by Cheryl Holt
"You're impossible." She sulked, retiring to the sofa and lounging as he gulped the last of his whisky and persisted in contemplating whatever was keeping him so fascinated down on the lawns. "I hate it when you don't pay attention to me. If you're not careful, you'll destroy my self-confidence."
“I doubt that," he muttered, laughing softly. Eventually, he queried, "Who is the fetching woman who's visiting? She has the most striking auburn hair. Her name is Sarah."
"Oh, no ..." Groaning, she proceeded to pour herself a drink. First, Sarah was asking about him; now he was asking about Sarah. This was bad. Very, very bad. "I presume you're talking about Lady Sarah."
"Who is her family?"
"Compton."
He spun around, his fierce gaze on hers. "She's Scarborough's sister?'
"Aye."
"They look nothing alike."
"Different mothers."
"What's she doing in Bedford?"
"He maintains she's determined to marry and is hunting for a husband, but she insists she's just taking a holiday."
"But why here? For Christ's sake, she's a virgin!"
"How would you know mat?" For once in her life, she actually had the opportunity to observe Michael blushing. Would miracles never cease? Two bright spots of color marred his cheeks.
"I can tell," he said lamely.
"What? Can you smell chastity or something?" Irritated, she approached, clutching the decanter, and refilling his libation while she peeked out the window. Below in the yard, Sarah was pointedly visible, sitting on a bench while sur-
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veying the other guests and relaxing in the afternoon sun. "Stay away from her, Michael."
"I have no idea .what you mean."
"She's had difficult times lately, and there are even more ahead. She scarcely needs you as a complication."
"I'd never involve myself with one such as she."
"She's a wonderful woman. I like her very much."
"Then send her home. Today. She doesn't belong with this crowd; she's like a sheep among the wolves."
Pamela was regularly privy to confidential knowledge about tile clandestine intrigues of others, so she deemed herself to be an expert at deduction. Obviously, these two had done more than pass each other in the hall. Michael seemed totally smitten, with Sarah in no better condition.
"She's delighted to be here," Pamela noted, "and I'm glad she is. I won't demand that she depart."
"Do it because she's your friend. Protect her."
"She's safe enough." He shot her a penetrating glare that said he didn't credit her denial, and she was affronted. Yes, she hosted ribald parties, but her male guests had never violated any of the females. There were too many convenient, willing women.
"You appreciate how Hugh acts," she admonished. "You can't begin to understand the kinds of unpleasantness she's had to endure by being related to him. She's entitled to this break from her obligations."
"What she needs is a stern scolding. A swift kick in the rear wouldn't hurt, either."
She bristled with dread. They were already dangerously attached. How had this happened? "Michael, heed me: If Hugh is spewing the truth, for once, and she has settled on marriage, she deserves to find an appropriate mate."
"Absolutely."
"It can't be you."
"As if I'd ever want it to be me." He snorted crudely. "I can't believe you feel you have to warn me off."
Disgusted with the sudden tenor of the conversation, he set his drink on the table and prepared to stomp off in a
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huff, and she took hold of his arm, halting him in mid-stride. "Don't be upset."
"I’m not," he finally remarked, and he acknowledged her expression of regret by wrapping a strand of her long hair around his finger and using it to draw her near.
"Will you play the game tonight?"
After pondering for a lengthy moment, he replied, "Oh, hell... why not?"
"Excellent. The ladies will be elated."
"I'll bet."
"And if you decide you'd like to dally"—on tiptoes, she brushed a kiss across his unresponsive mouth—"just knock. I'm still interested."
"I won't change my mind."
With that, he walked out, and she tied her robe and locked the door behind. Clucking in dismay over this newest turn of events, she went into her bathing chamber to wash. When she exited some minutes later, she peered outside again. There, bold as brass, was Michael Stevens sharing a garden settee with Sarah Compton.
"Bastard..." she grumbled, though not unkindly. Sarah was lovely, and Pamela couldn't blame Michael for being tempted. Yet, for all his impetuous disposition, and though he continually and zealously disputed her opinion, Michael was a gentleman. He was gravely cognizant of his status where a woman such as Sarah was concerned, and he wouldn't forget it.
Still, as she covertly watched the pair, their eyes sparking fire, their torsos sloped toward one another, a great wave of unease swept over her. They were attuned as only the most intimate of lovers could ever be. Their attraction was so blatant that she couldn't help speculating as to whether an innocent flirtation with Michael might be beneficial for Sarah. The adventure would definitely boost her lagging spirits before she traveled to Yorkshire to confront the future.
What's the worst that could transpire? she mused.
The dozens of frightening, sinister answers that rushed
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to the fore were so distressing that she declined to reflect on any of them. She strolled from the window, refusing to prolong her spying.
Whatever Michael was about, she didn't want to know.
Chapter Seven
Michael was certain he'd lost his mind. Assuredly, he was deranged. Perhaps a wicked spell had been cast over him, or he'd been bewitched with a charm. Whatever the impetus, he was rashly and stupidly advancing toward, Sarah Compton. Though she hadn't glanced in his direction, and didn't realize he was imminent, she was luring him in as firmly and methodically as if he was a fish impaled on a hook, and he couldn't arrest the progress of his feet. With each step, he marched to his doom.
When he'd answered the summons to Pamela's room, he'd gone with the unmitigated aim of coupling with her. They were highly compatible and, as he'd not partaken of her delights in many months, an assignation would have been an entertaining, amiable way to pass a boring afternoon. But when he'd gazed out her window and had seen Sarah sitting in the garden, on a cloistered bench where anything might happen, he'd lost his ability to concentrate. Suddenly, his plan for an uncomplicated sexual encounter with Pamela had vanished, only to be replaced with unwonted apprehension about Lady Sarah Compton.
Why was she still tarrying in Bedford? How could he persuade her to leave? What words could he utilize so that she'd go home where she'd be safe?
With all the dreadful news that continued to pour out of London, following him and unsettling him wherever he went, he was frantic to regain some semblance of control over his private affairs. As a man who cherished his independence, and his ability to direct his own course, he was frustrated and baffled by the swirl of events into which he'd
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been thrust. For once, he couldn't manipulate the conclusion according to his instructions.
He was desperate for one happy ending, and for reasons that were utterly unfathomable, he'd concentrated his attention on Lady Sarah, daftly assuming that hers could be the fitting resolution he so rigorously sought. If he could just get her to agree that departure was imperative!
Ludicrous and strange as his motives seemed, he craved the opportunity to have her reliably sheltered so that she would never be adversely affected by this harsh, unforgiving world in which they were both enmeshed. If he had to toss her over his shoulder and drag her off, that's exactly what he was prepared to do.
She must listen to him!
Quietly, he converged on the bench, and as he drew near, he was struck a
new by how exquisite she was. Her spectacular auburn locks were pulled up, and a few ringlets dangled to tickle and glide across her nape. Distinctly, he recalled how soft her hair was, how thick and heavy, how silky.
Keenly and astutely, she surveyed the surroundings, her comely face puzzled, her pert brow quirked. Her lips pursed in an enticing pout. Moist, ripe, inviting, her mourn was the kind that had a man disposed to more than kissing. There were so many delicious diversions for which she could be trained that would put it to beneficial use.
The dark green gown she wore, with its scooped neckline, stretched tightly across her bosom and outlined her magnificent breasts. They were high and rounded, and he recalled how eager he'd been when he'd cupped them, when he'd sucked on those two taut nipples, and the graphic recollection set his male urges afire. Attracted to her as he'd been to no other before, he was incorrigibly titillated and aroused. Though his enchantment was unsuitable and could never be acted upon, he lusted after her with a foolhardiness that was frightening,
He wanted to have her and exploit her in every manner a man could possibly covet a woman. The sentiments she
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inspired were feral, animalistic, ungovernable, an irrepressible compulsion that was beyond his cognition or command. He couldn't fight the restless impulses she inspired nor was he inclined to; he simply desired her with a negligent impetuosity that was manic in its intensity.
The lowest of scoundrels, he'd invaded her boudoir, yet he wouldn't pretend to be repentant. Offered the least provocation, he'd intrude a second time, and very likely, he wouldn't depart when she ordered him out.
With a careless urgency, he yearned to hold her down, to fuck her until his passion was sated and his cock was limp. In the process, though it was lunacy to presume so, he imagined that by precipitously spilling his seed, he would finally find some peace!
Compelling himself onward, intent on shattering her serenity, he breathed her scent, and their exotic chemistry began to spark. Abruptly invigorated and enervated, he felt vibrant and exuberant; the colors brighter, the air purer, the sunshine more concentrated, just from lingering in her proximity.
The response she engendered in him was relentless and unyielding, beyond his ken. The only conceivable interpretation for his affliction was that they shared an incomprehensible affinity. However, his body needed no rationalization. His robust, unruly phallus sprang to attention and filled his trousers, causing him to ache intolerably. It was reacting as though he was, once again, a lad of fourteen and sneaking out to visit the French whores with James.
How could a woman incite such torment by doing nothing at all? Just by sitting there, looking so damned winsome, she ignited a flame mat caused him to burn for her with an unremitting ardor.
Without requesting permission, he joined her on the bench. Obviously, she'd not discerned his approach, and his unforeseen move made her jump.
"Mr. Stevens!"
"Lady Sarah."
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"You startled me." Distrustful, she scowled at him. "I suppose it would have been too much to expect that you could announce yourself like any other civilized man."
"There's nothing civilized about me."
"I enthusiastically concur!"
She shifted so mat she was facing him and, because the bench was small, with an arm on each end, space was limited, so her torso was forced into closer contact with his. Suddenly, their shoulders were touching, her stomach curved against his side, her hip leaned into his thigh. Most delectably, a breast—the nipple pointed and easily apparent—brushed against him and, in shock at the suggestive impact, she reared back but encountered no means of escape.
He was behaving like an imbecile and a knave, yet he pressed his advantage. Employing only his greater size, by bending near and hovering, he worked her into the corner. A passer-by wouldn't have noted untoward conduct, but they were so confined that she couldn't flee. As it. was, her hand instinctively rose, an ineffectual barrier, and she situated it in the middle of his chest where his pulse reverberated under her palm.
"Do you mind?" she queried.
A special musk wafted about her. If he'd been blindfolded and locked in a room with a hundred women, he could have picked her out by her distinct fragrance. The beady aroma called to his basest instincts, attracting and tempting him to experience her extraordinary charms.
"Not a bit."
"Oh, you are insufferable!" But she was laughing, her voice low and seductive and urging him on:
In the past, he'd never spent time with females of her station, because he hadn't the patience to weather their prattling, but oddly, he found Lady Sarah to be outrageously sexy and absorbing, and he hung on every word that popped out of her desirable mouth.
Her expressive green eyes flashed with what appeared to be delight at his nearness and, hoping to provoke her to
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chatter, he said, "I've provided you with sufficient admonitions about this party."
"Yes, you've been an unequivocal boor about it."
'Then why are you dawdling about out here?"
"It's really none of your business."
"You're incorrect. Since you're plainly bound to get into trouble, someone must watch out for you."
"And you've appointed yourself my guardian?" A contemptuous snort rumbled low in her throat. "Is that why you've stumbled along?"
"You're lucky it was I and not one of the other blackguards at this gathering."
"As if you're more honorable than another!" She sniffed contemptuously, turning up her saucy little nose. "You forget, Mr. Stevens, that I've previously witnessed the type of calamity that can arise when I'm in your company."
"I quit when you asked me to, milady," he reminded her quietly, even as he secretly wished he was the sort who could have proceeded despite her protests. Perhaps if he'd carried on, he wouldn't still be so intrigued. "Most men wouldn't have halted."
"Most men wouldn't have entered in the first place!"
Her glare could have melted lead, and it was so thoroughly mocking that he supposed she stood in front of a mirror and practiced to perfect it. With a brother like Hugh Compton, she probably had to bestow it often, but he rather enjoyed seeing her in a temper. The emotions that swept over her pretty features were interesting and pleasing to behold.
"You haven't answered my question," he reminded her. "Why are you here? I'd assumed you'd be traveling home by now."
"I am utterly fascinated as to why you conceive that you're in a position to order me about."
"Somebody should."
"I'll let you know when I'm ready for it to be you."
She kept pushing at his chest but with no success, because he didn't prefer to be shoved away. Crazily, he
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yearned to lean in, to capture her lips with his own. He focused on the hand that was touching him, and he even engaged in a transient flight of fancy where his avid imagination painted them secluded and alone. Those long, slender fingers would stroke across him, down his stomach and lower.
The very idea impelled him to grow hard as stone.
What marvelous sensations she invoked! She felt them, too. Her eyes widened in surprise, her nostrils flared, and she calmed, terminating her efforts to propel him away. He could almost see the wheels spinning as her mind struggled furiously, striving to process her body's devastating response.
There was no explanation. They enjoyed a physical bond. It was no more simple or complex than that.
The rendezvous became intimate, extremely so, and he was stunned by the compulsion he suffered to fully understand this woman, which induced him to suspect that he was losing his grip on reality. There was no other intelligent rationale for the sentiments she inspired.
"I saw you from the house," he absurdly mentioned.
"You were spying on me?" She smiled, enlivened by his disclosure.
"Yes, that's why I came down."
"You were worri
ed about me. Again."
Though their conversation had evolved to a juncture where confidential remarks might be bandied about, he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge as much, so he chided, "Do you have any idea how isolated this spot is? Anyone might have blundered by."
"But no one did."
"Lady Sarah—"
"Sarah. And... may I call you Michael?"
"Certainly." He received a huge jolt of satisfaction from knowing that she wanted to call him by his name.
Slipping his hand under hers, he linked their fingers, then dropped them to his lap. Lazily, he caressed his thumb across the center, and he'd expected her to withdraw, but
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astonishingly, she seemed mesmerized by his bold gesture.
She studied their united hands, inquiringly noting the dissimilarities—of fragility and daintiness compared to his own broad proportions—and for an attenuated interval, they tarried under her silent, acute scrutiny. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees; a bee buzzed past in the flower beds.
When she lifted her gaze to his, once more, she was staring at him with such frank, visible veneration, that he determined he might be able to dissuade her from her incautious path. He had to persevere until he prevailed on her to depart!
He reiterated, “Tell me why you're out here by yourself."
"Since you demand a confession, I admit that I was searching for you."
The proclamation stopped him in his tracks. "For me?"
"Yes."
"Whatever for?"
"I've been waiting for you to wander by for the past two days, but you've been terribly uncooperative. You never join in any of Lady Carrington's entertainments, and you never appear at supper like a normal person."
The insult made him chuckle. "No, I don't."
"And I've been dying to talk with you."
"Why?"
The vexing noblewoman longed for a discussion? On what topic? She hardly seemed the type to simper over tea about her hair or clothes or any other tedious subject. They had no communal background, one mutual friend, and limited interaction, yet he couldn't tamp down the flair of excitement that had him mulling why she was considering him at all, or why she'd be dallying in the garden and anticipating that he might saunter by.