by Cheryl Holt
The act of mating created such a unique serenity, and she wanted to sustain the moment, but unfortunately, the lull provided plenty of opportunity for reflection about subjects best forgotten—like a home and family of her own. She'd perpetually insisted she didn't require either, but now, with the smell of his sex in the air, and the sweet
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sound of her name reverberating off the walls, it was perplexing to remember why she'd shunned her chances for such contentment.
How had it resulted that she was twenty-five and so alone? Why had she settled for a pittance? She always believed her existence was eventful and consequential, and it had never occurred to her that she was lonely, or mat she would like to live happily ever after with the man of her dreams—that man having a suspicious resemblance to Michael Stevens.
Shutting out reality, she wished for all the things that could never be, but concluded that she wanted them anyway. What was the harm?
Then, she kissed the top of his head, and he stretched and groaned languidly.
"Are you married, Michael?" The interrogatory popped out before she could snatch it back.
"No, why?" He peeked up at her. "Are you worried about my character?"
"I'm unequivocally worried about your character, you cad," she remarked, "but not because you might be cheating on your wife. You have many more severe flaws."
"You're right about that"
"I'm just relieved that marital infidelity is not among them." She said it lightly and, from the way he grinned, he'd taken it as a jest, but she sincerely meant it
"I was just curious; I know nothing about you." And in the pause that followed, the rat didn't supply any information, though she'd presented the perfect excuse. She sighed. "Do you ever think about getting married?"
Her heart skipped several frantic beats. Where had that come from? If only the mattress would swallow her up so she could vanish! What a ninny he must deem her to be! A few tumbles in his bed, a few lessons in carnality, and she was babbling about matrimony! After she'd waxed on for days prior, feigning sophistication in affairs beyond her ken and supplicating for a meaningless fling!
"No, I never do," he answered more gently man she
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deserved. He kissed the underside of her breast, then he balanced himself on an elbow. His seed was drying, and he toweled it away with her nightgown. "Is that what you're hoping might happen between us?"
There was no censure or rebuke in his tone, so perhaps if she was prudent, she could worm herself out of this debacle before she made an even bigger fool of herself. "I'm just beginning to grasp that I missed much by not marrying."
"It's only natural. Sex stirs many new and strange emotions. Particularly in a woman."
"But not in a man?"
"No. Women confuse sex with love, when they really have nothing to do with one another. For a man, fornication is simply a physical discharge."
"Is that how you see it?"
"Yes." The truth hurt her, and he added, "I'm sorry to be so blunt."
"That explains why a man can have different lovers."
"Yes."
"Why a man can purportedly love his wife, but keep a mistress."
"Exactly."
"Why you can go to the hidden room and cavort with women you don't know."
He stirred uncomfortably. "Aye."
She'd totally positioned herself to weather the frank statements, staring into his blue eyes and showing as little interest as he in the laborious topic. "Was this just physical discharge for you?"
"It was a good deal more," he puzzled her by acceding, "but that doesn't mean we'll wed when we're through." He ran a finger across her cheekbone, her chin, her lips. "Be careful where you allow your heart to wander," he declared tenderly but firmly. "Guard it well, for I will assuredly break it if you lose it to me."
"As if I would!" she commented dryly, nudging him in the ribs. "I'd like to think I have better sense."
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"I would be a very bad mistake."
"You don't have to remind me."
She was lying horridly, but he had the decency to pretend that he didn't know it, and when she held out her arms, she was immensely gratified that he burrowed himself into them without hesitation. They lay together, his leg draped over her thigh, his wrist on her waist, and he scrutinized her as if committing her to memory.
"Why have you never married?" he queried, and his examination was as startling and as peculiar as when she'd posed hers.
How wonderful that he would inquire! Schooling her features, she affected a bored demeanor, even though she was dying to confess so much.
"I always supposed I would. I even had a Season in London."
"Really?"
"When I was seventeen, but it was quite terrible."
"Why?"
"Let's just be kind and say that, back then, I wasn't a beauty."
"I find that very difficult to believe."
The compliment was as welcome as it was astonishing. As he was not given to flattery, especially over something as nebulous as a woman's comeliness, she grabbed onto his words as though they were a merciful benediction. He kissed the tip of her nose, but the soft touch dipped down to her very core where so much of her past heartbreak lingered. The sentiment sank far inside, comforting her, and she yearned for his sympathy and approval for the woman into which she'd matured. The old torments were pieces of the whole.
"Back then," she offered, "I was all gangly limbs and red hair, and I was so unprepared for what London would be like. They ate me alive."
"Your peers can be a vicious lot," he concurred wholeheartedly.
"Yes, they can." God, but she loved him for agreeing!
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"And my father was pressuring me to choose one of the boys, but they were all so unacceptable. I couldn't decide."
"You wouldn't let mm pick for you?"
"No!"
"So you refused them all?" The twinkle in his eye was genuine. "You defied your father?"
"I can be extremely stubborn."
"I've noticed that about you."
She could have lain there forever, hugging, and laughing and trading jibes, and she was struck anew by how much she'd lost out on by denying herself this closeness with a man, just as she appreciated that this was the sole occasion she'd ever have to endure such bliss.
Michael Stevens was a unique individual, and after this interval was terminated, She'd never experience anything similar. This singular, rare encounter would have to take her through her intermediate years and further, the constant memories of their abbreviated liaison stark and distinct.
Sadness engulfed her at the conviction that she'd never again sustain this quiet joy, and she shoved it away. She refused to be unhappy! Not while she was here with him like this. There would be many, many days down the road when she could bemoan her fate and lament over what might have been. For now, she would be content with what was.
"And what about you?" She was desperate to learn more and, as she'd formerly deduced, gleaning tidbits from him was like pulling teeth. "Divulge something embarrassingly scandalous that will leave me aghast."
"You've uncovered all my worst secrets."
"Then, what about something personal?" She wouldn't let him avoid a few meaningful disclosures. "How do you earn your income?"
"I own a gentlemen's club with my brother, James."
A straight answer! Encouraged, she fired off a second round. "Where?"
"In London."
"You live in the city?"
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"Yes. In the theater district."
"With your mother and brother?"
"I'm not sure."
"How can you not be sure?”
"With their recent marriages, I don't know the arrangements now."
"You haven't been back since their weddings?"
"No."
For once, his cool detachment was ma
rkedly absent, and she trod cautiously, aware that these were sore spots. *iWho is your family?"
"My mother is Angela Ford. She's quite a renowned actress."
"Really?" Amazed, she sat up.
If she'd been advised to guess his antecedents, she'd have said he was a third or fourth son of a wealthy nobleman, the bane of his family's existence, the black sheep. But the son of an actress! She'd never been acquainted with anyone quite so disreputable. "How fascinating. I saw her once on the stage when I was in town. She's legendary."
"She is at that."
Sarah recalled the dynamic woman. She'd exuded a charisma that even Sarah, with her rural underpinnings, couldn't fail to note. That the notorious celebrity had birthed Michael didn't surprise her in the least.
"Who is your father?"
He gaped. Then... he laughed. Loudly. At her, and what he plainly considered a ridiculous question. "Sarah, I could swear you were raised by wolves in the forest."
He was teasing her, and she was thrilled that he liked her enough to expend the energy. "Why do you say that?"
“I just never meet anyone who isn't exhaustively versed as to all my gory details."
"Well, I'm not."
"Obviously."
He chortled merrily, enjoying himself at her expense, but she didn't mind. As long as he resumed his accounting! "Are there many? Gory details, I mean."
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"Enough to fill a book."
"Oh..." Just how did one reply to such a statement? No advantageous retort cropped up, and silence reigned, once again, as he regarded her with an honest affection, evidently cherishing the verbal banter as much as she.
Finally, he stated, "My father is Edward Stevens."
She had to ponder for a moment before she placed the appellation. "The Earl of Spencer?"
"Yes, but I don't claim him, and he doesn't claim me."
His admission was so quietly pronounced that she almost didn't hear it, and she studied him thoughtfully. This was a seeping wound, one that had never entirely healed. "You're not joking."
"No, I'm not."
He rotated to his back, hugging her so that she was stretched out along his side, relieved that they'd shifted positions, because she could look somewhere besides into those astute blue eyes while she^weighed his background.
His paternal parentage explained a great deal: his regal bearing, his haughty attitude, his imperious demeanor. She'd convinced herself that he was an aristocrat's offspring, someone of her social standing, yet he was an illegitimate bastard. Even if by some quirk of the wildest fate he determined he loved her, they could never marry.
How was it that she could so acutely grieve the loss of something that had never been feasible to begin with?
Striving to appear blasé, she countered with, "Now that you've confessed the identity of your father, I understand why you are so incurably arrogant."
"I can't believe you didn't know."
"I probably did"—fragments of an ancient gossip rumbled but not enough for her to recall any fine points—"but I would never have connected him to you."
"Does it make a difference?"
She was now more attuned to his style, so she recognized that his was not an innocent query. It was a test, an analysis of the type of person she was, and he braced, an-
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ticipating repudiation, and she couldn't help speculating as to why he sought her affirmation.
Unless he cares more than he's willing to admit.
The idea came unbidden, loudly and clearly refusing to be muted, so she acknowledged it for the superb concept it was, even as she wished that everything could be contrary to the reality with which she was now confronted.
"No," she lied deliberately, "it doesn't signify. Not in the slightest."
The evident pleasure he received from her fabrication was impossible to calculate or describe, and she was delighted that she'd provided the petty deception. For what did her opinion matter anyway?
He'd warned her not to become attached and with valid reason! No outcome was probable save heartbreak, so there was no use indulging fantasies.
Still, as his lips found hers, as he moved over her and commenced to suckle at her breast, as his cock extended against her thigh, she couldn't recollect why this was so improper. She'd never felt so alive, so gay or fulfilled.
"I want you," he avowed.
"Again?" And she was overjoyed that he did.
"Yes." He was confounded by his burgeoning need for her. "Already. Always."
"I'm glad."
And as he escorted her on that extraordinary journey, down the path that he so expertly traveled, she didn't regret any of her choices. The future, such as it was, would arrive soon enough, and for now, she didn't intend to fret about what it would hold.
Chapter Fifteen
Sarah rushed into her bedchamber, hastily stripping off her gloves, ready to make a mad dash to Michael and the ecstasy that awaited. First though, cognizant of his extreme caution, she checked the lock on the door—twice—but her fingers trembled with such apprehension for the impending libidinous event that she could scarcely manipulate the mechanism.
He wouldn't appreciate any overzealousness on her part, so she struggled for calm. Walking to the mirror, taking several deep breaths, she evaluated herself, distractedly straightening her coiffure. Not that her hair needed rearranging, but the fussing gave her a few extra minutes to compose herself after flying up the stairs in such a dither.
Despite what was actually transpiring, Michael sternly contended that theirs was simply a meaningless fling, so she had to appear cool and serene, which was what he expected of her. Through his subtle demeanor and fatiguing persistence, he'd clearly indicated that they would interact in an indifferent fashion. They would fully vent their shared lust and rising ardor, but any recognition of emotional connection, or profound affinity, was forbidden and had to be discounted and ignored.
With scant difficulty, he evinced equanimity. Except in the depths of excessive passion, Michael exuded a reticence that was distinctly upsetting. When he was naked and lying in her arms, they were as close as two people could ever hope to be, but once he donned his clothes, he reverted to being reserved and aloof. Assuredly, he was a polite and interesting associate, but he'd erected a wall between them
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that he would not let her scale, despite how fervently she tried.
Unlike him, she had her problems with the enforced apathy, and she had to compel herself to remain remote and uninvolved, when all she really wanted was to confess how much she cherished their furtive, stolen interludes. She endured solely for those glorious moments when she strolled in and his admiring gaze fell upon her. There was nothing quite so marvelous as having his undivided attention, seeing him smile, or knowing he'd been impatient for her arrival.
With each passing hour, it was growing more arduous to feign distance. He'd filled her life to overflowing, had given it meaning and purpose: that being to wallow in his splendid presence.
Why, oh, why had she denied herself such pleasure for so long? And now that she'd experienced his special brand of revelry, how could she return to Yorkshire and persevere as though nothing had happened?
The woman who'd efficiently and exhaustively tended the estate for so many tiresome years had disappeared, replaced by a woman for whom only sex—with Michael Stevens—mattered. Where once she'd treasured her placid, unchanging rural existence, she now couldn't imagine herself in that monotonous, boring world. She'd expire in such a tedious environment!
As a plant needed air and water, so she needed Michael in order to flourish. The idea of suffering through a day—or a night—without touching him, talking to him, kissing or holding him, was a torture beyond contemplation, yet when they were together, she was supposed to act nonchalant, and she wasn't having much luck at maintaining the ruse.
Her anticipation of imminent bliss was all-consuming and meant that s
he couldn't socialize at the gathering. While she'd never been much for fraternization, when Michael was waiting for her, she couldn't tolerate the inane prattle, the innocuous topics, or the frivolous substance of the other guests.
Braving a meal or an entertainment was so distasteful
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that she could hardly descend the stairs, yet she forced herself to go, bowing to the necessity of putting in an appearance. She'd much rather stay sequestered and allow Michael to continue his proficient, thorough instruction in the carnal arts.
Just as Michael had predicted, she'd become enmeshed in the sordid dissipations he preferred, and she couldn't figure out how she'd avoided seduction until the ripe old age of twenty-five. Of course, she hadn't previously met Michael, either. Without a doubt, her attraction to him had melted some internal bastion of propriety, for she was now enthusiastic and willing to commit any lewd, indecent exploit he suggested—the more ribald the better. Total surrender—to him and the games he instigated—was her singular aim and goal.
In fact, she was wild for the debauchery to commence so that she could discover just how naughty he would ask her to be. How could she have guessed that underneath her proper, demure shell resided the soul of a complete wanton? All these years, her true proclivities had been so carefully hidden! What a joy—and a relief—to set them free!
With a final glance in the mirror, she adjudged that she was composed enough to head for his room. Fixing a pleasant smile on her face, she stubbornly endeavored to shield any untoward longing. There was no reason whatsoever to let him surmise that she was pining away, that she was already floundering as she fretted over how she'd carry on after they parted.
Since she was the one who'd insisted on an affair, and she'd quite verbally contended that she could participate with no strings attached, she wasn't about to admit a grave mistake in her reckoning: Detachment was impossible. He was too handsome, too thrilling, too dynamic, and there wasn't a woman in the kingdom who could avert a burgeoning infatuation after spending so much uninterrupted time with him.