The Perfect Princess (33 page)

“Then that’s what we’ll do, but not before I speak to your father.”

She stared at him for a long time, saw in his eyes that he meant every word, and whispered, “What would make you happy, Richard?”

“You,” he said fiercely, “only you.”

His embrace was anything but fierce. He kissed her brows, her cheeks, her ears, and finally, at her urging, her mouth. When he heard the slight catch in her breathing, he helped her out of her cloak. She wasn’t wearing a thing beneath it. Her body was smooth beneath his hands, smooth and supple and welcoming. He wanted to show her that there was more to loving than his frantic possession. Loving was slow, easy, and tantalizing. Loving was pleasure.

It was like floating in a warm river, she thought, only this time she wasn’t a novice. She knew where the current was taking her. She followed his example, and returned caress for caress. Her heart began to race. Her breath began to catch in her throat. The warm river became a little more choppy.

Richard buried his mouth in her throat as he struggled to hold on to his control. But her throat tasted sinfully of the perfume she had dabbed there, and his
senses began to swim.
Easy
. he told himself, but he couldn’t get his hands and lips to obey the commands of his brain. He had to touch, had to taste.

She gave a low, keening cry when his mouth closed on one distended nipple. Heat raced from her breast to her loins. She couldn’t get air into her lungs. Then his lips moved to her other breast, and her breath came out on a strangled sob.

He raised her knees and probed gently between her thighs. The soft sounds she made had him shuddering in response. He held himself in check for only one reason. That first time he’d been too desperate to have her to bring her to climax. This time, he was thinking only of her.

She wanted to touch him as he touched her, but he wouldn’t allow it. She writhed, she shuddered, she struggled as the rising tide of sensation threatened to sweep her away. “Richard,” she cried.

At that cry of helpless need, something primitive and entirely masculine moved inside him. No one else had ever made her feel like this and no one else ever would. She was his. It worked both ways. He had never wanted so much, needed so much.

His chest rose and fell as he braced himself over her, and carefully entered her. “Rosamund . . .”That awful tightness was back in his throat, and he couldn’t speak.

Her eyes glazed over. Her nails scored his back. “Why have you stopped?”

He had to smile. She was a sheer delight to him. But his smile disintegrated when she moved beneath him. He rose above her, and slowly pushed into her, making their joining as deep as he could make it.

Never had she been so aware of her body, or so aware of the pleasure she could give and take. In that moment, she felt she understood what had baffled philosophers since the beginning of time. She knew why the universe existed. It was for this.

Then he moved, and rational thought slipped away. She gave him kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust, until the pleasure sharpened, crested, became unbearable, and shattered like an exploding star.

Hands tucked behind his neck, he lay in the aftermath of spent passion, drowsy and content. He knew there was a smug smile on his face. He’d never bothered to judge his performance as a lover. Middling to adequate, he’d always thought, and hadn’t felt the need to improve his standing. But that was before Rosamund. With the right woman, he could reach heights he hadn’t known existed.

With a sigh of masculine satisfaction, he rolled to his side so that he could watch the light of his life as she made the tea she had promised him. A week, two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have known how to light a fire or boil a kettle of water. And now look at her. He was impressed. At the same time, it wouldn’t have mattered a straw to him now whether she knew how to light a fire or boil water. Two weeks had made a remarkable difference to both of them.

She was fully dressed. Because she’d laid out a fresh shirt and black trousers for him, he decided to put them on, but he did it to please her. He had looked at his watch and calculated that there was enough time to make love to her again before he saw her safely back to the house.

And, of course, they had to talk.

But when he was dressed and ready to sit down at the table, he found that it wasn’t that simple. He had to touch her, had to pull her hard against him and undo the buttons of her bodice so that his questing fingers could find bare flesh. He had to kiss her. It wasn’t all one-sided. This woman really knew how to seduce a man.
Those little catches in her breath drove him crazy to have her. She was so warm, so generous, so giving.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard. “Tea or bed?” he said.

“Bed!” she answered at once.

And with a whoop of laughter, she dragged him to the bed.

H
alf an hour later, they had their tea.

“So,” he said, “tell me what happened tonight after I left you.”

She put down her cup. “Now, this is shocking,” she said. “We weren’t the only two who had arranged to meet at the folly. Prudence, my sweet, innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Prudence, had arranged to meet Prince Michael! I have never been more misled in my life. I thought she was pining for Caspar, and all the time it was Prince Michael. That’s why she was so reserved with me, and with Caspar, too. We didn’t exactly sing Prince Michael’s praises. I’m sorry to say that sometimes I was quite scathing, and she was hurt on his behalf. And it seems he loves her, too. He’s swearing that he’ll give up his place in the succession so that he can marry her. He hasn’t left her side since the accident—that’s what we’re calling it up at the house, an accident, but that was just to stop everyone panicking.”

“Why are you so cross?”

“I’m not cross, I’m disappointed. I mean, Prince Michael is nice enough, I suppose, but Prudence is an intelligent woman. She could do so much better.”

He thought for a moment and said, “But if he loved her, why was he going to become engaged to you?”

A pained expression crossed her face. “That was all in your imagination. How could you believe I would marry that—no, no, I won’t call him a bore, because he really is a nice man. It’s just that we have nothing in common.”

He wasn’t going to argue that point. The prince was no longer a problem. That was the main thing. He held out his cup and watched her refill it. “So you’re all alone in the folly. What happens next?”

“I was in no state to see anyone right then, so when I heard Prince Michael calling my name, I left the folly and went round to a side door on the far side of the house. My hair was a mess, so I went upstairs to fix it. Meanwhile, I gather, Prudence had entered the folly to wait for the prince. When he couldn’t find me, he went to meet Prudence.”

“Why was he looking for you?”

“Some of my guests were leaving and I should have been there. My father asked the prince to find me. When he couldn’t find me in the ballroom or the conservatory, he tried outside. Of course, he had to go to the folly to keep his tryst with Prudence. They didn’t stay there long. They left together. A shot rang out and Prue was hit. The prince fell on top of her to protect her. That’s all I know.”

“The prince fell on top of her? I think there may be more to the prince than I gave him credit for.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the bruises on Prue. I think Prince Michael did more damage than the bullet did.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t suppose he saw anyone or heard anything to indicate who fired the shot?”

“Unfortunately not. Nor did any of the servants or guests who ran to the folly when the shot was fired.”

Something else occurred to him. “What about your shawl? Did you leave it at the folly? I remember it over a chair.”

“No. Why?”

He shrugged. “Miss Dryden has your coloring, and you’re about the same height. It struck me that if she picked up your shawl and was wearing it, she might have been mistaken for you.”

She was shocked. “Why would anyone want to shoot
me?”

“No reason. Just as I can’t see any reason for anyone wanting to shoot Miss Dryden.” When her expression changed, he said, “What is it, Rosamund?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with it, but I learned from Prudence today that her brother, Peter Dryden, was at Cambridge with you. He’s recently become the vicar of St. Marks in Chelsea. Do you remember him?”

“Peter Dryden?” Richard took a moment to think about it. The name had a familiar ring, but he could not put a face to it. Suddenly it came to him. “The poet!” he said. “That was his nickname.”

“So you do remember him?”

“Yes.”

He remembered a young man with spectacles whose head was never out of a book, but that was about all he remembered. Which meant that Peter Dryden had not been a member of the inner circle of young men who had set themselves up as judges of manners and morals. Their names were forever branded on his mind.

He looked at Rosamund. “What about him?”

“Prudence says that he’s absolutely convinced you could not have murdered Lucy Rider. He told her about Frank Stapleton and how you were blamed for his
crimes. He also said—but Prudence didn’t sound sure about this—that Stapleton had gone off to Canada right after he left Cambridge and that’s where he died.

“It’s worth looking into, isn’t it? Especially after what happened here tonight.”

“Oh, yes. It’s worth looking into.”

He wasn’t only thinking of Frank Stapleton. Dunsmoor was closely connected to his Cambridge days, and he was beginning to think of Cambridge more and more of late. Peter Dryden was definitely worth a visit.

After that, he went back and forth, drawing her out on one point then another. Prince Michael, he learned, was convinced that the bullet was meant for him. There were always agitators and hotheads in Kolnbourg who liked to stir up trouble. One less prince to worry about would be a cause for rejoicing among that lot.

“And those were his exact words,” Rosamund said, and Richard laughed.

“What does your father think?”

She took a long sip of tea before replying. “He hasn’t said very much. I know he wants to talk to you. He sent Justin to find you, but when Justin returned and said that all the outside servants were combing the grounds and he couldn’t find you, Father decided he’d see you first thing in the morning.”

Richard nodded. “Good, because I want to talk to him, too.”

“About me?”

“Especially about you.”

She fiddled with the lace on one cuff. She checked to make sure there was tea left in the pot. Finally, losing patience, she said, “Well, what are you going to say to him?”

Her question surprised him. “I’m going to tell him that we’re going to be married, of course.”

She sat back in her chair. “Tell? Not ask?”

“Tell,” replied Richard forcefully. “If I ask, he might
say no. He probably would say no. I’m not giving him a choice.”

“Isn’t it usual for a gentleman to ask a lady first, before he approaches her father?”

She said the words as a joke, but there was no humor in his expression when he answered her. “I’m not giving you a choice either.”

She looked into his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze made her catch her breath. Her heart began to thud. She tried to drag her eyes away, but he wouldn’t allow it. There was something primitive in that look, something possessive and utterly masculine.

His dark lashes flickered, releasing her from his gaze, and she let out a breath. He said in a bantering tone, “It would shock Harper if we did not marry, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

She did her best to follow his lead, but her heart was still thudding against her ribs. “I think Harper may be shocked anyway. He told me that you were pining for your lost love.”

He looked baffled. “What lost love?”

“She doesn’t exist?”

“No.”

She nodded. “That’s what I thought. Harper was sure, you see, that your heart was already taken, and that’s why no woman could hold you, not even the admirable Mrs. Templar or Jason Radley’s beautiful wife, but I saw at once that that’s not the reason. Harper is a romantic. I know better than that.”

He smiled. “Harper is a meddler. He told you that for your own good, so that you would forget me and take up your life again. Well, you had your chance and you didn’t listen to him. And it’s too late now.”

She rested her chin on her linked fingers. “Richard,” she said, “don’t you want to know why I think no woman has ever held you?”

If there was one thing Richard disliked intensely, it was dissecting the workings of his relationship with a woman. Women seemed to relish it. Not only that, they excelled at it. What good it did was more than he could fathom. No one was ever the happier for it.

“Not particularly,” he said.

She sealed her lips.

He heaved a sigh. “All right. Why?”

“Because,” she said, “you had not met the right woman, not until I came along.”

He grinned. “You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Perfectly sure. And it’s not that no woman could hold you. Let’s be frank. What woman would want to? It’s the other way round. What woman would put up with your black moods, your lack of gallantry, and, dare I say it, your blunt way of expressing yourself? Only me.” Her eyes sparkled. “And do you know why?”