Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(121)

Rand chuckled, lifting his mouth from her tingling skin and looking at her with an intimate glow in his eyes.

“I must admit, before meeting you I never expected to find such pleasure in the marriage bed.” “Why is it,” Rosalie wondered thoughtfully, “that a man is supposed to find fulfillment only in the arms of his mistress and not his wife?”

“Because unlike me, the average man does not marry his mistress.”

As he had expected, the taunt roused her ire. Uttering mock threats of revenge, Rosalie slammed a pillow over his mischievous face and shrieked with laughter as Rand rolled on top of her to keep her still. They engaged in such play for long, enjoyable moments until the tickling and cavorting changed into inquiring strokes and unrestrained caresses. Rosalie felt the irresistible magic of his lovemaking saturate her senses. She returned his kisses eagerly, still unable to believe that he was hers and that he wanted her with the same insatiable hunger that consumed her. Boldly he possessed her, his shoulders rising above hers in flexing power. Rosalie sighed in pleasure, her arms encircling his neck. She loved this moment above all others, when she knew that she was his entire world and that his every thought, his every sensation, centered upon her alone.

After their passion was sated they talked with uninhibited freedom, sharing their thoughts.

“Do you suppose,” Rosalie asked quietly, “that we’ll ever see Mireille again?”

“It depends,” Rand replied, shrugging. “If she’s still with Guillaume, I’d say it was likely.”

“Why? Are you still planning to look for Guillaume?” “At this moment I have men scouring England and France for any sign of him.”

“I don’t care about him. But I would like for Mireille to be found.” Rosalie was quiet for several minutes after that, until Rand kissed her forehead and voiced a gentle question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Brummell,” Rosalie answered hesitantly. “I wonder how often he thinks about me . . . or Lucy.”

“He probably tries not to,” Rand replied. “And I’ll wager that it haunts him every day.” Rosalie nodded wistfully, laying her head on his chest and drawing from his steady comfort.

They were quiet and content in each other’s embrace until the sun began to rise, its gentle light shining through the luminous mist of dawn. My first day as his wife, Rosalie thought, and her eyes glittered with sudden tears of bliss. Rand took his contemplative gaze from the window and looked down at her, understanding her with the acute perception that love brings. They smiled at each other, and then their lips met in a passionate kiss.

“Rose . . .” Rand breathed against her mouth. “No more adventures for a while.”

“None, I promise.”

“A year’s respite is all I ask. Now that we’re married, we’ll set up a household, have a child, go to an occasional ball—”

“Yes, my dearest love,” Rosalie agreed, smiling secretly to herself.

Somehow she knew that adventures would find them anyway.