Her eyes opened, and she shook her head, but he gripped her thighs with both hands. “Do not deny it. You are lovely to me, and I will say it as often as I need to. I will say it until you believe it.”
She trembled beneath his touch. “I will not deny you.” The hoarseness of her voice, the promise of the words amplified his desire for her. He could take her here, feel her tighten around him, give her the pleasure they both desired.
Then an image crossed his mind, which made him hesitate. Rose, open and willing in his bed, sprawled on a mountain of pillows, her hair wild and unbound. Her hands over her head, her wrists... she would give him her innocence, and he would send her into an ecstasy she had never known or expected.
As his wife.
Like a blow to his gut, Thomas knew that’s what he wanted, more than even this. To glory in her, in her sacrifice, in her surrender to him. To make her his own, to claim her totally and without hesitation. Not behind a locked door in a clandestine moment. On her desk.
He lowered her foot from his shoulder, even as he pressed closer between her legs. He leaned over her, his weight pushing down on her hips as he kissed her nipple one more time and slipped her breast back into her corset, tugging the neckline into place. She looked confused—and disappointed—as he slid his arms around her back and pulled her up against him. He kissed her again, a long, lingering but gentle kiss, which she returned with fervor. As their lips parted, he kissed her jaw, then the soft spot beneath her ear, pausing to whisper.
“Rose, I want you. I want you more than you can imagine. I want to take you, give you the pleasure you deserve. But not like this. Not on your desk. You deserve mounds of pillows and silk sheets and lovemaking with no hurry, no threat of discovery. Everything I can give you. In a special place of your own. I want to treat you—”
Rose stiffened in his arms, and the growl in his ear sounded nothing like passion. “Then get the hell off me.” She shoved at his shoulders with all her strength, which barely budged him. “Get off me!”
She slapped him, a sound that echoed off the walls.
Thomas lunged backward, stumbling over his topcoat.
Rose shot off the desk, smoothing down her skirts and patting at her disheveled hair. “How dare you! You and your mother, coming here, spouting pretty words about love and duty and porridge and being unexpected and how you can’t string two words—” She picked his coat and threw it at him. “About how you don’t care what happened to me. Get out!”
Thomas reeled, unable to grasp her reaction. “Rose, what the devil!”
She bent and started frantically scooping up papers from the floor, flinging them onto the desk. “All your promises of change. Liar! You haven’t changed at all! You areexactlywho I always thought you were. I just didn’t realize I would be the one fooled, lured into your pretty world. Damn you! Damn you to hell!”
Thomas shrugged into his coat, trying once more to dig through her fury. “Rose, please—What did I—”
She grabbed her slipper, then marched to the door and unlocked it, turning once more, her words a hiss of rage. “I will be no one’s mistress!”
With that she yanked open the door and strode out, and Thomas could hear her footsteps racing up the stairs.
Thomas froze a moment, confusion clouding his thoughts. He tried to pull himself together, especially his clothes.Mistress? Why would she think—?He slowly straightened his topcoat, checked the buttons on his waistcoat, the lay of his trousers. His arousal had vanished with the slap, the heat of which still stung his cheek. Satisfied that he was reasonably respectable, he walked tentatively to the door, stepping into the hall. The hall itself remained empty, the voice of the recitation continuing as a drone in the distance. But down the hall, Edmund Timmons, Earl of Huntingdale, stood in the doorway of his study, staring at Thomas. Thomas cleared his throat. “Sir.”
“Newbury.”
Thomas glanced up the staircase, but Rose was long gone.
Huntingdale sniffed. “So I will be hearing from you tomorrow about an offer?”
Thomas, trying to ignore the returned—and overwhelming this time—sense of humiliation and shame, nodded. “Yes, sir. I will write in the morning.” He glanced up the stairs again, even knowing it was a fruitless gesture.
“We do tend to muck it up, son, when we least expect it.”
The words brought only a shadowy glimmer of relief. “Yes, sir. I know I do.”
“We all do, Newbury. We all do.” With that, Huntingdale turned back into his study and closed the door.
*
Rose screamed forthe fourth time, the pillow held tightly against her mouth. The tremors from her rage continued to shudder through her arms and hands, as Sarah’s fingers danced frantically over the tottering upsweep, trying to salvage the hairstyle.
“You’re missing a lot of hairpins.”
A fifth scream.
“Don’t worry. I’m balancing out the burgundy ones with pearls. No one will notice.”
Rose pulled the pillow away from her face and flung it onto the bed. “How could I be such a fool?” Her voice dropped into a mocking alto. “‘A special place of your own.’ Dear God in heaven, he must think I’m an idiot.” She pressed fingers into the corners of her eyes. “I won’t cry, I won’t cry, Iwill notcry.” She brushed away stinging tears. “Damn him. How dare he do this, tonight of all nights?”
