by Cheryl Holt
Chapter Thirteen
Michael tiptoed down the hall. The hour was late, and he was glad his room was at the rear of the house where he could come and go without meeting any guests. He passed Sarah's chamber, then proceeded to his own. When he reached it, he slipped the key into the lock, then paused.
Would she be waiting?
At the same juncture, he hoped she was and wasn't.
Deliberately, he'd absented himself from the premises, avoiding the lure of the Viewing Room and any of the wild schemes Pamela might have hatched for the evening. Most of all, he'd made an adamant decision to insulate himself from Sarah and the provocation she rendered.
The afternoon he'd passed with her had been a slice of heaven. When they'd finished, and she'd fallen asleep in his arms, he'd felt much as he might had an angel flown down for a frolic.
The fight with Brigham had unleashed an emotional torrent he'd not endured in ages. After, he'd been weary and battered, and feeling every one of his advanced twenty-eight years. He'd craved solace and comfort as he'd never craved anything before, which was saying a great deal.
Over the nearly three decades of his life, he'd hungered mightily, seeking respect and admiration from acquaintances, love and affection from his family. The worst times had been as a child, when his mother had moved them to France. Although he would never concede as much to another soul, he'd pined away seemingly forever, expecting that his father would travel to Paris and fetch them home.
Whenever a knock had sounded on the door of their small flat, his heart had skipped a beat, certain that it was
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the day Edward had finally arrived. But it had never happened and, as he'd grown, his father's abandonment had lain like a heavy yoke, a burden he'd never quite been able to cast off. On occasion, the pain of that early loss still wreaked damage as though the wound was recently inflicted. The old injury propelled him to indecent acts, as evidenced by how he'd thrashed Brigham to a pulp and left him in a gory heap in Pamela's stableyard.
Lest she hear the sordid tale from another, he'd immediately visited her to confess his transgression, and he'd stoically persevered through the tongue-lashing she'd meted out, knowing she was entitled to her fury. Her censure had chafed and nettled, but some of the sting from her harsh comments was deflected by the hot bath she'd instantly sent.
As he'd chased the servants away, then lowered himself into the steaming cauldron, he couldn't remember when he'd been so isolated or detached. His personality and upbringing being what they were, he'd always considered himself a solitary man, yet as he'd relaxed in the tub, eager for some bit of mortal contact, he'd gradually fixated on Sarah.
He'd wanted succor and consolation, and no anonymous stranger would have sufficed; he'd yearned for Sarah—with her soft hands and soothing words. Sarah cared for him as no one else did, and he'd needed her ambrosial regard as he'd needed food or water.
When she'd brazenly joined him, when she'd kissed away his hurts, he'd quit fighting his impulses, determined to have her in the only way that counted. He'd behaved crudely—more so than usual—and he shouldn't have forced her into their liaison, but he'd forged ahead anyway. For reasons that had nothing to do with his birth status, he'd regularly been called a bastard and, with his treatment of her, he'd once again proved how utterly ruthless he could be.
Despicably, he'd used her, coercing her to perform acts he wouldn't have required of a whore, and she'd amiably
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and favorably acquiesced to every sordid exploit he'd proposed. Yet, he wasn't sorry. Their tryst had been stupendous, blissful, amazing.
After all of his erotic play, beginning when he'd been no more than a child in a man's body, he'd never so much as dozed off with a woman. Even the two short occasions when he'd kept mistresses, he'd never succumbed. There was something about sleeping that disturbed him with its intimacy.
Sexual congress was his only objective for visiting a lover's bed, because any other goal would likely send a faulty message as to his intentions. He dallied, he fucked, he left. Any female silly enough to demand more never saw him again. While slumbering was an innocent occupation, habit hampered him from lessening his guard sufficiently to where he was comfortable in such an awkward position.
Yet, he'd snuggled next to Sarah with nary a thought to the consequences, and he'd been magnificently surprised at how it had refreshed him to cuddle with her. Just by having her near, he'd felt connected, less separate, so he'd actually rested, but once he'd calmed adequately, prudence had prevailed, and he'd slipped out of bed, putting distance between them.
For over two hours, he'd studied her, marveling at how deeply she reposed. Fool that she was, her level of trust was out of proportion to what it should have been, given their odd acquaintance. Her body and spirit were at peace with the notion that nothing vile would befall her while he was there to watch over her.
And watch he had. She'd looked pretty, young, innocent. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and the manner in which she'd bewitched him filled him with unease. What was his aim, trifling with a virginal woman of the Quality? Scarborough's sister, no less! He didn't like her kind, or what she represented, so his motives were definitely suspect. Perhaps he and his brother, James, had more in common than he cared to acknowledge!
James had been enthralled by the members of the ton,
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inflicting himself into their domain and vying for their undivided attention—most of it never good—at every possible turn. Michael had never shared James's fascination, convinced that he was the wiser for not being seduced by their wretched world, but apparently he'd only been deluding himself.
Sarah was a striking example of how he'd misjudged his own disinterest. At a time when his defenses were depleted, she'd developed into an obsession, and he couldn't prevent himself from chasing after her. He shouldn't even speak with her, let alone instigate a libidinous association. What benefit could he attain? Why did he persist?
Their romance would last no longer than the handful of days he'd offered her before he'd stepped out of his bath. He had numerous personal flaws; he'd never fall in love with her, never ask her to marry, never strive toward any sort of continuing affiliation. While she was convenient and available, he'd enjoy her company, then he'd leave Pamela's decadent house and travel to another country party, then another, until he finally became so bored mat he retired to London.
Sarah Compton would never cross his mind again.
So why this fascination? Why this unrelenting urgency to be with her?
As the minutes had ticked agonizingly by, a horrid concept had wormed itself into his musings: Was this how his father had started out with his mother? Had Edward too suffered these unyielding, unmerciful longings that didn't abate or wane? Had he been powerless to resist Angela's allure?
Rumors had constantly abounded that Edward Stevens's relationship with Angela hadn't been a juvenile indiscretion, but an intense affaire d’amour. Considering how Edward had come panting after Angela and wed her shortly after his lawful, aristocratic wife had died, Michael couldn't discount the stories that had been bandied about town.
As a youth, Edward had been totally captivated by Angela, incapable of, or unwilling to, avoid the attraction she
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generated—just as Michael, himself, was currently unable to avert the disaster he was courting by pursuing Sarah. Perhaps he was more like his father than he dared to admit!
The opinion was unpleasant and irksome, and had been disturbing him when she'd awakened from her nap, appearing lush and well loved. He'd tried to be brusque, to push her away, but she was eminently proficient at getting under his skin and poking at his vulnerabilities. She infuriated and intrigued; he wanted her gone, he wanted her to stay.
With his ruminations in this bizarre jumble, he entered his room. Their adjoining door was ajar, and a lamp burned on die dresser. The flame was nearly expired, co
mposing eerie shadows on the wall.
Suffering a twinge of both relief and dismay, he promptly noted that she'd fallen asleep on his bed. His initial inclination was to rush over, to ease down and shower her with kisses, but his ingrained sense of self-preservation kicked in. He locked his own door, then went to her bedchamber and checked hers, as well, assuring himself that they'd have no uninvited callers. Then, he returned to her and approached the bed.
For their prurient encounter, she'd worn a lightweight summer nightgown of pristine white with shortened sleeves and embroidered flowers around the scooped neckline. A pink ribbon tied at the front, and the luxurious fabric fell in soft folds against her torso, delineating each delicious curve and valley. Her hair was down and brushed out, and it lay in scattered disarray, a crimson stain against the bed-coverings. Her cheeks were rosy-red, her lips pouted, and her eyes fluttering with me dream she was having.
Enticing and devastating, she caused his blood to boil through his veins. His fingers tingled, his cock throbbed viciously, nearly doubling him over as his vivid imagination kicked in, painting scenes of what he would procure from her, how he would allay her fears, how he would instruct and satisfy her, while lustily and improperly fulfilling his every deviant fantasy. Yet he hardly cared. She'd
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begged for the chance to attend him again, and she was a grown woman who knew her own proclivities. Whatever transpired was no more than she'd sought.
Silently observing her, his concentration never straying from her captivating anatomy, he disrobed. Briefly, he pondered prolonging the prelude by obliging her to undress him, but he hastily decided against it. There would be no delay. He was aroused and prepared for the impending hours of ecstasy. His cock jutted out, proud and defiant, and he wrapped a fist around the heavy flesh.
Oh, how he wished he could spill himself in her mourn! Or between her legs! How tight that virginal cleft would be! How welcome the alleviation!
But she wasn't ready for such an event, and neither was he. Though his moral constitution was at its lowest level, he wasn't cad enough to terminate her maidenhood. Despite his extensive, incautious prior sensual amusement, he'd never stooped to stealing a woman's virtue, so he wasn't about to start. Still, the idea was so bloody tempting. She was so bloody tempting. How could he decline such inducement? Especially when her copious charms were freely and graciously extended.
Not wanting to frighten her, he carefully slipped onto the mattress and stretched out She was on her side, so he scooted over and rolled her to her back, pinning her by resting an arm over her chest and a leg over her thigh.
"Sarah ..," he murmured softly, never tiring of the opportunity to speak her name. He bestowed a chaste kiss that confused her. The reverie in which she'd been ensnared abruptly ended, and she awoke.
"Michael... ?”
Momentarily disoriented, she gazed up at him, genuine delight spreading through her, and he resolved that no matter what occurred between them, no matter how inappropriate his conduct, or how indecorous his actions, his folly was worth it to see her smiling at him with such unfeigned devotion. The empty spot in the center of his chest, where
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his heart used to beat, stirred and ached as though jolted into operation after a lengthy respite.
"Hello." An imbecilic grin crept across his own face.
"I was sleeping so hard." Mussed but adorable, she appeared confounded and abashed to have been caught unawares.
"Yes, you were."
"I tried to wait up for you."
How wonderful that she had! "I'm glad."
"Is it very late?"
"Aye."
She sifted her fingers through his hair, then lovingly placed her palm against his beard-stubbled cheek, and the move was so familiar and dear that his breath hitched in his lungs.
Why had he let his personal demons impel him out into the night? Why had he spent so much time wandering and carousing? He could have been sequestered with her and basking in her tender disposition. Kicking himself, cursing himself for his asinine tendencies, he would stop spurning the relief he garnered in her presence. For as long as they remained in Bedford, he would overindulge in her delectable refuge.
Suddenly, reality was seeping in, and her brow furrowed with concern. “Where have you been?"
Without a doubt, his whereabouts were none of her business, and she had no right to question him as to his activities. In the past, any prying female would have received an austere warning, but instead, he bit down on his sharp retort.
Sarah Compton provoked him in new and different ways, and he had to grow accustomed to their peculiar style of association. He liked that she cared enough to inquire, to needle, and he yearned to have her understand the issues that were motivating him, and the devils that were nipping at his heels.
Gad, but if she kept staring at him as she was, there'd be no stifling his negligent tongue. He'd babble away,
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spilling his sorrows and woes on the bed like a bottle of spilt ink.
"I was out walking," he professed honestly, "and I went clear to the village, thinking to have an ale, then I stayed for a game of cards."
"But you knew I'd be here."
From another, the statement might have sounded like an accusation, but from her, there was only bafflement.
How long had it been since a woman had missed him or prayed that he would hurry home?
"I was puzzled," he shocked himself by disclosing. "After this afternoon."
"So you concluded it was best to avoid me?" Even her censure was gently tossed.
"I wasn't going to return, at all."
"Why?" she reproached kindly.
"I like having you here." The revelation stunned him, even as he privately chastised himself for expressing the sentimental drivel.
"What a sweet comment."
Stupidity! Why encourage the woman's flights of fancy? The manner in which she was regarding him—as though he was smart, benevolent, and extraordinary—terrified him. He appreciated how women viewed carnal dealings, how they processed intercourse. They read love into it where naught but lust existed.
Lest he create a mire from which they couldn't extricate themselves, he had to exercise circumspection. Despite how attracted he was to her physically, he had no intention of allowing any sort of idiotic emotion for Sarah to flourish.
"What we're doing..." He started prudently, not anxious to hurt her with the truth. "It's not right."
She set a finger to his lips, quelling any further voicing of regret. "Whatever ensues between us could never be wrong. And I won't listen to your saying so. This is a special time we've grabbed for ourselves. Let's just be content with what is."
Nodding, he accepted the sagacity of her statement, for
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wasn't that exactly what he'd deduced, as well? He planned to seize the moment.
"May I make love to you again?" He kissed the tips of her fingers.
"That depends." She moved her hand down his neck, to his chest, where she rubbed in slow circles. "Have you been with another woman since we separated this afternoon?"
"No," he was relieved to respond. He hadn't even spoken to a female since men.
"You haven't been to the secret room?"
"No," he repeated.
"Because I have to admit, I was frantic that you might have." She blushed a flattering shade of pink. "When you weren't here, I looked through the peephole, but someone had covered it so I can't see inside."
"I'm the culprit. I didn't like that you've been observing what goes on."
"I'm a grown woman," she felt compelled to indicate.
"Yes, you are," he acceded, "but that doesn't mean you should be exposed to the lewdness in this house."
"The only lewdness I witnessed was your shenanigans."
"And I'm exceedingly embarrassed by that fact."
"Really?"
"Aye."
/> Startling him, she chuckled. "So ... you've—once again—appointed yourself as the guardian of my virtue?"
“I suppose," he grumbled.
His rigid phallus nudged against her thigh, his naked legs tangled with hers, and the judicrousness of their situation shook them. They laughed together, then it died away to a companionable silence.
"When you didn't return," she stated, "I was so worried."
"You needn't have fretted." But oh, how splendid to discover that she had! He was inordinately pleased.
"I wasn't sure how to find you and, after last night, I was afraid to search."
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"Good," he remarked. "Perhaps I've finally talked some sense into that thick head of yours."
"Perhaps," she agreed, and the quiet played out, once more. Almost shyly, she announced, "I was terrified that you were visiting a lover."
"Is it so important to you that I not?"
"Extremely so."
The implication flustered him. She was pleading with him for a pledge of fidelity! Her request was so far-fetched that he could scarcely grasp it. Monogamy connoted fealty, a promise he could never make because he could never begin to keep it.
He didn't believe in the ridiculous kinds of everlasting Grand Passion espoused by the poets. Even if he was stupid enough to become romantically entrapped, he'd never let it happen over such a fine, upstanding woman as Sarah, because he could never be the man she supposed him to be, and if they wound up together, she'd suffer eternal disappointment.
Reality was a bitter tonic to swallow, and he didn't intend that she ever detect how divergent her illusions were from the actualities of his circumstances.
Clearly, she'd developed erroneous assumptions about the type of person he was. Probably, she'd credited him with assorted asinine attributes that were merely fantasy, but he'd revel in her daydreams. Just this once, he would pretend to be whatever she wanted him to be.