Once Upon A Dream

by Mary Balogh, Grace Burrowes

  “Papa! I found a frog!”

  Ralph’s voice. Anne had found a handsome prince, but she must throw him back.

  “He found a toad!” Ryland, ever the knowledgeable older brother.

  “Anne, love, you mustn’t be upset,” Sedgemere whispered, kissing her brow. His thumb traced the side of her face, his breath whispered across her cheek. “Plead an indisposition tonight, and I’ll come for you.”

  She managed a nod. Sedgemere straightened, and a shaft of sunlight smacked her in the eyes. She let him go when she wanted to grab his hand and disappear with him into the forest for the next hundred years.

  By the time the boys came pelting into the woods, Anne had jammed her straw hat onto her head and slapped a smile on her face. She even admired the toad, a grand warty creature whom the boys named Wellington.

  And then she made them turn him loose, because a duke, even an amphibian duke, must be allowed to go about his business, as Sedgemere would go about his when the house party ended.

  * * * * *

  “If you look at the clock one more time,” Hardcastle muttered as he took the chair beside Sedgemere, “the entire assemblage will know an assignation awaits you.”

  Miranda Postlethwaite, sister to the shorn poodle of long ago, barely hid her frustration at Hardcastle’s choice of seat, for she’d apparently taken it into her head to become Sedgemere’s duchess.

  Across the room, the poor Higgindorfer woman commenced an aria about death being the only consolation when true love proved fickle. Her voice was lovely, though her accompanist was some clod-pated earl or other.

  “I’m still fatigued from watching my sons ride Veramoor’s sheep,” Sedgemere whispered back. From laughing so hard his sides had nearly split. Even Ralph had been overcome with merriment, though Miss Faraday—instigator of the impromptu sheep races—had bellowed the loudest encouragement.

  “You’re fatigued from an excess of ridiculousness,” Hardcastle mused. “One never would have guessed utter frivolity required stamina. Have you proposed to Miss Faraday yet? You’re a hopeless nincompoop if you haven’t. It’s all very well to affix your boys to the backs of hapless ovines, and allow the children to charm the lady with their foolishness, but you won’t find her like again, Sedgemere.”

  No, he would not. “For your information, I have the lady’s permission to embark on a wooing.”

  Hardcastle crossed his legs, a gesture he alone managed to make elegant instead of fussy. “A wooing that involves sheep races. Subtle, Sedgemere. You’ll start a new fashion at Almack’s, I’m sure.”

  The wooing involved kisses too. In the woods along the lake and later in the day, behind the stable while scouting a proper course for the sheep races—not that the sheep viewed a racecourse as anything other than more space to graze.

  “Are you jealous, Hardcastle?”

  “Terribly. I’ve always wanted to throw a leg over a sheep and hang on for dear life while the crazed beast did its utmost to fling me into the dung heap.”

  Anne’s observation about Hardcastle being shy came to mind. She’d described the upbringing of a young duke as dull and miserable, and she’d been right. The upbringing of a shy young duke would also be… lonely.

  “You don’t fancy any of the young ladies on offer, do you?” Sedgemere asked. “Miss Higgindorfer seems nice enough, and you’d have all the Italian opera you’d ever want.”

  “She fancies Willingham, and I do not fancy opera.”

  Hardcastle loved music. He’d been teased for it by the other boys at school and hadn’t been heard to play the pianoforte since. Did the prodigy of a governess enjoy music? Could she play, even a little?

  A glance at the clock revealed that four entire minutes had elapsed since Sedgemere had last checked the time.

  “I thought Miss Cunningham had set her cap for Willingham,” Sedgemere said. “One can see how Veramoor and his duchess would find such gatherings amusing. Rather like several chess games in progress at once.”

  “Propose to Miss Faraday, Sedgemere. Other fellows have remarked the warmth of her laughter, the affection she showers on the children.”

  Other fellows including… Hardcastle?

  “I believe she is testing me, Hardcastle. She’s been pursued by men of high degree, fellows whose intentions were not flattering to anybody. You’re right that Anne is an heiress—her papa has mentioned specifics to me—and she’s right to be skeptical of any man’s advances.”

  “Anne. You refer to the lady by her first name. Hmm.”

  Polite applause followed, for true love had finally accepted its bitter fate and faded to a wilting descending cadence.

  “You will make my excuses,” Sedgemere said, rising. “Too much sun, the press of business, neglecting my correspondence, et cetera.”

  “Take care, Your Grace. Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus.”

  Love is rich with both honey and venom. “Pleasant dreams to you too, Hardcastle.”

  Sedgemere quit the music room without allowing a single lady to catch his eye, for Hardcastle’s observation had been too close to the mark. Anne kissed with a fervor that delighted and intrigued, she was unstinting in her affection for the boys, and she showed every appearance of welcoming a dalliance from one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm.

  She also disappeared to her room by the hour, pleading a need for rest, or to pen a letter to her distant papa. She avoided any topic that related to the future, and she disdained the notice of every eligible young man, attributing even courtesies solely to an interest in her father’s wealth.

  Not without justification, apparently, for her father was obscenely wealthy.

  Sedgemere stopped by his rooms to make use of his toothpowder and change out of formal attire. When a gentleman bent on wooing intended to take his lady swimming, the fewer clothes, the better.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  The tap on Anne’s door was expected. The conflict about whether to heed Sedgemere’s summons was not.

  Anne planned to dally with Sedgemere, then send him on his way. His Grace’s intentions were honorable, and Anne dreaded the day when she saw disgust in his keen blue eyes.

  She opened the door anyway. “Your Grace. Good evening.”

  The duke was in riding attire, though of course he wouldn’t go riding when the hour was nearly midnight. Never had snug breeches, tall boots, and a billowing shirt beneath an embroidered waistcoat looked so attractive. He carried a hamper in one hand. His jacket was slung over his other arm.

  “Madam, you are invited to a stroll by the lake. I’d bow, but that would look silly with my present encumbrances.”

  “Can’t have you looking silly,” Anne said, snatching a shawl and joining him in the corridor. “I was half expecting you to have a go at riding Veramoor’s ram earlier today.”

  “Your hair is down,” Sedgemere said. “I’ve never seen your hair down.”

  Anne’s hair was tidily braided. “Nobody save my lady’s maid has seen my hair down, Your Grace. Are we in a footrace?”

  “Nobody?” Sedgemere paused with one hand on the doorway to the servants’ stairs. “I would like to be the first, then. Also the last.”

  He went bounding down the stairs, leaving Anne to follow at a more decorous pace. Sedgemere still hadn’t precisely proposed, which was fortunate. For when he proposed, she’d have to refuse him.

  They emerged on the side of the house that faced the lake, away from the thumping of the pianoforte, away from lights and applause and curious eyes. The water reflected the silvery moonshine, a slight breeze riffled the surface.

  “I’ve been reconnoitering all day,” Sedgemere said, striding off, “looking for the perfect spot: Close to the house, for the less time spent hiking in the dark, the better. Far enough away from the house that nobody would hear us talking if they left a window up. Near the lake, because the lake is beautiful, but tucked beneath the trees, because privacy is of utmost concern. Then too—”
>
  Anne hauled him up short by virtue of yanking on the handle of the hamper he carried. She took the hamper from him, draped his jacket over it, then stepped into his arms.

  “I’ve missed you, Sedgemere. All through dinner—”

  Through every moment. When he’d roared with laughter at the boys on their wooly steeds, when he’d picked Ralph up and tossed him into the air as the victor, when he’d sauntered into the blue gallery in his evening attire. Anne could not lay eyes on Sedgemere without her heart aching.

  She’d accosted him beneath one of the many oaks that dotted Veramoor’s lawn. They would not be visible from the house, so she indulged in the need to kiss him.

  Sedgemere obliged with delicate, patient, maddening return fire, until Anne’s thigh was wedged between his legs, and she was clinging to him simply to remain upright.

  “About that perfect spot,” Sedgemere said.

  Anne leaned into him, his heartbeat palpable beneath her cheek. When she was with him, her awareness of the natural world was closer to the surface. The breeze swaying through the boughs of the oak, the water lapping at the shore, the rhythm of Sedgemere’s life force, all resonated with the desire raging through Anne for the man in her arms.

  “No spot can be perfect,” Anne said, and all house parties came to an end.

  “Your kisses are perfect,” he said. “Shall we sit for a moment and pretend to admire the moon?” Sedgemere withdrew a blanket from the hamper, and Anne grabbed one edge of a quilt worn soft with age.

  The quilt bore the scent of cedar, a good blanket for making memories on. Sedgemere backed up a few steps, so the frayed edge of the fabric lay directly at the foot of the oak. The shadows here were deep, while the forest rose in a great, black mass behind the lake. Above it, stars had been scattered across the firmament by a generous hand.

  “If I proposed tonight, would you decline my suit?” Sedgemere asked.

  “I admire persistence,” Anne said, folding down onto the blanket. “I’m no great fan of badgering.”

  Sedgemere ought to have flounced back into the house. He instead came down beside Anne, undid his waistcoat, and tugged off his boots.

  “You’re stubborn,” he said. “Stubborn is a fine quality. You’re also not wearing stays.”

  “I expected we’d go swimming,” Anne said.

  He arranged his boots, waistcoat, and stockings at the edge of the blanket. “So did I, but have you any idea, madam, any notion, what the image of you in a wet chemise does to my thought processes?”

  As a result of that last embrace, Anne had some idea what such an image did to his breeding organs.

  “Probably the same thing the image of you naked to the waist in sopping wet breeches does to mine, Your Grace. The water would be warm too, because the lake is shallow and the sun has been fierce.”

  In the next instant, Anne was on her back, fifteen stone of half-dressed duke above her.

  “The sun has been fierce, indeed. You made Ralph laugh, my dear. You made me laugh. I’ve every confidence you made the sheep laugh too.”

  Sedgemere’s kisses bore no laughter. They were all dark wine, billowing wind, and honeysuckle moon shadows.

  Anne wiggled, she squirmed, she yanked on the duke’s hair and shoved at him, until Sedgemere was lying between her legs, his weight a necessary but insufficient complement to the desire rioting through her.

  “You needn’t be noble,” Anne panted between kisses. “I’m not a virgin, though once upon a time, I was a fool.”

  She took a risk, telling him that, but Sedgemere didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted up, so Anne could hide her flaming face against his throat. His hand cradled the back of her head, and he pressed his cheek to her temple.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his grip fierce and cherishing. “Whoever he was, he was not worthy of your regard, and you are well rid of him. We’ll speak of it if you like. I’ll ruin him for you, I’ll even kill him, but please, my love, not now.”

  My love. Anne could be Sedgemere’s love, for a span of days. She wrapped herself around him, yearning and frustration turning the cool evening hot.

  “I want you,” she said, trying to get her hands on his falls. “Sedgemere, I’m tired of waiting, of being patient. We have only days, and I can’t stand the thought that—”

  The duke reared back and pulled his shirt over his head. In the moonlight, he was cool curves and smooth muscles. Anne wanted to nibble on his shoulders, and lick his ribs, and—

  He stood, peeling his breeches off and kicking them to the grass, so the entire, magnificent naked whole of him stood before her.

  “My name is Elias,” he said. “Given my state of undress, I invite you, and you alone of all women, to call me by my name.”

  He wanted to give her his name, in other words. Anne could accept only part of his proffer.

  “Elias, I’ll need help with my chemise.” Not because she couldn’t reach the bows. Anne had chosen her attire for this outing carefully. She needed her lover’s help because her hands shook too badly.

  His, by contrast, were competent and brisk, untying each bow in succession, until Anne’s chemise was undone, her treasures guarded only by Sedgemere’s consideration and her own lack of courage.

  “Leave it on if you like,” he said, kissing Anne onto her back. “I don’t need to see you to know that you’re glorious.”

  He was glorious, finding the exact right balance between haste and leisure, between boldness and delicacy. With maddening gentleness, he caressed Anne’s breasts through the cotton of her chemise, until she was the one to shove the fabric aside and arch into his hands.

  She loved that he’d be naked with her, loved that every inch of him was available for her delectation. Memories, of clothing shoved aside while somebody slogged through an endless Schubert sonata on the next floor down, tried to intrude.

  Anne figuratively threw those memories in the lake. Sedgemere was not a presuming earl, trying to get his hands on her dowry by virtue of hastily fumbling beneath her skirts. Sedgemere was, in fact, in no hurry whatsoever, for which Anne was tempted to kill him.

  She bit his earlobe. “If you do not apply yourself to the task at hand with more focus, Your Grace, I will toss you into the water.”

  He glowered down at her, his hair tousled, his chest pressing against her breasts with each breath.

  “Call me Elias, by God. You’ll not be Your-Gracing me when I’m inside your very body, woman.”

  Anne lifted her hips against him. “Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Gr—oh, my.”

  His aim was excellent, his self-restraint pure torment. Slowly, by teasing advances and retreats, Sedgemere joined their bodies, while Anne’s grasp of words, intentions, everything but Sedgemere unraveled.

  “Say my name,” he growled, bracing himself on his forearms.

  He could keep up this rhythm all night, Anne suspected. All summer. For the rest of eternity. Her mind knew he expected some response from her, words of some sort. The rest of her was incoherent with relief to have him inside her, and with yearning for yet more of him.

  She ran her foot up his flank, then locked her ankles at the small of his back. The ground was hard beneath her back, and that was good, because she needed the purchase to push into Sedgemere’s thrusts, to love him back.

  “Say my name, Anne.”

  She tried to harry him, to say what she needed with her body. “Sedgemere, please.”

  He kissed her, a quick smack when she wanted to devour his mouth. “Good try, but you’ll have to do better, my dear.”

  Perhaps to inspire her, he sped up for the space of five breath-stealing thrusts, then returned to a slower tempo.

  “Dammit, Elias.”

  He laughed and showed her how much he’d been holding back. The starry sky reflected Anne’s pleasure, in fiery streaks of desire and surprise, and then more and more pleasure, as if the entire lake had left its bounds to deluge her in sweet, sweet satisfaction. Cool fire and moonlit water, t
hen the solid comfort of the earth beneath her, and the lovely stirring of a breeze over her heated skin.

  Sedgemere gave her long moments to simply glory in the experience, and to recover. Anne stroked his hair, kissed his shoulder, and wished she had words instead of fleeting caresses to offer him.

  Then he moved again inside her lazily, teasing her into another brief, blinding moment of gratification that helped Anne hold back the regret stalking her joy. When he kissed her temple, then gathered her close and simply held her, she yet managed to savor the sheer pleasure, and keep the tears at bay.

  When Sedgemere withdrew, however, and spilled his seed on her belly, she told herself his consideration was for the best, even while she wept.

  * * * * *

  Sedgemere braced himself on one elbow, the effort of withdrawing from his lover having resulted in a combination of relief—he’d done the impossible in tearing himself from her, after all—and rage. Everything in him rebelled at his caution. His body had spent itself in a confused torrent of pleasure and dismay, his mind refused to function, and even the natural wariness of the wealthy, powerful duke was looking on in bewildered disbelief.

  What would Anne think of him, nearly proposing one instant, then protecting his freedom in the next?

  Fortunately, his gentlemanly honor had maintained the upper hand, for Anne’s freedom had been protected as well.

  She passed him a handkerchief.

  “You do this part,” she said, her hand falling to the blanket in languid surrender. “I can’t move.”

  “I can’t think,” Sedgemere muttered, wiping the evidence of his passion from her pale midriff. “God above, Anne Faraday.”

  Should he propose again now? Hold her? Leave her in peace? Being a duke did not prepare a man for being a lover, much less a fiancé on offer.

  “We ought to go for a swim,” Anne said. “Though we might set the lake aboil.”

  Her voice was different, not so crisp, not so… confident.