Chapter Three

After he watched the third trunk being carried down the stairs, Sterling realized something was happening. Lurching off the sofa in the drawing room where he'd spent the better part of the night guzzling down gin before eventually sliding into unconsciousness, he stumbled to the doorway and leaned heavily against it.

"What's going on?" he asked a passing footman. "What's all this commotion about?"

"Lady Ellinwood and her granddaughter, Miss Stanhope, are departing for London. Is there anything I can get you, Your Grace?" the footman inquired politely. For an instant, his gaze lowered to Sterling's rumpled clothing, then immediately snapped back to his face. "Have a bath drawn, perhaps?"

"Coffee," Sterling muttered, scratching at the thicket of beard on his jaw that he hadn't bothered to shave in…well, he couldn't recall the last time he'd picked up a razor. Not since the end of the house party, at any rate. "Black, no sugar or milk."

"Right away, Your Grace."

As the footman hurried off to fetch his coffee, Sterling glowered at the growing stack of trunks in the middle of the foyer. So Rosemary was leaving, was she? Back to the city for the start of the Season, no doubt. And that was fine. It wasn't as if she were going to stay here forever. Hawkridge Manor wasn't her home. Neither was it his, for that matter. But he could admit, at least to himself, that he'd enjoyed her company. Probably more than he should have.

Rosemary was different from anyone else he'd ever met. She had a pet squirrel , for God's sake. And he…he was going to miss her, Sterling realized with a frown. More than that, he didn't want her to go. Which was positively absurd. But not quite absurd enough to prevent him stepping out into the foyer when he spied her descending the stairs, her arms awkwardly holding the largest hat box he'd ever seen.

"Give me that before you break your neck," he said gruffly, yanking the box out of her hands as she reached the bottom step. Hoisting the cumbersome thing onto his shoulder, he glared at her beneath it, feeling as surly as an old bear that had been woken from its nap in the middle of winter. "What's in here? The Papal tiara?"

Her bewitching eyes–more blue today than gray in the pale morning sunlight–met his. "No, just hideously ugly bonnets."

Guilt cut through the surliness. Setting the hat box beside the tower of trunks, he turned back to Rosemary with folded arms and a shuttered expression. "A word, Miss Stanhope? I believe the library is currently unoccupied."

They could have easily spoken in the foyer. While servants were milling about like bees in a flower garden, they were trained to turn a deaf ear to conversations above their rank. But Sterling didn't want to share what little time he had left with Rosemary. Not with a maid. Not with a footman. Not with anyone. Besides, if he was going to apologize for his abominable behavior, he'd prefer not to have any witnesses.

"I don't know if the library is the wisest choice," she said, biting her lip.

He lowered his voice to a roguish whisper. "Afraid I am going to kiss you again?"

A delightful shade of rosy pink filled her cheeks. "Then you…then you do remember."

Remember?

How could he bloody well forget?

The act had been an impulsive one, as he generally did not make a habit of engaging in stolen moments of passion with blushing wallflowers. Married women who'd grown bored of their elderly husband and were looking for a bit of excitement, yes. Raven-haired actresses with French accents and enormous breasts, most definitely. But shy, plain innocents who turned red at the mere mention of a kiss ?

Never.

Until Rosemary, he'd been a wallflower virgin.

And for good reason.

Young, well-behaved girls from well-to-do families wanted one of two things out of a man like him. Love or marriage. As hard as it was to believe, some even wanted both . But Sterling wanted neither, which was why he ordinarily avoided Rosemary and her ilk like the plague. He would have avoided her, too, if she wasn't so damned easy to talk to. Then there was that mouth of hers. Pink and plump as a strawberry ready to be harvested. He'd never seen a fruit so tempting…and thus, not one to deny himself pleasure, he'd taken a bite. Just a nibble, really. Hardly more than a peck. Except a peck had never rocked him back on his heels with such force that he'd been left nursing a cockstand for a bloody hour afterwards.

So yes, he remembered their kiss.

It was all the others that he'd since started to forget.

"A quick chat," he said, gesturing towards the hallway and the library beyond. "Then I'll bid you farewell."

When she continued to hesitate, he rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, Ruth. I've just enough decency left in me that I won't repeat my prior lapse in judgment. You are safe with me." He used his finger to draw an X over his cold, black heart. "I swear it."

"Very well, but only for a minute." Her gaze darted up the staircase. "My grandmother will be down soon, and she won't be pleased if she has to wait for me."

"A minute," he promised as he followed her into the library and closed the door behind them with a subtle click .

Filled with floor to ceiling shelves that held an untold number of books, the room was both vast and intimate, with comfortably oversized chairs upholstered in Italian leather, lush Aubusson rugs in varying shades of deep burgundy and gold, and an entire wall of windows that overlooked the pond where a pair of mated swans paddled through hazy fog that had yet to burn off the water.

Whether by incident or design, Rosemary went to the same settee that she'd been sitting on when he had cupped her chin and lowered his mouth onto hers. When he had temporarily lost his mind and found–just for an instant–whatever remnants of a soul he had left.

Sugar , he recalled. She'd tasted of spun sugar and innocence, with just a hint of spice. Had he not stopped himself when he did, he might have devoured her whole.

"What is it you care to discuss, Your Grace?" she asked, regarding him with the faintest etching of a frown. This time, she didn't sit on the settee but rather stood beside it, gloved hands resting lightly on her hips.

"Ah…" Grabbing a book at random, he shuffled absently through the pages, needing something to do with his hands lest they suddenly find themselves peeling that terrible traveling habit off the curvaceous little body hiding underneath of it. "Before you left, I wanted to say that I was sorry. For…ah…"

"Referring to our kiss as a mistake?"

He squeezed the back of his neck. "That probably wasn't the best way to–"

"Continuing to call me by the wrong name?"

"What's a little jesting between–"

"Throwing my bonnet out of the carriage?"

"That was, admittedly, in poor–"

"Keeping me waiting at the tavern?"

"You're right, I should have–"

"Insulting my pet?"

"When did I insult your pet?" he said blankly.

She crossed her arms as temper rippled across her countenance; the first true display of anger he'd ever seen out of her. "You called Sir Reginald, and I quote, ‘a rat with a furry tail'."

Of all the ills he'd committed, that's what had upset her the most? Sterling started to laugh, saw how serious she was, and coughed into his elbow instead. "Rosemary–"

"Then you do know my name."

"Of course I know it," he said, vaguely irritated that she'd ever thought otherwise. "I am a drunk and a degenerate, not a bumbling imbecile. I just like the way your eyes flash when I call you Rebecca, or Ruth, or Renee."

"You haven't called me Renee yet."

"It was next on my list."

She gazed at him intently, as if she could somehow see past the fa?ade he'd carefully erected around himself to the fractured shadow of a man beneath all the cavalier charisma and short, snappy quips. Which was impossible. No one, not Weston or Kincaid or even Sarah, knew how empty he really felt. How bleak and bitter he really was. If they did…if they did, they wouldn't let him out of their sight. Why, then, did he have the uncomfortable feeling that Rosemary saw him for who he truly was?

Except she didn't.

He was confident that she didn't.

Because if she did…if she did, she'd run screaming.

"I accept your apology," she said formally.

"Thank you–"

"On one condition."

Wariness brought his brows together. "What's that?"

"You kiss me again."

Sterling was able to count on a single hand the number of times someone had caught him off guard over the past few years. When you were the worst sinner in the group, not much had the ability to surprise you. But this…this shocked him right down to his rotten core.

"Absolutely bloody not," he said, incredulous.

Her frown deepened. "You did it before. Right here, as it so happens."

"I know where I did it." Of its own accord, his gaze went to the settee. It was a fine piece of furniture. The trim was rosewood polished with beeswax, the long cushions sumptuously upholstered in bronze velvet. Rosemary's ivory skin would glow against the rich color as he laid her down upon it, his knees straddling her hips while his teeth nipped the freckle on the side of her neck, just below the delicate shell of her ear. He'd inhale the scent of her, clementine and a fresh spring breeze over the water, as his mouth wandered across the hills and valleys of her voluptuous frame. Lingering here. Nuzzling there. Enjoying the banquet of those soft, lush curves until she was begging him to bring her to sweet release and–

"Your Grace?" Rosemary said uncertainly, drawing his attention to the fact that he was staring with tender adoration at a sofa. Worse than that, he was on the verge of sporting another cockstand. Over a bit of fluff and fantasy about an inexperienced wallflower.

How utterly humiliating.

"Another kiss is out of the question," he snapped. "Terrible idea. Worst one I've ever heard."

Hurt flickered in her eyes. "Then I do not accept your apology."

"You can't do that!"

"It's my forgiveness. I can give and take it back as I please."

"Well it's a terrible thing to do. Very bad form."

"So is telling a young woman that her very first kiss was a ‘bloody mistake'."

"Stop doing that," he scowled as another shard of guilt poked him.

"Doing what?"

"Quoting me."

"Then stop saying things you wouldn't want quoted."

His jaw clenched. "That was your first kiss?"

She gave a small nod. "It was…not what I was expecting."

Not what she was expecting?

Not what she was expecting?

He muttered a curse under his breath.

Devil take it.

This was why he didn't touch virgins.

There were no expectations with a paramour. Just mindless fucking. As long as they both received their orgasm–make that orgasm s for his partner, as never let it be said the Duke of Hanover wasn't a generous man–he didn't care what happened afterwards. Eloise was as close as he'd come to caring for someone who'd shared his bed, and look how that had ended up. With blood on the walls and an accusation of murder hanging about his neck like a damned noose.

That all being said, he could hardly leave Rosemary with a bad experience. Which meant he had no choice but to kiss her again. Not because he wanted to. Kiss a wallflower not once, but twice? Perish the thought.

No, he had to do it. Or else what would happen to his good name once Rosemary was set loose on London and told all her lady friends that he'd called their kiss–a kiss he had initiated–a mistake? And a lackluster mistake at that? They'd assume his performance had been substandard. And that couldn't stand.

If the ton wanted to believe he'd carved up his mistress like a turkey and fed her to the lions at the zoo, then fine. He had no control over idle gossip. But he refused to let people think he was a poor kisser.

Dear God, his reputation would be destroyed!

Which meant there was only one solution.

"All right," he said graciously. "I'll do it. I'll kiss you again."

She smiled politely at him. "No thank you."

Of all the contrary–

"Why the hell not?" he growled, throwing his arms wide. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I understand that I am regrettably ordinary, Your Grace. I'm not a diamond of the first water. My beauty will not provoke wars. Poets will not write sonnets about me. While my peers have set their caps for dukes and earls and the like, I should consider myself lucky if I manage to land a kindhearted doctor or businessman." Her throat visibly tightened as she swallowed. "But that does not mean I shall permit myself to settle for a kiss out of some misplaced notion of pity."

Sterling blinked.

Ordinary?

Pity?

Clearly squirrel dandruff had driven the chit a tad mad. He'd never met anyone as un ordinary as Rosemary in all his twenty-seven years. As for pity…

"You asked me to kiss you ."

"Yes," she acknowledged, "and you refused. Now you're only saying you'll do it because you feel sorry for me."

He gave a snort at that. "That's where you're wrong, Reginald."

"Reginald is a boy's name."

"It's the best I could come up with on short notice." His fingers raked through his hair, pulling the inky mess of tangles off his temple. "My point is that I don't feel sorry for anyone. Least of all you. And I am far too selfish to ever do anything out of pity. So if I say that I want to kiss you then damnit, it means I want to kiss you."

Four strides, and he was across the room.

Two more, and she was in his arms.

His hands settled on her waist. His mouth pressed on her lips. The connection was immediate. The fire hot enough to singe. She tasted even better than he remembered, a tantalizing concoction of honey and citrus, sweet and tart, that fanned the flames of his ardor until they threatened to ignite the bloody ceiling.

But even as he thrust his fingers into her hair and slid his tongue into the velvety cavern of her mouth, he cautioned himself to proceed with restraint. Their first encounter with shared passion had been spontaneous, and far too short because of it. Rosemary was not inexpensive gin to be carelessly guzzled, but rather a fine wine to be sipped…and he wanted to enjoy every swallow.

A breathy purr rolled from her throat when he angled his head and deepened the kiss, using his teeth to draw on her bottom lip with just enough force to have her nails digging into his shoulders before he soothed the bite with a lazy stroke of his tongue.

When she did the same to him, albeit with the adorable clumsiness of someone relying on pure instinct instead of expertise, he went absolutely still. Every muscle, every bone…even his breath, frozen in stunned wonderment at the sheer, unadulterated rush of desire that poured straight into his veins.

Sterling had made love to some of the most wanton creatures the devil himself could imagine. The sheer decadence of the acts he'd both performed and had performed on him were…suffice it to say, their iniquity would make a sinner blush. But when Rosemary hesitantly returned his kiss, every other pleasurable act he had ever committed immediately paled in comparison.

On a growl, he threw his vow of self-control to the wind. To hell with caution. To hell with restraint. He wanted now. He wanted this. He wanted Rosemary. Kissing her, being kissed by her, was the closest he'd felt to being alive since he'd watched Sebastian die.

His fingers streaked across her shoulders and around her ribcage to cup her breasts, and his growl turned into a helpless groan when he discovered they were just as soft and full as he'd dreamed they'd be whenever he closed his eyes and hovered in that empty space between sleep and liquor-induced oblivion.

Her nipples were hard, even through the tragic number of layers that comprised her traveling habit, and he encircled them lightly between his thumbs and index fingers, skillfully wrenching a moan from her lips as her head lolled to the side, exposing the slender line of her throat that was simply too tempting to ignore.

He kissed the sensitive juncture where her neck and collarbone met, then trailed upwards until his teeth clasped her earlobe and gave a light, teasing suckle.

Clementines and spring.

She was clementines and spring, and he was…he was enthralled.

Enraptured.

Entranced.

The Duke of Hanover, libertine extraordinaire, was entranced by a mousy little wallflower. The realization of which jolted him out of the euphoric haze he'd temporarily lost himself in and back into cold, unforgiving reality.

He released her with such abruptness that she lost her balance, and it was a good thing the settee was there or else she might have fallen, for he was too busy raking his nails along his scalp and asking himself what in all that was holy he thought he was doing to catch her.

"That was…" Amazing. Life-changing. The first glimpse of light I've seen in six dark, sunless years. "That was a mistake. Just another bloody mistake." He dragged a hand down his face. Opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her lips swollen, her cheeks pink, her blue-gray gaze filled with more hurt and bewilderment. Which made him feel like the world's largest arse. But he'd be an even bigger arse if he encouraged any type of romantic entanglement between the two of them.

They'd had their kiss.

She could go on to tell her friends how splendidly rakish he was.

And he…he could slink back into the hole he'd crawled out of.

"I wish you well in London, Rhona," he said briskly. "Good luck with the rat. Now I must bid you adieu."

Her plump mouth parted in dismay. "But I lo–"

"Oh God," he grimaced. "Don't say it."

Another reason why he avoided innocents?

The blasted things fell in love at the drop of a hat.

A glossy curl tumbled across her temple as she shook her head. "But–"

"Whatever you think you feel, you don't," he interrupted. "Not for me, at any rate. Go and find yourself that nice doctor. Good people, doctors. Always helping those less fortunate. Far better than an arrogant titled leech who offers nothing of substance to Society. Plus if the rat gets sick, you've a doctor in-house."

Her nostrils flared. "Your Grace –"

"Off I trot," he said, a tad frantically now. "Farewell, Roxana."

As Sterling bolted from the room, Rosemary watched him leave in confusion. All she'd wanted to tell him was that she'd lost her jeweled hairpin while she was being ravished (surely there was no other way to describe what had occurred), and would he mind helping her find it, because if she didn't then her grandmother would notice and ask questions. Questions that she didn't want to answer, given that she'd already skirted around the truth once. But apparently, he'd had important things to do, given that he hadn't allowed her to get more than two words out before he had sprinted out of the library. In all the time they'd spent together these past few weeks, she didn't know if she'd ever seen him move with such speed.

Huffing out a breath, she dropped to her hands and knees, whereupon she quickly found the pin underneath the settee. Using a mirror hanging on the wall beside a portrait of Lord Weston and Lady Brynne from when they were children, she did her best to return her appearance to what she'd looked like before Sterling had kissed her...among other things.

He'd touched…he'd touched her breasts !

Both of them.

At once.

Even she had hardly done that.

And who knew an ear was so directly connected to the warm, pulsing core between her thighs?

It had certainly been an educational experience. She wasn't even upset that he'd called it–once again–a mistake. When you kissed a wolf, you couldn't be surprised when it bit you. What had surprised her was how wickedly delightful she'd found his teeth. And how much further she'd wanted to go.

A lady was not supposed to have passionate inclinations.

But then, neither was she supposed to have a pet squirrel.

Having broken one rule…what was wrong with breaking another?

As a shiver of secret delight coursed along her spine, Rosemary wondered if this wasn't what sent people down the road of sin. The thrill of doing something nefarious…something forbidden…something with ruinous consequences…it had a certain addictive quality. Like dessert.

Kissing the Duke of Hanover was the equivalent of sneaking a second piece of red velvet cake.

And she wanted more.

"Your face is more flushed than usual," Lady Ellinwood remarked when Rosemary finally emerged from the library to find her grandmother, as she'd feared, impatiently waiting in the foyer. "I hope you're not ill. I don't want to listen to you cough all the way to London."

"I'm fine, Grandmother. Thank you for asking."

Lady Ellinwood's mouth thinned. But before she could decide whether her granddaughter was being sarcastic or not–she was, but only a tad–Rosemary wrapped a supportive arm around her grandmother's waist and accompanied her out to their waiting carriage.

A footman helped boost Lady Ellinwood into her seat (earning a rap on his knuckles for his trouble), Rosemary sat beside her, and in a swirl of stone dust and the creak of wood and leather, they set out for London, leaving Hawkridge Manor…and Sterling…behind.