Page 39 of Seductive Reprise
She shook her head in reply to Mr. Hartley. “No, no, I’m fine. Honestly.”
Mr. Hartley raised one eyebrow.
Rose laughed. “I’ve never been troubled before. Plenty of people must walk to get where they’re going, and at all hours.”
“Mercifully, that won’t be you. Not tonight,” a familiar and commanding voice interrupted.
Joseph stood behind her, cutting the same haughty, elegant figure he had when he’d arrived at the house hours before. She’d assumed he’d left.
“Mr. Palgrave,” she gasped, a hand shooting up to her mouth in surprise. How did he move so quietly?
Evidently he’d also startled Mr. Hartley, who rolled his eyes. “What sort of person enters a room like that? As if you floated in through the wall?” He sighed, then added with mild irritation, “And not evenyourwall, but mine.”
“A very careful one,” Joseph said, a smug look on his face. “You ought to have a care sometimes, Hartley. I know it doesn’t come easily to your lot.”
Mr. Hartley shook his head, exasperated, before looking back to Rose. “If you’re sure, Miss Verdier,” he said quietly, with a sidelong glance toward Joseph.
No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore, not since Joseph had reentered her life. But just as she’d known earlier that evening, she knew now: It was senseless to keep fighting against it. As much as she hated herself for being too weak to resist, she wanted to go to him. To speak with him, and seeif perhaps, just maybe, he was now something other than the spoiled, arrogant boy he’d been. To once again feel as if it were the two of them together against a hateful and unfair world.
Thoughts of Joseph’s mouth all over her suddenly filled her mind.
“Miss Verdier?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Hartley, it’s perfectly alright.” She looked back to Joseph. He was doing his best not to smirk, she could tell. A jolt of desire ran through her, a desperate ache between her legs.
“I shall bid you goodnight, then.” Mr. Hartley looked between them once more, then backed away with a bow. He turned and left the room, shaking his head as he closed the door behind him.
Joseph advanced, then stopped at a decent distance, his eyes never leaving her.
The sounds of the footman moving about, finishing his work of closing up the room, were the only reminder that they weren’t truly alone.
“Your night was a success,” Joseph said. “You must be pleased.”
She suddenly realized she’d been waiting all evening for him to talk to her, and that she was relieved he hadn’t disappeared into the night. Her cheeks warmed. Shehaddone it, hadn’t she? Dr. Collier certainly had an interest in commissioning his own portrait. And she had done it on her own account—no earls in high places pulling the strings for her. Purely by her own mind and her own brush. She felt overcome with pride, and she didn’t trust herself to speak, lest her voice break.
“Thank you,” she managed, just barely.
They stood there for heaven knew how long, Rose suspended in a heady mix of emotions—anger, hurt… desire. She wanted to speak, but more so she wantedhimto speak, to beg her forgiveness once more—with passion and sincerity this time. Toacknowledge that he understood his past actions had hurt her. If only that they might come together with the heat of a fire that had not been banked, but instead burned quietly in its embers. For years.
The door to the drawing room opened forcefully, followed by the reedy voice of Mr. Hartley’s elderly butler. “Your carriage, sir.”
When Joseph handed her up onto the folding step a short minute later, his touch nearly overwhelmed her. When he followed her inside and seated himself on the plush bench next to her, rather than opposite from, her heart burst into a sprint. She became acutely aware of every inch of her skin and all contact with it, from the cool silk of her gown’s sleeves, taut over her shoulders, to the rub of her drawers as she moved her knees against one another. In the darkness outside it had been difficult to recognize the vehicle as anything beyond a well-maintained carriage, save for its haughty-looking crest. Inside, though, every element spoke of quiet luxury. Every surface was upholstered with a rich brocaded fabric and decked with gilded tassels. A pair of glass lanterns housed wax candles, their small flames dancing about and casting a dreamlike veil upon their surroundings. The curtains, pulled shut, were a thick velvet, as if they were hiding inside a miniature version of one of those grand four-poster beds she’d spied at Icknield Court, instead of riding inside an everyday conveyance toward a less savory part of London. Locked up tight, safe from the foul street, she smelled him next to her, rich and musky. She wanted to turn into him, bury her face in his neck. But her body would not calm, from the racing of her heart to the dull ache between her legs. She dared not move.
So rigid was she that she smacked into the backrest when the horses took off. She straightened up with embarrassment, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” He broke the heavy silence that hung over them, staring at the duke’s coronet engraved on the head of his walking stick as he twirled it idly about. “Ten years ago you forbade me from ever writing you again. Swore that you’d do things your own way, even if it meant dying alone, impoverished and obscure.”
“Oh, I, I was…” She shut her eyes at the memory. This one usually only brought forth feelings of hurt and anger when recalled, but tonight the heat of shame tangled with the pain in her heart. She swallowed and chanced a glance at him. “Pray do not think of it. I can’t even recall myself what—”
“I’m happy for you, Rose. I truly am.” He cut her off abruptly, turning his gaze from the walking stick to her, his brown eyes fervent, his heavy brows drawn.
“Oh?” It was too much; she looked down to her lap, at the folds of her gown. Suddenly the green silk that had felt so fine earlier that evening when Ruth had helped dress her looked shabby and outdated. She spread her hands out, wanting to cover it all, not wanting him to see.
And then his hand fell upon hers. She started at the touch. Nothing was left in her but desire, an overpowering need to have him upon her, his mouth possessing hers, their fates intertwined. Two bastards, together. As destiny would have it.
He waited, giving her the opportunity to pull away if she wished. When she didn’t, he slowly closed his hand around hers, gripping it firmly. It took everything she had to refrain from breathing his name.
“When one is young, it’s imperative that—” He halted, then drew out a sigh and tugged off her glove ever so slowly. When he started again, his voice was a low purr. “You deserve everything, all of it. Admiration. Praise.” As if in a trance, he lifted her hand to his face, sparing her a seductive glance from under his thicklashes before placing a hot, languid kiss on her bare palm.God, his lips. So gorgeous, so soft and firm.
