Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 17

For nearly two weeks, after ensuring Master Branson was on his way to bed, Gwen would walk the gardens with his Grace. They'd discuss minute topics of the day, from the preferred shade of pansies to the refreshing scent of lemon. And, when the dowager woman wasn't looking, she'd take a kiss or two from him. At least he seems to have loosened from that first, incredibly awkward meeting.

On the nights when the Duke was busy with more pressing meetings, she would sneak into his office to write. Every time, there'd be a rose red as a maiden's blush perched upon his closed books for her. She hadn't the heart to tell him the forward message he was no doubt unaware he left her. Though, she likes to dream that he is fully aware — particularly when the coral rose slipped into place of the others.

As their courtship slips into its fifteenth eve, the pair find their little anniversary delayed courtesy of the tempestuous storms of the year. Rain pounds so harshly against the tight windows a draft and spray of water sneak through the edge. Gwen shivers, her book trembling as she tries to huddle deeper into her body's warmth. It was foolish to leave off her petticoats this morning...as if she hadn't been doing such a risqué move in the past two weeks.

The movements, or perhaps the sound, catch the eye of the man hunkered over his ledgers. "Are you chilled?" he asks, already rising from the desk.

Gwen frowns at her disturbing him. It was she who snuck in while he was working, hoping to make use of the faint green light leeching across the garden. "I am well," she tries to assure the Duke walking towards her. "The windows are a bit drafty."

A sneer curls up his lips and he glares at the panes as if about to challenge them to a duel. "Do you require my jacket?" he asks, tugging on the suit coat hanging to his shoulders.

A flash of him stripped to only his shirt, the pale linen washed translucent in the rain, flashes through her mind. No doubt he watches the blush claim her cheeks as Gwen tries to turn away. "Then you would be chilled," she answers. Her hand raises, about to fan the book at her flaming cheeks but that would only raise more questions.

Cullen chuckles at her answer and, forgetting his mountain of work, drops beside her on the chaise lounge. "I do not chill so easily," he says. And the Duke of Honnleath, Lord to more titles and lands than she knows, wraps his noble fingers around her shoulders and begins to rub friction to warm her body.

How she could melt to his touch alone. His fingers — staid and solid as the man owning them — canvass from the near-elbow clear to her collarbone. They never slip lower than is needed for the task, but the touch is certain, making it all the more sensual.

Those eyes of pure amber catch hers and he whispers in his bourbon barrel voice, "Better?"

"Much. Thank you." They are but a breath away, their lips parted as they sip the air expelled from the other. Take a kiss. There is no one here to chastise. No one to question it.

His Lordship turns, the hands that massaged her digging into the back of his neck. Gwen stares limply at her lap and says, "Forgive me for interrupting you."

"You didn't," he assures her, and she glances to the obvious worrying over his neck. Cullen follows, the hand popping free and he groans. "This is not your doing. It is a matter of bills of sale, balancing the books for far too many holdings."

"Don't you have accountants and clerks for that?"

The Duke who could be spending his days watching horse races and playing polo snickers. "It is always best to have another pair of eyes add up the numbers...even if this time they don't."

"Missing some pounds?" A servant or manager nicking a few quid here and there wouldn't surprise her. Most had a petty cash box for such an eventuality.