The Shamrock & the Rose by Regan Walker Page B

“She can be quite
determined.”
    Lady Picton just smiled confidently and
waved as she sallied forth into the crowd.
    The countess had insisted upon giving them
an elaborate reception, held in her grand room. Both Alvanley and
Sir Alex came, and with good grace they added their wishes for much
happiness. Rose was glad she couldn’t hear whatever it was Alvanley
whispered to Morgan. All she heard was Morgan’s reply: “But she is
mine now.”
    After the dinner feast, but before the
guests had drunk the last glass of champagne, Morgan swept Rose
upstairs. He carried her over the threshold into the bedchamber
prepared for their wedding night, bathed in soft candlelight where
a fire crackled. As he set her feet on the rug, Rose saw the white
linen sheets in the large four-poster bed turned down and the
entire bed covered with red rose petals. On a small table near the
fireplace was a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
    “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
    “I have eyes only for you, sweetheart,”
Morgan answered in a voice that unmasked his Irish lilt. Turning
her in his arms, he took the pins from her hair and let her long
tresses fall down her back. “Ah, the hair I have longed to run
through my fingers.” Then, as he did: “It’s like soft Irish
rain.”
    He slipped her gown over her head then
unlaced her corset. “These must go.” Left with only her chemise, he
turned her again and stared. “You are so beautiful, my love.”
    Rose shivered as Morgan brushed his warm
lips over the tops of her shoulders and up the side of her neck
where he nibbled on her earlobe. His hands lifted her chemise and
tossed the offending garment to the floor, but nervous and
altogether naked she felt herself blush and brought her arms up to
cover her breasts.
    “I see the problem,” he said, and quickly
doffed his clothes.
    The sight of his bare male body was a shock
to Rose’s innocence. Broad muscled shoulders narrowed to slim hips
just as the dark hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line leading
to a wealth of dark hair that lay at the base of his… oh my !
His man’s flesh stood erect and was so large as to frighten
her.
    “That has been my condition since our ride
in the park,” he said, grinning. “Do not be alarmed. Soon it will
bring you much pleasure, wife.”
    Rose was alarmed, but he gently
pulled her arms from her chest to wrap around his waist, drawing
her breasts against his warm, hard chest. He kissed her, and their
two bodies melded together as his tongue leisurely stroked hers.
She’d never tire of his kisses.
    Forgetting she had never been with a man
before, Rose brought her hands up to circle Morgan’s neck. His own
hands swept down her back in response, to her bottom where his
palms covered her buttocks and pulled her more tightly against his
aroused flesh. He was now her husband, Rose reminded herself with
delight. Her breasts tickled at the feel of his warm skin.
    “The bed, I think,” he whispered in a husky
voice.
    Lifting her effortlessly, he walked to the
bed and laid her on the rose petals, pausing to let his blue eyes
sweep over her form. She shivered as though he touched her. Then
suddenly he was next to her, drawing her close, his chest flush
with her breasts, and his body touching hers to their toes. He
kissed her deeply, his tongue stroking hers and his hands roaming
her hip and down her thigh, and she felt a warm wetness between her
legs. When his hand swept over her breasts, a fire burst forth
wherever his fingers touched.
    “Oh…,” she moaned.
    His thumb had teased the sensitive flesh of
her nipple until he replaced his thumb with his tongue. Her body
was sensitive to his every touch, and she clung to him, combing her
fingers through the dark curls on his head. He seemed to hear her
plea, and he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked gently while
slipping his leg between hers. She lifted her hips to embrace his
leg, wanting she knew not what.
    * * *
    Morgan had wondered what