Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
A Dangerous Indulgence
The last of the children had been claimed at last, gathered up by nannies and caretakers with brisk efficiency. Their small voices faded down the hall and out into the square, leaving Rosehaven House oddly hushed after so much brightness.
May light still poured through the tall windows. The day lingered as though it had no intention of yielding to evening just yet.
Petunia clutched her kitten to her chest like a treasure, her cheeks pink with joy.
“I shall show her my bedchamber,” she announced to no one in particular. “She has never seen a proper one before.”
My gift to her was her very own bedchamber. She would no longer sleep in the nursery. In the coming months, I would help her select her furnishings. I had no doubt felines would feature prominently—upon the walls, the coverlet, and very likely everywhere else.
“You will need to arrange a proper bed for your kitten,” Laurel murmured.
Petunia shot her a look of grave disapproval. “She shall sleep on my pillow, next to me.” The kitten flicked its tail as if it agreed.
One by one, the rest of my family drifted away, Holly and Ivy whispering like conspirators, Chrissie toward the music room, Laurel toward the library and the peace it afforded, Fox close at her side.
Honeycutt and Mrs. Bateman had already begun directing the servants to restore the ballroom to order, the remnants of Petunia’s birthday feast swept away as though it had never happened at all.
Cosmos lingered only a moment longer. “I’d best be off. I have an appointment.”
“Shall we expect you for supper?” I inquired. One never knew with Cosmos.
“No. I won’t return until late.”
Awareness sparked. “Give Claire my regards.”
He muttered something under his breath and took his leave, his footsteps brisk as he crossed the room.
I watched him go with the faintest smile, then turned back toward the ballroom.
Toward Steele.
He stood near the far window, the late sun catching the edge of his hair. He looked composed, perfectly controlled, as though he had not spent part of the afternoon watching me with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.
He turned, his gaze finding mine at once. “I should go.”
A simple statement. Perfectly proper. And yet something in my chest tightened with sudden, unreasonable disappointment.
I had enjoyed Petunia’s delight, the laughter of my sisters and brothers, and the warmth of the house. But I had also enjoyed Steele’s presence, and the way the air seemed to sharpen whenever he looked at me.
Now he meant to leave. And I realized, with alarming clarity, that I did not want to part from him.
Not yet.
“Let me walk you out,” I heard myself say.
Steele’s eyes darkened, as though my offer had shifted something inside him. “As you wish.”
We left the ballroom together as servants moved quietly in the hall, collecting glasses and sweeping away crumbs. None of them looked at us, though I was keenly aware of every footfall, every pause, as if the entire house might be listening.
We descended the stairs side by side, close enough that if I turned my head, I might brush his shoulder. The nearness made my pulse quicken, absurdly.
At the foot of the stairs, he stopped. So did I.
For a moment, we stood suspended in the hush of the late afternoon. Somewhere upstairs, a door clicked shut. Somewhere beyond the windows, a carriage rolled past.
My mouth went dry. “Is there something you wished to discuss?” I asked, because I could not bear the silence. Because I needed to pretend I was calm.
Steele’s gaze dropped to my mouth.
“Yes.”
He took my hand and pulled me into the morning room so swiftly I barely managed a breath as the door clicked shut behind us.
I opened my mouth to speak. But before I could do so, he kissed me.
It was not a gentle kiss.
His mouth claimed mine with a hunger so fierce my thoughts scattered at once. A sound escaped me, soft and startled, and my hands flew to his coat, clutching as though I might lose my balance otherwise.
When Steele’s hands slid to my waist and hauled me closer, I felt the full force of him, his height, his strength, the heat of his body pressing into mine. The sensation sent a tremor through me that had nothing to do with fear.
When my knees gave way, he backed me toward the wall without breaking the kiss, as though he could not bear even an inch of space between us. My shoulders met the paneling with a soft thud, the shock of it jolting through me.
I did not pull away. Whatever was driving him, I wanted more.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and I felt his restraint splinter. His breath was uneven against my mouth, his hands tightening at my waist as though he was holding himself in place.
When we finally broke apart, it was only because we had no choice. We needed to breathe.
For a moment, we stood with our foreheads nearly touching, breath shared, my heart hammering wildly inside my chest.
“I needed that,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His gaze took me in.
“I needed this moment,” I went on, the truth spilling out in a rush that left me trembling. “I needed you.”
Something passed through his expression so quickly it hurt to witness it, tenderness edged with violence, as if the world had threatened to take something from him and he could not endure it.
“Rosalynd,” he murmured.
I swallowed, forcing myself to continue. “I have not been sleeping well.”
His entire body stilled.
“The image of her keeps returning,” I said, my voice quieter now. “The girl on the slab. I close my eyes, and I see her again. I wake in the dark with my heart racing as though I am the one lying there, cold and helpless, and I cannot...make it stop.”
Steele’s jaw flexed, fury flashing across his features, not at me but at the cruelty of it, at the world that demanded women be brave and then punished them for it.
“How can I help?” he asked.
I tried for levity because the alternative was unbearable. “You can’t.”
He frowned.
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Unless you intend to sit beside my bed and keep watch like a nursemaid. You cannot be there to drag me out of a nightmare.”
His gaze sharpened, intent and unblinking. “No,” he said. “I cannot be there every time you wake.”
A pause.
“But perhaps I can give you something else.”
“What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through every layer of propriety.
His voice dropped, intimate as a confession.
“A memory,” he said. “Something you can hold in your mind so firmly it will not let the fear take you. Something you can summon when the darkness comes for you.”
My breath caught.
He watched me for a moment, as though weighing the risk of what he was about to say.
“At the boathouse,” he murmured, “you wondered about a man’s desire. About proof of it.”
The words struck like flint, sparking something low and dangerous in me.
“I can give you that,” he said softly, his gaze steady and unflinching, as though he meant to make certain I understood exactly what he was saying.
“If you want it,” he added, quiet, controlled.
I ought to have bristled at his suggestion. I ought to have been affronted, scandalized.
Instead, I stood there trembling like a girl in her first season.
“We cannot cross that line, Steele.”
“We won’t,” he promised at once, as if the assurance cost him.
I should have said no. Should have turned down his offer. But everything in me whispered, “Yes.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Before I could decipher what it was, he reached for me, not with haste, but with intention. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing the line of my jaw as though he were memorizing it.
Then his mouth moved against mine again, disciplined heat sharpening into something that made my knees weaken.
He tasted of restraint and danger, of everything he had held back for too long. My hands clutched his coat, dragging him closer, needing more, and he answered with a low sound that vibrated through his chest.
When we broke, it was only because I had forgotten how to breathe.
His own was uneven, but his hands remained steady, almost maddeningly so.
“I want you to remember,” he murmured, voice rough with control. “Remember how it feels when you are here with me. When nothing can touch you.”
“Steele…”
He cut me off with another kiss, shorter, harder, as though the sound of my voice had struck something in him. When he drew back again, his gaze dipped.
Not to my mouth.
Lower.
The shift sent a hot tremor through me. My fingers tightened on his lapels.
And then his hands slid down.
To my skirts.
He paused there, still as stone, giving me every chance to stop him.
I did not.
I gave the smallest nod.
So he moved again.
Slowly.
He gathered my skirts with deliberate care, lifting only an inch at first, then another, as though he had decided he would not allow impatience to steal the moment.
The air brushed my ankles, then my calves, bare sensation where fabric had always been. The intimacy of it was almost unbearable, wicked in a way no polite conversation ever prepared a woman for.
“Too many layers,” he murmured, the faintest edge of dark amusement in his voice.
“Mind the petticoats,” I managed, though the words came out thin.
He kissed the corner of my mouth, as if to quiet my defiance.
His fingers found the first tie and undid it with maddening ease. Then the next.
Each release felt like a small undoing of the world.
He did it calmly, as though he meant to show me not only his desire, but his control of it. As though he wished me to understand that this was not something taken in frenzy, but something offered with intention.
And it was unbearable.
Something in me tightened until I thought I might shatter.
“Faster,” I breathed.
His gaze lifted, dark amusement lingering there for a heartbeat. Then it vanished, replaced by hunger that made my throat tighten.
Still, his hands continued their slow, methodical work, as though the sound of my pleading had only sharpened his determination to make me feel every second.
Another tie came loose. Another barrier yielded.
My breath turned thin. My thoughts scattered.
Suddenly, he lifted me and his body pressed in, more primal this time. I felt him, hard and unmistakable through his trousers, the proof I had once wondered about with such reckless curiosity.
A broken sound escaped me.
“There,” he murmured, voice thick, as though the word hurt him. “That is what you wanted to know.”
My cheeks burned. My stomach clenched with want so sharp it frightened me.
His hands tightened at my waist, then slid back to my skirts, lifting them higher now, not with violence, but with urgency beginning to fray at the edges.
Not tearing.
Not damaging.
But no longer leisurely.
Once the last barrier was gone, he went still.
Not because the heat had faded.
Because it had become too much.
His gaze dropped. Took me in. The look on his face struck something in my chest so fierce I could hardly bear it, reverence tangled with hunger, as though he could not decide whether to worship or devour.
“God,” he breathed. The word was his ruin.
His hips shifted.
A controlled press at first. A measured friction meant to be nothing more than proof. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath my ear, and he nipped my skin, not playful, not teasing, but as though the restraint was slipping through his fingers.
I shuddered so hard I had to clutch his shoulders to keep from falling.
For a moment he held there, pressed close, his entire body taut with discipline.
But my response betrayed me. I moaned as my body arched into him without permission, chasing more, begging without words.
And Steele froze.
The line had been reached.
His breath stuttered. His fingers dug into my waist. He pressed his forehead briefly to mine, eyes closing hard. When he spoke, his voice had changed, stripped of teasing and all pretense.
“I have to stop,” he said hoarsely. “If I don’t, I will not be able to.”
The words landed like a blow. Like a vow.
With hard-won effort, he stepped back, his hands leaving me as though it cost him to let go. My skirts fell in disarray, my petticoats loosened and indecent in a way they had never been with a man.
I swayed, breathless.
He looked at me once more, gaze fierce and pained all at once.
“Remember,” he said, voice low enough to feel like possession. “When the dreams come, remember this.”
He reached for the door, then paused, turning back once as though he could not bear to leave without giving me one last certainty.
“You are not alone in this,” he said. “Not ever again.”
Then he was gone.
I remained where I was, one hand pressed to my lips, the other over my heart.
The sounds from outside the room reached me as the house returned to order.
But inside me, everything had changed.
The fear still existed. The dead girl still haunted the edges of my mind.
But now there was something else to summon when the nightmares came.
A memory.
A vow.
And a man’s desire, held in check by devotion.