Page 28 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

N athaniel could no longer remain aloof, cold, and distant from Rosalind. As surely as one cannot breathe underwater, he could not endure another day apart from her side. He adored her. Though they had scarcely known one another, she had become his home—the other half of his soul.

"I'm sorry, Rosalind. Please, say you'll forgive me for being such a cad," he pleaded.

Her fingers tightened around the lapels of his coat as he struggled to quell the burning need within—a need he doubted would ever be quenched, even if she were to consent to be his forever.

"You do not want this," she murmured, attempting to pull away, but he drew her closer, unwilling to let her slip from his grasp.

"I do. I do want this," he insisted, his voice earnest. "I was troubled—not solely by what society might say about a guardian marrying his ward, for I am new to the dukedom—but by your father's notorious reputation. We have learned all too well of the life he once led in town, a life spoken of only in hushed tones. I feared that his name would forever be linked with recklessness and disregard for our strict customs. I did not wish you or your sisters to suffer further, and in my misguided caution, I pushed you away whenever we grew close. I will not," he declared, pressing his forehead against hers. "I will never do so again."

Her eyes searched his, seeking the truth in his gaze. And he was sincere—never had he been more certain of anything in his life. The callousness of Lord Felton had been the catalyst, and he could not abide any slight against her. She was far too good to suffer mistreatment.

He loved her…

"I need to know," she said, drawing back just enough to create a space he both abhorred and tolerated. "Did you kiss Lady Smithe? Has something been transpiring between you during my time in London?"

"No. Not at all." He clasped her hands, squeezing them as he cursed the chill of her silk gloves. "She did try—I admit it—and I rebuked her advance, for which she has been surly ever since. But I swear upon my life that I have touched no other woman since I met you. There is only you."

"Truly?" A small smile played upon her lips, and he exhaled a sigh of relief. Perhaps he could yet regain her trust—and, if fortune favored him, her love.

"Truly. I dream and breathe nothing but you, Rosalind. These past days apart have rendered me nearly useless. I cannot concentrate, and my bookwork piles up while the sight of you dancing and enjoying your events—though I rejoice in your happiness—is a kind of torment to me." He paused, gathering his resolve before adding, "I’ve fallen in love with you."

Her eyes widened before filling with tears. He drew her into his arms, holding her close as she nestled against him.

"From the moment you stormed into your house in Hampshire, I was utterly partial to you. You captivated me from our very first conversation, and I believe there is no one else in the world as loving and kindhearted as you. For that tender heart, I beg your forgiveness for my recent foolishness. Allow me to make amends for the rest of our lives—as husband and wife."

R osalind stared at Nathaniel, scarcely able to fathom how a night could transform from disaster into utter bliss. He loved her? He wished to marry her? She pulled back, gathering her wits so as not to act rashly. Yet the fear she read in his eyes—that he might be denied, that she might say no—dissolved the last vestiges of her anger.

Although she abhorred secrets, she could understand his reluctance to mention her illegitimate sisters or to divulge that Lady Smithe had attempted to kiss him. And while it did not surprise her that any woman might be drawn to a man like Nathaniel, she believed his rebuff was his way of protecting her honor.

"I will marry you, Nathaniel, for I love you too—so very much," she declared, relief pouring through her that she had been brave enough to say it.

He smiled and laughed, gently shaking her shoulders. "You do not jest?" he exclaimed, then pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Tell me you speak in earnest, for I could not bear it if you did not."

"I mean every word," she replied with a soft chuckle, reaching for him.

He claimed her lips in a kiss that stole her breath and swept away all thoughts of their surroundings and uncertain future. In that moment, every worry vanished.

She pushed him back onto the settee and straddled his lap, yearning to be close—to kiss him and feel the warmth of his touch. He did not disappoint. Clasping her tightly, his fingers glided along the back of her gown, sending shivers cascading over her skin.

"I want you so much," he murmured.

"And I you," she answered, her voice husky with desire, even as the distance to Grosvenor Square loomed in her mind. His hands clutched hers as she unfastened the first button of his falls.

"Rosalind, we cannot here. We risk being seen," he cautioned.

She placed a finger over his lips, silencing his protest. "I do not wish to hear again that we must refrain from what we desire. That we should not—that it is wrong." As she continued to unfasten his falls, his hands moved to her waist and held her close. "All I wish to hear from you, Your Grace, is three simple words: yes, we can."

He chuckled—a deep sound laden with wicked need—and she kissed him once more. Drawing her close, his tongue teased hers, his mouth devouring her as he removed her gown with deliberate care. His fingers slipped beneath, awakening her heated flesh, and she moaned, pressing into his embrace as desire overwhelmed her reason.

"You're so wet." he whispered, his voice breathless.

She nodded, moaning softly as he traced a finger along her core. "I want you," she murmured.

Rosalind felt his arousal spring forth between them—erect and eager, mirroring her own desire. He gathered her in his arms, lifting her gently, and tried to lower her.

"Fuck, Rosalind," he murmured, his voice thick with passion.

She mewled, gripping his shoulders as she tried to take him in. He was large, firm—and perhaps even bigger than she had first assumed.

The carriage rocked to a halt, and she stumbled against him. The duke’s eyes widened in alarm before he hastily gathered her and deposited her on the seat opposite, pulling his shirt down to cover himself just as the footman opened the door.

Rosalind rose unsteadily, her legs trembling, and paused at the door to allow Nathaniel time to regain his composure and right his attire. When his hand brushed gently against her back, she descended the steps and entered the house—more attuned to the heat of his presence than to his very form shadowing her steps.

Inside the mansion, they ascended the stairs together. Yet when it came time to part, Rosalind lingered before her door, hoping no servant would witness what she was determined to do.

"My suite of rooms is farther up the hall," the duke announced, walking backward and distancing himself from her.

Rosalind grinned and followed, unwilling to let him escape yet again—never again. "I've never seen your room, Your Grace. Is it as grand as mine?" she inquired.

"Grander…" he replied, pausing at his door before swinging it wide. "Would you care to see it?"

Of course she did. She longed to behold it with desperate anticipation. Gliding past him, she ran her hand along his chest, eliciting a soft groan as he followed close behind, his lips brushing the nape of her neck.

In that charged moment—once the door closed—he came for her, claimed her, and made her his forever.