hesitated. “Also, I'm a wealthy man. I'm prepared to make a financial settlement to ensure the future of you and your family.”

She lowered her hands from her hair and simply stared at him in astonishment. Even lying on his side with hay scattered over him and his clothing in disarray, he was a powerful presence. A gentleman and, by his own admission, wealthy.

Also, obviously, out of his wits. Did he seriously think she was so venal that the only way she would marry him would be for money? That she would welcome a swift widowhood? That if they married, she would allow him to send her away when he was on his deathbed? If he believed those things, why on earth would he want her for a wife?

A reason occurred to her. “If you are hoping for an heir, I am unlikely to be able to give you one,” she said bluntly. “I'm probably barren.”

His expression tightened. “That doesn't matter. My marriage lasted for many years and was childless. The fault for that is as likely to lie with me as with my wife.”

It was to his credit that he did not blame his wife for “failing,” but Rosalind was left puzzled. The tortoiseshell kitten that had come to her earlier suddenly appeared, moving through the hay with strenuous hops. Mechanically she picked the little creature up and cuddled it on her lap. “If you have no hope of an heir, then why offer marriage? As an actress, I am better suited to be a mistress than a wife. It would be foolish for you to let a…a passionate interlude cloud your sense of what is appropriate.”

He made a swift gesture of irritation. “Imminent death has a way of making worldly considerations seem like utter nonsense. I am asking a great deal of you. I want your time, your companionship, your patience, and your passion. The least I can give in return is respect.” He pushed himself to a sitting position. “Besides, I must spend time in London arranging my affairs. It will be simpler to keep you with me if we are married.”

“But your brother and sister and other family,” she protested. “Surely they will object to such a mésalliance.”

His brows arched. “I am the head of the family. It is not for them to judge my actions. If they disapprove, they may all go to the devil.”

His aristocratic hauteur was so profound that she almost laughed. No wonder her father kept casting Stephen as a nobleman. But…“What if you don't die? Doctors are often wrong. Will you regret marrying beneath you?”

“It would take a miracle to save my life, and I don't believe in miracles.” He gave her a level look. “But if that happens, I will not regret my choice. Will you?”

“No, I would not,” she said quietly. Yet she was still unsure how to answer him. His businesslike manner had nothing to do with the hot, fierce passion they had shared. Still less did it involve love.

Then she gazed into his eyes, and understood. If he were in good health, they would never have met, and he certainly would not have offered marriage, even if he had by some strange chance fallen in love with her. But now he was facing death, lonely and afraid and far too proud to admit it. She guessed that he would literally rather die than say that he needed her, or anyone. But need her he did.

With brutal clarity she recognized what marrying him would mean. There would be some joy, and a far greater amount of sorrow. She would have to watch him wither away without letting him know how much his pain distressed her, because such knowledge would increase his burdens. She would have to enter his world and be strong, without the comfort of her family around her. Even with Stephen's support, she would be despised by most of his family and friends.

A wise woman would decline with thanks. A proud woman would feel insulted by the cold-blooded manner of his proposal.

She looked down at the kitten, stroking its tiny throat with her forefinger. Obviously she was not proud, and certainly not wise. She lifted her head and extended one hand, saying quietly, “Yes, I'll marry you.”

He clasped her hand and squeezed it tightly. “I'm very glad. I shall do my best to see that you do not regret your decision.”

The vivid relief on his face was proof that she had made the right choice. She cared for him deeply, and the thought of his death was agonizing. But if they spent his remaining time together, at least she would have some happy memories. And she'd be a liar if she didn't admit that she would welcome financial security for her parents.

Turning to more practical matters, she said, “As a strolling player, I have no parish of my own, so I suppose we must go to your home to be married.”

“That won't be necessary. I shall send to London for a special license. That should take no longer than”—he thought—“three days. Say four to be on the safe side. Shall we marry on Wednesday?”

She blinked, a little startled by such speed. But there was no reason to wait, and every reason to hurry. “Very well.”

He frowned as he retied his cravat. “Will you be able to leave the troupe right away, or will it be necessary to wait while your father finds a replacement?”

She considered the company's repertory. “There will be a couple of plays that will have to be set aside until another actress is found, but my departure won't cause insurmountable problems. There are fewer parts for women than men.”

“Good. I'd like time for a brief honeymoon before going to London.” He brushed the hay from his dark coat. “I've been neglecting my duties by staying with the troupe for so long. I didn't want to go home.”

She smiled at him. “I'm glad you neglected your duty for once. We've all enjoyed your company.” Her gaze went to the window and the angle of the sun. “Heavens, we must return to the inn. Papa will think we've been eaten by wild lambs.”

Stephen stood and helped her up. The kitten skittered to her shoulder and clung, its tiny claws stabbing like needles. Carefully he disentangled the little creature and returned it to its mother. Then he drew Rosalind into his arms. The embrace was quite unlike the fevered kisses they had exchanged earlier. Instead, it was calm and possessive. He murmured, “I'm being horribly selfish, and I can't even bring myself to feel guilty.”

She tilted her head back and gazed into his face. The loss of weight emphasized his good, strong bones. “Why is it selfish to take a mate? Each of us will give, and each of us will take. It's the most natural thing in the world.”

He sighed and traced the edge of her ear with one fingertip. “I hope you're right.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, thinking how little she knew of him. She'd met none of his family, never seen his home, knew nothing of his life except that he was “a farmer.” But she knew he was kind and honest. That was enough.

She indulged herself in the luxury of his embrace for a little longer. He made her feel so safe. At peace. For the time being, there was an emotional balance between them. How long would that last? Soon their roles would shift, and he would need her strength more than she needed his. He would hate that, and perhaps he would come to hate her.

So be it. If she had wanted her life to be easy, she could have turned him down.

She stepped away and began to tidy herself. “I look like a milkmaid who has been well and truly tumbled in the hay,” she said ruefully.

He surveyed her with warmth in his eyes. “You have far too much natural elegance to resemble a milkmaid.”

She laughed. “But I do look tumbled. Can you brush the hay from my back?”

He did, his hands gentle as they skimmed over her body to straighten her clothing and remove stray stalks. He took rather longer than necessary, but she didn't mind.

A few minutes of work returned them both to relative respectability. As Stephen collected the tin dipper to return to the well house, Rosalind stepped onto the ladder. She cast a last glance over the hayloft. Such a humble place to have been the site of such passion and drama.

She felt a combination of happiness and melancholy that she feared would never leave her again.

 

Once more disdaining what people thought, Stephen held Rosalind's hand as they walked back to the Green Man. He was…happy. It was good to have something joyful to look forward to. And even under ordinary circumstances, what more could a man ask in a wife than a friend who was also a passionate bedmate?

His mind buzzed with plans. They were still near Bourne Castle, so he'd ask the Duke of Candover to send a trusted man to London; his brother's friend would be happy to oblige. The agent could procure a license at Doctors' Commons and take a draft to the family bankers, since Stephen was running low on money. He could also take Jupiter to the Ashburton House stables and collect some clothing while he was there. Stephen was heartily sick of the few garments he'd brought on this trip.

Apart from that, he needed only Rosalind. He watched her from the corner of his eye, marveling at how lucky he was. She gave him a sidelong glance, her smile warm and intimate. He was tempted to take her back to the hayloft. Ah, well, soon she'd be his and they could share a bed whenever they wished. Or a hayloft.

A jolt of pain brought him back to reality. He had considered, and rejected, the idea of telling Rosalind his true name and rank. She'd have to know, of course, but better to wait until after the wedding. She already had doubts about their different stations in life. If she knew how wide the gap really was, she might change her mind.

He thought briefly about what his father's reaction would have been to the knowledge that his son and heir was marrying an actress. If the old boy weren't already dead, the news would kill him. Stephen mentally shrugged; no matter how hard he'd tried to please his father, he'd never succeeded. Eventually he'd stopped trying.

His father would also have loathed the fact that Michael would be the next duke. A pity that he would never know, Stephen thought dryly. The old duke had been a harsh and difficult man, but in most ways he'd been just. However, he had hated his own younger brother, and as a kind of vengeance, he'd done his best to alienate Stephen and Michael. It was the one act that Stephen could not forgive.

Claudia would also be horrified, and that was more of a problem. With luck, Stephen would be able to reconcile her to his new wife. If not…He shrugged again.

The Green Man came into view. As they approached, a cart dropped off a travel-worn young man and woman and their baggage. When the couple went into the inn, Rosalind said thoughtfully, “I wonder if that could be Simon Kent. I didn't know that he had a wife, but that fellow did look as if he might be an actor.”

“He isn't very prepossessing. But then, neither is Edmund Kean.”

Rosalind glanced at him. “You've seen Kean?” When Stephen nodded, she asked eagerly, “Is he as good as his reputation?”

“He's superb. I saw him on the night of his famous London debut, when he played Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice
.”

Her eyes widened. “I've heard that Drury Lane was two-thirds empty when he began, and that his performance was so powerful that people rushed out on the streets at the first interval and told other people to come in. Did that really happen?”

“It did indeed.” Stephen smiled reminiscently. “Even though it was January and the weather was vile, I went to a nearby eating house and dragged three friends back to my box. By the end of the play, the theater was full. It was quite extraordinary.”

“I should like to have been there,” she said wistfully.

He squeezed her hand. “I'll take you to Drury Lane when we go to London. The season will be starting in another week or so.”

She chuckled. “And you have a box. I'll be very grand!”

Grander than she realized, or would be comfortable with, he feared. Preferring to change the subject, he said, “Kean is outstanding—but I think your father is his equal.”

He was rewarded by Rosalind's blazing smile. And his words were honest. If Thomas Fitzgerald had been able to get along with theater managers, he and Maria would be as famous as Kean and Sarah Siddons. It was sad but true that talent alone was not enough to produce great success.

They reached the inn and followed the sound of voices to the private parlor. Half of the Fitzgerald troupe was gathered around the two shabbily dressed newcomers. The young man had removed his hat and was talking to Thomas.

As Stephen and Rosalind entered, Thomas glanced over at them. “Rosalind, Stephen, this is Simon Kent, a day ahead of schedule. And his sister, Mary Kent”

As the introductions were completed, Stephen surveyed his replacement. Kent was barely middle height and his fair, shaggy hair needed cutting. Not handsome. In fact, barely presentable. But his dark gray eyes were compelling.

Rosalind said, “The threshing hall we looked at would do, but it's a little small.”