Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(37)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

"I feel a headache coming on." Rosalind said once alone with Stefan near the dancing.

He offered his arm and escorted her out of the crush. "Well, sweetheart, we only have to stay long enough to give the gossips something to talk about for tea during afternoon calls."

Rosalind clenched her teeth. The last thing she wanted was to be the object of gossip again. If anything it seemed the curse on their family wasn’t death but to be perpetual gossip for the ton to sink their fangs into.

Leaning against Stefan as much as she could without thumbing her nose at propriety, she suddenly felt a tingling sensation in her legs. Her breathing slowed at a rapid rate. It was torture keeping her head up, if she just closed her eyes once, just one time.

"Rose," Stefan whispered near her head. "Rose?" His voice more urgent, she wanted to shake her head to tell him she was fine and that the spell would pass as it always did, instead she felt worse than previous times. If she could, she would be sucking in air faster than she currently was. Her lungs would not work, and her legs and arms were unable to move. Warm hands were suddenly on her, and she was lifted into the air as the black took over.

Stefan felt a sense of history repeating itself as Rosalind again fainted or fell asleep into his arms. Only this time, he was fortunate to be hidden away from the crush of people, which made it easier for him to escort her down the hall. Panic at her wellbeing overwhelmed the need he felt rush through his body at having her in his arms again. Clenching his teeth, he slowly made his way back towards the hallway near the far side of the room.

Finally reaching the darkened escape route, one arm held her while the other tried the doors. The first few were locked, finally nearing the end of the hallway and perspiring with the task at hand, the door finally gave. He rushed her in through the darkness, shuffling across the hard floor until his foot hit a stool.

Biting back an oath he continued towards the only light in the room, coming straight from the open curtains, the full moon.

The room was dead silent; he pulled Rosalind into his lap as he sat on the bench in the window.

"Rose?" He caressed her face, cursing his hands for shaking as they pushed back hair that had fallen across her cheekbone. God above, she was breathtaking. Her skin so soft that he could no more stop touching her than stop breathing. Her lips parted and let out a shallow breath of air.

Curious, he looked closer, tilted her towards the moonlight and noticed the shade of light blue across it.

This spell was not like the others.

"Propriety be damned," he said, turning her on his knee as he pulled at her dress, first unfastening the buttons with rapid speed, and then loosening her stays until he knew she could breathe. Once the dress was loose on her form he waited for color to return to her face. Cursing, he leaned in only to see the blue still across her lips.

What the devil was wrong with her?

He could do nothing save hold her and wait. Never had fear gripped his heart as strong as in that moment.

Finally, after an eternity, she stirred in his arms. "Rose!"

She coughed and moaned. Her eyes fluttered open and she tried to speak through pale lips.

"Rose?" He slowly patted her face, willing her eyes to open.

Her eyes fluttered open, like tiny pin points she kept opening and closing them as if trying to focus. "Stefan?"

"Yes, love. Careful. I, uh…" Blast. How was he to explain this predicament? I unfastened your corset in your sleep?

He groaned and changed the subject. "You couldn’t breathe. Do you remember anything?"

She choked on a sob and threw her arms around his neck. "It’s never been like that before! I’m dying! Stefan, I know it. I should have told you. I hadn’t a spell since the first ball we met at! I must be dying!"

He wasn’t sure what alarmed him more, Rosalind unable to breathe or Rosalind giving into fear untypical of her normal strength.

"Love, look at me."

Shaking, she pulled back, he silently thanked God that her lips were returning to their cherry hue. "You are not dying."

"You don’t know… I have these spells, and you don’t know!"

"Rosalind, you are not dying. I won’t allow it. And we’ve discussed this in detail. The spells were not affecting you when in the country side. There must be a simple explanation. I refuse to believe the curse has anything to do with it."

At that she laughed. "Oh, and how do you plan to stop my sleeping spells or my disease, Stefan? Merely order the angel of death to stay put?"

"If I have to." He chuckled. "Rose, other than your spells, you are a healthy, stubborn woman. We’ll simply trust in that for now. And, I doubt your spells have been anything like this, have they?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "No, I’ve always been able to breathe. This time I felt as if the world was suffocating me. Everything was constricting and then my dress—"

She glanced down at the loose fabric and to Stefan’s irritation it was at that exact moment that he heard someone try the door to the room.

Quickly, he pulled the curtains around them and lifted Rosalind further into the corner and onto his lap, the curtains easily covered them as long as the intruder didn’t fancy a look at the moonlight.

He motioned for her to be still and quiet. She nodded, and if he wasn’t so concerned about her health, his family, getting married, or the fact that something was causing everyone to die, he would be enjoying this moment. The smell of her skin trapped inside their alcove, her hair rubbing his chin and her supple body fitting snuggly into his, as if made for one another.

"Cheroot?" The voice sounded familiar, though it was hushed, as if the man was trying to disguise himself. Stefan couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and he wasn’t about to expose them by making a move to peek through the curtain.

"I did not travel all this way to share a smoke and brandy with you as you are well aware."

"Ah, yes, well. It was polite of me to ask, don’t you think?" The man laughed nervously.

"Forgive me, but nothing about you seems polite." The other man said sternly. And then it hit Stefan, the one man was Dominique; his voice held that calculated smoothness. As if he needed to talk slow and concise lest his accent make a sudden appearance.

"You owe me," Dominique said plainly.

"It was a misunderstanding, my lord nothing more." The man coughed, his voice scratchy.

Dominique let out a beastly laugh. "A misunderstanding you say? How was it to be a misunderstanding when I discovered you tried to rob my own fortune away from me? Or are you referring to the misunderstanding when you set about murdering my valet?"