The Taste of Innocence (10 page)

He bent his head and tasted her—not just a kiss but a more explicit sampling, one that sank to his bones, that spun out, and on…

With a wrench, he drew back. Forced his hands from her face.

He waited until she met his gaze and drew in a shaky breath before he reached for the doorknob. “Yes. We have to get back.”

Frustration had sharpened its spurs.

It had pricked before; now it jabbed. Hard. Later that night, Charlie paced the unlighted library at Morwellan Park, a glass of brandy in his hand. Wondering how many more prior claims on Sarah’s time, more meetings in crowded social settings, more unanticipated interruptions he was going to have to endure.

In the lead-up to the London Season, before the departure of those intending to spend those entertainment-filled months in town, the local ladies hosted a range of events; he’d always viewed it as a form of practice, a testing ground for young ladies destined to make their mark on wider tonnish circles.

All well and good in its way, no doubt, but that meant that he and Sarah, despite neither being in need of such practice, would be included in invitations to countless dances, dinners, and parties, and expected to attend.

In town, he would consider balls and parties as opportunities to further his aim. Here, he knew such local events would prove nothing more than wasted time. The company was too small and the houses too limited in their amenities to allow him and Sarah to slip away—not for more than the few inadequate minutes he’d managed to steal at Casleigh. Casleigh was the largest house in the district, and look how that had turned out.

Halting before the fireplace, he stared at the tiny flames licking over the dying embers.

He wanted Sarah’s agreement to their wedding. He wanted that agreement as soon as possible; the idea of dallying even for the period of courtship he’d agreed to didn’t appeal.

She was the one—he was beyond sure of that. So…he needed a plan. Some scheme to ensure she happily accepted his proposal—and why not within the week?

He sipped his brandy and stared at the flames while the notion took shape, and crystallized in his brain.

Sarah would agree to marry him before next Tuesday night.

Bringing that about was the challenge he faced.

He’d always relished challenges.

Time and place were the first hurdles he needed to overcome.

“Perhaps…?” About to take his leave of Lady Conningham, and Sarah, Clary, and Gloria, with whom he’d spent the last half hour chatting about local concerns—a very proper visit on his part—Charlie paused and glanced at Sarah, then looked at her ladyship. “Would you allow Sarah to walk with me to the stables?”

Naturally Lady Conningham gave her consent. Smiling, he took Sarah’s hand. She joined him readily, a question—an eager one—in her eyes.

Holding the door for her, he glanced back, and inwardly winced. Clary and Gloria had “realized”; their eyes were round, the questions in them all but clamoring.

Closing the door on that pair of avid gazes, he told himself that Sarah’s sisters’ interest had been inevitable from the start. His only hope was that Lady Conningham was strong enough to keep them from following.

Sarah led him to the side door, then out onto the lawn. Ahead, the stable lay soaking up the afternoon sunshine.

Pacing beside her, he touched her arm. “Have you time for a longer walk?”

She smiled—delightedly; he’d just answered her question. “Yes, of course.” She glanced around. “Where should we go? Mama won’t be able to hold Clary and Gloria for long.”

“In that case, let’s get out of sight.” He gestured to the path that wended away from the house, eventually leading to the stream that burbled along a short distance behind the manor.

Sarah nodded. He offered his arm and she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. They crossed the lawn to the path; passing down an avenue of rhododendrons, they were soon effectively screened from the house.

The path reached the stream and turned, following the rushing water. They continued on, leaving the house behind.

“I assume you’ll be attending Lady Cruikshank’s dinner to night?” Sarah glanced at him. “There’ll be quite a crowd.”

“Indeed.” Charlie looked ahead. If memory served, just beyond the next bend the stream flowed into a weir. The path hugged the shore; halfway down the body of water…a summer house used to be there, of white-painted wood, nestled into the lee of the rising bank behind. He remembered it from childhood summers when his mother and Sarah’s had sat in its shade and watched their children play in the shallows or, as in his case, fish from the banks. “But yes, I’ll be there tonight.”

A stand of trees and a thicket of bushes blocked the view ahead. Passing the trees, they rounded the bend—and there stood the summerhouse.

Charlie smiled and steered Sarah toward it. “But as we’ve seen, getting any reasonable amount of time alone—time in suitable privacy so we can get to know each other better—is a tall order at this time of year.”

“Especially for you.” When he glanced at her, seeing his faint frown she smiled and looked ahead. “You’re the earl now. Even being heir to the earldom doesn’t equate with being the earl yourself—you can’t avoid any of the gatherings, not at present. Not while you remain unwed, and while the gentlemen aren’t yet sure what you might think about this topic or that.”

He grimaced. “True.” Although he’d been the earl for three years, he’d spent precious little time in the country; to many of the district’s landowners he was still something of an unknown quantity.

“That, however”—he looked ahead—“brings me to my point.”

The summer house steps were beside them. He turned her; side by side, they climbed up.

Looking around, he relaxed. The place was perfect. Wooden shutters closed off the rear archways, those facing the bank and the trees. The arches overlooking the weir remained open; in summer cooling breezes would lift off the water, but now, in winter with the weir full, slate gray beneath the massing clouds, the summer house was protected from the prevailing winds by the bank and the trees embracing it. The air beneath the ceiling was still and faintly warm, courtesy of the day’s sunshine.

Sarah drew her hand from his arm and walked to where a thickly cushioned wicker sofa sat between two similarly padded armchairs, all angled to best appreciate the view.

Most helpful of all to Charlie’s mind was the place’s seclusion. It was hidden from the house by the intervening gardens, and in this season it was highly unlikely anyone else would walk this way.

One glance around as he trailed after Sarah confirmed that the place was kept swept and dusted. There were no dead leaves anywhere, no cobwebs strung between the rafters.

Sarah had stopped before the sofa, her back to it as she surveyed the view. He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. After a moment, she turned her head, searched his eyes, then raised a brow in question.

He reached for her, turned her into his arms, and she came. Readily, without uncertainty or hesitation. He looked down at her face for a moment, then bent his head and kissed her.

Long, deeply, as he wished. As the minutes stretched, he let his hunger reign, allowed himself to appease her curiosity to some small degree. Then, with an effort, he drew back, raised his head and murmured, “They’re going to be watching us, all the matrons, all the other young ladies—even the gentlemen. Like your sisters, they’ve guessed, and as we’ve made no announcement they’ll be avidly following every move we make.”

Sarah reluctantly accepted he wasn’t going to kiss her again, at least not yet. Opening her eyes, she looked into his, into the soft blue that so often screened his thoughts; he wasn’t an easy man to read.

“You asked for a period of courtship,” he said, “for us to get to know each other better, but our social surroundings are a real constraint.”

For an instant, she wondered if he was going to ask her to decide and give him her answer now, before their two weeks were up, but before she could panic at the prospect—she had no notion what her answer should be—he went on, “We can accept those constraints—and a subsequently restricted courtship—or we can work around them.”

Her relief was real. “How do we work around them?” Even she heard the eagerness in her voice.

He smiled. “Simple. We meet here.” He gestured about them; his gaze lowered to her lips. “Each night, after what ever engagements we attend, we come here—to pursue our private, mutual agenda. We both want to, need to, get to know each other better, and we can only do that in the privacy this place, at night, will afford.”

His gaze rose to her eyes. “Will you do it? Will you meet me here tonight, and every night thereafter, until you know enough, have learned enough, to give me my answer?” She blinked, and he went on, “Will you meet me here to night after Lady Cruikshank’s dinner?”

“Yes.” To her mind there was no question; to clarify, she added, “To night after Lady Cruikshank’s dinner, and every night thereafter, until I’m sure.”

His smile held an element of triumph; she noted it, but then his arms tightened, and he kissed her again.

Another of his long, drugging, exciting and satisfying but curiously incomplete kisses; when he broke it, she had to battle a wanton urge to grab him and haul him back—to somehow demand…she knew not what. The rest, but what was that?

That was one of the as-yet-undefinable things she needed to know.

He looked into her eyes, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “We need to start for the stables, or your sisters will come searching.” Releasing her, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “Until to night.”

Entirely content, she smiled back. “Until then.”

5

Later that night, Charlie tied Storm at the edge of the manor’s gardens, then strode quickly down a narrow track that joined the path by the stream. Clouds scudded overhead; the moon was fitful, shining down one moment only to vanish in the next, dousing the path in unrelieved gloom.

Conscious of rising tension, of an edginess he ascribed to impatience to get their courtship moving in the right direction, he prayed Sarah wasn’t frightened of the dark, that she wouldn’t allow the inky shadows to deter her.

He reached the summer house, started up the steps—and saw her. She was waiting, once again before the sofa. She must have spotted him on the path; he detected no start on seeing him. Instead, as he neared, she smiled and held out her hands.

He took them, registering the softness of her skin and the delicateness of the bones between his fingers, then he lifted both her hands to his shoulders, released them, and reached for her. Sliding his hands about her waist, he gripped, and drew her to him. Not into his arms, but against him, simultaneously bending his head and covering her lips so that he tasted her surprise, that evocative leap of nerves, the first shock of sensual awakening as their bodies touched, breasts to chest, hips to thighs.

Sarah caught her breath, physically and mentally; she couldn’t catch her reeling, whirling wits, but she didn’t need to. Her will remained her own and she knew what she wanted. To know, to learn all she might from this.

From this and all subsequent engagements. From his kiss, that melding of their mouths that was no longer remotely innocent, from his embrace, different tonight—his hands remained at her waist, yet she still felt his strength surrounding her, potent, male, dangerous, yet so tempting.

She slid her hands up over his shoulders, felt the heavy muscles under her palms and tensed her fingers, savoring the warm hardness, then reached further, sliding her hands up the strong column of his nape; spreading her fingers, she ran them through his hair.

Fascinated, she ruffled the heavy locks, thrilling to the silky texture and the way he reacted, the kiss, and him, heating at her boldness.

She knew what she wanted—she wanted more. Wanted him to show her more, to let her see what lay behind his newfound desire for her. So she kissed him back, more definite, more demanding in her own right, inviting…he hesitated for an instant, then accepted, plucked the reins from her grasp and took control.

He swept her into some hotter, more urgent existence.

He kissed her more deeply, more thoroughly, more evocatively, until heat swamped her, threatening to melt her bones, until her wits were no longer reeling, but flown. Until her skin was flushed, until her body felt simultaneously unbearably languid and indescribably tense.

Waiting, but she wasn’t sure for what.

Charlie reminded himself of her innocence, that she was all the word implied; she had no notion of what she hungered for, what she was inviting as her tongue boldly met his and stroked, caressed.

All her responses, enticing though they were, were instinctive, flavored with that distinctive fresh and heady taste he now associated with her. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, something other than those on whom his experience was based; the difference logically had to be a symptom of the way she differed from all the rest—that singular quality was the taste of innocence.

He’d never expected to find innocence so addictive. So arousing.

So powerfully alluring that he had to battle, actually had to exert his will against his own inclinations, against a welling, remarkably strong desire to sweep her up in his arms, lay her on the sofa, and…