"Mmmm," she moaned again, but her eyes were still closed, though now he noted that they seemed to move back and forth rapidly as if she was trying to blink, but her eye lids were too heavy to put forth the effort.
"Mmmm!" Louder this time.
Clenching his teeth, he managed not to choke, or swear, or think too many ungodly thoughts when the wench stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. Beautiful curves strained against the confines of her dress until the devil in him hoped they would pour over the dress, giving him adequate reason to be lusting after her as much as he already was.
"Where…" her deep voice spoke, eyes still closed.
He waited.
"Where am I?" She blinked several times, then looked directly at him and let out a scream so blood-curdling loud that he was sure his ears were bleeding with agony.
"Shhhh!" he put his hand over her mouth, which in hindsight probably wasn't the best of ideas considering she had just met him.
But her fear moved her. With a deft motion the chit sunk her teeth into his vulnerable hand. When he drew back in alarm, she elbowed him in the ribs and made an effort to elude him. He caught her around the waist and heaved her back into his lap in one smooth motion, holding her tight until she finally stopped struggling against him.
"Hello," he said, knowing it was the worst possible way to wake a well-bred lady — stare at her while she slept, scare her senseless, haul her into his lap, and offer an awkward greeting.
Savages, shipwrecks, and squirrels were looking better by the minute.
"Release me, you beast!"
"Promise not to bite, elbow, or scream? I'm not sure my ears can take another one of your screams. Perhaps we can come up with some sort of signal next time you feel the need to open your mouth?"
She began to squirm anew, making things all the more difficult for him, given his current state of… fascination with her body.
"My lady, cease your movements before I give you a true reason to scream." Stefan tightened his grip on her waist and slowly, effortlessly, bestowed a kiss on the exposed side of her neck. He told himself it was to scare her, and it was. Sort of.
The instant his lips touched her neck, she froze. He relinquished his hold and ever so deliberately planted her next to him on the sofa.
"I must say," Stefan adjusted his cravat. "That was a first for me. I imagine it isn't common for a woman to swoon into your arms so willingly."
Rosalind snorted and turned her brilliant green eyes onto him. "Surely you don't think it was your presence that caused my swooning? I was merely hot." She fanned her face with her hand as if needing to show him how sweltering it had been.
"Right," he said smugly. "And that explains how your body went completely rigid when you fell?" Did she think him an idiot?
Turning away she shrugged. "Are we going to discuss my swooning all night, or did you have other business with me?"
"Business?" He laughed. "I was in the middle of releasing you from the betrothal contract. So, yes. Let us call it business."
"And I believe I said, 'As you wish'."
"No, actually you said, 'As you wi—' and then promptly fell, quite wantonly into my arms. Since I am a gentleman, I've decided not to hold it against you."
Rosalind scooted away. "Are we finished here?"
Trying to mask the concern he felt, he replied, "Only if you assure me that you are in perfect health."
"Of course. I can't say I've ever swooned before. But I assure you I'm in perfect health! Good night, my lord." With a huff she pushed from the sofa, took two steps and began to fall once more.
Stefan cursed and caught her just before she hit the floor. "You do realize this is twice in one night. If I were one for happy endings, I'd say you just marked me as your long lost prince."
Rosalind glared, but was still somewhat paralyzed. She wished, in vain, that she could somehow communicate the scolding thoughts she was entertaining in that moment as she turned her glower onto his handsome face. And, saints alive, he was handsome! Truly, it was unfair to have only been betrothed to him for a measly few hours.
Was it so terrible to hope for a kiss from a man such as this? At least once before she died from this dreadful disease?
"Rosalind?" He brought his monstrous hand to her cheek, "I shall send for your carriage, you need to be put to bed."
"Yes, more sleep, why hadn't I thought of that?" she retorted, her voice thick with sarcasm. Her blasted legs were still unable to move, for they too had fallen asleep.
"Shall I carry you again?"
Why did she have to have so much pride? Begging her legs to work, she waited before finally responding with, "If you would be so kind."
His carrying her seemed effortless. And it was quite nice being in his arms, if only for just a few steps. At this angle, she could appreciate his strong jaw line, that of a Nordic god or a Roman gladiator. He seemed fit to kill first and ask questions later.
Unable to hold up her head any longer, she gave in to the temptation to lay it against his broad shoulder. He smelled of warm cinnamon spice and soap. Rosalind closed her eyes and took her fill of his smell, for it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
It was then she noticed he had stopped walking.
"Why have we stopped?"
Chuckling, he looked down at her. "I wanted to give you a chance to take your fill before we went out into the night. There's no telling how much the putrid night air could take away my scent, you know."
Feeling the blood pound into her face, Rosalind hid deeper in the crook of his shoulder. "I was doing nothing of the sort."
He laughed. "So you say, Rose, so you say."
Snapping her attention in his direction, she controlled the urge to comment on his use of her nickname, one that only family used. The nerve.
The heaviness in her limbs began to lessen as he led her out the servants' entrance into the cool night air. Never had a spell come upon her so suddenly, and in the middle of a ball nonetheless!
At least she could be thankful that people were focused on Lord and Lady Rawlings as much as they were her — well, that and the sudden resurrection of the true Marquess of Whitmore. Curse him! Did that mean she had to call him that loathsome name? It left a terrible taste in her mouth, the thought of calling him Whitmore, as if he was even close to being as slimy as his younger brother.
Her fingers and toes tingled, the sensation gradually spreading to her arms and legs. Good. This was good. She could walk and wouldn't have to continue to be carried by the Nordic god who found nothing wrong with carrying her and touching her in the manner he was.