Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires (11 page)

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said, turning once again serious. Shifting his gaze, he looked out across the water.

Deciding she would not allow his reaction to bother her, Sarah did the same, while silence stretched between them. They stood like that, side by side, as the sun rose higher and higher until Sarah became aware of Lord Spencer's hand wrapped around her own. When that had happened, she couldn't say, but it felt both right and soothing, and although she knew she probably ought to pull away, she did not feel compelled to do so.

“Do you read, Lady Sarah?” Lord Spencer suddenly asked.

Sarah blinked. She'd been lost in her thoughts for a while. “If you're inquiring as to whether or not I know my letters,” she said with amusement, “then the answer is yes.”

“Are you fond of twisting other ­people's words? Or do you simply enjoy torturing me?” he asked. Lowering his gaze, he turned his head toward her, his dancing eyes the only hint that he was teasing her.

“Only you,” she replied, not bothering to hide her smile, “and in answer to your question, I do read on occasion—­I find Shakespeare's comedies particularly enjoyable.”

“I confess I'm more partial to the Greek classics—­there are some wonderful stories there. Romantic ones too, if you find such literature tempting?”

I find you tempting.

She shook her head, dispelling the silly idea. “I used to,” she said in answer to his question. “When I was younger, I often dreamed that my life would be like a fairy-­tale and that one day I'd have my happily ever after, but then . . .” She swallowed convulsively at the recollection of dreams dashed as a world filled with liars and scoundrels had been revealed to her. “ . . . I grew up, I suppose. We all have to eventually.”

“So there will be no dashing prince to whisk you away on his magnificent steed?”

“Don't be absurd,” she told him lightly, determined to hide her pain, her heartache, her dread of marrying a man who would not treat her well. The last thing she wanted from Lord Spencer—­or from anyone else, for that matter—­was pity. “A prince needs a princess, and I am anything but.”

“You're right,” he agreed, studying her. “But instead of telling me what you're not, why don't you tell me what you are?”

Words tumbled through her head, all of them describing a girl who no longer existed. She missed that girl. “I no longer know,” she said, because she did not want to tell him she was scared, or embarrassed, or that she'd lost herself to guilt.

“Then tell me who you used to be, and perhaps we can try to find you together.”

A wave of emotion crashed over her. Why did he care? It would be so much easier if he didn't. Her heart beat restlessly in her chest. “Outgoing and adventurous.” She paused before admitting, “Happy.”

“In spite of your strained relationship with your parents?”

She brushed aside a bothersome strand of hair. The thread between them tightened. “I've never been the sort of person to sit and feel sorry for myself while life went on around me. Instead, if happiness had vanished from my immediate surroundings, I would go looking for it.”

“And did you always find it?”

“Yes. Even though it often came at a price: a grazed knee, trouble with a farmer for letting a pig out of its pen, a scolding from my father . . .”
Ruination.
Pulling away, she crossed her arms over her chest. It was too much—­her awareness of him too acute. If she wasn't careful, she'd find herself falling for this man, and she could not afford for such a thing to happen. She wouldn't survive it.

An eyebrow rose, but he did not look censorious. “So you were the hoydenish type?”

She shrugged. “To say otherwise would be a lie.”

“Honest through and through,” he muttered. “I like that.”

“Have you made any sketches of Thorncliff yet?” she asked, directing the conversation away from herself. If she were completely honest, she would tell him the truth about herself this instant, but that would mean the end of a promising friendship—­a friendship she wasn't quite ready to give up.

“There hasn't been much time, though I was thinking of starting today—­this afternoon, to be exact.”

“It seems like a lot of work,” Sarah said as she glanced toward the house. It was partially hidden from view by trees and bushes, but she could still catch a glimpse of the towers at each corner. “It's an intricate building with a lot of details—­particularly around the windows. How long do you think it will take you to make the model once your sketches have been completed?”

He shrugged. “A year, I'd imagine. I have to carve the plaster casts first, and that takes time. One mistake and I'll have to start over.”

“I'd offer to help, but the only thing I've ever carved was a bird, which ended up looking quite peculiar after I accidentally cut off its beak. I sliced the tip of my thumb in the process. Who knew a finger could bleed so much? It was quite impressive.”

“Not as impressive as having a stone lodged in your forehead, I'll wager.” Bowing toward her, he brushed aside his hair to reveal a puckering scar an inch above his left eyebrow.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

He straightened. “I was out for a ride one day when I was about ten, perhaps eleven. My hat was knocked from my head by a low-­hanging branch, and when I leaned over, attempting to pluck it from the ground with my whip—­a much simpler task than actually dismounting—­I lost my balance and fell smack on my face.”

Sarah gasped. “How awful!”

“There was a pretty bad graze too, but that was gone within a week.”

“It adds a dangerous edge to your appearance.” She pursed her lips. “I was wrong to call you arrogant, Lord Spencer, for it is clear now that the ladies have no choice but to swoon at your feet.”

“I never said they swoon at my feet,” he amended with a furrowed brow that caused Sarah's stomach to tighten. “Nevertheless, I shall take your comment for what it was surely meant to be—­a compliment. Even though I don't see you swooning.”

She was beginning to fear that she might. Tilting her head defiantly, she said, “I am made of sturdier stuff, my lord.”

That made him laugh—­a deep rumble that tickled her insides. Heaven help her.

“I fell off a horse once as well,” she admitted. The memory still terrorized her. “I haven't ridden since.”

“Really?” He looked and sounded equally surprised. “But everyone rides.”

“Not me.” She shuddered at the very idea of it. “You couldn't pay me enough to get onto one of those unpredictable beasts.”

His eyes sharpened. “Not even if I tell you that I'm planning a surprise for you?” Taking her by the arm, he started leading her back toward Thorncliff.

What was he doing? What was
she
doing? She was supposed to be spending time with Mr. Denison. Instead she was allowing Lord Spencer to creep beneath her skin.
Resist him,
she told herself.
Resist the temptation he offers.

She was beginning to suspect the effort would be futile, especially since he'd made no effort to charm her with compliments or platitudes. He wasn't the type. But that didn't mean this surprise he spoke of wasn't a means to achieve the same goal as a compliment might. Appreciation was swiftly replaced by suspicion. After all, he was a man. He was also aware of her intention to marry Mr. Denison. So then why was he asking her questions that made it seem as if he wished to encourage a deeper friendship with her? And why was he arranging surprises for her? She could think of only one explanation.

Forcing him to a halt, she turned and faced him. “Lord Spencer, are you trying to seduce me?” He might not wish to marry, but that didn't mean he was opposed to a liaison.

He stumbled a little “God no!”

She frowned. “You needn't sound so appalled.” As if she were the last woman on earth he'd ever consider.

“Of course I'm appalled! How can I not be when you just asked me if . . .” He shook his head. “I'm a gentleman, Lady Sarah. I would never try to lead you astray.”

He sounded sincere, and she found that she believed him. Her curiosity got the better of her. “May I ask about the nature of this surprise?” she asked.

“If I told you, then it wouldn't be much of a surprise, now, would it?”

Sarah scrunched her nose, conceding the point. “If it involves riding, you might as well forget it.”

“We'll see. You've a few days to decide if you're courageous enough to find out what it is, but you will need to get on a horse in order to do so.”

Sarah did not like the thought of that one little bit, but the idea that he'd been thinking about her enough to consider planning a surprise for her warmed her heart. Eyeing him, she warned herself to beware. Really, could there be anything more tragic than falling for yet another man with whom she had no hope of spending her future?
Friends.
That was all they could ever be.

They climbed the steps to the terrace in silence, though there was nothing awkward about it. If anything, it felt comfortable—­as if they'd known each other for years and found no need for unnecessary conversation.

Eager for breakfast, Sarah hoped the servants would have some food ready for them in the dining room. She hastened toward the French doors, but a staying hand stopped her. Puzzled, she looked up at Lord Spencer, whose brow was set in a frown as he regarded the ground before them. “What is it?” she asked, unable to comprehend the reason behind his apprehension.

“You should watch where you're going,” he told her simply. Then, with a nod toward the house, he released her and continued on his way.

Surprised by his peculiar warning, Sarah watched as he reached the door, opened it and waited for her to join him. Her gaze returned to the ground before her, curious to discover the reason behind his odd behavior. Surely she must have missed something. But there was nothing except a crack in the tiles, and then it struck her. Raising her gaze, she studied Lord Spencer, who appeared to have grown rigid in a manner that spoke of mild discomfort. “Are you superstitious, my lord?”

He shrugged ever so slightly, as if aiming for an air of nonchalance, though he failed miserably in that regard. “I wouldn't be the first, and I doubt I'll be the last,” he muttered.

“No. You probably wouldn't,” she agreed, intrigued to discover that the Earl of Spencer was governed by irrational fear—­that he had a flaw. Well, perhaps it was more of a quirk, really, but what surprised her was her own reaction, for rather than think it strange, she found it utterly endearing.

“And if you must know,” he said as she reached his side and stepped over the threshold, “it's not limited to stepping on cracks.”

“No, I don't suppose it would be,” she said, amused by his resolve to defend himself even though an accusation had yet to be made.

“I do many things in threes.”

“Like cutting up food?” When he failed to respond, she chose to clarify. “When I was seated beside you at dinner the first evening, I noticed that you cut your orange slices into three equal parts.”

“Yes . . . well . . . one can never be too thorough.” He expelled a sigh. Sensing that he had come to a halt, Sarah turned toward him. He offered a sheepish smile. “I know it's illogical. My sister Rachel has certainly told me so repeatedly. I just feel that there's no harm in adhering to these notions unless, of course, someone happens to be standing directly behind me when I throw spilled salt over my shoulder.”

Sarah felt her lips twitch, but she made a deliberate effort to remain serious. The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect her of having a laugh at his expense, which she wasn't. But there truly was something undeniably charming about his self-­conscious confession. For the first time since she'd made his acquaintance, he looked awkward and apprehensive, perhaps even a little concerned with what she might think of him now. It was all very silly in a way, that he should be embarrassed by his superstitious nature. But it was clear that he was, and Sarah felt a sudden overwhelming need to assure him that not only was it perfectly normal—­after all, it was hardly an oddity, considering how many Englishmen crossed their fingers for good luck or hung a horseshoe outside their home—­but it added character as well. If anything, he had just become all the more interesting. “You're quite right,” she said. “I suspect it would be unpleasant to get salt in one's eye, so it is very correct of you to apply caution when . . . acting on this need of yours to ward off bad luck.”

He stared back at her, then straightened himself, growing a full inch taller in the process. Crossing his arms, he said, “Lady Sarah, are you . . .” Closing his eyes for a spell, he looked as though he might be reconsidering his words, but then his eyes opened and he asked bluntly, “ . . . are you mocking me?”

“Heavens no!” It bothered her that he might think so. “Indeed, you ought to know that I always touch wood after saying something the Fates might choose to meddle with, I never walk under ladders . . . not that I've been given much opportunity to avoid doing so, but it does seem like something one ought to avoid. Also, I make a deliberate effort not to voice my dreams out loud for fear that once I do, they'll have no chance of coming true.” Not that they would anyway, considering how impossible they were. What a pity she hadn't been wiser when she'd attended the Gillsborough house party.

“Lady Sarah?” a faint voice prompted. Her vision sharpened just as Lord Spencer asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, with a definitive nod for good measure. She would not allow him to suspect that anything was amiss—­that she was unworthy of his friendship.

Please. Let me have this without him judging me
.