Closing the door on that pair of avid gazes, he told himself that Sarah’s sisters’ interest had been inevitable from the start. His only hope was that Lady Conningham was strong enough to keep them from following.
Sarah led him to the side door, then out onto the lawn. Ahead, the stable lay soaking up the afternoon sunshine.
Pacing beside her, he touched her arm. “Have you time for a longer walk?”
She smiled—delightedly; he’d just answered her question. “Yes, of course.” She glanced around. “Where should we go? Mama won’t be able to hold Clary and Gloria for long.”
“In that case, let’s get out of sight.” He gestured to the path that wended away from the house, eventually leading to the stream that burbled along a short distance behind the manor.
Sarah nodded. He offered his arm and she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. They crossed the lawn to the path; passing down an avenue of rhododendrons, they were soon effectively screened from the house.
The path reached the stream and turned, following the rushing water. They continued on, leaving the house behind.
“I assume you’ll be attending Lady Cruikshank’s dinner to night?” Sarah glanced at him. “There’ll be quite a crowd.”
“Indeed.” Charlie looked ahead. If memory served, just beyond the next bend the stream flowed into a weir. The path hugged the shore; halfway down the body of water…a summer house used to be there, of white-painted wood, nestled into the lee of the rising bank behind. He remembered it from childhood summers when his mother and Sarah’s had sat in its shade and watched their children play in the shallows or, as in his case, fish from the banks. “But yes, I’ll be there tonight.”
A stand of trees and a thicket of bushes blocked the view ahead. Passing the trees, they rounded the bend—and there stood the summerhouse.
Charlie smiled and steered Sarah toward it. “But as we’ve seen, getting any reasonable amount of time alone—time in suitable privacy so we can get to know each other better—is a tall order at this time of year.”
“Especially for you.” When he glanced at her, seeing his faint frown she smiled and looked ahead. “You’re the earl now. Even being heir to the earldom doesn’t equate with being the earl yourself—you can’t avoid any of the gatherings, not at present. Not while you remain unwed, and while the gentlemen aren’t yet sure what you might think about this topic or that.”
He grimaced. “True.” Although he’d been the earl for three years, he’d spent precious little time in the country; to many of the district’s landowners he was still something of an unknown quantity.
“That, however”—he looked ahead—“brings me to my point.”
The summer house steps were beside them. He turned her; side by side, they climbed up.
Looking around, he relaxed. The place was perfect. Wooden shutters closed off the rear archways, those facing the bank and the trees. The arches overlooking the weir remained open; in summer cooling breezes would lift off the water, but now, in winter with the weir full, slate gray beneath the massing clouds, the summer house was protected from the prevailing winds by the bank and the trees embracing it. The air beneath the ceiling was still and faintly warm, courtesy of the day’s sunshine.
Sarah drew her hand from his arm and walked to where a thickly cushioned wicker sofa sat between two similarly padded armchairs, all angled to best appreciate the view.
Most helpful of all to Charlie’s mind was the place’s seclusion. It was hidden from the house by the intervening gardens, and in this season it was highly unlikely anyone else would walk this way.
One glance around as he trailed after Sarah confirmed that the place was kept swept and dusted. There were no dead leaves anywhere, no cobwebs strung between the rafters.
Sarah had stopped before the sofa, her back to it as she surveyed the view. He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. After a moment, she turned her head, searched his eyes, then raised a brow in question.
He reached for her, turned her into his arms, and she came. Readily, without uncertainty or hesitation. He looked down at her face for a moment, then bent his head and kissed her.
Long, deeply, as he wished. As the minutes stretched, he let his hunger reign, allowed himself to appease her curiosity to some small degree. Then, with an effort, he drew back, raised his head and murmured, “They’re going to be watching us, all the matrons, all the other young ladies—even the gentlemen. Like your sisters, they’ve guessed, and as we’ve made no announcement they’ll be avidly following every move we make.”
Sarah reluctantly accepted he wasn’t going to kiss her again, at least not yet. Opening her eyes, she looked into his, into the soft blue that so often screened his thoughts; he wasn’t an easy man to read.
“You asked for a period of courtship,” he said, “for us to get to know each other better, but our social surroundings are a real constraint.”
For an instant, she wondered if he was going to ask her to decide and give him her answer now, before their two weeks were up, but before she could panic at the prospect—she had no notion what her answer should be—he went on, “We can accept those constraints—and a subsequently restricted courtship—or we can work around them.”
Her relief was real. “How do we work around them?” Even she heard the eagerness in her voice.
He smiled. “Simple. We meet here.” He gestured about them; his gaze lowered to her lips. “Each night, after what ever engagements we attend, we come here—to pursue our private, mutual agenda. We both want to, need to, get to know each other better, and we can only do that in the privacy this place, at night, will afford.”
His gaze rose to her eyes. “Will you do it? Will you meet me here tonight, and every night thereafter, until you know enough, have learned enough, to give me my answer?” She blinked, and he went on, “Will you meet me here to night after Lady Cruikshank’s dinner?”
“Yes.” To her mind there was no question; to clarify, she added, “To night after Lady Cruikshank’s dinner, and every night thereafter, until I’m sure.”
His smile held an element of triumph; she noted it, but then his arms tightened, and he kissed her again.
Another of his long, drugging, exciting and satisfying but curiously incomplete kisses; when he broke it, she had to battle a wanton urge to grab him and haul him back—to somehow demand…she knew not what. The rest, but what was that?
That was one of the as-yet-undefinable things she needed to know.
He looked into her eyes, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “We need to start for the stables, or your sisters will come searching.” Releasing her, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “Until to night.”
Entirely content, she smiled back. “Until then.”
5
Later that night, Charlie tied Storm at the edge of the manor’s gardens, then strode quickly down a narrow track that joined the path by the stream. Clouds scudded overhead; the moon was fitful, shining down one moment only to vanish in the next, dousing the path in unrelieved gloom.
Conscious of rising tension, of an edginess he ascribed to impatience to get their courtship moving in the right direction, he prayed Sarah wasn’t frightened of the dark, that she wouldn’t allow the inky shadows to deter her.
He reached the summer house, started up the steps—and saw her. She was waiting, once again before the sofa. She must have spotted him on the path; he detected no start on seeing him. Instead, as he neared, she smiled and held out her hands.
He took them, registering the softness of her skin and the delicateness of the bones between his fingers, then he lifted both her hands to his shoulders, released them, and reached for her. Sliding his hands about her waist, he gripped, and drew her to him. Not into his arms, but against him, simultaneously bending his head and covering her lips so that he tasted her surprise, that evocative leap of nerves, the first shock of sensual awakening as their bodies touched, breasts to chest, hips to thighs.
&
nbsp; Sarah caught her breath, physically and mentally; she couldn’t catch her reeling, whirling wits, but she didn’t need to. Her will remained her own and she knew what she wanted. To know, to learn all she might from this.
From this and all subsequent engagements. From his kiss, that melding of their mouths that was no longer remotely innocent, from his embrace, different tonight—his hands remained at her waist, yet she still felt his strength surrounding her, potent, male, dangerous, yet so tempting.
She slid her hands up over his shoulders, felt the heavy muscles under her palms and tensed her fingers, savoring the warm hardness, then reached further, sliding her hands up the strong column of his nape; spreading her fingers, she ran them through his hair.
Fascinated, she ruffled the heavy locks, thrilling to the silky texture and the way he reacted, the kiss, and him, heating at her boldness.
She knew what she wanted—she wanted more. Wanted him to show her more, to let her see what lay behind his newfound desire for her. So she kissed him back, more definite, more demanding in her own right, inviting…he hesitated for an instant, then accepted, plucked the reins from her grasp and took control.
He swept her into some hotter, more urgent existence.
He kissed her more deeply, more thoroughly, more evocatively, until heat swamped her, threatening to melt her bones, until her wits were no longer reeling, but flown. Until her skin was flushed, until her body felt simultaneously unbearably languid and indescribably tense.
Waiting, but she wasn’t sure for what.
Charlie reminded himself of her innocence, that she was all the word implied; she had no notion of what she hungered for, what she was inviting as her tongue boldly met his and stroked, caressed.
All her responses, enticing though they were, were instinctive, flavored with that distinctive fresh and heady taste he now associated with her. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, something other than those on whom his experience was based; the difference logically had to be a symptom of the way she differed from all the rest—that singular quality was the taste of innocence.
He’d never expected to find innocence so addictive. So arousing.
So powerfully alluring that he had to battle, actually had to exert his will against his own inclinations, against a welling, remarkably strong desire to sweep her up in his arms, lay her on the sofa, and…
But that wasn’t his purpose, not to night. To night, and over those to come, he was, he inwardly reiterated, committed to playing a long game. Tactics, strategy, and how to influence a negotiation. She had something he wanted; to night he was sweetening his price.
So he held her against him, his hands at her waist, too wise to tempt his baser self by taking her into his arms; it was not part of to night’s agenda to crush her to him…not yet. Not until she was ready, not until she yearned for that contact with a hunger even greater than his own.
He continued to kiss her evocatively, commandingly, letting passion rise, writhe and beckon—until she clung to his shoulders, the fingers of one hand sunk in his hair, until her body was heated, pliant, and wanting.
He drew back; he had to fight to do it but he held to his purpose and freed her lips. Felt her breath wash over his and had to battle the urge to sink back into the delectable cavern of her mouth and take. Taste. More.
He inwardly swore. He would, soon, but not to night. To night…
Muscles bunching, he raised his head and eased her back. “Enough.”
He wasn’t sure whom he was addressing the command to—her, or himself. He waited until she lifted her lids, until the dazed haze faded from her eyes and she blinked, and refocused. On his face. She quickly scanned it as if trying to read his direction. He would have smiled, reassuring and calm, but his features felt graven.
“It’s late.” He forced his hands from her waist, reluctantly relinquishing the feel of her body supple and lithe between his palms. “Come. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
Sarah found the next day trying, and the evening was even worse, complicated by being able to see Charlie, being able to sense his impatience for their next meeting in the summer house, which in turn fed her own.
The evening dragged while her father played host to the other local landowners, using a dinner to consult over matters pertaining to the local hunt. By the time the gentlemen eventually rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, her frustration had reached new heights; as their neighbors milled and chatted, keeping a sweet smile on her face and polite and appropriate comments on her lips was a distracting irritation.
At last they all left, Charlie included. Surrounded as they parted in the front hall, she had no chance to learn whether he intended to drive home and then ride back, or whether instead he would drive the grays out of the gates and around to the weir through the fields. As she climbed the stairs behind her mother, she weighed distances and times against the likelihood of him leaving his precious pair in a field, and couldn’t be certain; she remained unsure at what hour to expect him, at what hour he would reach the summer house.
Yet she was absolutely sure he would come. Sometime that night he would return, and she would be able to learn, if not all, then at least more.
Reaching her bedchamber, she sent her sleepy maid, Gwen, to bed, and regretfully changed out of her pretty silk evening gown and donned an old plain walking dress instead. If by some chance she was discovered wandering the gardens in the dead of night, she could say she’d been unable to sleep and had taken a short walk.
Selecting a woolen shawl that at least matched the gown, she blew out her candle and sat down before the dying fire to wait until her parents went to bed and the house quieted.
Half an hour later, she rose and slipped out. She crept down the side stairs and eased open the side door; exercising caution, she walked slowly, drifting from shadow to shadow across the lawn.
Once she gained the path and was out of sight of the house, she picked up her pace; drawing the shawl firmly about her shoulders, she allowed her mind to focus on what lay ahead.
Literally, and figuratively.
After last night…she’d returned to her room, her bed, and unexpectedly fallen into a sound sleep. But she’d had all day to mull over Charlie’s actions, his direction; it seemed clear enough that he intended to tempt her into marriage with desire. With the promise of passion, and all that would mean.
Why else had he stopped? Why else had he drawn such a definite line at such a relatively early—and unrevealing—point? She’d sensed his control, the steely will he’d ruthlessly wielded in order to stop when he had; he hadn’t stopped because he’d truly wanted to, but because it was part of his plan.
His plan wasn’t, quite, what she wanted, but his direction suited her well enough.
She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t appreciate that he could well make her so desperate to experience the ultimate plea sure that she would set aside all reservations and agree to marry him regardless of whether he loved her or not. In falling in with his scheme, she was taking a risk, yet against that stood the reality that in order to learn what she needed to know, his plan—essentially to seduce her into marriage—held out the best prospect of her gaining what she wanted, of revealing to her why he was so set on marrying her. Specifically her.
She’d asked, but he hadn’t truly answered; he’d given her all the conventional reasons, but such reasons weren’t enough for her, and, more importantly, she was quite sure they weren’t—wouldn’t have been—enough for him, enough to move him to offer for her.
He could have had his pick of every eligible, or even not-so-eligible, young lady in the ton, but he’d chosen her. And despite her ambivalence, her insistence on being wooed—her refusal to meekly fall in with his initial plan—he was still, indeed it seemed he was now even more, determined to marry her.
Which either augered well or was simply a demonstration of his ruthless habit of insisting on having his own way.
She rounded the bend in the path, an
d the summer house came into view. Whichever of those two options was correct, by following his script she would learn the truth. The truth of why he wanted her.
He was waiting; she saw his tall figure shift in the shadows, pushing away from the archway against which he’d been leaning. Lungs tightening, she lifted her skirts and climbed the steps.
Again they met before the sofa. He held out a hand as she neared; she gave him her hand, conscious of his strength as he grasped it.
Smoothly, he drew her closer; lifting her hand, he brushed his lips lightly, lingeringly, over the sensitive backs of her fingers, then, holding her gaze, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
Her pulse leapt.
They had no need for words; they both knew why they were there.
His lips, hot, trailed along the bare inner face of her forearm, sending sensation streaking through her, a prelude, a sensual warning as he raised her hand higher, releasing it to fall on his shoulder as he drew her to him.
Fully against him, as he had the previous night, but this time his arm went around her, a steely band that held her trapped, that caged her as he bent his head. Eagerly she lifted her face and met his lips with hers.
She inwardly smiled, savoring the firm pressure of his lips, then she yielded to his explicit demand and gave him her mouth. And let her wits slide away as sensation bloomed, as she sensed hunger flare, in herself and in him.
They’d waltzed only once, and that months ago; this was a waltz of a different sort, where their senses revolved in time to a beat orchestrated by sensation. By the heavy stroke of his tongue against hers, by the whirling, fractured pricking of her nerves, by the escalating tempo of her heart.
By the tensing of his fingers on her back as he tightened his grip on his control.
Engrossed, enthralled, she savored the sensual slide into the familiar passion of the kiss, and willingly followed his lead.
The Taste of Innocence Page 8