by Brenda Hiatt
Sarah shook her head, suddenly realizing how odd it would sound for her to offer to help with any of the more menial tasks about the house. "Perhaps Mrs. MacKay needs advice on the dinner menu?" she suggested. "What does Lord Peter favor?"
The housekeeper smiled. "She's having a grand time putting together all of his favorites, along with what he specially said you might like, my lady. Let her have her surprise, do."
"Of course." Clearly the staff was used to running the household perfectly well without her assistance —or interference.
Wandering into the parlor, she decided to improve her musical skills by practicing on the spinet piano she found there. Only a few pieces of sheet music were available, none of which she knew, so her progress was slow.
"A charming prelude to dinner," came Peter's voice from the doorway as she finished a rather labored rendition of a prelude more than an hour later.
Instantly, her heart increased its pace and she could feel the color rushing to her cheeks. "Oh! I . . . I did not hear you come in, my lord. I fear I am not yet able to play at tempo, but as I grow more familiar with these pieces—"
"If you have favorites, I will see that you get them, of course, but I thought your performance quite pleasing," he said, coming forward with a smile.
She glanced down in confusion, her bold plan to greet him with a kiss forgotten.
"I must apologize for my lengthy absence on our wedding day," he continued. "I'd thought to conclude my business more quickly."
Surprised, she looked up. "Did you find a . . . place for us to live already, then?" She'd almost said "house," but did not want him to think she would be disappointed with something much smaller. A one-room flat would make her happy, so long as she shared it with him.
"I did indeed, but it will be a day or two before I can show it to you." He seemed not at all abashed, leading her to believe it could not be too mean a place, whatever it was. "Perhaps over dinner you can give me an idea of your tastes that I might have it decorated with them in mind."
"Goodness, there is no need —that is, I am quite willing to do my share of work in whatever refurbishing is necessary." In fact, the prospect of decorating a set of rooms of her very own appealed to her greatly.
His gaze was warm, kindling an answering warmth within her. "I'm sure you are, and I promise to leave many of the details for you to direct yourself. But now, about dinner —I see you are yet in your wedding dress. Did you wish to change?"
Again she felt the color creeping up her neck. "I did consider it, but I fear this is the finest thing I have —and the only thing you won't already have seen on either Fanny or Lucy Mountheath."
A curious expression flitted across his face, but then he grinned. "Not counting the charming gray thing you wear for housebreaking, I suppose?"
Alarmed, she glanced toward the parlor door. "That was my school uniform. Scarcely appropriate for dinner, I think."
"I don't know— I've developed rather a fondness for it. But if you're determined, we may as well go in to dinner at once." He extended an arm to escort her to the dining room. "I have it on good authority that Mrs. MacKay has outdone herself tonight."
Indeed she had, judging by the array of dishes that were soon presented: two fragrant soups, sumptuously prepared fish, meat and poultry, vegetables that must have been difficult to procure so late in the year, and an assortment of breads.
"You look as though you've never seen so much food in your life," Peter commented as Sarah wonderingly gazed around the table. "I know the Plumfield's buffet exceeded this." In spite of his teasing tone, his eyes were kind.
"Yes, but that was a grand ball. This is for only the two of us. I'll never be able to do it justice, I fear." She picked up her spoon and dipped it into her soup, determined to make her best effort, however.
Peter followed suit. "All Mrs. MacKay —or I— require is that you enjoy whatever you do eat. I fancy you've experienced few feasts in your life."
"None at all, that I can remember," she admitted, then tasted the soup. "Oh! This is delicious."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, Sarah thoroughly enjoying every bite. Mrs. MacKay was definitely a better cook than the Mountheaths', and there was of course no comparison to the fare served the students and staff at Miss Pritchard's.
She was well into a plate of curried chicken when she glanced up to find Peter's eyes intent upon her. Suddenly self-conscious, she set down her fork.
"No, don't stop," he said. "I quite enjoy watching you enjoy yourself. Your relish for new experiences is most refreshing."
Sarah wished she could stop the blush she felt rising as his words conjured other experiences she was eager to taste. She quickly lowered her eyes for fear he would read her thoughts, as he so often seemed able to do.
"Until this week past, I have led a rather circumscribed existence," she said to her plate. "Nearly every experience since my coming to Town has been a new one."
"Yet you do not tire of novelty?"
Could he mean what she thought he did, or was she simply obsessed with a single idea? "Not yet." Summoning her earlier resolve, she dared a shy smile at him.
His brows rose. "Then perhaps we can find other novelties to . . . amuse you."
There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes, but though she felt her color deepening further, she did not look away. "I should like that, I think." She tried for a seductive tone but her voice came out high and breathless.
Still, he seemed to take her meaning, judging by the intensity of his gaze. "Would you? There is much I can show you, if you are certain you are willing."
She swallowed, the repast before her quite forgotten. "Most willing, my lord."
Belatedly, she realized that the use of the title had been a mistake, for he blinked and perceptibly withdrew. "You promised to call me Peter," he reminded her. "And I promised to ask about your preferences in decorating over dinner."
He signaled for the footman to clear away the dishes, then asked, "What colors do you favor? What styles? Normally I pride myself on being able to guess such things from the fashions a person chooses, but as yours have been chosen for you thus far, they are no true indicator."
Sarah tried to stifle her disappointment at the change of topic, reminding herself that she had time —all her life, in fact —to convince him of her desire. "I like cheerful colors," she said, thinking of her room upstairs. "And simple styles, I should say. At any rate, I dislike excessive ornamentation."
"Such as the Mountheaths seem to favor?"
"If you take the Mountheath house as a model and go in the exact opposite direction, you cannot go far wrong," she agreed, echoing the advice he'd once given her on dress.
He chuckled. "I am relieved to discover our tastes are similar. That will make sharing a home far more pleasant."
And suddenly they were back on dangerous ground. She seized the opportunity. "I imagine it will be very pleasant indeed."
Again he took her meaning at once. "I hope so, Sarah. I want to make everything pleasant for you— everything within my power."
She was about to assure him that she wanted to do the same for him when the footman returned with an assortment of fruit, puddings and sweetmeats. Rather than speak plainly in the servant's presence, she merely said, "Thank you," trying to put all she felt into her voice and expression.
Though the sweet course was as delicious as everything else had been, Sarah's attention was more on the man opposite her than any exotic pudding. He watched her eat as she watched him. Were his thoughts similarly preoccupied? She hoped so.
"Shall we retire to the parlor?" he asked a few minutes later, when their spoons had slowed.
"I rather like the library," she said, remembering the passion that had flared between them two night's since. Perhaps in the same setting her courage would be stronger.
One corner of his mobile mouth quirked up. "Very well. The library, then." He escorted her across the hall and, as he'd done the other night, poked the fire
to crackling life before seating himself in the same chair as before.
"Now, can you tell me more about your tastes? About yourself?" he asked.
Her heart pounded as she gathered her courage. "You seem to know me nearly as well as I do." She thought briefly of William, but this was not the time to mention her brother. "As for my tastes, I find . . . you . . . very much to my taste." She held her breath for his response.
"Then that is something else we have in common," he said softly, "for I assure you that you are very much to my taste as well, Sarah."
She leaned forward to take his hands in hers, startled by her own boldness. "Show me, then," she whispered.
Surprise flickered in his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by desire. Clasping her hands, he pulled her to him until she was seated across his lap. "Are you sure?" he murmured.
Sarah nodded, though in truth a tendril of fear, fear of the unknown, snaked through her. Determined that he not sense it, she closed her eyes, tilting her face for his kiss.
For a long moment, Peter struggled with himself, desire demanding that he take what Sarah offered even as his rational mind doubted her motives. He lowered his mouth to hers, for whatever her motive, to refuse the kiss she offered would wound her. He could always stop at a kiss . . .
Her lips melted against his and reason left him. She felt so soft, so right. His wife. Deepening the kiss, he caressed the nape of her neck, her back and arms, firm and warm beneath sensuous white satin. She clutched at his shoulders, twined her fingers in his hair, pulled him closer.
Dimly conscious of the unlocked library door, he murmured against her lips, "Let's go upstairs." She nodded, still pressed against him.
Even knowing greater delights lay ahead, it took an effort to separate from her long enough to stand. She looked as dazed as he felt. This evidence of her innocence —and desire —broke down the last vestiges of his resistance.
Taking her by the hand, he led her from the room, heedless of any watching servants in the hall. Sarah was his wife and this was their wedding night. To take her completely would be as natural as breathing and no cause for scandal.
She clung to him as they climbed the stairs. Peter felt as though he ought to say something, but he feared to break the fragile bond between them. In silence, therefore, they achieved the landing above and in silence he led her to his chamber.
Holmes was within and he felt Sarah stiffen at his side. A glance was sufficient to dismiss the man, however, and a moment later they were again alone, the door closed and locked behind them. The delay, however, had allowed a modicum of reason to return.
"You're sure, Sarah?" he asked again, delving into her eyes to read the truth. "I meant what I said earlier today."
Her eyes met his without guile or hesitation. "I'm sure." The tiny quaver in her voice might be attributable to nerves, completely understandable. He set about soothing them.
"Come to me, then," he said, folding her in his arms again. "Let's get to know each other— completely."
A quick, indrawn breath, and then her lips were against his again, her arms around his neck. Before, she had unbuttoned her gown for him, but her wedding gown fastened down the back, out of her reach. Deftly, he undid the tiny, flat hooks, muttering something about not wishing to wrinkle her dress.
He felt her lips curve against his in a smile. "That's very thoughtful of you," she murmured. "I will try not to damage your cravat, either." Already she was fumbling with the intricate folds of his neckcloth.
He chuckled, deep in his throat, as he undid her last hook. "No, we want to keep you in Holmes's good graces," he said, helping her to untie his cravat before easing her gown over her shoulders to reveal perfect, creamy skin nearly as white as the satin. Her thin chemise barely skimmed the top of her full breasts.
While she worked at his waistcoat, he untied the ribbon holding her undergarment closed. The chemise fell open to display the shadowed cleft between her breasts but clung to her nipples, concealing them, tantalizing him.
Leaning forward, he trailed kisses from her throat to that cleft, pushing the chemise lower with his chin until it joined her gown about her waist and elbows, leaving her upper body bare. He paused, devouring her with his eyes. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.
She made a small motion that he first interpreted as an effort to cover herself, but before he could convince himself to help her, she said, "You have me at a disadvantage —I cannot reach the rest of your buttons now."
He laughed in his relief. "No matter." Quickly, he divested himself of his coat, waistcoat and shirt so that he also was bared to the waist. The surprised delight in her eyes as she surveyed him inflamed him more than he'd have thought possible. Never had a woman affected him so intensely.
"You approve?" he asked, though her expression had already answered him.
She nodded, her eyes still wide. "I've never seen a man's body before, but surely yours must be among the finest —a body to inspire sculptors and artists."
Peter blinked, as embarrassed by her frank appreciation as he was gratified. "I should say these two beautiful bodies belong together then," he said teasingly.
Smiling, she came to him, pressing the soft fullness of her breasts against his chest. "Like this?" she asked.
"It's a good start."
At the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, he smiled tenderly down at her. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not. I don't believe I could ever be afraid of you."
She couldn't know how much that meant to him, how her words healed wounds he hadn't realized he was still nursing after more than two years. He kissed her again, deeply, before gently stripping off her gown and chemise. He could feel her fingers trembling as they determinedly fumbled with the buttons of his breeches until all were undone.
He led her to the bed a few steps away and seated her on the edge so that he could remove her slippers. Untying her garters just above her knees, he rolled down her stockings, kissing her knees and calves as he went. When she was completely unclothed, she tugged at him, guiding him to sit on the bed so that she could do the same with his shoes and breeches. He swallowed, hard, as her lips touched the sensitive skin of his thigh, her hair falling forward to brush his straining erection.
The moment he was as naked as she, he pulled her to sit on the bed beside him and again kissed her thoroughly, his hands exploring the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her hands skimmed over his body as well, turning him to fire wherever she touched. He knew he was nearing a breaking point, but he was determined to be gentle even if it killed him— which at the moment he considered a distinct possibility.
Slowly, he lowered her onto the bed, reclining beside her until they were touching from knee to shoulder. "You must let me know if I hurt you," he whispered. "I will try very hard not to, but—"
"I'm not afraid," she repeated, her eyes wide and trusting, humbling him, igniting him. How could she ever have believed she was not worthy of him? It was he who could never be worthy of such trust, such loveliness, such generosity. Not after—
He closed his eyes against old memories, letting the present blot out the past.
Sarah was more amazed every moment by the intensity of her feelings, her desire for this man she had known such a short time. What was he doing to her? At first she had simply been determined to see this through, no matter how her feelings might change —for she had heard fearful whisperings at school about what men did to women. But now she felt that the most terrible thing he could possibly do would be to stop caressing her.
His length pressed against hers, he kissed her again, each kiss more exciting than the last, while he stroked her back, her hips, her breasts. Instinctively, she arched toward him, wanting to intensify the contact, wanting more . . . of everything.
He seemed to understand, for his hands increased their pace, his body pushing closer, the part of him that had so startled her with its size pressing against the very spot that seemed to cry out for his touch. His mouth
still fastened to hers, he rolled her from her side to her back, supporting himself on his arms as he kissed his way down her throat and chest until he took the tip of one breast into his mouth.
The sensation was exquisite, making her whimper, but she still wanted more. He gave it to her, sliding a hand between them to touch the place that needed him most. She gasped again at the shock of pleasure his stroking finger sent through her. Squirming, she parted her thighs to allow him better access, pressing upward with her hips, demanding she knew not what.
Still suckling her breast, he stroked again, then again, then slipped a finger inside her. She felt herself clenching around it and then heard him groan. Now he moved his whole body, his manhood stroking her as his finger had done, his mouth releasing her breast to claim her lips again.
Sarah knew she was groaning too—or perhaps growling —but she didn't care. Arching higher, spreading her thighs further, she invited him in. Slowly, slowly, he accepted her invitation. She stretched to accomodate him, the stretching a new and exciting sensation, until he filled her completely. Then, rhythmically, he began to move within her.
She could feel him trembling, knew he was reaching a crisis of some sort, but then he again slipped a hand between them to drive her to a crisis of her own, a crisis of such intense pleasure she was not sure she would survive it. As he drove into her again and again, stroking her cleft in rhythm with his thrusts, she climbed higher and higher until her world exploded in a mad rush of bliss. Dimly, she heard him cry out even as she did, her name on his lips as his was on hers.
He paused, his breath rasping in her ear, then began to move again, slowly. She was so sensitive now that she twitched beneath him, and then, without warning, she rushed up over the crest again, convulsing about him, her pleasure as intense as before.
She felt him relax above her, though still supporting much of his weight on his elbows. A sweet languor swept through her, the aftermath of the most incredible experience of her life.