Folding her arms, Sarah leaned against the door frame and watched him go. He disappeared for a while, shielded by the dip and the houses of Crowcombe, then reappeared, trotting as fast as the cob would go south along the road to Taunton.
She heard a footstep behind her and turned her head. Katy Carter appeared and came to stand by her shoulder; wiping her hands on her apron, she looked out—at the dwindling figure of the solicitor.
“Said as he had an offer to make you, one you couldn’t refuse.” Katy shot Sarah a questioning look.
She met it with a grin. “In that, he was mistaken. It was an offer to buy the farm, house and land, but I explained I had no interest in selling.”
Katy nodded, turning back into the house. “Aye, well, I didn’t think you would. Old Lady Cricklade would turn in her grave.”
Looking out once more, Sarah chuckled. “She’d come back to haunt me.” She smiled at the memory of the gaunt, autocratic figure she’d been so fond of, heard again her godmother’s strident tones.
Glancing back as Katy headed for the kitchen, Sarah called, “Katy, if there is any talk of people wanting to buy the farm, do reassure the others—I won’t sell.”
Katy flashed a reassuring smile. “Aye, I’ll do that.”
Sarah looked out again, content to stand in the doorway and gaze across the valley to the rippling rise of the Quantocks. Behind her the orphanage hummed, full of life, full of hope. She’d been inducted into her caregiving role by godmother and mother, but she remained because she wished to, because the orphanage gave her something, too.
As the sun, slanting low, struck beneath the clouds to illuminate the opposite slopes, still cloaked in their winter drab, she tried to define what that something was; she concluded that the orphanage was one of her places, the places in which she had a role to fill, one that in turn fulfilled her, and as such it was a necessary part of her life.
It was, however, only one aspect of her life, one piece in a jigsaw. A jigsaw she’d yet to define, to find enough pieces and set them in place so that she could see the whole.
Her life revealed.
The thought brought her mind back to the subject that, over the past week, had consumed it. Charlie, and his offer. Two items, two pieces, but in reality inseparable; if she wanted one, she had to accept the other. Over all the countless hours she’d spent considering, the real question she’d grappled with was: Was he, and the position he offered, also an essential part of her life?
Should she gladly grasp what he offered, accept it and fit it into her jigsaw?
Would it—and he—fit?
That was the critical question, and while she still didn’t know the answer, she knew a great deal more than when he’d so unexpectedly asked her to be his bride.
As he’d stated, they shared a common background, even to the countryside of their birth; contemplation had confirmed there was significant comfort to be drawn from that. Aside from all else, in moving to his home, she would still be surrounded by people she knew. While he would have friends and acquaintances she didn’t know in London and elsewhere beyond the valley, here, at home, their acquaintance was in virtually all respects shared.
Much in their lives was already the same.
Overall, it was difficult to find anything in all that he was physically—as a person, a man, all his possessions and known habits—with which to cavil.
As for less tangible concerns, such as what he felt or might feel for her, she now knew his offer wasn’t solely driven by logic, by the conventional reasons. That there was some other emotion influencing him, although exactly what that was she’d yet to learn. Regardless, it was patently one if not more of the emotions she would want to know he felt for her—passion, desire, even perhaps love. That last remained to be seen, literally, but…what he felt for her might be all she wished it to be.
She considered that, considered what he made her feel, and regretted that while she suspected that given the way he responded to her that what they felt toward each other was in many ways the same, reciprocal and matching, she’d yet to define to her satisfaction what she felt for him, whether or not she truly loved him.
Fascination, enthrallment to the point of sensual abandon, yes, but did that equate to love?
After a moment she left that point as it was—unresolved—and moved on. What else had she learned? While he obviously wished for children, that he liked them and could and would play with them was a definite bonus.
She scanned her mental list, and was surprised by how many ticks were now in place. Eyes on the road below, she saw another rider pass by, was reminded of Haynes and his client’s offer…
Slowly she straightened, lungs tightening.
If she married Charlie, what would happen to the orphanage? It was a bequest to her, but was now part of her property and, as such, on her marriage, would pass legally to her husband.
She stood and stared unseeing at the rolling dips of the hills, then tightening her arms around herself, she turned and headed inside.
She would have to speak with Charlie.
8
That night the moon was full; riding a clear sky untrammeled by clouds, it cast a stark radiance over the hills, silvering the ripples on the weir and streaming into the summer house, where Charlie waited.
There’d been no social gathering to endure that evening; he’d come to the summer house early, hoping Sarah would do the same. Regardless, he’d rather wait here, close to her and the promise of the night, than in the confines of Morwellan Park under the eyes of his observant family.
He paced slowly, conscious, minute by minute, of the hardening of anticipation, of the sharpening of his desire, then he saw Sarah marching along the path—and immediately knew something was wrong.
Arms folded, her shawl clutched about her, she walked quickly along, her gaze fixed not on the summer house but on the path ahead of her.
Her attention wasn’t locked on him, and what was to come; she was absorbed with some other concern.
Had she been any other lady, he would have been irritated that her focus wasn’t on him, and all they might shortly do. Instead, his anticipation, his desire, smoothly, from one heartbeat to the next—at that simple sight of her—transmuted into something else.
He was waiting when she climbed the steps and walked into the softly lit shadows. “What is it?”
She’d raised her head. Drawing close, she blinked at his question, then accepted he’d seen her abstraction and replied, “I was at the orphanage today, and…” Halting before him, through the moonlight, she scanned his face, then, chin firming, continued, “If I accept your offer and marry you, the orphanage, as property I own, will pass into your hands.”
It was his turn to blink. He hadn’t considered that, yet what she said was true.
Pressing her hands together, she turned and paced. “What you may not appreciate is that, to me, the orphanage is considerably more than mere property. As I mentioned, it was left to me by Lady Cricklade, my godmother, of whom I was especially fond, and ever since I was young, both she and Mama encouraged me to take an active interest in the place, not simply oversee it from a distance.”
Halting before one of the arched openings, she lifted her head and gazed out at the weir. “For some years now, I’ve been in charge of running the place.” She turned and through the shadows looked at him. “That takes time, and effort, and care, but in return the orphanage gives me untold satisfaction on many levels.”
She paused, then said, “If I marry, you or anyone else, quite aside from the obligation I feel to Lady Cricklade’s legacy, I doubt that I could happily surrender all that—the interest and the consequent satisfaction. I certainly wouldn’t do so willingly.”
He walked to join her before the arch; she faced him, and the moonlight poured over her features. “There’s no reason what ever for you to give up anything at all. It’s a simple enough mattter.”
He met her eyes, his mind racing, assessing the ways. “You’re
correct in thinking that when we marry ownership of Quilley Farm will pass to me, but we can stipulate as part of the marriage settlements that that title will form part of your dower property. We can arrange that the title, plus a suitable sum invested to provide income for the farm’s upkeep, be set aside for your exclusive use from our wedding day, remaining yours as part of your dower property in the event of my death, to pass on your death to our joint heirs.”
Pausing, he considered, then arched a brow. “Does that meet with your approval?”
Her approval, and rather more. Sarah nodded. “Yes.” She’d known he wasn’t marrying her for money, or for any property she might own, yet she hadn’t expected…“The sum invested…?”
His lips curved. “Consider it in the light of a wedding gift—one of the benefits that will accrue once you marry me.”
She found herself smiling; he was incorrigible in pursuit of a goal, but of his determination she’d never been in doubt. Yet she was surprised—first that he’d been so attuned to her troubled thoughts before she’d said one word or even met his eyes. More, that he’d been so immediately focused on what was troubling her that not one iota of his customary sensual predatory intent toward her had shown through; instead, he’d been the embodiment of a chivalrous knight intent on slaying what ever dragons had dared to darken her path.
A fanciful thought, yet, as she studied him through the shadows, that image lingered. She stirred, then, wrapped in moonlit dark, moved to him; lifting her hands, placing them on his chest, she slowly slid them up to his shoulders as she stepped closer still.
As she boldly pressed herself to him, stretched up, and lightly touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”
She drew back, just enough to focus on his face—to see the change in the austere planes as desire infused and etched his features. The tone he’d employed in discussing the orphanage, brisk, businesslike, his investor’s voice, had reassured her even more than his words. She now knew all she needed to know on the physical plane. Only one question remained.
And she wasn’t averse to grasping unexpected opportunity and turning it to her purpose—to gain the answer to that one remaining question.
Lowering her gaze, she let it fasten on his lips. “That’s a very generous…suggestion.” Hands on his shoulders, she pushed; he hesitated for an instant, then acquiesced and allowed her to steer him back—until the back of his calves hit the sofa. At her prodding, he sat.
She followed, one hand on his shoulder as she brazenly flicked up her skirt and lifted one knee, then the other, placing them on the cushions on either side of his thighs. Her shawl fell disregarded to the floor as she sat, then edged forward along his hard thighs, leaned in, breast to chest, and kissed him.
Flagrantly, blatantly enticing; she was sure she didn’t need to specify that this was her chosen way of thanking him. Nor did she think, as their lips parted, then fused, as their tongues found each other’s and dueled, as his hands rose to close firm and strong about her waist, that she needed to explain which path she wished to follow.
This time, however, she intended to reach the end.
Charlie sat back, content with her direction, perfectly content, with her lips ravishing his, to follow her lead, to let her lead for the moment. To let the taste of her innocence wreathe through his brain.
Between them, he opened her bodice, bared her breasts for his delectation, then closed his hands over them, heard her shattered sigh, felt her flesh warm and firm beneath his palms, and rejoiced. Her lips taunted and challenged. Inwardly smug, he drew her up, one arm across her hips; bending her back, he set his lips to her flushed skin, and heard her gasp.
He set about orchestrating a symphony from her, one of sensual, abandoned moans and short, breathy gasps, punctuated by near-sobs of entreaty. Each sound acted powerfully on him, fed and lured his prowling hunger, made it yearn and strain all the more to break free, so it could feast, so it could gorge on her and be sated. More deeply and completely than ever before.
Of that last he was certain, although how he knew he didn’t know, yet instinct, sure and absolute, assured him it was—would be—so.
But that wasn’t part of his plan, not to night. To night was for twisting the sensual rack one notch tighter, for turning the screws of their sensual tension just a tad more—enough to make her wild with wanting, enough to make her agree to be his.
Soon. She had to agree soon.
That was the only real thought in his brain as he feasted on her flushed breasts, as her soft cries of delight fell on his ears, as he felt her fingers twine and tangle in his hair. She was responsive, and made no move to hide it, no effort what ever to conceal from him all that he made her feel.
Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids as he raised his head enough to look down on the rosy mounds he’d captured, enough to gloat over their beauty, enough to feel sharp, lancing satisfaction over their swollen roundness, their sumptuous weight, at the tightly furled nipples he slowly rolled between his fingertips.
She sucked in a tight, tortured breath. Her fingers, locked in his hair, tightened, then clenched. She tugged and he lifted his face—so that they could kiss again, so he could raise one hand and frame her face and sink into the luscious haven of her mouth. So he could taste her again and enjoy.
He did, then abruptly found his head reeling. Between them, she’d reached down and found him, hard as steel, as rigid as iron. She touched, then pressed her palm to his aching length, through the fabric of his breeches boldly caressed.
And he was lost. Caught and swept adrift on an upswell of sensual heat, on a sharply rising wave of burning desire.
Before he could catch his breath, before he could summon enough wit, let alone will, to catch her hand and remove it, she slumped against him, bare breasts to his now equally bare chest—when had she managed that?—and murmured, her voice low and sultry, a siren’s whisper in the night, “You want me—why?”
He couldn’t think, so he didn’t answer.
Her hand shifted, fingers seeking, sliding. Eyes closed, he clung to sanity, tried to remember his plan…he’d had one, hadn’t he?
“You don’t want to marry me for money—I’m not that wealthy and you’re already rich.”
The words feathered over his lips as she supped, sipped, then let her lips drift to trace the line of his clenched jaw. All the while her fingers played. His tensed on her back, then slid to her sides and gripped; he should lift her away, at least enough to gather his scattered wits, but she was swaying, just a little side to side, against him—the feel of her breasts caressing his chest was too tempting. He hesitated, not wanting to cut short the feeling, not yet, not until his parched senses had drunk their fill.
“You’re not marrying me for dynastic reasons, either.” She purred the words into his ear, for one instant closed her hand, then eased her hold. “My family’s not important enough for that. If anything, the Conninghams are a trifle low on the scale for an alliance with the earls of Meredith.”
Her statements reached him through a steadily rising tide of desire; arguing was beyond him, not least because all she said was true.
“And you’re certainly not marrying me for any cachet I personally might bring you—I’m not a diamond of the first water, no spectacular beauty, no toast of the ton.” She raised her head and looked into his face. “I’m not and never have been a trophy to be won.”
He tried to frown. That was wrong. He might not have seen her naked yet, but his senses in respect to womanly beauty had been educated to the highest degree; when he finally had her naked in his arms, she would be a goddess, skin pearly white, every curve a delight, every line of her body created just for him—solely and deliberately to sate his senses. “I—”
She laid a finger across his lips. “You want me.” Her hand shifted, stroked; there was no point arguing. “But why?” She tilted her head, through the moon-washed shadows searched his face, his eyes. “Why do you want me?”
Then she waited. And
he realized he would have to answer. That with her hand, small, warm, intensely feminine, cradling his rampant erection, with his senses reeling, with his hunger clawing so close to his surface, he no longer had any other option; he no longer possessed the strength to deny her, to turn her straightforward, direct, and highly pertinent query aside.
He also couldn’t lie—not to her, not here and now with the heat of passion shimmering all around them. The lick of flame was almost palpable on his skin as he drew breath and managed, “Because you’re you.” His voice was low, a dark, gravelly rumble to answer her sultry siren’s call. He looked into her eyes, then let his gaze fall to her lips. He licked his, and confessed, “You are what I want.”
There were no other words he could find to express what she made him feel, what he felt for her. How he felt about her and only her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman before. The feelings, now she’d forced him to look, were strange, different, not anything so simple as the customary desire a man felt for a woman, a desire with which he was amply familiar. This was something different, and if he were truthful, always had been. He’d told himself it was because she was the one he’d chosen to be his wife, but that begged her question. What was this he felt?
All he knew was that it was stronger, that the passion flared hotter, the desire ranging that much more deeply and widely, all-encompassing in its power.
It had continually surprised him, and now, sitting in the moonlit dark with her so close, so wantonly enticing, with her direction—the fullness of it—there in her eyes, he discovered that it was even stronger than he’d thought.
That it wasn’t fueled solely by his need but by hers as well, and together, combined, their mutual wanting held power enough to turn his head.
She hadn’t said anything, but had studied him; now she smiled her siren’s smile, as if his answer had been sufficient to pay her price. That softly glowing smile stated that she was, if not completely appeased, then satisfied enough, more, that she wanted to go forward and yield more, seek more, learn more. Of him. And herself. Of them together.
The Taste of Innocence Page 14