Chapter Seventeen

Sterling had always maintained the opinion that a kiss–while enjoyable–was really nothing more than an interlude to better and far more wicked endeavors.

How wrong he'd been.

About so many different things.

But he was getting to where he needed to be.

Because of Rosemary.

All of it was because of Rosemary.

She'd healed his hurts and chased away his demons. She'd shown him that the future wasn't something to be endured, but something to look forward to. And he was. Looking forward to it, that is. To the life they were going to build together. To the children they'd have someday. A boy and a girl, if he had his way. With his mischievous nature and her gentle, caring spirit.

But first…the kissing.

He slanted his mouth more firmly across hers and slid his tongue between her lips to sample the sweet nectar within. Since giving up alcohol, all of his surroundings–everything he saw, everything he touched, everything he tasted–had come into sharper focus, and passion was no exception. If he'd wanted Rosemary before, he needed to have her now. She was an aphrodisiac for his senses…and he was helpless to resist her.

A hard jolt went through his body when her small hands fitted themselves to his chest and began a hesitant exploration of all that laid below. Her gloved fingers traveled down the middle of his sternum and then flitted out to follow the rigid contours of his ribs before encountering the flat, clenched plane of his abdomen.

He wore a waistcoat and a linen shirt, but the heat emanating from her palms made it so that he might as well have been standing on the terrace in the nude. A quick, desperate glance at the French doors to ensure no one was about to come outside and interrupt them, and then he returned his full attention to the fog-eyed siren whose clever, inquisitive hand had just cupped his–

"Bollocks," he cursed on a ragged breath, lifting his head to stare at her in a tortured mixture of desire and disbelief. "I cannot believe I'm about to be the voice of propriety, but we cannot do this here. Anyone could walk out at any moment."

Her hand retreated as an adorably rosy pink blush spread across her cheeks. "Of–of course. You're right. I don't know what came over me."

Sterling did. Since that first impulsive kiss in their library at Hawkridge Manor, they'd been drawn to each other. Two lost souls being pulled in the same direction. Two falling stars plummeting to the earth. It was inevitable that they would eventually come to this place, on this night. To where the anticipation was unbearable…and neither wanted to wait any longer for what was always meant to be.

"That's not to say we couldn't go somewhere else. Somewhere more private. There is a guest cottage on the other side of the manor. A discreet place for the prince to bring his paramours. But given that he is otherwise occupied this evening…" Sterling trailed off, allowing the choice to belong to Rosemary, who did not hesitate.

"Yes," she said. " Yes ."

It was all he needed to hear.

Moonlight nipped at their heels as they dashed off to the cottage. Open, airy, and lit with candles, it smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender. The ornate furniture was tastefully arranged, the walls a pale, creamy yellow. Ivory drapes danced in the breeze from windows left partially ajar, permitting a cool swath of autumn air into the cottage along with the strains of Beethoven's seventh symphony.

Rosemary gasped when Sterling scooped her up into his arms, pink gown and all, and carried her effortlessly over the threshold. He kicked the door closed behind them, somehow managed to turn the lock, and didn't set her down again until they'd reached the master's quarters.

A canopied bed dominated the room. Acres of clean, fresh linens were layered atop the mattress. He set Rosemary on her feet, then turned her away from him to hold on to an oak bedpost while his fingers made quick work of the long line of hooks that ran the length of her spine.

He peeled the dress away, pausing to kiss the delicate vertebrae protruding from the nape of her neck. A few tugs, a gentle pull, and her petticoats fell, leaving her in her drawers and corset. After guiding her out of the pool of fabric, he merely stood and stared, his eyes devouring her with all the hungry possessiveness of a man half-starved who'd just been presented with a banquet to feast upon.

He'd known she was pretty. A sunny daisy growing in a garden of cultured roses. But silhouetted in the glow of candles with her hair tumbling onto her shoulders in loose curls of gleaming mahogany and her face slightly flush, she was…she was ethereal. The most magnificent, beautiful creature he'd ever seen. A fairy queen straight out of glen and glade.

"What?" she asked, covering her breasts as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "Is–is something the matter?"

"No," he said hoarsely. "Nothing is the matter. I just…I just don't know what the devil I've done to deserve you."

A shy smile crept across her face.

"Silly duke," she said softly. "You needn't earn what is given freely, and I give myself to you. Heart and body. They are yours. I am yours. From this night forward into eternity."

He opened his mouth, but was unable to form words past the lump of emotion lodged in the base of his throat. He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him. That she was everything he'd ever wanted but hadn't known how to ask for. That he…that he loved her. That he would always love her. For all of the todays and the tomorrows and the months and years yet to come. But he couldn't speak. For the first time in his life, he was rendered completely and utterly speechless. And so he let his hands say what his tongue could not.

He touched her flesh with reverence while he finished unclothing her, as if she really were a nymph from wood and wild that might spook and vanish at the smallest provocation. When she wore nothing but shimmering firelight, he took her by the hand and guided her to the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his weight as he climbed onto it and stretched out beside her, his head supported by his bent elbow as he used his other hand to trace ever lengthening paths across her ivory skin.

While she watched him with wide, slightly wary eyes, he explored the valleys and the hills of the body she'd gifted him. The generous curves of her breasts. The gentle swale between her last rib and the point of her hip. The soft roundness of her belly. The plumpness of her thighs.

When she asked what he was doing, his answer was simple.

"Memorizing you," he said before he began to retrace the trails he'd forged with his mouth, pressing dozens of light, teasing kisses upon her skin until she was quivering from her head to her toes. Leisurely, he continued his descent, absentmindedly removing his boots, his pants, his waistcoat, and his shirt as he went.

She stopped him right before he reached the downy black curls at the apex of her thighs.

"You–you cannot kiss me there ," she said, stunned.

Grinning, he lifted his head. "According to whom?"

That gave her pause. "Well I…I'm not sure."

"When you find out, do let me know. In the meantime…" He slid his hands under her legs, fitting his wide palms to her deliciously round derriere and tilting her hips so that he could enjoy her sweet nectar with abandon. She arched her back at the first touch of his mouth, and he welcomed the weight of her heels as her calves wrapped around his shoulders.

For a small eternity, he lingered between her thighs. Licking. Kissing. Breathing in the intoxicating scent of her. The act, in and of itself, wasn't new to him, but it felt new with Rosemary. Everything felt new with Rosemary. He was a blind man opening his eyes for the first time. A painter seeing his first sunset. A composer idly running his fingers across the ivory keys of a newly made piano and thinking, "What beautiful music we shall make together" .

When her breaths began to quicken and her legs quivered, he kissed his way back to her neck, bracing his weight on his knees as she gradually became accustomed to the weight of his body enveloping hers.

Her eyes flew open when he nudged at the entrance of all that tight, silky heat. She was slick from his tongue and her own desires, her skin dewy with a light sheen of perspiration, her dusky nipples swollen with arousal.

He'd never seen a woman more ready to be loved.

"Are you certain?" he rasped, his teeth grinding at the effort it was taking to hold himself in the in-between. That devilish space between anticipation and fulfillment. The rounded edge of his cock was as damp and hard as a railroad pike. He'd never experienced anything like it. Every inch of his body pulsed. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest with every loud thump. He felt both clammy and flush, exhilarated and yet somehow nervous.

Beneath him, his little wife-to-be gave a very serious, very Rosemary-like nod. "Yes. I read all about fornication in a journal of research collected during the voyage of the H.M.S Beagle to the Galápagos Islands. I know exactly what to expect."

The unexpected admission, so frankly spoken, brought on a husky chuckle. "God, I hope not."

As it turned out, reading an article on the mating habits of Galápagos tortoises had not prepared Rosemary for lovemaking. What she'd read was scientific in nature. Observations and hypothesis, with a diagram for scale. But this…with Sterling…it was heat and emotion and feeling . So much feeling.

Every cell was vibrating. Every fine hair was standing on end. Her heart beat madly, pumping blood through her veins to places that trembled and tingled and demanded to be touched. To be filled.

The bold nudge of Sterling's manhood sent an electric shock through her; a bolt of lightning sizzling across a sky of midnight blue. There was a pressure, an intense warmth, and then only pleasure. Waves of it. Mountains of it. Tumbling down all around her as his hips established a steady rhythm and his mouth settled on hers and his hand reached between them to stroke and pet and fondle.

When release came, they claimed it together. Each taking a part of the sun as they clung to each other and shuddered. Sterling's back flexed beneath her fingers, the powerful muscles coiling and clenching right before he threw himself to the side and spent his seed ( that she knew about, courtesy of the tortoises) into the coverlet. While she laid on her back staring dazedly at the silk canopy over their heads, he remained turned away, his breath echoing harshly in the stillness that had filled the void left in the wake of their copulation.

Just as she was beginning to worry that she'd done something wrong, he rolled towards her and wrapped her in his arms, burrowing his face in the crook of her neck as her bottom fit snugly against his loins and his hand came to rest over her heart.

"Was that what you were expecting?" he asked as he caressed her breasts.

"No," she admitted ruefully. "In the twelfth volume of Darwin's Naturalist's voyage, there was no mention of…ah…what you did with your tongue down…down there–"

"Cunnilingus is the proper term, I believe."

"Yes. That. There was no mention of the tortoises performing–performing cunnilingus on each other."

"Turtles?" Sterling's fingers stopped mid-stroke. "The journal you read was about bloody turtles? "

She turned over so that they were facing each other and cushioned her head on a feather-stuffed pillow. "Actually, contrary to popular belief, all tortoises are turtles but not all turtles are tortoises. The difference, you see, is in the shape and design of their shell. A tortoise has a more domed covering, while a turtle–"

"I love you," he said.

"–is more streamlined for…what?" She blinked in rapid succession. "What–what did you say?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he reached out and brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I said that I love you, Rosemary Stanhope. Even though you have selected quite possibly the worst place and time to give a lecture on turtles. But then, I suppose that's one of the reasons why I love you. Your delightful unpredictability. I never know what's going to come out of that beautiful mouth, but I do know that it will never be boring."

"You love me," she said numbly.

He leaned on his forearm and frowned at her. "Rosemary, I'm wild about you. I've been wild about you since we first met. Which, by the way, I do remember. Vaguely. Are you really that surprised?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean…I'm not sure what I mean." An incredulous smile stole across her lips. "Say it again, please."

"I love you." He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. "I. Love. You. I've never said that before to a woman who wasn't my mother or my sister. I just…I think you should know that." His gray eyes delved deep into hers.

In them, she saw a touch of sheepishness, a glimmer of vulnerability, but more than that she saw a man who had fought his way back from the hellish brink…and was ready to embrace all of the light and the goodness and the sheer joy that the world had to offer.

He had changed for the better.

They had changed for the better.

She'd smoothed his rough edges and he had sharpened hers. She'd shown him kindness and he had given her courage. She was humbled by the faith he'd placed in her. The trust. The love. It showed in his gaze, and she knew it was reflected in her own even though she'd not yet said the words herself.

"I love you, too." She placed her hand in the middle of his chest where his heart thumped steady and true. "The only man I've ever said that to is Sir Reginald."

The corners of Sterling's lips gave a betraying twitch before his countenance sobered. "I am honored to be in such excellent company. Should we get dressed and return to the gala? The night is young yet, but our good prince isn't exactly known for his fidelity and I'd hate for him to find us in his bed."

Rosemary's muscles whined in quiet protest when she sat up, a testament to the vigorousness of their lovemaking. After disappearing into the adjoining water closet, Sterling returned with a damp cloth which he used to tenderly clean the sore, sensitive skin between her thighs. There was a small streak of blood; a sign of another change. She was now a woman that had been loved by a man. Was loved by him, both in bed and out of it.

"A hot bath will do wonders," he said, kissing her navel before he rose to his feet and helped her dress.

As they left the cottage, neither Rosemary nor Sterling noticed the flowers that had been trampled outside the front window. Nor did they see the tears that had christened the dark, loamy soil beneath. Tears born of sorrow, bitterness…and pure, unadulterated rage.