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.
His manner was likewise assured, yet he appeared more reserved, a touch aloof, tending not to cloak his arrogance, born of superiority; he seemed unable, or unwilling, to summon the glib and ready charm Charlie habitually employed.
“There you are!”
Charlie looked around as his eldest sister—half sister to be precise—resplendent in figured amber silk, glided up and slipped a hand through his arm.
Alathea smiled as, beside him, she faced the room. “I need to have a word with you.”
Charlie stiffened.
“Don’t get on your high horse. I have some advice to impart that it would pay you to hear, but once you’ve heard it, whether you take it or not is up to you.”
Charlie inwardly sighed. Alathea was ten years older than he and in many ways more alarming than his mother. Serena was comfortable; Alathea rarely was. Yet he would never cease to be grateful for all she’d done for him in the past, an emotion she exploited with feminine ruthlessness whenever he proved difficult. “What is it?”
“As it appears you’ve finally decided to choose a wife, I thought a simple stating of the obvious wouldn’t go amiss, you being male and, of them all, peculiarly inclined to think you rule your world.”
Charlie suppressed his frown. Arguing would only prolong the lecture.
“Indeed,” Alathea murmured, her gaze on his face.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her brows had risen haughtily, as if she’d read his thoughts. She probably had. She was married to Gabriel, and he and Gabriel rarely differed—except on the subject she wished to discuss.
Girding his mental loins, he said nothing.
Eyes narrowing, Alathea again faced the crowd, and went on, “Regard less of the fashionable norm, there have never in living memory been anything but love matches in our family—and no, I don’t mean the Cynsters, although the same is true for them.”
Charlie noticed that her gaze had fixed on her husband, Gabriel Cynster, who had moved to join Sarah and the unknown gentleman. It was patently clear Gabriel knew him.
“All the Morwellan males”—Alathea’s voice continued from beside him—“have for centuries married for love, and you would be well advised to think very carefully about the whys and wherefores of that before you plunge ahead and without due consideration break that tradition.”
A moment passed. Charlie, his attention fixed across the room, eventually realized Alathea expected some response. “Yes, all right.”
Even though his gaze was elsewhere, he felt her glare.
Ignoring it, he demanded, “Who’s that speaking with Gabriel?”
Alathea glared anew, then looked across the room, then back at Charlie. “Some gentleman investor Rupert invited—a Mr. Sinclair. Apparently he’s thinking of settling in the area.” Charlie didn’t take his eyes from the group—Gabriel, Sinclair, and Sarah. Especially Sarah as her smile brightened; ever since Gabriel had joined them, she’d relaxed. Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
Alathea looked across the room, then back at him. He didn’t meet her gaze; lifting her hand from his sleeve, he squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Excuse me.”
He cut a determined path through the crowd.
Alathea watched him go. Watched as he circled to come up beside Sarah, between her and Sinclair, effectively cutting Sarah off from the man. Alathea continued observing as Gabriel introduced Charlie, and he and Sinclair shook hands, as Charlie glanced at Sarah and offered his arm—she saw Sarah’s expression as she took it, saw Charlie’s expression ease as, Sarah’s hand on his arm, he turned to Sinclair.
Across the room, Alathea smiled. “Well, well, little brother. Perhaps you don’t need that warning after all.”
Satisfied, she returned to her duties as cohostess.
Charlie, meanwhile, was as intrigued as he sensed Gabriel was with their new neighbor. Gabriel’s introduction—“Mr. Malcolm Sinclair, a major investor heavily involved in the new railways”—had been enough to grab Charlie’s attention. It transpired that Sinclair had rented Finley House just outside Crowcombe and was considering relocating permanently to the district.
“I find it a particularly restful area,” Sinclair said. “Gently rolling hills, green valleys, and the sea not far away.”
“It’s very pretty in spring, when all the hedges and trees are covered in blossom,” Sarah said.
“I noticed the orphanage above Crowcombe—Quilley Farm, I believe it’s called.” Sinclair’s hazel eyes rested on Sarah’s face. “I understand you own the farm, Miss Conningham.”
“Yes,” Sarah replied. “It was left me by my late godmother. She had a great interest in such works.”
Sinclair smiled briefly, polite and distant, and let the subject drop. Now he was close, Charlie felt even more reassured; Sinclair seemed a cold fish, at least when it came to young ladies.
On investments, however…
He caught Sinclair’s eye. “I believe I saw you in Watchet. You were with Skilling, the land agent.”
Sinclair’s thin lips curved. “Ah, yes—I was interested in that parcel of land, but I understand you’ve been before me.”
Charlie grinned. He searched, but there was nothing in Sinclair’s eyes or expression to suggest any significant gnashing of teeth. Given Sinclair’s reputation as a major backer of some of the new railways, he would no doubt have shrugged and moved on to consider the next item on his investment agenda.
Naturally, Charlie wondered what that was. “How do you read the potential of the district in terms of investment?”
“As I’m sure you know,” Sinclair said, “there’s every likelihood that the trade through Watchet will substantially increase. I understand there’s talk of several new factories in Taunton, and…”
With a smile and a nod, Gabriel moved away. He could learn all he wanted to know from Charlie later.
Charlie continued to discuss the future with Sinclair, in general terms as investors were wont to do, not mentioning specific projects they themselves were considering; no sense tipping off the possible competition. The scope of the discussion rapidly expanded to include the country as a whole; Charlie was keen to learn more about the evolving railways—a sub
ject on which Sinclair was both knowledgeable and willing to talk—but their discussion held no interest for Sarah. Her attention was wandering.
Despite his keenness to interrogate Sinclair, having Sarah so close left Charlie highly aware of her. And of their courtship, the wooing he hadn’t yet managed to facilitate to any great degree.
If he was to gain anything out of the evening, then he had to act now.
He smiled easily at Sinclair. “I would dearly like to hear more about your experiences with the railways. It seems we’ll have ample opportunity to further our acquaintance. I’ll look out for you now that I know you’re in the area.”
Sinclair inclined his head. “Indeed, and I’ll be interested in hearing your views on the local economy in due course.” His gaze went past Charlie to Sarah; he bowed. “Miss Conningham.”
Sarah smiled and they parted from Sinclair.
Charlie turned her down the room. She glanced at him, curiosity in her eyes. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes.” He lowered his head and murmured, “I thought we should spend some time together in surroundings conducive to courtship.”
“Ah.” Facing forward, she nodded; her tone indicated she was entirely willing. He steered her to one of the drawing room’s secondary doors. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” The only place that would ensure privacy was the gazebo tucked away at the bottom of the garden, but it was late February and her shawl was too lightweight. He opted for the back parlor instead.
When he opened the parlor door, the room proved to be unlit and unoccupied. He stood back; Sarah walked confidently—even eagerly—into the room. Winter moonlight poured in through the uncurtained windows, crisp and silver-bright; it was easy to avoid the furniture.
Halting in the room’s center, Sarah heard the door shut softly behind her. “So—what should we talk about?”
She turned—and found herself in Charlie’s arms, found herself drawn to him as they closed around her. Without thought she lifted her face as he lowered his head—and their lips met.
Touched, brushed, then melded. Hers parted; he took advantage, took control, and swept her, unresisting it was true, into a passionate exchange.
An increasingly passionate encounter. Conversation was clearly not on his mind, not a feature of his immediate agenda.
Exploration of a different sort was. Communication on another plane.
And in that, she was as eager as he to know, to learn, to experience. To test, to tempt, to feel and savor the subtle complexities of the kiss. Of the intangible need as well as the tangible plea sure that swirled around them, through them, when they kissed. When she gave him her mouth and he took, claimed, then, deepening the exchange, settled to plunder.
If she wanted to know of him, of all that he offered her, then she needed to know of all this.
All this. Charlie held her in his arms and some primitive part of him gloated, delighted that this—she, her softness, her fresh innocence, her supple figure and alluring curves—would soon be his. All his. That—
High-pitched voices, gay bubbling laughter cut through his fascination. He lifted his head, blinked, then quickly released Sarah as the latch clicked and the door swung open.
Three children tumbled into the room. Charlie only just managed to smother a curse.
He glanced at Sarah, through the moonwashed dimness saw her smile.
Although the children smiled in return—they all knew Sarah—it was he they had in their sights.
“Uncle Charlie!” the youngest, seven-year-old Henry, piped censoriously as his older brother Justin, a more circumspect twelve, shut the door. “You didn’t come to say hello, so we came to find you.”
Throwing himself at Charlie, Henry wound his arms about Charlie’s waist and gave him a ferocious hug.
Juliet, just ten, bounced on her knees on the sofa. “Actually, we saw you slip away from the drawing room and thought we’d come and talk to you.” She wrinkled her nose, glancing at Sarah as if sharing some discovery. “It’s so noisy in there it’s a wonder any of the older folk can hear themselves think!”
Sarah grinned, and exchanged a glance with Charlie. They were apparently not classed among “the older folk.”
Justin came up to clasp one of Charlie’s hands. “You brought your pair up from town, didn’t you?” Wide gray eyes fixed on Charlie’s face. “Jeremy said he thought you would. If you have, can I drive them?”
Charlie looked down at the upturned face—faces; Henry was also making huge puppy-dog eyes at him. “No.” He gave them a second to digest the unequivocal nature of that answer, then relented, “But if you’re good, I might—only might—take you up beside me for a drive.”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” The boys, each hanging on to one of Charlie’s hands, jumped up and down.
“Me, too—me, too!” Juliet bounced even higher on the sofa.
“Right.” Charlie made a grab for the conversational reins. “Now—”
“Where will we go?” Justin asked.
“To Watchet!” Henry cried.
“No—up to the falls,” Juliet said. “It’s prettier that way.”
“What about to Taunton?” Justin put in. “Then we can let them have their heads along the London road.”
A spirited discussion ensued on the merits of the various suggestions; Charlie tried to curtail it, to exert some authority, but the task was beyond him.
He glanced at Sarah. She’d sunk down on the arm of the sofa and was watching him and his three persecutors; it was too dim for him to be able to read her eyes, but her expression said she was amused.
Her lips, soft rose in the moonlight, were certainly curved.
He stared at them, and felt an unprecedented rush of sheer lust streak through him.
Looking back at the children, he held up his hands. “Enough! I faithfully promise to come and take you for a drive behind the grays before I return to London, but it won’t be until at least next week, so you can decide where you want to go among yourselves between now and then.” He herded them toward the door; having gained their primary objective, they consented to leave.
Opening the door, Charlie waved them through. Justin and Henry left, still chattering about horses. Charlie was thanking his stars they were too young to wonder what he and Sarah had been doing in the parlor alone when Juliet swanned past—and caught his eye.
She smirked. Her eyes twinkled.
Charlie held his breath—but after that smug, distinctly female smile, she went out.
He exhaled and started to close the door—and heard the unmistakable sounds of departure drifting from the front hall.
Shutting the door, he stared at the panels. Thanks to his devilish niece and nephews, he and Sarah had run out of time.
He turned—and found her beside him.
Through the dimness she smiled, relaxed and assured. “We should return.”
He heard the words, but his attention had fastened on her lips. Beguiling, tempting; he had to taste them one last time.
Lifting his hands, he framed her face; he didn’t trust himself to take her into his arms, and then let her go after just one kiss. Tipping up her face, he looked into her eyes, wide soft pools of serenity.
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.