Megs glanced meaningfully at Sarah.
Sarah looked to where her brother and Adam were tossing Lord Kirby into the snow and decided that she was no longer needed here. She nodded at Megs and moved to the other side of Charlotte. “Let’s find Mama and Jane.”
They made their way up the stairs. Sarah cast worried glances at her middle sister, trying not to be too obvious about it. At the top of the stairs they found Jane, who seemed to have overheard the fight.
They all went to Mama’s room.
Mama had already retired, not at all interested in a game of hide-and-seek. She was abed with cap and shawl, but she immediately rose when she saw Charlotte between Megs and Sarah in her doorway.
Charlotte sobbed out what had happened when Mama took her into her arms.
Sarah quietly turned and rummaged in the bottom of Mama’s cupboard. At the very bottom, under a pile of old chemises, she found what she was looking for: a bottle of brandy.
She took it to where the other women were gathered, poured a tiny bit into the glass that Mama kept on her bedside table, and gave it to Charlotte.
“Thank you,” Charlotte gasped when she’d drunk.
“Can I have a sip?” Jane asked, sounding unusually somber.
Sarah wordlessly poured more into the glass and handed it to Jane.
“Do you…” Charlotte inhaled and looked at Mama. “Do you think he was right? Did I entice Lord Kirby to attack me by kissing him at the end of the holly hunt?”
“No,” their mother said fiercely. “This is entirely Lord Kirby’s fault and frankly I’m shocked at how ungentlemanly he’s acted.” She pursed her lips. “I shall have to warn my friends about him. No one wants a scoundrel like that around their daughters.”
“But what if he tells everyone that I’m…I’m a tart?” Charlotte’s bottom lip trembled. “That’s what he called me.”
Mama hugged her close, looking worried. “Then we shall tell everyone he is a liar. It will be his word against me.”
“And me,” Megs said quietly, and Mama’s expression cleared. “No one of any sense at all will believe that man against me.”
Sarah sometimes forgot that Megs was the sister of a marquess and thus a lady of importance in society.
“We’ll always stand with you, Charlotte,” Sarah said, and hugged her sister. She vowed that Charlotte would never feel the social rejection she had.
Sarah watched as Jane took charge of the bottle of brandy and poured a glass for Mama. Charlotte smiled when Mama coughed after drinking, and then they were off discussing the final plans for tomorrow’s Christmas Eve ball.
But as they chattered Sarah thought about Adam—his hands and his mouth and how he’d stared at her as he did intimate things to her body. She wanted to talk to him. To find out if he’d decided what he wanted of her. If tonight had been simply an interlude.
Or if it was the beginning of something more.
Chapter Eleven
Several hours later Prince Brad was deep in conversation with the last lady, a princess both erudite and beautiful, when she asked him how he best liked frog legs prepared.
There was an awful silence.
The frog opened her mouth indignantly, but Prince Brad beat her to it. “I’m afraid I do not care to dine upon frog legs as I consider this frog my friend.”
And he swept from the room—with the frog.…
—From The Frog Princess
Three hours later Adam silently walked down the hall to Sarah’s room. After the commotion of rushing Kirby out of the house—and then gathering his possessions and tossing them out with him—the members of the party had decided to retire for the night.
Adam had spent the last several hours pacing his room, waiting until it was late enough that everyone would be asleep.
This was folly. Seeking Sarah out in the dead of night. She’d said she didn’t trust him. A quick romp in a hidden room hardly changed that.
He wanted to change her opinion of him. He wanted—
A sound came from down the hall.
Adam slid into the deep shadows by a statue.
He heard a door closing.
After five more minutes of silence he continued on his way. Sarah’s room was at the end of a corridor.
He reached the door and tried the handle.
Unlocked.
Carefully he eased the door open and slipped into the room. A banked fire burned low on the grate, giving a glowing, flickering light. Sarah slept in a curtained bed. He approached it quietly and stood looking down at her. She lay on her side, her golden hair spread upon her pillow like silk, one hand curled by her chin, and at the sight he realized something.
He didn’t want this to end.
Didn’t want to walk away and never see Sarah again except as an acquaintance, passing by her at a dance or on Bond Street. Didn’t want her to become a memory—a lost, regretful dream.
He wanted forever.
Which meant he shouldn’t be here tonight. He needed to show her that it wasn’t simply an animal impulse for him.
He turned to go, but it was too late.
He saw her eyes flutter open in the mellow light.
She stretched out her hand to him. “Adam?”
And he was lost.
Sarah woke from a dream of Adam to find him standing by her bed.
She had no idea why he was there, but in her dream-laden state she didn’t care.
She wanted him. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
He groaned low and then he was leaning over her, pressing his lips to hers almost sweetly.
She opened her mouth, licking across his lips tentatively. Her hands slid over his shoulders and she realized he was fully dressed while she was only in her chemise.
She didn’t want that.
“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his coat sleeves. It felt as if this spell would not break if she only whispered.
He straightened to tear off his coat and waistcoat and throw aside his neckcloth. When he placed a knee on the bed beside her hip, bending to her, she pulled his wig off as well.
She shoved aside her coverlet. “Come to me.”
“You’re a siren,” he whispered as he lay atop her. “You’ll drive me mad.”
This seemed doubtful. It was she who would be driven mad. He was heavy on her, his hard chest pressing against her soft breasts, his stomach and pelvis aligned with hers, his legs sprawled, one between her thighs. And she could feel his penis, heavy and thick, probing her belly even through the cloth of his breeches.
She wanted.
She slipped her hands inside the collar of his shirt and heard a button pop as she wrapped her fingers over his bare shoulders. He was warm and male and she could smell his heat.
His desire.
He palmed her breast and she lost her breath. His hand was big and certain, his fingers splayed over the mound of her breast, her nipple caught between his thumb and forefinger.
He brought his fingers together, squeezing her nipple between.
She called out softly, the sensation was so new, so wonderful.
He lifted and pushed himself down her so that his face was level with her breast and took her nipple into his mouth right through the chemise.
It was a crude act. A sensual act. She could feel him drawing on her, could feel the material of the chemise chafe her skin.
He drew back and blew on the wet material and she could feel her nipple harden into a small, pebbled bud.
Then he moved to her other breast.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered before he took her into his mouth and sucked.
She ran her fingers across his shorn head, feeling the prickly short hair, the strong neck, the working jaw.
She wanted him. Wanted him so much it was a physical ache. “Make love to me.”
He froze for a second, and then he was sliding even farther down her body, bunching her chemise up around her waist.
He parted her legs and threw them over t
he crooks of his arms.
And then he bent his head—
“What are you—?” she started.
He licked her. With his tongue. Between her legs.
She clutched the sheets, her toes tightening, her insides quaking. She’d never felt anything like it, so soft and yet so relentless, his tongue lapping at her folds, circling her bud, driving inside of her.
It was unbelievable.
It was wonderful.
She felt him spread her with his fingers and she wanted to object to his…familiarity. To the way he seemed to feel he had the right to do this to her. But she was flying, so light with the pure pleasure he was giving her that she couldn’t speak.
All she could do was feel.
And then she was reaching that point, her legs moving without her will, her hands twisting in the sheets, the heat building and building until she could no longer hold it back.
She fell, bursting from within, beautiful warmth flooding her belly and limbs, radiating from her center, reaching her fingertips and toes.
He licked her a few more times, lazily, and then he was climbing up her like a great cat cornering its prey.
He spread her legs even wider and she felt something big and blunt at her entrance.
His cock.
She opened her eyes, looking up at him.
“All right?” he grunted, looking strained. He was holding himself still, waiting on her answer, and she knew that he would pull away if she told him to right now.
He’d stop himself for her.
A wave of affection washed through her. As it happened, she didn’t want him to stop.
She twined her arms around his neck and whispered, “Put yourself in me.”
He jolted at that, his hips surging forward just enough to breach her.
She waited for pain but felt none.
She watched as he inhaled. Pulled back. Nudged carefully into her again.
A little more.
Inch by tender inch he pressed into her, widening her. Stretching her for his thick, hard flesh.
She tilted her hips, wanting more, impatient.
And then suddenly he jolted home.
He lay for a moment between her spread thighs, on her, pinning her down with his greater weight and bulk, impaling her with his penis.
Then he looked at her, and when she smiled he began to move.
Tiny waves. Small nudges. His hips hardly shifting at all.
It was quite, quite maddening.
She squirmed, trying to make him move, wanting more.
He pulled back then and shoved into her. A solid, hard thrust that made her see stars.
And then he did it again. And again. Watching her with unsmiling eyes, much too intently.
She couldn’t look away from his gaze. Couldn’t hide her face. Couldn’t do anything but lie beneath his hard thrusts and feel.
And when he bowed his head over her, his lips pulled away from his teeth, his nostrils flared, his eyes tragic and aware, she felt something inside her open.
He was in the throes of orgasm. Lit. Stricken. Wracked.
But she was the one who lost her heart.
Chapter Twelve
“Now I have no one left to marry,” said Prince Brad. “This is all your fault, frog.”
“My fault?” said the frog, and she would have raised her eyebrows had she had any. “I really don’t see how any of this is my fault.”
“Well, I’ve had quite enough of you in any case,” Brad snarled. “I wish I could get rid of you.”
“You could always kiss me,” retorted the frog.
So he did.…
—From The Frog Princess
Sarah stared at herself in her mirror the next evening while her maid arranged her hair for the Christmas Eve ball.
She’d woken that morning all alone in her bed, which made perfect sense.
Adam mustn’t be found in her bed. It would ruin her reputation.
He was only thinking of her. Being practical.
Still, it was hard to not feel restless. Confused. Had last night been all Adam wanted from her? He had made no promises, unlike the rake who had destroyed her reputation.
And yet…she hadn’t had a chance to talk to him alone today, caught up as she had been in the preparations for the ball tonight.
She badly wanted to talk to him.
She inhaled, steadying herself. He was leaving tomorrow—she’d heard from Mama—but that still left tonight to find out what he wanted from her.
If they could perhaps have a future together.
“There, miss,” said Doris, her maid, stepping back. “You do look a treat.”
Her hair had been threaded with pearls and looped at the back of her head. She wore more pearls at her ears and wrists, setting off the deep, lush green of her gown.
“Thank you,” Sarah said, meeting the maid’s eyes in the mirror. “You can go help Charlotte and Jane now.”
“Yes, miss.”
Sarah took one last look in the mirror and turned to leave her bedroom, then made her way to the ballroom.
She found Mama there, overseeing the last preparations.
Hedge House’s ballroom was a long gallery across the back of the house. Tall windows gave a view of the snowy back garden. Night had fallen, but Mama had arranged for tiny lanterns to be lit and hung on the bare branches of the apple trees in the garden.
“It looks like a fairy garden,” Sarah said in awe to her mother as she reached her side.
Mama turned and embraced her, then stepped back. “You’re lovely, my dear.” Mama met her eyes. “I hope you’ll enjoy the dance. I just want you to be happy.”
They’d never discussed Mama’s obvious reasons to invite three bachelors to the Christmas house party.
Sarah smiled, though her lips trembled. “I know.”
“It’s just…” Mama’s mouth twisted with sorrow. “I think life is easier to journey through with a partner.” She squeezed Sarah’s hands. “With a husband. I was so happy when I met your father.”
Sarah felt a pang. Mama didn’t mention Papa often, but she knew the older woman missed him terribly. As they all did. “Mama—”
“You’ve hidden yourself for so long, Sarah,” her mother said gently. “You cannot live properly without risk. If you build so many defenses, trying not to be hurt, you simply wall the world out. Open your walls. Let risk—and life—in.”
“Yes, Mama.” Sarah smiled.
“Ma’am,” one of the footmen called. “The guests are arriving.”
“Oh my.” Mama smoothed down her skirts. “We’d best greet them.”
Sarah and her mother stood by the door, welcoming everyone as they came in. Jane and Charlotte joined them and soon the ballroom was crowded with a laughing, chattering throng. Ropes of evergreens and holly hung in loops from the sparkling chandeliers, and the hired musicians were playing a lively tune.
At one side of the room, long tables were being laid for a midnight feast: Cold cooked turkey and goose, pheasant, and joints of ham. There were jellies in jewel colors and puddings decorated with sprigs of holly. Huge bowls of hot mulled wine and cold punch stood with lines of crystal glasses, waiting to be served. Clove, cinnamon, and ginger scented the air.
Sarah inhaled. It was perfect—at least it was almost perfect.
“May I have this dance?” Adam’s deep voice came from beside her.
She turned and found that he was dressed in a black silk suit worked in gold and red embroidery on the pockets and down the edges of the front. His wig was snowy white and his eyes…
His eyes seemed to promise something.
“Yes,” she breathed, and placed her hand in his.
There had been several country dances, but now they readied for a more sedate, sophisticated dance, standing in line with the other dancers, their joined hands raised.
The music began, and she and Adam paced forward.
“Do you still dislike Christmas?” she murmured to him.
> They turned to face each other, and she could feel her heart beating hard as she looked up to meet his gaze.
His beautiful lips quirked. “I find that I’ve come to a new appreciation of the season.”
She couldn’t seem to help the smile spreading across her face. There was something beating wildly in her bosom. A feeling, an emotion she’d never felt before.
They separated, whirling through the dance steps, and then came together again, pacing around each other without touching.
“Will you leave tomorrow?” she asked huskily.
He seemed to search her face. “Perhaps. Much depends on…”
She tipped her face to his. “Depends on what?”
He cursed softly under his breath and took her hand, leading her from the dance floor.
Behind them there were shocked murmurs.
He stopped, glancing around the room, and then headed to the tall glass doors that led to a balcony, pulling her behind him.
Sarah saw her brother frown and start in their direction.
She shook her head frantically at him.
Megs put her hand on Godric’s arm and said something to him.
And then Adam was opening the doors to the balcony and taking her outside.
He shut the doors behind them.
Sarah wrapped her arms about herself. Her ball gown exposed her arms and décolleté, and she was already shivering.
Then Adam dropped to his knees, there on the cold stone of the balcony, and she forgot the temperature.
He looked up at her and said, “Will you do me the honor of marrying me, Sarah St. John?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Well, save for the chattering of her teeth.
He frowned. “I know this is too soon, but I want to…” He stopped and inhaled, closing his eyes. “I need to marry you, Sarah. I love you and it’s the most awful thing I’ve ever felt.”
“A-awful?” Sarah stuttered, a bit insulted.
His gray eyes snapped open, glaring now. “I think of you day and night—every hour, every minute. When you walk into a room I look at nothing but you. When you leave, I want to follow. If a man looks at you I want to blind him. If you smile at another man, I want to end him. I dream of you. Of your breasts, of your sweet quim—but worse, much worse, I dream of your eyes and of your laugh. You haunt me and I’m afraid all of the time that I’ll turn and you won’t be there. It’s terrible. I’ve never been so pathetic in all my life,” he muttered as if to himself in disgust. He inhaled and said slowly, his eyes locked with hers, “Please. For God’s sake put me out of my misery and marry me.”
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