Sapphire
Page 38
Armand was dead. Her beloved Armand. And because Sapphire was now wealthier than he was, as the wife of American millionaire Blake Thixton, he had left his plantations to his son. Armand had a son!
“I’m very sorry,” Blake said, rising from the chair at his desk in the corner of their bedchamber. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She shook her head, wiping her tears as she rose from the bed. “No, but thank you. We knew this was coming. It was why he sent us away in the first place, you know. I’m just sad that I didn’t have a chance to see him one last time.” She folded the letter and placed it on the desk, taking care not to bump into the basket where her new puppy—a wedding gift from Blake—lay sleeping.
After they returned from London, Blake had offered to return to Carrington Farms and retrieve Stowe, but she had declined, knowing after all this time that he was now more Red’s dog than hers. And now she had a new pup to love.
Blake pulled Sapphire into his arms, kissing the top of her head. She hadn’t cut her hair in months and it had grown quite a bit, and tonight she wore it long, down her back the way he liked it. “I don’t like to see you sad.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I still have my memories and I still have him here.” She rested her hand on her left breast.
“Here?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her breast through the thin fabric of her sleeping gown.
“Yes.” She giggled, threading her fingers through his hair.
“And here, as well?”
He kissed her other breast and she laughed, lifting his head so that he could meet her lips. “Yes, my Lord Wessex. Or is it, yes, sir, Mr. Thixton?” she teased.
“Well, I don’t know. Who are you tonight?” He held her around her waist, pinning her arms behind her and leaning over her so that she arched her back. “Are you the Countess, Lady Wessex, the Earl of Wessex’s wife?”
“Hmm.” She sighed, tapping her chin, pretending to think on it.
“Or are you Sapphire Thixton, wife of Mr. Blake Thixton, shipping magnate?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wiggling out of his arms. “Perhaps I’m Molly the maid.” She picked up a pile of clean towels left for them on the chair near the door.
Myra now served as a lady’s maid, with her own bedchamber next to Mrs. Dedrick’s on the third floor and a new dress for each day of the week. Myra always made sure her mistress had clean towels in case she wanted to share a bath with the master.
“Clean towel, Mr. Thixton?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Give me those!” he growled, thrusting out his hand to catch her.
But Sapphire was too quick and she darted away from him. “What of your bedsheets, sir? Should I change those, as well?”
“Get over here!” He cornered her against the bed, and she squealed with laughter as she tried to scramble up onto it and escape off the other side.
But Blake grabbed her ankle and Sapphire fell on the bed, the clean towels flying from her arms. “Blake, stop,” she laughed, trying to free her ankle from his grip. “That tickles!”
“And this, does this tickle, as well, Molly?” He ran his hand up her calf and higher to her inner thigh.
“Mr. Thixton, really. I thought you had vowed to Mrs. Thixton that you would never again take a lover.”
He climbed onto the bed, lowering himself over her, gazing into her eyes. “Do you think Mrs. Thixton meant Molly, as well?” he whispered.
She smiled, so happy she wondered if she was dreaming. But if she was, it was the longest, best dream she had ever experienced. “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Thixton,” she whispered back, looking up at him as she ran her hands up the smooth plane of his chest and over his shoulders.
Blake stroked the hair at her temple. “One blue eye, one green. Who would have thought these eyes could hold such magic for a curmudgeon like me?”
She raised her head to kiss him. “Say it,” she whispered.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you. I love you, Sapphire Fabergine, Sapphire Thixton, Lady Wessex, I would love you no matter who you were.”
“And Molly,” she said, drawing his head closer to hers. “Don’t forget Molly.”
“How could a man forget Molly?” He deepened their kiss, making it impossible for Sapphire to answer. At least for the moment…
ISBN: 978-1-4603-6425-3
SAPPHIRE
Copyright © 2005 by Rosemary Rogers.
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