Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(35)

Rosalind laughed. “Fine, my swooning spells are brought on by the great Duke of Montmouth.”

“Much obliged.”

“I haven’t had them since returning to the country estate, I wonder why?”

Stefan shrugged. “Perhaps the great duke of Montmouth is the cause and the cure.”

“Your Grace!” Rosalind gasped with a smile.

“What? What is it?” Stefan looked around for a tiny rodent, or any sort of indicator for why Rosalind’s face was so lit up.

“I believe you’ve recovered it!”

“Truly?” His chest pumped up involuntarily as she praised him.

“Why, yes! It seems your pride wasn’t lost after all.”

Blast! And why the devil did he feel his face heating? “Yes well, I just needed a little push in order to obtain that sense of male pride again. Many thanks.”

She smirked. “Now that you know my sordid tale and reasons for why I despise having to return, allow me one question.”

Heaven help him, he’d give her as many as she wanted. Never had he enjoyed a woman’s company as much as he enjoyed hers. “Anything.”

“Why did you go to India?”

The familiar pang of unrequited love didn’t surface as he thought it would with such a question. Instead, relief that he was no longer the green boy he once was. The infatuation with Elaina had been exactly that, an infatuation. And one he was pleased to be over with. How could a woman such as Elaina even hope to compete when Rosalind was alive and breathing?

“I believe—” He twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “—that tale, like so many others, begins with a young man’s passion and a woman’s rejection.”

“I do love stories.” Rosalind’s excitement caught him off guard, and he found himself leaning forward to tell her the story.

“I was in love with her. I believed myself to be in love with her, but she was not for me. I left the country to escape living in hell. My father helped make arrangements and nobody was the wiser, except him. It was the coward’s way out, but at the time I saw no other option other than living in extreme agony.”

Rosalind squinted. “Leaving the country was a little extreme, was it not?”

“Love is extreme, my Rose. It causes even the sanest of the human population to wish for death. It is the stuff of poetry, war, death, and duels. Nothing is too extreme for love.”

The fire spat, jolting Stefan out of his speech. Rosalind was affected by talk of love. Like any young woman, he noticed the soft sigh that escaped her billowy lips at his speech. Why then, was he so horrible at proposals? Truly, he wanted to know. For when he was in normal conversation with her, he felt romantic enough to quote Byron. When it came to asking her the one question he needed to ask, he sounded the greatest fool.

“The night gets late.” His husky voice betrayed his thoughts.

“It is.” Rosalind bit her lip and shot to her feet. “I’ll just take the floor.”

Stefan laughed. “Rosalind, the day you sleep on the floor is the day I’m dead and unable to argue with you about such ridiculous notions. You take the bed. A woman should never sleep on hard surfaces or in the dirt. I’m appalled you would suggest it.”

Rosalind covered her yawn as her eyes smiled. Heaven help him, she was stunning, even when she was beyond exhaustion.

“Off you go.” He motioned for her to move to the bed. “I’ll turn my back while you crawl beneath the blankets.

He turned around and nearly died with unquenched desire as he heard the rustling of the blankets and squeak of the bed.

“You may turn around now, Stefan.”

Blankets covered her from chin to toe. Pity, for he would have liked to see a bit more considering she’d already seen all of him.

With a deep sigh, he ran one hand through his thick hair and approached the bed. “Sleep well, my beauty, my little Rose.” His lips lingered over her forehead as he leaned down and bestowed a kiss across her brow.

Rosalind sighed happily. “Goodnight, my barbarian…”

He laughed.

“My Norse god,” she added with a blush.

His smile was so wide it hurt. “Goodnight.”





Chapter Thirteen


Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast

—Macbeth, William Shakespeare



Stefan awoke with a crick in his back and an all around horrid premonition that today would not be a good day. For one thing, when he went to see to Samson, he discovered his horse had been busy all night eating. And was now moving slower than normal.

Rosalind had awoken looking fresher than a spring flower. He had every intention of asking her to marry him. Of waking her with flowers and sonnets, things she deserved. That he wanted to give her. But, after he saddled Samson, it was discovered that both Alfred and Mary were missing.

Imagine his surprise when he caught them both leaving the stables at the same time. Mary with straw in her hair, and dare he say Alfred with more pomp in his step than he had seen in all his years.

His mind didn’t allow him to think about what had been transpiring between the two, though he had a notion to scold them for being so….careless. Then again, that could have been jealousy talking.