Page 18 of His Christmas Rose (The Rockliffe Dynasty #4)

December 24, 1817 - one year later

“Are you certain this is entirely necessary?” Emily tugged at the blindfold that plunged her world into darkness, feeling her brows knit beneath it.

“Yes. Very certain.” Nate’s fingers wound around her own, pulling them away from the blindfold and returning them to her side. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, but …” She whipped her head around despite her sightlessness, trying to maintain her bearings, although no familiar noises or smells offered any clues as to where they were going. It certainly didn’t help that Nate had given her a few gentle spins after covering her eyes in the middle of the great hall.

She could distinguish nothing beyond that they were walking, Nate’s arm wrapping securely around her waist as he guided her … somewhere. Down a corridor, it seemed, for she could no longer hear the crackle of the yule log in the great hall fireplace. Which corridor, though, remained a mystery. Perhaps she should learn to accept surprises with more acquiescence, but her stomach quivered in anticipation, and she couldn’t help but squint, as if the action would allow her to see through the blindfold if she just focused intently enough.

“Patience, love.” She could feel rather than see his grin. Could detect the warm trickle of his breath against her ear, smelling enticingly of cinnamon from the wassail they’d enjoyed after dinner. “We’re nearly there.”

Nearly where? She bit back the question—for it was sure to garner a non-response—and allowed him to continue leading her until the moment he decided they should come to a halt. She cocked her ear in the stillness, none the wiser as to where she stood. All she knew was that a floorboard creaked beneath their feet. A door swung open.

And suddenly, she didn’t need her vision because the burst of warm, perfumed air that embraced her could come from nowhere but the orangery.

She sauntered in a few steps, her slippers softly tapping against the familiar slate tiles. Her nose filling with a heady floral fragrance and the light tang of citrus.

What were they doing here? He’d told her she needed to follow him to receive her Christmas gift, but why to the orangery? She’d come here to clip roses for the table right before dinner—for she and Nate had taken over Lord Pembrook’s Christmas Eve tradition of hosting her family for the evening meal—and had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. If Nate had bought her a new plant, wouldn’t she have seen it already?

She turned back in the direction of the door, which gave a distinctive click shut. “What—”

“Follow me.” Nate’s arms fell around her again, his tone still tinged with an unmistakable note of mirth.

At least she’d spent enough time in the orangery, either tending to the flowers or simply lounging with a novel on one of the benches, that she wasn’t completely oblivious to her surroundings. Even without seeing, she knew they strolled past oleander shrubs, palms, lilies. All the way to her favorite section of the orangery, the rosebushes, and the bench where she most liked to repose.

However, he didn’t guide her to sit but stopped, as far as she could tell, directly in front of it. His hands reached for the back of the blindfold. “Should I untie this now, do you think?”

“Yes!” She didn’t mean to sound quite that anxious, but her heart was fluttering, and she was about ready to burst out of her skin.

“Very well.” His fingers set to work untying the knot—not hurriedly, she might add. He seemed to enjoy keeping her in suspense far too much to rush the process. Yet that was one of the many reasons she loved him: he always kept life exciting, even in the small moments.

The blindfold loosened against her head, and with a subtle brush of his fingertips, it came away, leaving her blinking. Staring.

The bench near which they stood was surrounded by candles, and to the side of it, leaning against the Slater’s Crimson rosebush, was a canvas, draped in a white sheet so she could only detect the edges.

Her pulse began thrumming more rapidly, a faint inkling beginning to materialize within her mind.

“One last thing to unwrap.” He came up alongside her, the sight of his roguish smile doing pronounced things to her insides. “If you’re interested, of course.”

She spared an instant to shoot him a wry look, then grabbed hold of the sheet, casting it into a puddle upon the floor. Leaving behind only the painting.

Specifically, the painting of her.

Her breath escaped as a gasp, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. Her own image peered back at her, seated upon this very bench in her airy white muslin, surrounded by roses. A single crimson bloom adorning her loosely pinned hair.

After they’d returned from their trip to France in the spring, Nate had taken to accompanying her to the orangery some afternoons with his sketchbook in hand, asking her to look at him while he sat on the floor and scribbled furiously. I need practice, he’d muttered, holding his pencil awkwardly within fingers still plagued by stiffness from his injury, and because she’d known he felt uneasy about his diminished abilities, she hadn’t pushed him too forcefully when he declined to share his work.

How, and when, had he progressed from a few casual sketches to this? This collection of perfect brushstrokes that was so lifelike, so vivid, so breathtaking. All as a tribute to her. “Oh, Nate.” Her breath caught, her eyes beginning to sting at the corners.

“Do … you like it?” Hesitance crept into his tone, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his carefree smile melting away. “The brush wouldn’t sit in my hand quite right, and I was so long out of practice that—”

“This is no time for modesty.” She launched herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss. “It’s spectacular, Nate. I love it. You have a true talent.”

“Ever since the day you entered my great hall last Christmastide, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to paint you.” His finger swept along the curve of her mouth, brushing over her cheek and then gliding over a loose tendril of hair beside her ear. “The image of you, naturally, is branded into my memory. But if my hand would still permit me, I wanted to bring that beauty to the canvas.

”How was it he always knew just what to say to make her heart soar to the stars? “You succeeded, husband, I promise you.” Her lips fell upon his in another quick kiss. “My only concern is that my Christmas gift to you will pale in comparison.”

“But you’ve already given me a gift. The best gift.” His hand slid down her body, coming to rest against her abdomen. The part of her that still looked the same as always when covered by her gown but that had developed a small swell, detectable when she stood sideways without her shift and peered at herself in the mirror at night. Something she’d taken to doing frequently of late, while Nate kneeled before her and pressed his lips around her navel, telling her how exquisite she was. Her protruding abdomen was the first hint of proof—beyond her missing courses and morning queasiness—of the baby that was to come early in the summer. And now that they’d announced the happy news to her family over dinner, it all felt so much more real.

She grinned, bringing her palm to rest against his chest. Unsure if she’d ever been so happy in her entire life. “True. But you did help with that a little.” She fluttered her lashes, her smile becoming sly. “And I must say, I very much enjoyed your assistance.”

The candlelight picked up the instant his pupils grew large. The tic in his jaw. “What have I done to deserve you?” he murmured, the words heated, ragged. The trail of his breath somehow hotter as he leaned closer, hovering directly above her mouth.

When their lips connected this time, they didn’t draw apart again. Instead, the kiss became deep and passionate, his tongue stroking hers in a way that caused the sparks in her core to flare. His hands roamed down her back, to her hips, back up to where her breasts curved above the edge of her bodice. Close to a year of marriage later, and she still never tired of this. Indeed, the more of him she had, the more her desire seemed to ignite.

After their first encounter on the great hall tabletop, they’d continued to diversify the locations of their intimacy—for it was impossible to wait until bed each night when the passion they shared burned so fiercely. There’d been trysts upon the desk in his study. On the drawing room sofa. Beneath the shadow of the oak trees in the woods. Surprisingly, though, not in the orangery. Perhaps because they only seemed to frequent it during the daytime, when the gardener was always darting in and out.

Well, whatever the reason, it needed to change. Now. For her body burned with longing, and she could think of nothing but having his hands caressing her, his arousal filling her.

As if reading her thoughts, he took hold of her waist and spun her so her back pressed against his chest. Then, he guided her again as if she were still sightless, dodging candles until they stood beside the back of the bench. His hands returned to her bodice, pushing beneath the silk, her loosely tied stays, and her shift, so there was nothing but his fingertips against her bare skin, gliding down to tweak each of her nipples.

“Nate.” She arched her back, thrusting herself into his palms as he continued to caress the hardened buds. Her voice was so breathless, and her actions nothing short of wanton, yet she was powerless to speak or do otherwise.

He gave an appreciative hum, his erection hot and prodding against her lower back. His words a guttural command against her ear. “Hold onto the bench.”

She gripped the stone surface without missing a beat, moaning in protest when his hands slid out of her bodice and abandoned her breasts. Except then, they were on her hips, tugging them toward him, bunching up her skirts until he had an unimpeded view of her backside. “Nate,” she cried once more as his fingers skimmed her bare flesh, his knee coming up to prod her thighs farther apart. Leaving her well and truly exposed to him. He worked his way downward, his touch light and teasing, and she wanted, needed—

She needed exactly what he gave her: a stroke along her sex, where her skin had become damp from her arousal.

“You’re so wet.” He made that little hum again—although this time, it sounded somewhat more like a growl—as he continued up her slit, stopping just below where she most yearned for his touch. “So ready for me.”

Her tongue could no longer form the words that consumed her thoughts: Nate and please and now. Instead, all that emerged when she opened her mouth was a strangled cry containing all her yearning.

Yet it was enough to make him understand. It must be, because from behind her came the sound of trousers rustling, buttons popping. And then, with one solid thrust, he was inside her, and her muscles clenched around him from the sudden burst of pleasure it caused. He filled her so completely, so deeply, and when he took hold of her hips again, drawing back and then sinking back in, she could describe the sensation as nothing but pure bliss.

Bliss that only intensified, for as he plunged in and out, one hand went to her mound, sliding down until his fingertips connected with the bundle of nerves that contained a profusion of pleasure.

Oh, Lord, it was too much. Her desire spiraled higher by the second, rendering her muscles impossibly taut and her body ready to hurtle off a cliff. “I can’t,” she gasped between panting breaths. “It’s so good … I need …”

“That’s right.” He drove into her, circling her pearl without relenting, his voice a tight rasp within her ear. “Let go. Come for me.”

Her fingers tensed around the edge of the bench, holding on for dear life. And suddenly, she was shattering into pieces, her body consumed by euphoric spasms. His body, too, shuddering and then stilling, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he found his release.

She cried out from the pleasure of it, vaguely aware that he groaned along with her. Very aware that his warm weight surrounded her, that she felt sated and boneless and whole.

He waited until they both caught their breath before coaxing her hands from the bench and spinning her to face him. Before setting his arms around her waist and peering at her with eyes of intense, glittering gray. “Have I told you today how madly in love with you I am?”

He had, in fact. More than once. Yet she would never tire of hearing those words.

“Have I told you I return the sentiment?” She pressed her palms against his shoulders, her lips quirking. Her heart fluttering as if she’d consumed an entire bottle of champagne. “I love the painting. But moreover, I love you. With all my heart.”

His lopsided grin only made her pulse beat faster. It was no match, though, for his next words: “Come to bed with me.”

Her breath caught, and something twitched low in her belly, the yearning she’d thought satiated sparking back to life.

“To sleep,” he amended, although his hand fell enticingly upon her bottom as he shifted their positions so he stood beside her, ready to lead her to the great hall and then up to their bedchamber. “We have a busy couple of days ahead.”

Indeed, they did. Tomorrow afternoon, they’d go to Beaumont Manor to spend Christmas with her family, and the day after that was Rosemead’s longstanding St. Stephen’s Day fete. An affair that was significantly better planned this year due to the lack of snowstorm and help of a robust household staff; nonetheless, she and Nate had remained heavily involved in the preparations, and she hoped to celebrate their accomplishment by doing no small amount of merrymaking and dancing. Even if she was forced to admit that she did tire slightly easier than she had last year.

Well, she wasn’t tired now. For as they began their leisurely stroll out of the orangery, her eyes wandered back to the painting—the display of his talent, but, more importantly, his love—and all she could feel was butterflies. She may well be the luckiest woman in the world.

She fell into step beside him, flashing him a coquettish smile. Taking a moment to appreciate just how golden he looked in the light of so many candles. “As you say, husband.” Her voice was demure. However, her hand mimicked his, settling over the taut muscles beneath the back of his trousers.

His fingers sank deeper into the folds of her gown, and his lips parted, releasing a garbled noise that sounded rather like minx. Perhaps they wouldn’t only sleep when they arrived in their bedchamber. Not just yet.

Perhaps he would first settle between her thighs and bring them both pleasure once more. Perhaps he would hold her in his arms, with his large hands cradling her abdomen, so that everything in her world felt safe and warm and right. And perhaps she would then drift to sleep in her haze of contentment, facing the window so she could blurredly watch the scattered flakes of falling snow.