Upon A Midnight Dream Read online

  "Or else?" Stefan asked, not sure he wanted to know the end of her tragic tale.

  "The curse will take us all, Stefan."

  Biting back another oath Stefan took the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "I'll return as soon as I am able."

  "You cannot fail, my son."

  His mother's last words haunted him as he quit the room. The only sounds in the depressed house were those of James' and Elaina's stolen laughter, Fitz and his coughing, and his mother weeping into her hands.

  "I will not fail," he vowed, and went in search of his horse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It is never too late to be what you might have been.

  ~ George Eliot ~

  That same cursed day…

  The snow fell throughout the afternoon. Rosalind watched as the flakes danced through the darkening sky. The solitude in her hiding spot should feel lonely, but instead she relished the few silent moments to herself.

  With her godmother running around the manor like a little mother hen, it was a shock she could even find a place to hide. Why, she had asked when she was little, did she need a godmother? Was having a full staff in the house not enough? Her father had merely patted her head and said she was extra special and in need of more than one guardian. Though her godmother scoffed at such an idea and swore up and down it was merely a precaution in case one of them died.

  They believed Mary to be his insurance policy. But Rosalind knew better than that. Mary adored her, and she Mary. Since leaving her mother in London, her godmother was all she had. Her family had all but abandoned her since the night of her father's death, in hopes that the curse would follow only Rosalind.

  "What have you done?" he had said. Shivering, she pulled her arms closer to her chest and sunk deeper into the chair.

  "Rose!" Mary's high voice pierced the once silent afternoon. "Rose! I know you are hiding! Come here at once!"

  Hide? From her godmother? Rosalind laughed. That was impossible, for Mary was everywhere every second, constantly watching Rosalind as if she were breakable. It was irritating to say the least.

  "Here, I'm in here!" Rosalind yelled back, snapping the book in her lap closed. She straightened her shoulders and waited for the little woman's entrance.

  Within minutes, Mary stomped into the room, face flushed with exertion. "Child! You simply cannot give me such a scare as to disappear for a few hours without a peep!"

  "Peep," Rosalind offered with a devious smile.

  Ignoring her, Mary marched towards the window where Rosalind sat. "Have you nothing better to do the day before your birthday than read?"

  Rosalind stretched her hands over her head. "What would you have me do, Mary? It is snowing, after all. Would you like me to go for a ride out in the snow?"

  "What a lovely idea! I'll tell the groom at once!"

  With that Mary ran out of the room, yelling at the top of her lungs to ready Rosalind's horse.

  She should have known better than suggest anything to Mary, the godmother who thought idle hands were the devil's playground. And that any person with enough time on their hands to sulk had adequate time to do something about it.

  Legs heavy with sleep, she made her way up to her rooms to don a warm riding habit lined with fur and a muff. The last thing she wanted was to meet her death in the freezing snow the day before her nineteenth birthday. Her last one, according to all the best doctors in London.

  Rosalind took her time descending the stairs, careful as she added weight to each step. She must be mad to go riding in such a condition, but part of her wondered if Mary wasn't just eager to get her out of the house. After all, she had been spending a record-breaking amount of time reading and gazing out the window. But her muscles were more fatigued now than ever. The woman, who was once fearless, was now full of fear. It seemed to choke the very life out of her.

  The crisp winter air burned her nose. Though not extremely cold, it would most definitely be a frigid jaunt. Her legs continued to work properly as she made her way to the stables.

  "And how is Duke today?" The smell of horses and sweat welcomed her as she noticed Duke already saddled and ready to go.

  Hubert, her groom, laughed. "Aye, Miss, he's as feisty as ever. Careful out there, Miss. Duke is itching to go for a long run."

  "We'll do fine, I'm sure." Closing her eyes, she ran her hand over his beautiful black coat, relishing in the warmth of his fur. Without assistance, she mounted and took off in a short trot.

  Although she hated to admit it, Mary was right. The cool air invigorated her as the snow lightly fell around her, and absolute silence was her company — well, silence and the sound of birds singing and flying through the sky. How could everything around her seem so peaceful when war raged within her and her family?

  The curse — it had caused all of this. And there was no way out, at least not according to her mother and two sisters.

  So, she was not sent to Sussex for holiday. She was sent here to die. Away from her family, in hopes that the spell would lift once Rosalind paid the price of denying the demands of the family curse. Her sisters had argued against it, but it seemed her mother was slowly going mad since her father's death. In a way, Rosalind was the sacrifice her mother was all too willing to make in order to rid the family of the generational hex.

  Was it really so wrong of her to want to marry for love? Had she known that decision would have cost her father his life, she would have run down the aisle, dragging that Nordic god kicking and screaming if need be.

  But all hope was lost. It was the beginning of December, and if her mother's madness were any indication, the curse would lift only if Rosalind married before the end of the year. And not just to anyone. No, it had to be one of the late duke's sons. Last she heard, the youngest was ill with some sort of deadly disease, and the second oldest was utterly ruined. Rosalind's own mother wouldn't let her speak of him, let alone marry him, even if it meant the end of the curse. According to her mother, it would be better to die than be tied to such a man.

  Leaving only the current Duke of Montmouth, Stefan. The rogue. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the warmth of his skin, and smell the spices on his jacket as he carried her through the thick night air.

  Shuddering, she pushed the thought away. Surely, he had already found a more suitable bride. Looking around, she let out a large sigh. Nobody in sight.

  It was safe to say that any sort of marriage for Rosalind was an impossibility. Not that it mattered, for the tonics had stopped working, her sickness was getting worse. Though nobody could explain it, the spells were less frequent but when they happened Rosalind had little control over her body in those times. What man would want to marry someone who was struck with sleeping spells? It seemed the only time she could sleep was when the spells hit her. To make matters worse, she had started to become somewhat of an insomniac at night, finally resorting to a family recipe for tea that was said to help her relax, though for some reason the recipe was safeguarded by the staff in London. She had sent a missive earlier in the week to obtain the recipe.

  Lost in thought, she kicked her heels into Duke who bolted forward, sending her hat flying. Her hair, now released from the confines of its pins, spread wildly about her shoulders. Long locks of red whipped down her back as she galloped, small tendrils brushed across her cheek as the cold air stung her face. Laughter bubbled out of her as she urged Duke to go faster and faster.

  "Ho." Pulling back on the reigns, she brought the horse to an abrupt stop at her favorite creek and jumped off. "Good boy, you liked that didn't you?" Duke neighed in response, his head bobbed up and down. She pulled an apple out of her satchel and shared it with him.

  Humming, she closed her eyes. Allowing her daydreams to take hold. Her dreams were all she had, for she was plagued by them. She was constantly falling asleep. The spells would never last a long time, but dreams always accompanied them. Ones with dancing and laughter, bright colors and teasing. And always his face. It was the only fac
e she continued to remember after she tried so hard to forget.

  And always in her dreams, he would pick her up in his arms and carry her to the dance floor. Wrapping his large arms around her, he would dance and dance. The music never ended. And Rosalind would laugh in his arms, relishing the feel of his strength. Admiring the beauty of his perfectly sculpted face.

  Lost in her fantasy, Rosalind curtsied, held out her hand, and began twirling in circles. Flurries of snow swirled about her feet as she flew around and around. She hummed and then began singing.

  "Do you hear that, Samson?" Stefan slowed his horse to a walk as he listened to the air. A voice echoed through the skies. Though soft, it was so blasted alluring that for a moment, Stefan wondered if his mother's madness had caught up to him. Who would be out in this weather? And singing, nonetheless? Blindly, he led his horse in the direction of the heavenly music. As if sensing his urgency, Samsun trotted through the trees with ease, until they came up to a tiny creek.

  "Hmm," Stefan said aloud. "Well, we'll just have to cross it. What do ya say, old boy? You up to it?"

  The horse neighed in response. Carefully, Stefan guided the horse across the small stream. When they reached the other side, he dismounted and led Samson through the thick brush of trees.

  "Have I found you? The one who makes me sing? Once upon a midnight dream…"

  The voice haunted him, chilled him to his core, for he couldn't help but selfishly want this song to be about him. And the voice behind it. So clear, perfect. An angel from heaven.

  Shocked about his physical reaction to something so simple, he cursed himself and moved closer towards the voice.

  "As I lay me down to sleep, my midnight dream I know will keep. The stars in your eyes tell me what your heart is afraid to say. That while I wait for my prince, he will one day say…"

  What urgency possessed him, Stefan did not know. All he knew was he needed to see the identity of this person. For his own sanity, he needed one glimpse. Starved, abandoning all sense, he finally reached the clearing. And swore.

  It was her.

  Lady Rosalind, dancing in reckless abandon, sans any sort of head covering. Her glorious red hair dangled past her waist. Her arms were held high above her head as she twirled and sang.

  Stefan felt as if someone had punched him, and then added a heavy kick for good measure. Air, it seemed, whooshed out of his lungs; it was suddenly hard to breathe and difficult for him to do anything except stare, slack-jawed, at the most beautiful sight his eyes ever had the opportunity to behold.

  Closer — his body demanded he draw closer. He inched forward and motioned for Samson to be quiet. So maybe he was a trifle mad. He hadn't been on that forsaken island that long; he knew horses could not speak. But he gave the signal, nonetheless, and dash it if that horse didn't seem to be tiptoeing just as Stefan was.

  At the clearing, he stood only a few feet from her. A nervous chill ran down his spine as he fell into the hypnotic trance of her swaying hips. And then she curtsied. As if some other gentleman was dancing with her. Jealous rage poured out of him until he realized she was bowing to her horse.

  At least they had that in common — both talking to their horses as if they were people. His mother would probably attribute that to the curse as well. Samson nudged him in response, and he lost his careful footing causing him to stumble. A branch snapped beneath his boot.

  Lady Rosalind froze and ever so slowly turned to face him.

  "Blast." He closed his eyes, willing himself to disappear; after all, he had just been caught staring at her like some daft fool.

  "Your Grace?" Had her voice always been so husky, dripping with promises of seduction? His body warmed. "Is that you?"

  Stefan stepped out of the shadows and into the blinding light of the clearing. He led Samson but kept his eyes focused on her. Not out of necessity or propriety, but because his eyes could do nothing else but stare. As if any other option was possible, considering the circumstances.

  "My apologies, Lady Rosalind. I had no intention of spying. I heard your voice and followed." Like an idiot.

  An amused laugh bubbled behind the woman's pouty pink lips. They were slightly parted, giving Stefan lustful thoughts about where he'd like to see that mouth placed. Those lips were created to give a man pleasure, to make him think about warm wet kisses and pleasures that he had no business to be entertaining. She shook her head. "Hmm, and how did you like the entertainment, Your Grace?"

  He felt a slow seductive smile break across his face as he reached for her hand, his body again acting without his consent. Kneeling before her, he kissed her hand and rose. "The entertainments were delightful, though I was saddened to see you had no partner." He lied through his teeth; sadness had nothing to do with the emotions he was feeling at the moment. More like raw desire and jealousy.

  Narrowing her eyes, she looked down at his hand, still holding hers.

  "Dance with me." The words sounded so foreign that he thought surely he was losing his mind. For he had just asked Rosalind Hartwell to dance in the snow, without music, and only their two horses to keep them company.

  An unreadable emotion flickered across her face. Clenching her other hand by her side, she seemed to be thinking, and then with a determined furrow of her brow, she brought her clenched hand away from her body and curtsied. "I would be honored, Your Grace."

  And so it happened that Stefan experienced his first bout of laughter since his father's death. To think, all it took was a dance in the meadow with a goddess to restore him to his normal humor. If the London Society Papers could see him now, well he'd be shocked if Mrs. Peabody's quill wouldn't snap in half. Rosalind's warm hands seemed so small within his own. Though both were wearing gloves, he could have sworn he could feel her heartbeat through the thin kid gloves she wore. Stefan imagined her dainty hands, all feminine and frail as he clenched them within his own.

  Pulling her into his large frame, he began to hum the same tune she had begun as he twirled her, only to bring her back in.

  It was astonishing how his body reacted to this strange woman. Her hair tickled his nose as she leaned her head closer to his. Desire surged through him when she pulled back and licked her lips.

  One kiss.

  After all, wasn't he here to sweep her off her feet and marry her as soon as possible? As much as he wanted to believe the lie that a kiss would only serve the purpose of wooing, his heart clenched in his chest, his knees went a little weak, and he was sure the birds began singing. Slowly he tilted her chin up, giving him full view of her glorious alabaster skin and luscious bow shaped lips.

  One kiss. His head descended. Their lips met. A sigh escaped from Lady Rosalind at the touch of their lips.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?

  ~ As You Like It — William Shakespeare ~

  Her lips were magic as they matched his. And when Stefan slipped his tongue past their barriers and tasted the sweetness of her mouth — he groaned in ecstasy. With a little sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck giving him all the invitation he needed to pull her fully into his embrace.

  It was then, with her soft body pressed so wondrously close to his that he remembered why he was here. Not, to his dismay, to kiss the girl upon their first meeting, but vie for her hand. For his father, for her father — but his brain couldn't grasp that concept, for he was enjoying this kiss too much. The tangling of tongues, the gasping for breath, the heady smell of desire, it was absolute magic.

  Just one more, he told himself when he reluctantly pulled back and looked into her eyes, but he didn't have the chance. Samson nudged him in the back, quite hard, sending him and Lady Hartwell sailing to the ground… on top of Lady Rosalind in the most inappropriate of manners.

  "My apologies, I don't know what came over Samson," he said, holding his body over hers.

  Lady Rosalind, with a mischievous glint in her eyes bit her lip. "Ah, so the duke apologizes for his horse but not his
manners?"

  "Manners?" he repeated, clueless.

  Sighing, she pushed at Stefan's chest. "Not that I would expect anything more from a barbarian."

  Taken back, he jumped to his feet and pulled her to a sitting position. "Barbarian? Are you addressing me as such?" What just happened? Were they not moments ago kissing and sharing an intimate embrace?

  "Considering the only other living breathing things with us are our horses? Yes. You can safely assume I'm addressing you as such, Your Grace."

  Irritated, Stefan wanted nothing more than to push the girl back down to her curvaceous bottom, but the gentleman in him won out, so he held out his hand to pull her to her feet. Once she was standing, he pulled her close, his body threatening a kiss as his mouth brushed tenderly across her jaw. Warm lips moved against her skin and whispered. "I would never apologize for something I did purposefully."

  She swallowed and looked away. "What are you doing here?"

  "I imagine you mean, here in this meadow, watching you?"

  "Yes." Lady Rosalind cleared her throat and stepped around him to her horse. "Are you lost, Your Grace?"

  "I hope so." He grinned. "I must admit if I am, I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to be found."

  She laughed. "You rogue. Truly, do you need assistance back to the main road?"

  "Ah, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't escort the lady home?"

  "Your Grace." She mounted her horse. "Even I, being shut away in the country, am aware that your exploits are anything but gentlemanly."

  He pulled on Samsun's reigns. "So you've inquired about me since our meeting at the ball?"

  "Oh, news of your magnitude travels fast, even for a duke."

  He continued to walk Samson in silence as she slowly rode her horse next to him.

  "I am sorry to hear about your father's passing." Her words were almost too quiet to hear.

  "And your father's. It seems a curse has fallen upon both our families, wouldn't you agree?"

  He was testing her, trying to see if she believed in the curse just as much as his mother and family. For this to work, he needed her to believe in its importance. For time was limited.