But, of course, there was nothing more to it.
Sarah pursed her lips into a thin line and held out the damp handkerchief.
He shook his head. “It’s yours now. Look.” He pointed to the SB neatly embroidered in blue in the middle of the square. “It even has your initials on it.”
“Those aren’t my initials,” she pointed out.
“Not yet,” he returned. “They will be when you are Lady Saint Brides.”
She stared at the beautiful needlework, noticing more blue expertly stitched in each corner. “What is this?”
“My initials. That is, my name, not the title.” He blinked at the handkerchief for a moment, a seriousness flashing in his eyes before he stood and turned. Then he grabbed a poker and shoved it into the dying fire, bringing it back to life.
Sarah brushed her finger over the small letters. “Which is more common to have done?”
“The title,” he answered into the fire.
“Why did you add your name?”
“Because they belong to me, not Saint Brides.”
Had he been looking at her, she would have lifted a brow at him. Since he was not, she settled with stating the obvious. “Aren’t you Saint Brides?”
He held silent for a long moment. Then, “I am for now.”
“So morbid,” she muttered.
His shoulder rose and fell in a shrug, but his frame was stiff. “Neither my father, nor my brother, felt it necessary to make the distinction between themselves and the title. They were better suited for it, I suppose. I can only imagine they felt the title was their identity, as one ought. As I never could. The only thing my father left me of himself was a watch fob with Mother’s miniature in it. Richard was worse. Just a pair of cufflinks with a nick in one where a thief’s sword struck.”
She blinked, surprised he would reveal this much of himself to anyone, much less her.
“You’re angry with them,” she marveled.
“Hm?” He twisted toward her, still crouching. Emotion lit the green eyes staring back at her, lending an otherworldly glow to their intensity.
“For not leaving something more behind,” she said quietly. “You’re angry with them for it.”
His jaw tensed, but his gaze never left hers. It burned into her as he shook his head. “No, I am not angry, but disappointed.” He grimaced. “No, that isn’t it, either.” He ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall in disarray. “What they did or did not leave behind does not signify. I could find a piece of them in any of their belongings.”
“It’s that they left at all,” she offered, soft with understanding. “You must have never thought you would be the earl.”
“I rather hoped that would not be the case, yes.” His face contorted, as though he had swallowed something bitter, but he nodded. “My father, my brother, his wife and daughter… I miss them. I would give anything to have them back.”
“Naturally,” she returned. “What about your mother? Why do you not share your grief with her?”
“How long do you think she has before she follows them to the grave?” he asked, his eyes fixed intently on hers. “Would it not make more sense to distance myself, to ease the pain of that day?”
Sarah blinked, surprised that such a logical man could make such an illogical argument.
“So, you would prefer to lose her now, rather than relish whatever time you have left with her?”
He visibly swallowed, and she realized his answer was yes.
Her heart broke for him.
“What is the point of life if you do not share it with those you love? What sort of existence is that?”
“A painless one,” he answered.
She shook her head. “A lonely one. Loneliness is a pain all its own. I would rather love deeply and lose everything than never have anything to lose.”
She could see the pain in his eyes, etched in the lines of his face.
“Have you ever lost someone you truly loved?”
She shook her head. Her grandparents had died when she was just a babe. Her parents were still healthy, last she saw them.
Pain sliced through her at the thought of losing them, but it couldn’t make her regret loving them.
“Their loss wouldn’t change my mind. Love is still stronger, more permanent than loss. It’s part of the wonder of life.”
“So is pain. I would rather do without both than suffer that brand of pain ever again.” He spoke softly, but his knuckles turned white around the fire poker.
It was a brick wall. She had the distinct feeling he did not let it down often—or ever—but what little she was learning of him was churning dangerously inside her. She had thought he was untouchable, stoic, but she had been wrong. He felt deeply, so deeply he was still suffering intensely from the loss years later. Suffering enough to swear off love, to swear off happiness.
She wanted to take him into her arms, to comfort him. She wanted to show him how wrong he was, how important love was.
It frightened the hell out of her.
It wasn’t any of her business whether he ever loved again. Whether he alienated himself from every living soul in order to protect himself in his lonely cocoon. His loneliness wasn’t any of her business.
And yet…
“May I ask who it is you are initialing your handkerchief for then?”
“Myself, I suppose. Some proof that I was here. A rather pathetic legacy, I admit, but besides the impact of my career on England, these scrapes of linen are all I intend to leave behind.” He set the poker back in its place.
She nodded. She knew he did not want an heir. She should feel relieved, but something was hampering her high spirits. It must be whatever it was that had her heart aching for him when he had admitted to having normal, human feelings.
Normal humans wanted heirs. Were he any other man, he might have provisioned their contract to include children. She might be preparing to be a mother in the coming years. A mother, with children running through the halls, helping in the garden, and listening as she read aloud by the fire at night.
Her throat constricted. The thought of never having children left her with an emptiness in her heart. She hadn’t thought of that particular facet of their marriage before now. They would wed. He would kiss her in front of God and the reverend, or whatever they call them here. But she understood enough to know kisses weren’t how one became with child.
“You aren’t going to cry off, are you?”
She blinked up at him, his panicked expression almost humorous, and shook her head.
“Thank heaven,” he muttered. “The look on your face a moment ago had me worried.”
“I was only thinking of the wedding.” Not a complete lie, but she couldn’t admit she was longing for children all of a sudden. It wouldn’t be fair to him. They had already made an agreement.
He nodded. “That thought would give even the most resolute of betrotheds second thoughts.”
He settled into the chair next to hers, stretching his long, muscular legs out in front of him. He was so marvelously large, yet he moved with such ease, such fluidity. It was as though he didn’t realize how big he was.
“I promise the ceremony will be blessedly short and to the point, with as few attendees as legally allowed,” he said, leaning deeply into the chair and staring into the flames.
That was all well and good, but there would still be a kiss. Damn her, but she rather looked forward to it. There was a shock of anticipation, a memory of a heated kiss, the touch of his chest against hers, the feel of his tongue sliding along hers. The passion.
“You will have to kiss me.” Only after the thought became a whisper on the air did she realize it had been audible. That he might have heard the longing in her voice.
Her cheeks burned.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that is not expected to be… That is, it would not be like before. It would be… friendly.”
She blinked. “Friendly?”
“Paternal,” he amended.
He frowned, a small wrinkle forming between his slashing dark brows. “Have you never been given a small peck by your brother or your father?”
She thought about that a moment. “You’re going to kiss my forehead?”
He shook his head. “No, it… Sort of. Not your forehead, though. That would look suspicious. I am not worried about the vicar, but his wife has been known to talk.”
She blinked and then laughed.
His brow furrowed. “It’s possible.”
She shook her head.
“It is,” he insisted. “Dash it all, I shall prove it to you.”
She gasped when he suddenly stood from his chair, bringing her up with him. His hands held her in place with a firm grip around her waist.
Warmth coursed through her, burning her cheeks and weakening her legs beneath her.
“Now,” he murmured. His attention shifted from her eyes to her mouth.
Sarah felt the heat of his touch slide down over her hips, pulling her toward him. The nearness of him was overwhelming. His scent was inescapable, surrounding her with the very masculine essence of him.
And he was going to kiss her. But not like before. She would not be swept away by this kiss. It would be paternal, he had said. She never felt anything when her father had kissed her forehead before tucking her into bed, so if he was correct, she should feel nothing now.
The fluttering in her stomach wasn’t nothing, though. And the quickening pace of her heart wasn’t nothing, either. But he had said she wasn’t meant to feel those things, and of the two of them, he was far more experienced in kissing and intimacy, in general, she supposed.
Even as her knees began to tremble, she lifted a brow as coolly as she could manage. “Well?”
Drake could hear nothing past his own erratic heartbeat. Except, perhaps, an obnoxiously loud inner voice calling him every kind of idiot. In several languages. At least one of them dead.
Her hips were soft under his hands. He knew the rest of her would be soft, too. And warm. Her lips, especially. They were full and inviting, waiting for a kiss. His kiss. The one he had so rudely pulled her from her chair for.
Prove it, he had said. What an imbecile he was.
She closed her eyes tightly and turned to present him with her cheek. He should have accepted it. Only, he was remembering what precisely her mouth had tasted like when he had kissed her what seemed like ages ago.
He lifted his fingers to her chin, tilting her head back until her mouth was a mere inch from his.
One kiss. That was all he needed in order to prove it could be done in a friendly manner.
He lowered his head, brushing her lips with his. Her impossibly soft lips.
The light touch sent a current of heat from his mouth to every cell of his body. Her quick intake of breath seemed to steal the air from his very lungs.
Friendly, he mentally reminded himself as his arms stole around her as if possessed, pulling her into him. Paternal, he added as he took her mouth far more insistently than he ought.
But there was nothing friendly or paternal about the fire building in his gut and lower, where he was hardening and throbbing with want for the woman in his arms.
Need ripped through him, surprising him with its hunger, tearing apart his control.
He brought her hard against him, and she fit as though she was made expressly for this purpose. She felt right. More so than anything he had ever known. No decision he had ever made in the history of his career felt as right as she did at this moment.
And he wanted her with a fire he never knew existed.
The realization jarred him. It left him confused and lost, if only for a few seconds as he explored her mouth and the generous curve of her hip. With his tongue, he traced the outline of her lip, and when she sighed, he invaded.
The taste of her… Ah, the taste of her! Like nothing else in this world. Sweet and full, yet dangerous. So bloody dangerous. As though she was a tempestuous sea, and he was sinking under her waves.
He knew he should pull away, gather his resolve, but she let out a soft, audible sigh of pleasure and then sank into him, and he forgot about the realization and confusion and simply lost himself in her perfection. He drank her in, happily drowning under the waves.
Which explained why he didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall or the door clicking open.
“You really ought to come up for air at some point, Steel Breeches,” came a familiar drawl from the direction of the door. “You will suffocate if you keep on like that.”
Drake jerked away, putting a good two paces between him and Sarah. She blinked as though waking from a dream, passion still lingering in her hazel depths, though he could see she was trying hard to staunch it. It was enough to make his every muscle ache to drag her back into his arms and continue where they had left off until the passion was at such a pitch she could never staunch it, not ever.
Which would be a mistake.
He should be grateful they had been interrupted, yet he had great difficultly feeling anything resembling gratitude toward the man whose presence he must now acknowledge.
Drake turned his most irritable glare at the dandy standing in the open doorway, who smiled widely back at him.
“I came as soon as I heard the news,” Pembridge said, stepping toward the fireplace to shake Saint Brides’ hand. “Well, not the very minute, but as soon as I could get away.”
“Ainsley’s letter, do you mean?” he asked, his dislike for the marquess not easing in the least. “Thick as thieves, you two are. It’s as confounding as it is irritating.”
“I would be thick with you, too, if you ever let anyone near you.” Pembridge smiled winningly. “Just imagine, Steel Breeches, we could be bosom beaux.”
“Heaven help me,” he muttered.
“It already has, my friend. It sent you me.”
“There isn’t by chance a return address?”
Pembridge gasped exaggeratedly, but his wry grin belied the dramatics. “You wound me. Cut me to the quick. And to think, I could have stayed home with my lovely wife and children. At this very moment, Céleste could be hugging me, kissing me, rubbing—”
“That is quite enough, Pembridge,” Drake warned, cutting off whatever wayward trail he might have been heading down. “There is a lady present.”
“Ah, yes, the future Lady Saint Brides. A formidable woman to show old Sober Sides the light, and then perhaps we can have an adult conversation without being cut off midsentence. A lesson I so rudely interrupted just now, I believe. Terribly sorry.” Pembridge winked and took Sarah’s hand, kissing the air above her knuckles. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine, Lord Pembridge, albeit quite unexpected. It must have been difficult for you to leave so soon after the birth of your daughter,” Sarah said steadily, though her voice was softer than usual, betraying the fact she was still not completely recovered from their kiss. The thought gave Drake a swell of satisfaction.
For a man unpracticed with women, he didn’t do a half-bad job.
“Indeed, it was,” Pembridge agreed. “But then, I couldn’t very well miss the wedding of my esteemed former colleague, now could I?”
“Couldn’t you?” Drake asked with a raised brow.
Pembridge laughed. “Of course not. I must give my congratulations in person for this miraculous affair. And my best wishes to the brave woman who would take Steel Breeches to husband, Mrs. Tindall. Or may I call you Sarah?”
“However you wish,” she muttered, her cheeks still awash with an enchanting, rosy hue.
“Then you must call me Nick,” he returned. “Steel Breeches refuses, clinging as he does to his rules, but we shall show him how to be friendly, shan’t we?”
Drake choked on what must have been his own tongue, and Sarah’s rosy hue turned crimson.
Pembridge’s brows winged high, his attention flicking
back and forth between Drake and Sarah. “Gad, I would give my best dueling pistols to know what it was I said.”
“It was nothing,” Drake said quickly. “Even if it were something, which it wasn’t, I doubt you even own a proper set of dueling pistols. Having never been called out, you would not have any use of them.”
“A gentleman must be prepared,” Nick said. “Have you never purchased a set yourself?”
“Absolutely not,” Drake replied indignantly. “What the devil would I need a set of shiny dueling pistols for when a serviceable revolver is all a gentleman requires?”
Pembridge smiled crookedly. “I suppose your serviceable revolver would be one reasonably priced and completely unadorned.”
Drake’s scowl deepened. Pembridge knew precisely what sort of pistol he owned. While he did own one plain, unadorned revolver, he had also owned a very different pistol ever since he had visited the Ottoman Empire as a young assistant to the previous Home Secretary. An influential sheik had given him a fine one with an intricate gold and silver handle. It was either the pistol, or a small, fluffy kitten.
“I think I made a sound decision accepting the pistol.”
Pembridge grinned. “I chose the cat.”
Drake folded his arms over his chest. “And how does that work out for you when the sheik asks about it next he sees you?”
“I have only seen him once since, and I told him my favorite of my many wives takes it everywhere she goes. He was quite pleased with that response. He certainly did not need to know I gifted it to a Parisian whore. What about you? What nonsense do you fabricate when he asks you about the pistol? Do you tell him you use it to send countless villains to their deaths?”
“It’s a bit late for callers, don’t you think?” Drake asked coolly. He was not about to admit to lying to a sheik.
“Is it?” Pembridge asked smugly. “Very well, then. I suppose we ought to return to Pembridge House. You can ride with me, as my carriage is already waiting for us outside.”
Drake blinked. “You came here to collect me?”
Pembridge leaned in and spoke in a conspiring murmur, though the only other person who could hear him was Sarah, and she was well within hearing range. “And to collude. We have a secret wedding to plan, do we not?”
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 20