An Affair in Winter (Seasons Book 1) (6 page)

She lifted to meet him, watching his face in fascination as he finally sought out the pleasure he had thus far denied himself. His neck strained, sweat formed on his brow and after a few long thrusts his face twisted. He withdrew from her clenching sex and came between them with a long, deep moan that seemed to shake the very room.

Then he collapsed on top of her, his mouth seeking hers, his arms dragging her closer. She could feel his pounding heartbeat through his chest, its rhythm matching her own erratic one, and she held him close, pretending, just for a moment, that this was real. That this would last.

Even though she knew it wouldn’t. After all, it was only a dream. A stolen night. When morning came, it would be over.

It didn’t seem fair that dawn came with a burst of bright sunlight. As Gray let the curtain fall, he sighed. Today should be cloudy and gloomy, as he was. He turned to find Rosalinde in his bed, her eyes open and watching him. She said nothing, she asked for nothing. She just watched. He couldn’t find a smile to give her, so it was with a frown that he snatched his discarded trousers from their pile of abandoned clothing and shoved his legs into them one by one.

“The roads will melt off before noon with the sun up as it is,” he said. “Your carriage will be able to make its destination by tonight, I would wager, even with the inevitable mud.”

She didn’t respond. Her bright blue gaze tracked him in silence for a moment, and then she sighed. “I suppose I should be happy for that.”

He frowned even more deeply. Why couldn’t the weather trap them another night? What would he give to stay in this room, pretending all that existed was the two of them?

But that was longing talking, not sense. Longing for more passion, but also longing for something else. Something he would not name, but felt as though he’d lost as he prepared to leave this woman’s side.

He buttoned his shirt swiftly and then turned to her again. She’d sat up, the sheets tucked around her bare breasts, her dark hair tangled around her face. It took everything in him not to fall back into her arms, consequences be damned.

How that was possible, he didn’t know. After all, he’d made love to her, how many times the previous night? Four, five? He’d lost count of the pleasures they’d shared. But it wasn’t enough. Somehow it wasn’t enough.

“I must go before the others wake,” he said, hating the words as they echoed in the room.

“I know you must. But will you come here before you leave?”

She motioned to a spot on the bed beside her. He joined her, perching on the edge, looking down into that upturned face that had inspired such foolhardy actions.

She smiled, and his world froze.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching up to trace his lips with her fingertips gently. “Last night was incredible. I never knew, Mr. Gray.”

He nodded, for he knew what she meant. “Nor did I.”

She curled her fingers around the line of his jaw, drawing him down, and their lips met. In that moment, Gray knew this was the last time he would ever kiss her. Ever see her. Ever touch her. And it shattered some part of him that he’d never even known existed. He slid his fingers into her hair and kissed her more deeply, hoping to brand her in some way. To brand himself. To make a permanent mark that wouldn’t fade.

But it had to end. At last, he pulled away and stood. “If I don’t go now, I never will,” he choked out. “Goodbye.”

She blinked furiously, as if she were fighting tears, but she merely whispered, “Goodbye.”

He took his jacket from the floor and strode out, forcing himself not to look back. Forcing himself not to stay. And when he was in the hallway, the door shut behind him, he tried to lie and say their night had been nothing but a bit of fun in the midst of a storm.

But it felt like so much more. And it felt like he’d lost everything as he walked away from her door, from her and back to reality.

Gertrude pulled back the curtain and let a bright blast of sunlight into the carriage. It was all Rosalinde could do not to hiss at the light as she lifted her hand to shade her eyes.

How dare the day be so beautiful when her heart hurt?

“Funny how we can have such an unexpected storm one day and the next it’s gorgeous,” Gertrude laughed, completely oblivious to the pain in her mistress.

“Funny,” Rosalinde repeated.

“When we stopped a while back, Lincoln said we’d make it to Caraway Court by midnight,” her maid said, watching her face carefully. “That ought to cheer you up.”

Rosalinde pressed her lips together and nodded. “Good,” she said, though she was barely attending anymore.

Her thoughts had turned, yet again, to last night. She did not regret those hours with the mysterious Mr. Gray. She only wished she could have stayed longer. That the stolen night could have been a stolen week. Or a stolen month. Or a stolen lifetime.

She blinked. Foolish thoughts, those. Mr. Gray hadn’t even looked back when he walked away from her. He certainly felt none of the connection to her she had toward him.

“It was good luck that the gentleman next door to you as willing to give up his chamber after that awful tree came through the window,” Gertrude continued, digging out some sewing from her bag and beginning to fuss with it. “Was it the man who shared supper with you?”

Rosalinde stifled a sigh. She had given her maid just a few details about how she’d ended up in Mr. Gray’s room. She’d rather hoped Gertie would leave it at that, though she had not believed it. In truth, she was surprised the inquisition had been stayed for so long.

“Yes,” she said past a thick tongue and a dry throat. “The very gentleman. He kindly slept on the floor downstairs with the others to save me trouble.”

“Hmmm,” Gertrude hummed, and Rosalinde shot her a look.

Gertrude was still sewing, but there was something about her maid’s pursed lips, her slight glances in Rosalinde’s direction. Did Gertrude not believe her?

In the end, it likely didn’t matter. Gertrude had been her maid for many years and had proven herself to be a loyal companion. She didn’t have loose lips, she never had. In fact, Rosalinde might have even confessed the truth to Gertrude, but for one fact about her passionate night.

It was hers. Hers alone. It was too precious and private to share with anyone but the man she would never see again.

She turned to the side, leaning her head against the carriage wall as she fought the tears that stung her eyes. It was foolish to let them fall for a person she didn’t know. One who’d she’d known from the start was not meant for her. She’d lost
nothing
.

“With all the excitement last night, I hardly slept,” she admitted. “I think I’ll close my eyes for a while.”

“You do look exhausted,” Gertrude said with a smile. “You sleep now. I’ll wake you if you’re needed.”

Rosalinde let her eyes close and the rocking carriage began to lull her to sleep. But she feared, as she drifted away, that there would be no rest to come. Just dreams of Mr. Gray. Dreams of what would never be.

“Mrs. Wilde?”

Rosalinde shifted, but did not open her eyes. She didn’t want to wake. She didn’t want Mr. Gray to leave again.

“Mrs. Wilde? We’ve arrived at Caraway Court.”

Rosalinde opened one eye and realized she was not back at the inn. She was in her carriage and it had stopped. Gertrude was already outside—Rosalinde could hear her talking to Lincoln. It was the groom, Thomas, who now stood in the carriage door, his face uncomfortable as he tried to rouse her.

“What time is it, Thomas?” she asked as she sat up slowly.

“Nearly midnight, ma’am,” he said. “A few of Lord Stenfax’s men are helping with our things, but the rest of the household is already abed. I’ve heard Miss Celia is still awake, waiting for your arrival.”

Rosalinde let out a sigh. “Well, at least I shall not have to deal with Grandfather tonight.”

Thomas said nothing, but took a step back and held out a hand to help her from the carriage. She stretched her back as she stepped down. She was achy all over, both from the long, cramped ride and from the passionate night she’d shared with Mr. Gray. She knew that stiffness, that well-used ache between her legs would fade soon, and she hated it. It would make that night nothing more than a distant memory.

“Come, Mrs. Wilde,” Gertrude said as she approached. “Lincoln and Thomas will help the others put away the carriage and horses. I’ll take you to the room you’ll share with Miss Celia.”

Those words cleared Rosalinde’s mind. This was the last time she and her sister would share a room. The last time she’d be with Celia before her sister became Countess of Stenfax.

She couldn’t let memories of one wicked night keep her from fully concentrating on matters at hand. She followed Gertrude into the house and gave over her coat and gloves to Stenfax’s butler. He gave Gertrude directions to Celia and Rosalinde’s chamber and the two women trailed up.

“We’re here so late, I’ll just help you into one of Miss Celia’s nightgowns,” Gertrude said. “And you’ll have your things tomorrow morning when you rise.”

“Good idea,” Rosalinde said. “Celia has nicer clothes than I do anyway.”

She laughed, but Gertrude didn’t. In fact, her maid pursed her lips in annoyance at the statement that was pure truth. While their grandfather punished Rosalinde for her “bad choices,” he still thought Celia had a use. Her sister received the benefit, even if she didn’t want it.

As they reached a door down the hallway, it flew open, and there stood Celia. She wore a wrap tied tight around her waist and her dark hair, so like Rosalinde’s, was braided and fell around her shoulder. Her younger sister let out a little gasp, then dragged Rosalinde into a tight hug.

“You’re here,” Celia breathed. “I’m so glad. Hello, Gertie.”

The maid smiled. “I’m just here to help Mrs. Wilde into a night rail and—”

“Oh, I’ll help her,” Celia said. “You should go to bed. You must be exhausted.”

Gertrude gave Rosalinde a questioning glance, which Rosalinde returned with a smile. “Celia can help. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gertrude nodded. “Very well, good night to you both.”

The moment she turned to go, Celia dragged Rosalinde inside. Once she’d shut the door, Celia hugged her once more. “I was worried sick.”

Rosalinde heard the true anxiety in her sister’s tone and squeezed her a little harder. “I’m so sorry. That dratted storm came up from nowhere and stranded us at this little inn.”

She said no more, not sharing the secrets of her stolen night with her sister any more than she’d shared them with her maid. Celia would no more breathe a word than Gertie would, but Rosalinde still wished to hold her memories close to her heart.

“That must have been awful,” Celia said, hurrying her toward the roaring fire to warm up. “Was it a very terrible night?”

Rosalinde bit her lip as she held her hands up to be warmed by the flames. “No. Not at all.”

She looked around the room to keep her mind from wandering. It was a fine chamber, well suited for the future Countess of Stenfax. No expense had been spared in the furnishings or silky bedclothes.