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"The dress," Demelza whispered. "It unfastens down the back."
Ross Poldark looked up at the slim column of his kitchen maid's back as she turned it toward him, at the delicate laces that held his mother's dress closed. Demelza had put the dress on, she had managed those laces herself. She could undo them if she wished. But she wanted him to do it.
She wanted him to finish what he had started when he yielded to the mad impulse of a moment, the delicacy of her skin beneath his fingers, the beauty of her eyes like the ocean on a clear morning, and kissed her.
Ross cursed himself for a fool. All this time he had held his head high as rumor whispered about his relations with Demelza, considered himself above all those who could not understand … when in fact, it was they who had understood all along, and he who had been lying to himself.
It had been so easy to simply enjoy her company, to have someone to talk to, because he had not seen her as a woman. But tonight—tonight he had spoken harshly to her, more harshly than she deserved out of his anger and his disappointment in himself, and he had seen something in her eyes that made him immediately sorry for it. He had reached out and for the first time his fingers had touched her skin, finding it fine and soft, and suddenly she became … desirable. Tempting. Not a maid, but a woman.
And, God help him, he had yielded to that temptation and kissed her. When he had torn himself away, denying what he wanted because it wasn't the right thing, she had come to him, come to stand before him, telling him what she wanted by her presence here in this room, by every step of her bare feet across his carpet.
Could he deny her now? Did he wish to? He knew, to his shame, that he did not. He should be stronger, strong enough for both of them, strong enough to deny what they both wanted because it wasn't right.
But she was so close he could almost feel the heat of her skin. He swallowed against the temptation, telling himself he would do as she asked—unlace the dress, and then send her off, back to wherever she had left her real clothes, and that would be the end of it.
He stood, slowly combing his fingers through the delicate silk of the ties, seeing them come loose and the dress part to reveal her warm skin.
Demelza's breath was coming faster as his fingers moved lower. It would hurt her to send her away from him tonight, he knew that, even though it was the right thing to do.
He caught the scent of her hair, those wild red curls, and the urge to nuzzle the fallen tendrils of hair, to feel it silky and fine against his face, was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, feeling a surge of desire, sweet and hot, flaring within him.
And then the dress was unlaced and he was opening it to reveal the long clean line of her back, that expanse of bare skin, so creamy pale …
He knew with despair that he could not bear to send her away, that he would lie awake all night aching to touch her. That she had come to him of her own free will was no excuse. He was the elder, the more experienced. She could not know what she was asking, what it would mean to her in the long run if he gave way to the hunger he felt to know what she tasted like, how her skin would feel against his.
Demelza was gasping aloud, as aroused as Ross was. He leaned his head against the mass of her hair, whispering against her neck, "You know what people say of us?"
She shivered. "Yes."
"If we behave like this, it will be true." It was as much as he could do to keep from touching her, but he would give her this chance to change her mind, to understand what it meant if this went any further, but he didn't know how he would bear it if she left now.
"Then let it be true," she said. Her voice, a mere breath moments ago, was clear and strong, a reminder that Demelza was a woman who knew her own mind.
Still, she was trembling, waiting for him to make it happen, to decide, and he could not deny her, or himself, any longer. He slid his hand inside the dress, across the fine smooth skin at her waist, and he pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it fall at her feet.
Both his hands were on her now, splayed across her belly, as he pulled her back against him. Her head fell to the side as he cupped the undersides of her breasts, and he kissed her neck. Her long, elegant neck. Her skin tasted of summer, sweet and delicate.
Demelza turned in his arms, and he kissed her, gently laying her back on the bed.
He might have expected a woman of her inexperience to be passive, or timid, but this was Demelza, and she put her mind as thoroughly to pleasure as she did to work. Even as he learned the lines and curves of her body, she set herself to learning his. Rarely had a woman pleased him so, and certainly not one who had never been touched before.
Ross woke before Demelza did the next morning, but he lay still, his eyes closed, not wanting to wake her, not knowing how to speak to her or what to say. It was a relief when he felt the weight of her body leave the bed and heard the rustle of the taffeta as she put the dress on and tiptoed from the room.
He must talk to her. He must apologize for having taken advantage of her and let her know that this could never happen again.
Even as he said so to himself, sternly, he thought of the touch of her hands, the taste of her mouth, her eager cries as he found the places she liked to be caressed, and he nearly moaned aloud at the renewal of desire.
No. He opened his eyes and forced himself from the bed, reaching for his clothing. He must not think of that. Once was—a lapse, but one that could be overcome. To dwell on what had occurred, to remember how she had felt in his arms, that was to court temptation, to risk turning once into … something untenable. Bad enough that he had taken her innocence. He could not turn her into something she could not turn back from. He would not.
Ross covered his guilt and his irritation with himself by being irritated with Jud. Not that that would hurt the old man, who knew well enough that his place was secure for life, but it didn't help. Nor did wearing himself out cutting the hay. He had hoped the physical labor would weary him, bring him some peace, but even as he cut, as the hay stuck to his back and the sun beat down on his shoulders, he thought of Demelza's hands on his back, of her hair tickling his shoulders.
And as his cursed luck would have it, that was when Elizabeth chose to ride past. She didn't see him, there shirtless in the midst of the barley, but she was riding toward the house. He couldn't have her sitting there with only Prudie to care for her. Or, worse, to have Demelza wait on her. That was—it wouldn't be right. Demelza was his servant, he reminded himself. It was her duty to wait on his guests.
But somehow the idea of her waiting on Elizabeth felt wrong, as though it did a disservice to both women. He hurried to the house, hastily arranging his clothes to be respectable.
There was a moment as they talked when his eyes met Elizabeth's and Ross could see so clearly what their marriage could have been—working together, as partners, to build a life. Mutual respect, love, passion.
God, how many ways could a man be a fool in a single day? Elizabeth had been lost to him long ago. A sensible man would have moved on, forgotten her, accepted what was and learned to live with it. And outwardly, he had. But inwardly … had he ever truly let her go, in his heart? Did he know how?
When Demelza came in, not bothering to knock, stopping short with surprise and displeasure when she saw Elizabeth, Ross fancied he saw in Elizabeth's eyes that she understood everything. Perhaps she did; perhaps it was only his guilty conscience. Nonetheless, the moment he had been hoping to avoid was here, and it was as awkward and uncomfortable as he had imagined it might be.
It was regrettable that he had not been able to speak with Demelza about what had occurred last night before this. It was hardly the way he should have let her see that nothing had changed.
But perhaps she was right and it should have changed. They could no longer stand in the same relation to one another that they had yesterday. They knew each other intimately now, and that must make things different between them.
Elizabeth had gone, fleeing the discomfort of the moment, and he had returned to his work, telling himself that Demelza would understand that nothing could come of what had occurred last night, that nothing could change.
But how should she? What did she know of what went on between men and women?
He thought better of his silence. She deserved more than that from him.
That was when he learned that she had gone. He told himself he was angry with her, that anger was why his fingers trembled as he saddled the horse, that anger was why he was in such haste to catch her before she was gone for good—but the truth was that when he knew she had left him, he felt bereft. Lost. Alone in a way he realized only now that he had not felt in some time. Demelza had changed that. She had given him someone to talk to, someone to come home to, someone to listen and offer support. And what had he offered her? Ruin, and a turned back when she was most vulnerable.
When Ross caught sight of Demelza in the distance, a weight lifted off his heart. He was in time, then. He could bring her back. He wouldn't lose her.
Coming up behind her, he spoke loudly enough to be heard over the horse's hooves. "I engaged you for two years. Now what do you mean by running away?"
"Sir, I—"
"Haven't you been well treated? Aren't you grown used to the house? And your tasks? And my moods?" As he spoke, he knew how lost he would be if she didn't come back with him.
Demelza spoke with difficulty, searching for the right words. "Yes, sir. But—"
"Do you not give me what I want before I even ask?"
"Yes, sir, but I—I thought— After what happened …"
"You thought you would no longer be my servant." He should have known better, he told himself. He should have seen this coming.
"Not from choice, sir," she said.
Ross nodded. He should have known from the moment he opened the first lace of that gown, from the moment he took her chin in his hand, that the way things had been could no longer be the way things were. "You're right," he told her. "You can no longer be my servant." But he couldn't let her go, either. And he didn't want to go back, he found. He wanted her in his bed as well as at his table, he couldn't deny that. And if that was what he wanted, there was only one thing left to him to do.
When he didn't speak, Demelza whispered, "Then what, sir?"
He got down from the horse and approached her. He had done everything else badly—she deserved this one thing to be done right. "Demelza. Will you marry me?"
"Marry you, sir?"
"Yes. Do you want to stay, or don't you? If you do, this is the only way it can happen."
"I … I want to stay, sir."
"Then will you marry me?" he repeated patiently.
"Are you sure?"
Was he? It would be awkward with … everyone, really. But it would be terribly lonely in that house without her, and what was he waiting for, anyway? A man should have a wife, and if he could not have the woman he had wanted for so long, he could think of no one he would enjoy sharing his home with more than the woman who already did share it. "I am sure," he told her gently. "But I would not push you into something you don't—"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
She nodded, laughing a little. "Yes."
Ross couldn't help but smile back at her. "I will see to the banns at once."
As he helped her onto the horse in front of him, he found that he was still smiling.
