Rose made for the door. “Have a drink of the tea—it’s quite good. And come down soon. Mrs. Miles has gone about her errands, and Miles is looking after the horses, so there’s no need to make conversation if you don’t want to.”
Steven turned his head and looked at her, his expression telling her he hadn’t taken in a word she’d just said. “Don’t go, Rosie.”
His voice pulled at her, stirring fires in her heart. “There’s more tea downstairs,” she said quickly. “And scones. Light as a feather, with plenty of jam—”
“Rose.” Steven cross the cramped room and laid his large hand on her arm. “Stay.”
His hand was heavy, strong, but it was the look in his gray eyes that decided the matter. “Yes,” Rose whispered, and closed the door.
Chapter Eleven
Steven went very still as Rose shut the door and turned back to him. No modest protests, no fluttering. Rose understood what Steven wanted, and she wanted it too.
She came to him, resting her hands on his chest, looking up into his eyes.
Their first kiss was unhurried. Steven cupped Rose’s face in his hands, parting her lips to kiss her slowly, deeply. He tasted the tea she’d drunk, with its bite of lemon and a little bit of raw brown sugar, a taste he remembered from his childhood.
Rosie, lass, a voice inside him whispered. I’ve needed you all my life and never knew it.
Rose locked her fingers around the lapels of Steven’s coat. His heart beat faster as he felt her shaking, knowing she was holding herself back from delving into his clothes.
I’ll let you do whatever you wish, my Scottish Rose.
Steven peeled her fingers away and slid off the coat. He tossed it over the foot of the bed and didn’t stop moving until he’d relieved himself of collar and cravat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
Rose moved her focus to his throat, touching his bronzed skin as though fascinated by it. Steven smiled at her, his body warming, finding an answering spark in her green eyes.
He pulled off his shirt and rid himself of the short-sleeved undershirt beneath it. Cold air touched his skin, this room again warmed only by the chimney that rose through it.
Rose’s lashes swept down as she looked him over, taking in his tanned chest and its brush of golden hair, his flat ni**les that were also sun-bronzed. She’d seen him bare when he’d lain in this bed that first morning, but she’d blushed and pretended to look elsewhere.
Not so now. Rose gave him the compliment of a half-smile as she ran her gaze over him, as though pleased with what she saw.
The look made his blood burn. More so when she leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. The touch of tongue on his bare skin made him want to groan.
“You’re a wicked lass,” he said, closing his hands around her elbows. “Do you know what that does to me?”
“What?” Rose slanted him the same eager smile she’d worn when she’d agreed to his deception of their engagement. She’d proved that she loved games, like Steven did, but Rose would win every hand she played.
“It makes me want to be a very bad man,” Steven said. He ran his hand up the back of her neck, sinking into her curls. “I’m already a bad man, but I’m holding back for your sake.”
“Don’t,” Rose said, losing her smile. “Don’t hold back for me. I need . . .”
Steven read the rest in her eyes. I need to be held, to be loved, to feel wanted. Or perhaps those sentiments were Steven’s.
“I need it too,” he whispered. Maybe he said that—he wasn’t certain what was inside his head and what wasn’t right now.
He only knew he was stiff with need, and he had a beautiful woman caressing him with both hands.
Steven gathered her close, the press of her body against his hardness, even through his kilt, making him ache. He kissed her as she smoothed her hands over his bare back, and then the kiss turned fierce.
Rose wanted him. That little knowledge made Steven fling away caution and kick self-control out the window. Rose was a beautiful woman, one as lonely as he was. They were alone in this aerie, and she was hungry. If she wanted to feed on Steven, so be it. After all, they were betrothed.
Steven finished the kiss by biting down on her lower lip, which made her gasp, then he unbuttoned the front of her bodice and pushed it open.
Her corset cover had little bows on it, white satin ones that beckoned his fingers. Stephen undid one, and Rose laughed at him. Then he saw why—the bows were decorative and didn’t open anything.
The hooks in the back did. Steven unfastened them and slid bodice and corset cover off. He kissed Rose again as he unlaced her stays and pulled them away.
Beneath she wore combinations, the top part made of thin lawn and lined with an edge of lace at the neck. In Steven’s hurry, he tore buttons, but soon Rose was bare to him.
He stood back to admire her. Now free of the dark cloth that swathed her upper body, Rose was truly the angel he’d thought her the first night. Her skin was replete with color—a pink flush across her throat and chest, the red of her lips, the glorious gold of her hair, and the dark red-brown of her ni**les.
Steven cupped her waist, moving his hands up under her br**sts. The swell of them filled his palms, just as he’d known they would, and he held them while he brushed his thumbs over her areolas. Her ni**les tightened still more as Steven caressed them.
“You are beautiful, Rosie,” he said, almost reverently. “Like your name.”