Page 11 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)
Chapter
Eleven
A letter arrived later that afternoon, and after what should have been an exciting day of shopping—compounded by a missive from her sisters—Rosalind found herself steeped in melancholy. She had eagerly anticipated the Season, dreaming of finding a gentleman whose character and beliefs aligned with her own. Now, however, she doubted that anyone would be attracted to her.
The gowns, though cut in the latest fashion, came in dreadful hues that left her looking washed out and sickly. No matter how much she tried to persuade Lady Smithe that she knew what would suit her best, her ladyship refused to alter the directive, firmly convinced that her choices were ideal and Rosalind’s were not.
Seeking solitude, Rosalind slipped away beneath a weeping willow, hiding from the staff and the duke should anyone be searching for her. She could not bear to let anyone see her so distraught. The prospect of Lady Smithe moving in with them only added to her dismay—a woman of such refined taste should have agreed that pastels were entirely unsuited to her complexion. Why insist on such hideous colors?
"Rosalind, is that you in there?"
The deep timbre of the duke's voice startled her from her sulky reverie. "Yes, it's me. I thought I'd take a turn about the gardens before dinner."
The duke ducked beneath the low-hanging branches and joined her. "I thought I saw you leave the terrace, and since Lady Smithe is not here until tomorrow, I assumed you had escaped the house for a quiet moment." He paused, watching her closely. Did he sense the absence of her usual cheer?
"What is wrong?" he inquired as he guided her to an iron bench at the base of the tree. Once seated, he took her hand, his thumb idly rubbing the tops of her fingers. "You have not been yourself since you returned from shopping. Was the day not as you had hoped?"
Rosalind could not bring herself to lie. They had become friends, and he had done so much for her. Torn between obligation and despair, she felt compelled to confess her disappointment.
"As much as I love the dresses ordered today, they are not to my liking. I do not suit the pastel colors that Lady Smithe insists are best. I am three-and-twenty—barely much younger than you—yet I am expected to dress like a child for my debut. It makes no sense, and I am deeply disappointed."
The duke’s gaze softened. "No matter what you wear, Rosalind, few men would fail to see you as the diamond that you are. You are personable and, though I ought not to say this as your guardian, utterly breathtaking. Men will flock to you, whether you are clad in pastel pink or royal blue."
Rosalind’s vision blurred at his sweet words. He was so kind and handsome, and her stomach knotted when he gently wiped away a tear from her cheek before cupping her face. She could not tear her gaze away as he watched her intently, his head lowered toward hers. The thought that she might receive her first kiss from the man she had come to admire seemed like a dream come true. Yet she knew she should not—it was his duty as her guardian, and she, his ward, to be guided through the Season.
Still, Rosalind moistened her dry lips and leaned toward him, suddenly aware that her hand had reached for him, clutching the lapels of his superfine coat. "You're so beautiful. You will be swept off your feet and proposed to before you can do anything to stop it."
She nodded, though the thought of marriage at that moment mattered little. All she desired was to kiss the man before her—a man who made her stomach lurch, her skin tingle, and sent heat pooling between her legs in a way she had never experienced. She longed for that rush every time she was with a man, yet she knew that from this night forward, it would only be with the duke.
His hand slipped low along her jaw as he tipped her face upward to meet his. "Tell me to stop, Rosalind. I ache to kiss you, and I should not."
"Why should you not? We are not so far apart in age as to make it wrong. You are only three years older. A kiss does not hurt anyone, does it?"
"I'm your guardian." He pressed his forehead against hers, resisting the urge that pulsed between them like an invisible shield.
"I do not care who you are, but if you do not kiss me here and now under this willow tree, I shall cease to exist."
His mouth curved into a mischievous grin as she tightened her grip on him, pulling him closer. "Kiss me, Duke. Be my first if you're determined not to be my last."
He growled, his eyes darkening with hunger, and shattered the barrier between them with a kiss. At first, his lips brushed hers softly and beckoned. Rosalind reveled in their tender contact—his soft, eager kiss urging her to follow his lead, to plunge headlong into the unknown and savor the fall. She parted her lips for him, yielding to the kiss as they both desired. His tongue teased hers, and she moaned, unable to stifle the sound. His kiss sent a surge of desire coursing through her veins, and she pressed closer, yearning for more, longing to feel his hands beyond just her cheek.
He pulled her into his arms, and all tenderness gave way as the kiss grew wild, hungry, and wanton. Rosalind tried to match the urgency of Nathaniel's kiss, but her mind whirled and her body burned with craving. She wanted more—so much more.
His kisses trailed down her jaw and neck. He playfully bite on her earlobe, making her shiver. "You're wicked, Nathaniel."
His rumbling laugh carried a warning she should heed, but she ignored it. "You have no idea, Rosalind." He paused, kissing the hollow of her neck before moving along her shoulder blade. His hand slid over her breast, and she pressed farther into his embrace. He kneaded her there, his thumb and forefinger teasing her nipple beneath her gown. A jolt of sensation shot to her core, and she crossed her legs in a futile attempt to ease the ache he provoked.
"Of all the things I want to do to you—I am a scoundrel, a rake who ought to be shot for kissing you now. You should stop me."
"I do not want to stop you. Quite the opposite, in fact." She clasped his jaw and pulled him back for another kiss, needing to feel him, to revel in his wild, wanton kisses that made her feel so alive. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alive—loved and desired.
"Your kisses are wicked."
"They are, and I should not be doing this. We should not be doing this." He broke free from her hold and stood, pacing on the bench before her. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he appeared even more handsome—disheveled, as if he had been kissed to the very edge of his life. She hoped she had had the same effect on him.
Rosalind felt transformed, as if her life had suddenly opened to new possibilities and experiences she longed to explore.
"And if I desire more of these kisses in the garden, will you relent and give me what I want?"
He stared at her, his gaze falling to her lips. She watched him, hoping he could read the desire written on her face.
"You're my ward. I am only here to guide you through the Season, nothing more."
"I have Lady Smithe for that."
"Do not be a teasing minx. It does not suit you."
She shrugged, unconcerned by his admonition. "You may be wrong, Your Grace. Perhaps it does suit me very well."