“A winter night is always something beautiful, I think,” he murmured. He turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers—intense, as though boring into her, lit with a light she had never seen before.”
Rosalyn’s heart thudded, loud and slow. She gazed into his grey eyes. He seemed to be speaking of the night, yet his words were meant for her, she felt that deep in her soul.
“Forgive me,” the duke murmured. “I was overcome. Your beauty strikes me that way sometimes.”
“I...” Rosalyn stammered. She had no idea what to say. The notion that anyone would find her beautiful was new enough. The notion that he—the man she had come to admire and long for—found her beautiful was enough to amaze her.
“I find it very hard not to do what we are compelled to do,” he said softly. Rosalyn frowned, but he was gazing upwards and her eyes moved to where he was looking. Above them, green, red and white, hung the kissing bough. Her cheeks flared. Her heart stopped. She looked into his eyes.
Gently, so slowly, with impossible tenderness, his lips pressed against her own. She shut her eyes. His mouth was warm, his lips smooth and firm where they met her own. His arms enfolded her and she leaned against him, losing herself in the sensation of his lips against hers. His chest, muscled and firm, pressed against hers, his arms tightening around her protectively, possessively.
Rosalyn leaned against him, forgetting how to breathe. All she knew was the sensation of his closeness and his warmth, and a longing such as she had never felt before to hold him and be held, to be closer and closer. He held her tight, his lips resting against hers tenderly. She wrapped her arms shyly around him, holding him to her chest.
The duke gasped. His eyes opened and he gazed into her own. He stepped back a little, but he did not release her from his embrace. He stared into her eyes and she stared back. Her heart thudded slowly, her breath slowly returning. She could see surprise in his eyes, and wonder.
She felt exactly the same.
“Your Grace, I...” she murmured.
“Callum,” he said firmly. “Pray, call me by my name. My Christian name.”
“Callum,” Rosalyn whispered. It was a pleasant name, unusual and musical. It suited him. Her heart raced, chills racing through her body as she said the word and his eyes widened to hear her use his name for the first time.
He said nothing, just gazed at her. Rosalyn cleared her throat shyly.
“Please call me Rosalyn,” she said softly. Her cheeks burned. She looked up into his eyes.
“I shall. Rosalyn,” he murmured. His voice was low and resonant and chills erupted through her body at the sound of her name on his lips.
He had stepped back, so that his hands rested on her shoulders and her hands were on his back, her arms loosely holding him.
She gazed into his eyes. It felt strange, exciting; almost dangerous. They had crossed an invisible barrier. The distant formality between them had dissolved gradually over the past weeks, but now it was irrevocably replaced with something else. A new, untravelled, unchartered landscape through which they forged their own way. Her heart leapt, her breath catching in her throat.
“We ought to return to the ballroom,” he murmured distantly as footsteps drew closer. Blushing, Rosalyn stepped hastily back. “The staff will be making ready for the after-dinner tea and card games.”
“Yes. I suppose so,” Rosalyn said quietly.
He held her gaze. She stared back levelly.
“We ought to go,” he said again.
She did not say anything, and he did not speak or move, but stood staring at her, his eyes kindling with the same longingthat she felt racing through her body like fire. She ached to feel his lips on hers again. They stood like that, neither moving nor speaking, but with a wealth of words in their eyes. A sound startled Rosalyn, and she turned. The butler had come in, pushing a trolley laden with crockery that clinked softly as he moved.
“Come, Rosalyn,” the duke said softly. “Let us return to the ball.”
Rosalyn smiled as the wonder of her name on his lips raced through her. They returned to the ballroom.
Chapter 21
Sunlight slanted into the library. Rosalyn stepped in silently, narrowing her gaze as she passed through a ray of sunshine that spilled onto the floor. She searched the darker space beyond, looking for her brother.
“Sebastian?” she called.
He was standing by a shelf in the corner, his back to the door, a small booklet in his hands. He turned around and his gaze widened as he saw Rosalyn there.
“Sister! Were you looking for me?” he asked. His dark eyes were concerned as he scanned her face.
“Isabel and Georgina said you were here,” Rosalyn said simply. She stared up at his thin, handsome face. It was late morning, around tea-time, and Rosalyn had hoped to find Sebastian. She had barely slept, images of the ball, of the duke and of the kiss returning to waken her and twist her heart with a mix of confusion and wonder. She could not understand her own feelings, or what any of it meant. Sebastian was the one person she felt she could turn to for honest advice.
