Page 12 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)
Chapter
Twelve
N athaniel paced, his mind tormented by Rosalind's parting look—a gaze that promised more, even as his duty demanded restraint. Her lips, still swollen from his previous kisses, and her cheeks, flushed with lingering desire, beckoned him to cast aside all caution. Yet he could not indulge that temptation again.
"I'm sorry, Rosalind, but we cannot do this again. I take full responsibility for my lapse in decorum and restraint. Please forgive me. Good night."
With that, he left her beneath the sheltering branches, each step toward the house weighted by the knowledge that he must not stray from the path of propriety. He was her guardian, expected to guide and protect, not to succumb to his carnal urges—even if those urges threatened to overwhelm him .
As he climbed the terrace stairs, Nathaniel adjusted his breeches, painfully aware of the throbbing evidence of his desire. The sanctuary of his bedroom in the newly assembled ducal Mayfair home offered a temporary refuge. He closed and locked the door behind him, comforted by the silence and shadow of the room, where heavy curtains and a pair of flickering candles cast dancing shapes on the walls.
Nathaniel stripped his clothing with hurried resolve, desperate to release the tension pulsing through him. Though he could have sought escape in the arms of a courtesan at a nearby establishment, the memory of Rosalind’s soft lips and lingering warmth haunted him too vividly. Instead, he stood before the roaring fire, his mind a tempest of forbidden thoughts. His hand found its way to his aroused member, and he allowed himself a brief, illicit indulgence—imagining Rosalind on her knees before him, her delicate mouth and teasing tongue driving him to the brink.
The fantasy was as vivid as it was damning; he moaned softly as he worked himself over, the image of her beauty and desire mingling with the heat of the flames until he finally released his pent-up need. For several long minutes, he stood there, caught between shame and longing, before finally striding to the washbasin to cleanse himself of the evidence of his weakness .
His bed beckoned. Clad only in the vulnerability of his naked skin—a habit borne of the sweltering summers of his youth—he climbed in, though even now his thoughts betrayed him. The image of Rosalind joining him in his bed sent a shiver of anticipation through his body, a forbidden thrill he knew he must never allow to come to fruition.
N athaniel managed to avoid Rosalind until the following afternoon. When she returned from her shopping expedition with Lady Smithe, he was already heading out to his club, eager to escape the oppressive scent of jasmine that clung to his clothes—a haunting reminder of their stolen moment beneath the willow.
"Your Grace, are you heading out? We were hoping to dine with you this evening, for it is my first night living here with you all. What a jolly good time we shall have this Season. I do not believe I have ever been so excited, not even at my own debut." Lady Smithe’s voice rang out, cheerful and bright, between Rosalind and him. But Nathaniel's heart was heavy. The presence of Lady Smithe under the same roof meant fewer moments alone with Rosalind—a thought that should have been a comfort, but instead filled him with a deep, bitter regret.
He forced his gaze away from Rosalind's pretty blue eyes, which seemed to hold an unspoken longing he dared not meet. The promise he had made to himself—that she was off limits—echoed in his mind.
"Unfortunately, I am much engaged until the Season itself, but I will, of course, escort you both to Lord and Lady Coke’s ball," he announced.
"Should we not host our own coming-out ball for Rosalind before the Season starts in earnest?" Lady Smithe suggested, her tone light yet insistent. "It is only proper. We can invite the most influential and upstanding gentlemen, ensuring that she makes a fine match without delay."
"I will not choose a husband for Lady Rosalind without first knowing her req—" he began.
"Yes, yes," Lady Smithe interrupted, turning toward Rosalind. "Of course, dear, you shall have final say in the match, but the men at your ball will be eligible, rich, and suitable for a duke's daughter—even if you are a bit coarse around the edges. With some guidance, you'll shine like a star in the night sky, not lost like so many other wallflowers."
Nathaniel regarded Lady Smithe uncertainly. Though Rosalind might be less polished than some, she was far from foolish. She was intelligent enough to navigate high society’s subtle cues. Her beauty and the generous dowry he had arranged for her and her sisters made him confident in her prospects, even if the fickle ton valued a pretty face above all else.
Still, he could not meet Rosalind’s eyes, fearful that their shared longing might unravel the resolve he had so painstakingly forged.
"We can host a coming-out ball, certainly. Make the arrangements, Lady Smithe." Taking his greatcoat and hat from a waiting footman, he prepared to depart. "Good day to you both."
But as he reached the threshold, his gaze slipped to Rosalind. Her delicate features struck him like a blow—her eyes, filled with longing and hope, nearly shattered his determination. For a brief, agonizing moment, he longed to rush to her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her once more. To see for himself if what they had shared under the willow was real.
"What a wonderful day this has turned out to be—a ball to prepare for. I shall be even busier, organizing invitations posthaste," Lady Smithe declared as she ascended the stairs with Rosalind following, though not without casting a final, lingering glance in his direction.
Nathaniel forced himself away, leaving for his club and the relative anonymity of the upstairs brandy room at Whites. There, he slumped into a leather chair, looking out over St. James Street as conversations of gentlemen drifted around him. A footman soon served him a glass of brandy, which he sipped slowly to fortify his resolve as he wallowed in the torment of his own making.
"Ravensmere!" The voice of his good friend, Cameron—the Marquess of Issacs—broke through his brooding silence. The marquess joined him, gesturing for a refill of his own whisky glass.
"May I be one of the first to congratulate you on your windfall? A ducal title does not come about every day," his friend said warmly.
Nathaniel raised his glass in salute. "I thank you, my friend, but it is not without its troubles."
Lord Issacs chuckled, settling back in his chair. "What hardship can there be when one inherits one of the prettiest country estates in England and one of the grandest London homes ever built?"
All of that was true, yet nothing compared to the personal trouble that had seized Nathaniel’s thoughts since yesterday afternoon.
"The estate came with six wards. I find myself guardian to six women, each requiring a Season. I fear I shall be an old man before I have them all married."
The marquess whistled and laughed. "Are any of them pretty?"
Nathaniel shook his head. "Pretty? One is breathtakingly beautiful and kind. A most troubling pairing.” He sighed, knowing that despite his best intentions, the complexities of duty and desire would weigh on him long into the coming days.
E ven when the brandy warmed his veins, he wondered whether any man could truly escape the pull of passion. He inwardly cursed, knowing the truth to that answer. He was doomed for failure.