them, but the lies and intrigue of town life had begun to pall—society would be aghast if they knew how many nights he spent alone. He collected a glass of wine and threw himself down in a chair. Another lonely night would be nothing new. The rattling of the window reminded him of the weather. Pray heaven it did not snow again—he needed Rose out of the house. He was only flesh and blood, after all, and she was too damned desirable.
Rose shut and locked the door of the guest chamber. The room was warm and she sank down in front of the peat fire. What had she done? To kiss a rake, and so wantonly; she might as well have begged him to take her! It was to Sir Lawrence’s credit that he had let her go so easily.
But you didn’t want him to let you go.
The thought shocked her, but honesty compelled her to acknowledge it. Ever since she had arrived at Knightscote she had felt the tug of attraction. It was not just that he was wickedly handsome, it was the smile in his blue eyes, the way he made her laugh. She had not felt so alive since those early years with Harry, when he had courted her so assiduously. Her thoughts moved on from there to the marriage bed. Since Harry’s death she had never craved another man’s touch, until now. It was loneliness. She wrapped her arms about herself and inched even closer to the fire. That was the true reason for her restless state. She was lonely.
And she had read loneliness in Sir Lawrence’s eyes, too. He had forsaken the world this Christmas to mourn his lost love. Rose’s heart went out to him. He might be a rake, but he was sincerely grieving.
So why not comfort each other?
Rose shook off the insidious thought. It would not do, she was betrothed and she was a mother, although that life seemed a world away. She took off the wrap and slipped between the sheets. The bed was cold. She toyed with the idea of going downstairs in search of a warming pan, but abandoned it. She might see Sir Lawrence and then her noble resolve would crumble. It had been hard enough to walk out of the drawing room.
She shifted restlessly in the bed. Her body was on fire, aching for a man’s touch, but not just any man. With a tiny cry of frustration she turned over.
‘A rake makes the devil of a husband. You should know that by now.’
But her agitated mind would not be appeased. She was not looking for a husband, only a little comfort. An escape from her loneliness. A sweet memory to keep in her heart when she returned to her real world. Rose pummelled her pillow and lay down again, pulling the covers up to her cheek. She pictured Sir Lawrence in the drawing room, her stomach clenching as she imagined him smiling at her, felt again his gentle touch.
One night, then we need never meet again…
Lawrence remained in the drawing room, staring into the fire while the house grew silent around him. Evans would be snoring in his bed behind the kitchen, sleeping off the effects of the flagon of cider Lawrence had spotted on the floor beside his chair. Rose, too, would be asleep by now. The occasional creaking of the boards he put down to the wind, which was howling around the house.
He had risen to throw another log on the fire when he heard the rasp of the door hinges. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the gloom.
‘I thought…about what you said.’ Rose moved across the room. She had left off the enveloping wrap, and the diaphanous folds of the nightgown glistened in the candlelight, outlining every curve of her body—she appeared to float towards him. ‘One night. Then we will go our separate ways.’
Lawrence still could not believe it was not a dream, until he reached out and felt her warm flesh beneath his hands.
‘You are quite sure about this?’
A smile trembled on her lips.
‘Quite sure.’
As he dragged her into his arms Rose tilted her face up, inviting his kiss. His mouth ground over hers, savage, possessive, and her mind reeled, but with
Rose shut and locked the door of the guest chamber. The room was warm and she sank down in front of the peat fire. What had she done? To kiss a rake, and so wantonly; she might as well have begged him to take her! It was to Sir Lawrence’s credit that he had let her go so easily.
But you didn’t want him to let you go.
The thought shocked her, but honesty compelled her to acknowledge it. Ever since she had arrived at Knightscote she had felt the tug of attraction. It was not just that he was wickedly handsome, it was the smile in his blue eyes, the way he made her laugh. She had not felt so alive since those early years with Harry, when he had courted her so assiduously. Her thoughts moved on from there to the marriage bed. Since Harry’s death she had never craved another man’s touch, until now. It was loneliness. She wrapped her arms about herself and inched even closer to the fire. That was the true reason for her restless state. She was lonely.
And she had read loneliness in Sir Lawrence’s eyes, too. He had forsaken the world this Christmas to mourn his lost love. Rose’s heart went out to him. He might be a rake, but he was sincerely grieving.
So why not comfort each other?
Rose shook off the insidious thought. It would not do, she was betrothed and she was a mother, although that life seemed a world away. She took off the wrap and slipped between the sheets. The bed was cold. She toyed with the idea of going downstairs in search of a warming pan, but abandoned it. She might see Sir Lawrence and then her noble resolve would crumble. It had been hard enough to walk out of the drawing room.
She shifted restlessly in the bed. Her body was on fire, aching for a man’s touch, but not just any man. With a tiny cry of frustration she turned over.
‘A rake makes the devil of a husband. You should know that by now.’
But her agitated mind would not be appeased. She was not looking for a husband, only a little comfort. An escape from her loneliness. A sweet memory to keep in her heart when she returned to her real world. Rose pummelled her pillow and lay down again, pulling the covers up to her cheek. She pictured Sir Lawrence in the drawing room, her stomach clenching as she imagined him smiling at her, felt again his gentle touch.
One night, then we need never meet again…
Lawrence remained in the drawing room, staring into the fire while the house grew silent around him. Evans would be snoring in his bed behind the kitchen, sleeping off the effects of the flagon of cider Lawrence had spotted on the floor beside his chair. Rose, too, would be asleep by now. The occasional creaking of the boards he put down to the wind, which was howling around the house.
He had risen to throw another log on the fire when he heard the rasp of the door hinges. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the gloom.
‘I thought…about what you said.’ Rose moved across the room. She had left off the enveloping wrap, and the diaphanous folds of the nightgown glistened in the candlelight, outlining every curve of her body—she appeared to float towards him. ‘One night. Then we will go our separate ways.’
Lawrence still could not believe it was not a dream, until he reached out and felt her warm flesh beneath his hands.
‘You are quite sure about this?’
A smile trembled on her lips.
‘Quite sure.’
As he dragged her into his arms Rose tilted her face up, inviting his kiss. His mouth ground over hers, savage, possessive, and her mind reeled, but with
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