Chapter 962

"Get in. I'm driving you home," Lucian commanded.

Rosalind attempted to protest. "I can manage on my own."

His fingers closed around her wrist with surprising gentleness as he opened the passenger door of the sleek black Bentley. Before she could react, she found herself seated inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Rosalind exhaled sharply through her nose.

Thirty minutes later, the gates of Rosewood Manor swung open.

Eleanor, the head housekeeper, appeared instantly. "Miss Fairchild, Mr. Graves."

"I'll be taking a shower first," Rosalind announced, already moving toward the grand staircase without sparing Lucian a glance.

Once in her suite, she let the steaming water cascade over her skin, washing away the day's exhaustion. Emerging wrapped in a plush towel, she reached for the special oil blend her dermatologist had prescribed.

Isabella Delacroix was nearly a decade younger. While Rosalind maintained confidence in her own beauty, pregnancy brought unpredictable changes. She massaged the fragrant oil into every inch of skin she could reach—except her back.

Twisting awkwardly, her fingers barely grazed the area between her shoulder blades.

The door clicked open.

Assuming it was Eleanor, Rosalind settled onto the chaise lounge, carefully positioning a pillow beneath her hips. "Eleanor, could you help with my back?"

Lucian froze in the doorway.

The maid was nowhere in sight. He'd only come to retrieve forgotten documents. But now Rosalind lay before him in nothing but a silk robe, the ties loose, revealing a tantalizing expanse of flawless skin. His throat tightened.

The robe barely reached mid-thigh, showcasing slender legs that seemed to glow in the dim lighting. Her floral shampoo mingled with the oil's exotic scent, creating an intoxicating aroma.

"Eleanor? Are you there?" Rosalind held out the bottle blindly.

Against his better judgment, Lucian stepped forward.

Rosalind sighed as warm hands spread oil across her back. The touch was hesitant at first, then grew more confident, kneading the tension from her muscles. She hummed appreciatively. "A bit harder, please."

The pressure increased, skilled fingers working down her spine until they reached the dip of her waist. A shiver ran through her. "Not quite that hard."

Lucian's lips twitched. Even in this, she was impossible to please—always keeping him guessing.

"Lower," she murmured drowsily. "The stretch marks cream needs to go there too."

Lower...

His gaze trailed past the curve of her waist to where the robe had ridden up, revealing the edge of lavender lace. Heat flooded his veins as his hands obeyed, sliding downward—

"Eleanor? Why aren't you—ah!"

Rosalind twisted around, her eyes widening.

Lucian stood there, his usually impeccable composure shattered, hands still glistening with oil.