“No, not yet. I have some business to see to down here, and I told Ernest I would drop in on him again.”
“Oh. Will you be visiting him often?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace. We shall have to see.” Then, he leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
He could not walk her back to the castle as she was not supposed to be out. He did not want to take her home to his family for the evening, as much as they would have been thrilled to see her, because if he could not have her to himself right now, he would prefer to be apart. Instead, he walked her to the edge of the clearing, then looked down at her as she turned to him.
“I had a wonderful afternoon,” Rose said.
“I agree entirely,” he murmured as he reached for her hand. He enfolded its warmth in his. “Until the next time, Your Grace.”
For a moment, Rose looked bewildered. He knew she expected him to kiss her, hold her, but he simply allowed his lips to meet the back of her hand, linger for just a moment longer than was proper, and then moved her hand back to her side.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
He watched her walk away across the green field towards the castle which towered over the town on the top of the hill. He leaned weakly back against the tree behind him as his eyes followed the sashay of her skirts and her nearly dry hair bouncing on the back of her neck. He let out a low whistle and closed his eyes.
Rose slid back into the castle through the boot room door. She was well aware she looked thoroughly disheveled and still somewhat damp. She took Ambrose’s raincoat from its peg and wrapped it around her. It was early evening now, so it did not look so incongruous that she had been for a walk wearing it.
As she mounted the stairs to her bedchamber, her skin was still tingling from Will’s touch. He had kept his word. It had been a thoroughly pleasant afternoon, and he had not tried to make love to her or even properly kiss her, but the soppy, yearning one had wanted him to. She had been just one step away from initiating it.
Rose sneaked into her bedchamber and caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. Her gown was still damp across her breasts. Her hair had dried with a slight curl at her brow and the base of her neck, and the afternoon sun had made her cheeks and nose red. She looked a fright.
She drew her dress over her head, slipped out of her drenched shift and drawers, and rolled down each stocking. Standing naked in front of the mirror, she saw herself as a wild child. Her body was fuller, her breasts were more rounded, but she was essentially the same girl without her finery, jewels, or status.
Rose stood for a moment and stared at herself, something she never did because Anna was always there to help her on and off with her clothes. She scrutinized herself as Will might see her. She wasn’t unattractive, she thought. Her legs were long and her stomach slim. She had neither a large nor a small bosom, but an adequate one to fill out her bodice. Now she was home, her skin was cool and her body calm, so what was it, she wondered, that transformed her form in seconds? What made her skin tingle until it was almost painful; made her feel hot from the inside out; made rivulets of pleasure run through all the channels in her body, sometimes even when Will was not touching her, but just in her proximity or even just in her thoughts? Those fingers of pleasure inside her body would feel as if they were simmering, then boiling, and no matter how hard she tried to stop it, no matter how hard she tried to think of something else, it continued as if it had its own mind. Even thinking about how he made her feel made her nipples tighten. She raised her hand and ran it across her breasts. Her skin was much softer there than on the rest of her body. It had an almost velvet sheen.
As she moved her fingers gently over her breasts, they almost felt like his fingers. Her nipples became even harder and began to pulsate. She pulled her hand away quickly, picked up her dress and undergarments, and moved smartly away from the mirror. She was tormenting herself for no purpose. Such feelings were addictive and only left her wanting more. Indeed, as she hung her dress, shift, and damp drawers to dry, and sought fresh garments from her armoire, the feeling in her breasts was not subsiding, and her face felt hot and her legs weak.
She remembered how her mother would warn both girls that the flesh was weak and should not be indulged. Neither Mary nor Rose had understood what that meant, but Rose did now. Her flesh was very weak indeed.
Once she was presentable again and had wound her wild hair into a loose knot, she realized she was ravenous. The sandwiches she and Will had shared had not been enough to assuage her hunger. She knew she could send down to the kitchen for a tray, but she felt if she stayed alone, unoccupied, after the temptations of the afternoon, her body might send her quite mad. So, instead, she chose to take the long walk to the other wing to check on Ernest.
She powdered her nose first, trying to cover the sunburn she was now sporting but did not use any further cosmetics. She was not intent on encouraging Ernest after all.
Ernest was sleeping as she rounded the door to his bedchamber. The nurse had propped him up on several pillows, and his skin looked as white as the pillow slips. He was breathing more easily, at least.
His nurse was sitting in the corner, reading, but she jumped up as soon as Rose entered the room. Rose bade her stay seated.
“How has he been?” she asked. The nurse gave her a silent answer with her eyes but said aloud, “He is resting easier now.” Rose imagined that twelve hours of tending to a fractious Ernest was a torment.
Jennings put his head around the door to ask if the patient was ready for some supper. The nurse asked if a cold plate could be sent up, and Rose asked if she could have some too.
Apart from his deathly pallor, Ernest looked clean and well-groomed. She noticed he was wearing a pair of Ambrose’s pajamas. When Ambrose had died, she assumed the servants had taken care of his possessions and given his clothes away, but it seemed not since his nightshirts were still at the castle.
In repose, Ernest’s face appeared thinner. His jowls were not so pronounced, and without his telltale scowl, he looked much less intimidating.
Rose sat down on the chair next to his bed. She had thought she would spend a while sitting with him, seeing if she could make herself feel better about their future nuptials. She had only ever spent time with him when he was angry and scornful. If they were to spend their lives together, she wondered if she could find an understanding within herself, to accept him. She also hoped to banish all thoughts of Will, but sitting there, looking at this man who was a total stranger to her, only made her think more about Will and how natural it had been to spend the afternoon with him. Fate had truly dealt her the cruelest hand. She had no idea how anything was going to come to any good. She only hoped that if she was wedded to Ernest, and he would demand his conjugal rights much more frequently than Ambrose, perhaps she might fall pregnant and be comforted by a baby or two. Being pregnant might also keep Ernest away from her for months at a time.
Jennings returned to the room with a tray with four plates on it. The cook had prepared a chicken and raspberry salad with fresh produce from the gardens. He set the tray down on the dressing table as two footmen came in behind him carrying an occasional table. The nurse thanked Jennings with a nod and took her meal over to her chair. Jennings covered one of the plates with a silver topper and put the other two on the occasional table, which the footmen had now placed at the end of the bed. Rose was confused.
“I don’t think the Duke will be able to rise from the bed to eat,” she told Jennings.
The butler indicated the covered plate. “That one is for His Grace when he awakens. But I thought you and Mr. Browning would prefer to eat at a table.”
“Mr. Browning? Why would Mr. Browning be coming to eat here?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace. That is just what he asked for.”