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the forbidden pleasure her back was causing him. The wind stole her hat and undid her riotous midnight hair, that caressed his face with its floral scent. They rode like that for a long distance, torture and exhilaration took hold of him. They stopped under their favourite–and centenary-oak tree. He helped her down, holding her waist and sliding her along him, their stares meshed. And that was the first time he kissed her. It had been chaste, too chaste for the furnace in his body, he did not have the courage to go any further, though. At twenty-six, he had been light-hearted and carefree, but scrupulous enough to respect a daughter of the peerage.
If he only knew that same daughter would not show any scruple towards him.
CHAPTER TWO
Annabel sat in front of a huge hearth in her chambers, drying her hair. She had soaked in a deliciously warm bath. Her footman had her trunk carried to her room, and she dressed fresh clothes.
Her mind whirled round and round with the day’s events. She could not fathom why information was that the Duke had gone to town, and she found him right here. Of course, the time news took to travel was the same that people travelled, too. Just last week her superiors in the government office passed on the latest developments. She thought she would be able to wander the castle by herself. To search for whatever documents that proved the Duke was plotting the escape of Napoleon from Saint Helena. The island where the former emperor had been imprisoned by the English. They needed such proof so that the Duke went to Court Martial, charged with treason.
But to find him here? Not to mention her reaction to him. Which she preferred to ascribe to her state of mind and the burden of her mission.
In the past, everything had been so different…
The Burroughs had several estates throughout England. One of them lay next to her family’s seat in Dorset. She just turned eighteen and already had one season in town, accompanied by some offers. As summer happened upon them, her family left town and they suspended courtships until autumn.
Romulus and Annabel met in a country dance and their rapport clicked instantaneous. She left the dance with his invitation to ride next morning. She had a chaperone as she was wont to. But her chaperone had a harsh reaction to a wasp bite and took abed for several days. Annabel would not miss meeting Romulus for the life of her. Her impetus almost exploding in her chest. So, she snuck out of the house on the excuse she would visit friends.
What bright summer days they enjoyed! Fishing in the pond on the border of their families’ lands, riding, talking. The unforgettable day he taught her to ride astride, she had been bubbling with happiness. And his kiss, oh, that kiss that was everything and nothing at the same time. She wanted to kiss him for hours! He interrupted it after just a slight taste, so frustrating!
It would not last long though. His father, the late Duke, bought a commission for him to go fight Napoleon’s army, practically forcing Romulus to go. He was a second son, not bound to inherit, thus it had been his duty to bring war medals home to polish the family’s prestige. Annabel was inconsolable!
In their last day together, they had a picnic under their huge oak tree. She stole food and wine from her estate’s kitchens and he brought blankets for them to sit. A bitter-sweet encounter had ensued. The wine got them a bit tipsy, but it helped her relax and enjoy their last day together, rather than be gloomy. She lay on the blanket after eating, watching the clouds play with the sun in the sky.
Suddenly, he came over her, a hand on her face, another on her waist. “I am going to marry you, Annabel!” He whispered rough, his murky eyes clear and merged on hers. “When I come back from the war, I will ask for your hand.” Her father would not deny a Duke’s son, well understood. Ergo, it would be just a matter of time. Romulus could even write her father asking for her hand. They might arrange things to their liking.
This lit up her hopes. When he kissed her, she grabbed his sleek dark-brown hair, wanting more than the quick pecks he had been presenting her with in their outings. That was her first real kiss, his mouth devouring hers. She begged him for more, arching blindly. He finally acquiesced and palmed her breast over her demure debutante’s dress. The fire that consumed her made her dizzy. He poured kisses over her cheeks and neck, his thumb playing with her peaked breast. She melted into him, his masculine scent, his bristled jaw, his broad shoulders. He was so handsome!
He stopped kissing her to lift his marvellous eyes to hers. They smiled at each other, their faces promising a sunny future together. When he lowered his mouth to tease her nipple over the dress, she nearly went mad. By discreet observation, she learned a little of his body and felt him hard against her. She had a notion of what it would do to her and she wanted it so fervently, it ached.
“Romulus.” She had pleaded.
He understood her. Their gazes meshed again. “I know, Annabel. I want you, too.” He rumbled on her mouth. “But we will do this right, even if it kills me!” This time, his kiss came deeper, more urgent. She followed him as if there would never be enough. Reluctantly, they parted with a thousand pledges of letters and plans for the future. She spent the rest of that summer in a haze of dreams and expectations.
Months after her family went back to London, they heard he had perished in the war. No body to bury, but he had been missing for weeks. Annabel’s despair bordered insanity. She locked herself in her room and cried for days in a row. Her mother had been worried sick and Annabel forced herself to tell what happened that summer. She showed the scarce letters she received from him, the war-front a difficult place for distant communication.
In the weeks that followed, the fire in her heart just went out. She did not care what came to pass to her. In a desperate attempt to lift her spirits, their parents induced her numb self to agree to the court of the Count of Winchester. Bonny thin and hardly aware of what she was doing, she married the count to endure four years of a marriage to which she had not been present.
If someone told her things could not get any worse, she would have responded with a hysterical laugh. Because Romulus did come back, she never knew how. When they met in a ball and her friend “introduced” her to him as the Countess of Winchester, the world simply finished. Impossible to forget the blaze of resentment in his stance. She did not see him again.
She did come to know of his elder brother’s silly demise in a sillier duel and of him becoming the new Duke of Blackthorne.
A knock on the door interrupted her digressions. She opened the door to a footman. He bowed. “My lady, the Duke awaits you for supper in the great hall.” He bowed again and left.
She looked at the diamond windows–surely an Elizabethan addition–to have darkness greet her. Blasted supper! She half expected a maid to bring a tray to her room. So, she would not have to face the man once more, since she would be gone in the morning. Loath to leave her cosy and panelled room, the huge canopied bed and its velvet purple coverlet, she stood. She reminded herself she had a job to do and she would not cower from it. From anything, for that matter.
* * *
Swishing of skirts made Romulus aware of the presence of the Countess. A vision in lavender silk to contrast with her alabaster skin, midnight hair caught in a simple chignon. His French mother would have loved her, he thought with a grim curl of his lips. His long-gone mother would say Annabel would make the ideal Duchess with her bearing and her beauty. Romulus knew there was more to her than that. She had been sprite, smart and beguiling in her day. He would have to struggle many years into the future to forget her laughter in the wind. He ignored the steam rising in his body as he stood to receive her.
A roaring fire burned in the enormous fireplace, throwing warm light in the room, together with the candles in the candelabra on the massive table. It shone her large eyes, cherry-tree wood colour, clear and liquid. This was going to be a long night.
His eyes were so intent on her, they went dry. “My lady.” He feigned a gentleman treatment, offering her his arm. Her gaze went to his black coated limb, then to him and fell to the cloth again. Finally, she placed her delicate fingers on his sleeve; even gloved, the touch seared him. They sat opposite each other, her composure irreproachable.
“Are your rooms to your liking, my lady?” This came overly guttural, betraying the temperature of his insides.
She lifted her attention to lock it on him, determined, fast. It hit him as if a flame escaped from the hearth and brought him to cinders.
“You need not put up this performance.” Meaning, she would not put one up either. “But, yes, to tell the truth, Blackthorne Castle is magnificent, my rooms included.”
