Spencer didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt for lying—he wasn’t quite sure what he felt, after listening to that country boy court Roselyn.
He tried to tell himself it was better this way. He’d return to the treachery of London in just six days and have the betrothal contract broken; then he and Roselyn would both be free of each other.
The thought of calling her an adulterer before the entire court made his stomach sour in a way he hadn’t felt before. But that’s what she was—why did he let her innocence and serenity make him reluctant to hurt her? It was the only way.
The other part of him felt anger churning inside his gut that she would play kissing games when her own betrothed could overhear.
Roselyn’s head appeared in the loft, followed by her trim shoulders and well-formed breasts, encased in that awful widow’s black. When she finally stood above him, she gave him a suspicious look.
“You do not look ‘stuck.’”
A flash of some emotion—he told himself it was anger—surged through him, and he hooked his foot around her ankle. With a gasp, she tottered, and he caught her arm and pulled her on top of him. They sank down into the prickly straw pallet, and he realized she’d given him the comfortable one stuffed with goose feathers.
Her squirming hips rubbed his as she tried to pull away.
“Spencer!” she gasped.
Even her breath across his ear and cheek made him think lustful thoughts—and he’d never heard his Christian name on her lips. When she pushed against his chest and rose up above him, he turned her onto her back, her head pillowed in his arm, his leg thrown across hers to keep her still.
In the murky darkness, she blinked at him in astonishment, her incredibly full lips parted, her breath coming fast.
“Don’t!” she cried.
“Why not? Touching my own betrothed is as far from being scandalous as I’ve ever gotten.”
“But why are you doing this?” she asked in a whisper that reminded him of how intimate and alone they were.
“Has he ever kissed you?”
If possible, her eyes widened even more. “Of course he’s kissed me.”
With each breath, her breasts brushed his arm.
“I don’t mean a brotherly kiss on the cheek.” He leaned closer and nuzzled her cheek, smelling the sweet scent of her skin, feeling it arouse him more than any fine perfume.
She was trembling now. “His kisses aren’t brotherly.”
“But they’re never on a more intimate place than the side of your face. So you admit he’s never truly kissed you?”
Roselyn felt surrounded by Spencer: his half-naked body pressed down the length of her, his hard arm beneath her neck. Their legs were caught together, and when she tried to move, it only made them more intimately entwined.
Deep in her heart, she knew this was what she’d been longing for, this closeness to him. His gentle touch, his humor, were things she’d never had with Philip. They drew her far more than fine promises and misleading words.
But how to admit to him that even after marriage, she had never been kissed?
Spencer loomed above her, mysterious and dark as the shadows. She wanted to touch him, to feel his strong face between her hands, to run her fingers across that broad, sheltering chest.
She wouldn’t touch him—but she didn’t stop his hand from cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth and she shuddered.
He leaned over her and pressed his mouth gently to hers. She’d never thought her lips could be so sensitive, as she experienced the pleasure of light, butterfly kisses. The wonder of it was almost painful. She closed her eyes and let the sensation shiver through her. Slowly, he applied more pressure, angling his head. Was she doing this right? Could he tell that she was innocent of such a normal part of marriage?
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp and open her eyes. He lifted his head the slightest bit, grinning teasingly down at her.
“You didn’t like that?”
Roselyn didn’t know what to say, or even what to think. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts, of panic and desire, but the one that chorused most strongly was, Don’t stop!
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, to her cheek, then hovered just above her lips. “Touch me, Rose,” he whispered, his breath fairy-light on her skin.
She didn’t stop to think, just placed her hand on his bare arm and let herself feel the warm, smooth hardness of him. Yet his mouth remained just above hers until she yearned for his lips with an ache that centered with shocking warmth between her thighs.
Her gaze clung to his face, as she ran her hand across his shoulder and up to the back of his head. He was breathing just as hard as she was, but still he didn’t kiss her. She knew what he wanted, and she gave in, pulling him down to her.
His shining grin faded as he tilted his head and covered her mouth with his. His tongue slid urgently between her lips, and a hot and sinful feeling shook her as she willingly opened her mouth. The feel of him stroking inside her made her quiver even more as she clung to him. His thigh slid between hers, and she wished there were no garments between them.
He moved on top of her, freeing both of her hands to touch him as she wished. She slid her palms up his back, felt the damp heat of him, and as his kiss deepened again, she stroked his tongue with her own.
A groan rumbled through him, and he clasped her face between his hands, kissing her deeper, harder than she could have imagined. Did he feel the same way, full of wildness and daring and desire?
She had never felt like this in her life, and she reveled in it, touching him freely, moving restlessly to be ever closer to something new, something wonderful, just out of reach.
His mouth followed an invisible path across her jaw and down her neck, and she tilted her head back to give him the access he wanted. His hands slid down her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts, before he filled his palms with them. The pleasure that suffused her was overwhelming. Her nipples were hard and aching, and she knew that soon she’d be lost in these new sensations, letting him do anything he wanted.
Hadn’t the first touch of Philip’s hand on her bare skin made her quiver with excitement? But on their wedding night he’d been drinking, and his needs were all that mattered—all that ever mattered.
She stiffened beneath Spencer, and he raised his head to look at her with a frown.
Were his needs all Spencer considered, too? How could she so easily forget the child who’d suffered and died because of her flaws, this wildness that made her forget herself?
“We must stop,” she said hoarsely, dislodging his hands and covering her chest. “This isn’t what either of us wants.”
“You don’t know what I want,” he said in a low voice.
He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.
“Then tell me,” she whispered. She wanted the truth, all of it, but his silence was as eloquent as the thrust of a knife.
He rolled off her.
Roselyn stood up, straightening her clothing with shaking hands, trying not to feel empty and alone without Spencer holding her. She turned to start down the ladder, but couldn’t resist looking at him.
He was propped on one elbow, his hair in disarray, his mouth wet. My God, had she done that?
His eyes glittered at her in the darkness. “Is John Heywood the next boy you’ll replace me with? Does he know you’re already betrothed?”
“John knows everything about me,” she said wearily, “which is more than you can say.”
She went down the rope ladder quickly, her chest tight with tears she refused to shed. She gathered linens and a change of clothing and went out into the night to bathe.
Spencer listened to the door slam and knew just where she was going. He rolled off the pallet onto his stomach—which was an uncomfortable position since his arousing encounter with Roselyn—and inched backward until his legs hung over the edge of the loft. The rope ladder was tricky, and he almost slipped and broke his fool neck, but soon he was safely on the floor. He blew out the candles, hopped to the window overlooking the courtyard, and slowly opened it.
Roselyn had already finished filling the barrel by lantern light. The rain clouds had finally blown away, and under the starry, moonless night she took down her hair. Each pin she dropped onto the wall nailed home how this desire for her had sneaked up on him. When the dark mass of her hair unrolled past her shoulders, his skin twitched as if she’d touched him. She had glorious, womanly hair, hair that was made to curtain him as she rode his body through desperate pleasure.
Then she began to remove her garments.
Spencer knew this was only further torture, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching. He’d touched parts of her through her clothing, and now his eyes wanted to devour her as well.
Her black gown fell to the ground, leaving her smock to glow under the stars. His eyes were drawn to the pale skin of her shoulders. She unlaced the smock and allowed it to sag to her waist, revealing breasts as perfect as pearls adorning the night sky.
He stopped breathing as the smock joined the gown in the grass. Though Roselyn was delicately small, the curve of her hips was lush and full and made to comfort a man. When she stood on the crate and lifted one leg to step into the barrel, he groaned and turned away, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
The sound of splashing water did nothing to cool his ardor.
By the time she returned to the cottage he was lying on his pallet, facing the wall, trying to keep from panting like the lustful beast he was. Six days seemed too far away—and much too quick.
Spencer opened his eyes in the morning, and was glad that the day already seemed cooler. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the loft, wondering what had awakened him besides frustrated desire.
Suddenly Roselyn appeared at the edge of the loft, neatly dressed for the day in her usual black.
He quickly closed his eyes, then peered up between his lashes. She had turned her back and begun her descent. Beneath her skirts he could see her stockinged calves, and the faintest blush of bare thighs before she reached the floor.
And he was as aroused as if she still lay beneath him. In his mind, he saw her naked, wet, her arms lifted to him.
By God, why did he allow her to affect him like this? His plan to arouse and reject her was turning back onto him.
He lifted up on one elbow to watch her, but except for a raised eyebrow, she ignored him, appearing as calm and serene as if they’d never shared passionate kisses.
Damn, but she was frustrating.
After she’d left the cottage, Spencer slashed another mark in the floor—day sixteen of his sojourn on the Isle of Wight. There were only five days left until his self-imposed departure. Five days and he hadn’t been able to practice riding a horse or even wielding a dagger. Roselyn occupied far too many of his thoughts.
He broke his fast with hard black bread and hard cheese. Last night, she had said that John knew everything about her. Were there other secrets in her past, things she kept hidden from him?
He took up his cane and went outside, only to find himself limping toward the bake house. He could hear her singing softly to herself, as if nothing he did could ever bother her. He leaned in the frame of the open doorway and watched her knead dough at a stone table, a floury apron pinned to her dress.
He knew the moment she was aware of his presence, and felt satisfied as she stiffened and turned to face him. By the blush in her cheeks, he didn’t think it was annoyance she was experiencing, either.
Because she was a woman of obvious passion, he couldn’t help wondering what kind of man her groom was; why she’d deserted her betrothed for him, beyond the obvious reason of Spencer’s treatment of her. For a woman who considered herself widowed, she seemed to have the innocence of a newly bloomed flower.
Roselyn turned back to her worktable. “Did you need more to eat?”
“No.” He continued to study her until the silence between them stretched taut. “Do you miss him much?” he finally asked.
“John?”
“No, the stable groom. What was his name again?”
Her hands stilled as she softly said, “Philip Grant.” She gave him a steely glance over her shoulder. “My husband.”
It was a direct challenge, one he didn’t wish to take up at the moment. “But do you miss him?”
“The state of my widowhood is no business of yours.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Of course I miss him,” she grudgingly said, turning away.
But he thought he heard the slightest hesitation in her voice, and for some strange reason, it pleased him. “I only asked because I wondered if our kiss bothered you.”
“It was more than a mere kiss,” she said with sarcasm, glancing at him.
“Very well, our mutual fondling.”
“Mutual—”
Roselyn turned away again, and he couldn’t tell if she was withholding a smile.
She slowly began to knead the bread. “I guess those intimacies do not matter to one such as yourself.”
“Such as myself?” he repeated, limping over to sit on a stool near her.
“You have surely exchanged much more than ‘mutual fondling’ with your mistresses.”
“Ah yes, all fifteen of them.”
“Fifteen—” She whirled to face him, scattering flour in her wake.
He grinned. “At the same time.” It was getting far too easy to fluster her.
She studied him coolly. “Well, that’s a story Francis didn’t hear.”
“Or didn’t repeat.”
“He only heard that there were two of them. Do you miss them?”
Spencer frowned. “Two of them?”
“Dancers, I think. They were at the same time, too—or so Francis heard. But do you miss them?”
She didn’t even blush, though he realized with mortification that he did, just as if he were guilty.
“Your bailiff repeated such a story?”
“No—his wife did. I think she was trying to convince me that I had made the right decision in not marrying you.”
He could tell by her wrinkled nose that she wished she’d not said so much.
He stood up and stepped nearer, asking in a low voice, “Did you need convincing?”
“No,” Roselyn quickly said, her back to him.
She wore her hair pulled tightly up beneath her cap, and he wondered what she would do if he started unpinning it, setting it free curl by curl to bury his face in it.
“Margaret thought I needed convincing,” she continued. “I think the Heywoods told me stories of you out of some misguided sense of…consolation.”
He wanted to run his tongue down her spine; he wanted to slide his arms around her and cup her breasts, and watch her face while he caressed her.
“Did it work?” He blew softly on her neck.
“Did what work?” she asked in a faltering voice.
“Were you comforted by the thought of me being so…scandalous?”
“I—I—”
He leaned forward and pressed his open mouth just behind her ear. She gave a little gasp and a start, and when she would have ducked away, he slid his arm about her waist to hold her still. Her buttocks were pressed to his thighs, and he almost dipped to rub his erection between them.
They suddenly heard a voice from the courtyard. “Roselyn!” It was the girl, Charlotte.
For a shattering moment, Roselyn didn’t know what to do—her body had betrayed her by almost melting against Spencer, and even now she wanted to drop her head back against his shoulder and kiss him.
He stumbled away from her and sat on the stool just as Charlotte entered. The girl looked stunned—and disappointed—at seeing him in Roselyn’s bake house.
And Roselyn felt as guilty as if she’d let him bed her right there on the floor. What else could the girl think when she looked on his handsome face?
“Hello, Charlotte,” she forced herself to say. “Was today the day we agreed on for a baking lesson?”
“Yes…” she began uncertainly. “But I don’t wish to intrude.”
“Intrude? Why saints above, no. I just have a terrible memory lately. You remember Mr. Sanderson? On my walk this morning we encountered one another again, and I offered him a meal.”
Spencer nodded. “The cook in my barracks is normally a stable groom. Now I know exactly what the horses eat.”
Roselyn was amazed—and troubled—by how easily he adapted to any situation. He looked utterly innocent and spoke in so charming a manner, that how could Charlotte not be fooled?
Yet still the girl only gave him a bewildered smile and turned to study Roselyn.
“Shall we get started?” Roselyn asked brightly.
Spencer soon made his excuses to the women and left them to their lesson. Wielding his cane with a little more confidence, he chose a direction he’d never gone before.
Clouds scudded across the sky, and though the day was considerably cooler, he still worked up a sweat. Soon he’d be ready to leave and face his fate in London.
A twinge of regret took him by surprise, but he ignored it, finding a path through fields of cut grain. Coming up over a slope, he saw a little stone chapel nestled between fields, and a small graveyard beside it.
A sense of fate called to him, and he drew closer. He wandered the well-tended graveyard, not knowing until he found Philip Grant’s grave that he was looking for it.
He was stunned to see a second name on the headstone.