Half his mouth quirked upward. “Unacceptable for a lady of quality, particularly unchaperoned. I am afraid my disreputable friend dictated most of the guests, and his tastes are decidedly improper.”
“I do not care, my lord.” He was near enough to her that she could smell him, citrus with a hint of mint, tinged with the sweetness of wine. “I have already told you, I do not fret over my reputation.”
His jaw tightened as he led with effortless grace, and this, too, seemed disparate with his tall, overly large frame but was unsurprising. She had danced with the Earl of Markham before. He had held her in his arms and whisked her about, and it had been heaven. He had also held her in his arms and kissed her senseless, and that, too, had been a kind of paradise. Being held in his arms once again sent a new heat cascading over her. Wholly unwanted, entirely unavoidable.
“You ought to care for your reputation, Lady Sarah. Coming here was a mistake.”
“Coming here was indeed a mistake,” she agreed tightly as he continued to whirl them about. “I can see that now. You will not accept responsibility for your actions. I ought not to be surprised. You are a dissolute rogue who dallied with one sister and then compromised another.”
He tensed beneath her touch, the only sign her words affected him at all. “I strongly caution you against further tirades, Lady Sarah. If you do not wish to add further fodder to the gossip mill, cease murdering me with your eyes.”
She missed a step, but he guided them through her faltering. Her mind reeled, as if it, too, were being turned in deliberate, sensual circles whilst in the embrace of the Earl of Markham. Nothing made sense. Everything did.
“I do not wish our audience to imagine I would ever dance with a blackguard such as yourself of my own volition,” she growled.
His feigned smile faded. “Of course, my lady. While I cannot fault you, I am afraid it may be a necessity. Your appearance here, unmasked, is ill-advised. Surely, I need not tell you that. You are an intelligent young woman. You know the gamble you have taken this evening, and yet you carried on with your plan.”
Yes, she did know. She could vouch for the veracity of his every statement concerning her reputation and the nature of his ball. Markham’s revelry was the stuff of gossip sheets: courtesans, lords, ladies, rogues, and rakehells, all converging and drowning themselves in glittering excess.
His earlier protestation returned to her suddenly. I was not in love with your sister, Sarah. My heart beat for another. It still does.
The reminder made her stiffen in his arms. Whom had he loved? And why had it not been Amelia, beautiful, sweet, loving, perfect Amelia? He ought to have worshiped the very soil her sister had trod upon. Everyone had. Markham himself had not been immune—he had compromised her, after all. And Sarah could never forgive him for it.
“At least smile at me,” he gritted then. “You are glaring at me as if you are a Seven Dials criminal about to split me open with your dagger.”
She was frowning up at him, she knew, but though Markham inspired a host of emotions within her, none of them was an inclination to murder. Her eyes searched his countenance, seeking answers.
Why was he so handsome?
Unbidden, the old sensations she had fought off for so long returned, incited by him, his nearness, his scent, his touch. Her belly clenched. Her entire body tingled with awareness. She had forgotten just how deeply the Earl of Markham affected her. In the curious absence of her fury and resentment, her other emotions—emotions she had believed long banished and buried—returned.
He towered over her, moving them about the polished floor with unprecedented ease. Still, she could not bring herself to smile, though she ceased fighting him. She no longer attempted to escape his hold. Instead, she bit her lip as the waltz carried on.
“Will you not speak?” he demanded at last, his voice strained. Irritated.
Her gaze cut to his, and she felt a jolt deep within at his bright eyes boring into hers. “What would you have me say, my lord? I do believe I have already said enough. We are at an impasse.”
“I was not the cause of your sister’s death,” he insisted again. “I want you to know that, Lady Sarah.”
She wished he had not made such an assertion, for it only served to weaken her resolve. His tone was adamant, unrelenting. Part of her—the weakest part, no doubt, wanted to believe him. He was too vehement in his denials, and his explanation earlier had been too quick and matter-of-fact to have been contrived. Her anger toward him had clouded her judgment, but now that she had the opportunity to hear him speak, she could not be so certain.
But, she reminded herself, there were other reasons she despised the Earl of Markham. “Even if you are not directly responsible for what happened to Amelia,” she allowed, “a fact which has yet to be proven, I will add, how do you explain the manner in which you dallied with the both of us?”
His nostrils flared. “I never dallied with either of you.”
A wave of humiliation crashed over her. Of course he would not think he had dallied with her. She had fancied he was courting her, and likely he had just been amusing himself, biding his time until the truly beautiful Bolingbroke sister gave him her attention.
“I suppose it is only natural that a man who conducts his life in such a fashion would make that claim,” she told him.
His grip upon her tightened. “What do you know of the manner in which I have lived my life?”
“You are the topic of gossip, my lord,” she said before she could think better of it.
After all, he had been a sought-after bachelor. His betrothal to Amelia had been the gossip of town. The attention had not ceased finding him upon her sister’s death. Rather, it had only followed him with an increasing fervor. One could not open a gossip sheet without seeing mention of Lord M.
His brow quirked. “I am honored to know you find my life of sufficient interest to merit reading the supposed specifics of it.”
He made it sound as if she had been reading for word of him.
Which she had.
But that had been before, when she had a purpose. She had been so convinced of his guilt. So determined to bring him to his knees. And instead of serving him his vengeance, she was waltzing with him.
It had been years since she had first fallen prey to the Earl of Markham. Years and a veritable lifetime. And yet, he still had the power to shake her.
“I read for my own edification,” she told him. “Not because I wish to know about you or the depravities in which you engage.”
“Are you so certain of that, Lady Sarah?” he asked with deceptive calm, bringing her body even nearer to his as they continued the waltz, moving over the ballroom, the tension between them heightening with each new step and spin.
“Of course,” she scoffed.
But she could not forget the manner in which she had once mooned over him. He had been so handsome, so debonair, so elegant, and attentive, and he had convinced her, for those charmed few weeks, he had been different. That he had been a man who appreciated her for her mind and her heart.
And then, he had crushed her incipient hope, dashing it to bitter nothings beneath the soles of his gleaming Hessians. How envious she had been of her sister, poised to become his countess. How devastated she had been to discover the man she had fallen in love with had thought so little of her, he had compromised her sister.
His head dipped lower on their next whirl, returning her to the present, and there again was the suggestion of his lips pressing to hers. His gaze lingered there, in a phantom kiss the worst part of her longed to make real, even after everything he had done, after all the painful scars he had left upon her heart.
“Liar,” he accused softly.
She nearly missed a step. “Do not delude yourself into believing I have even a bit of interest in the manner in which you choose to ruin your life, Markham. My sole reason for attending this evening was to confront you about Amelia, as it is long overdue.”
“Lie to yourself as you wish.” He pau
sed. “But you cannot lie to me. You still feel something for me. Even now.”
His words stole her breath, the ability to respond.
Because he was right.
Much to her never-ending self-loathing, he was right. Two years of grief and rage and desperation, and she still yearned for him, just as much as she had before. What was wrong with her? What magic did the Earl of Markham possess that turned her into a mindless wretch in his presence?
“You think too much of yourself,” she snapped, clinging with tenacity to her hatred.
She would not admit the way he made her feel. Not to him. Not ever. If some of her old feelings for him lingered, it was just because she had never had the opportunity to expunge them entirely. Amelia’s death had taken her by surprise, sending her into mourning, changing everything.
“It has always been there between us,” he insisted, unyielding. “You know it as well as I. From the first time we met, there has been a connection. A hunger.”
His words heightened the guilt and shame, mingling with the undeniable desire. His touch burned wherever it met her, even through the barriers of her gown and gloves. “There was nothing between us then, just as there is nothing between us now, my lord. You were a rogue who stole my first kiss, and later my sister’s betrothed, and that is all.”
“I never wished for things to end between us as they did. Damn you, it was you I wanted.” His voice was low and dark, vibrating with an intensity that had been missing from their earlier conversation. “It was always you, Sarah. Only you.”
His admission nearly sent her sprawling to the floor. Her heart was galloping. She was dizzied. His gaze was relentless. She felt as if she were drowning, struggling to keep her head above water. What had happened?
The evening was a disaster. Instead of the reckoning she had intended to force upon Markham, she was wilting beneath the force of his presence. Sternly, she attempted to summon her rage. But it had fled her, leaving only confusion in its wake, along with a strange, incipient burst of something else she could not define.
My heart beat for another. It still does.
Surely he did not mean to suggest he…harbored tender feelings for her? And surely the pang of longing within her was not longing at all but the return of her fury.
“You have no honor, my lord,” she accused.
“Precious little, any longer,” he agreed grimly.
“You are attempting to distract me from my course,” she guessed, grasping at any diversion, anything at all to keep her unwanted emotions at bay.
“I am being honest with you,” he countered, his stare intent, holding her hostage. Though they were in a crowded ballroom, he was somehow all she saw. “Do you remember anything of what we shared, my lady? Do you not remember the day I first called upon you? You were in the salon at your father’s townhouse wearing a lavender gown streaked with ink smudges. You had a poetry volume in hand. You had not expected me.”
The weight on her chest seemed suddenly heavier. “John Donne,” she remembered, along with an unwanted recollection of how handsome and charming he had been.
“‘Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee,’” he quoted. “‘Before I knew thy face or name.’”
The very air seemed to thicken. How could it be the man she had so reviled, the vessel for all her rage, the man she had believed responsible for her sister’s death, the villain who had betrayed her, could now be twirling her about his ballroom, reciting “Air and Angels?”
She recalled that day as if it had happened yesterday. He had come to her following their kiss at the ball, and he had stolen her breath and her heart.
“I remember the day.” Though she wished she did not, for it made her heart ache. “How foolish I was then.”
“Not foolish. Beautiful and smart. We discussed poetry for half an hour.” He twirled them once more, narrowly avoiding another couple to whom they had inadvertently drawn close, so mired had they both been in the past.
And, most damning of all, each other.
This was not supposed to have happened, she reminded herself. She was not meant to be waltzing with the Earl of Markham, reminiscing over the day he had stolen her heart. She still had no notion of whether or not his protestations of innocence could be trusted. She had been meant to confront him, to warn him of his impending ruination.
Her volume of poetry was already being printed, after all.
“You were a silver-tongued devil then, just as you are now.” She compressed her lips, lest she say anything further. Sarah could not trust herself any more than she could trust the earl, it would seem.
“Everything I ever said to you was true,” he insisted. “I have never lied to you, my lady.”
No. She would not allow his entreaty to soften her toward him. She forced herself to think of his betrayal, of Amelia’s death. Her life had been torn asunder from the moment she had first met the Earl of Markham.
“You did nothing but lie to me,” she countered. “You courted me, and yet you compromised my sister. You got her with child, and then you left her to suffer the consequences.”
His full lips tensed, his jaw going rigid. “I already told you, Lady Sarah, I was not responsible for the ill that befell Lady Amelia.”
“If you are not responsible, then who is?” she asked, desperation joining the guilt and unsettling yearning she could not seem to suppress.
“I suspect your sister may be the only one who can answer that question, and she is no longer here for us to ask,” he told her, his voice cool.
Sarah swallowed. She did not want to believe him, and yet part of her did. She did not want to long for him, and yet her entire being craved him. His touch, his scent, his embrace…his kiss.
She scarcely realized the waltz had ended until they ceased twirling.
Thank heavens. She needed to leave, to put some space between herself and the Earl of Markham. To make sense of everything that had happened this evening, if she even could.
He bowed to her with heart-rending elegance. She curtseyed to him in return, and then she fled, ignoring the familiar, once-beloved sound of his voice calling after her.
Chapter Four
Philip chased after Sarah, not giving a bloody damn who watched, or what manner of scandal he created. He reached her in the hall outside the ballroom, caught her arm, and hauled her into his study. Though she attempted to free herself, she was no match for his strength, and he maneuvered her with ease. He latched the door behind them before turning to face her.
“What do you think you are doing, Lord Markham?” Her hazel eyes, like her voice, snapped with anger.
“Stopping you from leaving.” Foolishly, perhaps.
But when had he ever acted sensibly in regard to her? He had fallen in love with her, it seemed to him, almost the moment he had first laid eyes upon her. All he had known, as he watched her hasty retreat, was the overwhelming instinct to keep her near. After years of longing for her but keeping his distance, he could not bear to allow her to leave him so hastily.
“You cannot keep me locked in your study.” She moved away, watching him as if he were a feral creature she did not trust.
“I am not keeping you locked within.” He gestured to the door. “Go if you must.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Step aside, and allow me to pass.”
“No.” He decided that if she wanted to fight him, to fight what still simmered so passionately between them, he would not make it easy for her. “If you wish to leave, do so, my lady.”
“You are blocking the door.”
He was standing near the door, not blocking it. But leaving would require her to brush past him, and he knew it, just as he knew she did not trust herself to be so near. After the waltz they had just shared, he had no doubt she felt the same desire for him.
“You do not trust yourself, do you?” he asked, gentling his voice. For he had no wish to argue with her. Not now.
All he wanted was the chance to hold her in his arms. To explain. All he wante
d was her. All he had ever wanted was her. And though she was infuriated with him, and though she believed the worst of him—he could not blame her for her poor opinion. He could not help but to believe there may be a chance for them. If only he could convince her to listen to reason.
“You are wrong, my lord,” she told him. “It is you whom I do not trust.”
“I do not fault you for not trusting me,” he said, moving toward her slowly, giving her the chance to run if she wished. “But it is long past time that I explained.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to explain, nothing more to be said. You were right that I should never have come here tonight.”
“Why did you come?” he asked, stopping when he was close enough to touch her once more.
Her expression turned stricken. “To tell you that you must pay for what you’ve done.”
“How?” He searched her gaze, seeking answers. She had swept down upon him like a vengeful angel, making accusations, seething with rage. But the old emotions charged their every interaction.
“It matters not.” Her full lips compressed, and he noted a sheen of tears glistening in her eyes. “If you are not responsible for what happened to my sister, I will put a stop to it.”
What the devil had she planned? He could no longer resist closing the distance separating them. Two steps, and she was in his arms once more. He felt her anger and despair as keenly as if it were his own. And he felt, too, the vastness of the chasm that had kept them apart. Amelia’s lies, his own heartache, Sarah’s pain…so much agony.
“Sarah,” he said. She felt so good, so right. Everything else—the ball, the past, her mistaken quest for vengeance against him—fell away. “I have missed you. My God, how I have missed you.”
“You had no right to miss me.” A tear trailed down her cheek. “Just as you have no right to look at me this way, to hold me, to make me wish I could forget everything that has happened and lose myself in you.”
“I am sorry for everything that has happened.” He dipped his head and caught the tear with his lips, kissing the soft skin of her cheek as he did so. “I have never deserved you, but I have never stopped wanting you or loving you.”
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 19