"Did you not want to cast caution on the flames?" (Note how it's not "to the flames". That would be a cliche.)
Air became scarce. She had come here hungry for this, yet feeling safe behind the fact that it was impossible. That it posed too great a risk to her carefully planned life, and his.
"There is no need," he said against her knuckles. "You can have just what you want. You wanted to see me, I believe?"
He let go of her hand and stood to begin unfastening the cuff of his shirt.
Rosemary gaped. (I love a gaping heroine, doesn't everyone?) He was going to take her literally and strip? She hadn't meant that. She really hadn't thought how they would get from current state to nakedness. As he pulled his shirt out of his breeches, however, she couldn't bear to stop him. (Finally the clunch finds his true calling: Chippendale boy)
But it was the first step.
To where? To what?
Could she finally satisfy all her burning curiosity?
Here.
With him? (Does she get paid by the sentence?)
If it were only curiosity, however, she would not feel this breathless sense of peril. They really shouldn't. They were playing with truly perilous flames. (Peril and perilous flames. Maybe we could chip in a get her a thesaurus program)
Her heart raced so unsteadily she feared she would faint so she picked up her glass and took a deep drink. Too deep, so she choked. When she had her breath back, he was laughing, the sort of gentle warm laughter that friends share. It melted her, turning her as soft as the fat tears of wax sliding down the side of the uneven candle. (This whole paragraph will stand the test of time, I'm sure. A gagging fat heroine. There's nothing more romantic)
Honesty and friendship. Honest embarrasment. Friendly humor. With this man she could permit herself to be exactly what she was. Even uncertain. (Definitely. Paid by. The sentence)
Trust. Astonishing trust. She's never realized how little she allowed herself to trust.
And he, who must live as guarded as she in many ways, trusting her.
He pulled the shirt up over his head and dropped it. Then he tugged the ribbon off his hair so that it fell loose around his face to his naked shoulders.
His broad shoulders.
Did all men look stronger out of their clothes, she wondered, studying him as he paused to allow her to. Paused perhaps, to allow her to retreat, to run back to her room.
Oh no. She welcomed this fire, even though it could burn her to a crisp. (Absolutely no cliche)
She knew she would feel less wanton naked, but she obeyed, enjoying feeling wanton with him. (Get that thesaurus program up and running ASAP)
Once he was sure that she was deeply asleep, he eased her out of his arms and onto her pillow, but rested there, studying her. At the different angle, she still looked young but now he could see her firm chin. The body he'd tangled with had not been childish at all, but that of an active strong woman. (That sounds erotic, doesn't it. The moral is don't fall asleep with the damn light on)
A truly remarkable woman...
She'd amused and alarmed him with her quick wit and understanding, her boldness and courage, her problems and needs. (Ooh, needs)
Then she'd teased that dangerous kiss. Their kiss. Still, he'd remained in control. Not seriously threatened. Until tonight.
Unique.
Shattering.
Forbidden.
(Really)
(I'm not)
(Making this)
(Up)
She woke as if from a dream to bright sunshine shafting through a slit in drawn curtains. (Hey, hey, "shafting through a slit" in the curtains. What about "thrusting through a hole" in the curtains? "Ramming through a cleft" in the curtains? Hot damn, I've got talent, I tell you, talent! Oops. I. Mean. I've got. Talent.)
Alone.
Bolting upright, she saw nothing to suggest the night. No oil, certainly no lover. Even the pillow he would have used was smooth. (Bet he left his footprints in the butter like the elephant in the refrigerator jokes my eight year old tells)
Had she dreamed it? No, traces of oil remained on the sheets, in stains and sensual perfume. He'd been here. He, the essence of him, had come within touch of her questing fingertips. (Questing, another Beverley favourite that needs rescue from the thesaurus. Besides, his essence hadn't come within touch of her fingers, it was her mouth.)
More than that. For a short time he had been hers, mind, body and soul. (This not a cliche. Absolutely not)
But now he was gone, and his careful obliteration of his presence filled her with despair. The final battle had not been won because it wasn't a matter of will, after all. That could have been changed by a stronger will. (I don't think even the thesaurus can help this)
For him, it was a matter of soul.
What, save ___, could help him with that?
Muddled last night, she'd assumed she was in his bedroom, but of course, she wasn't. This room, though grand held no personal items. Anyway, he wouldn't take her there and risk her reputation. Not the omnipotent, omniscient, infinitely controlled Marquess of Rothgar. She beat her hands on the bed. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him! (Now this should have been put into three new paragraphs, no? Why change style midstream? Was the page count getting too long?)
Then she sank her head in her hands. She had to face the day as well. The king. Society. Him. (Now she hates separate paragraphs)
Oh ___, oh ___. They could end this day forced into marriage to save her reputation. If he'd retreated behind the walls again they'd be in a worse state than when they'd begun.
Oh ___, oh ___just about covers it, doesn't it?
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times since November 27, 2000.