Page 45 of The Rogue’s Embrace

The dining salon was arranged tonight for dancing, the tables placed close upon the perimeter. The music of the orchestra soared into the great glass dome, while couples glided across the marble floor below.

Estela sat beside Margaret and the Titby-Tittons, watching as Rockley waltzed Oona sedately. It was kind of him. In his formal attire, moving upon light feet, he was a graceful dancer. Ladies outnumbering the gentlemen, he was much in demand.

All day, she'd felt a nagging doubt.

With the ship having sailed through the night, they'd docked in Sardinia, allowing a short excursion into Cagliari. She'd sent Antoinette with a message for Margaret and Oona, letting them know she was indisposed.

She and Rockley had spent the time closeted in her cabin.

Was it so wrong? To shut out the world and enjoy this moment?

He'd spoken nothing of his plans when they reached England, as if to do so would break the enchantment. They conversed on many topics but any mention of Miss Maitland he diverted.

The waltz came to an end and the dancers drifted off to take refreshment. Rockley led Oona—quite pink from the exertion—back to their table.

"Mrs. Bongorge"—he bowed in courtly fashion and extended his hand—"Would you do me the honor of partnering me?"

For some reason, she found herself hesitating. They'd enjoyed almost every intimacy, but the thought of them dancing in public made her self-conscious. She did wish for it, of course. She would simply pretend the room was not crowded with others observing them, seeing how she looked at him, how she trembled to be close to him again.

He swept her into the moves she'd danced a hundred times or more—with other partners, in other places. Yet, tonight, it was as if this were the first time. Her feet knew the steps, but she feared she would stumble. Meanwhile, her heart fluttered to feel his hand upon her waist. Her gown of golden tulle was gauze-light, so that the heat of his palm suffused through the fabric to her skin.

He did not speak, but his attention never left her, as if he were drinking in every nuance of her appearance—as if this were the last time they would hold each other, the last time he would see her.

When the music drew to a close, her hand and waist remained captive, as if he were in some trance. She stood for some moments before whispering, "Rockley, the dance is ended."

He came to himself, apologizing, but still did not release her.

"You must let me go."

It required her own effort to free herself.

She was not his. He had no claim upon her. There was no understanding between them, and she was not his to command. Something choked inside her.

"Excuse me."

She walked faster than was seemly, leaving the salon at the far end, where a door led directly to the deck. There she was assaulted by the night air, for they were sailing once more, toward Marseille. She regretted the absence of her shawl immediately but could not bring herself to return inside.

Instead, she hurried past the windows of the salon, wanting to escape. She was in the hold of emotions she could not subdue, and her tears welled. Brushing them aside, she ran, until her shoe slipped from her foot. She didn't care to pick it up, but took herself to the nearest rail, and clung there, letting the wind whip her hair.

The moon hung low, streaking the sky violet through shredded clouds, while the waves rushed and frothed, passing in monotonous repetition as the ship moved relentlessly through the water. A sob rose up from deep within her chest and she was helpless to control it.

"Stella!"

Rockley's arms came unexpectedly about her, pulling her tight to his chest.

The warmth was exactly what she needed; nonetheless, she tried to pull away.

She was impotent against his strength; powerless when his mouth brushed beneath the lobe of her ear. Weakly, she dropped her head back upon his shoulder, wanting his comfort, no matter the pain it would cost her.

His lips found her neck and he buried himself there. "Come back with me—my bed this time."

What am I doing? She wasn't sure she'd uttered it aloud, but he replied nonetheless, his mouth brushing beneath her ear.

"We don't need to name this. Just let me love you."

Turning her to him, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that left her soft-boned with desire. She wanted to resist, to hold herself apart, but she could not. She said nothing as he led her to the interior of the ship, along passageways quiet but for the distant hum and throb of the engine deep beneath their feet.

She scarce took in the appearance of his cabin. It was the same as hers, without the litter of feminine paraphernalia. The bed was neatly turned back, the sheets crisp white.

"I want you naked."

There was raw need in his voice. He didn't bother with his own attire, focusing all his efforts on stripping her of hers. The tulle soon pooled at her feet, her corset was unlaced, her chemise, petticoats and bloomers were thrown aside. He kissed each portion of her body as he revealed it to the air, grazing his teeth over her buttocks, biting and squeezing there. Her breasts he devoured just as ferociously, filling his mouth with her abundance.

Only her gloves he left as they were, the black silk reaching beyond her elbow. He raised an eyebrow on finding her to be missing a shoe but was too intent on removing her stockings to enquire. Kneeling, with his thumbs hooked at the top, he drew them down, then kissed his way up again, from the inside of her ankle to the top of each thigh. A shiver wracked her when, from his position at her feet, he brought his mouth to her sex.

He moved her leg to his shoulder, the better to enter her there, making his intimate invasion with his tongue. She came hard and quickly, her fingers wrapped in his hair, and he looked up at her from his position of submission, his face lit by an adoration that pierced her heart.

Her voice was husky with need. "I want you naked too."

Together, they made short work of his clothing, and he soon stood before her, tall and broad, a lithe animal. Pressing her own, gentle kisses, she walked about him, letting her breasts skim his nakedness, delighting in the tickle of his hair as she brushed against his masculine beauty. She trailed gloved fingers across his muscular thighs, across tight buttocks and the hard planes of his back. His nipples, small and dark and flat, each received their own kiss and the teasing flick of her tongue, stealing a half-caught sigh from him before she cast a path down his taut stomach.

She reached for his cock, so large and heavy, and already swollen hard.

"You want me to touch you here?"

She wrapped her gloved hand around the base.

"Yes, touch me."

He swallowed.

"Like this?"

She squeezed where she encircled, then began to stroke. The sight of him—firm and full and hot—was more arousing to her than anything that had come before. His lubrication dripped clear.

"I want to taste you."

She dragged her hand along his length, moving her grip to take him there, working his tip, smearing his slickness.

"You want that too, don't you, Your Grace? You want my tongue on your cock? You want to feel me lapping you?"

"Yes!"

The yearning on his face was tortured.

She knew he was watching as she slithered downward, kneeling as he'd done before her. She kept her hand upon him all the while, maintaining a rhythmic motion as she brushed her lips along his arousal. Reaching his sac, she breathed deeply, inhaling his musky scent, before taking one succulent plum into the warmth of her mouth. She hummed with pleasure, wanting him to feel the vibration deep in his root.

She gave the other the same treatment before working her way upward again, using the flat of her tongue upon the underside of his length. She broke off to rub her cheek there, reveling in the velvet-smoothness which wrapped the rock beneath.

Reaching his tip, she swirled her tongue, licking and lapping. Then, stretching her lips, she encompassed his head, sucking him between the roof of her mouth and her silken tongue. He dropped back his head, uttering a deep, throaty growl.

Her hands she moved lower, to grip his base again—and beneath, stroking the soft skin between his balls and anus.

"Dear God, stop!"

He was breathing heavily.

The intensity in his eyes fueled her own desire. She was wet and aching, licked by flames stoked by this feeling of power. She was his seducer, though his strength placed her ultimately under his dominance.

Gathering her up, he hoisted her under her bottom, lifting her in his arms towards the bed. There she wrapped her legs about his waist as he kissed her neck and shoulders, her collarbone, her breasts. At last, she dragged his mouth to meet hers, and opened to him, wanting kisses rough and deep.

His shaft nudged beneath her, sliding between her legs, against her cleft. She rubbed herself until her cream coated him, riding his length with abandon, in the only way possible. Then she shifted, taking him in her hand, guiding his tip to her slick, molten slit.

"Stella!"

The look in his eyes was desperate.

She eased his head between her inner lips and held him there.

This wasn't just for herself.

She wanted him to know her this way—to sink into her softness and be consumed by the heat of sweet flesh, to know the all-consuming, enveloping ecstasy of burying himself inside her. She wanted to hear him moan as he moved, and moan harder when he felt her move with him. She wanted to rock him to greater heights until he knew only the joining of their bodies.

This would make him indelibly hers; always, always, always.

As she took him further inside, she screamed silently, for the sensation was beyond what she could have imagined. Yet her body responded, stretching to take what it craved. Her wetness trickled, helping him gain purchase. It was torture and pleasure. Her heartbeat was like thunder, and she struggled to breathe.

"So tight! I never knew…"

He took a jagged breath, retreating slightly, before moving inside her again.

She cried out audibly this time, though he gave her only a fraction of himself. The pain was savage but swiftly became something else. Her pulse pounded within her sex, and then she felt an easing.

She was clinging to him, her nails raking his back, and he was inside her. Not fully, of course, but as much as she could bear.

He pulled back, then slid forward, as slowly and gently as if she were a true virgin. The sensation was no longer piercing.

"Theo."

She brought up one hand to cradle his cheek and realized there were tears upon it.

"I can't last. It's too much…"

He gasped.

Quickly, she grasped him. In the heat of the moment, he might press forward. So far she was only bruised, but his size was formidable. They couldn't risk him accidentally tearing her.

"Stella!"

His moan came as she slipped him from her sheath, and his seed drenched her mound and cleft.

"You're unhurt? Stella, you must tell me!"

Rockley's anguish was real, holding her close then putting her from him—as if he could tell from her expression alone whether he'd harmed her.

"I'm fine, truly."

She kissed his palm. "You were more….bigger…but in a good way. I told you it was possible. We can keep trying…"

It was hard to put into words how she felt.

"Thank God."

He folded her to his chest. "I didn't expect you to…and then you did…and I couldn't stop myself. It was so damn wonderful. I'd no idea, and you felt so good."

He dropped his forehead to hers. "You've stolen a piece of me. It's yours forever now. I don't think I'll ever feel…"

"Hush."

She brought a finger to his lips. She didn't want him to say something that wasn't real, just because his emotions were overwhelming him. Men believed all manner of things in the afterglow of their orgasm; things that couldn't be relied upon. If he were to tell her what she hoped he would, there were better times for that.

He was already growing sleepy.

She turned, letting him curl around her back. In no time at all, his breathing changed. He was asleep, and she guessed it would take a trumpet blast to rouse him.

Without difficulty, she moved his arm and rose from the bed. The room was dim, the curtains upon the larger windows being drawn. However, there was sufficient light from a single unshaded porthole, through which moonlight cast illumination. On quiet feet, she found his bathroom and attended to herself there. Then she located her chemise and slipped it over her head.

In the morning, in the light of day, she would ask him his intentions. She had to know. Not just if he could love her but if he saw a future for them. To carry on as they were? Impossible. Her own feelings she was now certain of, but she would not declare them until she knew his mind.

No matter what the future held, he wouldn't forget her. She was his first, and he would always belong to her, in a sense, because of that claiming. If he went ahead and married his bride, he would remember these days and nights. All else might be lost to her, but not her place in his memory.

Soft snores came from the bed.

If only there were a way to know more of his thoughts. With a sigh, she lowered herself to the stool beside the little desk, and leaned her elbow there. Her foot touched something hard beneath and she bent over to look.

A portmanteau. Dark leather with a metallic clasp.

She sat upright again.

What did a man keep in such a travelling case? Correspondence? Legal papers? A diary?

Would any of the above reveal what she wished to know?

It would be wrong to pry, but she'd been wicked far too long to pay consideration to such small matters.

She would only look briefly, and ignore anything which had no pertinence to the last few days, since he'd met her.

Clicking open the bag, she tipped it towards the light. At first, there appeared nothing of interest. Newspapers, maps, a book of poetry, paper, ink and quills. She swept her hand across the lining. Was there a side pocket? She found nothing. But, there was something uneven about the base. Removing the various items, she felt again, running her nail about the edge.

There was a snag, and the stiff bottom peeled up at one corner. A concealed compartment? Lifting it out, she peered inside.

A mask was there—grey with a black trim: a strange thing to hide away, even if it had sentimental value. Picking it up, she frowned. It was an ordinary half-mask, designed to tie at the back. There was nothing remarkable about it, and yet it caught at her memory. She'd seen someone wear one just the same, very recently.

Setting it upon the desk, she looked again into the bottom portion of the portmanteau, and something within her froze.

Letters, bound in ribbon, the name upon them written in a girlish hand. The recipient: Il Conte, Tommaso Sforza. She didn't need to open them to know these were the letters she'd been searching for at the Palazzo Zorzi Tiepolo.

The man who'd entered the Contessa's chamber behind her, taking the letters from under her nose, had been Rockley. All this time, he'd had them!

A pain began to throb in her head. Had he recognized her from the masquerade? Followed her onto the ship even? It hardly made sense, if that was the case, for him to approach her—but who knew what he was thinking. To keep her under surveillance, perhaps? Who was he working for?

She had no choice but to take the bundle, to hide it among her possessions and… The next thought hit her like a punch in the gut.

Whether or not Rockley suspected her of anything already, he certainly would when he found the letters missing.

She would have to depart the ship, at Marseille, as soon as they anchored. There were trains to take her north. From Calais, a cross-Channel boat would ferry her to England. Even if Rockley tried to follow her, she'd have a head start.

There was no time to waste, and none to spare for what he'd think when he discovered her deceit. With any luck, by the time he woke, she would be gone.

With trembling fingers, she replaced the mask and the other contents, then eased the clasp shut.

He would hate her, but there was no other way. Her loyalty to Mathilde overrode all other considerations.

Had anything Rockley said been true, or was even the story of Miss Maitland a ruse? A way to get closer to her, and discover why she'd been at the palazzo? A wave of nausea rose up, but she couldn't afford to succumb to it.

Gathering her dress, she donned it as best as she could. The single shoe she pushed onto her foot. The other garments she crammed into her arms.

She didn't know Rockley at all. He wasn't the man she'd thought he was.

That thought would have to comfort her on the cold nights ahead. There would be many of them, but no winter's frost would ever match the ice that crept now about her heart.