Rose in Bloom: A Novella

By Stephanie Laurens

Childhood enemies reunite as adults—and do more than kiss and make up—in this Regency romance novella first published in Scottish Brides.

Every Rose has its thorn . . . especially Rose MacKenzie-Craddock! When they were children, the willful girl was the thorn in the Earl of Strathyre’s side. Now, as a beautiful woman, Rose drives the Earl wild with desire. But even grown-ups can play some most interesting games . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9780062122735

Stephanie Laurens

#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors.

Book preview

New York Times Bestselling Author

Stephanie Laurens

Rose in Bloom

with Bonus Excerpts

A Novella

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Excerpts from The Cynster Brides

Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

Cover

Prologue

Chapter One

In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster

Cover

Prologue

Chapter One

About the Author

Enter the World of Stephanie Laurens

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

flowerbell

Ballynashiels, Argyllshire

June 17, 1826

"What the devil are you doing here?"

Duncan Roderick Macintyre, third earl of Strathyre, stared, stupefied, at the willowy form bent over the piano stool in his drawing room. Sheer shock, liberally laced with disbelief, held him frozen on the threshold. A lesser man would have goggled.

Rose Millicent Mackenzie-Craddock, bane of his life, most insistent, persistent thorn in his flesh, lifted her head and looked up—and smiled at him, with the same, slightly lopsided smile with which she’d taunted him for decades. Her large, light-brown eyes twinkled.

Good morning, Duncan. I’d heard you’d arrived.

Her soft, lilting brogue washed over him, a warm caress beneath his skin. His gaze locked on the expanse of creamy breasts now on display, Duncan stiffened—all over. The reaction was as much a surprise as finding Rose here—and every bit as unwelcome. His jaw locked. Fingers clenched about the doorknob, he hesitated, then frowned, stepped into the room and shut the door.

And advanced on his nemesis with a prowling gait.

Holding the sheets of music she’d been sorting, Rose straightened as he neared—and wondered why the devil she couldn’t breathe. Why she felt as if she did not dare take her eyes from Duncan’s face, shift her gaze from his eyes. It was as if they were playing tag and she needed to read his intent in the cool blue, still as chilly as the waters of the loch rippling beyond the drawing-room windows.

They weren’t children any longer, but she sensed, quite definitely, that they were still playing some game.

Excitement flashed down her nerves; anticipation pulled them taut. The room was large and long; even with her gaze fixed on Duncan’s face, she had ample time to appreciate the changes the last twelve years had wrought. He was larger, for a start—much larger. His shoulders were wider; he was at least two inches taller. And he was harder—all over—from his face to the long muscles of his legs. He looked dangerous—he felt dangerous. An aura of male aggression lapped about him, tangible in his stride, in the tension investing his long frame.

The lock of black hair lying rakishly across his forehead, the harsh angularity of his features and his stubbornly square chin—and the male arrogance in his blue eyes—were the same, yet much sharper, more clearly defined. As if the years had stripped away the superficial softness and exposed the granite core beneath.

He halted a mere two feet away. His black brows were drawn down in a scowl.

Forced to look up, Rose tilted her head—and let her lips curve, again.

His scowl grew blacker. I repeat—he bit off the words—"what the devil are you doing here?"

Rose let her smile deepen, let laughter ripple through her voice. I’m here for Midsummer, of course.

His eyes remained locked on hers; his scowl eased to a frown. Mama invited you.

It wasn’t a question; she answered nevertheless. Yes. But I always visit every summer.

You do?

Hmm. Looking down, she dropped the lid of the piano stool, then shuffled the music sheets together and stacked them on the piano.

I must have missed you.

She looked up. You haven’t been here all that much these last years.

I’ve been tending to business.

Rose nodded and quelled a craven impulse to edge toward the windows, to put some space between them. She had never been frightened of Duncan before; this couldn’t be fright she felt now. She tossed her head back and looked him in the eye. So I’ve heard. Away in London, resurrecting the Macintyre fortunes.

He shrugged. The Macintyre fortunes are well and truly resurrected. His gaze sharpened. And I haven’t forgotten what you did twelve years ago.

Twelve years ago, when last they’d met. He’d been a painfully fashionable twenty-three, with the highest, starchiest shirt points north of the border. Even south of it. She hadn’t been able to resist. Half an hour before he’d gone up to dress for his mother’s Hunt Ball, she’d slipped into his room and steamed all his collars. He’d been forced to appear slightly less than sartorially perfect. Unrepentant still, Rose grinned. If only you could have seen yourself . . .

Don’t remind me. His gaze searched her face, then returned to her eyes. His narrowed. You’re twenty-seven—why haven’t you married?

Rose met his gaze directly, and coolly raised her brows. Because I haven’t yet met a man I wish to marry, of course. But you’re thirty-five, and you haven’t married either—although that’s about to change, I understand.

Exasperation colored his frown. His lips thinned. Possibly. I haven’t yet made up my mind.

But you’ve invited her here, with her parents, haven’t you?

Yes—no. Mama invited them.

At your instruction. When she got no response beyond a further tightening of his lips, Rose dared a teasing grin. She wasn’t entirely sure it was safe to play her old game, but the old tricks still seemed to work. The change was infinitesimal, yet he tensed in response to her smile.

She’d known Duncan literally all her life. As the only child of aging and wealthy parents, her childhood had been one of indulgence and cossetting, but also of severe restrictions. As her father’s heiress, she’d been groomed and watched over; only during the summers, during the long blissful weeks she had spent here, at Ballynashiels, had she been allowed to be herself. Her wild, carefree, hoydenish self. Her mother had been a close friend and cousin of Duncan’s mother, Lady Hermione Macintyre; together with her parents, she’d spent every summer of her childhood here, in precious freedom. After her mother’s death five years ago, it had been natural to continue her visits, with or without her father; Lady Hermione was a surrogate mother and a dearly loved haven of sense in a world that was, too often for Rose’s taste, governed by sensibility.

She did not have a sensible bone in her body, a fact to which Duncan could attest. Eight years her senior, he’d been the only other child here through those long-ago summers; naturally, she’d attached herself to him. Being insensible—or, more accurately, stubborn, willful and not easily cowed—she’d ignored all his attempts to dislodge her from his heels. She’d dogged his every step; she was quite sure she knew more about Duncan than anyone else alive.

Which meant that, more than anyone else, she’d been aware of his driving obsession, his desire to be the best, to perform to the highest standards, to achieve the very best in all things—the perfectionism that drove him. And, being her irreverent self, she had never been able to resist teasing him, pricking and prodding him whenever his obssession over-stepped the bounds of her trenchant common sense.

Teasing Duncan the perfect had become first a game, then a habit. Through the years, she’d perfected her skills, guided by the insight no other had ever had of him; her ability to successfully strike through his defenses was now the strongest memory either had of the other.

Which explained his black scowl and his watchful wariness. She couldn’t, however, explain the tension that held him, the tension that tightened her own nerves, restricting her breathing and setting her skin flickering. That was entirely new.

He still stood before her, frowning down at her. She raised a haughty brow. I gather your last years have been crowned with success; from all I’ve heard, you’ve reason to feel quite smug.

With a light shrug, he dismissed it—the endeavor to which she knew he’d devoted all his energies for the last ten years. Things fell into place. The future of Ballynashiels is now assured. That was what I wanted—it was what I achieved.

Rose smiled warmly, sincerely. You should enjoy your success. There aren’t many estates in the Highlands so comfortably underwritten.

On inheriting both title and estate, Duncan had accepted, as few of his peers had, that the rugged country of the Argyll would not provide more than a subsistence. In typical fashion, driven by his need to excell, he’d taken the bit between his teeth and plunged into business. According to the pundits, he was now fabulously wealthy, with a solid income deriving from trade with the Indies and a sizable nest egg derived from shrewd speculation. Rose was not at all surprised. Knowing as she did his devotion to his heritage, and the inherent responsibilities, she felt a subtle pride in his achievements. At a time when many Highland estates were suffering, Ballynashiels was safe.

For that, she was truly grateful.

Her eyes still on his, stubbornly ignoring the inner voice clamoring that before her stood danger, she tilted her head and let amused under approaching light her eyes. So, now Ballynashiels is secure, it’s time to get a wife?

A muscle in his jaw locked; his eyes narrowed.

Duncan fought to concentrate on her words, struggled to find some quip to put her in her place or, better yet, send her fleeing from the house. His reeling mind could supply neither. He’d never before understood what being bowled over entailed—now he knew.

And it was Rose who’d done it.

He wasn’t sure if he should feel horror at that discovery, or whether, given their history, he should have expected it. From the instant when, bent over the piano stool, she’d looked up at him, his wits had scrambled. Not, perhaps, surprising, considering the view he’d had. He doubted many men could think clearly when faced with a view like that.

Rose, his little thorn, had grown. Bloomed. In the most amazing way.

Since letting go of the doorknob, he’d kept his eyes glued to hers. It hadn’t helped. He was acutely aware of the soft curves of her breasts, warm ivory mounds enticingly displayed by the scooped neckline of her morning gown. In soft, pale green muslin sprigged with tiny gold leaves, the gown clung to shapely hips and long, sleek legs. It took real effort not to drop his gaze and check just how long those legs were; his wayward mind insistently reminded him that Rose had always been tall.

She’d been gangly. Awkward. A scrawny ugly duckling, with huge, soft brown eyes far too large for her face, lips too wide for it, too, wild hair that had usually resembled a bird’s nest, straight brown brows too severe for a female and a nose too upturned and far too pert for beauty. And a barbed tongue that had stung him far too often.

Keeping his expression unchanged, Duncan inwardly cursed. Who would have imagined all those oddly disparate parts would, with the years, meld into the vision before him? Her eyes were as before, but now they fitted her face, the perfect vehicles for her always-direct gaze. Her brows were still straight, uncompromising, but their line was now softened by her hair, still faintly frizzy but so abundant and rich in color, it made any male with blood in his veins itch to sink his hands into it. She wore it loosely braided and coiled; he wondered how long it was.

And despite the insistence of his common sense, telling him to move back, to put more distance between them so he could no longer detect her perfume—a subtle blend of violet and rose—if he moved farther back, he doubted he could stave off the urge to let his eyes feast on her figure, no longer scrawny in the least. Every curve was full, ripe, alluring. And those legs—his imagination was already running riot, but he had a sneaking feeling the reality might prove even more interesting.

Even more arousing.

Which was the last thing he needed; he was in pain as it was.

Yet remaining so close to her, within easy reach, wasn’t any cure. Her lips, despite her teasing, lopsided smile, were temptation incarnate. No longer overlarge, they were generous—not just feminine but womanly, their full curves promising all manner of sensual delights. And as for the teasing, provocative light in her eyes . . . a burning urge gripped him, compelling him to raise his hand, frame her face and kiss her, taste her . . .

And that way lay madness. This was Rose, the thorn in his flesh.

Her words finally penetrated the fog of lust shrouding his mind; Duncan inwardly groaned. Nothing had changed.

He was acutely uncomfortable, and growing more so with every passing second.

Which meant he was in trouble. Serious trouble.

He’d returned to Ballynashiels with his intended in tow, only to find . . .

"Damn it—why aren’t you married? And safe beyond his reach, some other man’s problem, not his. Where on God’s earth have you been spending the years, in a convent?"

Predictably, she smirked—a little twist of her lips that could bring a man to his knees—and smoothly glided past him. Oh, I’ve been busy enough in that sphere, but there’s been nothing that’s taken my fancy.

Duncan smothered a snort; he could just imagine. Rose was an heiress; her suitors had to be legion. He swung to watch her as she halted before the windows—oh, yes, her legs were long . . . long, long, long . . . He swallowed. And scowled. Your father’s too lenient—he should have seen you married years ago.

She shrugged lightly. I’ve spent the last nine Seasons in Edinburgh and Glasgow—it’s hardly my fault if the gentlemen haven’t measured up.

Half turning her head, she sent an artful glance his way; it began at his boots and traveled slowly—very slowly—up-ward . . . By the time she reached his face, Duncan felt like strangling her. After he’d ravished her.

Abruptly he swung away, fervently praying that she hadn’t noticed his reaction, unfortunately visible given that he was dressed in skintight inexpressibles. Ready to greet his intended.

I’m going to see Mama. Glancing back, he saw Rose’s brows fly high. How long are you staying?

She considered him; he prayed a good deal harder. Then she shrugged. We haven’t decided. At least until Midsummer.

Duncan frowned. Your father’s here?