Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(48)

“Rose, as much as I would like to help. There is nothing we can do now. I’ll try to find Dominique in the ball, if he’s still here. Mayhap he’ll listen to reason, if not, then…well we can at least try that much.” He lifted her chin with his hand and brushed a kiss across her lips.

“Trust me?” he asked.

“Not that I was ever given a choice…” She smiled. “But yes, Stefan. I trust you.”

“Can you manage?” His gaze traveled down her body marked with concern rather than passion.

“I’m fine, I assure you. Must have been another spell, like I said.” With that she rose to her feet and let out a curse as her dress nearly fell to her ankles.

“Stefan!” Grabbing the material that was now cascading at a rapid pace, she covered herself as best as possible as her face heated. “I’m sure you were waiting until the appropriate time to tell me that my dress has magically come loose in my sleep?”

Stefan forced his hands into his pockets and cursed. “It was choking you! What would you have me do! Let you die!”

Biting back laughter, Rosalind looked at him. “So what you're saying is, by removing my dress, you’ve also saved my life, is that it, Your Grace?”

“Naturally.” He shrugged, the devil’s gleam in his eye as he tilted his head and looked at her form. “I believe I’m your savior, yet again.”

“Are you now?” She lifted a brow.

“Absolutely. Don’t saviors of damsels in distress normally receive…some sort of reward?”

With a wicked laugh, she fingered the loose corset strings, noting the hungry look in Stefan’s eyes. Men, leave it to them to be distracted by a woman even in the face of danger. “A reward is what you seek?”

“Tis only fair, my lady.” Stefan’s eye darkened as he closed the distance between them.

“And what type of woman would I be, if I was not fair, Your Grace?”

“My thoughts exactly,” he murmured leaning down.

“Well then,” Rosalind stepped back. “I’ll be sure to reward you tomorrow. After all, we are being missed at the ball.” Stefan’s face was incredulous as his eyes flashed with unsated lust.

“Uh, that is to say….of course. I’ll await with baited breath.” He kissed her hand and turned on his heel.

“Stefan?”

“Rosalind?”

“My dress, if you please.” She turned her back and waited for his warm hands to torture her as he tightened her dress and set her to rights. He lifted her hair and made slow work of tightening her stays.

If the fires of hades erupted in that very room, Rosalind would have merely shrugged—unfulfilled desire shot through her as Stefan slowly tightened her stays. Each tug sent a shiver down her arms and legs; would wicked behavior be so horrible? Her treacherous hands demanded she push down her dress and let him have his way with her.

But they were to be married so soon and although she knew him to be a good protector, he hadn’t yet said the words she so desperately needed to hear. Love, it seemed, was never in the stars for Rosalind, but she could still hope that before she died he would utter those sacred words and just maybe look at her the way she so ached for.

“All done.” His hands left her, causing an ache to stir in her heart.

“Lovely.” She swallowed and managed to walk by the giant man without falling prostrate, begging him to kiss her as he had before. Really, she felt quite fit for Bedlam at that moment. Her thoughts were just that, madness in its purest form.

There was nothing that could be done with her hair, to put it in the original arrangement would be near impossible. So she settled for a simple chignon and hoped nobody would notice it had changed. Exhaling, she reached for the door. Awareness of Stefan’s nearness still trickled down her body. How was it that by just being near the man, she was ready to ask him to take her dress off again?

****



She has bewitched me. Stefan followed Rosalind’s retreating form and swore He had nobody to confide in, not a single one. It seemed the only women he trusted enough to speak to just so happened to be the one that was driving him irrevocably insane. On cue, the object of his lust filled fantasy’s turned towards the Dowager of Barlowe, making him instantly uncomfortable. The last thing he needed was for his grandmother to see him in his current state. Both women lifted a curious brow in his direction, and he suddenly felt like some recalcitrant schoolboy. Should he shuffle his feet and avert his eyes and add to the effect? Or approach the women in hopes that they were talking of the weather. Right, his grandmother talking of weather. He would laugh the day weather would replace gossip.

“Ladies,” he said as he approached.

“Stefan my boy, why haven’t you danced with the lady yet? She tells me she hasn’t danced a single dance with her betrothed all evening! I expected more from my grandson.” The Dowager continued to stare daggers through Stefan.

The air stole from his lungs when Rosalind bit her lip in expectation of his question. “Would you care to dance?”

She took his gloved hand, and he led her to the middle of the dance floor. They hadn’t danced together since the time in the meadow. Maybe it was the candlelight, or possibly inanity from the curse, but holding Rosalind in his arms felt special—right.