The Taste of Innocence (8 page)

While Quince, thin and bony, with her severe expression, tightly restrained hair, and outwardly acid temper, might have seemed an odd choice as nursemaid, Sarah had often seen her face soften, her eyes fill with a soft light when she rocked one of the tightly wrapped bundles. The babies responded to that glow, and cared nothing for her appearance. No one was better with infants than Quince.

In the quiet of the nursery, she and Quince sat and sorted.

Later they were joined by Katy and Jeannie. As “the linens” included all the napery as well as towels, sheets, and napkins, it was a major undertaking to examine each piece, placing those requiring mending to one side and those requiring extra bleaching in another pile, and reluctantly setting aside those beyond repair or resuscitation to be used for rags.

The size of the pile for mending was always daunting.

“Jeannie?” Lily’s voice floated up the stairs. “Your lot are stirring.”

“Coming!” Jeannie set down the towel she’d been folding and hurried out. She took care of the toddlers who’d been put down for their afternoon nap. Lily, who was working with the older girls, had been watching over them.

“I’d better get on, too.” Katy hauled herself out of the old armchair she’d sunk into. “Time to get started on supper.”

Sarah looked up from the mending pile and smiled. “I’ll be leaving once I’ve finished stacking these. I’ll ask Jim to drop them off at the manor tomorrow, and I’ll share them out for mending.”

“Aye.” Katy nodded. Turning for the stairs, she glanced out of the window, and halted. “Well now, if that ain’t a sight.”

Sarah looked up, then rose and went to join her. She followed Katy’s gaze to where the older boys, and some of those not so old—and two much older—were playing bat and ball on the forecourt.

“They usually play at the back,” she murmured.

“Too many of ’em, today.” Quince had come to stand beside Sarah. “Looks like they’ve made up proper teams.”

Sarah watched as Charlie lobbed the ball, and Maggs, who was holding the bat, whacked it to the side. To much hooting and cheering, while fielders scampered after the ball, Maggs dashed to where a peg was stuck in the ground; rounding it, he hared back to touch another peg near where he’d started with the bat.

Retrieving the ball, Toby, another of the older lads, threw it to Charlie. The throw went rather wild. Leaping high, Charlie plucked the ball from the air. He tossed it in his palm. He fixed Maggs with a fierce look—but he was grinning. He called something to Maggs, then bowled again.

Katy said something and with a laugh headed downstairs. One of the babies stirred and Quince went to tend it. Sarah remained by the window looking down. The nursery was high under the eaves, the lead-paned windows shaded by the overhang. No one in the forecourt could see her as she stood and watched. And wondered.

What she was seeing wasn’t something she’d thought to assess as part of her decision whether or not to marry Charlie. Yet she wanted children—yes, definitely—and a husband who could give himself over to a simple boys’ game as Charlie was…that was certainly a point she should consider.

Indeed, not only was he patently immersed in the game, sharing the moment with the boys and with Joseph, too—the other man was smiling more widely than Sarah had thought possible—but he’d sacrificed his elegance, it seemed, without a qualm.

He’d removed his hacking jacket. His shirttails were hanging out; he’d rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms and his neatly tied cravat was nowhere in sight. Nor was his waistcoat.

It was a severely rumpled Charlie who bowled the next ball—who leapt into the air and cheered as Maggs hit it straight to Toby and was caught out. Sarah watched as the boys crowded around, as Charlie tousled Toby’s hair and called some compliment to Maggs, who glowed even while he handed the bat to Toby.

Sarah watched for ten minutes more. When she eventually retreated to finish folding the linens, she was pensive.

They left the orphanage half an hour later. The game had been over by the time Sarah had gone downstairs. She’d found Charlie talking with Joseph while they watched the boys finish their chores in the kitchen garden.

Joseph had still been rumpled but Charlie had made an effort to regain his customary style. While his cravat, redonned, would never pass muster in any ton drawing room, it was neat enough for country fields. From the darkened curls about his face, Sarah had concluded that he’d washed; he’d certainly made some effort to smooth his ruffled hair.

Her fingers had itched to run through the heavy locks and disarrange them again.

Instead, she’d smiled, bid Joseph and the boys good-bye, then led the way around the house to where their horses waited.

Before she could lead Blacktail to the mounting block, Charlie took the reins from her gloved grasp, then closed his hands about her waist and lifted her up to her saddle.

Her breathing suspended. She looked down and busied herself settling her boot in the stirrup. That done, she looked up, managed a weak smile, and accepted the reins from him.

By the time he’d untied his gray and swung up to the wide back, she had herself in hand again. She pointed due south to the stream. “I usually ride home across the fields—it’s faster.”

Eyes narrowing, Charlie followed the faint line of a bridle path that led to the stream.

“There’s a place where the stream’s easy to jump.” Setting Blacktail’s nose homeward, she tapped her heel to his side. “Come on.”

She went and Charlie followed. When they came within sight of the place to jump the stream, he ranged alongside her.

They jumped together, both horses fluidly covering the distance from one bank to the other. She laughed, gripped by unexpected delight, then veered to the west into the lee of the Brendons, following the bridle path as it skirted the backs of various farmers’ fields, cutting along the lower levels of the slope rising to their right.

She kept Blacktail to a steady, ground-eating pace. The gray thundered beside her, equally surefooted. She glanced briefly at Charlie. “The path’s clear—no holes or roots.”

He nodded.

The afternoon was waning, the light fading. It was not yet dusk; at this pace, they would reach the manor before the light became uncertain, but Charlie had to ride another two miles more to reach the Park.

They swept on side by side. The dull thudding of hooves echoed the thudding in her blood, an insistent, steadily escalating tattoo. It rang in her ears, in her fingertips, while the wind of their passage whipped her cheeks and set them, and her, glowing.

She’d ridden this way countless times, and some of those times she’d galloped even faster. It wasn’t simply the speed that was feeding the undeniable exhilaration within her.

Stride matching stride, they swung down off the path onto another leading to the back of the manor. They clattered into the stable yard, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbles, a peculiar delight bubbling in her veins.

Her senses were singing. She couldn’t stop grinning.

Charlie swung down, came and lifted her down; for an instant he held her close, protected by his body as the horses milled about them. Then the stable lads were there, grasping reins.

“Just walk him,” Charlie called to the lad gathering his gray’s reins. “I’ll be off again shortly.”

His gaze hadn’t shifted from her face. Releasing her, he took her hand. “I’ll walk you to the house.”

She nodded, unable to decide what the light in his eyes meant, what the tension she could feel through his grip on her hand portended.

The horses were led away. Charlie strode for the stable entrance, drawing her with him. Under the arch he paused, looking across the stretch of lawn shaded by large trees that separated the house from the stables.

Puzzled, she looked, too, wondering.

Beneath his breath he muttered an oath, and abruptly towed her in a different direction, along the front of the stables and around the corner. He ducked under the low-hanging branches of a fir—then he halted, turned, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

Ravenously.

The triumphant delight bubbling in her veins sizzled, fizzed and rose, rose to wreathe through her brain and pleasurably sweep her wits away. Leaving a sense of certainty in its wake.

His lips were hard, commanding. She met them, met his demands, thrilled that she could.

More, that he could want her like this—with just a touch of wildness in the wanting. That he could desire her as he so patently did…

She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t dreamt of desire, of him desiring her, but she couldn’t think now, could only appease the hunger in him, and let him seed her own.

Her lips had parted of their own volition; he’d taken advantage on the instant and claimed her mouth. Claimed her in some way; she felt the possessiveness in his touch as he backed her, as she sensed the brick wall of the stable behind her and his hand rose to cradle her face, to hold it steady at just the right angle so he could deepen the kiss.

The steely arm about her waist tightened. Her toes curled.

She gripped his shoulders, clung, intrigued, and kissed him back, unrestrainedly following his lead.

Two heartbeats later, things changed. The tenor of the kiss altered, gentled, as if he were reining himself—them—in, as if what had already passed between them had taken the edge from his—their—hunger, and now that desperate edge was gone, he—they—could savor.

Could appreciate, could sink deeper into the kiss and wallow.

He didn’t let her go; his hold didn’t ease in the slightest. He continued to kiss her, to indulge her and himself with long, languid caresses.

Simply because he wanted to.

That last was clear, a truth undeniably etched in her mind when he finally raised his head, and on a sigh released hers. He brushed a thumb across her lower lip, then let her go and stepped back, retaking her hand.

He didn’t smile. “Come. I’ll walk you to the door.”

She managed a wobbly smile in acquiescence, and let him lead her back into the world. Ducking under the fir tree’s branches, she went with him across the lawn. Reaching the side door, he opened it, and stood back. She stepped to the threshold, then turned back to him.

He bowed over her hand, effortlessly graceful, then released it. He met her eyes briefly and saluted her. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

He barely waited for her nod before turning and striding back toward the stable.

Sarah stood in the doorway and watched him go. And reflected that the revelations of the day had left her with quite a few things to ponder.

4

Casleigh, Lord Martin Cynster’s house, was a huge, rambling country mansion filled with antiques and furnished in exquisite luxury; on Tuesday night, Charlie moved through the guests gathered in its drawing room, and saw nothing of the house’s beauties.

He’d spent Monday evening and most of that day clarifying in his mind the framework of the life he expected to live once Sarah agreed to be his—the months in London filled with endeavors similar to those he’d enjoyed for the past decade, broken by the occasional trip to the country to check on the Park and the estate. That was how he’d envisaged it would be, but how to fit Sarah’s devotion to the orphanage into such a pattern was more than he’d been able to see. He’d paced, and considered, and in the end had consigned the problem to the future. To be dealt with later.

After Sarah had agreed to be his wife.

His impatience on that score was steadily escalating.

Pausing beside those who hailed him, while chatting and smiling with practiced ease, he raked the throng, searching for her. She was there, somewhere among the guests; they’d been seated beside each other at dinner, but neither then nor earlier, when she’d arrived with her family and they’d met in the drawing room, had they had any chance for a private word.

Or a private anything else.

That kiss behind the stable, driven by frustration as it had been, had served only to further whet an appetite that hadn’t needed further whetting.

He heard her laugh. Without pausing to wonder how among the crowd of females encircling him he could so unhesitatingly identify a single laughing note, he changed course, and then saw her. She was standing to one side of the room smiling sweetly at a gentleman he didn’t know.

The sight gave him pause. Stepping free of the milling guests, he stood by the wall opposite and over the sea of heads studied the gentleman. He was relating some tale to which Sarah, to night gowned in blue silk the color of her eyes, was listening attentively, yet even from this distance Charlie could tell that she was being polite and welcoming, but nothing more.

When she looked at him…

He didn’t need to be jealous, thank heavens, but in other circumstances the gentleman would have rated as one to discourage. He was…it took a full minute before Charlie realized that he was viewing a gentleman remarkably like himself.

Tall, broad-shouldered, a touch heavier in the chest, but the man was a few years older, late thirties, Charlie guessed, to his own thirty-three, accounting for that. The man’s hair was a touch fairer, straight where Charlie’s was wavy, but with a similar gilded sheen.