Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(8)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

At least they had that in common — both talking to their horses as if they were people. His mother would probably attribute that to the curse as well. Samson nudged him in response, and he lost his careful footing causing him to stumble. A branch snapped beneath his boot.

Lady Rosalind froze and ever so slowly turned to face him.

"Blast." He closed his eyes, willing himself to disappear; after all, he had just been caught staring at her like some daft fool.

"Your Grace?" Had her voice always been so husky, dripping with promises of seduction? His body warmed. "Is that you?"

Stefan stepped out of the shadows and into the blinding light of the clearing. He led Samson but kept his eyes focused on her. Not out of necessity or propriety, but because his eyes could do nothing else but stare. As if any other option was possible, considering the circumstances.

"My apologies, Lady Rosalind. I had no intention of spying. I heard your voice and followed." Like an idiot.

An amused laugh bubbled behind the woman’s pouty pink lips. They were slightly parted, giving Stefan lustful thoughts about where he’d like to see that mouth placed. Those lips were created to give a man pleasure, to make him think about warm wet kisses and pleasures that he had no business to be entertaining. She shook her head. "Hmm, and how did you like the entertainment, Your Grace?"

He felt a slow seductive smile break across his face as he reached for her hand, his body again acting without his consent. Kneeling before her, he kissed her hand and rose. "The entertainments were delightful, though I was saddened to see you had no partner." He lied through his teeth; sadness had nothing to do with the emotions he was feeling at the moment. More like raw desire and jealousy.

Narrowing her eyes, she looked down at his hand, still holding hers.

"Dance with me." The words sounded so foreign that he thought surely he was losing his mind. For he had just asked Rosalind Hartwell to dance in the snow, without music, and only their two horses to keep them company.

An unreadable emotion flickered across her face. Clenching her other hand by her side, she seemed to be thinking, and then with a determined furrow of her brow, she brought her clenched hand away from her body and curtsied. "I would be honored, Your Grace."

And so it happened that Stefan experienced his first bout of laughter since his father’s death. To think, all it took was a dance in the meadow with a goddess to restore him to his normal humor. If the London Society Papers could see him now, well he’d be shocked if Mrs. Peabody’s quill wouldn’t snap in half. Rosalind’s warm hands seemed so small within his own. Though both were wearing gloves, he could have sworn he could feel her heartbeat through the thin kid gloves she wore. Stefan imagined her dainty hands, all feminine and frail as he clenched them within his own.

Pulling her into his large frame, he began to hum the same tune she had begun as he twirled her, only to bring her back in.

It was astonishing how his body reacted to this strange woman. Her hair tickled his nose as she leaned her head closer to his. Desire surged through him when she pulled back and licked her lips.

One kiss.

After all, wasn’t he here to sweep her off her feet and marry her as soon as possible? As much as he wanted to believe the lie that a kiss would only serve the purpose of wooing, his heart clenched in his chest, his knees went a little weak, and he was sure the birds began singing. Slowly he tilted her chin up, giving him full view of her glorious alabaster skin and luscious bow shaped lips.

One kiss. His head descended. Their lips met. A sigh escaped from Lady Rosalind at the touch of their lips.

CHAPTER THREE

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?

~ As You Like It — William Shakespeare ~

Her lips were magic as they matched his. And when Stefan slipped his tongue past their barriers and tasted the sweetness of her mouth — he groaned in ecstasy. With a little sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck giving him all the invitation he needed to pull her fully into his embrace.

It was then, with her soft body pressed so wondrously close to his that he remembered why he was here. Not, to his dismay, to kiss the girl upon their first meeting, but vie for her hand. For his father, for her father — but his brain couldn’t grasp that concept, for he was enjoying this kiss too much. The tangling of tongues, the gasping for breath, the heady smell of desire, it was absolute magic.

Just one more, he told himself when he reluctantly pulled back and looked into her eyes, but he didn’t have the chance. Samson nudged him in the back, quite hard, sending him and Lady Hartwell sailing to the ground… on top of Lady Rosalind in the most inappropriate of manners.

"My apologies, I don’t know what came over Samson," he said, holding his body over hers.

Lady Rosalind, with a mischievous glint in her eyes bit her lip. "Ah, so the duke apologizes for his horse but not his manners?"

"Manners?" he repeated, clueless.

Sighing, she pushed at Stefan’s chest. "Not that I would expect anything more from a barbarian."

Taken back, he jumped to his feet and pulled her to a sitting position. "Barbarian? Are you addressing me as such?" What just happened? Were they not moments ago kissing and sharing an intimate embrace?

"Considering the only other living breathing things with us are our horses? Yes. You can safely assume I’m addressing you as such, Your Grace."

Irritated, Stefan wanted nothing more than to push the girl back down to her curvaceous bottom, but the gentleman in him won out, so he held out his hand to pull her to her feet. Once she was standing, he pulled her close, his body threatening a kiss as his mouth brushed tenderly across her jaw. Warm lips moved against her skin and whispered. "I would never apologize for something I did purposefully."

She swallowed and looked away. "What are you doing here?"

"I imagine you mean, here in this meadow, watching you?"

"Yes." Lady Rosalind cleared her throat and stepped around him to her horse. "Are you lost, Your Grace?"

"I hope so." He grinned. "I must admit if I am, I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to be found."

She laughed. "You rogue. Truly, do you need assistance back to the main road?"

"Ah, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort the lady home?"

"Your Grace." She mounted her horse. "Even I, being shut away in the country, am aware that your exploits are anything but gentlemanly."

He pulled on Samsun’s reigns. "So you’ve inquired about me since our meeting at the ball?"