The Taste of Innocence (3 page)

He paused, then his lips quirked. “Will you be mine?”

Nicely ambiguous. Sarah stared into his gray-blue eyes, a paler shade of blue than her own, and heard again in her mind her mother’s words: Think very carefully about Charlie.

She searched his eyes, and accepted that she’d have to, that this time her answer wasn’t so clear. She’d lost count of the times she’d faced a gentleman like this and framed an answer to that question, couched though it had been in many different ways. Never before had she even had to think of the crux of her reply, only the words in which to deliver it.

This time, facing Charlie…

Still holding his gaze, she compressed her lips fleetingly, drew in a breath and let it out with, “If you want my honest answer, then that honest answer is that I can’t answer you, not yet.”

His dark gold lashes, impossibly thick, screened his eyes for an instant; when he again met her gaze his frown was back. “What do you mean? When will you be able to answer?”

Aggression reached her, reined but definitely there. Unsurprised—she knew his charm was nothing more than a veneer, that under that glossy surface he was stubborn, even ruthless—she studied his eyes, and unexpectedly found answers to two of the many questions crowding her mind. He did indeed want her—specifically her—as his wife. And he wanted her soon.

Quite what she was to make of that last, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she know how much trust she could place in the former.

She was aware that he expected her to back away from his veiled challenge, to temporize, to in one way or another back down. She smiled tightly and lifted her chin. “In answer to your first question, you know perfectly well that I had no warning of your offer. I had no idea you were even thinking of such a thing. Your proposal has come entirely out of the blue, and the simple fact is I don’t know you well enough”—she held up a hand—“regardless of our long acquaintance—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean—to be able to answer you yay or nay.”

She paused, waiting to see if he would argue. When he simply waited, lips even thinner, his gaze razor sharp and locked on her eyes, she continued, “As for your second question, I’ll be able to answer you once I know you well enough to know which answer to give.”

His eyes bored into hers for a long moment, then he stated, “You want me to woo you.”

His tone was resigned; she’d gained that much at least.

“Not precisely. It’s more that I need to spend time with you so I can get to know you better.” She paused, her eyes on his. “And so you can get to know me.”

That last surprised him; he held her gaze, then his lips quirked and he inclined his head.

“Agreed.” His voice had lowered. Now he was talking to her, with her, no longer on any formal plane but on an increasingly personal one; his tone had deepened, becoming more private. More intimate.

She quelled a tiny shiver; at that lower note his voice reverberated through her. She’d wanted to increase the space between them for several minutes, but there was something in the way he looked at her, the way his gaze held her, that made her hesitate, as if to edge back would be tantamount to admitting weakness.

Like fleeing from a predator. An invitation to…Her mouth was dry.

He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “So how long do you think getting to know each other better—well enough—will take?”

There was not a glint so much as a carefully veiled idea lurking in the depths of his eyes that made her inwardly frown. She was tempted to state that she had no intention of being swayed by his undoubted, unquestioned, utterly obvious sexual expertise, but that, like fleeing, might be seriously unwise. He’d all too likely interpret such a comment as an outright challenge.

And that was, she was certain, one challenge she couldn’t meet.

She hadn’t, not for one moment, been able to—felt able to—shift her gaze from his. “A month or two should be sufficient.”

His face hardened. “A week.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s impossible. Four weeks.”

He narrowed his back. “Two.”

The word held a ring of finality she wished she could challenge—wished she thought she could challenge. Lips set, she nodded. Curtly. “Very well. Two weeks—and then I’ll answer you yay or nay.”

His eyes held hers. Although he didn’t move, she felt as if he leaned closer.

“I have a caveat.” His gaze, at last, shifted from her eyes, drifting mesmerically lower. His voice deepened, becoming even more hypnotic. “In return for my agreeing to a two-week courtship, you will agree that once you answer and accept my offer”—his gaze rose to her eyes—“we’ll be married by special license no more than a week later.”

She licked her dry lips, started to form the word “why.”

He stepped nearer. “Do you agree?”

Trapped—in his gaze, by his nearness—she managed, just, to draw in a breath. “Very well. If I agree to marry you, then we can be married by special license.”

He smiled—and she suddenly decided that no matter how he took it, fleeing was an excellent idea. She tensed to step back.

Just as his arm swept around her, and tightened.

His eyes held hers as he drew her, gently but inexorably, into his arms. “Our two-week courtship…remember?”

She leaned back, keeping her eyes on his, her hands on his upper arms. His strength surrounded her. She felt giddy. “What of it?”

His lips curved in a wholly masculine smile. “It starts now.”

Then he bent his head and covered her lips with his.

2

S he’d been kissed a number of times. None of them had been like this.

Never before had her senses spun, never before had her thoughts suspended. Simply stopped.

Stopped to allow sensation to burgeon, to well and grow and fill her mind.

She didn’t question the wisdom of it, couldn’t think enough to do so. Couldn’t free her mind from the sinfully tempting touch of his lips on hers, from the artfully applied evocative pressure, from the warmth that seemed to steal into her bones—just from a simple, not-so-innocent kiss.

A kiss with which he fully intended to steal away her wits.

She realized, understood, yet was too intrigued, too enthralled, to deny him.

Charlie knew it. Knew she was fascinated, that she was perfectly willing to have him show her more.

Precisely as he wished, as he wanted.

Enough; this was supposed to be just a kiss, nothing more. Yet to his surprise it took an exercise of will before he could bring himself to give up the subtle plea sure. Before he could force himself to break the kiss, to draw back from the rose-tinted lips that had proved more luscious, more tempting, than he’d thought.

Fresh, delicate; as he lifted his head and drew in a breath, he wondered if that was the taste of innocence. And if it was that unfamiliar elixir or her underlying skittish flightiness that was setting unanticipated spurs to his desire.

Regardless, as he studied her eyes as she blinked rather dazedly up at him, he couldn’t suppress an inward smugness. She felt warm, soft, and desirable in his arms, but he gently set her back, and let his lips curve in an easy, charming—reasonably innocent—gesture. “I’ll see you to night I believe—at Lady Finsbury’s.” His smile deepened. “And we can continue to get to know each other better.”

Her eyes narrowed fractionally.

Raising a hand, with the back of one finger he lightly stroked her cheek, then stepped back, bowed, and left her.

Before he was tempted to do anything more.

Sarah Conningham had definitely been the right choice.

Sarah next set eyes on her would-be betrothed when he stepped into Lady Finsbury’s drawing room that evening. Tall, strikingly handsome, exuding restrained rakish elegance in his walnut-brown coat, gold-striped waistcoat, and pristine ivory linen, he bowed over her ladyship’s hand with ineffable grace. Smiling charmingly, he complimented her—Sarah could tell by her pleased expression—then moved into the room.

When he’d left her that afternoon, she’d gathered her still reeling wits and gone to her father’s study. Her parents had been waiting there; without roundaboutness she’d explained her and Charlie’s agreement. Despite it not being quite what they’d hoped, her parents had been nonetheless delighted. While she hadn’t said yes, she equally hadn’t said no; after the briefest consideration, their faces had brightened. They clearly had every confidence that her getting to know Charlie better would result in a positive outcome.

Their optimism wasn’t surprising. As she watched him move smoothly through the guests, all locals and therefore well known to them both, greeting one here, stopping to exchange a word there, all the time heading inexorably in her direction, she had to admit it was difficult to conjure any conventional shortcoming that might turn her against him.

But assessing conventional aspects wasn’t why she’d insisted on a period of courtship. She needed to confirm that the one critical aspect she deemed absolutely essential to her future happiness with Charlie existed in him, that it was a part of what he was offering her, whether consciously or otherwise. She owed it to herself, to her dreams, to her future—and to all the gentlemen whose offers she’d dismissed—to assure herself it was there, somewhere within the scope of his intentions. At the very least, she needed to find evidence it could exist, that he could give her that one vital thing, that it would be there, acknowledged or not, an integral part of their marriage.

A love match or no match; that was her aim—her view of her future if said future involved marriage.

Their interlude that morning had only strengthened her resolve, only clarified her direction. If it was marriage he was set on, then love was her price.

While ostensibly listening to the other ladies and gentlemen in the group she’d joined by the window, from the corner of her eye she watched Charlie approach. He skirted a group of younger girls, only to have one in a sweetpea-pink gown gaily turn and waylay him.

Sarah caught her breath, then remembered that Clary knew nothing of Charlie’s offer or their agreement; she’d asked her parents to keep their situation in the strictest confidence. She had only two weeks to learn what she sought, to assure herself that Charlie and what he offered were what she wanted; having Clary and Gloria “helping” would be a nightmare.

With a laugh, Charlie parted from Clary; half a minute later he stood before Sarah, taking her hand, bowing over it, meeting her eyes.

Making her nerves unfurl, reach, stretch, then tense; an anticipatory shiver ran down her spine.

“Good evening, Charlie.” They stood among longtime acquaintances; she didn’t think to “my lord” him. Holding his blue-gray gaze, she lowered her voice. “I dare say Lady Finsbury’s wondering at her good fortune.”

The curve of his lips deepened; he gently squeezed her fingers, then released them. “I do occasionally attend such events. To night, her ladyship’s held a certain lure.”

Her. She inclined her head and waited with feigned patience while he greeted the others, exchanging quips and sporting news with the gentlemen.

One thing between them had already changed; the odd breathlessness that had previously attacked her whenever she set eyes on him hadn’t afflicted her to night. She’d been studying him, assessing; perhaps that was why. Why the effect of his presence hadn’t struck until he’d been much nearer—close enough for their eyes to meet, for him to touch her hand.

Then it had struck with a vengeance, stronger, more powerful, a trifle unnerving, but by the time he turned back to her, she had her nerves well in hand.

By shifting a fraction, taking her attention with him, he subtly separated them from the group.

Before he could speak, she did, her gaze going past his shoulder. “Tell me, do your family know of your…direction?”

He followed her gaze to his mother, Serena, his sister Augusta, and his brother Jeremy, who had just entered and were greeting their hostess. “No.” Turning back, he met her eyes. “My decision is my own. Awakening their interest will only make ‘getting to know each other better’ more difficult.” His lips quirked. “That said, they’re far from blind—they’ll guess soon enough. I assume your sisters don’t know?”

“If they did, Clary would be hanging on your arm.”

“In that case, let’s pray for continued obliviousness.” He glanced around, over the heads. “It appears it’s time for the first dance—shall we?”

Charlie offered his arm as the introductory chords of a cotillion welled; he would have preferred a waltz, but he wasn’t about to stand aside and watch some other gentleman dance first with Sarah. With a nod of acceptance, she placed her hand on his sleeve. As he steered her through the guests in the direction of the dining room, to night cleared to accommodate the dancing, he was once again conscious of matters not progressing quite as he’d expected, of being just a trifle off balance, of having to adjust.

To her. She was the source of the tilt in his world, the point from which the ripples in his plans originated.

That afternoon he’d been distracted by having to deal with her demand for a period of courtship; only once he’d left her and was riding home had it struck him how far from his original script they’d strayed. He’d fully expected to be an affianced man by that point; he’d expected her to accept him without question.