Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  But how best to proceed? Most likely by adopting a conspiratorial air and appealing to his vanity. From her observations, she’d concluded that men enjoyed feeling as if they were being told secrets, and they were not immune to flattery.

  Picking up her china tea cup from which a fragrant curl of steam rose, she said, “Your transformation from the child depicted in the portrait to the man you’ve become is extraordinary, my lord.”

  He shrugged. “I believe many children go through what could be called an awkward phase.”

  “Not all children. Take my sister, for instance. She was beautiful as an infant and remains so still today.”

  “Your sister is older than you.”

  “Yes. By six years.”

  “Then how do you know she was a beautiful infant?”

  “My mother told me so. With alarming frequency. I believe she hoped the reminders would encourage me to outgrow the ‘awkward’ phase, as you called it, that I’ve exhibited since birth.”

  After a quick sip of tea, she said, “Mother thinks I’ve remained plain merely to vex her. She insists I’ve no need for my spectacles and if I’d simply sit still for several hours and allow her to use an iron to flatten out my unruly curls, I wouldn’t be quite so unattractive. Although she did warn me that of course no matter what I did I’d never be half as lovely as Carolyn, but I should at least try.”

  He paused in the act of raising his teacup to his lips and frowned. “Surely she didn’t say that to you.”

  “Oh, she did. Quite often.” In fact, she still did, but the words no longer had the power to sting her. “As a young child I found it quite devastating, mostly because I didn’t want Carolyn, whom I adored, to dislike me as our mother did for something I couldn’t help.”

  She took another sip of tea then continued, “But Carolyn has always been my champion. Indeed, our mother’s overt favoritism toward her has always been a source of embarrassment for her—her even more so than for me. Carolyn is a warm, loving person and has never failed to give me her unconditional love. Which has made me love her even more in return.”

  He studied her over the rim of his cup. “You seem very matter of fact about your mother’s view.”

  “While I think she could have perhaps been more diplomatic, she didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Anyone with eyes can see that Carolyn is stunning and I’m not. It’s simply the truth, no more, no less.” Her lips twitched. “Of course, I occasionally go out of my way to prove to Mother that regardless of looks I don’t deserve the status of favorite.”

  His eyes immediately lit up with interest. “Oh? What do you do?”

  “You’ll think me awful.”

  “Doubtful. Based on what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t think it awful if you said you’d dumped a hip bath filled with water over your mother’s head.”

  Her face must have flamed red, because he asked, his voice filled with laughter, “Have you dumped a tubful of water over her head?”

  “No. But I can’t deny I’ve considered it.”

  “On more than one occasion, I’d wager.”

  “Almost daily,” came her dry reply.

  “Yet you’ve resisted. Clearly you are of a strong constitution.”

  “Not particularly. ’Tis more a case of the tub being too heavy for me to lift.”

  He laughed, a deep, rich sound. His teeth flashed white and his smile reached all the way up to his eyes. The effect was…dazzling. “Have you not heard of a pail?”

  “I have. But I try only to vex Mother, not infuriate her.”

  “And how do you go about vexing her?”

  “It certainly isn’t difficult. I love the warmth of the sun on my face, so I’ll remove my bonnet in the garden—a crime, as far as Mother is concerned, as my skin freckles, which only serves to make me more unattractive. I sometimes pretend to misunderstand her. For instance, if Mother says, ‘I feel faint,’ I might reply, ‘Why, yes, I have some paint. Shall I fetch it for you?’” Sarah struggled to keep from smiling. “She is convinced I am going deaf. And then I play what I privately call the Senses Game with her. I’ll say things such as, ‘I can’t hear you, I don’t have my glasses on.’”

  He grinned. “How about, ‘I can smell it, I’m not deaf, you know.’”

  “’I’m not deaf, I can see it.’”

  “’I’m not blind, I can smell it.”

  Sarah laughed. “Exactly. Mother heaves a beleaguered sigh, looks skyward and mutters under her breath—an oath or a prayer for patience, I’m not sure which. I shouldn’t find it humorous, but I do. And now you know my greatest secret—I’m not very nice.”

  “My dear Miss Moorehouse, if giving a verbal tweak constitutes your grounds for saying you’re not very nice, then I suggest you reassess your criteria, because that simply doesn’t qualify you for a Heart of Evil.”

  “Perhaps not, but really, in many ways my lack of beauty has worked in my favor. Since all Mother’s attention was always focused on Carolyn, I was afforded freedoms many young girls were not.”

  “Such as?”

  “While Carolyn was trapped with Mother, receiving endless lessons in deportment and dancing and proper posture, I ran about outside in the sunshine, sketching flowers, cultivating the garden, exploring the countryside, enjoying long walks, swimming in the lake.” She reached for a biscuit and shot him a smile. “I’ll have you know I’m excellent at fishing and catching frogs.”

  Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Somehow I am not surprised. When I was a boy I used to catch frogs. Caught the occasional fish as well. I haven’t done either in years.” He sipped his tea, then leaned back in his chair. “What about your father?”

  “Papa is a physician who’s often gone for days at a time treating patients in other villages. His time at home is spent mostly in his study, reading medical journals. To this day whenever I see him he gives me an absentminded look, pats me on my head, then sends me on my way—in precisely the same fashion as he did when I was three.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze turning thoughtful. “I rarely saw my mother when I was a child, and my memories of her are a bit of a blur. I remember her always looking beautiful, always on her way to some soiree or another. I suppose she cared for me, although I don’t recall her ever saying so. After James and Annabelle died, I saw her even less, as I was away at school most of the time and took to spending most holidays with my friend Daniel, Lord Surbrooke.” He paused, then added quietly, “My mother died when I was fourteen.”

  “And your father passed away last year,” Sarah said softly.

  “Yes.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “He was shot. By a highwayman attempting to rob him. The man who killed him was never caught. He literally got away with murder.”

  “I’m sorry. Sorry for your loss and that you’re…alone.”

  He regarded her with such an unsettling expression, Sarah inwardly cursed her runaway tongue. “Forgive me, my lord. I meant no offense. Sometimes my thoughts become words before I can stop them.”

  “No offense taken. I have a few close friends and many acquaintances, so in that respect I’m not alone. But my lack of family, yes, in that way I am.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t married.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Sarah realized this was a perfect opportunity to flatter him—although anything complimentary would be merely the truth. “You’re handsome, titled, personable, a great—” kisser—“gardener. All the prerequisite qualities to ensure an abundance of female attention.”

  “I could say the very same about you, Moorehouse.”

  She grinned. “That I’m handsome, titled, and personable?”

  He returned her smile. “Well, you’re not titled.”

  “Nor am I handsome.” She leaned a bit closer to him and lowered her voice, as if imparting a great secret. “Only gentlemen and very old, very severe women are referred to as such.”

  “True. A more appropriate way to describe you would be ‘uniquely attractive.
’ And you certainly are personable.”

  It suddenly occurred to Sarah he was the one doling out the flattery. And she wasn’t certain whether to allow herself to be flattered, or to be highly suspicious of his motives. Certainly suspicion was much smarter.

  Before she could decide his intent, he continued, “However, what I meant is that I’m surprised you aren’t married.”

  She stilled, and full-blown distrust assailed her at his ridiculous statement, which could only be an attempt to curry her favor. Clearly this man was up to something. Or he was an absolute nincompoop. Either way, an almost giddy sensation of relief filled her because she would never, could never, find a man who was either up to something or a nincompoop attractive.

  Feeling much better, she raised her brows. “And why would that surprise you, my lord?”

  “Are you fishing for compliments, Moorehouse?”

  “Certainly not.” Good lord, she knew better than to engage in such a useless exercise. “I’m merely curious as to why you’re surprised.”

  “I suppose because you seem very…nurturing. And loyal.”

  “Rather like a spaniel.”

  He laughed. “Yes. Except you’re taller. And smell much better.”

  She hid her smile behind her teacup. “Thank you. I think.”

  “And you’re very intelligent.”

  A snort escaped her. “While I’m grateful for your assessment, based on my observations, most gentlemen do not necessarily find intelligence an attractive trait in a woman.”

  “Well, disloyal as this may seem to my gender, I’ll share a little secret with you.” He scooted his chair closer and their knees bumped beneath the table, shooting a heated spark up her leg. Leaning toward her, he said in a very serious voice, “I regret to inform you that many gentlemen are, unfortunately, nincompoops.”

  Sarah blinked, not certain if she were more stunned or gratified or fascinated that his assessment of many members of his gender so closely mirrored her own. Certainly his opinion, and his willingness to express it, surprised her, and their shared thinking on the subject filled her with a warmth she couldn’t quite describe, a warmth completely separate from, though no less compelling than, the one resulting from his nearness.

  His knee remained lightly touching hers, so lightly that she supposed it could be accidental. But the warmth, mixed with a hint of challenge, glittering in his eyes, indicated he knew very well what he was about.

  Move your leg away, her inner voice commanded. Yes, she certainly should move her leg away. Push back her chair. Put some distance between them. End this unwise, forbidden contact that had heat coiling through her entire body.

  Instead, her entire body betrayed her and did exactly what it wanted to do—lean closer to him. Until less than two feet separated their faces.

  “Tell me, my lord, do you fall within the ranks of the nincompoops?”

  “What if I told you I most certainly do not?”

  “I’d say you were lying.”

  Instead of taking offense, he appeared amused. “Because you think I’m a nincompoop?”

  “Because I think everyone is, occasionally.”

  “Even you?”

  “Oh, most especially me. I’m always saying or doing something I shouldn’t.”

  “Really? Such as?”

  “I’d say my most recent foray into nincompoopdom occurred seconds ago when I suggested not only that my host was lying, but a nincompoop as well.” That and the fact that her knee remained, most improperly, pressed against his. Indeed, the contrast between their innocent conversation and the very un-innocent press of his leg against hers curled a heated exhilaration through her that she’d never before known.

  He shifted, increasing the contact between his leg and hers, and her heart jumped. “I find your candor refreshing,” he said softly.

  “Do you? Most people find it appalling.”

  His gaze turned serious and searched hers. “I’ve always preferred the brutal truth to insincere platitudes. And I’m afraid, given my title and position, more often than not I’m offered insincere platitudes. Most particularly by women.”

  “If these women are complimenting your appearance or your home, surely you cannot accuse them of being insincere.”

  He shrugged. “But what is their motive for doing so?”

  “I’d venture to guess it’s because they find both you and your home attractive.”

  “But again I must ask why. For instance, both Lady Gatesbourne and Lady Agatha have been extremely complimentary since the moment they arrived. They’ve complimented my person, my home, my garden, my dishes, my furniture, my cravat, my dog—”

  “Surely you agree that Danforth is worth complimenting,” she broke in with a smile.

  “Naturally. However, when Lady Gatesbourne informed me he was a ‘darling doggie,’ Danforth was sitting on her shoe and her face bore an expression of absolute horror. I may occasionally be a nincompoop, but I know insincere flattery when I hear it.”

  “Both ladies are merely striving to make a good impression, my lord.”

  “Yes. Because Lady Gatesbourne has a marriageable daughter, and Lady Agatha has a marriageable niece. They are not interested in me, they are interested in my title. Do you have any idea how it feels to be pursued for such a reason?”

  “No. I don’t.” Actually, she had no idea how it felt to be pursued at all.

  “It is…disappointing. Believe me, those fine ladies do not compliment me because they are so taken with my family’s china or the way my cravat is tied.”

  “Is it not possible they are? After all, your family china is lovely.”

  One dark brow quirked upward and he shot her a mock severe look. “Are you saying my person, my home, my garden and my furniture are not?”

  Sarah couldn’t help but laugh. “Now it would appear you are shamefully looking for compliments.”

  “Only because you seem so stingy with them,” he said, his injured sniff belied by the mischief twinkling in his eyes.

  She forced herself not to smile and instead made a tsking sound and waggled her finger at him. “You’ve no need for compliments from me. ’Tis clear your head is already swelled as a result of the flattery everyone else piles upon you.”

  “I may not need a compliment from you, but I’d like one just the same.”

  She hoisted her chin and pursed her lips into a prim pucker. “I feel it my honor bound duty not to add to your vanity.”

  “Then may I be permitted to add to yours?”

  She laughed. “I assure you I have no vanity—”

  Her words and laughter sliced off when he captured her hand and lightly entwined their fingers. “No vanity?” he said softly, the pad of his thumb circling lightly against her palm. “Surely your friend Franklin showers you with compliments.”

  She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “He’s not very talkative.”

  “Ah. The strong, silent sort.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then please, allow me…” He studied her hand, tracing a single fingertip slowly around each of her fingers. Her embarrassment over the faint charcoal stains from her sketching evaporated under the tingles of delight shooting up her arm. “You’re a very talented artist.”

  Pleasure suffused her, but she felt compelled to correct him. “I’m hardly an artist—”

  This time he cut off her words by touching his fingers to her lips. He shook his head. “The correct response to a compliment, Moorehouse, is ‘Thank you.’” He slid his fingers slowly away from her mouth.

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’” He leaned closer. “Just ‘Thank you.’”

  Less than a foot now separated their faces, and it was increasingly impossible to think about anything other than erasing that small amount of space.

  “Th-thank you.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “You’re welcome. I myself cannot draw worth a jot. Would you consent to doing a sketch of Danforth for me?”
>
  “I’d be delighted. Actually, I was working on one when he dashed into your study.”

  “And you followed him.”

  “I did.”

  “And now here you are. Having tea. With me.” He said the words so softly a tremor ran through her.

  “Yes. Here I am.” With my knee pressed to yours and your hand holding mine. And my heart pounding so hard I fear you can hear it.

  A slight frown pulled down his brows. “But where is your sketch pad?”

  It took her several seconds to recall. “I set it down in your study. On the chair near the fireplace.”

  “Ah. That explains why I didn’t notice it earlier.”

  “Really? How?”

  “I was too busy looking at you.”

  Her first thought was that he was jesting, but no hint of teasing lit his intense, serious gaze.

  Part of her, the dreamer part she’d ruthlessly kept buried for more than two decades, the part of her that secretly, uselessly, longed to hear words such as he’d just spoken, struggled to break free of its confines. To bask in his flattering words, the heated way he was looking at her, the breathless way he was making her feel.

  But then the other part of her, the practical, pragmatic, unsentimental part that knew better stepped forward and issued her a stern warning. Do not foolishly allow yourself to be swayed by such nonsense or to read too much into his words.

  Right. Don’t be foolish. She cleared her throat. “Looking at me? Did I have charcoal on my face?”

  He shook his head. “No. Indeed, your skin is…” He released her hand and brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Remarkable.”

  “On the contrary, it is freckled from the sun.”

  “Ah, yes, your penchant for removing your bonnet while outdoors. I can see your freckles quite clearly here in the sunlight. Yet contrary to your opinion, those tiny imperfections do not detract. Rather, they make me want to touch each golden dot.” His fingertip skimmed slowly across her cheek then down the bridge of her nose.

  He must want something, her inner voice cautioned. And he is using his very considerable charm in an attempt to get it. Based on her observations, gentlemen often used flattery for their own purposes. Indeed, she’d planned to use such a ruse in the hopes of gaining information from him.