Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(39)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

"Stefan?"

"Rosalind?"

"My dress, if you please." She turned her back and waited for his warm hands to torture her as he tightened her dress and set her to rights. He lifted her hair and made slow work of tightening her stays.

If the fires of Hades erupted in that very room, Rosalind would have merely shrugged — unfulfilled desire shot through her as Stefan slowly tightened her stays. Each tug sent a shiver down her arms and legs; would wicked behavior be so horrible? Her treacherous hands demanded she push down her dress and let him have his way with her.

But they were to be married so soon and although she knew him to be a good protector, he hadn’t yet said the words she so desperately needed to hear. Love, it seemed, was never in the stars for Rosalind, but she could still hope that before she died he would utter those sacred words and just maybe look at her the way she so ached for.

"All done." His hands left her, causing an ache to stir in her heart.

"Lovely." She swallowed and managed to walk by the giant man without falling prostrate, begging him to kiss her as he had before. Really, she felt quite fit for Bedlam at that moment. Her thoughts were just that, madness in its purest form.

There was nothing that could be done with her hair, to put it in the original arrangement would be near impossible. So she settled for a simple chignon and hoped nobody would notice it had changed. Exhaling, she reached for the door. Awareness of Stefan’s nearness still trickled down her body. How was it that by just being near the man, she was ready to ask him to take her dress off again?

She has bewitched me. Stefan followed Rosalind’s retreating form and swore He had nobody to confide in, not a single one. It seemed the only women he trusted enough to speak to just so happened to be the one that was driving him irrevocably insane. On cue, the object of his lust filled fantasy’s turned towards the Dowager of Barlowe, making him instantly uncomfortable. The last thing he needed was for his grandmother to see him in his current state. Both women lifted a curious brow in his direction, and he suddenly felt like some recalcitrant schoolboy. Should he shuffle his feet and avert his eyes and add to the effect? Or approach the women in hopes that they were talking of the weather. Right, his grandmother talking of weather. He would laugh the day weather would replace gossip.

"Ladies," he said as he approached.

"Stefan my boy, why haven’t you danced with the lady yet? She tells me she hasn’t danced a single dance with her betrothed all evening! I expected more from my grandson." The Dowager continued to stare daggers through Stefan.

The air stole from his lungs when Rosalind bit her lip in expectation of his question. "Would you care to dance?"

She took his gloved hand, and he led her to the middle of the dance floor. They hadn’t danced together since the time in the meadow. Maybe it was the candlelight, or possibly inanity from the curse, but holding Rosalind in his arms felt special — right.

"So you can dance eloquently once indoors…" Rosalind turned in his arms. Devil take it, she felt good.

"Yes well, I prefer the snow and woodland creatures to the gossip of the ton any day."

"Don’t forget Samson, though I imagine he was more jealous than entertained by our little dance."

Stefan quirked a smile at her mention of his horse. "You never told me what you were doing out dancing in the snow in the first place, nor the identity of your invisible dance partner, Rosalind."

She blushed to the roots of her hair. "I was dancing with a man from my dreams."

"Do you often dream of men?" He lifted a brow, suddenly interested in all of her mad fantasies, never mind that he wanted to kill any man real or made up that touched her, including the married ones.

As he pulled her closer, his hands glided down the curve of her dress. He had never discovered a more perfect fit for his hand, and in that moment wondered if there ever would be anything that belonged so rightfully in his arms.

Rosalind cleared her throat. "I don’t often dream of men. Just one."

"One? So he’s real? Where is he? I’ll destroy him! You are mine, Rosalind. Never forget who you belong to. It is I who crave the taste of your lips. I who desire you in my bed from now until forever… and it is I who will slay your dragons and storm the castle to win your love." His grip tightened as he pulled her body as close as he could during the dance. "And it is I who will make slow agonizing love to you until your body is sated…" The dance ended, he had yet to release her. "Nobody else…" His voice was gruff filled with lust, grief, and jealousy. Why the devil was he shaking?

"Stefan?" Rosalind lifted a gloved hand to his face.

"Yes?" He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"It is you."

Her warm hand abandoned his face. Rosalind left him wanting, needing, gasping for air and feeling lost all at the same time. Whatever did she mean? The time spent thinking on her cryptic words was interrupted when Gwen nearly ran into him.

"She’s gone."

How was it that he was cursed with so many females in his life? Did they always talk in riddles? "Yes, well, I’m sure we’ll find her." He patted her shoulder. The poor thing was probably exhausted after being at her first ball.

"No, Your Grace. It’s Isabelle. She’s gone! I know she wouldn’t leave the ball without us. I just know it! Something dreadful has happened!"

"Stay calm, I’m sure we’ll find her." Stefan threw her a charming smile and walked off in search of Rosalind, taking his time making greetings with other attendees the entire way.

Later that night, they figured Isabelle had gone missing around the same time Rosalind and Stefan had gone into the library.

The last place they needed to look was the house in town. For where else would Isabelle had run off to?

As Stefan pounded on the door and his grip tightened on Rosalind. The valet opened, his expression grave.

"She’s gone" Willard announced.

"It seems to be the general consensus." Stefan muttered pushing past him. "Now tell me, do you have any idea where she’s run off to?"

"I’ve made arrangements." Lady Hariss made her way down the stairs. "I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done now."

"You’ve made arrangements for what exactly?" Stefan asked his stomach feeling tight with dread.

The dowager gave a mad smile and fanned herself with her naked hand. "Oh, well, you two were just taking such a dreadfully long time getting married. We needed money; you gave me no other option. The contract has been signed. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m tired."