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He rocked a little between her legs without removing himself, and once she relaxed a little, it was not unpleasant. Then he withdrew a little before thrusting back into her; the friction was not what she expected. He continued in this manner until she felt that ache again, and she clutched him closer. He moved a little faster. A steady rhythm urged her to raise her hips to meet his, enjoying the feeling of him deep inside her. This is what it felt like to be one with the one you love, she thought, and despite the consequences, she would never regret having this feeling with him.

Then all thought left when together their movements became more urgent, quicker, harder, deeper. Her whole body was so sensitive to every touch, every sweep of his tongue in her mouth, every moan he made, and every breath she took trying to contain something that was uncontainable. Her body had become pleasure itself, and with every thrust she flew higher. Around them, the room was silent other than the crackle and popping of the fire in the grate and their moans of ecstasy as he pushed her over the precipice of pleasure. Like she had felt before, but different, more urgent as their bodies slipped over each other, slick with the effort of their joining. She cried out when it hit her, and he had the sense to place his hand over her mouth when she came. Waves of pleasure washed over her, and then he withdrew in a flash. She could do nothing. Her body was heavy like a stone but humming with an energy she wanted to hold on to. He gathered her in his arms and pulled the counterpane over them, kissing the back of her neck and shoulder.

Rose wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. How she had dreamed of being so with him.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear, gathered in his arms, and then he slept.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she, naked as the day she was born in the arms of the man she loved, sobbed silent tears. It should have been perfect. It should have been everything she had ever dreamed of, but she knew, deep down in her heart, that the only way to save Edward was to leave him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Edward awoke late and instantly searched for Rose. She was not there, but he assumed she had gone to her own room to bathe and change. It was not like him to sleep for so long, but telling her the truth about Max had lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders. If no one else knew, at least she would. She understood why he had done it. And she loved him.

He rose and bathed, ringing for Jameson to return to help him dress. He felt lighter than he had in years and looked forward to seeing Rose, and kissing Rose. He gave a little chuckle and smiled at himself in the shaving mirror. She loved him. She told him and then showed him by giving her body to him. His heart sang with something he had not had in so long. Hope.

Jameson said nothing as he tied Edward’s cravat and helped him shrug into his jacket. As he was about to leave, his valet said in a soft voice that he nearly missed, “I’m sorry,” and he closed the door.

Edward shrugged it off and went downstairs. The house was strangely quiet, but he simply thought it might have been because his mother and sister had gone out. Perhaps Rose had gone with them.

He informed a footman that he would take some breakfast in his study and then noticed that the parlor door was open. He peeked in and saw his mother and sister sitting on the sofa, both of them showed evidence of crying.

“What’s happened?” he asked as he entered the room. His good mood was quashed by their expressions. “Has someone died?”

Marianne rose and passed him a note, and said, “I’m sorry, Edward.”

He took the note and instantly recognized Rose’s handwriting.

I want to thank you all for your love and support in the last few months. They have meant everything to me. However, I have decided to return to Ashtonvale for a while. I am sorry for any hurt I may have caused the family, but I find that I am in love with Edward. I cannot stay. I hope it does not inconvenience you too much that I took the carriage. I will send it straight back as soon as I arrive and the horses have rested.

He looked up from the note that was now crumpled in his fist. She must have left before dawn.

“Why does she think you will not marry her, Edward?” his mother asked. “We all knew she was in love with you, and we thought, had hoped, that you felt the same. You got engaged.”

“I do feel the same. I do love her, God help me. I do not understand why she has left.”

Marianne touched his arm, but he moved away, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes.

“She left you a package in your study. Please open it. It may give you some answers.”

He nodded, dropped the note, and strode from the room. Every step an effort, every breath a labor.

There was indeed a package on his desk, neatly tied with string. He undid the string and opened the wrapping. Inside lay another note, but not from Rose. From Maxine.

His hands shook as he looked at the careful penmanship. His daughter had written to him. A small watercolor of a horse lay beneath, and Max had titled it Cordelia. It was rather good, actually. Underneath that lay a framed miniature of a young girl. Of Max. Dark curly hair, like her mother’s, but her eyes were his, her nose and mouth were all him. This child looked like him and Marianne together. She looked like him. How could that be? He sat heavily in his chair and covered his face with his hands as he warred with the realization. Victoria had lied. Her last breath she had spent on a vicious, vindictive lie. And Max had paid the price for his pride. For his inability to accept that which was not his. So many years of regret piled in on him, all the walls he had built to protect himself crumbled on top of him, and he cried out.

When Marianne appeared in the doorway, she ran to him and embraced him. “Why didn’t you tell me she looked like me?”

“I tried so many times, but you did not want to hear. You refused to entertain any news of her.”

“I thought…She told me…Victoria said she was not mine.”

Marianne gasped, then made a growling sound. “That witch. I should have known she would do something so vile as to tell you such a lie. And you believed it. Why?”

“Who lies with their final breath?”

“Why did you not tell us what she said?”

“Because…I needed you to love her because I could not.”