Sally MacKenzie Bundle (178 page)

“Hard to see how the girl could have bride nerves, Gladys, after that last interlude in James’s study.”

“Amanda, you are not helping!” Lady Gladys turned to smile at Sarah. “It’s natural to be slightly agitated at this time, dear.”

“Pshaw! Slightly agitated? James is so agitated he can barely button his breeches.”

Lady Gladys shot Lady Amanda a glare and then turned back to Sarah. “It’s true, dear, that I’ve never seen James so attracted to a young lady.” She rushed on before Lady Amanda could squeeze in a word. “And in England, it is vastly more comfortable to be a duchess than a governess. As James’s wife, you’ll have wealth and position.”

“And plenty of children.” Lady Amanda stared at Sarah over her teacup. “You obviously don’t find the man repulsive, so what is the problem?”

Sarah shrugged. How could she tell these ladies that she couldn’t bear to marry a rake? They would never understand.

Lady Gladys leaned over and touched her arm. “If you’ve had a falling-out with James, dear, you need to patch it up. I may never have married, but I’ve spent years observing couples. I’m afraid men rarely take the first step. That’s the woman’s job.”

Lady Amanda nodded. “If you leave it to James, Sarah, the problem will never be resolved.”

“But…”

“No, Sarah.” Lady Gladys’s voice was firm. “You must marry James. So if there’s been a misunderstanding, talk to him.”

Lady Amanda snorted. “Just be sure that’s all you do.”

Sarah mulled over the ladies’ words. How could she possibly discuss such a topic with James? It certainly was not a proper subject for the breakfast table. Nor was it more palatable over a cold collation, cakes and tea, or roast pheasant. Since the ladies had suddenly become exemplary chaperones, there was never a moment for a private word. And really, what would she say? Fornication was expected of English peers. British lords spent more thought on their neck cloths than their bed partners.

But she was not a British lady. She could not ignore James’s amorous pursuits. She had to speak to him. The ladies were right about that. But when? And where?

When she got home from the opera that night, she was too disquieted to sleep. She dismissed Betty, curled up with a blanket by the fire, and faced some home truths.

She loved James. She wished that she didn’t, but she did. She could no longer imagine living without him. He had awakened something in her that was not going back to sleep. She ached for his touch—but she also ached for his fidelity and his love.

If she could have only his touch and not his love, could she bear to marry him?

She did not know.

She rested her chin on her knees and stared into the yellow and orange flames leaping in the grate. She was not going to find the answer here. She had to talk to James. Tonight. Now. She could not bear the uncertainty any longer.

She began to pace the length of her room. The thought of seeking James in his bedchamber made her stomach flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. She grabbed her sides, folding her arms tightly under her breasts, and took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help.

Could she go to his room? His chamber was just down the hall. It would take her only a moment to reach it. She knew which door was his.

It was scandalous, but they
were
engaged. According to the
ton,
her reputation was already shredded.

She paused at the corner farthest from the fire. What if he wasn’t there? He hadn’t come to the opera with them. What if he were spending the night at a brothel or with an accommodating lady of the
ton?

Now her stomach housed a flock of hummingbirds.

Enough. It was clear she was not going to be able to sleep, so she might as well seek him out tonight. If he wasn’t in his room—well, she would just try again. She would wait an hour—give the house time to settle down. Then she would go.

Sarah cracked open her door and peered out. The hall was deserted. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Facing James in his room had seemed like a good idea earlier, but now she could think of a hundred reasons why she should stay safely where she was. Yet hiding in her bed would not solve her problems. She looked down the hall again. The distance to James’s room seemed enormous, but she knew it was not. She just needed to get her feet to move. She forced herself to step over her threshold.

She hurried down the corridor. Thankfully the other doors stayed firmly closed. She did not want to face the ladies or Lizzie. What if Harrison was in the room, waiting up for James? She’d die if James’s proper valet caught her creeping into his master’s bedroom.

She reached the door and put her ear to the wood. She couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated. No sounds. She glanced up and down the corridor. No one coming. She grabbed the doorknob. She needed two hands, she was shaking so badly.

The door opened soundlessly and she slipped inside. No sign of Harrison, thank God. A banked fire glowed to her left; moonlight glimmered through a window across from her. The bed—huge and high, like a medieval king might have slept in—stood next to the window, the bed curtains drawn back. In the dim light she couldn’t be certain whether James was there or not.

She moved quietly across the floor, hardly breathing. Yes, he was there, on his back, bedclothes down to his waist.

The shadows played over his face, over the long lashes against his cheeks and the hollow at the base of his throat. He still didn’t wear a nightshirt. She could see the fine dusting of hair that covered his chest. It was golden, she remembered. Was it soft? She had wanted to touch it at the Green Man, to trace its path over his flat nipples, down his belly, to his navel and the narrow line that disappeared under the sheet. Could she touch it now? He was asleep. If she were very careful, he would never know.

The intimate light and quiet made her bold. She reached toward him.

His hands shot off the bed, grabbed her upper arms, and lifted her, throwing her down hard onto her back. He loomed over her, his weight pinning her to the mattress.

“James!”

His grip loosened. “Sarah?”

“Yes,” she croaked. She stared up at him, but his face was lost in the shadows. Was he angry?

“Just a moment.” He turned away. She heard a tinderbox creak open, a flint scrape. A candle flared to life.

His skin glowed warm. So much skin. Shoulders, lovely broad shoulders, and a strong back that tapered down to a narrow waist, still hidden by the blankets. He turned toward her and she saw his chest again. She had forgotten how his muscles rippled when he moved. It was truly amazing what was hidden under shirts and coats and cravats. Her eyes traced the sinuous line from his neck, over his shoulders, down the muscles in his arms.

“Like what you see?”

“What?” Her eyes flew back to his face. He had that intent look again. Very intent.

“I never knew a woman’s eyes could torture a man.”

“What?” She shook her head, trying to clear her senses. She knew she sounded shatterbrained, but the husky tone of James’s voice was quite distracting.

“Don’t look and not touch, sweetheart. Please. I can feel your eyes on me, but I would love to feel your beautiful hands or, better, your soft lips.”

She would love to touch the golden stubble outlining his jaw and the muscles bulging in his upper arms. Her hands ached to touch. She frowned and sat up, edging away from him toward the other side of the bed. A little more space between them would definitely help their discussion.

James woke when he sensed someone reaching for him. He should never have let his assailant get so close. He wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t been deep in a delightfully erotic dream.

He would almost have rather died than give up his dream. He’d had Sarah naked in his bed with no blankets or pillows to obstruct his view—and he had been enjoying the view. He’d let his gaze explore every inch of her—from her hair, her lips, her throat to her lovely small breasts. Her waist. Her thighs. He had an extremely active imagination, but he could not decide the exact shade of the lovely hair nestled between those thighs. Would it be the same reddish hue as the rest of her hair? And would it be as soft? He’d been just about to find out when he’d felt the man reaching for him.

As soon as his hands closed around the intruder’s arms, he knew it was not a man.

It was Sarah. What was she doing in his room? In his bed? He blinked. No, he was not still dreaming. She had on a high-necked white nightgown. She would never be wearing so much clothing if this were his dream.

He turned to light a candle. He could hardly focus long enough to strike the flint.

He had Sarah in his bed with only a nightgown between his skin and hers. Just a few buttons, so conveniently placed under her chin, over her slender throat, and down her lovely breasts. It would take only moments to slip them free. He had many moments—hours—before any of the maids would be up.

Blood rushed from his head to another part of his body.

Sarah had his ring on her finger. She was in his bed. Aunt Gladys and Lady Amanda were asleep, but even if they woke, they would not poke their noses into his chamber. He was safely tucked up in his own bed. With Sarah.

He should have locked his door—but then, of course, Sarah would not have found her way in. Why was she here?

Frankly, he didn’t care why. She was here. Surely his dreams were about to be fulfilled.

He turned—and found her studying him as closely as he had been examining her in his dream. God, it was exquisite torture. His skin burned everywhere her eyes looked. He needed to feel her hands, her lips on him. He was desperate for her touch.

He would beg if he had to.

Somehow James had managed to close the space between them. His face was only inches from hers. He looked…hungry.

“James, stop that.”

“Stop what?”

She could feel his breath on her lips. If she raised her hand, she could touch his chest. His very naked chest. Did he have no shame? Certainly he could find a nightshirt to put on. But then he would have to get out of bed, and she would see every muscled inch of him. Unless she closed her eyes—which, of course, she would.

Maybe.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“Are you certain? I can think of much more interesting things for our mouths to do.”

He leaned a little closer, and she leaned back. Any farther back and she would fall onto the floor.

“And anyway, you are the one looking at me, love. Not that I mind, of course. I’d be happy to show you any part of my body you would like to see.” His hand cupped her cheek.

Sarah moistened her lips, and saw James’s gaze drop to her mouth.

It would be so easy to be seduced from her purpose.

It would be so easy to be seduced. Being alone with James in his warm, shadowy bed, surrounded by his scent and heat, was wonderful.

“We need to talk about our future,” she whispered.

“Ahh. I would love to talk about our future, sweetheart.” His fingers moved to play with the buttons on her nightgown. “Why don’t you come under the covers and get comfortable?”

“I don’t think so.” Sarah eyed the blankets. “Do you have breeches on under there?”

He grinned. “Care to look?”

“No, I think I’ll stay right where I am, thank you.”

“You’re not cold?”

“I’m rather warm, actually.”

“Really? Then you shouldn’t be buttoned up to your chin, love.”

He slipped the first button free. Sarah raised her hand to stop him, but somehow she ended up tracing the curve of his muscles and the tendons in his arms. He kissed her fingers as they brushed over his skin. She dropped her hands back to the bed.

Another button slipped free of its hole.

He touched the end of her braid. “I remember your hair from that night at the Green Man. It was red and gold silk.”

Sarah blushed. “It was a mess. I was too tired to braid it.”

“Hmm?” He loosened the plaits and ran his fingers through the strands. “It’s beautiful like this.”

He pushed her hair back from her temples. His hand moved slowly down her cheek to her throat and the next button on her nightgown. She grabbed his wrist. She had to remember he was a rake. A libertine.

Apparently a very successful one. He was certainly making her mindless.

“James, do you make all your women feel this way?”

Another button slipped free. “What way, love?”

“Hot and…restless.”

“That sounds like a fever.” Another button opened.

“But I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned close and let his lips brush her cheek. “You make me feel hot and restless, too. Maybe we have the same illness.” His lips grazed her mouth and she turned her head instinctively to follow them as they retreated.

“Maybe we can cure each other.” He moved to her neck, to the sensitive place just below her ear. “I think so.” His voice was a trifle unsteady. “I definitely think so.”

“But, James.” Her voice was a trifle unsteady as well. Every time his mouth moved to a new spot, a new jolt of heat shot through her. Still, she had a vague—rapidly growing vaguer—sense that she needed to say something important. She couldn’t let this lovely fire consume her.

“James. Oh!” His lips found the base of her neck. Her breasts ached; the lower half of her body throbbed. Another button slipped free. She wanted to tear the blasted nightgown off. She needed to feel his hands and his mouth everywhere.

No! She had to say what she had come to say. She wetted her lips and tried again.

“James, about the other women.”

He opened another button. One more and he would reach her breasts. All hope of rational conversation would be gone when that happened. She pushed at him and he raised his head. She looked him in the eye.

“I’ve thought a lot about this, James. I know I can’t change your past. But I’m an American, not an Englishwoman. It would kill me to think you were doing this with other women once we are married. I don’t want to share you.”

One corner of his mouth crooked up. “And I don’t want to be shared.”