Chapter 14
Bull was really quite proud of himself.
He’d had almost two decades of experience when it came to undressing women, but he was fairly certain this was the first time he’d put clothing back on one.
Equally difficult, because his Rose slept like the dead.
He’d noticed the moment she’d fallen asleep in his arms, and had to admit he’d breathed a little sigh of relief. Not because he didn’t want more time with her, or because he didn’t want to kiss her again…but because he was stickily uncomfortable.
When was the last time he’d spilled in his trousers?
Christ, was ‘never like this’ a valid answer?
He couldn’t recall ever doing it before, but the moment Rose had shown up in his room, he’d known he was fooked.
He’d had the wherewithal to attempt trousers, but it hadn’t been comfortable without smalls.
And when she’d reached in and begun to stroke him?
Bull should’ve just allowed himself to spill then, all over her clever fingers so he could focus on her.
Thank fook he’d buttoned the damn things back up again, because having his tongue in her cunny, feeling her body spasm around his fingers?
Good Christ he’d wanted, more than anything, to be inside her.
To claim her as his.
Ye’re no’ good enough for her.
Demon had told him that, and Bull knew it.
But now? Now he’d held her as she’d climaxed? Now he’d brought her pleasure?
Now it didn’t matter he wasn’t worthy of Rose. He wasn’t going to be able to give her up.
But he also couldn’t claim her, not until he knew they could have a future together.
So he’d soiled the inside of his trousers instead of her cunny.
Stifling his sigh, Bull now worked to extract himself from her tight hold.
She was twined around him in the most delicious way, but she was also deeply asleep which made it a little easier.
He made certain to rest Lady Mistree’s emerald ring between her breasts before he tucked Rose in and rolled from the bed.
Making quick work of shucking his soiled trousers, Bull pulled on a fresh pair of smalls, then tested the water in the jug. Still warm. Good.
One of the first things he’d learned as a lad was how to care for his own clothing.
He knew fabrics and materials backwards and forwards, knew how to pair them for the best contrast or match, knew which ones worked with which designs, knew how to make them flow.
And the first thing he’d had to do when he studied under the masters was learn how to wash and care for the fabrics he was learning.
Bull figured he had to be the only duke’s son in London who washed all of his own clothing. Not because he couldn’t afford laundry services, but because he enjoyed caring for the fabrics and weaves.
Now, with utmost care, he cleaned the insides of his trousers, wincing a little at the inelegance of his plentiful spend.
He hadn’t been able to help himself; with his mouth and jaw pressed against Rose’s sweet cunny, feeling her squeezing him from all angles as he’d brought her to climax, he’d lost control of his own body and, with a muffled grunt, had come in his trousers.
“Well, worse things have happened,” Bull murmured, hanging them up to dry by the dying embers of the fire and pulling out a fresh pair from his luggage.
Once he was fully dressed—a sort of armor against the temptation of the perfect woman nestled in his bed—he set to work getting Rose’s nightgown and robe back on her.
Since she was so deeply asleep, he’d struggled to lift her upright, to slide her arms into the sleeves, and had found himself chuckling at the little noises she made as he wrapped her in his blanket.
Then he lifted her in his arms, made certain she was fully covered, and carried her from his room. The fact he didn’t slam her head into the doorframe was a miracle, as was the fact that two flights of stairs later, she still hadn’t woken.
He knew her room, and tucked her into her bed without issue.
But as he bent to drop a parting kiss to her lips, Rose rolled over and grabbed him, pulling him down beside her.
Bull had just a moment to wonder if she’d been awake this whole time when she muttered something—likely a curse word, knowing this particular duke’s daughter—and buried her head in his neck.
Smiling, he lay down, wrapped her in his arms, and gave into the inevitable.
He couldn’t recall a better night’s sleep.
He’d always been good at waking before dawn, and today was no different.
This time he managed to kiss Rose—lightly, although he wasn’t sure it would have mattered, judging by how she was snoring lightly in the most adorable manner—and extricate himself without issue, sliding his shoes silently back on.
He was just backing out of her door, pulling it closed quietly behind him, when a throat clearing had him whirling about. Oh ye God—was he was going to have to do battle with Demon?
Nae. But it was worse.
It was Georgia standing in the hallway behind him, one brow raised and a mug of something cradled in her palms.
“Why good morning, Bull.” She lifted the mug as if in explanation, her tone mild.
“When a woman reaches a certain age, she finds her sleep cycle all fooked up, along with unexplained hot flashes and irritation. Mostly this is a tremendous inconvenience, but it also means I am prone to wander the house while my husband snores blissfully.” Her eyes narrowed.
“Which means I can catch clandestine rendezvous. Which is what this looks like. Is this what it looks like?”
Her conversational tone had thoroughly ambushed Bull, and he blurted out his answer before thinking about it. “Lady Georgia, I genuinely wish it were.”
“Hmm.” She took a moment to sip from whatever was in the mug as she studied him. “I have never seen a man look so sad while being so honorable.”
The observation startled a chuckle out of Bull, and he busied himself with pulling Rose’s door fully closed. “I wish I wasnae so honorable, but…” He shrugged. “Yer daughter is special. She deserves the best.”
“Yes, she does.” Georgia’s expression was carefully neutral. “And you do not think that is you?”
Shite.
The last place Bull wanted to talk about his feelings was standing in the pre-dawn dimness outside Rose’s room after having his tongue in her—but Georgia deserved to know the truth. Hell. Not all the truth. “I am…no’ the kind of man a duke’s daughter marries. I came from nothing—”
“You came from two very fine families with loving bonds, even if you are illegitimate. And you have many talents, and have used those talents to build yourself a successful life.”
You are good at making friends. Rose had said that. Standing there with his fingers tapping out a complex rhythm on his thighs, Bull tried to figure out if her mother was agreeing.
Georgia didn’t give him time to respond. “Do you love her?”
The answer to that one was easy, at least. He blew out a breath as his fingers stilled, as certainty filled him. “I do. I ken there’s nae future for us, but I…I cannae let her go.”
“Hmmm.”
Rose’s mother didn’t say anything to such a bold vow, but studied him over the lip of the mug. Then, with nothing more than a nod, she turned down the corridor toward her bedchamber. “I will join you in the library again later today. I would like to continue the search into my mother’s origins.”
And Bull watched her go, more confused than ever.
Rosie wasn’t whistling as she bounced down the stairs on the way to lunch, but it was close.
She’d slept brilliantly, and somehow woken in her own bed well after the breakfast hour had passed.
She could pretend the reason was because of the previous nights in strange beds… but she knew it was because of Bull.
When she’d awoken she smelled his soap on her pillows, and known she hadn’t imagined cuddling with him all night.
So yes, she was smiling as she joined her father at the table. “Good morning, Da.”
“Morning?” he grunted, sorting through the day’s post without looking up. “Ye slept until almost noon, lassie. When I was yer age, I was up with the dawn—“
“Walking to school,” she finished for him, reaching for the soup to pour herself some. “Uphill—”
“Both ways, on my hands and knees—”
“Yes, I forgot you had to crawl,” Rosie said seriously.
Her Da’s mouth twitched. “In the snow.”
“Or the mud,” she teased. “This is Scotland, after all.”
Her father glared at her over the pair of reading glasses he’d taken to wearing when he dealt with estate business, or when he was enjoying one of the books from his vast library. “All I’m saying is that ye bairns have it easy these days, what with yer newfangled music and electricity and pockets.”
Rose nodded solemnly as she lifted a spoonful of soup. “We are truly what is wrong with this world.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are ye mocking me?”
“Aye, ye dunderbore,” she drawled. “I learned from the best.”
Her father merely snorted, rolled his eyes, and went back to his sorting. “Bills, bills…all I get is bills. Here’s a letter for yer mother.”
Rose glanced toward the door. “Where is Mother?” And where, for that matter, was Bull?
Not that she was daft enough to ask her father that…
“In the library,” Da said, without looking up. “She and that rapscallion idiot of yers are combing through the history of the peerage in the last fifty centuries. Sounds boring as fook to me.”
Rose placed her spoon down, her throat having suddenly closed. “But necessary to our case,” she rasped. Bull had told her that had been his plan for the day, and she needed to help him.
First, however…
She cleared her throat. “Da, Bull is not an idiot. He is not the rapscallion you remember, either. He has grown into a fine man with a successful business—”