Chapter 3

LONDON, THREE MONTHS LATER (EARLY NOVEMBER)

My darling,

I promised to take Drake and Henry to see the Bassae Frieze at the British Museum. We would love for you to join us. May I beg an invitation to stay for supper afterward? I shall send my carriage for you at three.

Yours always,

Philip Flagstaff, Earl of Cumberland

Rose’s stomach fluttered like that of a young girl receiving her first love letter. How thoughtful of Philip to include Drake in their outing. Of course she wanted to go.

She was aching to see him. After their holiday in Scotland Philip had returned to Devon and she to Cornwall. There had been no opportunity since to discuss their situation in person, and he had written to her only twice in the past months. Of course, he was an earl with huge estates to run and family to look after. His mother, too, still lived on the estate.

But his lack of communication had hurt—and made her feel somehow bereft.

Their time together in Scotland had been enjoyable in every respect but one. Philip was as attentive to her as ever, but he seemed to become more and more withdrawn as the days passed. She could feel him slipping away. Was this how he ended his affairs—simply letting them die away without discussion? Unlikely. He had more honor than that.

There was also an odd tension between him and Sebastian. Rose was sure it was to do with her. She was also sure Beatrice knew what had happened, but Beatrice had given her such sympathetic looks that Rose couldn’t bear to swallow her pride and ask, in case the answer was something dreadful.

So she told herself she was imagining foolishness and had pretended all was well. And all had been well—perhaps one of the happiest times she could remember spending with her son and friends.

Drake loved the freedom. In Scotland he had climbed trees, ridden horses, and romped around with Henry without Kirkwood’s servants watching his every move and fussing: You are a duke. Behave like one. You are the last of the Deverill line. Be careful. You have a duty to the family. Remember your obligations.

She knew Kirkwood was only looking after her son’s interests, but it was a terrible burden to place on a young boy and she protected him from it as much as she could. He was a child. He should be able to be one.

Philip was treating him like the young boy he was—a visit to the British Museum with his best friend. It warmed her heart—and not only on Drake’s behalf. Philip had arrived back in London only the day before and she was thrilled he wanted to see her so soon. Yes. Everything was well between them. She was just allowing her imagination to cut up her peace.

Once he’d heard Lord Cumberland’s plans for the afternoon, it had been almost impossible to keep Drake focused on his lessons. By a quarter to three he was haunting the drawing room window like a well-groomed ghost. Not for the first time, Rose worried about Drake’s growing hero worship. If—when—their affair ended Drake would miss Philip almost as much as she would.

The sick feeling deep in her stomach returned.

Precisely at three o’clock, Philip’s carriage drew up outside the townhouse. As Rose glided down the stairs toward him, the warmth in his smile, the heat in his eyes, and the gentle pressure of his hand as he helped her into the carriage, chased away her doubts.

He was still hers.

While Henry and Drake excitedly chattered together, Philip sat studying her gravely. When she felt heat steal into her cheeks, his mouth curved.

“I love making you blush,” he said softly.

She glanced quickly over to where the boys sat. They were so engrossed in their conversation and with peering out the window that they took no notice of the adults.

Philip’s gaze settled on her mouth. Embarrassed, delighted, she licked her lips. “You are looking well, my lord,” she said.

He reached across the small space and took her hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles before slowly letting it go. The light touch of his mouth through her gloves burned like a brand.

“I’m all the better for seeing you,” he said. “I have missed you, my Rose.”

And with those simple words, she was lost. For the past twelve months Rose had fought her feelings. Now she admitted defeat. She had fallen in love, and for the first time since her horrid marriage, she admitted she would marry in a trice if Philip asked her. She wanted him with her every day. She wanted to wake with him in her bed in the morning instead of having to sneak him away before dawn. She wanted to be able to walk proudly on his arm as his wife, without knowing looks from the men, haughty disdain from their wives, and whispers throughout the ton about their affair. She wanted to have his children. Most of all, she wanted that.

“I have missed you, too,” was all she could manage.

His smile made her knees weaken and her desire soar.

It was a blustery autumn day and the British Museum was filled not only with scholars but also with ordinary people, many with children.

The boys loved the museum. They especially loved the Egyptian mummies. Rose did not love the mummies but she loved watching Drake’s and Henry’s enthusiasm for the exhibits. She followed them from room to room as Philip filled their heads with history and adventure and fired their imaginations.

He was a natural with children. They responded to him and he really listened to what they had to say. No question was brushed aside. None was too silly. Even Drake’s “What would happen if the mummy came to life and chased us?” received thoughtful consideration.

“But it couldn’t, could it, sir?” asked Henry, wide-eyed.

“No,” Philip answered gravely. Then he smiled and lowered his voice. “But if it did, remember that mummies are dried-up husks. All we’d have to do is throw water on them. They would become soggy and drown.”

Of course they believed him. Rose wasn’t sure that she didn’t believe him, and was glad to leave the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. She spent the rest of the visit trying to maintain a sober face as the boys took careful note of each exit in case of mummy attack, and every container in every room was examined as a potential water carrier.

“Wretch,” she murmured as Philip drew her arm through his. “If they or I have bad dreams tonight—”

He laughed. “They’re made of sterner stuff.” He leaned closer. “But you, my sweet, delicate Rose, have me to keep you safe.”

The fun atmosphere changed when one of the museum staff asked Philip if his wife would like a chair to rest for a moment. The man was being kind and, of course, had no idea they were not married.

Before Philip could respond, Rose smiled at the man. “I’m perfectly fine standing, thank you. It was very thoughtful of you to ask.”

As they moved on, Henry asked Philip a question. Drake moved closer to Rose and tugged her hand. She leaned down.

“Mama,” he whispered. “You are not married to Lord Cumberland, are you?”

Rose swallowed the lump in her throat. “No.”

“Oh.” Drake looked over to where Philip and Henry were huddled over a display case and said softly, “I would not mind if Lord Cumberland became my father.”

What could she say? She had seen the look on Philip’s face when the man called her “your wife.” It had been panic. Some of the joy of their outing faded and her stomach knotted with worry once more.

“He’s a very kind man.” She smiled at her son and ruffled his hair. A moment later he squeezed her hand and raced off to join Philip and Henry as they strolled into the next room.

Rose did not follow immediately. She needed space to think.

She could not put off talking to Philip about the future much longer. Drake was growing up, becoming fonder of Philip, and more confused about his place in their lives. She no longer had the answers to satisfy him.

If she weren’t so in love with him, she’d force him to talk tonight. But she had not seen him for two months and all she wanted to do tonight was lose herself in his arms. Let him make love to her over and over until he had to leave.

No. She could not discuss the future with him today.

A little voice inside her head reminded her that she’d made that excuse for the last twelve months. There would never be a good day for a talk about their future because it was obvious Philip’s choice would break her heart.

Philip didn’t want a future that included her.

Philip stretched his feet toward the roaring fire. The day had been perfect and he’d never felt more relaxed. Drake had gone to bed over an hour earlier, and Philip was quite content to sip his brandy and talk with the most beautiful woman in England.

Rose’s presence always chased his ghosts away. In her company, the pressure of his role as earl fell from his shoulders and he could simply be himself.

“You look tired.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “A little. I’m sorry I’m so quiet but I traveled from Devon in one day. I wanted to see you before I get sucked into business and duties here in London. Grayson is asking support for his new bill.”

“What is it about?”

“Are you really interested?”

She nodded. “I’d like to know what Grayson is asking you to support.”

“He’s trying to gather support for a pension for those either retiring from the army or discharged due to injury. I don’t think there is much hope it will even get as far as a reading because he has not yet found a way to raise money to pay for it.”

Rose lowered herself to the floor at his feet and rested her head on his thigh. A simple gesture full of trust. “I think that’s wonderful. Soldiers give up so much to fight for us, for our children and country. They deserve to be cared for after such sacrifice.”

Hers was a female perspective, but he, too, wanted to help.

He’d seen men who had fallen into a trance from the horrors of battle and never come out. Or those who still dived for the ground in terror at a loud noise.

As for him, his nightmares were of watching Robert step into the path of the bayonet meant for him.

In his dreams he always managed to push Robert aside. Always took the mortal blow himself. Felt the numbness, then the agony. The warm blood, the cold rain, the stench from gun smoke and his own entrails. Over all the noise, the screams and gunfire, he’d hear Grayson’s shout—

And then, always, the dream would change. Suddenly it was Robert on the ground, his guts mixing with the mud and rain while he—Philip—fought with sword and pistols, standing over his dying brother while Grayson Devlin slashed his way through the French to his side—

“Don’t you agree?” Rose asked.

Philip shoved the memories aside and tossed off his brandy. He reached down and lifted her into his lap. “Yes, I do. But we have to find the money to pay for the pensions, and there just isn’t enough money to do everything we need.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and her soft breasts pressed into his chest. “You mean the government would rather fund more wars than look after the heroes who won the last one.”

She was very clever, his Rose.

His.

He thought of her as his. Already his body cried out to give her pleasure and to take his own. It hurt him to know he’d then have to creep away before dawn as if what they shared was something to be ashamed of.

He bent his head and kissed her. “Someone had to stop Napoleon. We could all be speaking French by now.”

She snuggled into his arms.

He held her tight. If Napoleon had won, Robert’s sacrifice would have been in vain. He would never have been able to live with that.

When he shivered, she tipped back her head to look him in the face. “Are you cold?”

“No.” In the light of the dying fire he stood, gathered her into his arms, and headed toward the door. “Time for bed.”

“You’re staying?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “I’m tired but not that tired.”

Her saucy smile made him harden. Everything about her made his body hum and desire grow until the thought of her consumed him. He’d never want a woman as much as he wanted Rose.

Her lady’s maid knew when to be discreet. Philip could manage very nicely on his own. Undressing Rose, revealing the perfect creamy skin and curvaceous body, was his favorite thing in the world—except of course, for being buried deep inside her.

He kicked the door shut behind him, crossed the room, tossed her onto the bed, and followed her down, trapping her beneath him.

“You can hardly undress me if you keep me pinned to the bed,” she teased.

He settled on top of her. “I’m enjoying the softness.”

“I’d rather enjoy something hard.” Her hands rose, reaching for his cravat.

With a chuckle he caught them, one in each of his, and pressed them back to the coverlet, anchoring them on either side of her head. “You know how much I love undressing you. It’s been too long since I have seen this magnificent body. I beg you to indulge me.”

Her lips curved. “I’d indulge you in anything you want to do to me. I know you’d only ever give me pleasure.”

He met her wicked gaze with one of his own. “Unfair. Now I want to rip your clothes off.”

She pressed quick, breathless kisses to his face. “I’m not stopping you.”

He couldn’t help it. His mouth crushed hers and his need began to race. She was like a drug in his veins. The more he tasted her the more he wanted her. If he was not careful he’d do something foolish—like promise her something he could not give.

His body was primed and ready but he needed to slow things down. He wanted to pleasure her all night. In his current state—and after two months of abstinence—he was a pistol ready to fire.

Dragging a portion of his wits free of her seductive powers took effort. The sensual silk of her mouth, the wicked touch of her tongue, the knowledge of what that hot, wet mouth could do to him—

He drew back, warning her with upraised finger to stay still as he unhooked the fastenings on the front of her gown. “Do all your gowns hook in the front? Very convenient.”

“Only the ones I wear for you,” she whispered, sending a shiver over his earlobe while her fingers fumbled with his cravat.

He made a strangled sound and tried to ignore her explorations. He could have demanded she stop, but her need for him excited him even more.

Finally, he was peeling off her gown, his hot palms skimming the curves of her shoulders, pushing the silk over and down her arms. He had done this hundreds of times before, but with Rose, each time felt like the first.

In two swift tugs, Philip pulled down the sleeves of her gown, trapping her arms at her sides with the bodice crumpled at her waist, leaving her breasts screened only by the translucent silk of her chemise.

“God, you are a feast for a starving man.” He ran a finger over one hardening nipple, and the flare of hunger on her face as she watched him watch her went straight to his cock. “So beautiful.”

Her breasts rose and fell in a shuddering laugh. “Then devour me.”

His awareness and every last one of his slavering senses locked—intently—on her. On her curvaceous body trapped beneath his. On the utterly absorbing sight of all she was offering him. He barely kept his hands from shaking as they reached up and, gripping her silk chemise, ripped it apart, baring her to his gaze.

Her excited intake of breath made those wonderful breasts lift and fall again, and he could no longer resist. Taking one plump nipple into his mouth, he suckled. Hard.

Slowly, he eased her gown down her body before tossing it on the floor. The torn chemise was next, and finally he sat astride her hips, admiring her creamy expanse of silken skin. A quick glance over his shoulder at her long limbs told him she still wore her stockings. But nothing else.

He turned back and grinned down at her.

“You have me at your mercy. What are you going to do to me?”

She could drive a man wild with that husky voice.

“That would be telling, my darling. I prefer actions to words.”

She shivered at his words, her skin puckering in anticipation, and he hadn’t even touched her. “Stay still. Stay exactly like this. Don’t move.”

Pulse racing, he eased off the bed.

Quickly, he shrugged out of his jacket. Then his waistcoat. Almost ripped his shirt in his hurry to pull it over his head.

He smothered a grin when she licked her lips as her gaze locked on his chest.

“Oh, what a shame,” she cooed. “Your bronzed glow from summer is fading already. I do have to say, though, that you look wonderful naked. It’s a sin to clothe such a muscular body.”

He laughed in delight at her teasing. “You’d be happy if I walked around naked? How thoughtful of you. How the ladies of the ton would appreciate that.”

She pretended to pout. “Would you like that? To have all the ladies slavering over you?”

His little Rose was jealous? His grin widened. “I want only one woman’s undivided attention, my sweet. And that woman is you.”

Her pout faded to a saucy grin. “You have it. You really have it.”

Tossing his shirt aside, he used one hand to undo the buttons of his fall. Impatient, he sat, removed his buckskins, and dispensed with his Hessians. Finally, he untied his drawers and let them drop to the floor.

Then, naked and more than ready for her, he prowled to the bed.

She tensed as he put a knee on the bed, as he leaned over her and pressed kisses to her shoulder.

When his body came to rest on top of her the contact seared him to his core. She deserved to hear words of love. His words. He wanted to say what was in his heart but he couldn’t and it killed him. Instead, he swore to show her. To teach her what was in his heart.

He kissed down her neck and across her décolletage while his hands cupped and caressed her bountiful breasts. She parted her long, stocking-clad legs to accommodate him between her thighs, her impatience obvious.

But Philip was in no hurry. He’d dreamed of her for two months, and when a man held his dream woman in his arms he did not miss any opportunity to indulge his desire.

He tweaked one nipple as his mouth found the other and suckled deep. He continued to play with her breasts, licking and sucking and caressing until Rose’s moans grew in volume and her breathing hitched and caught. Loving how responsive she was to him, Philip began to kiss his way down her body.

As he sank between her opened thighs the scent of her arousal filled his senses. He could not wait to taste her. He ran his tongue over her open womanhood and felt her tremble beneath his hands. He loved having her open to his mouth, his tongue, and fingers. Tonight he would not take her until she had screamed his name.

He looked up at her face. She was watching him with eyes bright with need. “Shall I stop and fetch a handkerchief to stuff into your mouth so you don’t wake the house?”

Her eyes darkened with desire, and she reached under her pillow. “Do your worst,” she said huskily, and withdrew a handkerchief.

“My worst?” He shook his head, and as he lowered his mouth he murmured, “Always my best, my dear. Always my best.”

On second “best” he drove his tongue inside her—and she came up off the bed.

Soon Philip’s mind was empty of anything but the sounds of Rose’s pleasure. He licked and sucked, laved and stroked, pressing first one, then two fingers inside her. As her inner lips tightened her cries grew in frequency and volume. Soon she was shaking, her legs gripping his head, her hands thrust deep into his hair, one moment tugging him away, the next pushing him closer. He began to suck and nibble and lick in earnest. On a muffled scream, Rose’s body went as taut as a strung wire, and he lapped at her release.

She was still trembling as he kissed his way back up her body, angled his head, and plunged his tongue into her mouth. She was soft and welcoming and all his. He fought the need to drive his throbbing erection deep into her hot, wet body.

Not yet; he’d come too soon.

He gained some relief as he claimed her lips and her tongue, seized her awareness and anchored it in the kiss. He wanted to take her to heaven again—with him, so they could take their pleasure together.

Still locked in the kiss, he lowered his weight to her, careful not to crush her. In response, Rose lifted her legs to wrap around his hips, drawing him to her. He moved slowly, pushing his hard member through her slick folds.

God, it felt so good.

With his free hand, he started to push her arms above her head. But before he could pin them down she slid her hands into his hair, fingers spearing through the thick locks and clenching, clinging, holding him to the kiss. She turned the tables so masterfully, kissed him so wantonly, that he lost track of his mind.

When she compounded her conquest by arching against him, he was fit to burst, and feeling her bare breasts pressed against his chest—so tempting, so alluring—he could not tease her much longer before he lost control.

He wisely surrendered to his instincts.

Boldly, he closed his free hand about one pert breast and drank down her instinctive gasp. But she got her revenge when her small hand slipped between their bodies and wrapped around his pulsing member.

This time it was he who groaned into the silence. He had forgotten that she knew his body as well as he knew hers. She drove him wild. Seduced his senses. Made him hers in a way that left him not merely eager, but hungry for more. So hungry he’d keep coming back, night after night, for however long the magic between them lasted. And it had lasted far longer than he’d ever imagined.

He sent his hand gliding over her body, tracing curves, relearning dips and hollows.

Sweat beaded on his brow. Her sliding hand was magic, so good he had to take charge before she ruined his plan.

He drew back and she understood him perfectly, guiding him to her wet, tight entrance. With a groan that felt as if it came from his soul, he sank into her heat.

They stilled, reveling in the perfection of their joined bodies. He was braced above her, lost in the slow, gentle stroke of her fingers through his hair.

For long moments, eyes closed, he simply savored. If he’d been the King of the Beasts he’d have purred, not roared.

Only Rose could tame him. Only Rose could silence the demons driving him. Only Rose brought him this intensity of pleasure.

She shifted to press even closer. He wrestled her hands to anchor them beside her head. He needed to take control. Needed her to know the pleasure he felt when she was in his arms.

He leaned down. Their lips met—and, as always, they were in perfect accord. He began to thrust and, sensing his mood, she met and matched his rhythm. It was as if their entire beings—mind, body, and senses—revolved entirely about the other. He could have died right then and been contented.

He wanted these sensations to last as long as possible, but desire flared, rich and hot and luscious between them. He withdrew and thrust in again, and his Rose matched his rhythm, caught it, and drummed it back to him until the world spun in a wild dance around them.

Making love with Rose was never the same dance twice. Each time he learned more about her. This time, when he ground against her mound, her legs tightened at his hips and she gave two little gasps. How was it that after two years he still could not get enough of her? How could it be that each time they were together he lost a little more of his heart to her?

The tempo escalated, and they raced together—hearts thundering, lungs laboring, will, intent, and focus all locked unrelentingly on reaching the shining peak.

Soon Philip lost himself in the primal drive, the compulsive friction and exquisite sensations of having her body respond to his. His breathing turned harsh and ragged, the world faded away, and—blind with desperation, arms braced, head hanging—he plundered, finally taking for himself, seeing to his own need.

Dimly, in the distance, he heard Rose scream, felt her body arch up beneath him, her nails sink into his arms. Then, over everything else, the powerful contractions of her sheath told of her unraveling. She tumbled from the peak in the same moment as he leaped toward it in triumph, a roar ripping from him as he pulled free of her body and let his release shudder through him.

They clung to each other as his seed soaked the sheets. The tumultuous sensations caught him, tossing and hurling him like a ship lost on a stormy sea, like a man drowning in pleasure.

Her heart thundered under his ear. Her skin slick with heat and him. She was his perfect, beautiful Rose, and he would never feel like this with any other woman. If he’d been a praying man, he would have prayed that their world would remain as it was. That society would leave them alone. That no one would hurt her again—least of all him.

“Am I crushing you?”

Rose’s answer was simply to wrap her arms around him and hold him even closer. Even tighter.

“I love the weight of you—the feel of you atop me.” She stretched and yawned. “There is nothing more perfect.”

He relaxed on her but moved his body so she didn’t bear his full weight. He’d rest, for just a while, because he wasn’t leaving this bed before they did that again. Soon his eyelids drifted closed. Heavy. So heavy.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I shall wake you later—and this time I shall enjoy doing all the work.”

He would dream of all the inventive things she could do to wake him up. She was wickedly skilled with her mouth—and not only in conversation.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Rose watched Philip as exhaustion overcame him. She would let him sleep for a few hours before taking enormous pleasure in waking him.

She moved and felt the damp patch where he’d spilled his seed. Tonight he’d made love to her as if she were the only woman in the world. She’d hoped that maybe—just maybe this time—he might have declared his feelings by spilling his seed deep inside her.

Stop being a coward and ask him. Tell him that you have changed your mind. You want to marry him. You want more children.

But something stopped her. Philip was the type of man who would see what he wanted and hunt it down. If he really wanted her as his wife he would ask her—no, he’d demand it of her.

She feared to confront him, to speak her heart. Because the truth was that if this half-life was all he could give her, she was afraid that she’d accept it and settle for fleeting moments of pleasure, when really she wanted so much more.

So she said nothing, just lay in the dimming firelight stroking his hair and watching as the man she wanted above all others slept.