CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“My traveling coach does not give a fig for sentimentality. Its wheels need only a taste of November mud to become gleefully mired—an opportunity I shall not provide.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne in response to said lady’s inquiry about her possible attendance of Princess Charlotte’s funeral.
London was every bit as filthy as she remembered. Except here. Here was exquisite. Sarah brushed back the edge of the draperies in the parlor at the front of Clyde-Lacey House and gazed out upon Berkeley Square. The green at the center was like a quiet jewel, untainted by coal smoke and the muck left behind by too many horses. She had never cared for crowded, dirty London with its warren of narrow streets, clatter of carriage wheels, and smells of acrid smoke and excrement. But perhaps that was because she had never lived in a place like this.
Letting the silk slide against her fingers and fall back into a graceful curve along the window, Sarah turned back to the duchess, who was focused on her embroidery and laughing at something Eleanor had said. Over the past ten days, Sarah had grown quite fond of Jane, as the duchess insisted on being addressed. Her sparkling humor and frank intelligence made it clear how she had won her husband’s obvious devotion.
“I sometimes wonder whether he has forgotten whom he married,” Jane said to Eleanor. “Honestly, telling me I should exercise restraint whilst shopping for books. ‘We have three libraries full,’ he says, ‘one here and two more at Blackmore Hall. Is that not enough?’” She chuckled and shook her head. “Silly man.”
“Sarah was always the same about her fabrics,” said Eleanor with indulgent humor. “Whenever she got a bit of pin money, I would invariably find her at Mr. Canfield’s shop, mooning over the newest sprigged muslin.”
Sarah glanced down at her plain, long-sleeved black gown, provided by a presumptuous Italian woman with a flair for the dramatic. It was beautifully sewn, exquisitely simple, and better than anything she had ever made or worn. More gowns had been promised. At least, that was what she assumed. Her Italian was quite poor.
“She does love to sew,” her mother continued. “Sarah, do you recall the coverlets you made for those young men returning home after Waterloo?”
Grinning wryly, Sarah said, “I remember you thought I should spend less time on them and more time helping with the harvest fair.”
“Well, they were extraordinary, I must say. Blue and white squares trimmed with velvet ribbon the precise shade of a soldier’s uniform. You always were a fair hand with a needle.”
Jane sighed and used her knuckle to nudge her spectacles higher on her nose. She then stabbed her needle through the stretched fabric in her embroidery hoop. “I do envy you, Sarah. While I admire excellence in that arena, I do not possess it.”
The door opened and Colin’s sister, Lady Atherbourne, entered. Sarah had met Victoria Wyatt and her husband, Lucien, the morning after arriving in London. Something about this golden-blond viscountess had instantly reminded her of Colin—a kind of earnest charm, she supposed. Notably, however, the couple was often present at Clyde-Lacey House when Colin was absent, as though they sought to avoid him. She had the sense from Jane that there was a rift between the siblings, but it had not been fully explained.
Presently, Victoria waggled a sealed letter in the air and sent them all a beaming smile. “It has come, my dears,” she announced, her blue-green eyes sparkling. “The latest from Lady Wallingham. After last week’s letter, this should be most illuminating.”
Sarah had never met Lady Wallingham, and from all she had learned about the dowager marchioness, she did not want to. Victoria had dubbed her “the Dragon,” while Jane spoke of her in sarcastic, yet fearful tones. However, as Victoria carried on a regular correspondence with the woman, she had taken to reading Lady Wallingham’s letters aloud during her visits to Clyde-Lacey House. It had proved quite the entertainment.
“Listen to this,” Victoria said, sinking gracefully onto a blue silk divan. “When called upon to suffer through yet another tedious luncheon, offer commentary of a biting yet truthful sort. Perform ably, and the result will be fewer conversational demands and, happily, fewer luncheons.”
“This explains a great deal,” said Jane with a quirk of her lips.
“Indeed,” said Victoria, her eyes quickly scanning to the bottom of the letter. “Ah, she plans to remain at Grimsgate Castle until spring, rather than coming to town for the Princess’s funeral. I expected as much.”
Everyone in the room took on a solemn countenance. The death of Princess Charlotte—the Prince Regent’s only legitimate child—and her infant son during childbirth had stunned the entirety of England, which grieved the loss of their beloved young royal most profoundly. Now, Sarah and her mother were not the only ones wearing black; all of London wore it as a sign of national mourning, including the other ladies in the room. In fact, the Italian modiste had complained bitterly about the shortage of black crepe. At least, that was what Sarah assumed she’d been saying. The blend of English and Italian had been dizzying.
Lady Wallingham took a more pragmatic view of the events, however. Victoria read the dowager’s explanation aloud: “The entire royal line could sink into the Thames and drown, and I still would not travel at this abhorrent time of year.”
Sarah turned back to the window, listening to the other ladies chuckle and chatter. Her chest felt hollowed out. She missed her father. But, then, he had been gone in every way that mattered for two years.
Is it truly Papa that you miss, she asked herself, crossing her arms over her waist. No. It is him. Colin. The man who can scarcely be bothered to wish you good morning. She remembered him as he’d been in Keddlescombe, sitting with her in the orchard, smiling that rakish grin. Insisting on walking the road by himself because he was too proud to lean upon her. Waking with her in the night as she struggled to don her boots to search for Papa. Standing with her on the beach. Dancing with her in the abbey. Kissing her in the dark.
She squeezed her eyes closed, aching for a man who could never be hers.
Lord Colin had kept a careful distance since their departure from Yardleigh Manor. She saw him only at dinner each night, and they rarely spoke. Jane had explained that he was preoccupied with reestablishing his presence at the clubs and renewing his connections with old friends. All part of the plan, Jane had assured her.
Perhaps what she needed was to cease moping and, instead, establish a plan of her own. Yes, that was it. A plan. She glanced down at her new gown, poked her toe out from beneath her skirts to admire her new slippers, which featured lovely jet beading in a swirling design.
“Victoria?” she queried, probably interrupting another Wallingham witticism. She did not care. All this knocking about in a large, luxurious house with nothing to do but miss Colin Lacey until she ached like a sore tooth—well, that was quite enough. “Do you know anyone in need of a governess?”
Large, blue-green eyes blinked back at her. “I am not certain. Why do you ask?”
Eleanor murmured her name with an edge of warning, but Sarah had begun to think this was just the solution she’d been looking for. She continued, “You know I have been an instructor for young ladies. I previously taught at St. Catherine’s Academy for Girls of Impeccable Deportment, my father’s school.”
“My, that is a long name,” murmured Jane, her expression intrigued. “Impressive.”
“Unfortunately, my experience was not in a household, and so attaining a letter of reference has been challenging.”
Victoria gave her a bright smile and a nod. “I believe I can help with that. And I shall send ’round some inquiries, as well. Who knows what will turn up?”
Sarah’s relief warmed her skin. Finally, she’d found her answer. It was not ideal, for a position at a school would be more to her liking, but if she could find a post in a household, at least she would not be left destitute again when the Syder tangle was resolved. And perhaps looking for a position would distract her from this senseless melancholy.
“Thank you,” Sarah sighed. “You are most generous. Oh, and in your inquiries, you may wish to ask after tutoring positions as well as those of governess.”
As she was speaking, a cooler breeze wafted from behind her, where the doors were. She’d been so pleased with her new plan and Victoria’s ready agreement, she hadn’t noticed. Now, however, she realized its cause.
“Governess? I think not.” Given the frigid snap of the words from the man behind her, he might easily be mistaken for the duke. But instead, it was Colin. And he sounded furious.
She spun around to face him. He looked furious. His blue eyes flashed and burned through her. His shoulders sat square and rigid. Where was her devil-may-care scoundrel? Since Yardleigh, she seemed to have lost him entirely.
“You are to be my wife. My wife will have no need of a letter of reference.”
Sarah blinked, frowning. “But, our engagement is a pretense.” She glanced at the other ladies in the room, who looked similarly perplexed. “It cannot go on forever. I must plan for my future if I am to have any hope of—”
“Sarah,” he bit out, his eyes falling briefly on his sister, then on Jane, then on Eleanor. “Let us speak privately.”
“Perhaps I should accompany …” Her mother’s protest came as expected from a chaperone, albeit one more lamb than lion.
“Privately,” he repeated, then settled the matter by striding forward, clasping Sarah’s arm above the elbow, and tugging her out of the parlor into the foyer, then down a corridor and into the duke’s study.
She stared in wonder at the dark wood paneling on every wall, the enormous mahogany desk, and the window behind it looking out on a small garden. “I have not been in this room before. It is lovely.”
“Sarah,” he muttered as he released her arm to close the door. “You cannot seek employment. It will undermine our story.”
Crossing her arms, she set to tapping one finger on her sleeve. “Victoria is simply going to make inquiries. She need not specify whom they are for.”
Jaw flexing and lips tight and downturned, his face seemed so hard, so wracked by frustration. So different from how she remembered him. “The position of governess is a difficult and lonely proposition. Not quite family, not quite staff. You would be miserable inside of a week. Not to mention vulnerable to every sort of lustful impulse from men in the household. You cannot be a governess.”
“Of course I can.”
“I will not tolerate it.”
“You have no say in the matter.”
He released a hiss of pure exasperation. “Sarah, I am trying to protect you. Don’t you understand that? Why can you not simply allow me to take care of you?”
“I have taken care of myself, my parents, and a school housing a dozen girls for two years now. I have done so on a mere portion of a country vicar’s living, all while paying my father’s debts and fending off the unwanted advances of Felix Foote.” She gave him a tight, yet triumphant, smile. “I do believe that qualifies me to manage my own affairs, my lord.”
“Why must you be so bloody obstinate? And stop ‘my lord’-ing me. You only do it to dig under my skin.”
Her finger tapped faster on her arm. “As you have been absent for much of our time in London, I fail to see where I have had the opportunity to dig under your skin. My lord.”
His bristling agitation stilled, his hands settling on his hips. “You are complaining that I have been away from the house.”
She scoffed. “Hardly complaining. Why should I?”
“You are! You are vexed that I have not—”
“That is ridiculous.”
“—stayed here with you. And now you are punishing me.”
Narrowing her eyes at him, she responded with the precision and care only an instructor of young girls could muster. “My desire to secure a position that can support me and my mother has absolutely nothing to do with you. You see, my lord, despite your frequent assertions to the contrary, I do enjoy eating. I also favor sufficient shelter and the occasional bath. I am not an ascetic, and therefore, I require funds. Which I must earn through em-ploy-ment.” She smiled. “A foreign concept, perhaps. I can explain again more slowly if you like.”
He came toward her, speaking as his long, slow strides ate up the ground between them. “Do you know what I would like?” His voice was soft now, his eyes smoldering with intent. He was so close now, the fine wool of his dark-blue tailcoat brushed against her bodice.
She swallowed hard and moved back, only to find him matching her step for step until the edge of the mahogany desk nudged her backside.
His face hung over hers, his breath hot and his gaze hotter as they flowed over her skin. “I would like to teach you pleasure. I would like to start by kissing you. Until you beg me. Never to stop.”
Her eyelids fluttered as rapidly as her stomach. A low, warm ache settled between her thighs. “You only say these things to dig under my skin.” She was not certain who had spoken those taunting words, but the voice sounded much like her own.
The slow-burning smile he gave her only made the fluttering and aching and weakness worse. “Does it bother you, then, when I do this?” Tracing a finger lightly down the slope of her throat, stroking tenderly over the small indentation at the base. “To your skin?”
This was her Colin. Scoundrel, indeed. Returned in full force. She could barely think.
“Sarah,” he groaned, crowding closer and dipping his head to run his lips along the side of her neck. “Let me kiss you.”
She clutched at his hair, frustrated by the too-short strands. She liked them longer, so she could feel them curling between her fingers. “You are kissing me,” she panted.
“Mmm. Good point. No more arguing.” With that final rebuke, he took her lips. Sliding his tongue along their seam, he made the entire earth stop spinning then start again with a shower of sparks. She moaned and invited him inside to play.
He did, grasping her waist and lifting her to sit on polished mahogany, fisting black crepe in his hands until his fingers wrapped around the bare skin just above her stockings. Just below her thighs.
His slick tongue, sliding and teasing against hers was only a part of her pleasure. In truth, everywhere he touched her was a source of glowing sensation—his hands on her thighs, squeezing and stroking; his hard chest rubbing against her hardened nipples through layers of fabric; his breath and his scent surrounding her in sandalwood and crisp autumn air and just a hint of coffee. The more he touched, the higher his hands climbed, the brighter the sparks grew until she was set afire with the pleasure of him.
Clutching at his shoulders, she instinctively spread her thighs wider to draw him close to her. Slowly, his fingers kneaded her skin until his thumb brushed against her core, pressing against her in a way that sent those sparks into an explosion. She gasped and jerked, feeling him touch her in a way no man ever had. Pleasure her in a way she had not previously imagined.
“Shh, sweet. Easy,” he mumbled against her lips. “This tight little spring will take only the barest breath to release. But I do not wish to end our lesson so quickly.”
His thumb slowed its entrancing circles at the center of her being, causing the spiraling tension to soften and lull. Meanwhile, his mouth resumed its heated trail down the length of her throat. “This,” he murmured, nuzzling the skin at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Deserves pearls. Long, exquisite, luminous strands of pearls.”
She breathed his name.
He used his second hand to stroke lightly over her breast, to caress and squeeze and shape the peaks that puckered the black crepe and sizzled to his touch.
She recaptured his mouth with her own, pressing and stroking and nibbling and coaxing, just as he had done to her.
His groan was her reward.
His thumb resuming a faster pace around and around and around the sensitive nub at her core—that was her triumph. Her muscles in that secret place clenched and wept and rippled with their need.
Her nipple, tortured by his fingers, tingled and sparked, demanded he finish what he had started. A fire that would not be quenched by anything except …
It broke. Suddenly, like a wave ripping through her lower body, the spring let loose and the sparks that had been gathering inside her breasts and her belly, between her thighs and everywhere his mouth had touched, burst outward in a brilliant explosion, cascading in rippling waves of pleasure.
She sobbed his name against the linen of his cravat. Colin, Colin, Colin. He had done this. He had given her paradise.
His chest heaved and worked, his hand stroking her inner thigh tenderly where she was curiously damp. He lay his forehead on her shoulder, as winded as a horse that had been run too hard. “You see, sweet,” he panted, his voice guttural. “Letting me take care of you can be very, very satisfying.”
Echoes of her pleasure still pulsed inside her, making her weak and warm and a little foggy. “Are you saying you did this … to prove a point?”
“Of course not. Do you know nothing about me? This was my lust run amok. Pure and simple.”
“I do not believe you.”
He sighed, withdrawing one hand from her thigh with a gentle pat and the other from her bosom with a last, lingering stroke, as though he needed to smooth the silk.
“You have long maintained that I am not terribly attractive.”
Pulling back to stare at her with stark incredulity, he burst out laughing, his head shaking in disbelief. “Sheer madness. The only explanation.”
“You have!”
He continued laughing, seeming genuinely amused by her assertion.
She supposed she must catalog his observations for him. Perhaps then he would recall how many times he had let it be known that she was far from a beauty in his eyes. She ticked them off on her fingers. “First, you deemed me ‘acceptable fare’ for others, but not for yourself. Second, you have repeatedly insulted my gowns, calling them rags and worse. Third—”
“That is quite enough, thank you.”
“—you have, on several occasions, stated rather bluntly that I am too thin.”
His grin began to fade. “You are. You need to eat more. Is Digby providing the trays as I instructed?”
“You are the reason for those?” Every evening and every morning, regardless of whether she came downstairs for breakfast or dinner, she would find a tray piled ludicrously high with food—sliced ham and cheese, fresh-baked bread, and often several generous servings of whatever had been left from the previous meal. It was like she was an old, ailing hound being tempted with scraps, for pity’s sake. “Colin, I cannot eat all that. It is preposterous to imagine I can.”
“Humor me.”
“I would need ten stomachs!”
“Someone must ensure you do not faint dead away from lack of nourishment.”
“There is little chance of that with you and Digby conspiring—”
“Sarah,” he said, his expression gone serious. “You have worn yourself out, sweet. Your father’s illness, his death, the school, your mother. And me. There is little left of you but threads and determination.”
Tears sprang into her eyes unbidden, unwanted, and entirely humiliating. She shoved at him. “Let me down.”
He stepped back, his retreat slow and reluctant.
She slid from her perch and brushed at her skirts, then at her hair, then at her cheeks. Folding her arms and tilting her chin defiantly, she said, “I neither desire nor deserve your pity. And were it not for the threat of Mr. Syder, I would not have accepted your charity, either.”
“I do not pity you.”
She attempted to brush past him, holding her skirts to the side so as to avoid touching his trousers, but he stopped her with a hand around her elbow. She felt the heat of his grip through her silken sleeve. “Colin.”
He tugged her closer to him, his nose nuzzling her hair, breathing deeply. “Pity does not drive a man mad with thoughts of being inside you.”
Her breath left her, gushing out and weakening her knees. Why did he have to be so irresistible?
“Neither does a man spend every night dreaming of bringing you torturous pleasure because he finds you less than attractive.”
Suddenly, he yanked her flush against him, pressing his hips against her abdomen until she felt the hard, substantial bulge between his thighs, straining against his trousers.
“And this, sweet, certainly cannot be credited to charity. This knows only one thing. Want. It wants you. I want you. Think whatever you like about the rest of it—the food, the gowns, your search for employment. But never doubt the truth of this.” He kissed her hard, his mouth insistent and swift.
Then, just as suddenly, he released her, his face flushed, his nose flaring, his hands raised out to his sides as though surrendering. Walking backward, he held her gaze until he arrived at the door. Then, without another word, he turned and left her standing alone in the duke’s study, struggling for breath, needy and aching.
He wanted her, or so he’d said. He claimed he did not pity her. But she well understood his instinct for compassion. She had seen it in Keddlescombe, with her father and her students. And with her.
Now, she must decide how much she could accept in order to keep him in her life. Just a little while longer, her heart begged. I shall let him go. Let me have that much.
Her head answered with what she knew to be true: It will never be enough.
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