Chapter 12 Regrets and Candor #2
Wallace paused, reading the room in a glance, before the duke inclined his head.
The footman moved forward, clearing their plates and setting down porcelain dishes of custard crowned with berries and a thin sheen of honey.
The scent of vanilla drifted between them.
But Rosamund wasn’t finished.
Once Wallace withdrew and the door closed again, she leaned forward slightly.
“You are gentle with your animals. Patient with your wood. Diligent with your crops, your tenants, your herds.” Her gaze did not waver. “You notice what needs to be repaired. You provide for those who are less fortunate. You make things work.”
He did not look at her.
She continued anyway.
“And I will have you know,” she added, a small curve touching her mouth, “that I have been known to bring out the very worst in otherwise patient people.”
His eyes flicked up at that.
“I arrived uninvited,” she went on. “I questioned you. Followed you. Pressed where you did not wish to be pressed.” A beat. Softer now. “I kissed you.”
The silence thickened.
“And yet,” she finished quietly, “you did not harm me. You did not lose control. You did not become what you fear.”
His jaw tightened.
“I think,” she said gently, “you may have more command of yourself than you allow.”
The silence that followed was thick, crowded with unforgettable impressions of that kiss. The warmth of his mouth. The surety of his hands. That undeniable electric surge, waiting just beneath the surface.
The duke set his spoon down with deliberate care, and then he grimaced.
“If not for Angus, I-–It was a mistake, you know.”
“Was it?”
For a single unguarded moment, he met her eyes.
And something in his expression shifted—almost uncertain. As though the answer were not as simple as he wished it to be.
Then the shutters came down.
“I have indulged this far longer than was wise,” he said, his tone cooling by degrees. “Your visit. Your questions. Your… damned article.” A pause. “I will be relieved to return to order.”
“Relieved?” The word felt thin in her mouth.
She held his gaze, searching for some flicker of irony. Some indication he did not mean it.
“This hasn’t been only about the article,” she said quietly.
His expression did not change.
“The time we’ve spent together…” She stopped, steadied herself. “You have shown me things you do not show others. Your work. Your home. Your… thoughts.”
Her hand moved almost unconsciously to the silk at her waist.
“You gave me this,” she added, softer now. “You shared your table. Your forest. Your confidence.”
She swallowed, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, she added…
“This wasn’t only work to me.”
But he remained tightlipped and silent.
She could only shake her head.
Foolish, foolish Rosamund. To have imagined…
“So that is it,” she said softly. “I’ve been nothing more than an inconvenience. Something to be endured.”
“You have done what you asked. More, in fact. But this… it’s over.”
The finality of it—how neatly he cut her out—hurt more than she cared to admit.
“Then I shall not trouble you further.”
Her chair scraped violently against the floor. And as she half stumbled away from the table, she nearly tripped over her skirts.
Just as she reached for the door, his voice stopped her.
“Miss Belle.”
She swiped at her wet cheeks, sniffed once. “I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m angry.”
Her hand closed around the door handle.
But before she could pull it open, two hands landed flat against the wood, caging her in.
The vibration of the impact hummed through her spine, and she was instantly engulfed by him—not just by his heat, but by the scent of woodsmoke and spice that seemed to radiate from his very pores.
“I’m well aware of your tendencies to try a person’s patience,” he said, quieter now. “Keeping mine has not been easy.”
Heat radiated at her back, searing through her gown. His breath stirred the loose curls at her nape, and suddenly she was engulfed—not only by the sheer wall of his body, but by the essence of him.
Slowly, she turned, her sleeves brushing against the corded muscle of his forearms.
And even though her voice trembled, she was sure. “Maybe I want you to… lose control.”
“You don’t know what you are saying.” His gaze held hers, searching.
“I want to know…” She licked her lips. “I want to feel it.”
His lips parted, almost in disbelief, and then…
His mouth crashed onto hers with a force that stole her breath, driving her backward until her spine met the solid wood of the door.
The impact startled her.
The kiss did not.
This was the intensity she had glimpsed beneath his restraint—the contained storm she had sensed in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his hands flexed when he thought no one noticed.
Raw. Unfiltered.
His hand braced beside her head, the other spanning her waist, holding her in place as his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that bordered on feral.
There he is. This so-called beast.
Not cruel. A little uncontrolled. But fierce.
And… She trusted it.
Trusted him.
Her fingers curled into his coat, not to push him away—but to anchor herself as his mouth grew more demanding, as his body pressed closer.
He made a low sound in his throat—rough, urgent.
Yes.
His hand—strong and sure—glided over the curve of her hip, and then around to her backside, gripping and kneading her lush curves as though he were tracing her shape, searching for her grain.
She remembered his warning about the pine—how it was “soft wood." It would "show every mark left behind.”
Yes. Please.
Rosamund’s pulse raced, her breath came uneven, and yet beneath it all was a quiet certainty: With him, she would always be safe.
She didn't feel the need to shrink away. Instead, she arched into him, wanting to be the wood that took his "stain," wanting to be the surface he marked with his passion.
His mouth tore from hers. “What are you doing to me?” he rasped, his teeth dragging along her shoulder.
Rosamund trembled, arching into him. “Me?”
He pulled away just enough for his eye to catch hers, dark and blazing. “Yes, you, woman.”
The possessiveness in it made her shiver.
“Why?” she whispered.
His eye narrowed, but his mouth curved. “Allow me to show you.”
His fingers slipped between them, hooking on the silk of her bodice. Then he tugged. Seams parted beneath his work-worn grip, sending fabric sliding down her arms as cool air kissed newly-bared skin.
She gasped—not from modesty, but from the sudden exposure. From the way his gaze followed the descent of silk as though unveiling something sacred.
His knuckles skimmed her shoulder as the gown slipped lower, deliberate, unhurried. Not destruction.
Revelation.
And the look in his eye told her he had no intention of stopping.
But the chill was brief. His mouth was there in an instant, hot and devouring, as he pulled one nipple deep into his mouth. He groaned, a sound rough and desperate, as though he were starving for the very abundance she’d always wanted to hide.
“Freckles,” he muttered against her skin, his lips brushing the curve of her breast. His tongue traced over the faintest speck. “All lead to hidden treasure.” He kissed another, lower. “So much hidden treasure.”
Rosamund’s head fell back against the door, her eyes fluttering shut. She had spent her life feeling like she was too much, but under Julian’s touch, she felt like… more was better.
“God help me.” His voice vibrated low against her skin, the sound traveling through her like a pulse.
Rough whiskers dragged over tender flesh. The scrape made her gasp—a sharp, delicious sting that sent heat rushing downward. And then his mouth followed, warm and damp, closing over the place he had just abraded.
Her fingers tightened in his hair as sensation rippled outward, tightening low in her belly, feeding a deep, aching throb.
She had spent years pretending her curves were a flaw, something to minimize. To disguise beneath careful posture and sensible gowns.
But beneath his hands—his reverent, possessive hands—there was nothing flawed about her shape.
The weight of her breasts filled his palms and his mouth worshiped them as though he had discovered abundant perfection.
Rosamund’s head fell back against the door, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure rolled through her in warm, liquid waves.
Her hips tilted toward him, frustrated by the barrier of her skirts, silently seeking more… begging.
He answered by hooking his arm under her knee, lifting her leg high, and stepping closer.
The movement pressed her center flush to the thick ridge of him and she clutched at his shoulders.
HIs hands moved between them, over the swell of her belly, lower. And then… Pressure. Slow but deliberate, making her breath hitch.
“Your Grace…” she groaned.
He lifted his head, gaze locking with hers. “You like this?”
She could only nod.
Nimble fingers gathered her skirts, lifting the silk slowly, inch by inch.
“Your Grace…” she breathed again, this time in total surrender.
His knuckles grazed her knee first.
She shivered.
Higher.
His palm skimmed the curve of her thigh. He did not rush. He did not seize.
He explored.
Her lashes fluttered closed and Rosamund focused on every movement — the slow ascent along her inner thigh, the deliberate pause just short of where she burned for him.
He lingered there. Testing.
Her breaths came out in little flutters.
His thumb drifted closer, then away again, and when at last his touch found the place that pulsed with aching warmth, her body answered before her mind could.
“Yes.”
Encouragement.
Permission.
His hand moved with new certainty now — slow, deliberate strokes that made her hips shift instinctively toward him. Every pass drew sensation tighter, higher, until the world seemed to narrow to the space between his hand and her breath.
“Your Grace.” And then—
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open.
His gaze held hers, forcing her to meet his even as her cheeks flamed.
“Julian.” His voice was harsher now, desperate.
She licked her lips. “Julian.”
“Again.”
“Julian.”
She watched his lips part at the exact moment he pushed inside. The unfamiliar fullness made her gasp and her body tightened instinctively around him.
His mouth found her throat, his breath hot against her skin as his hand worked with devastating precision. Slow at first. Then deeper. Curling. Stroking in a way that made her toes press into the floor and her fingers clutch at his shoulders.
“God help me,” he murmured against her pulse. “I could lose myself in you.”
The words shattered something inside her.
His rhythm shifted—firmer, more certain—until sensation gathered low and sharp and impossible to ignore. Heat spiraled tighter and tighter, every nerve drawn taut. “I want—”
She didn’t know what she wanted.
But he did. A certain touch deep inside that made the world flash white behind her eyes. She arched her back and a cry tore from her throat.
The sensation overtook her, weakening her legs as pleasure crashed through her in powerful, pulsing waves.
And as she clung to him, her body shuddered, tightening around his hand, breath breaking in helpless fragments against his shoulder. He did not withdraw.
He stayed.
Holding her there. Guiding her through it, his forehead resting against her collarbone while she struggled to find air.
She barely had time to steady herself when his hand dropped, but so did he.
And he was already on his knees before her, his gaze dark and intent as both his hands now gripped her thighs.
Her pulse spiked again.
“Julian—what are you—”
The look in his eye stole her breath anew.
“My turn for dessert.” His voice was rough, stripped of composure.
Her cheeks flushed, but she did not look away.
“Des—Dessert?”
The skirts were shoved higher. Then his shoulders pressed between her thighs, nudging her feet apart.
“Better than caramel treacle.”
And his mouth—dear God, his mouth—was on her. Hot, devouring, his tongue now in place of his fingers, his lips sealing over the very heart of her. Laving. Sucking.
She couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe—only feel. His tongue circled, pressed, thrust, and she cried out, her hips rocking against him, shamelessly seeking more.
More of that unbearable pressure, more from the promise building tighter and hotter making her think that in any second, in any instant, she would burst into a million pieces–
“Julian!” She cried out, sharp and unguarded, her body writhing against the door as she let herself be completely undone.
Waves of pleasure rolled over her, through her, all around her.
And she could only ride them out, for she knew not how long, eventually sagging weakly against the door, trembling from head to toe.
Slowly, awareness seeped back.
The door at her back.
Her thighs propped on broad shoulders.
Blinking, Rosamund stared down, in part wonder and part disbelief.
At the Beast of Bexley, who was still under her skirts.