She was aware, yet not—acutely aware of him, his lips, his hands, his body, and the flagrant promise carried in his embrace, yet she’d grown strangely insensitive to the world around them, the shadows beyond his arms, the soft sounds of the night beyond the summerhouse, the distant babble of water over the lip of the weir.
Here, now, with him; her world had shrunk, senses intently, intensely focused. On the next stage in his plan.
She quivered, prey to building anticipation, to the shivery thrill of expectation. To the steady rise of a wanting she was coming to think must be desire.
Sunk in the warm pleasures of her mouth, Charlie tracked her responses. He knew to a nicety, to a single shaky breath, just when to ease back enough to slide one hand beneath her shawl. Setting his palm to her waist, he swept upward, lightly tracing her side, then the outer curve of her breast.
The shiver she’d been suppressing became a reality, a response that incited, that invited him to touch, to caress, so he did. At first gently tracing the swelling curves, then subtly stroking so that she heated and yearned; only then did he shape her flesh, curve his hand about the firm mound and gently squeeze, then more evocatively knead.
Her mouth surrendered, her hands once more gripping his skull, her fingers twining in his hair, she arched against his supporting arm, gratifyingly pressing her breast more fully into his hand, offering and inviting—even demanding—his further attentions. The movement set her hips riding more definitely against his thighs.
The latter caught him unawares, set fires where he didn’t yet need them burning. For a moment, he teetered, then plunged back into the kiss, distracting his awakening demons long enough to catch his sensual breath.
Since when could a mere innocent override his will, tried and tested as it was, forged in the steamy, highly sensual world of the upper echelons of the haut ton? His rational mind scoffed, confident and assured. Reassured, he eased his focus once more from the delights of her luscious mouth; taking a firmer, more determined grip on his reins, he returned to the execution of his plan.
Responding to her clear invitation, he let his fingers find, circle, then gently tweak her nipples. Already furled, they tightened even more; he played, and made her gasp. Made her catch her breath and cling, not just physically but mentally, caught on that sensual hook between need and gratification.
But that wasn’t yet enough. His rational mind once again intruded, reminding him that she hadn’t proved to be as malleable as he’d expected; if he wished to succeed, then showing her more, introducing her to more passionate, and more addictive, delights, was only sensible.
As he was going to win—to win her hand and marry her—there was no reason, social or moral, that prohibited him from showing her a great deal more.
Thus went his rationalization, but even while his mind trod those paths, he was conscious, more conscious, of a primitive compulsion to touch her—not for her benefit but for his.
Not for the delight of her increasingly clamorous senses, but for his own.
As his fingers found the buttons closing her bodice, there was no thought in his mind beyond the need to touch her. Beyond satisfying that—his need, not hers.
He distracted her by engaging her in a more heated exchange, a brief duel of tongues to keep her wits whirling. The gown was old, well-worn; the buttons slid easily from their tiny toggles.
And then her bodice gaped; he pressed one side wide, and slid his hand beneath.
Through the heat of the kiss, she gasped, but then he set his palm to the fine silk of her chemise, sliding over even finer, much hotter silken skin, and she froze. Trembled. Tensed as he caressed, as yet undemanding but insistent, then he searched with his fingertips, found the ribbon he sought, and tugged.
The ribbon unraveled.
With a practiced flick, he hooked the chemise over her tightly furled nipple, and then her breast was in his palm.
Skin to hot skin. Sweet sensation and fire.
Both flooded him, and her.
He closed his hand, hungry, greedy, needing; expertise gentled his touch, kept the caress just this side of possessive, but that was sheer instinct.
His wits had suspended, submerged beneath a ravenous passion.
A passion that roared as the fire flared and spread through her—from his increasingly driven touch, through their kiss—and she melted.
She sank against him in wanton abandon, with flagrant promise and in blatant invitation.
As he wished, she wanted. Every instinctive response she made screamed that to his witless, wholly mesmerized brain.
Heavy and swollen, her breast burned his palm, the furled nipple a hot bead, one his mouth watered to taste.
He felt giddy, drunk on sensation. She was hot and so malleable within his arms, pliant, nubile, supple, and seductive. It was as if he embraced a steadily burning flame, a sensual being of heat and glory, an elemental creature lured forth by passion.
Steeped in it.
He drank her fire, supped it from her lips as she eagerly offered it. Plunged deeper into the beckoning flames, felt them lick over him as she arched against him, felt them spreading, urgent and compelling, beneath his skin, setting his own fires raging.
His arm at her back was tensing to sweep her up so he could lay her on the sofa behind him when his rational mind clawed back to the surface and stopped him.
Not cold. He still burned, ached, wanted; something within him raged at the suddenly jerked leash, but…this wasn’t his plan.
He’d been derailed; like one of the new locomotives he’d rocketed off his intended track. As with a runaway locomotive, it took immense effort to pull back and regroup.
Enough to understand that if he wanted to rescue his plan, he had to end this now.
Now, before her passion again overwhelmed his will.
He had to steel himself, force himself to draw his hand from her breast. He couldn’t hide his reluctance, even though he tried to conceal it behind his customary control, as if drawing back was what he wanted to do.
Abruptly pulled from the fiery depths they’d been exploring—she’d thought in perfect harmony—Sarah mentally blinked, but as his hand left her breast, as the arm around her eased, she realized that he wasn’t intending to allow them to indulge in the rest of the symphony.
The analogy was apt; she felt the disappointment, the same unhappy wrench, from having something temptingly pleasant dangled before her, and then removed from her reach.
Even as he—albeit with obvious reluctance—lifted his head and broke the kiss, even as she moistened her lips, lifted her heavy lids and looked into his shadowed face, she was conscious of uncharacteristic anger stirring within her.
She studied his face; he was looking down as he did up the buttons he’d undone. She made no move to help him, but examined the angular planes of cheek and brow, the strong line of his jaw.
Every facet seemed harder, more sharply delineated. His breathing, while not as rushed as hers, was nevertheless no longer slow and even.
She hadn’t imagined it. He’d been as affected as she, as drawn into the heated plea sure, but…of course he’d drawn back.
That was his plan. She resisted the urge to narrow her eyes at him, bit her tongue against an impulse to tell him she knew what he was trying to do. Calmed herself as he released the last button and, slowly, let his hands fall, reassured herself that, in letting him pursue his plan, she’d furthered her own.
Something had risen between him and her that had, at least temporarily, shaken his control. The knowledge allowed her to smile, smugly if a trifle dazedly, when his eyes rose and met hers.
“That was—” To her surprise her voice had lowered. She’d grown used to his doing so, but never before had she heard her own voice take on such a tone. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin. “I was going to say that was pleasant, but that’s such an inadequate description perhaps I’d do better to say nothing at all.”
He grinned, almost boyishly, and sudden
ly the air felt lighter. He glanced beyond her, toward the weir. Turning, she felt the night breeze as she’d never before felt it, sliding cooling fingers over her heated skin.
The sensation was evocative; she shivered more from remembered plea sure than from any chill.
“Come.” He spoke from behind her. “I’ll see you into the house.”
He lifted her shawl from her elbows to her shoulders; with a nod, she tightened it about her, then gave him her hand.
He closed his about it, engulfing her fingers.
Without a word, they walked back to the house.
Once again to her surprise, Sarah slept like one dead.
She woke late, and then had to rush. What with preparing to attend Lady Farthingale’s luncheon and then traveling to Gilmore, her ladyship’s house, she had no time to ponder what she’d learned the previous night before she laid eyes on Charlie across her ladyship’s drawing room.
She walked in and there he was, chatting with Mrs. Considine beside the fireplace. She hadn’t imagined he would be there, not at such a function; she had to battle not to stare.
The fact that all the other matrons and their daughters were staring avidly at her helped; clearly everyone knew of their courtship, unannounced though it was.
Facing the fireplace, Charlie sensed the expectant hiatus and turned. Their gazes met; both of them stilled, then, his lips curving in just the right degree of welcome, he held out his hand.
Leaving her mother and sisters to join what group they chose, she went to him, and prayed the sudden leaping of her senses didn’t show.
Charlie took her hand and bowed, entirely nonchalantly; the touch of his fingers on hers made her pulse thud, her nerves skitter. He sensed it, or perhaps he felt the same shooting awareness. He met her gaze briefly as he straightened, then set her hand on his sleeve and turned back to his companion. “Mrs. Considine was telling me of the new breed of sheep her son has been trialing.”
Despite the district being all but overrun with the beasts, Sarah knew little of them—the breeds, the herding, the pasturing, the shearing. She did, however, know a considerable amount about spinning and weaving.
Aware of that, Mrs. Considine fixed her with an inquiring look. “The new breed gives a much different fleece, dear. The wool is finer than the usual—if it were you, which of the mills would you send it to?”
Sarah considered, conscious of Charlie’s interest—both as to why she’d been asked, and what her answer would be. “If the fleeces are thicker, which I assume they must be, I’d take it to Corrigan’s in Wellington. They’re a smaller concern, but they’re better equipped to work on something that might need extra care. Most others would just put it through their regular process rather than developing the wool to its best.”
“Corrigan’s, heh?” Mrs. Considine nodded. “I’ll tell Jeffrey—he’ll be pleased I had the forethought to ask.”
After recommending that Charlie try the new breed, Mrs. Considine moved away.
Shifting to face him, Sarah met his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
His expression turned grim, but the effect was limited to his eyes, which only she could see, rather than his features, which far too many of the surrounding ladies were monitoring closely. “I didn’t realize it was this sort of gathering.” He cast a glance around; only she was near enough to detect what seemed very like desperation. “I assumed there would be at least some gentlemen present.”
He meant gentlemen like him; she refrained from pointing out that other than him, there were few in the immediate locality. “There are seven other males present, and all of them are gentlemen.”
“Two ancient codgers and five still-wet-behind-the-ears whelps,” he growled. “I feel like a carnival freak.”
She smothered a chuckle. “Well, why did you come?”
He looked at her, met and held her gaze—and said nothing at all. But she felt his answer, could read the exasperated frustration in his eyes. Her breath caught. For an instant she wondered if he would—
Instead, he said, low, just for her, “You know why I came. I thought…” He grimaced. “Clearly I miscalculated.”
She understood all too well. She felt the same, the same rush of eagerness to touch, better yet to kiss, to sink together…she still felt breathless. “Regardless, now you’re here, you can’t cut and run. You’ll have to make the best of it.”
“Precisely my conclusion.” Retaking her hand, he set it on his sleeve, shifting to stand beside her, his gaze again passing over the interested onlookers. “Aside from all else, there’s clearly no reason for us to pretend to polite indifference.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“So how is it that you know so much about wool processing?” He started slowly strolling down the room, she assumed to forestall any who might think to join them.
“I mentioned that when the children at the orphanage turn fourteen, we find them employment in the nearest towns. We take a close interest in the businesses to which we send our boys and girls, so we know the sort of work the children will be doing. That means learning about the business processes in some detail.” She glanced at him. “I know a great deal about the workings of the mills and factories in Taunton and Wellington.”
He digested that. “Do you know much about the ware houses and wharves in Watchet?”
“Not to the same extent. Mr. Skeggs takes care of those.”
“I must remember to call on Skeggs.” He caught her eye. “Or perhaps I could catch him sometime at the orphanage.”
She grinned. “After that game of bat and ball, you’ll always be welcome.”
He smiled and looked ahead.
Despite the attention focused on them, he stuck by her side, chatting to those of the matrons it was impossible to avoid, then when luncheon was announced, holding her plate while she helped herself to salmon, then following at her heels along the board, sampling most of the dishes but with an idle, abstracted air.
They sat at a small table to eat. Clary and Gloria joined them; Sarah watched in some amusement as Charlie, resigned, responded to their sallies with a pointed patience that eventually had the desired effect. Her sisters retreated to look for jellies, and were distracted by friends on the way back.
Most of the company were likewise distracted. There were still eyes turned their way, but not the relentless covert observation that had initially been focused on them. For the first time, Sarah felt able to draw a free breath.
Unbidden, her gaze slid to Charlie; seated beside her, he was looking down unseeing at his empty plate, his mind elsewhere.
His attention focused, abruptly, on her. He didn’t move, didn’t shift so much as a finger, but a stillness came over him, and she knew.
Then he lifted his head, and his eyes met hers. There was heat in the blue, and a lure, something that beckoned, to which she instantly responded.
Her body warmed, came alive; her skin tightened, her nerves grew taut. Her nipples peaked, contracted.
She caught her breath, wrenched her gaze from his and looked away. Told herself this was madness. Swallowed, and still felt giddy.
Just that one look, and she could remember the feel of his lips on hers, of his hand on her breast. And he was remembering it, too.
Her lips throbbed.
He was there, near, and her treacherous senses remembered all too well, and wanted more. Now. That their surroundings were completely inappropriate didn’t seem to matter in the least.
Unable to help herself, she glanced at him. He was looking at the table again, but once again not seeing. Again he felt her gaze, glanced at her, then abruptly rose, his chair scraping on the floor.
He held out a hand. “Come.” With his head, he indicated the others all rising and making for the door. “It appears we’re to be subjected to some music.”
His tone made it clear he expected it to be torture; in all honesty, she couldn’t reassure him. Giving him her hand, she got to her feet.
His gri
p, the way he moved his chair out of her way—all screamed of harnessed frustration. Of a tension not just equal to hers but greater.
While she didn’t know, not in a practical sense, what lay ahead in his plan, he did. That was presumably what was feeding his mood, lending it such a sharp edge.
He led her to join the others as they filed out of the dining room and headed for the music room, keeping to the rear of the crowd.
Her nerves were still fluttering, flickering, wanting; she drew in a breath and firmly suppressed her distracting thoughts. Considered him, here and now, instead, and drew some small satisfaction that he was as affected as she.
All the others had entered the music room; for one moment they were alone in the corridor. He bent his head and murmured by her ear, “To night. Will you be there?”
She met his eyes. Very nearly said “Of course” in a surprised tone that would have made him think twice. Made him suspect.
Searching his eyes, she confirmed that he had no inkling that she knew what he was about, that she understood his plan. She opened her mouth, tempted to set him straight; instead, she merely said, “Yes. All right.”
As if she’d needed to be asked. To be reminded.
He nodded and escorted her into the room. He found two chairs by the wall. Settling beside him, she reflected that there was a significant difference between being innocent and being naive, one he—never truly innocent, let alone naive—transparently didn’t appreciate.
She might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive.
He would learn soon enough. Night by night, as they met in the summer house, pursuing his plan—and hers.
She was waiting for him in the summer house that night. She reached for him as he reached for her. She framed his face as their lips met and they sank immediately into a heated kiss, as their bodies met, and pressed close, wanting, knowing, knowing enough to want more.
Heat flared, passion followed. In seconds they were caught in an untempered exchange, in a tempestuous, compulsive expression of their need.
For each other; that was the wonder of it, the point that reached her through their mutual urgency, sliding through her mind even as her wits sank beneath the surging sensations. It was a point that fascinated.
The Taste of Innocence Page 9