by Wendy Vella
Sarah took her time undoing the earl’s cravat as she tried to calm her nervousness.
“If you’re trying to kill me, you’re doing a damn fine job of it,” the man said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve a mind to take you with my clothes still on.”
Fighting an urge to run from the room, Sarah gave him a sultry grin. “If you insist ... but do you suppose you could introduce yourself before we ..?”
The man’s hands had moved to her bottom, and he suddenly lifted her. Forced to hold on, she quickly gave up her attempt at undoing the top of his linen shirt and hung onto his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips.
“Trenton,” he managed to get out before he dumped her onto the small bed stand. Although the mattress was better than most in the inn, it still didn’t provide the kind of bounce the man was expecting. “My apologies,” he offered, his face clearing as if he had been possessed and was suddenly free of the demon. “I thought ...” He shook his head as if to further clear it.
Sarah regarded the man who was hovering over her, hovering as if he didn’t quite know what to do next. “Apology accepted, of course,” she said, staring into eyes that were so blue, she thought she might drown in them. “I am Sarah,” she continued, about to offer her hand when she realized just then who the man had to be.
Trenton, as in, the Earl of Trenton. “My lord,” she added, suddenly feeling a bit too exposed. She’d heard about this man, about his having inherited the earldom seated near Wolverhampton when his father unexpectedly died the year before.
“You’re not Genevieve.” It wasn’t a question, making Sarah wonder if he had actually met the woman and had just realized Sarah wasn’t the chit, or if he’d only been given her name as someone he could seek out for this kind of company. Sarah thought it best to put the earl at ease.
“She married last month. Her husband took her to his home in Derbyshire,” Sarah explained as she gathered the folds of his shirt and pulled it over his head. She moved her hands down to the fall of his breeches and undid the fastenings as the man stared down at her.
“She married?” he repeated, not bothering to hide his surprise.
Sarah regarded the man who still hovered above her, wondering at his reaction. Did he feel affection for the former barmaid? Had Genevieve bedded him on a moment’s notice, much like Sarah was about to do?
Sarah slid her fingers between the man’s skin and the fabric of his smalls and breeches and pushed the garments down his thighs as far as she could reach. She knew his manhood had sprung free when it was suddenly buried in her belly. Reaching down, she wrapped a hand around the hardened shaft and rubbed her thumb over the wet tip. The action seemed to bring the man out of his reverie. “She did,” Sarah replied with a nod. “I take it ... she did not ask your permission?” she queried, thinking that if the earl had some kind of arrangement with Genevieve, then the former barmaid had some explaining to do.
Trenton seemed to give her question a good deal of thought. “No, but...” He paused before heaving a sigh. “I had no claim to the chit. Besides, you’re ... prettier,” he managed to get out before jerking a bit when Sarah’s hold on him tightened.
Prettier? she wondered. She’d been told Genevieve was similar in appearance, but never had someone said she was prettier than someone else. “Thank you, my lord,” Sarah responded, wondering at the man’s hesitancy. Perhaps he was afraid she might inform his wife about their liaison, and was nearly convinced that was the reason when he suddenly straightened and then sat on the edge of the bed. But he removed his boots and divested himself of his breeches and stockings, leaving him as naked as Sarah.
Sarah sat up and joined him on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around the back of his waist so that her fingers could skim the skin along his ribs. She turned her face to his shoulder and placed a kiss there. “Tell me what troubles you, my lord,” she murmured, realizing the man may not have come for a tumble but for a shoulder to cry on, or a sympathetic ear in which to voice his displeasure with the world.
Trenton sighed then, his shoulders slumping. “I rode from Stafford today,” he said finally. “I am on my way to London. My father died recently, and I must meet with his solicitor and see to other estate matters,” he murmured as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
Sarah used her free hand to rake fingers through his blond curls. “And to take your seat in Parliament?” she whispered, scraping her fingernails against his scalp in a move that seemed to bring the earl as much pleasure as it did annoyance.
“That, too,” he agreed, not hiding his surprise that she would know of one of the responsibilities of an earl.
Sarah moved her eyes to indicate they should be lying down on the bed. Trenton followed where she indicated and let go his hold on her. Laying down on the bed, he repositioned himself as Sarah followed him down, resting her head in the small of his shoulder and sliding a leg in between his. Her hand once again found his manhood, stroking the velvet-covered rod until his hand stilled hers.
“I don’t have a French letter,” he whispered, his words coming between breaths that sounded ragged.
Sarah considered his admission, thinking he would know enough to pull out of her when he knew his climax was imminent. Reaching up with her tongue, she licked and then nibbled his earlobe. A few seconds later, she squeaked in surprise as she was suddenly flat on her back and the earl was once again atop her. “You minx,” he murmured happily.
Wrapping her legs around his back, Sarah arched her back as she felt his manhood impale her in a single thrust, the steel rod filling her and his sac crashing against her quim. She might have shrieked in surprise—she knew nothing but the rhythm he set with his movements as he thrust himself into her and slowly pulled himself out. His own groans and grunts filled the small room until he suddenly stilled himself and straightened above her. Sarah’s eyes followed Trenton’s torso as it separated from hers, wondered at the perfect, hard body that seemed to hang suspended as his head was thrown back and his neck was exposed and one of his hands moved to where their bodies met and he pressed his thumb there. Inhaling sharply at the sensation of his touch against the delicate, sensitive bud in her wet folds, Sarah allowed the pleasant sensation of waves to take over her body, the waves crashing and rocking her body from one side to the other as the earl’s warm seed filled her. She felt his body jerk and recoil in a spasm before it collapsed onto hers, felt his arms press against her sides and his head fall onto the pillow next to her head.
From his slowing breaths, Sarah knew Trenton was probably asleep. And probably completely unaware that he had spilled his seed inside of her instead of pulling out of her as he should have done.
At least for their night together this time, Sarah was glad she was still nursing her young son in the mornings. By doing so, her monthly courses had not yet returned, and she probably wouldn’t conceive another bastard child by Gabriel Wellingham.
On that thought, she realized it was time she fed the earl’s son. Carefully removing his arm from around her body, she slipped from the bed, pulled on her dressing gown and sneaked out of the room.
The sound of slurping brought Gabriel out of his slumber, a most satisfying state where he’d spent the dark hours holding a soft body against his own. His own body was so replete from lovemaking, he couldn’t remember another night he’d been so pleasured and been so satisfied with having pleasured a woman. None of his evenings with his mistresses had left him feeling like this, although, to be fair, he hadn’t spent an entire night in any of their beds. He supposed he could have insisted he be allowed that privilege since he paid for their townhouses and their wardrobes, but he never had the impression he was welcome to do so.
In this room, though, the situation had been entirely different. He rather doubted he would have been allowed to leave the bed, and since he had paid for the room in which he slept, that was only to be expected. But the woman who he had pleasured and who had so thoroughly and passionately pleasured him had held him after th
eir last bout of lovemaking as if her life had depended on him holding her. And so he had, deciding he wouldn’t let go of her until sometime after the sun had come up—he thought perhaps only a half-hour or so ago— when she gently removed herself from his hold.
She was back next to him now, though. The scent of her filled his nostrils as he wondered at that odd noise. A sound that he used to make when he kissed one of his mistresses (the only one who would allow such an intimacy) and the one time when he’d kissed Lady Elizabeth Carlington. Thanks to Sarah’s tutelage, he no longer kissed like that, which had him wondering who did.
And who was doing it right now?
Cracking one eye open, he quickly closed it, suddenly wondering at not only the slurping, sucking sound, but at what he was quite sure were two feet. Tiny feet. Rather plump feet, with tiny toes.
Lifting himself on one elbow, Gabriel opened both eyes and found himself in a staring contest with eyes that matched his own. Blue eyes, centered in the face of a baby adorned with tight blond curls. A baby that could have been Cupid had he held a bow and arrow.
The baby suddenly let go of the nipple he’d been suckling and waved a fist in Gabriel’s direction. “Dada!” he announced happily before reclaiming the nipple he had given up only a few seconds before.
Stunned, Gabriel stared at the happy baby, feeling a stab of jealousy. After all, the babe had hold of one of the breasts he had happily suckled only a few hours ago.
“Ssh,” Sarah whispered, her amusement apparent in the grin on her face.
At some point, presumedly when she got out of bed and retrieved the baby she now held, she had donned a dressing gown. One side was open to allow the baby to have his way with her. Gabriel had half a mind to open the other side so that he might kiss her other breast, just to show the baby there was a competitor for the woman’s affections.
Sarah turned her attention to Gabriel. “I apologize. I do hope he didn’t wake you,” she whispered. In the brief moment her attention was on the earl, the baby began pounding his fist on the top of her breast.
Alarmed, Gabriel reached over and intercepted the tight fist with his hand, surprised at the strength and warmth of the small hand he now held. “Hey now, no hitting your nurse like that,” he scolded, having a hard time keeping a straight face as he spoke the words. The babe, dimples in both cheeks, regarded him with a look of mischief that was so like his own, he thought he was peering into a looking glass twenty-eight years in the past.
Sarah giggled. “He does that if I’m not giving him all of my attention,” she whispered. “He’s spoiled, just like his father.”
Sitting up straighter, Gabriel continued to hold onto the baby’s fist as he regarded Sarah. “When did you become a nurse?” he wondered. Leaning over, he gave her a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
Returning the kiss, Sarah felt disappointment that Gabriel would ask her such a question. “I ... I didn’t,” she finally answered. “He is my son,” she whispered, taking a deep breath after making the admission.
Not bothering to hide his surprise, Gabriel furrowed his brows. “When?” He paused a moment, his mouth poised to say something before he seemed to think better of it. “How ... how old is he?” he wondered instead.
“Six months,” she replied, watching Gabriel’s reaction, wondering if he would make the connection. How could he not? The babe was a miniature version of the man who remained leaning on one arm while he held onto the baby’s hand.
His baby’s hand.
“Are ... are you married?” he asked, a bit of panic gripping him when he realized a burly man might come barreling through the door with the purpose of challenging him to a duel. Or just a round of fisticuffs, which Gabriel knew he would quickly lose. He had never stepped foot in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon nor attempted a bare-knuckle fight in his entire life.
Sarah shook her head. “No,” she said, a bit annoyed he would ask the question when they had just spent the night in the same bed. “If I was, I assure you, I would not have ...” She waved her free hand to indicate him and the bed. “And I haven’t done this, in fact, since the last time you ...” She allowed the sentence to trail off when she realized tears were pricking the corners on her eyes. “You cannot say anything to the others about Gabe being my own, though,” she warned suddenly.
Furrowing his brows, Gabriel turned his gaze on Sarah. Gabe? “Why not? How ... How do you keep him a secret?”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t,” she said, fighting back the bit of panic she suddenly felt. “A couple of months after you were last here, I realized I was with child. My sister had sent word that she was ill, so I left for Worcester, intending to take care of her. But she ...”. Sarah took a deep breath in an attempt to stave of the tears she knew would come if she allowed them.
“She died?” Gabriel finished for her, seeing how she struggled to control her sudden grief.
The baby she held to her breast had nodded off, oblivious to his mother’s distress but his fist still clung to one of Gabriel’s fingers.
Gabriel reached around the back of Sarah’s shoulders and pulled her against his chest. “But you ... gave birth and ...”
Sarah nodded against him. “I could have stayed in Worcester. Lizbet lived with her husband in a cottage at the edge of town. He might have taken me as his wife.” She had to pause to swallow just then. The thought of marrying her sister’s husband nearly made her ill. The man was a hard worker, and he seemed to feel genuine affection for Lizbet, but he was not pleased with the prospect of raising another man’s bastard as his own. “But I received word from Mrs. Bristow that she was ill and that Mr. Bristow needed someone to help run the inn. So, I returned with Gabe and told them he was my sister’s child. He looks nothing like me, so ...”
Gabriel closed his eyes tightly and opened them to study the babe she still held between them. Jesus, he is a miniature of me, Gabriel realized, and then remembered Sarah’s comment. He’s spoiled, just like his father.
The panic he felt earlier returned, although it was quickly followed by something else. Something quite unsettling and unexpected and exciting all at the same time. “He’s my son,” Gabriel whispered suddenly. “Good God, Sarah. When were you going to tell me?” he wondered, feeling awe and panic and pride and annoyance all at the same time. My bastard son!
“And tell you, what?” she countered, annoyance apparent in her voice. “I was a tavern wench,” she spat out. “Although, I did not ...” She rolled her eyes, still attempting to keep tears from spilling forth. “I did not sell myself to just ... anyone,” she finally got out before a tear broke free.
Gabriel held her a bit closer, not sure what else to do. He felt her hot tears on his shoulder, felt her body quiver beneath his arms. He’d seen the anger in her eyes, anger directed at him, and he thought only to comfort her.
But didn’t he have a right to be angry as well? She’d borne his son and hadn’t sent word of the babe’s existence! Here I’ve been seeking out my father’s bastards, and it turns out, I have one of my own.
Taking a breath, he wondered how he would have reacted had Sarah sent word. Gabriel realized just such a note would have arrived sometime in October, at the very time he was about to propose to Lady Elizabeth, the very time he was having such difficulties with his mistresses and during his first awkward sessions of Parliament. He imagined receiving a simple white folded note without a seal in the wax. Would he have opened it? Or would he have left it for his secretary? And, if he had opened it, would he have believed the claim that the barmaid with whom he had shared a tumble on a cold, snowy evening in December had given birth to his baby?
Although Gabriel had never received such a missive before, he rather doubted he would have believed the words. A quick glance at Gabe was enough to make him believe, though. I have a son!
Kissing Sarah’s hair, he whispered, “Thank you.”
Sarah turned her head to one side, sniffling before a sob shook her body. “For ... for what?�
� she managed to get out, stunned by his words.
Rocking her a bit, Gabriel kissed her hair again. “For ... having my son. For teaching me how to kiss. For last night,” he murmured, hoping his words would settle her. His gaze fell to the tyke that lay in her arms, one fist resting against her breast while the other was halfway into his mouth.
Something a bit painful clutched his chest just then. My son! Closing his eyes a moment, he reopened them to find the babe still resting quietly, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He dared a glance at Sarah, whose attention was also on the bundle in her arms. “Tell me, and be truthful about it,” Gabriel said suddenly. “Tell me what I must do,” he insisted in a voice that sounded a bit like a plea.
Lifting her head from his chest, Sarah took a deep breath and shook her head. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.
Gabriel sighed and glanced down at his son. My son! “There must be something I can ... do for him. For you,” he replied uncertainly. “To .. to help. I’ll acknowledge him as my own, of course,” he added, thinking there was no shame in doing so. Some of the most powerful lords in Parliament acknowledged all manner of illegitimate children. One even had six that he knew of besides his five that were legitimate.
How could Gabriel not acknowledge the babe? The boy looked so much like him, there could be no mistaking him as someone else’s child.
Sarah nodded as she realized what he was offering. “I want him to be educated,” she answered with a nod, her eyes widening as she realized Gabriel’s offer was sincere.
“Well, of course, he shall be,” Gabriel responded, one shoulder shrugging. “I’ll be sure he has the very best governess, and tutors, as well. And, when he’s old enough, he can attend Eton and then Oxford.” He paused a moment, suddenly inhaling. “You can argue for Cambridge, but you’ll find I’m rather partial to Oxford, so don’t even suggest ...”