Cheryl St. John

by The Mistaken Widow

  She curled her fingers in her lap and didn’t dare look up. In her years of experience with her father, he’d never once tossed her a bone of encouragement Even when she’d done her best to please him, he’d found something to fault her for.

  She waited, breath held, for Nicholas to say something about Claire’s mother, about Sarah’s irresponsibility and his humiliation, as he hadn’t broached that subject yet, but her waiting was for naught.

  “Each of our guests expressed to me privately how impressed they were with you, and with your attention to every small detail of their comfort, even though you were, yourself, in mourning. I must commend you.”

  Sarah’s chest expanded to near bursting. She didn’t know how to reply. Words became stuck. “Th-thank you,” she managed finally.

  “Thank you, Claire. Stephen would be proud of you.”

  She met his eyes then, eyes dark and enrapturing and filled with a mysterious glint. An ache blossomed in her throat. Stephen would be proud of you. She wasn’t sure how to take that statement, though he could mean it no other way than how it sounded.

  Would Stephen have been proud of Claire for doing the things Sarah had done? Or would Stephen have even cared? Nicholas had been the one concerned over details pertaining to the foundry.

  “Our Claire is a blessing,” Leda said cheerfully. “Even if she didn’t know her shrimp fork from a hill of beans I’d still adore her. Stephen made a wonderful choice when he married you.”

  Sarah gave her a feeble smile.

  “I’m off to play cribbage tonight, dears,” Leda said, finishing her wine and standing. “Unless you need Gruver for anything, I’ve given him the night off after he delivers me to the Austins’. The Dextrixhes’ driver will drop me home.”

  “That’s fine, Mother. Unless Claire has plans.”

  Sarah shook her head, surprised to be included in the discussion.

  “Don’t forget the picnic next Saturday,” he said before she turned away.

  “Is it that time already?” Leda asked. “Does Claire know about it?”

  “The Halliday Iron picnic,” he explained.

  “Nicholas provides food and fireworks for all the foundry employees,” his mother added. “It’s quite fun to watch the games.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Sarah waved her off.

  “Claire,” Nicholas said after his mother had left.

  She looked over expectantly.

  “Would you mind bringing William to my study this evening?” At her pause, he added, “I just thought he and I might as well get to know each other.”

  “I’d be happy to,” she replied.

  After William had been fed and changed, Sarah instructed Mrs. Trent to come for him at his bedtime. She carried him downstairs and approached Nicholas’s study with uncertainty.

  She opened the doors without knocking and entered. A cradle had appeared since the last time Sarah had been there.

  “I found it in the attic and cleaned it up myself,” he said at her questioning look. “Penelope helped with the mattress and bedding. I thought he might like a change of scenery occasionally. I won’t light a cigar while he’s here.”

  His gestures couldn’t have surprised her more. She stood nearby, saying nothing.

  “I had tea brought for you.”

  She glanced at the tray on the corner of his massive desk.

  He stepped close and observed the child in her arms. “I’ve never been around a baby before.”

  She gave a little shrug. “Neither had I.”

  “Well, I guess I can’t hurt him with ignorance then, can I?”

  She shook her head, and tentatively handed her son over.

  Nicholas accepted the infant gingerly, his arms and chest seeming to swallow the baby, and held him against his fine black coat. Sarah prayed William wouldn’t get an air bubble and spit on his clothing.

  “Fix your tea,” he said.

  She complied, pouring, adding lemon and cream. “Would you care for a cup?”

  He shook his head and seated himself in one of the wing chairs. “Well, William, what’s life like with all those women about upstairs? You’ll need to come down often so they don’t mollycoddle you.”

  Repressing a smile, Sarah carried her tea to the divan and sat.

  “I don’t see how you women attribute familiar characteristics to a wee baby. He has a tiny nose, tiny ears, a tiny mouth…what color are his eyes?”

  “They’re blue. Your mother says they may change, but I don’t think so.” She sipped her tea.

  Nicholas observed William like a man seeing an infant for the first time. He caught one of his flailing fists and studied his fingers.

  The tea, Nicholas’s soothing voice and his unthreatening mood relaxed her. She leaned back and enjoyed the tranquillity of the moment.

  “His hair is so fair,” he said minutes later, bringing Sarah’s attention back. “It seems to pick up a little gold in the firelight just as yours does.”

  The observation impelled her heart to leap. He’d noticed the firelight in her hair?

  He moved the baby to his knees where he could study him and have his hands free. “And I guess he does have your mouth. With that little bow right there.”

  He’d become familiar with the shape of her lips?

  With a long finger, he touched William’s lip, and the baby moved his head and opened his mouth, seeking.

  Nicholas chuckled.

  Sarah stared.

  He brushed one cheek gently. “I’ve never felt anything quite so soft,” he said, amazement in his tone. Then his head snapped up, his wonder striking her. “He smiled!”

  She nodded, understanding the powerful effect of William’s enchanting, toothless smile.

  As though captivated, he studied William for the better part of an hour, talking to him, stroking his cheek. Nicholas’s agreeable behavior, his attention to William, lulled her into imagining what it would have been like to have a husband—a real family. Someday Nicholas would have children of his own. His wife might sit here just like this and watch him with their baby. Maybe she’d knit. Maybe she’d sing.

  Maybe they’d go up to their rooms together afterward and tuck their baby in.

  Mrs. Trent arrived on schedule, conveniently interrupting Sarah’s wayward thoughts.

  Nicholas looked from the woman to Sarah. “He doesn’t have to leave now, does he? Couldn’t you change him or whatever you need to do and leave him?”

  Sarah nodded at Mrs. Trent, who left and came back with clean linens. Sarah excused her for the night and changed William in the cradle, blushing while Nicholas looked on.

  “That’s all there is to it?” he asked.

  “For now.”

  He picked him up and held the baby a few minutes longer until he fell asleep. “I think I bored him.”

  Sarah placed him in the cradle and covered him. “It was his bedtime,” she replied, laughter in her voice.

  Nicholas came over to stand behind her, and she sensed his warmth, smelled the starch in his shirt, the tang of tobacco on his clothing. She couldn’t turn, for if she did, they would be face-to-face.

  He reached from behind her, his chest pressing her shoulder, and smoothed William’s hair with long gentle fingers. His breath fanned her ear and sent shivers along her shoulders and down her arms. “He’s beautiful.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked furiously. Somehow it was different from having Leda say it, from hearing Kathryn say it, from thinking it herself. When Nicholas said her son was beautiful, it was a proclamation. He wasn’t a woman swayed by emotion, he wasn’t Stephen’s mother, prejudiced by her love; he was a hard-edged man who didn’t even like or trust Sarah.

  At his nearness, her heartbeat quickened to a wild, unsteady rhythm. She was a fool to feel anything for this man. Up until this instant he’d never shown her a moment’s kindness. Or had he? He’d been tender in his own way, seeing to her comfort, concerning himself with her swollen ankle and carryin
g her to ease her leg. She could easily melt back against him and lose herself in his heat and his scent. Her reaction humiliated her, and she prayed he’d move away before he recognized what he was doing to her.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” he said against her ear.

  Her knees weakened, but she didn’t move.

  “You made me very proud.”

  “But—”

  “Are you going to mention your mother?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t.”

  She’d expected him to rail at her over Celia. The fact that he hadn’t gave her the impression of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and she didn’t like it.

  “But the floor tiles—”

  “Gruver found extras in the carriage house.”

  “Oh. Your mother’s planter?”

  “I always thought it was rather gaudy anyway.”

  “But she must have—”

  “No more,” he insisted. “We’re going to let the subject rest. Permanently.”

  “All right,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you can persuade her to have dinner with us one evening soon.” His breath rustled against her hair. A tremor ran down her spine. Her head spun with turmoil. She didn’t want Nicholas around Celia, but how could she be so cruel to the woman?

  “Your hair has driven me crazy since the first time I saw it,” he confessed in a low intimate tone.

  His words soaked in and numbed her thinking. If he touched her, she’d dissolve into a puddle.

  “I’ve wanted to test those tight curls beside your face and along your neck. See if they spring back when I tug them.”

  She tipped her head and touched her curls self-consciously.

  “When I get within a foot of you, I can smell your hair, and I want to bury my nose in it.”

  Sarah’s brain dealt with his words slowly. “You think all that about my hair?”

  “Not just your hair.”

  Oh, Lord. Her eyes drifted shut against her will, as if closing them could protect her from the sensory onslaught of his voice. A rush of anticipation sluiced through her veins.

  “It’s the way it lies against your neck, and how pale and soft-looking that skin is. So delicate. And it feels as soft as William’s.”

  Her skin tingled everywhere. The thought of him touching her again gave her nerve endings vibrant expectancy. She couldn’t think past the heat and the tension.

  “Right now I can see your pulse at the base of your throat. I could feel it if I placed my lips there. What’s making your pulse race so, Claire?”

  Sarah thought she might faint. She reached for something to steady herself, and his strong hand came up from beneath and clasped hers. She clung to it.

  With his other hand, he tested the curls beside her face with gentle tugs, did the same along her neck. He leaned closer and inhaled, and she was sure she heard him groan.

  “May I?” he asked in a hoarse voice, releasing her hand.

  She nodded, and when she reached back, she met his fingers, already plucking pins. Hands trembling, she helped him until her hair was free. He thrust his fingers into it, buried his face in it, pushed it all to one side and pressed his lips to her neck so gently they might have been the radiating heat of the fire.

  Heat skittered down her body, setting it atingle.

  He kissed her neck, traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, then turned her with gentle hands and ran his tongue along her throat, down to the pulse point, up to her chin.

  She faced him now, her head fallen back; her loose fists rose helplessly. He delved his fingers against her scalp and held her head fast, bringing her mouth to his.

  Sarah grabbed his shoulders before she collapsed, and welcomed his mouth upon hers. His kiss inflamed as staggeringly as his words had, his lips warm and pliant and hungry for the taste of her. She wanted to absorb him, have him for herself. She kissed him back, a hungry, greedy kiss that left her modesty in tatters and her composure in shreds.

  He settled her against his body, and Sarah lost all sense of time and place and propriety. Her swollen breasts welcomed the hard plane of his chest. Their thighs pressed together through their clothing, his long and muscled, hers trembling.

  “I want you,” he said against her mouth, and the proof pressed against her belly. The intimacy shocked, yet excited her. She should push him away. She should put a stop to this. But he ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom through layers of dress and petticoats, and all Sarah could think of was what that would feel like if she were unclothed.

  Apparently Nicholas had the same thought, for he turned her and unbuttoned the row of tiny buttons from her neck to her buttocks, all the while, his breath fanning her neck.

  Shamelessly, she helped him peel the bodice forward, and her chemise followed, but caught on her corset and her arms.

  He didn’t care. He turned her toward him and rested his blazing dark gaze on her breasts.

  Sarah blushed, her body tingling. She’d never had a man look at her like this, and her breasts were full and heavy now, her nipples swollen.

  “Will I hurt you if I touch them?” he asked, apparently as concerned as she, yet considerate enough to ask.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’ll tell me?”

  She nodded.

  He cupped a palm beneath one breast, more gently and reverently than she’d expected from his passion moments before. He rubbed the sensitive skin, tested the weight, ran his thumb over the crest of her nipple and watched it harden.

  He kissed her again then, more tenderly this time, more worshipfully but with every bit as much fire and dedication.

  Gaylen Carlisle had given Sarah a baby, but he’d never set her on fire or shown her passion. What she’d done with him could not be compared to this.

  She didn’t think there was a comparison for this.

  Desperately needing to touch him, Sarah raised her hands, but her arms caught on her chemise. “Nicholas,” she said against his mouth.

  At his pause, she looked down and unlaced her corset, allowing it and her chemise to fall, then liberating herself of the stiff layers of petticoats.

  With her arms free, she cupped his face, touched her palms to the warm, slightly rough skin of his cheeks, and pulled his face back to hers while he shed his coat.

  He kissed her, but urged her to the divan, where he laid her back against his coat and ran his palms over her shoulders and breasts.

  Sarah sighed her pleasure, hooked an arm behind his neck and raised herself to his ministrations. He slid his fingers over one nipple, up the side of her neck, caught her chin and kissed her hard.

  He pressed kisses against her eyelids, her chin, her neck, the valley between her breasts, touched his tongue to her nipple, and she shivered. He looked up at her then, his eyes dark with passion, and she caressed his cheeks and his brow.

  He lowered his head to her breast and suckled. She savored the rush of sensation until she felt her milk let down. Embarrassed, she pulled his head away. He gave her a quizzical glance, but respecting her unspoken wish, allowed her to stop him without question. He kissed her lips, his tongue invading and drawing hers to kiss him as deeply.

  Sarah’s insides turned liquid. She pulled him against her, running her hands over his back through his damp shirt, the scents of starch and man strong in her nostrils.

  He slid a hand along her hip, caught her against his hard frame and ground himself against her, emitting a frustrated groan.

  Sarah clutched at his shoulders, wild with the fire of his kisses and the near-ecstasy of his touches.

  Nicholas slipped his hand between them, cupped her through her pantalets, and she gasped. He parted the placket in the material, and his gentle fingers found her folds, quickening her with sure steady strokes, and instinctively she raised her hips into the pleasure.

  Her exquisite feminine responses had Nicholas tied in a knot. He buried his nose in her hair, felt the tighten
ing of her lush body, gloried in the breathless gasps against his ear and gave himself the gratification of feeling her pulse against his hand. Could he bury the shame of seducing her by pleasuring her and denying himself?

  Somewhere along the line his plan had backfired. How would he know if she were doing this just to ingratiate herself with a wealthy man or if he’d approached her at a vulnerable time and said and done all the things she’d needed to hear?

  These responses weren’t faked. That he knew.

  But worse than even those thoughts was the seed of doubt he couldn’t close his mind to. Perhaps he reminded her of Stephen. She was lonely. If she had truly loved his brother, she might be drawn to Nicholas because of the physical similarities.

  She held herself still and quiet. Waiting.

  He wanted to take her now. Sink into her and lose himself in her lush and lovely body. He fought against taking her as quickly and harshly as he desired. He clenched his jaw. Hard.

  “Nicholas?” she asked tentatively.

  He smoothed his hand up over the cotton covering her hip. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to—?”

  “No,” he said, and it was the hardest decision he’d ever made.

  “But—but…” Clearly, she didn’t know what to say or think.

  “You’ve just had a baby, Claire.”

  At that she tensed. “It’s been months,” she replied.

  “But you don’t need to have another one,” he argued logically.

  She had no reply for that. She pulled away slightly, her passion-bright gaze taking in his still fully clothed body. Crimson stained her cheeks in the firelight. Lord, she was beautiful.

  “It’s perfectly all right, Claire.”

  Her blue eyes seemed to turn more gray. “It doesn’t feel all right.”

  He reached for her face, but she turned it aside so he couldn’t kiss her. He wanted to kiss her. More than he wanted to bury himself in her and slake his desire for her, he wanted to kiss her. Reassure her. What had come over him to even care what she thought or felt? He could have had her. Right then and there, and it would have been better than anything he’d ever known.