“Sara?” Aunt Delphi hesitated. “If you need me to stay—”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Nick said, coming into the room. “The house is still being repaired, and no extra rooms are ready for inhabiting. Lady Langtry, thank you for attending.”
Delphi flushed. “Yes, I suppose I should go.”
Unrepentant, Nick escorted Delphi to her carriage. Sara watched them go, suddenly feeling alone. She felt like a stranger here at Hibberton Hall, but she was now the mistress and responsible for all aspects of the house. The thought slowly settled into her mind, and she sank to the edge of the settee, looking about her with startled wonder.
How could she be mistress of a residence like this? Oh, she’d run an establishment before, but she and Julius had confined their housekeeping to a narrow town house in London. This was something altogether different. A slow, uncertain pressure began to press on Sara’s shoulders.
After several moments the door opened, and Wiggs came into the room. He stopped on seeing Sara. “My lady! I thought you were with Lady Langtry.”
Sara stood, nervously smoothing her gown. “No. I was just sitting here and…” What? Feeling sorry for herself? Heavens, but she was being ridiculous. She was a St. John, born and bred, and it was time she began to act like it. “I would like to retire now. Could you lead the way to the master chamber?”
The butler hesitated. “Yes, my lady. However, I believe—”
“Excellent,” Sara said briskly. She went to the door and waited for the butler to open it.
He followed at once and led her up the grand staircase in silence, then escorted her down a bewildering set of halls. Wiggs finally stopped at the very end of a long and drafty corridor before a set of wide oak doors. He opened them and stepped aside.
Sara walked into the room, refusing to even look around until she was alone and more in control. “This will be fine. My clothes will be arriving tomorrow, and I will need the services of a maid.”
“Yes, my lady. I will inform Mrs. Kibble in the morning.”
“Thank you, Wiggs,” she said, turning away.
“As you wish, my lady. If you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ring.” So saying, he bowed and left, shutting the doors behind him.
As soon as the door closed, Sara whirled to look around the room. Though spacious and opulently furnished, it was also stark. The heavy red curtains that draped the windows and the bed were without decoration, and even the walls were unadorned. Yet everything was neatly in its place—a wardrobe filled one wall, several chairs were meticulously grouped about a crackling fire, and a robe was neatly folded on a small stool by the bed.
She walked toward the huge bed, admiring the heavy piece of furniture. It was large enough to comfortably sleep five or six people. She placed a hand on the mattress, and the memory of Nick’s warm body atop hers flittered through her mind and lingered. She smiled and trailed her fingers along the heavy red cover. Perhaps there were compensations for being married that she hadn’t yet considered.
Sara glanced at the closed door, then climbed onto the edge of the bed, wondering what Nick looked like in the mornings—his hair mussed, his eyes heavy with sleep. Her breasts tingled at the thought—she knew exactly what he would look like.
Still, despite the fact that she found him irresistibly attractive, she must remember that this was not the marriage she’d hoped for. Nick was not a man who would sit tamely by while she went her way. Worse still, had it not been for his pride and his desire to be respectably established, he’d have refused to wed her, no matter what threats her brothers employed. It was a very lowering thought.
The door opened, and Nick entered. He came to a halt when he saw her sitting on the bed. “Sara. I thought Wiggs had taken you to your room.”
“I thought this was—” Her cheeks heated. Of course there was a separate chamber for her; she’d been foolish to think otherwise.
Nick closed the door and crossed to stir the fire. “I’m afraid I’m using the connecting rooms as storage.” He replaced the poker. “Shall I show you to your room now? You must be tired.”
Sara nodded, feeling betrayed in a way. She’d assumed that she and Nick would enjoy an even greater physical intimacy than they’d already shared. She followed him toward the door, but then stopped. “Wait, Nick. I don’t understand why is there…am I…” She gestured, unable to frame the question.
“Sara, I have no wish for children.” His expression was dark, almost bitter.
“But last night—”
“I should never have allowed last night to happen. We’ll blame it on the brandy and the fact that I was certain I was shortly going to my death.”
“But do you ever want children?”
“No.”
Sara bit her lip. “I see. Then we will not be sharing a bed or…” Disappointment colored her voice.
He smiled then, his gaze warming as he reached out and stroked a finger down her cheek. “There are ways to give each other release without actually making love.” His hand dropped from her and he stepped away. “But tonight, you are no doubt tired and—”
She wrapped her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth hard to hers. He responded immediately, his mouth hot and possessive. Sara melted against him, all her pent-up emotions swirling to the fore. She clutched Nick’s lapels and held him closer, but even that was not enough. She wanted him closer, to assuage the uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm her.
He moaned, sweeping her up and carrying her to the bed, his hands moving everywhere—across her breasts, down her sides, sliding a pathway from her breast to her hip and back again. He laid her on the bed without breaking the kiss, and with his mouth still hot over hers, he wrapped a hand about her ankle and slowly slid it up her leg.
His fingers drew a heated line past the inside of her knee, leaving a trail of delicate fire all the way up until he could cup her womanhood. She shifted to give him better access, and he gently stroked her.
Nick’s excitement grew as he watched Sara’s face. She glowed with passion, her eyes closing as he teased her to the brink of madness. God, but she was beautiful. Beautiful, and all his. The thought was unexpectedly erotic, and he grew even harder.
Her back arched, Sara pressed against his hand, moaning deeply. Nick was aroused beyond belief. He longed to thrust himself into her, to feel her hot sheath clutch about his straining erection. He stroked her more deeply, urging her on.
She gasped with need; her hands clutched his shoulders as she suddenly tightened her thighs about his hand. “Nick, please.”
“No,” he said, his breath as ragged as hers. He parted her thighs and cupped her once again, moving his fingers quicker and quicker.
Watching Sara made his blood simmer and boil. His brow grew damp as he felt her sudden ripple of pleasure, and she finally climaxed against his fingers.
His breath harsh in his throat, Nick sank his face into her hair and held her close, fighting to keep his tenuous control.
After a moment, Sara moved uncertainly, but Nick held her tightly. “Don’t move,” he murmured, fighting for the air to speak. “Not yet.”
For several long moments they lay still, legs entwined, arms about each other. Finally Nick took one, last shuddering breath before he pulled back to look into Sara’s eyes. He could see the lingering remnants of their passion, the hunger that had made her grasp his shoulders so tightly.
Nick gently cupped Sara’s face and looked into her eyes. “See, love? Though we can’t enjoy each other as we did last night, we can still give each other pleasure.”
A tremulous smile touched her lips. “But what about you?”
He took her hand and placed a kiss on the palm. “We will talk about that another time. Right now, you are tired.” He released her hand and tugged her skirts back down. “Come, let me show you to your chambers. Your aunt brought a portmanteau with some of your clothing, to last until we send for the rest of your things.”
Careful not to meet her gaze, Nick saw Sara to her chamber. He’d selected one that was a safe distance down the hall. Though the chamber adjoining his was meant to serve as the private sanctuary of the mistress of the house, he didn’t trust himself to have so much heady temptation within such close reach.
It was better for them both if they had to traverse a goodly length of chilled corridor before coming to each other’s rooms. The coldness of the hallway would surely deter the passion that too easily flared between them.
Wiggs had already been to Sara’s chamber, so the fire was blazing, the bed made and turned down, the portmanteau unpacked. Mrs. Kibble sat dozing by the fire, jerking to awareness as soon as Nick opened the door. With a sense of relief, Nick said good night and returned to the privacy of his own chamber.
There, he stood staring down into the fire, wondering at the fates that had caused his marriage to a woman like Sara. He would not allow himself to become a slave to the desire he felt for her, nor would he allow her access to his heart. After all, there was no future for them.
His relationship to Sara would be confined to the here and now, to the safety of the present. That decided, he put another log on the fire and got ready for bed.
Chapter 16
Morning sunlight streaked across the empty hallways of the Duchess of Langtry’s town house. Silent as a dust mote, Delphi pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and slipped noiselessly outside. The door latch made no sound, and even the birds seemed to have forgotten to sing.
The sun did little more than brighten the cold day, but Delphi didn’t notice. Heart pounding, she walked away from the house and hurried to the corner. Once there, she hugged herself to stave off the cold and waited. Beneath her cloak, she wore a scandalously cut red gown that shimmered like the light of a thousand fires. Delphi shivered at her own temerity, but never had she felt so alive.
From a distance came the clop-clop of an approaching vehicle. A heavily curtained carriage pulled up, the door swinging open before it came to a complete stop.
Her whole body tingled with anticipation. Glancing over her shoulder, Delphi climbed into the carriage. It was off again before the door had time to close, and soon she was surrounded in semidarkness.
Large, powerful hands grasped her arms, and she was lifted and then deposited on a warm, masculine lap as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Ah, my little Delphinea,” murmured a husky, lightly accented voice.
Delphi lifted her face to the comte and accepted his kiss. His mouth teased and tested her, making her mad with a nameless desire. It was always like this—the passion, the furor.
Thump.
Delphi lifted her head. “What was that?”
“Ignore it, ma petite,” Henri murmured, his hands caressing her beneath her cloak. Each brush of his fingers was delicious torture. Henri placed his lips to her ear. “You are a seductress and I cannot stay away.”
Thump. Thump.
Delphi pulled the hood of her cloak tighter over her head to block out the troublesome sound, but still it came.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“My lady?” came a soft, feminine voice.
Delphi moaned.
“Ah, ma chère,” Henri said, his voice fading. “I must leave.”
“But I don’t want you to,” Delphi cried.
“But I must,” he said, tipping up her chin and smiling into her eyes. “Never fear, though; I will wait for you. Always.”
He bent to kiss her good-bye and in that moment, Delphi awakened.
She was not in a carriage with Henri, dressed in a scandalous red gown and wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. Instead, she lay in her own bed, her sheets pulled over her head, her maid knocking at the door.
Delphi rolled to her back and pulled the sheets off her head, the dream so vivid that she could almost feel the pressure of Henri’s mouth on hers. Every night, she dreamed the same thing—of the comte holding her, touching her, making mad love to her. But it was all such a futile effort. At one time he had shown a great interest in her, and she’d thought—no, she’d hoped—that it might become more. But his insistence that they meet clandestinely had sent her into such a quiver of uncertainty that she’d cut the connection. He’d been disbelieving at first, and then hurt, culminating in a huge row in which he had said all sorts of hurtful things, calling her “weak-willed” and “afraid to live.”
The words rang hollowly in her mind as she watched her maid enter with the breakfast tray. It had been almost a week since Henri had last spoken to her, though he let her know with his every look that he thought her foolish to have refused him.
Delphi closed her eyes and wished with all her heart that she had the courage to take him up on his offer, even though the practical part of her rejected the idea—she knew the man wasn’t even a real comte. Nor was he wealthy, as he liked to imply. He was a scoundrel, and any relationship they might have would only lead to heartache.
The maid stoked the fire and arranged the tray on the table beside it, then left. Delphi waited until the door closed before she gathered her pillow and let the tears fall.
Sara’s second week at Hibberton Hall passed much like her first. From morning until night, she sorted out a variety of household problems that spanned the state of the linens to the placement of the new desk in the morning room. Sara was glad for the nonstop barrage of work, for it kept her from thinking about Nick—a topic that was beginning to consume her every waking moment.
Though she would never have credited it, he continually managed to pleasure her in new ways, still keeping away from true consummation. And true to his word, he had shown her ways to pleasure him, as well. She’d reveled in them all. Yet the more they refrained from the actual act, the more she desired it. It was as if he withheld a part of himself from her, something more precious than the physical aspects.
Sara had the feeling that their marriage was a dream, an illusion that would only last until Nick tired of her. And the day would come; she knew it. It was there in his eyes, in the way he spoke to her, as if, in some indefinable way, he was reminding her that he would not always be with her. She stored the unsettling comments away and refused to think of them.
Instead, she concentrated on Hibberton Hall. Every inch of the house fascinated her, from the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling of the library to the newly tended pathways in the garden.
Sara sighed and leaned against the stone wall that surrounded the small pond, pulling the collar of her pelisse to her chin. Unsettled and alone, she felt her spirits sinking lower every day.
“Dreaming of where you are going to put the fountain?” Nick stood several paces away, immaculate in a deep blue riding jacket, his hands shoved into the pockets.
An immediate wave of desire rippled across her, a desire that was growing stronger every day; that he was so close and yet untouchable made her yearn for him the more. She had to look away from him just to get her mouth to form an answer. “I was trying to decide if we should use the pink stone or the yellow for the pathways.”
He came to stand beside her, dropping a kiss on her cheek, his voice shivery-hard against her ear. “Ah, the difficulties of gardening. I’m glad it is you, and not I, who has to struggle with such items.” He let his hands wander up her waist, past her ribs and on to cup her breasts, his hands warm and demanding.
Sara arched into his palms and closed her eyes, desire sparkling along her spine. She shivered and pulled away, turning to face him. “Where have you been today?” She noticed a hint of pallor beneath his tan, and frowned.
He looped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’ve been with the workmen in the west wing, doing what we can to salvage some of the original paneling.”
“How engrossing.”
A chuckle sounded deep in his chest. “Trying to lure me from my work, are you? I hope you are as lusty this evening as you are today, madam.”
Sara wondered if she’d imagined that look of
strained illness, but before she could answer, Henri came charging across the lawn.
“There you are! Wiggs has just announced luncheon. I came to see if Lady Bridgeton would like a real man to escort her indoors and not a lovesick boy.”
Sara managed a smile as she took the comte’s arm. She’d developed a new appreciation for Henri, and rather wished Aunt Delphi and the comte had been able to resolve their differences. Perhaps marriage to Nick had softened her, but she’d begun to believe that Henri was capable of sincere feelings. Certainly, his concern for Nick was proof of that.
They went in for lunch, Henri talking animatedly. Nick said little, unusually quiet. Sara noticed that he did not eat, but merely shifted the food on his plate. At the end of the meal, he asked Wiggs for some brandy.
The butler frowned in disapproval. “My lord, perhaps you should forgo the brandy.”
Nick turned slowly. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was low, soft, yet Sara felt a tremor of unease.
His expression strained, the butler collected the decanter and set it on the table. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord.”
Nick said nothing. His mouth white, he poured himself a deep drink. Sara frowned. Several times in the past week, she’d heard the servants making a variety of comments that bordered on the parental, all of which Nick met with barely concealed impatience.
She glanced at her husband from beneath her lashes. “Your servants are very fond of you.”
“They are fools.”
“At least they are not rude,” she returned.
“Excellente, Madame Bridgeton,” the comte said approvingly. “Teach him some manners. He needs them very badly.”
Nick glared at Henri, but the Frenchman had already turned his attention back to his plate.
Sara leaned forward. “Nick, why didn’t Wiggs want you to have brandy?”
“Because he mistakenly thinks it causes my headaches.”
“Perhaps he is right.” At Nick’s scowl, she added, “Surely there is a way to cure them. Aunt Delphi has a headache every time it rains, and she takes laudanum to—”