Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(49)

“So you can dance eloquently once indoors…” Rosalind turned in his arms. Devil take it, she felt good.

“Yes well, I prefer the snow and woodland creatures to the gossip of the ton any day.”

“Don’t forget Samson, though I imagine he was more jealous than entertained by our little dance.”

Stefan quirked a smile at her mention of his horse. “You never told me what you were doing out dancing in the snow in the first place, nor the identity of your invisible dance partner, Rosalind.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I was dancing with a man from my dreams.”

“Do you often dream of men?” He lifted a brow, suddenly interested in all of her mad fantasies, never mind that he wanted to kill any man real or made up that touched her, including the married ones.

As he pulled her closer, his hands glided down the curve of her dress. He had never discovered a more perfect fit for his hand, and in that moment wondered if there ever would be anything that belonged so rightfully in his arms.

Rosalind cleared her throat. “I don’t often dream of men. Just one.”

“One? So he’s real? Where is he? I’ll destroy him! You are mine, Rosalind. Never forget who you belong to. It is I who crave the taste of your lips. I who desire you in my bed from now until forever…and it is I who will slay your dragons and storm the castle to win your love.” His grip tightened as he pulled her body as close as he could during the dance. “And it is I who will make slow agonizing love to you until your body is sated….” The dance ended, he had yet to release her. “Nobody else….” His voice was gruff filled with lust, grief, and jealousy. Why the devil was he shaking?

“Stefan?” Rosalind lifted a gloved hand to his face.

“Yes?” He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“It is you.”

Her warm hand abandoned his face. Rosalind left him wanting, needing, gasping for air and feeling lost all at the same time. Whatever did she mean? The time spent thinking on her cryptic words were interrupted when Gwen nearly ran into him.

“She’s gone.”

How was it that he was cursed with so many females in his life? Did they always talk in riddles? “Yes, well, I’m sure we’ll find her.” He patted her shoulder. The poor thing was probably exhausted after being at her first ball.

“No, Your Grace. It’s Isabelle. She’s gone! I know she wouldn’t leave the ball without us. I just know it! Something dreadful has happened!”

“Stay calm, I’m sure we’ll find her.” Stefan threw her a charming smile and walked off in search of Rosalind, taking his time making greetings with other attendees the entire way.

Later that night, they figured Isabelle had gone missing around the same time Rosalind and Stefan had gone into the library.

The last place they needed to look was the house in town. For where else would Isabelle had run off to?

As Stefan pounded on the door and his grip tightened on Rosalind. The valet opened, his expression grave.

“She’s gone.” Willard announced.

“It seems to be the general consensus.” Stefan muttered pushing past him. “Now tell me, do you have any idea where she’s run off to?”

“I’ve made arrangements.” Lady Hariss made her way down the stairs. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done now.”

“You’ve made arrangements for what exactly?” Stefan asked his stomach feeling tight with dread.

The dowager gave a mad smile and fanned herself with her naked hand. “Oh, well, you two were just taking such a dreadfully long time getting married. We needed money; you gave me no other option. The contract has been signed. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m tired.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Stefan tried to keep himself calm as the wicked woman gave out a menacing laugh.

“She was a bastard anyway, it’s of no matter.”

With that she marched up the stairs.

Stefan could hear the two sisters weeping next to him. Was he the only one confused?





Chapter Eighteen


They do not love that do not show their love

—The Two Gentleman of Verona



Rosalind watched her mother’s disappearing form and fought the urge to throw something at her. Was madness then her mother’s curse?

She turned to the Willard, who now appeared to be sweating and ready to kill anything that spoke to him. “Do you know what she speaks of? Where Isabelle ran off to? Why she claims that the youngest is a bastard?”

He cleared his throat. “Surely, you don’t think I had anything to do with this? Your mother is ill my lady, it would be good of you to remember that. If your mother felt the need to sell her youngest daughter to the highest bidder, than so be it. After all, is it so odd for a peer to betroth a daughter in order to gain an alliance as well as money?” He lifted a haughty eyebrow and turned on his heel, muttering under his breath.

“But…” Rosalind wanted to remind him that her mother had no reason for her claim, but felt Stefan’s hands on her shoulders. The pressure of his hands made her relax, best not to ask the valet any information at this point. The look in his eyes was pure rage and madness.

She watched helplessly as the man walked away, leaving her alone with Gwen and Stefan.