“Lord Langston. I beg your pardon. I thought the gentlemen were engaged in archery.”
“We finished our tournament. I thought the ladies had gone to the village.”
“I remained behind to further explore your extensive gardens. I hope you don’t mind.”
Not so long as you don’t start spouting Latin flower names at me. Or asking him how his straff worts and tortlingers were faring. “Not at all.”
Her gaze moved around the room and she frowned. “This is not the drawing room.”
“No. This is my private study.”
Her cheeks turned crimson. “Oh. Again, I must beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
She was intruding. On his privacy and his very boring, er, productive work with the ledgers. He should send her on her way. Absolutely. Instead he found himself saying, “You’re not intruding. In fact, I was just about to ring for some tea. Would you care to join me?”
Good God, where on earth had that invitation sprung from? He hadn’t been about to ring for tea at all. In fact, it was hours before his usual tea time. It was as if he’d lost all control over his lips.
At the mere thought of lips, his gaze dipped to her lush mouth. He tried not to look, tried to tear his gaze away from those plump lips that he knew tasted warm and delicious, but it seemed as if he’d lost all control over his eyeballs as well.
She studied him for several seconds, as if he were a puzzle she was trying to decipher, then said, “Tea sounds lovely. Thank you.”
Danforth chimed in with what sounded like an approving woof. Most likely because the beast knew that with tea came his favorite snack—biscuits.
Well, perhaps this was for the best. After all, hadn’t he decided to spend some time with her to decide if she might, with her extensive knowledge of plants, help him in his quest? Yes, he had. It was necessary that he spend time with her. So long as he kept the conversation away from straff wort and tortlingers, he’d fare well. Which reminded him, he needed to ask Paul about the straff wort and tortlingers so Moorehouse wouldn’t again catch him unawares.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Matthew said, indicating the grouping of chairs near the fireplace. He wriggled his boot from beneath Danforth’s rump and crossed to the bell cord near his desk. By the time he put away the ledgers, Tildon had answered his summons. After ordering tea to be served on the terrace, Matthew joined Moorehouse at the fireplace.
Rather than sitting, she stood before the hearth, staring up at the portrait hanging above the marble mantel. He followed her gaze and looked at the painting that never failed to tighten his gut.
“Your family?” she asked.
He felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “Yes.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother and sister.”
“I don’t. Not anymore. They both died.” The words came out more clipped than he’d intended, but while he thought about James and Annabelle every day, he rarely spoke about them. He felt the weight of her stare and turned toward her. And found her regarding him through very serious eyes.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” he said by rote, years of practice allowing him to shove back the grief that had once paralyzed him. He’d learned how to live with the grief. The guilt, however, never went away. “It happened a long time ago.”
“Yet the loss of a loved one is a pain that never heals.”
He raised his brows, surprised, as her words so closely mirrored his thoughts. “You sound as if you know this from experience.”
“I do. When I was fourteen my dearest friend Delia, a girl I’d known since childhood, passed away. I still miss her and shall continue to do so for the rest of my life. And I loved my sister’s husband Edward as if he were my own brother.”
He nodded. She understood the grief. “Your friend, how did she die?”
Deep pain flashed in her eyes, and it took her several seconds to answer. “We…we were riding. I suggested a race.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked at the floor. “Delia’s horse went lame just before the finish and she was thrown. Her neck broke in the fall.”
He instantly recognized the guilt in her voice. How could he not? It was a sound as familiar to him as his own voice, and a deep sense of empathy rolled through him. “I’m sorry for your loss as well.”
She looked up then turned to face him. Their gazes met and the area around his heart went hollow at the bleak expression in her eyes. It was a look he knew all too well. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I believe I now understand why you fear horses.”
“I haven’t ridden since. It’s not exactly fear that stops me, it’s more…”
“Not wanting to revisit painful memories.” It wasn’t a question—because he knew the answer. Knew precisely how she felt.
“Yes.” She studied him through her huge, magnified eyes. “Now you sound as if you speak from experience.”
He quickly debated what, how much, to say. It was something he never talked about. But that bleak look cried out to him, grabbed him by the gut. Brought out all his protective instincts. Made him want to comfort her.
After clearing his throat, he said, “I do. It’s the reason I never go to the village.”
Although she said nothing, he saw understanding dawn in her expression, and she nodded once. She might not know what happened, but she knew his aversion to the village had to do with his siblings’ deaths. And she understood. And didn’t question him. Simply stood with him in quiet, shared understanding.
Something inside him seemed to expand. He very much liked that about her. She didn’t find it necessary to fill silences with nervous chatter or to ask him endless questions as so many other women did. Although she was outspoken, there was a quiet patience and self-possession about her that appealed to him greatly.
And before he could even think to stop himself, he found himself saying, “I was eleven. I was supposed to be studying mathematics but instead I went to the village to see my friend Martin. He was the butcher’s son. My father had specifically told me not to go to the village, that people were falling ill to a fever and he didn’t want anyone at Langston Manor exposed to it.”
He drew a deep breath, and the words came faster, pouring out of him like poison from a lanced wound. “But I heard that Martin was sick and I wanted to see him. Bring him some medicine the doctor had left the last time I was ill. So I went. By the next morning, I was feverish. Two days later both James and Annabelle fell ill. I survived. They didn’t. Neither did Martin.”
He stopped speaking. He felt out of breath. Emptied. And his knees weren’t quite steady. His brother and sister had died because of him. He had survived for reasons he could not, would not, ever understand, but somehow just saying the words out loud—the words he’d kept trapped inside for so long—afforded him a small sense of relief he hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps there was some merit to the theory that confession was good for the soul.
His thoughts were interrupted when she reached out and clasped his hand. He looked down. Her slim fingers lightly held his. She gently squeezed, and he reflexively returned the gesture.
“You blame yourself,” she said softly.
He raised his gaze to hers. Her eyes were soft with an understanding and compassion that seemed to compress his chest. “If I’d done what I’d been told…” His voice trailed off, unable to say the words that echoed through his mind. They’d still be alive.
“I understand. Exactly. I wasn’t supposed to race my horse. If I hadn’t suggested we do…” She pulled in a deep breath. “It’s a pain I live with—”
“Every day,” they said in unison.
She nodded. “I’m very sorry for what you’ve suffered.”
“And I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you ever…have conversations with your friend?” He’d never asked anyone that question, fearing they’d think him a candidate for Bedlam.
“Freque
ntly,” she said, nodding. The movement sent her glasses sliding down her nose, and she pushed them back up with her free hand—the hand that wasn’t holding his. He flexed his fingers, fitting her palm a bit more snugly against his, finding undeniable comfort in the warmth of her skin pressing against his.
“I visit Delia’s grave regularly,” she said. “I bring her flowers and tell her all the latest happenings. Sometimes I bring a book and read to her. Do you talk to your brother and sister?”
“Nearly every day,” he said, feeling as if an enormous weight was lifted from his shoulders by simply admitting that out loud.
A fleeting smile flitted across her face, then, as if she could read his thoughts, she said, “I thought I was the only one. It feels good to know it’s not just me.”
“Yes, it feels good.” Just as standing next to her and holding her hand felt good. Inordinately so. In a way that confused him yet made him feel…not so alone.
“Now I understand the sadness in your eyes,” she murmured. His surprise must have shown because she added, “I find myself observing people, a habit born of my love of sketching and spending too much time sitting in corners at too many parties.”
“Sitting in corners? Do you not dance?”
A whisper of wistfulness passed over her features, gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. “No. I attend the parties merely as my sister’s companion. Besides, gentlemen prefer to dance with dainty, elegant young women.”
She said this last in a matter-of-fact tone, and it suddenly dawned on him why she didn’t dance.
No one asked her.
An image embedded itself in his mind, of her at a soiree, sitting alone in the corner, watching while all the dainty, elegant young women danced. And he knew without a doubt that he would have been one of the gentlemen dancing with a dainty, elegant young woman, bypassing the bespectacled, plain Moorehouse. A fissure of shame seeped through him at the realization, along with something that felt like a sense of loss. Because, as he’d discovered upon closer inspection, while she wasn’t a classic beauty, she wasn’t plain at all.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “You’ve observed sadness in my eyes?”
She nodded. “That and…”
Her voice trailed off and a hint of red shaded her cheeks. “And what?”
After a brief hesitation she added, “Secrets.” Then she shrugged. “But everyone has secrets, don’t you agree?”
“Including you?”
“Especially me, my lord.” A teasing gleam entered her eyes, and her smile flashed, affording him a quick glimpse of her dimples. “I am, of course, a woman of great mystery.”
He found himself returning her smile. “And I am, of course, a man of great mystery.”
“Yes, I suspected as much,” she said in a light tone, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
She slid her hand from his, and he immediately missed her touch. Turning once again to face the painting, she said, “Your brother was considerably younger than you.”
“On the contrary, he was nearly a decade older than I.”
She frowned, then looked back and forth between the portrait and him twice, finally staring at him with a half-confused, half-amazed expression. “You mean you are…” Her words evaporated and a fresh rush of color suffused her cheeks.
“The short, pudgy, pasty-faced lad with the glasses. Yes, that’s me. In all my six-year-old glory. The tall handsome young man is my brother James.”
“There is a remarkable resemblance between him and you. And none whatsoever between you and the six-year-old boy.”
“Around age sixteen I somehow sprouted up and outgrew the pudginess.” He might no longer resemble that shy, awkward, lonely boy on the outside, but on the inside…he still knew that boy very well. The boy who hadn’t been able to beg, borrow, or steal his father’s attention—until James died. And even then he’d only gained it to be reminded everyday that James’s death was his fault. As if he didn’t already know that. As if that didn’t eat at him every minute.
“The transformation is…remarkable,” she said. She turned back toward him. “What happened to the glasses?”
“By the time I was twenty I no longer needed them. The doctor explained that he’d seen such cases, that as children grow, their eyesight can change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Mine changed for the better.”
“You are very fortunate, my lord. Mine changed for the worse.”
He tilted his head and studied her for several seconds, as one would a work of art. “Yet your spectacles suit you. I occasionally still wear glasses, when I’m reading small print.”
She stared at him then blinked. “Oh, my.”
Those were the same two words and the same husky rasp she’d murmured last night after he’d kissed her. His gaze involuntarily dropped to her mouth. And he immediately realized his error as desire hit him low and hard. Her lips looked moist and plump and were slightly parted, and the urge to kiss her again grabbed him in a vise grip.
Kissing her again was an extremely bad idea. But bloody hell, he wanted to. So very much. Here, in the sunlight, where he could see her, read her every reaction.
Before he could reach for her, however, a knock sounded on the door. Mentally cursing the interruption, he called out, “Come in.”
Tildon entered and announced, “Tea is served on the terrace, my lord.”
After thanking the butler, who closed the door quietly after him, Matthew drew in a slow breath before returning his attention to Moorehouse. His common sense told him it was fortunate Tildon had knocked at just that second, or else he most likely would have kissed her again. Oh, bloody hell, who was he attempting to fool? He definitely would have kissed her again.
Which was not how he should be spending his time with her. No, he should be engaging her in conversation, finding out more about her in order to determine what secrets she might have, and to decide if she could help him with his quest. He didn’t need to know if she was a good kisser.
He already knew.
She was.
Phenomenally good.
He inwardly frowned and shifted to relieve the growing discomfort occurring in his breeches. Damn it, this unwanted desire for her was simply unacceptable. What he needed to do was pull his attention away from her lips and concentrate on the task before him: to find out more about her. And to that end he extended his elbow and inclined his head toward the terrace. “Shall we?”
Chapter 8
Sarah needed to find out more about him.
Which meant she couldn’t dwell upon the way he made her feel.
Seated at the square, linen-topped, wrought-iron table on the terrace, she eyed the intricately carved silver tea service Tildon had set out. In addition to tea, a polished platter held an assortment of delicate cucumber and watercress sandwiches on thin slices of crustless bread, scones with strawberry jam, and freshly baked, still warm biscuits.
The scents wafted toward her on the gentle summer breeze, but they weren’t what made her mouth water. No, Lord Langston was doing that, effectively distracting her from her goal:
She had to find out more about him.
Hopefully, something to make him less attractive. Something that didn’t stir her blood, as when she’d discovered he was a marvelous kisser. Or something that didn’t grab her heart like the story of what had happened to his brother and sister. Because grab her heart he had. And dear God, she didn’t want him to. Couldn’t allow him to.
Yet how could she possibly ignore the empathy and sympathy she now felt toward him? She knew the pain he carried with him every day because she carried that same ache that no passage of time completely numbed. He knew. He understood. And that drew her to him more strongly than any manner of handsome looks ever could.
Although…there was no denying his extreme good looks, and as much as she didn’t wish to notice them, she was merely nearsighted—not blind. In those few seconds before Tildon had knocked on the door,
she’d thought Lord Langston had meant to kiss her again. And rather than being appalled or outraged or disinterested or any of the other things she should have felt, instead her heart had pounded in anticipation and it required all her wherewithal not to throw her arms around his neck and press her body against his. To experience again the wonder she’d felt in his arms last night. To feel his hands on her, urgent, demanding, coaxing her closer while his tongue mated with hers.
Her gaze roamed down his masculine form as he dismissed Tildon then moved toward the table and sat down in the seat next to hers. A sigh escaped her, and warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun rushed through her.
“Are you all right, Moorehouse?”
His voice yanked her from her wayward thoughts and she discovered him watching her. With an expression that suggested he knew she’d been staring at him.
Botheration. She could practically feel the blotches creeping up her neck.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said in her most prim voice.
“You look…flushed.”
“’Tis merely the result of the sun,” she lied, inwardly wincing at the falsehood.
“Would you prefer to have our tea inside?”
Yes, preferably in your bedchamber while I watch you bathe.
A horrified ack! rose to her lips, and Sarah clamped her mouth closed to contain it. Good God, this was not good. She needed to forget about their kiss. Absolutely needed to forget about kissing him again. And positively needed to forget about seeing him naked.
What she needed to do was…something. Something that she couldn’t recall. She frowned and forced herself to concentrate. Oh, yes. She needed to focus on finding out his secrets. Excellent. Because even though she’d felt a deep kinship with him and he’d appealed to her sympathies by his story and the fact that he’d talked about something she sensed he didn’t easily discuss, he still had secrets—namely the nature of his late night “gardening” missions. Certainly there was no point in asking him outright what he was up to. No, she’d need to finesse the conversation. Encourage him to talk about other things, and hope he’d inadvertently reveal something.
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