“It will be as it is meant to be,” Will said.
John slammed his hand down hard on the card table between them.
“For heaven’s sake, Will, this isn’t a game. This is the rest of your life you are talking about; her life.”
“I know that,” Will insisted. “That is why she has to instigate it.”
“Well, at least clear up the confusion. Go to her and let her know you do not want a loveless marriage.”
“John,” Will said, leaning back in his chair. “I have been on the back foot with this woman for nearly a decade. That has to stop. I love her. I want her. But I will not go to her with a begging bowl. If she wants me, all of me, she just has to ask. She will.” He smiled conspiratorially.
John shook his head. “This is why I don’t play cards with you. You always take it to the brink, even when you don’t need to.”
“But then the winning is so sweet,” Will laughed.
Anna badgered Rose about the wedding dress. She knew her mistress had not found what she wanted in London. Rose didn't tell Anna that when she had walked into the modiste, she had suddenly felt physically sick with fear and had had to leave the store.
“Maybe I could come with you to the modiste in Arundel,” Anna offered.
“No!”
Instead, Rose went to her armoire. She pulled out the same dress that she had married Ambrose in. It was a cream silk gown that fell in one straight sheath from her shoulder to her feet. There had been a train before and a matching length veil, but this would do on its own for her marriage to Ernest.
“You can’t wear the same thing,” Anna said, horrified.
“As if anybody would notice,” Rose waved away her concern. “It was years ago, and Ernest wasn’t there, and hardly anyone is coming to the wedding anyway. I am sure you can improve it with a brooch or a sash. I will leave it up to you.”
Rose reached up to hang it on the curtain by the window, but as her arm brushed the velvet, all her memories of the last time that curtain had brushed against her skin came tumbling forth: Will’s mouth on hers; on her neck; on her breast; his hand on her back; on her behind; the way he had swung her up and crushed her against him.
“Rose,” she had heard him whisper that night, and she honestly thought she heard his voice now. It made her feel dizzy. She put her hand on the back of her dressing table chair to steady herself.
“Do you need to sit down, Your Grace? Maybe you spun around too quickly?”
Yes, he had spun her around too quickly, inside the folds of that heavy velvet, and then as he had carried her across to her bed. She had not slept on that side of the bed since. In truth, she had hardly slept at all. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there.
“No,” she would bang her hands down on the mattress, but then remember him dropping her down on that same mattress and covering her body with his. To escape the sensations whirling inside of her, she would try to remember him walking away from her with a scowl, but that image never lasted. In her head, he was the eternal seducer.
“Shall I get some dress pins, and we can see where we need to alter the dress?” Anna volunteered.
“No. I am sure it will be fine.”
Rose did not explain the real reason she would not let Anna alter it, which was that Anna knew her body too well after all these years of being her lady’s maid. She would notice the tell-tale blemishes and bruises around her nipples and beneath the hair at her neck as something recent and not usual. Where Will had nipped at and sucked her skin a week before he had left red marks, so much so that Rose had gone to huge lengths for days to stay fully covered whenever Anna was tending to her. She had even brushed her own hair and declined to have it styled. Rose prayed they would fade before the wedding, as she had no doubt Ernest Barrington had caused such bruising on many a woman himself over his years. He might recognize it immediately for what it was.
Ambrose had always been a polite and perfunctory lover. He had always asked her permissionand had taken great care not to disturb her in the process. Rose had neither enjoyed nor feared sleeping with him. When Will held her, it felt like an unstoppable force had been unleashed inside of her. The way he grabbed her, held her, and took possession of her body sparked an intoxicating reciprocal need in her.
Rose tried to convince herself that she regretted the evening of her engagement in her bedchamber, but she didn't. She tried to persuade herself that it was wrong and immoral, but she didn't believe it either. Surprisingly, she felt content that if that was all she and Will were going to enjoy, she had been given a second chance; some time to create new memories to last her the rest of her life. But, as the week progressed, she couldn't stop thinking of him. She prayed he might come to her, tell her he didn’t care about a noble title if he could have her, get down on his knees, and tell her he couldn’t live without her, but he didn’t, and eventually, the clock ran down.
She found a way to calm the panic in her chest by simply giving her future over to fate. She resolved that whatever was about to happen to her was meant to be, and she would be grateful for the courage to endure it.
On the eve of the wedding, she ate a light supper served by a very reserved Jennings. Both she and he knew this was probably the last night of ease and calm. From the next day, he would have to become Ernest’s man.
Before the fire, she took a bath sprinkled with rose petals from the garden. She was so grateful that all evidence of Will's ministrationshad fadedsufficiently so as not to arouse suspicions.She could still see them, but then she knew where they were. In fact, she could still feel his lips on her, causing them, particularly as the firelight flickered around her, transporting her back to that evening; to that torrent of sensation. She wondered what Will was up to and shook her head.Stop it, Rose.Don’t go there!
She climbed sadly into her ornate bed, not expecting or wanting to sleep. She felt the longer she could stay awake, the more she could stave off the inevitable. But, eventually, staring at the wooden roof above her pillow made her eyelids tired. She closed them and drifted off.
He was there immediately; those deep brown eyes staring into hers, almost mocking her with their playfulness.
“You are mine, Rose Barrington,” she heard him say as he slowly ran his hand from her chin to her cheek. “You will always be mine.”