He allowed her to loosen the fastenings of his trousers. He allowed her to slip her hand inside and free him. The feel of her slim, delicate fingers wrapped around him nearly made him lose control before he was ready.
“You're so large,” she said. “If we, when we, will it kill me?”
He laughed, although he wasn't much in a humorous mood. “No, I promise not to kill you with it,” he teased. “You were fashioned to accommodate me,” he tried to assure her. “You'll see when the time is right.”
“How do I please you?” she asked, and she ran her hand up and down his shaft like she'd innocently done while he had bathed. He jerked. When he caught his breath again, he said, “Just keep doing what you're doing.”
And she did.
. . .
The feel of him in her hand, hard as steel, long and thick, excited Rosalind. She continued as he had instructed her to do, all the time watching him, as he watched her. Fueled by her sudden bravery, she leaned toward him and kissed him, teased him with her tongue until he opened to her. He allowed her the heady power of being the seducer rather than the seduced. She stole a groan from him, a deep throaty sound that awakened her own desires.
Through his guidance, she understood the rhythm of her hand moving up and down his shaft. Understood, as well, her own body's response to pleasuring him. She grew hot and wet, her breathing labored as she watched him. The intensity of his eyes while he stared at her added to the flames licking at her body, the sight of his firm, full lips, slightly parted as he struggled to breathe.
The firelight cast a golden glow over his tawny skin and he'd never looked more handsome to her. Primitive, male, powerful. Hers. At least at this moment in time.
Instinctively, she increased the pressure and the pace of her hand. He closed his eyes, his long lashes sweeping down to create sooty crescent moons against his cheeks. His jaw tensed and she knew he fought her, fought her power over him. She squeezed harder, pumped him faster. A groan broke from his lips. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he drew her mouth back to his.
His kiss was savage, bruising, but the pain didn't last long before he broke from her, turned his body away from her, and clutched handfuls of her crisp white sheets in his large bronzed hands. “Don't stop,” he managed to grind out, and she didn't stop.
He seemed to swell even more in her hand, grow harder, if that were possible; then he made a low sound in his throat . . . an animalistic sound, before she felt him tense, then shudder violently. She held him, in her hand as well as
his back cradled against the front of her body. He continued to pulse and she knew he spilled his seed there, against her virgin sheets.
They lay that way for a time, she wrapped around him as if protectively, while he lay spent and vulnerable. Her cheek rested against his smooth back. She heard the hard thud of his heart beating.
Outside, the storm still raged, but inside, she felt warm and oddly contented. She'd stolen a piece of him tonight. She felt it with her woman's instinct, knew it in her heart. He would fall in love with her. It was only a matter of time.
It was only a matter of time. Time Armond felt that was running out for him. He had fallen asleep in Rosalind's arms last night. He had awoken sometime before dawn and crept from her bed like a coward. If he'd felt a moment of concern over a loss of control last night, he felt more concerned over the feelings that had first stirred to life in him when he'd awakened with her wrapped around him. It had felt right. God, she had felt so right being there next to him.
And the feelings she stirred were not sexual. They were emotions buried deep within his heart. A heart he could not give her. A heart she might take whether he was willing to part with it or not. Besides his instructions to Hawkins to guard his wife during his absence this morning, he'd told the man to put a lock on the door that separated their rooms. Armond had thought he could love her with his body without getting his heart involved. He suspected he'd made a grave mistake with his thinking.
He'd never thought himself a coward, but this morning he'd left the house rather than face her over breakfast. He'd left because he feared she would look into his eyes and see his true feelings for her or, worse, look into his eyes and see a monster staring back at her.
Armond strolled Bond Street with no particular destination in mind. The papers had not relayed any news of
prostitutes being murdered last eve. Tonight he would trail Chapman again, but this time he'd be more careful of any traps that might be set for him. In fact, he had an idea of setting his own trap for the man.
A coach pulled alongside him. “Armond, my boy, come speak to me,” the dowager called.
He smiled upon seeing the lady. Armond strolled to her coach. The footman bounded down and opened the door.
“Come inside,” she instructed.
“But your reputation,” he cautioned, keeping a straight face. “I see that you have no chaperone along with you.”
She reached out and swatted him, not with a fan but with her age-spotted hand. “Stop teasing an old lady, Armond, and climb inside.”
He acknowledged her request with a formal bow before he climbed inside. “And how are you this fine day, madam?”
“Is it fine?” she grumbled. “I'm trying to prepare for my upcoming ball and have realized I'm too damn old to give balls. It takes too much work.”
“Your affairs are always splendid,” he assured her.
“You did get my invitation weeks ago, correct?”
He thought he'd tossed it somewhere in his study. “Yes, thank you for inviting me. Rosalind will probably enjoy attending.”
“Oh, good,” the lady breathed. “I was afraid what happened at my tea might sour her on the idea of venturing out into society again.”
Confused, he asked, “What do you mean?”
“The way the ladies all shunned her, of course,” the lady provided. “But she held up well. She's made of sturdy stuff, your new wife. She even gave that little snot Lady Amelia Sinclair the time of day when the young woman wouldn't speak to her unless it was behind closed doors. She has a heart of gold, your Rosalind.”
She did, he had to mentally admit. She hadn't told him the truth. She hadn't wanted to upset him or shame him. She had faced Chapman for him; she had faced ruin for him. Good God, she deserved so much more than he could ever give her.
“Yes, she is quite a lady,” he said to the dowager. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything but sleep with you,” she commented blandly. “You are a married man, now,” she explained. “Oh, to hell with it; I'll sleep with you regardless.”
He laughed. The dowager smiled and he got to the point “Rosalind needs new gowns. I would spare her from having to visit the shops to be fitted, being the object of whispers and skirts brushed aside lest she sully some proper woman. Could I have the seamstress attend to her at your residence? I doubt that I could get one to readily agree to come to mine, regardless of how much I'm willing to pay.”
The dowager's eyes softened upon him. “Of course, Armond. I will see to it that your wife is outfitted like a queen.”
“I once thought she looked like a princess,” he commented, thinking back.
The dowager suddenly took his hand and squeezed. “I'm so happy for you to have found her, Armond. She loves you. Love her in return.”
His heart stopped beating for a second. “How do you know she loves me?” he asked quietly.
The woman rolled her gaze heavenward. “Any fool can see that. And any fool can see that you are in love with her as well. Don't take too long to tell her.”
Panic nearly seized him. He felt as if his throat had closed and he couldn't catch a breath. “I can't tell her,” he rasped. “I can't love her.”
“Of course you can,” the dowager argued. “Your father was weak. You are not.”
Her eyes had taken on a steely glint. Armond felt the hackles at the back of his neck rise. “You know.”
“I was your mother's closest friend,” she said. “I was the one who sat with her while she died of a broken heart. Your father did not give her a choice. He assumed the worst about himself, and about her. Don't make the same mistake.”
The choking sensation grew worse. Armond clawed at his cravat; then he opened the door and bounded outside. He said nothing to the dowager in parting. He had to escape. He had to think. He had to run.
Rosalind feared she might go mad. Her husband was missing again. To make matters worse, Hawkins had one of the stable hands working upstairs, putting a lock on the door that adjoined her room to Armond's. A lock that was positioned on his side, not on hers. She might well understand if he feared he'd lose control and slip into her room again, into her bed, but to insinuate that he needed protection from her, well, it was insulting.
She was in the parlor, trying to read, but the words meant nothing to her. All she could think about was last night and if her boldness with Armond had somehow sickened him toward her. What was he thinking? What should she be thinking? The man was driving her insane.
“Lady Wulf, Lady Amelia is here to see you.”
Thank God for the distraction. “Send her in, Hawkins.”
“Shall I serve tea again?”
Rosalind started to reply in the affirmative, then had another thought. “No, we'd like brandy.”
He never raised a brow. “Very good, Lady Wulf.”
Amelia bustled in a moment later, draped in her cape. She looked rather like the grim reaper. “I'm sorry I didn't send a note around,” she said. “I wasn't sure I could sneak away without either my mother or my chaperone dogging my heels. I told Mother I had a horrible headache and wished to retire for the rest of the afternoon. Do you know that I climbed down a tree to see you?”
Impressed, Rosalind lifted a brow.
“All right, it was a rather small tree, a bush actuallyâmy room is on the first floor of the mansionâbut still, I nearly broke a sweat.”
Rosalind laughed. Amelia was one of a kind, even if she didn't have the spine the dowager wished her to have. “Come in and sit down, Amelia. I have missed your company.”
After removing the cape that cloaked her from head to toe, Amelia joined her on the settee. “And I have missed you.” She took Rosalind's hands in hers and squeezed. “Besides, I need your advice.”
Hawkins entered with a tray sporting two glasses of warm brandy. He set it next to Rosalind and exited the parlor.
“What is that?” Amelia immediately demanded.
“Brandy,” Rosalind answered.
“For us?”
Rosalind lifted a glass and handed it to the young woman. “I've had a trying day,” Rosalind explained.
Amelia sniffed the liquor, wrinkling her nose. “I've never been allowed to drink anything but an occasional glass of wine, champagne at special events, but only half a glass.”
“I warn you to drink it slowly,” Rosalind said. “It burns.”
Amelia tipped the glass up and drank the contents in a few very unladylike gulps. She sat the glass aside without
so much as a cough or a wince. Rosalind simply blinked at her.
“Now, about the advice I need,” she said. “It's of a personal nature. Being that you are now a married woman, I thought I could come to you with my dilemma.”
Taking a sip of her brandy, Rosalind knew a response was unnecessary. Amelia would more than likely forge on ahead. The young woman didn't do anything different.
“Last night, I was alone for a few moments with Lord Collingsworth. We are to announce our engagement before the season ends. I thought now that we are to be engaged, he would surely try to kiss me. He did nothing, so I took matters into my own hands, and I kissed him. He seemed very shocked. Even more so when I stuck my tongue in his mouth. It's something the French do,” she explained to Rosalind, as if she might not know about it. “He called me brazen. He said a proper wife does not go around kissing her husband any time the urge comes upon her. Is that true, Rosalind? Do you not kiss Lord Wulf whenever the mood suits you? Must you ask his permission first?”
The irony of the situation nearly sent Rosalind into hysterical fits of laughter. She tried to tamp down her own confused emotions. “I would think a wife should be able to kiss her husband if the mood suits her, and of course vice versa. Lord Wulf says that nothing two people do together is wrong if they are married.” He'd obviously lied, because she'd obviously done something wrong, but she wouldn't go into the matter with Amelia.
“I would think so, too,” Amelia agreed. “I have passions, Rosalind. I thought a husband might enjoy that about me, but it seems I am to marry a man who doesn't. What should I do?”
Rosalind fortified herself with another sip of brandy. “Maybe you shouldn't marry him,” she suggested.
Amelia thought on the matter for a good two seconds. “I must marry him. I've already agreed. My parents are finally happy with me. It would cause the worst kind of talk were I to suddenly bow out of the engagement. Do you think Robert might become more passionate after we are married?”
Rosalind had not met the young man in question. Amelia was a beautiful young woman, however. Her figure was the type to please a man. Rosalind couldn't see Amelia's intended resisting her charms for long . . . which brought her back around to Armond and the lock on his door.
“I'm certain you have nothing to worry about,” she assured her friend. “Lord Collingsworth is obviously shy. I have no doubts he'll be kissing you silly in no time after you're married.”
Her friend sighed. “I hope you're right, Rosalind.” They sat in silence for a moment before Amelia said, “Could I have another brandy? It was quite nice. Gives me a warm feeling in my stomach the same as thinking about Gabriel Wulf does.”
Again, Rosalind had to wonder if Amelia should marry at all. And she had to ask herself the same questions Amelia seemed to be asking herself. What had she done wrong last night to send Armond running off this morning? To make him decide to lock her out? One minute, he was trying to seduce her, the next, he acted as if he were the one in jeopardy of losing his virtue.