Sara peeked into room after room, discovering a towering ballroom that echoed when she opened the door. With the windows covered and the candles unlit, it appeared cavernous and slightly frightening. She found a ladies’ retiring room adjacent to the ballroom, a few sitting rooms, all closed up and cold, and a smaller ballroom for less formal affairs.
She discovered the hallway that housed the portraits of the previous dukes and duchesses. It was hard to see in the dark with only the light of the moon shining through the window at the end of the hall, but she saw a resemblance between the first duke and the current duke. Both were formidable and dour. Except she never remembered the current Rossmoyne being dour before Meredith’s death. When he had been with Meredith, he had been charming. People had flocked to both of them to bask in the magic they created together. She remembered them laughing a lot and being outgoing and social—something she was not.
She found Lady Elizabeth’s portrait and was pleased to discover that she was correct: Elizabeth had been a stunning beauty in her day.
Sara turned a corner and was relieved to find that she had somehow returned to the study where she and Rossmoyne and Montgomery had discussed the events of the day. The fire was still lit, although it was burning down to glowing embers. Sara inspected the books lining the walls. None of the titles intrigued her enough to want to pull one down and read it. She turned around and froze. Rossmoyne was sitting in a chair facing the fireplace, watching her.
“You could have warned me you were in here,” she said a bit breathlessly as she tried to control her hammering heart.
“Do you always go traipsing about people’s homes in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“And yet you were falling asleep in your pudding.”
“Obviously, I entered the wrong room. My apologies for disturbing your musings, Your Grace.”
“And what of your musings, my lady?”
“Pardon me?”
He straightened his legs until his boots were close to the fire. He’d forsaken his frock coat and had lost his cravat somewhere. The white V of his shirt was a startling contrast to the dark skin beneath. While he’d shaved earlier that day, he had not visited a barber or had his valet cut his hair. It hung to his shoulders, the firelight picking out the red highlights and turning them a fiery orange. His shoulders were as wide as the overstuffed chair he was sitting in. Those amber eyes watched her. “You obviously can’t sleep for a reason. What musings are keeping you awake?”
She looked away, discomfited by the conversation and by being alone with him in a dark room. “I should go.”
He chuckled, and it was then that she noticed the half-empty bottle of Scottish whiskey on a table by his elbow. He lifted a thick-cut glass and drained it.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said.
“I have. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, there’s the marquess’s daughter.”
“Pardon me?”
“You turned your nose up at me. I wondered where the marquess’s daughter was. You certainly didn’t act like one today.”
“I have no idea what you mean. You’re drunk.”
“Not nearly.” He poured two fingers into his glass and took a sip. “Sit,” he commanded, waving his glass toward the matching overstuffed chair behind her.
Rather than argue, Sara sank into it. Even though she couldn’t sleep, she was exhausted, her mind numb from everything that had happened over the past few weeks. If she could turn off her mind, she would.
“So what are you thinking?” he asked as he stared into the fire. He was in a contemplative mood and far more gregarious than he had been.
“I’m thinking this is inappropriate and I should return to my room.”
“Besides that.”
“I’m…I’m finding that I’m thinking an awful lot about Meredith. Every hall I walk down, every room I enter, I think that this could have been hers. It would have been hers if not for a madman.”
“Do you think so?”
She raised a brow in surprise. “You were betrothed. I’m assuming she would have presided over your home. Am I wrong?”
He shrugged and contemplated the fire for a long time, making Sara wonder what he was thinking. What an odd turn to the conversation. Sara assumed from the way Ross and Meredith had behaved together that they had been in love. Could she have been wrong?
“You miss her.” His voice startled her out of her thoughts.
“Yes. Every day. And you? Do you miss her?”
“I miss us,” he said.
—
Ross peered at Sara through the haze of alcohol that clouded his brain. He wasn’t drunk, as she had accused, but he was well on his way.
The firelight softened her appearance; for once that censorious look was gone from her features. He was again surprised to see that she was pretty in her own way. Meredith’s beauty had overshadowed everything when she was in the room, but Meredith hadn’t been in the room for two years now, and here was Sara, who possessed her own beauty. Her soft brown hair took on blond streaks when the firelight touched it, and those eyes seemed to see everything and take it in. She was a thinker, Sara was. He liked that.
“What do you mean, that you miss us?” she asked into the silence.
He’d said too much, but then he was in the frame of mind that he didn’t care. Tomorrow he would care, but not now.
“When Meredith was around, everything seemed brighter, more alive. I felt more alive.”
“And now?” she asked.
Leave it to Sara to dig deeper, to want to know more.
“And now it’s not like that anymore. Everything changed.” He’d let her think that he meant everything had changed when Meredith died, but in reality things had changed long before that.
“You do seem more dour.”
He surprised himself by laughing, even though her words were spot on.
“You loved her,” she said softly.
“I did.” And he missed her, but he had been truthful when he said he missed the two of them together. He missed having a partner, someone to talk to, to go to social events with. He supposed he missed what could have been, but when he tried to picture a life with Meredith, he couldn’t. He supposed that was because he had changed so much. Sometimes he wondered if Meredith would like the person he had become. He thought not. Because Sara was right. He was more dour.
But then Meredith had changed as well, before her death.
Two years ago he hadn’t taken life seriously, and Meredith hadn’t taken life seriously either. He’d grown since her death. Some—most—would say he’d grown up, and there was a lot of truth to that. He’d found a calling in life that was far more than wandering from ball to ball and going to gaming hells. He’d seen human suffering up close, and he’d been in some tight situations that had him wondering if he would survive.
Yes, he was dour. He didn’t like that aspect of himself, but he was afraid to let himself unwind because he’d seen the flip side of that, and he didn’t want to go back there.
“Do you despise me?” he asked into the silence. Where in the hell did that come from? What did he care if Lady Sara Emerson despised him? And yet he did care. He’d tried to distance himself from her family except for the occasional letter he’d had his secretary send. For so long he’d blamed himself for Meredith’s death that he had assumed her family felt the same.
Sara seemed startled by his question. “Of course I don’t despise you. Why would you ask that?”
He shrugged. “Just a feeling I get when I’m around you.”
She slipped into contemplative silence and after a while said, “I don’t despise you, but there are moments when I’m angry with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you should have been there. You should have protected her. Meredith was such a free spirit and so trusting of people. You should have stopped it….” Her voice trailed off, and even
though she spoke softly, it didn’t lessen the hurt he felt. She certainly knew where to stab him to cause the most pain.
How many times had he thought the same thing? How many times had he chastised himself for not being there for Meredith when she needed him? Had she called for him while she was being brutalized? He’d woken from many a sweaty dream with the call of his name echoing inside him.
“I don’t mean…that is to say, I don’t blame you,” she added.
“Ah, but you do. You just admitted you do.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You’re twisting my words around.”
He reached for the whiskey bottle, filled his glass, and took a healthy swallow, feeling the comforting burn all the way to his stomach. The room took on a hazy quality. “No need to get defensive, little one. You are correct. I should have been there.”
“Why do you think she left the house?”
The question had haunted him for two years. They had gone to a ball that night and been the toast of the event—the newly engaged duke and his soon-to-be duchess. They had been treated like royalty without actually being royalty. People flocked to them to congratulate them, to speak to them, just to be near them. It had all been Meredith. She had been the shining star that drew everyone to her. He had been peripheral, although being a duke hadn’t hurt.
He and Meredith had fought that night. They fought often, though to the outside world, they were the perfect couple. It had been exhausting, keeping up that ruse. The fight was of the usual nature. Meredith had wanted to continue with the balls, and Ross had not. He’d wanted a quiet night in, but for Meredith, that thought was foreign. He’d gone to the ball but ended up leaving early.
From everything that he’d learned after that, Meredith had gone home not much later with her mother and father and Sara. Sometime in the middle of the night, she had left the safety of their townhouse. The great mystery was why. Why did she leave? He had planned to take her for a ride on Rotten Row the next morning, but when morning dawned, no one could find Meredith.
And then they found her.
Mutilated. Barely recognizable.
He shook his head of those images. Who could do such a thing to such a beautiful, vibrant woman?
“What do you think the letters mean?” Sara asked in a tight voice.
“I wish to God I knew.”
“As do I.” She looked into the fire. She was all prim and proper, sitting in his chair in his study in the middle of the night, with her back straight and her shoulders squared. Did she ever relax? Did she ever just sprawl in a chair? Her hair was done up in a tight bun secured to the back of her head, not a hair out of place. What would it look like if it were released from its pins? How long would it be? Would it be soft? He imagined it would. It looked soft.
He lifted himself from the chair and stirred the fire, adding another log so it cracked and popped and flared to life. He wasn’t certain how it happened, but he found himself standing in front of her. She looked up at him, surprise in those wide brown eyes, her lips partially open. He wasn’t sure what drove him, but he picked up her hand and she stood. They were toe to toe, his thighs crushing her skirts, and still she looked up at him. Her lips were wet, as if she had just licked them, and he discovered in the light of the fire that her eyes held the most beautiful golden flecks.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d been drinking. She was Sara. They were inappropriately alone.
He touched her cheek. It was warm and soft, heated by the fire and no doubt by the fact that they were standing indecently close. The hand he held was trembling, and he found that oddly appealing. “Sara,” he whispered. He was overcome with an unholy urge to kiss her, and so he did, ignoring the warning that his muddled mind was screaming.
Her lips were just as warm and just as soft as he had imagined. And yes, he had imagined.
At first she didn’t move to kiss him back. Was this her first kiss? Certainly not. She was years past her coming out. Some man must have kissed her at some point in her life.
He opened his eyes to find that she had closed hers, her delicate lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her skin was like buttermilk. He slid his finger down her jaw to tip it up so he could possess her lips more fully.
Taking his lead, she pressed her lips against his, opening at his urging. His tongue swept in and he gathered her to him. She was so delicate, so slight, beneath the layers of silk and satin and crinoline. She trembled all over, and he found he wanted to hold her until the trembling stopped.
But suddenly, she was no longer in his arms. She’d taken a step back. Her hand came up to cover her lips, and she looked at him in surprise and disbelief.
“I…I must go.” She stumbled past him, pushing him out of the way. Instead of reaching for her like he wanted to, he moved out of her way and watched her run from the room.
He turned back to the fire and fell into his chair. “Bloody hell.”
Chapter 9
Sara didn’t sleep that night. How was she supposed to sleep when all she felt was the press of the duke’s lips upon hers? She spent half the night with her hand covering her lips, as if she could hold that feeling to her.
She’d never been kissed before.
Not once.
Well, with the exception of a young buck who had lured her onto a terrace during her first ball, brushed his lips across her cheek, then hurried away. That was nothing compared to what she and Rossmoyne had shared.
She lay in bed the rest of the night and tried to sort through exactly what had happened. They’d been talking about Meredith, and suddenly they were kissing.
Surely she’d committed a horrible sin.
She tried to chastise herself for her wicked ways, but every time she did, her mind wandered to the kiss.
His lips had brushed across hers, demanding and controlling. He’d touched her cheek and her jaw. His fingers had been hard and callused yet tender. For hours her skin tingled where he’d touched her, and her lips felt swollen.
Oh, she was wicked, wicked, wicked.
Her legs had turned numb and trembled, and she’d wanted nothing more than to lean into the long, hard strength of him, to feel his arms around her. He’d drawn her closer until she could feel his strong thighs through her many layers of skirts.
Stop this, Sara. What you did was wrong.
Yet when dawn crested, she was eager to get down to breakfast to see Rossmoyne again. At the same time, she was immeasurably embarrassed and wanted to hide in her room but that was playing the coward and Sara hated to think that Rossmoyne would think her a coward. So she dressed with care and went down to the dining room.
The empty dining room.
He wasn’t there. She’d never thought that he wouldn’t be there.
“Is there something I can get you, my lady?” A footman stood uncertainly in the doorway of the dining room.
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“His Grace? Has he dined already?”
“He left early this morning with Mr. Montgomery.”
“Ah. Of course.”
Because it was expected of her and it would look odd if she didn’t, Sara filled her plate from the sideboard and sat down to eat. The footman stood with his back to the wall, his eyes straight ahead. It was strangely quiet in the large house with only the clink of her utensils against the china.
She’d been foolish. Foolish to kiss the Duke of Rossmoyne and foolish to think that he would wait to eat with her. Obviously, the kiss meant much less to him than it did to her. He’d probably kissed scores of women since Meredith. Sara was just one of many. After all, he’d had a fast reputation. After he left for India she hadn’t heard a peep about him but certainly he’d been kissing other women. The thought made her feel foolish and schoolgirlish.
She quickly finished her meal and wandered through the cavernous house. “House” was an inadequate word to describe the duke’s h
ome. It was one of the largest in the city and by far the largest Sara had ever been in. It would take days to see every room. Not that she had a desire to. After a while one sitting room looked much like another.
She soon found herself back in the study. She was certain Rossmoyne would have preferred she stay out of his study and enjoy one of the many sitting rooms, but she didn’t care. This was the most lived-in room of the estate, and it felt comfortable. Except every time she looked at the chair she’d been sitting in last night, she relived that toe-tingling kiss.
She found a book that looked passably entertaining and sat by the floor-to-ceiling window to read. However, she found herself looking out the window more than at the pages of the book. The view was breathtaking, looking out over a beautifully tended garden with a profusion of flowers that gave it a rainbow quality. She didn’t enjoy the view as much as she should have. She was too busy trying not to be humiliated.
She’d kissed the duke.
Well, if she were truthful, the duke had kissed her first. But he’d been drinking. So he hadn’t been in his right mind. And she had kissed him back.
Surely there was a special place in hell for her.
But wouldn’t there be a special place in hell for him as well? After all, it took two to kiss.
Oh, how it took two to kiss.
So it wasn’t entirely her fault. She was partly to blame, but so was the duke.
“There you are, dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Sara stood quickly to curtsy to the duchess. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 6