Stefan's breath was hot on her neck, and she hated herself for wanting to feel his lips again.
Eyes closed, she waited.
Stefan grabbed her hand. Her eyes flashed open, and she stared as he quirked a smile and bestowed a warm kiss on her hand, his tongue darting out ever so slightly to touch her flesh. The devil!
"I bid my lady, goodnight." He turned on his heel and sauntered out of the hall. Rosalind, continued to stand, and then swayed towards the table, bracing both of her hands in front of her. Legs like lead, she was suddenly fearful she was having another spell, but the feeling quickly dissipated, and in its place a funny feeling in her stomach. A fluttering of sorts. She closed her eyes and relived the almost kiss.
Curse the man for making her want him! Well, one thing was for certain. She wasn't going to make this easy. If he wanted a marriage, he better understand just what he was getting himself into. Rosalind had sworn to herself that she wouldn't crumble at the feet of any man. And she didn't plan on starting now, even if the curse was real, which she suspected it was, considering she had seen her father fall to his death with her own eyes. Something good had to come out of all the darkness that surrounded her. She just wasn't sure that the something she referred to was named Stefan. Maybe her curse was to be pursued by a man she could never truly have.
With one final glance around her, she sighed, trimmed the candles, and made her way to her bedroom. Tomorrow Stefan would begin his courting. She wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word. For although he had been home from India for months now, he still had the manners of a savage.
CHAPTER FIVE
How much do I love thee? Let me count the ways…
~ Elizabeth Browning ~
Stefan marched down the long poorly lit hallway to his room and pulled open the door with more force than necessary. The girl wanted wooing? He smirked as he took a seat next to the roaring fire. Stefan rubbed his eyes with his hand and bit his lip in thought. It wasn't the idea, more the principal of the matter. Why spend time wooing when in the end they had to marry regardless of circumstances?
He sat in silence, as the options lay before him. He could either one, force her hand; or two, woo and hope she would come to her senses. What did he know about wooing anyway? It had never been necessary, and since his return from India, he had more trouble hiding from women then trying to pursue them. The trouble, it seemed, had begun when he made a complete spectacle of himself at the Season's last ball. Only to be glorified in the society papers the very next day by Mrs. Peabody — whoever she was, she obviously held him in high regard, for every single article mentioned him in some way or another.
His favorite meal always included boiled potatoes, which made every woman within his vicinity strike up a conversation about the stupid vegetable . He preferred a certain bay over every other horse which always led to women trying to talk with him about horseflesh, never a good idea when the women hadn't a clue as to what they were talking about. At one point a woman confused a Grey with the actual color and then proceeded to ask him why he preferred such a bland color instead of yellow or pink. Needless to say, he walked away quite frustrated. But the worst of Mrs. Peabody's crimes also happened to be a personal favorite. What his choice hair color would be on a woman. That very piece of information seemed harmless at the time, that is until he went to a small dinner gathering and noticed quite a few of women trying to powder their hair in order to gain the blonde hair color he so obviously adored. Never mind that women had stopped wearing hair powder years prior. Apparently it was to make a come back. Not only did he sneeze each time a woman came near him that night, but one of the young ladies had an unfortunate accident leading to her hair being set on fire.
Whoever that deuced Mrs. Peabody was, his life had been absolute torture in the months following his return to polite society. It was no wonder his patience was wearing thin. Two beacons of society had fallen because of the curse, and now he was in the middle of nowhere trying to woo a woman who danced alone in meadows! Not that he should be casting disparagement upon her sanity, since only hours ago he had asked his horse for help.
By his weak calculations, he hadn't any time to lose. The girl wanted him to try and so he would, but if he failed…
"Blast," he said aloud. He could not fail — would not fail. It wasn't an option for him to even consider.
Stefan heard his valet enter and rose from his seat. "Alfred?"
"Your Grace?" He made quick work pulling out Stefan's dressing gown and robe.
"Have you any expertise with women?"
Alfred paused his fingers on the soft silk of the dressing gown, seemingly frozen in place. "If this is about that godmother, my apologies for not warning you of her manner, sir. It is rumored that she's taken a mother hen approach to Lady Hartwell. If I had known she would strike you, I would have surely given you warning."
Stefan waved off his valet's excuse. "No, it isn't about the godmother, though I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes when she raised that blasted cane for the third time. I am inquiring so I may…" He lifted his eyes heavenward and took a deep breath to finish his sentence. "…Woo the girl," he finished quietly.
"You want to do what with the girl, sir?"
"Woo her," he said again.
Alfred stared at him long and hard. "Forgive me, Your Grace. Did you say you wish to woo her?"
"That is what I said." Though by the look of shock in his valet's eyes, he desperately wished he could take it back and forget the whole conversation ever took place.
"Woo." Alfred repeated.
"Yes, woo," Stefan confirmed, tiring of his valet's obvious amusement. He knew Alfred well enough to speak plainly to him, but he didn't expect him to find the whole situation so amusing.
"I believe ladies enjoy flowers, Your Grace." Alfred began helping Stefan undress. "There is also a rumor floating around in polite society that they enjoy amusing conversation and compliments."
"Stop mocking me, Alfred."
"As you wish, Your Grace." Alfred continued helping him undress until he was ready for bed. The silence was deafening.
Muttering an oath, Stefan looked back at Alfred. "Flowers, you say?" He scratched his head in thought. Whatever happened to women who were easily seduced by lust-filled looks and hasty advances? Oh yes, they were all back in London while he was trapped here in an ancient castle with nothing, save a spinster and Lady Rosalind to keep him company. He refused to count the servants, mainly because Alfred was putting him in a devilish bad mood.
"Would you like me to acquire some flowers for you, Your Grace? I believe I heard talk of a rose garden on the estate. Though in winter, I doubt any of them are in bloom. An orangery perhaps?"
Stefan thought on it. The last thing he needed was to propose with a bouquet of dead flowers in hand. Surely Rosalind would not find the irony at all funny. "No, Alfred. It is the lady's desire that I sweat and toil for her. Therefore, I will pick the flowers, sing the sonnets, go down on one knee and pour out my bleeding heart."
"Very good, Your Grace." Alfred smiled and bowed. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, by all means, leave me to my devices, so I can plan my seduction."
"Woo, sir."
Stefan paused. "What was that?"
"Woo," Alfred repeated. "To seduce implies you mean to cheat. To woo implies fair play where both parties are involved."
"Goodnight, Alfred." Stefan grumbled. He needed sleep if he was to start this little adventure on the morrow. The trouble was, he had never courted a lady before and hadn't a clue how to go about it. Flowers and compliments seemed to be forced. And with Rosalind's father dead, he hadn't a man to ask permission to court. It seemed he truly was left to his own devices, and he wasn't entirely certain that was a wise course of action. After all, he had only been back in London for six months, and during that time hadn't once pursued a woman. The last woman he had even thought about had been Elaina. But that was before the bitterness of her husband's illness and the lon
eliness of her bed changed her.
His father would not have been pleased by the turn of the events. It seemed the man knew what he was doing when he sent Stefan away, though he was the heir and titled son.
The idea jolted his memory. Lady Rosalind and her mother were obviously still living in their residences. Just whom had the title passed down to upon the late earl's death? He lay down and told himself to remember to ask Alfred in the morning.
Rosalind woke early the next morning after a fitful night of sleep. The only thing that sounded even minutely relaxing was a cup of hot tea in her father's old study.
It didn't help that it was her birthday today and nothing had changed. The snow still fell lightly over the estate, and the house seemed as glum as ever. She could only hope that the weather would let up enough for her to take another afternoon stroll. How depressing that the only entertainments to look forward to were walks in the cold dead snow. It could be worse, she scolded herself.
A loud knock came on the door, scaring her out of her wits. Before she had time to answer, it was forced open, revealing Stefan dressed and ready for battle. Or so it seemed, if the all too alert look in his eyes was any indication.
Swallowing the sudden nervousness at his presence, she rose from the desk and patted down her simple brown muslin dress and inclined her head to the side in question.
"Good morning, Rose. I trust you slept well." Stefan filled the large doorway, imposing his maleness into the dim room. The man had more confidence than the entirety of the ton combined.
Rosalind fought the onslaught of nerves and managed a small smile. "Thank you for asking, and yes I did. Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?"
His only answer was the wolfish smile as he took a seat in one of the leather chairs. "Now that you mention it, I believe there are several things you can do for me, Rose." His eyes boldly scanned her from head to toe. "But more of that later. Alas, I must ask important questions first. To my deep regret, of course."
Rosalind did not like the sound of that, nor did she appreciate his obvious interest in her morning dress. She took a seat opposite him and forced herself to wear a bland expression despite the swell of nervousness she felt.
She leaned back against the chair as he leaned forward resting his forearms against his muscular legs. "I find myself curious as to who inherited the title after your father's passing? You have no brothers, so the only logical answer would be an uncle or perhaps a cousin?"
If only it were a cousin or uncle rather than the horrid stranger who not only held the title but the family wealth as well. She cleared her throat. "I believe the name he goes by is Dominique Maksylov, now the Earl of Hariss."
Stefan merely stared at her with a blank expression. "The Beast of Russia? The Russian royal, Dominique Maksylov?"
"So you know him." Rosalind winced against her better judgment. Clearing her throat, she managed to change the subject. The sooner Stefan left her room the better. "Is that all then, Your Grace?"
He didn't take the hint. "How in the blazes did that dirty Russian obtain an English title? The monster eats small children to break his fast!"
Rosalind lifted a brow. "In his defense, he is part English. His late father was a cousin to Alexander the first. I won't make the assumption that you know anything of history. He was the Czar. But I'm sure your education provided you at least that much knowledge. We are related to him through his English mother. Both his parents are deceased, leaving only Dominique. Considering my father had no brothers and the only male cousin now resides in America, the title then fell to our second cousin, the man I just named."
"Fascinating." Stefan leaned back in his chair. "You know he's known as the beast to every single person he meets in polite society? Can't imagine why the man would live in that foreign country with nothing but that blasted piano as his mistress. I'm sure he eats the souls of his tenants as well. Hats off, it seems you truly are cursed," Stefan said quite cheerfully, irritating her all the more with his presence.
Rosalind shifted uncomfortably; she was all too aware of the horrid stories about the man, and didn't need this savage to confirm her fears, least of all on her birthday! "I'm aware. Now if that is all you need, Your Grace, I do have some important things to attend to."
His lips curled into a smile. "My apologies, my lady. I hadn't any idea that you would be so busy with correspondence on your birthday."
Rosalind froze. How on earth did he know it was her birthday? Curse her enthusiasm that he actually paid attention to such details.
Stefan rose from his seat. "And here I was under the impression you should like to take a stroll through the snow and possibly partake in an indoor picnic with me. Pardon the intrusion."
He strode to the door.
"Wait!" she heard herself call. "Perhaps a walk would be agreeable." The last thing she wanted was to be cooped up pretending to write to family members whose only response of late had been to inquire if she had indeed broken the curse and married the brute opposite her.
"Agreeable or exciting?" he asked, not turning around. Her eyes greedily took in the vast expanse of his back. Strong, sinful shoulders filled out his jacket in a way that made her stomach flop. His hair was so unfashionably long! Leave it to him to make something unfashionable look so rakish and cunning. The temperature in the room took a considerable leap.
Grinding her teeth, she refused to answer, but merely folded her arms and waited for him to either relent or laugh.
He turned and looked directly in to her eyes. "Dress warm. The snow has let up, but it won't do for my future wife to catch a chill before our wedding."
Chill — she felt a chill all right. It started at her neck and slithered down to her toes at lightning speed. The man was too charming by half.
By the time she reached her bedroom to change, she had already talked herself out of the walk at least four times. Resigning herself to fate, she slipped on her walking boots and grabbed a warm cloak. Surely it couldn't be any colder than the day before.
Rosalind took her time making her way back down the stairs to a waiting Stefan. Things would be a lot easier if he were unfortunate to look at. Instead, his warm fur-lined jacket had him looking much like a royal prince.
He held out his hand but she walked right past him. She wasn't frail; she didn't need to be escorted through her own home, or even outside for that matter! Throwing open the door to the back garden, she took a step out and gasped. What once was only crisp harmless snow had melted and refroze into something quite treacherous. She tried to regain her footing, but felt her arms flailing about her.
And then strong male arms came around her, pulling her frantic body into a large muscular frame. "Maybe you should have accepted my help, hmm, princess?"
She couldn't very well jerk away from him unless she favored a bruised bum on her birthday. Tensing underneath his brace, she waited for him to release her. But he did nothing of the sort. Instead he continued to hold her against him as he guided her towards the safety of the plush snow.
"There," he said, releasing her.
"The orangery is j-just around the corner," she stuttered. And she somehow managed to walk in the correct direction and waited for him to fall in behind.
Stefan grinned as the girl marched through the snow as if nothing had happened. But she felt it, he knew, because he had felt it as well. The way her body felt against his was sinful and exhilarating. Like fire and ice. He obliged her and that insipid temper of hers, and felt the welcoming heat from the orangery as she let them both in.
The flowers were beautiful, all exotic in their colors and sorts. He found himself more entranced than he originally expected. But considering his only thoughts had been of Rosalind's proximity, it wasn't altogether shocking. Several lemon-colored flowers and small orange trees were lined against the furthest wall. Walking in the only direction that the rock path would take him, he furthered his investigation of Rosalind's favorite spot.
The heady smell of flowers
and fruit penetrated his senses. The alluring scent failed to alleviate the nerves he felt at the task at hand. How in tarnation was he to woo a woman who seemed to jerk every blasted time he touched her?
A brilliant plan began to form in his mind, and he plucked a flower, hoping he wouldn't be scolded, and then went in search of Rosalind, for she had suddenly disappeared ahead of him.
At the east end of the wall, Rosalind was leaning over a small plant. He stood behind her and slowly lifted the red flower and put it in her hair. She froze. He sent up a prayer that she was still breathing as his fingers fastened the flower behind her ear.
Her breathing turned ragged as his fingers brushed across her cheek. And then, he stepped back.
"Perfect," Stefan said, assessing his handiwork.
"Yes, well…" Rosalind touched the flower.
"Less than one minute, I believe." Stefan murmured.
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "It seems you were wrong, Rose. It took me less than a minute to locate the perfect flower to enhance your beauty. Shall we see how many minutes it takes me to compose a sonnet?"
"No, truly, that's fine. I—"
"The red of the rose is a lover's hue, yet my eyes are besotted when I look at you. With skin so tender—" he reached out and cupped her chin "—and lips red as your namesake." His thumb traced her bottom lip. "I only ask that when you have it, my heart you will not break. Eyes of green, a tongue tipped with honey. Oh fair, fair maiden, in your arms I would stay, if only to gaze upon your face for a day."
Stefan's chest was heaving as he pulled her into his arms, laying claim to her lips. His need was great, but his desire to prove to her that he was more than a brute or savage was greater. Reluctantly, he pulled back and looked into her clear green eyes. "I believe I broke the time record on that one as well."
"Amazing," she said, quirking her brow.
"It was a good sonnet."
"Not the sonnet." She pushed past him. "Your ability to bring everything back to yourself. Mayhap the next time you write something so beautiful, it should be to a mirror that you recite it rather than a woman?"