The Sum of All Kisses

by Julia Quinn

  But Sarah was no fool. And she didn’t feel all right.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Whipple Hill

  Later that evening

  Hugh’s hand hovered in the air for a long moment before connecting with the door in a crisp knock. He wasn’t sure what sort of shuffle had taken place among the guests, but Sarah had been moved to a room of her own upon their return to Whipple Hill. Honoria, who had arrived at the White Hart with Marcus shortly after Lord Ramsgate had departed, had set it about that Sarah had reinjured her ankle and needed to rest. If anyone was curious as to why she could not do so in the room she’d been sharing with Harriet, they had not said anything. Probably no one had even noticed.

  Hugh had no idea how Daniel was explaining the black eye.

  “Enter!” It was Honoria’s voice. This was not a surprise; she had not left Sarah’s side since they’d returned.

  “Am I interrupting?” Hugh asked, taking just two steps into the room.

  “No,” Honoria said, but he did not see her turn to face him. He could only stare at Sarah, who was sitting up in bed, a mountain of pillows propped behind her back. She was wearing the same white nightgown as—dear God, could that have been just the night before?

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Honoria said.

  “I know.” But he made no move to leave.

  Sarah’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “We are betrothed now, Honoria.”

  Honoria’s brows rose. “I know as well as anyone that that does not mean he should be in your bedroom.”

  Hugh held Sarah’s gaze. This would have to be her decision. He would not force it.

  “It has been a most uncommon day,” Sarah said quietly. “This would hardly be the most scandalous moment of it.”

  She sounded exhausted. Hugh had held her the entire ride home, until her sobs had given way to a gut-wrenching stillness. When he’d looked into her eyes, they had been blank.

  Shock. He knew it well.

  But she looked more like herself now. If not better, then at least improved.

  “Please,” he said, directing the single word to her cousin.

  Honoria hesitated for a moment, then stood. “Very well,” she acquiesced, “but I will return in ten minutes.”

  “An hour,” Sarah said.

  “But—”

  “What is the worst that could happen?” Sarah asked with an incredulous expression. “We could be forced to marry? That’s already been taken care of.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  Honoria’s mouth opened and closed as she looked from Sarah to Hugh and back. “I’m supposed to be your chaperone.”

  “I don’t believe that exact word crossed my mother’s lips when she was here earlier.”

  “Where is your mother?” Hugh asked. Not that he was planning to make any untoward advances, but as long as he was going to be alone with Sarah for the next hour, it did seem a good fact to know.

  “Supper,” Sarah replied.

  Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lud, is it that late?”

  “Daniel told us that you took a nap, too,” Honoria said with gentle smile.

  Hugh gave a tiny nod. Or maybe it was a shake. Or an eye roll. He was turned so inside out he couldn’t even be sure. He had wanted to stay with Sarah when they’d got back to Whipple Hill, but even he had known that such a liberty would not be tolerated by her cousins. And more to the point, he had been so exhausted himself that it had been all he could do to climb the stairs and crawl into his own bed.

  “They’re not expecting you,” Honoria added. “Daniel said . . . er, I don’t know what he said, but he’s always been good at credible excuses for such things.”

  “And his eye?” Hugh asked.

  “He said that he had a blackened eye when he met Anne, so it was only fitting that he’d have one when he married her.”

  Hugh blinked. “And Anne was all right with this?”

  “I can honestly say that I have no idea,” Honoria said in a prim voice.

  Sarah snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “But,” Honoria continued, her smile sneaking back onto her face as she rose to her feet, “I can also honestly say that I am very glad I was not present when she saw him.”

  Hugh moved to the side as Honoria made her way to the door. “One hour,” she said. She paused before stepping into the hall. “You should lock the door.”

  Hugh started in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  Honoria swallowed uncomfortably, and her cheeks took on a telltale blush. “It will be assumed that Sarah is resting and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Hugh could only stare at her in shock. Was she giving him permission to ravish her cousin?

  It took but a moment for Honoria to realize where his thoughts had led him. “I did not mean— Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s not as if either of you is in a state to do anything.”

  Hugh glanced over at Sarah. Her mouth was hanging open.

  “You don’t want anyone walking in while you’re alone,” Honoria said, her skin now on hue with a slightly unripe strawberry. She narrowed her eyes at Hugh. “You’ll just be sitting in the chair, but still.”

  Hugh cleared his throat. “Still.”

  “It would be highly improper,” she said, followed by: “I’m leaving now.” She hurried from the room.

  Hugh turned back to Sarah. “That was awkward.”

  “You’d best lock the door,” Sarah said. “After all that.”

  He reached out and turned the key. “Indeed.”

  With Honoria gone, however, they had no buffer upon which to rely for a sense of normalcy, and Hugh found himself standing near the door like a badly posed statue, unable to decide where to take his feet.

  “What did you mean,” Sarah blurted out, “when you said ‘there are men who hurt women’?”

  He felt his brow furrow. “I’m sorry. I don’t know—”

  “Last night,” she interrupted, “when you found me, you were so upset, and you said something about men who hurt people, men who hurt women.”

  His lips parted and his throat closed, choking any words that might have formed there. How could she not have understood his meaning? Surely she wasn’t so innocent. She had led a sheltered life, but she had to know what went on between a man and a woman.

  “Sometimes”—he began slowly, for this was not a conversation he’d ever anticipated—“a man can—”

  “Please,” she cut in. “I know that men hurt women; they do it every day.”

  Hugh wanted to flinch. He wished that her statement had been shocking, but it wasn’t. It was merely the truth.

  “You were not speaking generally,” she said. “You may have thought you were, but you weren’t. Who were you talking about?”

  Hugh went very still, and when he finally spoke, he did not look at Sarah. “It was my mother,” he said, very quietly. “Surely you have realized that my father is not a kind man.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “He hurt her in bed,” Hugh said, and suddenly he did not feel quite right. His neck cricked, and he jerked it to one side, trying to shake off the weight of his memories. “He never hurt her out of bed. Only in.” He swallowed. Took a breath. “At night I could hear her cries.”

  Sarah didn’t speak. He was very grateful for that.

  “I never saw anything,” Hugh said. “If he marked her, he was always careful to do it where it would not show. She never limped, she never bruised. But”—he looked up at Sarah; he finally looked up at Sarah—“I could see it in her eyes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, but there was something wary in her expression, and after a moment she looked away.

  Hugh watched as she tucked her chin against her shoulder, shadows flickering across her throat as she swallowed. He’d never seen her so uncomfortable, so ill-at-ease.

  “Sarah,” he began, and then he cursed himself for an idiot, because
she looked up, expecting more, and he had no idea what he ought to say. His mouth hung wordlessly slack, and she let her eyes fall back down to her lap, where her hands were nervously picking at her bedsheets.

  “Sarah, I would—” he blurted out. And what? What? Why couldn’t he finish a bloody sentence?

  She looked up, again waiting for him to continue.

  “I would never . . . do that.” The words choked forth from his throat, but he had to say it. He had to make sure she understood. He was not his father. He would never be that man.

  She shook her head, the motion so tiny he nearly missed it.

  “Hurt you,” he said. “I would never hurt you. I could never—”

  “I know,” she said, blessedly cutting off his awkward avowals. “You would never . . . You don’t even need to say it.”

  He nodded, turning sharply away when he heard himself draw a short, tortured breath. It was the sort of sound one made right before losing oneself completely, and he couldn’t—after everything that had happened that day—

  He could not go there. Not now. So he shrugged, as if an insouciant motion could flick it all away. But all it seemed to do was intensify the silence. And Hugh found himself in the same position he’d been in before she had asked about his mother, frozen near the door, not knowing what to do with himself.

  “Did you sleep?” Sarah finally asked.

  He nodded and found the momentum to move forward and settle into the chair Honoria had vacated. He hooked his cane over the arm and turned to look at her. “And you?”

  “I did. I was overset. No, I was overcome.” She tried to smile, and he could see that she was embarrassed.

  “It’s all right,” he started to say.

  “No,” she blurted out, “it’s not, really. I mean, it will be, but—” She blinked like a cornered rabbit, then said, “I was so tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

  “It’s understandable.”

  She stared for a long moment, then said, “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I don’t either,” he admitted, “but I’m glad it did.”

  She did not speak for several seconds. “You have to marry me now.”

  “I had been planning to ask,” he reminded her.

  “I know”—she picked at the hem of her bedsheet—“but no one likes to be forced.”

  He reached out and grasped her hand. “I know.”

  “I—”

  “You were forced,” he said vehemently. “It is not fair, and if you wish to withdraw—”

  “No!” She drew back, looking surprised by her outburst. “That is to say, no, I don’t wish to withdraw. I can’t really.”

  “You can’t,” he echoed, his voice dull.

  “Well, no,” she said, eyes flashing with impatience. “Were you even listening today?”

  “What I heard,” he said with what he hoped was adequate patience, “was a woman sacrificing herself.”

  “And that’s not what you did?” she shot back. “When you went to your father and threatened to kill yourself?”

  “You can’t compare the two. I caused this whole bloody mess. It is incumbent upon me to fix it.”

  “You’re angry because you’ve been usurped?”

  “No! For the love of—” He raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “I would not dream of it. You’re doing quite a job of it on your own.”

  “You should not have come to the White Hart,” he said in a very low voice.

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply.”

  “You did not know what sort of dangers awaited you.”

  She snorted. “Apparently neither did you!”

  “My God, woman, must you be so stubborn? Don’t you understand? I cannot protect you!”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I am to be your husband,” he said, each word slicing his throat on the way to his lips. “It is my duty.”

  Her teeth were clenched so tightly that her chin was shaking. “Do you know,” she ground out, “that since this afternoon, no one—not you, not your father, not even my cousin—has thanked me?”

  Hugh’s eyes flew to hers.

  “No, don’t say it now,” she snapped. “Do you think I could possibly believe you? I went to the inn because I was so scared, because you and Daniel had painted a picture of a madman, and all I could think was that he was going to hurt you—”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say that he would never hurt you. That man is stark raving mad. He would cut off your arm as long as he was assured you could still sire children.”

  Hugh blanched. He knew it was true, but he hated that she even had to think about it. “Sarah, I—”

  “No.” She jabbed her index finger toward him. “This is my turn. I’m speaking. You’re being quiet.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, so softly the words were but a whisper on his lips.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head as if she’d just seen a ghost. “You don’t get to be nice now. You can’t beg my forgiveness and expect me to . . . to . . .” Her throat convulsed with a choking sob. “Do you understand what you’ve put me through? In one single day?”

  The tears were running freely down her cheeks, and it took all of Hugh’s strength not to lean forward and kiss them away. He wanted to beg her not to cry, to apologize for this moment, and for the future, because he knew it would happen again. He could devote his life to one of her smiles, but at some point he would fail, and he would make her cry again, and it would wreck him.

  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Please don’t cry,” he begged.

  “I’m not,” she gasped, swiping away her tears with her sleeve.

  “Sarah . . .”

  “I’m not crying!” she sobbed.

  He didn’t argue. Instead, he sat beside her on the bed, and he held her and stroked her hair, and murmured nonsensical sounds of comfort until she sagged next to him, utterly spent.

  “I can’t imagine what you think of me,” she finally whispered.

  “I think,” he said with every ounce of his soul, “that you are magnificent.”

  And that he did not deserve her.

  She had come and saved the day; she had bloody well done what he and Daniel had not managed in nearly four years, and she’d done it while Hugh had been tied to a damned bed. Perhaps not at the exact moment of her triumph, but if he’d been freed, it was only because she had been the one to do it.

  She had saved him. And while he understood that the circumstances of this particular situation were unique, it clawed at him that he would never be able to protect her as a husband was meant to protect his wife.

  This was where any man worth his salt would step aside and allow her to marry someone else, someone better.

  Someone whole.

  Except that any man worth his salt wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. Hugh had caused this debacle. He had been the one to get drunk and challenge an innocent man to a duel. He was the one with a bat-crazy father who required a threat of suicide to get him to leave Daniel alone. But Sarah was the one who was paying the price. And Hugh—even if he was that man worth his salt—couldn’t possibly step aside. Because to do so would be to put Daniel in peril. And Sarah would be mortified.

  And Hugh loved her too much to ever let her go.

  I’m a selfish bastard.

  “What?” Sarah murmured, not moving her head from the cradle of his chest.

  Had he said that aloud?

  “Hugh?” She shifted her position, her chin rising so that she could see his face.

  “I can’t let you go,” he whispered.

  “What are you talking about?” She moved again, pulling away, just enough so that she could look into his eyes.

  She was frowning. He did not want to make her frown.

  “I can’t let you go,” he said again, shaking his head in a slow, tiny motion.

 
“We’re getting married,” she said. Cautiously, like she wasn’t sure why she was saying it. “You don’t have to let me go.”

  “I should. I can’t be the man you need.”

  She touched his cheek. “Isn’t that for me to decide?”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes against the awfulness of memory. “I hate that you had to see my father today.”

  “I hate it, too, but it’s done.”

  He stared at her in amazement. When had she become so calm? Not five minutes earlier, she had been sobbing and he had been soothing her, and now she was clear-eyed, watching him with such peace and wisdom he could almost believe that their future was bright and uncomplicated.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She tilted her head to the side.

  “For today. For so much more than today, but for now I’ll stick with today.”

  “I—” Her mouth hung open in an indecisive oval, and then she said, “It seems a very strange thing about which to say, You’re welcome.”

  He searched her face, although for what he was not certain. Perhaps he just wanted to look at her, at the deep chocolate warmth of her eyes and her wide, lush mouth that understood so well how to smile. He looked at her in amazement, and in wonder, as he recalled the fierce warrior of that afternoon. If she defended him so well, he could not imagine how she might be as a mother, with her own flesh and blood to protect.

  “I love you,” he said, the words tumbling from his lips. He was not sure he’d meant to say them, but now he could not stop. “I don’t deserve you, but I love you, and I know you never thought to marry someone under such circumstances, but I vow that I will devote the rest of my life toward your happiness.”

  He took her hands to his lips and kissed them fervently, nearly undone by the force of his emotions. “Sarah Pleinsworth,” he said, “will you marry me?”

  Tears glistened on her lashes, and her lips quivered as she said, “We already—”

  “But I did not ask you,” he cut in. “You deserve to be asked. I don’t have a ring, but I can get one later, and—”

  “I don’t need a ring,” she blurted out. “I just need you.”

  He touched her cheek, his hand softly caressing her skin, and then—