The Tate Manor garden was as expansive as it was serene. Even though Rose had grown up in a gargantuan house with its own gardens, they couldn’t compare with the lush landscaping of Northern England. In the middle of summer, all the flowers were in full bloom, and she spent at least an hour or two every day seated beneath the branches of a spreading poplar, taking in the loveliness of the scenery.

But the gardens also served another purpose: they distracted her.

For the past three days, she’d been able to think about little else aside from her interlude with Michael in the kitchen, and it was driving her slightly batty.

Rose wouldn’t consider herself an obsessive personality. There were things that she loved – things that she was utterly devoted to; but obsession? Obsession was dangerous. She knew because she watched her family obsess over their wealth and prestige. She watched people obsess over their material obsessions and she watched developed countries obsess over how to hone their edge over those who needed their help.

She was beginning to worry that she was on the edge of obsession.

Her issue wasn’t with Michael himself. She barely knew him well enough to insinuate such feelings. It was the feelings he inspired in her that worried her so. It was almost as if every time she closed her eyes she felt him touching her – remembered how hungrily he’d kissed her.

It was absolutely absurd. She was a grown woman and far beyond childish flights of fantasy. She didn’t believe in all the harlequin romance novels that flew off the shelves or the silly romance movies that women flocked to see. Rose believed in what she could see, hear, taste and touch.

Of course, she had done all of those things with Michael fairly recently, which made her current predicament all the harder to bear.

Taking a deep breath, Rose let it out slowly, attempting to calm the hormones that threatened to end her. She tried to concentrate on anything save the heat that flared in her belly when she thought of Lord Michael Tate. It was a gorgeous day, with the sun shining high overhead. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, nor was it too hot to spend a reasonable amount of time outside. Truth be told, if Rose could spend the entire day outside, she would. It meant that she didn’t have to be inside. If she was inside, her chances of running into Michael increased tenfold, and it was hard enough trying to endure mealtimes as it was.

The Countess was insufferable. If she tried to get them together with any more flagrancy she’d all but be shoving them into the same bed together. At every opportunity, she tried to suggest activities that Rose and her son could endeavor upon together, and if that didn’t work, she all but shoved them into the same room together. Then, of course, it was up to Rose to think of a suitable excuse so that she could flee; and if the endeavor had been difficult before, now it was impossible.

Every time Mike looked at her with those intense eyes of his, Rose felt she knew exactly what he was thinking – and it was absolutely nothing clandestine.

Rose knew because her own thoughts were far from appropriate themselves. Whenever she was near Michael, all she could think about was his hands around her waist. The way his mouth fit against hers and the heat of his lips against her throat. She recalled, over and over, the way he’d lifted her onto the pristine marble counter to press every inch of his body against hers. If she hadn’t asked him to stop….

Well, Rose wasn’t a little girl. She knew exactly what would have taken place. Worse, she’d wanted it. It was the first time in her life that her sensibilities had intervened and she’d cursed them flagrantly. When Michael had her in his grasp, all she wanted was for him to carry her up the stairs to his room and have his way with her – and damn her sensibilities.

It was that abandon that intimidated her – that led her to flee out to the gardens where Michael seldom ventured. If she was alone with him, she had no idea what trouble she’d get into, and she wasn’t too keen to find out.

Well, she was…but that was precisely why she had to avoid him.

Shielding her face from the sun, the young woman glanced back towards the manor from whence she’d come. It was no less imposing than it had been the first day she’d arrived, but after exploring it, Rose found the property slightly more palatable. At least, she placated herself, the Tates were allocated a house that had already been around for the better part of two centuries. Her own parents had cleared an entire London block to have their manor built – several historical buildings had been ground to dust, and their tenants effectively bought out. But, of course, there could be nothing but the best for the Lithgalls.

The mere memory made Rose grimace.

As her gaze slid over the centuries old stone walls of the Tate manor, she took in the exquisite windows and the scenes beyond them - rooms filled with elegant gilt furniture and expensive artwork – and then there was Michael’s room. Rose had learned exactly where it was on the second floor as the man himself usually perched on the balcony, king of all he surveyed.

Most recently, however, Michael had been surveying her.

Rose felt her cheeks flush darkly as her eyes met his. He wasn’t even pretending to take in the beauty of the gardens. Instead, he was focused on her and her alone. Rose was suddenly incredibly self-conscious of the cream-silk dress she wore. She had dressed for the weather, and all at once, she was aware of how much of her shoulders and neck were exposed. Reaching up, she let her hair down so it could help cover her, even as she berated herself for being so intimidated by a single man.

Rose had been standing up to men all her life. Men liked to tell her how unsafe it was for her to travel on her own. How she couldn’t really make as much of a difference as she hoped because no one would ever listen to her. Now, however, she was faced with a man who threatened, not her causes, but her femininity. One could call him a gentleman all one liked, but Rose knew the truth: Michael was a predator lying in wait to pounce; and now that he’d had a taste of her, he would never give up.

Rising from where she’d been attempting to read, the young woman swallowed thickly. No matter how she tried, she could quell the heat that seared through her veins, or slow her hammering heart. Quickly, she made her way back through the gardens, ducking back into the manor discreetly. After informing Annie that she would take her tea in the library, she fled there, closing the door behind her.

The Tate’s library and Lord Tate’s study was a lovely, lofty room filled with light from the garden. There had to be at least five thousand volumes packed neatly into the space, on shelves that stretched from the floor all the way to the ceiling. As it was high summer, there was no fire burning in the hearth, and Rose thanked the Lord that it was a cool retreat.

Exhaling a sigh of relief at having lost Michael for a moment, she made her way over to the nearest bookshelf, running her fingertips over the polished mahogany. It was clear that Annie visited every day. There wasn’t a single speck of dust on the books or the wood, and the windows gleamed with a new wash.

As the tension leeched from Rose’s body, she read over the titles, delighted to find a bevy of classics she’d read in her university days. There was Dickens, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Darwin and a host of others, and she paused in her perusal when she found a title that had always been near and dear to her heart: A Midsummer Night’s Dream. With a small, pleased smile, she tipped the volume out with her fingertips to feel its weight in her hand. When she finally pulled the book down into her arms, a piece of paper slipped from the pages to flutter to the floor and the young woman inhaled sharply in alarm.

Setting the book aside, she reached down to retrieve the paper, intent on putting it back where it came from. When she turned the small, square object over, however, she paused. It was not, as she had surmised, a document. Instead, it was a small photograph depicting a sleeping baby. The black and white image melted her heart as she took in the swathe of bandages, tiny features, and thatch of dark hair atop the babe’s head. It was taken at an infant’s most vulnerable moment, and, though Rose had told her mother she wanted children no time soon, the longing in her gut reaffirmed that, someday, she’d like a baby to cradle in her arms.

When Rose’s gaze fell to the bottom of the photo, her eyes widened. Small, precise letters read: Anton Mikhail. There was no date and no year. With a small, fond smile, Rose ran her fingertips over the image before reaching for her book. Carefully, she replaced the photo between the back cover and the last pages before taking a seat before the empty hearth.

She attempted to read, but found herself wondering about the photo. Was it, perhaps, from one of Michael’s long-dead ancestors? A baby portrait of an uncle or perhaps even his father? The name, she contemplated, didn’t seem like a very English title. Anton sounded Slavic – most probably Russian or Czech. If that was the case, what was a photo of a Russian child doing in an English library?

“Having a bit of a read are we?”

At a sudden, low baritone, the young woman started, dropping the book into her lap as her head jerked up to see none other than Michael Tate standing in the doorway.

The roguish intruder was holding her tea tray, and Rose had a sneaking suspicion that he’d stolen it from Annie. Despite the fact that she knew it was dangerous to be in the same room as him, Rose couldn’t help but admire the man. He had, after all, become no less handsome in the time since their kitchen encounter. If anything, she was even more painfully aware of how attractive he was.

Almost dwarfing the door he walked through, today he wore a pair of tweed slacks and a dark blue shirt that hugged his tautly muscular figure. Over that, he wore a pair of suspenders that should have made him look entirely ridiculous, but, instead, Rose found herself with the opinion that he looked dashing – like something out of a fairy tale.

That said, he was a bit too rugged to be something out of a children’s book. Even with his hair combed perfectly into place and the scruff he wore on his strong chin tamed, he still looked like a warrior in prince’s clothing – a gentleman hiding something entirely more primal.

Something Rose would love to explore…But she’d be damned if she let herself commit such suicide. She still had an entire two months to get through before she would be home free to leave the country. She couldn’t jeopardize that. She wouldn’t.

“Good afternoon, my Lord.” Her response was appropriately stiff as she looked him over. In response, a small, knowing smile played about the edges of Michael’s mouth.

“My lady,” he bowed almost mockingly low, making her scowl deeply as he straightened. “Might I bring your tea?”

Now he was just teasing her, and Rose didn’t appreciate his antics at all. “Leave it there, by the door.”

If she thought he meant to obey her, she was sorely disappointed. Michael strode across the room to place the tea on the coffee table next to her. Almost immediately, the spicy, clean, masculine scent of him enveloped her, and every muscle in Rose’s body tightened as warmth sparked to life between her legs. “Annie made a glorious blackberry tart.” She watched as if transfixed as the man cut her a slice of the tart before handing her the small, delicate porcelain plate and dessert fork.

After a moment, she realized what she’d been doing and tried to protest, some of her iciness melting away. “Michael, you don’t really need to serve me tea-”

“We have a nice Earl Gray today, from south of London.” For so large a man, he poured tea rather effortlessly from a filigreed pot. “Cream and two sugars, is it?” Rose was on the cusp of correcting him before she realized he was exactly right. She arched a blonde brow.

“How did you know that?”

“One need merely pay attention, my lady.” After handing her the cup he’d prepared, Michael set out making his own tea. Rose realized there was no way to avoid him having his tea with her after he’d gone through all this trouble and merely sighed, waiting for him to join her. Once again, he surprised her by sitting, not across from her, but right beside her on the couch she already occupied.

Though there was plenty of room, he sat close enough to her that their thighs touched and Rose jumped almost as if she had been burned, scooting to the very edge of the sofa to take a sip of her tea as if nothing had happened. If Michael noticed, he said absolutely nothing, merely working on his own tea. For a long moment, the silence was almost companionable between them. Rose did her utmost to try and pretend she couldn’t feel the heat of the man – that she wasn’t tempted by him. Ultimately, that meant talking, and so she picked a random subject.

“How are your shifts at the hospital going?” It was easier to avoid him on the weekdays, she noticed, when he sometimes pulled a twelve-hour shift away from him. Today was Saturday, and so, she had a bit more difficulty.

Hence her current situation.

“Well enough. No terribly major surgeries since the one you saw, which I suppose is a good thing.” He sipped his tea like a proper English gentleman, even if his eyes never left her face. “How has mulling about the house been going?”

She flushed slightly at his directness. “Michael!”

“You still haven’t come for your shoes, you know.” He went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “Mother is going to come into my room one day and assume you left them there after a night of passion.”

“I most certainly did not!” Rose returned indignantly, with no small amount of difficulty. The mere mention of the words “night of passion” made her thighs clench in longing and her panties uncomfortably moist. “You stole them. And I want them back.”

“Well,” Michael leaned back against the sofa casually, his eyes gleaming with perverse mirth, “you know where to find them.”

Rose set her half-full teacup back down on the table, drawing herself up to her full height to stand before him. She needed to assert herself or this man was going to walk all over her. Rose Lithgall had never, in her life, allowed anyone to take advantage of her, and she wasn’t going to start now. Even if the man in question plagued her every waking thought. “Michael Tate, you return my shoes to me this instant.”

The man had the gall to take his time sipping tea before he answered her, his smile faint. “Say please, my lady.”

“Oh!” Rose threw up her hands in exasperation, turning with the intention of taking her leave from the room. She made it not one single step, however, before a strong arm hooked around her waist, drawing her backwards and into a very firm lap. Stiffening immediately, Rose turned to see Michael grinning at her.

“Calm down, Rose. Why not finish your tea?”

She scowled at him, shoving her blonde hair from her face. Indignation and arousal warred in her gut, and Rose had to resist the urge to squirm. “Because you’re acting like a brute. Release me at once!”

She inhaled sharply when Michael shifted, leaning forward to press his nose into the junction of her neck and shoulder. He inhaled at length before a long sigh escaped him. “You smell of summer and dreams.”

A very unladylike snort escaped the young woman. She couldn’t help it. It was the most ridiculous line she’d ever heard.  “And what do dreams smell of?”

Michael only tugged her closer, pressing his lips hotly against the base of her neck so she was forced to bite back a low moan. “My dreams smell of you, my lady.”

Goddamn him. If she had any wherewithal whatsoever, she would smack him and leave the room anyway. He had no right – absolutely none – to make her feel the way she did.  Instead of wanting to stomp away, Rose found herself with the sudden urge to arch back against him – to beg him to continue kissing his way southward along her spine until she was writhing, begging him for more.

“Please tell me,” she managed breathlessly, “That you don’t use that line on every woman you bring into your bed. It’s horrendous.”

In response, Michael merely chuckled lowly against her throat, making her shudder, before he nipped the sensitive skin there playfully. “Do not paint me a Casanova, my lady. I assure you, fewer women have visited my bed than you might think.”

Rose sighed, telling herself grudgingly that she would allow him this behavior once. Just once, and just because it felt so ridiculously lovely. “If you’re going to be chewing my neck, Michael, you can at least call me Rose. That is what we agreed, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm.” The young woman couldn’t help the soft sound of need that escape her as Michael nodded against her shoulder, his mouth still firmly pressed there. “My apologies,” He kissed the side of her neck, “Rose.”

She melted against him. What choice did she have? The man had her trapped now, and their tea was all but forgotten. After all the avoiding she’d done, now she was on Michael’s lap, and it wasn’t even half as bad as she’d imagined that it might be. That didn’t mean, however, that she was going to bend to his every whim. Rose had never been so easy, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now.

“So now that you have me in your clutches, Michael,” She managed, trying not to let his kisses drug her into complete insensibility, “what do you plan to do with me?”

“Well, first,” the brawny man replied, “I plan to give you back your shoes. I would really prefer not to explain that one to mother.” Rose found herself giggling. She couldn’t help it. This entire situation was ludicrous. “And after that’s done, I’d like to invite you out with me this evening.”

Rose turned slightly in his lap to look down at him, her heart stuttering in her chest at the sight of the desire evident in his eyes. “And where are we going?”

Michael smiled – a devastating gesture that warmed her to her toes. “That’s a surprise. Wear a nice dress.”

“Isn’t this dress nice?” She had always thought so. One of her nicest.

“It is…but now that I’ve had you on my lap in it, I’ll just be thinking of taking it off you all evening.” Rose rolled her eyes, pushing out of Michael’s embrace to stand before him. She was sure she looked a sight – hair mussed, neck quite possibly pockmarked with his attentions. But she was going to make sure he knew exactly where they stood.

“I am not sleeping with you, Michael Tate. Let me make that perfectly clear.”

He immediately held up large hands in surrender, his expression surprisingly innocent. “Of course. Understood.” Rose’s eyes narrowed as she peered down at him.

That was entirely too easy. The man had to have something up his sleeve. But, at that particular moment, she was a bit too worked up over him to investigate. Leaning over, she retrieved the book she’d meant to read from the end table before turning from him to finally flee the library. She didn’t stop until she was safely in her room with the door shut and bolted behind her.

Once that was done, Rose exhaled a shuddering breath, setting her book aside to collapse into the nearest available chair. She felt almost as if her legs were putty. What was he thinking, kissing her like that in the middle of the day when anyone could walk in and see? The man was entirely to brazen for his own good – and to her horror, Rose found that she might like him for it.

She couldn’t keep a small, indulgent smile from spreading across her face. For the first time since she’d arrived, she was excited about an outing with Michael. She could only wonder what he had in store for them.

**

Michael didn’t do this. Ever. He was, in fact, so unsure as to how to go about impressing Rose that he committed suicide and did the one thing he should have thought through far more thoroughly.

He called his sister.

Alice was, of course, simultaneously shocked and affronted.

“You like her? What the bloody bollocks, Mike? You’re playing right into mother’s hands!” As he did up his shirt in the mirror, Mike merely scowled in the direction of his phone’s speaker.

“I am not, Alice. I didn’t say that I was going to marry the woman. Simply that I find her attractive.”

“So you’re going to frig her and bid her adieu?” Alice’s reply was dry with sarcasm. “Charming. I’m proud of you, big brother.”

“Oh, stop carrying on, Alice. Are you going to help me or not?” That was really all he wanted to know. If she was going to insult him, he could have called Elias. The strain of Cat’s pregnancy had turned his friend into a monster. Elias was stressed out of his mind and always on the cusp of an outburst. Hence, Michael reaching out to his sister.

“What exactly do you need my help with?”

“Where should I take her? What should we do?”

Alice snorted. “Do you intend to end up in bed with her or not?”

Michael sighed. “That’s beside the point. Try to think like an adult. I know it’s hard for you.”

“Ha ha. You’re hilarious.” There was silence on the other line that Michael took as his sister contemplating.  “Take her to see a play. Dinner and a play is classy but doesn’t come on as too desperate.” Michael arched a brow in incredulity, even though he was well aware that his sister couldn’t see it.

“Are you calling me desperate?”

“You’re after a woman mother picked for you,” Alice quipped smartly. “Forgive me for assuming the obvious.”

Despite his sister’s loving flip, Michael did think that dinner and a play would be a good idea. He had never been one to want to flaunt his wealth, but he found that Rose brought out certain desires he’d never entertained before – and not just physical ones.

She fought him. Not physically, of course – delightful as that might have been. No, being with Rose was like being engaged in a battle of wits. She refused to admit directly that she was attracted to him. She wouldn’t try to seduce him and she defied all of his efforts to seduce her, the little minx. So he would have to resort to actually wooing her.

God forbid his mother ever discovered and tried even harder to drive them together. Thankfully, tonight she had gone to a meeting of her Lady’s club in London and wouldn’t be back until the following afternoon. He thought he had dressed well enough for their outing – in a dark shirt and slacks with a tailored vest – and hoped that Rose had taken his advice and changed her dress. Even the sight of her bare shoulders was enough to tempt him into a southern style salute, and that would hardly be appropriate.

He headed downstairs around seven, and was surprised to find her already waiting for him. The picture she painted in a deep gray sheath that matched the color of her eyes, her hair pulled away from her face to hang over her shoulders, was enough to make his mouth dry and his blood hot. Thankfully, he managed to keep from getting an erection in his tailored pants, but only just.

When he reached the foot of the steps, Rose gave him an obtrusive little twirl with a small, devilish smile. “Is this better?”

“I don’t know about better,” Taking her hand, Michael drew it to his lips to kiss gently. “But you look lovely.”

She flushed slightly, pulling her hand gently from his. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

Michael chuckled. “Perhaps if you’re good.” With that, he led her out to the waiting car. Though Rose wrinkled her nose at the sight of the Rolls, she said nothing, merely sliding in when he opened the door for her. The restaurant Michael had chosen was in the next town over and, during the drive, their conversation was pleasant. He did his best to swallow the burgeoning sexual desire that thrummed through him, wondering what on earth had gotten into him. Rose seemed to be a trigger for all his baser instincts. The sight of her, the scent of her…one taste had him rattling at the bars of his cage like a wild animal. She could be talking about the weather and he’d be picturing stripping every scrap of clothing from her body.

Thankfully, he managed to refrain from such antics in the back of his father’s Rolls Royce, and they arrived in the next village without incident. When Michael led her into Giselle’s, one of the premier fine dining establishments for one hundred kilometers, he himself was taken aback by the splendor of the place.

Michael had visited his fair share of upscale restaurants in London, but this one was extravagant to the ninth degree. The entire two-story affair was decorated with gold and cream wallpapers and extravagant candle-lit chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Most of the tables were occupied, but the atmosphere was that of muted dignity, with perfectly pressed linen tablecloths and elaborate centerpieces. It had cost him a neat three hundred pounds simple to secure a table, and while he tended to find places like this rather stuffy, he was willing to go the distance to impress Rose without hesitation.

The Maitre’d led them to a discrete table in the corner before presenting them with the wine list. He bowed with flourish before leaving them to their own devices, and Michael stared after him, wondering vaguely how much all his kowtowing earned him in a single night. Clearing his throat, he finally looked back to his lovely companion, who was gazing around the restaurant with an unreadable expression.

“Shall we have wine?” He inquired, extending the list to her. Rose’s gaze met his a moment before she took the list from his hand. When she opened the elegantly decorated cover, her eyes immediately widened.

“Good Lord, twelve hundred pounds for a bottle of oh-seven Riesling?” She snapped the menu shot before setting it aside. “I’d just as soon drink Perrier.”

Michael cracked an amused smile. “Eighteen pounds a bottle.”

Rose almost choked on the mint she’d popped in her mouth and Michael bit back his laughter. For an heiress, Rose certainly didn’t seem to approve of living the high life. If he didn’t know any better, he might describe her expression as one of sheer mortification. “Aren’t you used to high-class lunches, my lady?”

Rose made a face. “It’s possible to have class without signing over the rights to your first born child. This…this is slightly excessive.”

Under different circumstances, Michael might think she was merely being difficult, but the genuine affront on Rose’s face raised no small amount of curiosity in him. He’d spent his life being brought to places like this. His parents had always impressed upon him the importance of being seen in the right place, at the right time, and with the right people. As he’d grown older, he’d come to see what utter bollocks such pains actually were, but he tended to believe that gently bred women delighted in the attention paid to them.

Rose, it seemed, didn’t fit into that mold. She grimaced at being driven around in a Rolls Royce, and now she was clearly uncomfortable in a five-star restaurant. He arched a brow in inquiry. “Is there somewhere else you’d prefer?”

At his expression, Rose’s softened slightly. “I apologize, Michael. I didn’t mean to dismiss your choice. This place is beautiful…really it is. I just…I can’t justify spending so much money on a single meal.”

Michael chuckled, growing more intrigued with each passing minute. “But you aren’t paying for it. I am.”

Rose merely rolled her eyes with good humor. “I can’t justify so much money being spent on a meal period.”

Running a hand through his hair, he merely repeated his earlier question. “And is there somewhere you’d prefer to dine? A burger joint? Indian takeaway, perhaps.”

Rose merely smiled at his cheek. “Don’t you dare insult a good takeaway. They’re worth their weight in gold.” As she spoke, she rose from the table, leaving him to look up at her curiously. “I’ll be right back.”

Michael watched in awe as she strolled across the floor of the restaurant to find the Maitre’d once more. Leaning over, she whispered something in his ear that made the well-groomed man look at her as if she’d grown a third head. Thrusting his nose in the air, he answered her with visible reluctance. Rose took it all in stride, merely smiling sweetly at him in thanks before returning to the table.

When she reached his side, she touched Michael’s shoulder gently. “Come with me.”

He didn’t hesitate. What man would when a woman like Rose Lithgall demanded something of him? Without a word, Rose merely led him from the elegantly appointed restaurant and into the well-lit village streets, where a bevy of people were milling about, enjoying their Saturday night.

She was, Michael noted, rather more well suited to walking in heels sober. Despite the cobblestone streets she led him down, the woman didn’t wobble in the slightest. He allowed her to lead him away from the majority of the crowds and down a few backstreets until curiosity finally got the better of him. “Where on earth are we headed?”

Rose merely winked cheekily at him over her shoulder. “It’s a secret.”

Well, he certainly deserved that one.

Michael didn’t know what he expected. A smaller, more intimate restaurant, a pub, or something in between. Whatever the picture had been in his mind’s eye, it wasn’t the small, nondescript building that they came to a stop in front of. There was a line of people that trailed out the door, and upon closer inspection, many of them seemed to be shabbily clothed – some without shoes or belts.

Still, Michael followed Rose inside, where the interior was decorated not with chandeliers or candles, but with posters demonstrating how to keep warm and where to get regular medical check-ups. Completely flummoxed, he watched Rose march up to the front desk and beam at the woman in charge. “Hello. My name is Rose Lithgall, and this is my…friend,” she gestured to Michael and he chuckled at her choice of words, “Michael. We’ve come to help, if you need any.”

The plump woman behind the desk was all smiles. She wore a large apron over the front of her gingham dress, her gray streaked hair pulled back from her face to expose kind blue eyes. “Well, bless your hearts, my dears. We’re always grateful for all the help we can get. Of course, we’ll spare you a bit of dinner too, for your troubles, if you’ll just come this way.”

She turned to lead them down a long hall, which opened up to an immense kitchen. Here, the people coming in from outside lined up in droves to accept large trays of the food being prepared for them by the kitchen staff. Michael looked from the workers to Rose and then back again, trying to decide whether he was more shocked or impressed. “A working dinner, is it?”

Rose merely grinned at him as the manager of the kitchen handed her an apron. She seemed to have no reservations whatsoever about putting the stained garment on over her delicate silk dress. “Not afraid of a bit of work, are you, my Lord?”

He would hardly be cowed now. Besides, Michael was far from afraid. He found himself drawn into the chore Rose had brought him to perform. No one could have torn him away. “If it means I get to spend the evening in your company, of course not.” He accepted the apron the owner passed to him, sliding it over his head before tightening the belt around his waist.

Rose merely blushed in answer, before asking the kitchen manager for their instructions.

And so began one of the strangest and most wondrous nights of Michael’s life. He had to admit, while he’d worked in hospitals all over London and seen an array of soup kitchens and homeless shelters, he’d never actually been inside of one. This establishment seemed to be kitchen and shelter all in one, with dozens of hands to help run it.

While other citizens of the village were out shopping and spending their money at any number of expensive restaurants, Michael helped Rose to serve dozens who had no food, and found an odd swelling of pride in his chest as the night wore on.

The people who accepted the food they handed out were not, he noticed, what his family often believed them to be. Most of them were as tidy as they could afford to be, polite, and amazingly grateful for the service being provided to them. A few of their customers thanked Michael so profusely that he had no idea how to reply, other than it was his pleasure to serve them.

But Rose…she was another matter entirely. Here, she seemed more comfortable than he had seen her all summer. Even in the manor, enjoying the gardens, he had never seen her as at ease as she was talking to the cooks in the kitchen. And the way she interacted with the soup kitchen’s visitors was nothing short of astounding. She greeted people like they were her old friends, handing out food as she conversed with them and complimented their clothing and possessions. With children, she laughed and bantered until she drew smiles from them, and afforded them extra portions of everything with great gusto.

Most important of all, she listened. Everyone that came to the kitchen had their own story, and a few people were so enamored of Rose that theirs spilled from their lips unbidden. Michael listened to fathers that had lost their jobs, mothers who had been turned from their homes and children who didn’t know what it was like to get a single Christmas present. He heard tell of the elderly men who’d served in the armed forces denied their security money and women too proud to go home to their adult children and burden them. All in all, he didn’t think he’d ever encountered so many hearty, selfless people in his entire existence.

His and Rose’s world was one of high society, money and constant squabbling. Who had the best cars, the best houses – who had the best connections. While he’d known that all these struggles were a farce, exactly how ridiculous they were had never really been reinforced until that night.

Hours in the soup kitchen flew past, and by the time Melody, the owner, came to tell them they were closing up shop for the night, Michael was shocked to see that it was close to midnight. Still in their aprons, the accepted the bread, stew and apple pie Melody gave them and sat down to eat with the few patrons that remained.

Rose was glowing. She dug into her food with gusto and, for a good minute, Michael watched her, utterly taken with what he’d seen.

Ultimately, Rose realized that she was being stared at and straightened, obviously self-conscious. “What?” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Aren’t you hungry? It’s delicious.”

Michael merely shook his head slowly. “What kind of lady are you?”

“What on earth do you mean?” She replied, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“You don’t like to ride in showy cars. Fancy restaurants make you uncomfortable. You’re more comfortable in a shelter than you are in a manor and you can make people with nothing feel like they’re richer than kings. Honestly, Rose, I’ve never seen the like.”

Her cheeks pinkened lightly at his assessment and she cleared her throat, obviously embarrassed with the praise. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She dug into her stew once more and Michael finally tried his. It was, as she had warned him, delicious, and he finished it all within minutes. He hadn’t realized how ravenously hungry he was until he started eating.

After Rose had thanked Melody – who in turn, thanked her so exuberantly that she had to pry her hands from the woman – they finally left the shelter. The streets had gone mostly quiet, and the summer night was illuminated by streetlights handing over the cobble stone roads. When Michael spoke, his tone was thoughtful.

“You know, when my mother told me that you had quite a few charitable causes, I assumed that meant that you liked to throw money at benefits. Host thousand dollar per plate dinners and send the money to ambiguous companies that might or might not make sure that it gets where it needs to go.”

Rose scowled up at him immediately. “You’re describing my mother. And the majority of modern British nobility. We have these titles which, let’s face it, amount to bollocks in the modern day and age. The only thing we could use them for is to help those who have less and what do we do instead? Seek more money and prestige.”

Michael laughed softly at her brutal assessment. “That’s a rather harsh way of putting it, but you’re not wrong. We are pompous. The image matters more than anything else. Why do you think our parents are so keen on us getting married?”

Rose shuddered. “Keen or not, my mother doesn’t control me. At the end of this summer, I’m-” In the middle of her sentence, the young woman seemed to realize something and her mouth clamped shut. She fell silence, her expression pensive.

Arching a brow, Michael tried to coax her into continuing. “You’re what?”

But Rose only shook her head. “It’s nothing. Never mind.” She shot him a smile that seemed forced. “Rest assured that I’m not after your hand in marriage, Lord Tate. We’re entirely incompatible.”

Now that was bloody horseshit. Michael didn’t give one whit about marriage, but there could be no denying the chemistry between him and their summer guest. The memory of their night in the kitchen, or even of earlier that afternoon in the library, was enough to prove that.

“How are we incompatible?” He demanded, stopping in the center of the deserted street to turn to her.

Rose merely looked up at him with a small, amused smile. “You can’t be serious, Michael. We’re entirely different people.”

“Are we?” Michael returned succinctly. “Both bullied by our parents into a summer of doing something we’d rather not. Both entrapped by upper society’s rules and trying to break out. Both…amazingly beautiful people with amazingly sensual proclivities.”

Rose burst into laughter, shaking her head at his effervescent statement. “You, Lord Tate, are merely trying to get me to like you?”

“Nonsense.” He himself was grinning now. “You already like me. The deed is done.”

“Oh?” Rose arched a brow as she finally regained her composure. “And how do you know that? I could hate your guts. Be secretly plotting to murder you in your sleep.” When he reached out to grasp her waist, pulling her flush against him in a smooth motion, the young woman inhaled sharply. Eyes that had been filled with mirth suddenly blazed with heat.

“Your body betrays you, Rose.” Michael whispered huskily, reaching down to cup her delicate, pale chin. “Every time I’m near you, you go soft and pliant…and it’s all you can do not to beg me to touch you.”

Rose opened her mouth to deny the claim, but no words came out. Instead, Michael deliberately traced the line of her lips with his thumb, committing every feature to memory. There was a small freckle on the corner of her mouth, and her lower lip was slightly fuller than its twin. Those lips had plagued him ever since he’d first tasted them, and now, he needed to taste them anew. “If you tell me not to kiss you, I won’t,” he murmured solemnly. “Tell me not to touch you, and I’ll let you go.” Hi hand threaded through the spun corn silk of her hair as his gaze roamed her face. Rather than embarrassment, her cheeks were now flushed with desire.

Desire for him.

“But if you don’t stop me know,” he warned her, his voice barely above a growl, “You won’t leave my bed tonight. No matter how much you beg for mercy. I’ll have you until you’re spent with your own pleasure, and then I’ll have you some more. Is that understood?”

The way her eyes dilated in raw want almost brought him to his knees. He thought she’d speak then – to tell him no or what a complete and utter cad he was. But instead, Rose merely stood on her toes to press her mouth to his, and Michael lost himself in her.

It seemed like an eternity since he’d kissed her last. He tasted the spice of beef stew her own underlying sweetness, groaning as he tugged her tightly against him. When his already jutting erection made contact with the softness of her belly, an unfettered moan escaped her, and Michael fought instincts that demanded that he drag her into the nearest alley and have his way with her against the first brick wall he could find.

He was, after all, a gentleman. If he was going to have his way with Rose Lithgall, it would be in the comfort of his own bed.

That was, if he could bring himself to stop kissing her.

It was no small feat. The way she clung to him, almost as if she was trying to fuse her body with his, intoxicated him. His hands slid from the waist to the small of her back and finally to cup the lush round of her behind. Her dress was so thin that he could feel the outline of the lace underwear she wore beneath, and a groan of longing escaped him. He needed her naked, and he needed it as soon as possible.

At that moment, the loud blaring of a car horn cut into their intimacy. Rose jumped, pulling back slightly, and Michael’s head jerked up as he turned his irate gaze directly to their left.

There was a car.

It was late, and so they had almost forgotten that they were in the middle of the street – but the driver of this particular vehicle hadn’t. He was laying on the horn, gazing at them with a smile that was entirely too smug for his own good.

With a mumbled curse, Michael pulled Rose out of the way and once the car had rolled past, he couldn’t help the low chuckle that rumbled from his chest. “Well, I’m sure he’ll have a story to tell his wife.”

Rose’s pale cheeks were flushed, her mouth swollen from his kisses, and Michael wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. The young woman took an unsteady breath before finally speaking. “You know, I swore I wouldn’t sleep with you.” Her tone was so uncertain that she sounded as if she was trying to convince herself just as much as she was him.

Gently, Michael cupped her face in his hands, drawing her gaze upward until he could meet her eye once more. “Who said anything about sleeping?”

Rose’s soft, feminine sound of want was all the confirmation he needed. In a trice, Michael was leading her back to the main streets, where the Rolls Royce lie dutifully in wait for them. It took less than a minute to see Rose safely inside before he joined her, and the moment he did, the young woman was pressed against his side, her gaze heated.

Michael had no idea how he was going to survive the ride home. That enticement in Rose’s lovely eyes might very well incinerate him.

**

She had lost it completely. That was all Rose could think as she and Michael entered the dark foyer of the Tate Manor. All the staff was long asleep and the house was quiet.

She was still on fire from the heated kiss Michael had planted on her in the middle of the road, and when he scooped her up in his arms, she didn’t protest.

He was every bit as strong as she had imagined, carrying her up the stairs effortlessly. Instead, of making his way down the entirety of the hall to her room, however, he stopped before his own door, edging it open with his thigh.

Rose only had a moment to take in the decorations. Michael’s room was decidedly one of the most masculine in the house, done in shades of green and gray. He boasted the best view of the gardens and a variety of paintings done in strong, aggressive strokes. Before she could assess much more, however, the young woman found herself being lain on the immense expanse of his bed.

Michael looked down at her, his dark eyes aflame. “You have no idea what I want to do to you, Rose.”

Swallowing thickly, she sat up, running her hand along the hard length of his thigh until she reached the erection tenting the front of his pants. “I know you want to fuck me, don’t you?” The word sounded so foreign, so completely filthy from her lips…at the same time that it empowered her beyond reckoning.

A hiss of approval emanated from Michael as his fingers tangled in her blonde hair. “You’ve a bloody dirty mouth for a lady.” With that, his mouth crashed down atop hers.

As he bore her down against the coverlet, Rose moaned against his mouth. He was like no other man she’d been with before. There was no fumbling, no permission and no tentative caress. Michael knew exactly what he wanted, and he took it from her.

But he gave as much as he took.

His mouth blazed a trail over her jaw and down her throat as he yanked at the zipper of her dress, all but ripping it from its tracks. As he bit at the line of her throat, she shuddered, wiggling out of the top half of her clothing so her breasts were clad in their lacy black lingerie. The sight was enough to make Michael pause in his ministrations as his gaze dropped to her bare torso.

With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her higher up on the bed so she gasped. The motion had the effect of bringing his head in line with the swell of her breasts and Rose shuddered delicately as the heat of his breath penetrated the lace material. “Gorgeous…” He murmured against her collarbone, nipping and kissing his way downward towards her cleavage. “Fucking decadent…”

He was describing her as if she were a particularly lovely trifle, and, at the idea of being devoured by him, Rose whimpered softly. Her hand sifted through his auburn waves as he pressed her thighs apart, situating himself between them. The position hiked her dress up about her waist, allowing her to feel the scalding heat of his erection against the aching warmth between her legs. With a ragged moan, Rose arched against him, sensation coursing through her. She needed him inside her more than she needed her next breath, and it was all she could do to keep from begging that he sate her.

While she was preoccupied with rubbing herself wantonly against Michael’s impressive erection, however, the man was busy peeling down the nearly insubstantial cups of her bra. The moment her pale breasts were exposed to him, he lowered his head to take a rose-colored nipple between his lips.

A soft cry escaped Rose as her head fell back against the pillow. Michael lapped and sucked at the peak of her breast, making obscene sounds that only seemed to further fan the flames of her desire. Her legs all but fell open as she clutched at him desperately, the pressure between her legs building to an almost unbearable level. But Michael, however, made no move to continue further southward. Instead, he merely drew on her nipple with his teeth until pain and pleasure combined to draw a trembling moan from her.

“Michael…Michael please…” She had never begged a man for anything in her life, but she was begging him now. “Please.”

He raised his head to fix her with an indulgent smile. “Please ‘what’, my Lady?”

If she had been in her right mind, she might have slapped him for bringing titles into this. Instead, Rose merely rubbed herself against him like a cat in heat, her tone low and breathless. “Touch me.”

“Touch you where?” He demanded cruelly, his mouth hovering mere millimeters above her own. “Tell me.”

Rose merely caught his hand with one of her own, dragging southward until it rested against the heat at the crux of her legs. “Here. Touch me here.”

Michael chuckled lowly, pressing his mouth to hers in a lazy, lingering kiss that set her nerve endings aflame. “And what would you like me to do there, Rose? Do be specific.”

Rose groaned, thrashing against him. The man would choose now to be completely and totally insufferable. “You ass…” She cursed him lowly in frustration. “Bloody cad-” Any further insults that might have risen to her lips were cut off when Michael’s fingers slid deftly beneath the hem of her panties and over her slick lower lips. All at once, the only sound Rose was coherent enough to make was a soft groan.

“Is this what you wanted?” Michael whispered against her breast, his tongue flicking against her nipple, “My filthy little Duchess?”

Given her current state, Rose could hardly argue with him. She was writhing beneath the man as he ran his fingers torturously over the seam of her. So, instead, she merely nodded, whimpering as Michael’s thumb found the sensitive bead between her lower lips. Without pretense, two fingers plunged into her and she cried out as he worked them deep among her clenching inner muscles. As he rubbed at her insides, his thumb stimulated her clit expertly and his mouth worked at her over-sensitized nipple.

It was too much for Rose to take. She squirmed, bucked and gasped as pleasure streaked through her on increasingly powerful waves. Every stroke of Michael’s fingers inside her pressed her closer and closer to a threatening precipice. Rose moaned, she gasped, she pleaded – and when Michael nipped at the tip of her breast, crooking his fingers against the back of her pelvis in an earth-shattering come-hither motion, Rose flew apart.

She came with a loud cry, clinging to Michael as her body quivered in delectation. Her toes curled, her lips parted, and for a brief moment, it was almost as if she’d ceased to exist. Rose had never climaxed so hard in her life, and when she came down from her high, she felt weak – as if she had just finished a marathon.

Michael was kissing her. Her neck, her breasts, her belly – everywhere he could reach, and little aftershocks of pleasure fluttered through her. Slowly, Rose came back down to earth to the sight of the man gazing down at her almost fondly, a small smile playing about his lips. “Asleep already?”

Rose scowled at him –or, at least, as much of a scowl as she could manage, coming down from the most powerful climax in her twenty-seven years. “Do you ever shut up?” She finally managed, drawing herself up onto her elbows.

Michael smirked. “Quite the question coming from a woman fresh off a round of screaming.”

Rose blushed scarlet. “I was not screaming.” In fact, she had no idea what sounds she’d uttered. She had been so taken with her own pleasure that she might have sung God Save the Queen without noticing.

“No?” The imposing man undid his vest, tossing it on the floor before his shirt fell to the same fate. For the first time, his naked chest was bared to her, and Rose found herself absolutely speechless. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a gorgeous male specimen in her life. Lord Michael Tate could have modeled for Michelangelo or Da Vinci – his fine was broad, well-formed, and absolutely mouthwatering.

“That…” She swallowed thickly, her expression ravenous, “is not a body built from water polo and horse racing.”

Michael merely grinned, his hands on the button of his trousers. “Indeed it isn’t. Try Krav Maga.”

“Krav what? Rose’s answer was breathless as the man leaned over her, once more situating himself between her legs. This time, however, the only barrier between them was their underthings. She could feel the outline of his member, thick, hard and enormous against her.

And she craved it. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” Michael promised huskily, as his hand hooked beneath the waistband of her underwear to tug them downward.

Rose was embarrassingly wet. She could feel the silken sheets sliding against the drenched folds between her legs. She closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to temper her embarrassment, but they flew open at the feel of Michael’s erection, heated silk over steel, sliding over her lower lips. The moment her eyes met his, the man started to sink into her – inch by glorious inch.

Rose quickly found that everything about Michael Tate was in proportion. The man was immense, stretching her deliciously, and her fingernails curled into his shoulders tight enough to bruise as he filled her to the point of gasping, quivering ecstasy.  “Oh, bloody fuck…” The words escaped her as she shifted, wrapping her legs around him almost possessively.

Michael merely growled in reply, withdrawing slightly before plunging in again so a sharp cry escaped her. “Tight.” He grunted. “So fucking tight…”

Rose would have been disappointed if he’d been gentle with her. To be fair, Michael wasn’t brutal, but there was no gentility in the way he pinned her beneath him, each thrust pressing her flat against the mattress. Rose clawed at the man, gasping for succor as each jerk of his hips drove her further and further from sanity. He wasn’t scared of hurting her – wasn’t worried about her station or position. He was raw and unfettered and ever delicious slide of his body against hers was nirvana.

She strained and sweater, her nails leaving red furrows over his shoulders as he fucked her absolutely breathless. He fucked her until only his mouth could muffle the animalistic sounds of pleasure he drew from her and Rose was convinced that she might go mad with pleasure.

But there was no madness.

Instead, Michael forced her to the edge of another mind-blowing orgasm – closer and closer until her own hungry passion consumed her and she came again, this time with his name on her lips.

As Rose’s inner muscles seized around his invasion, Michael groaned, low and long, pumping his hips against her a few final, frantic times before she felt the hot spread of his seed inside her. The young woman shuddered, clutching him all the tighter as she reveled in the sensation – one she had afforded to no other man.

For moments after, neither of them spoke. They were too busy catching their breath. It wasn’t until Michael finally rolled from her, sitting at the edge of the bed, that she finally managed to form words. “You, my Lord, are an absolute beast.” Rose wasn’t sure if she meant the words as an insult or the ultimate compliment, but lucky for her Michael merely smiled at her before rising from the bed to pad towards the bathroom.

Turning onto her side, the young woman stretched leisurely. She expected to feel sore – used and abused. Instead, she merely basked in the warmth of post-orgasmic bliss, every muscle in her body completely relaxed. She had almost dozed off by the time Michael returned, and her eyes cracked open at the sensation of him running a warm, damp cloth over her stomach and thighs. A lazy smiled touched her lips. “Oh, now you want to play the gentleman?”

Michael chuckled lowly. “Pardon me, Lady Lithgall, but a gentleman always gives a lady her pleasure first. I’ve I’m not mistaken, you found yours. Twice.”

Rose was too tired to be embarrassed. She let Michael continue to wash her, indulging in the surprisingly intimate gesture. When he slid into bed again moments later, she frowned sleepily. “I’m not supposed to be sleeping with you.”

“Shh.” Michael shushed her, bringing her into the cradle of his arms. “You’re not sleeping. You’re napping. I won’t let you sleep for long.”

Rose laughed softly. “Beast.”

Her new lover pressed a kiss under her jaw. “Now who won’t shut up?”

She would get him, Rose promised herself. When she woke, he would get his comeuppance. But, for now, she would nap. Just a short one. Either it had been so long since she’d been with a man that she’d forgotten how exactly how exhausting it was, or she had never been this exhausted. For the moment, she decided it didn’t matter, and allowed herself to relax into Michael’s embrace.

Michael, she decided, wasn’t the best name for this man. This man, who was just as much animal as he was gentleman. Just as contradictory as he was obscenity.  No, he sounded much more like an Anton to her.

With no idea where the thought had come from, Rose drifted off on a haze of sated satisfaction, a genuine smile curving her kiss-swollen lips.