Smiling, he slowly set down the teacup and accepted the brandy, his fingers brushing hers. He held up the glass. “Cheers. To the storm.”
“To the storm,” she whispered back. She lifted the glass to her lips.
A bright flash of lightning lit the room, followed immediately by a tremendous crashing of thunder. Boots yipped and Sara jumped, spilling some of the brandy. They both laughed and watched as Boots hid behind his blanket. Again they raised their glasses to each other. The first sip burned her throat and she couldn’t suppress a little cough. She noticed he was watching her carefully, so she gave him a smile.
“I am impressed, Miss Fleming,” he said, clearly amused, yet with a gleam of admiration in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”
“I told you, I’m a captain’s daughter.” The liquid seemed to warm her body wonderfully from the inside out. No wonder he wanted to drink it after being caught in the storm.
“Well, sip it very slowly. And please have a seat and keep me company,” he suggested, indicating the dark green velvet sofa facing the fireplace, where the food was laid out on the low table in front.
Carefully carrying her glass of brandy, Sara made her way to the sofa, and he followed, sitting beside her. His body took up a good deal of the sofa and she found she was sitting closer to him than she realized.
It was quite an unusual situation, being alone in the library with Lord Bridgeton on this cold and rainy spring evening. She didn’t know why she felt so happy being with him, even knowing the risks she took if her mother or father or anyone else were to find her this way. But she didn’t care. This wasn’t an illicit affair she had planned. She was simply having a little fun. Uncle Jeffrey had even told her to try to enjoy herself while she was in London. And this was the most fun she’d had since she left New York.
Besides, she liked Lord Bridgeton very much. He was now a dear family friend. Not some stranger. She could certainly sit in the library with a friend who needed shelter from the storm. Surely there was nothing wrong with that? Lord Bridgeton didn’t seem to think so.
“Just how many salty words do you know, Miss Captain’s Daughter?” he asked, before taking a bite of some bread and cheese.
“Four.” She stared at him. “No, seven.”
“Seven?” He looked astonished, his voice incredulous.
“Shall I tell them to you?”
He suddenly laughed. “No, I don’t think so, but I believe you. Some other time perhaps.”
“Maybe I can teach you a few,” Sara offered with a saucy smile. She liked surprising him.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.”
“My offer stands anytime you feel the need to swear.”
Again his laughter echoed in the library. “This is not how I expected this day to turn out.”
“Neither did I.”
Sara eyed him carefully, while taking another tiny sip of brandy. The flickering firelight accentuated the classic angles of his face, the strong line of his jaw, and the noble bridge of his nose, making him seem even more handsome. In his loose white shirt, sitting casually on the sofa with a drink in his hand, he seemed the epitome of masculinity. The thick lashes that fringed his eyes closed briefly.
Then he turned and looked directly at her. “I don’t know what we’re thinking doing this.”
“I like it,” she whispered, settling back against the sofa.
“You like it,” he said, echoing her words. He shook his head in disbelief before taking a sip of the brandy.
“Yes, I like it.” Sara continued in a pragmatic tone, “No one is here. No one will know. If the storm is as bad as you say, I’m sure my mother and Aunt Colette will stay the night at their sister’s house instead of trying to get back home. We’re not really doing anything wrong. It’s all completely innocent.”
“I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Miss Fleming.”
“I think you should call me Sara now.”
“If you call me Christopher.”
“Agreed,” she said, smiling at him, and taking another sip of the brandy. It made her feel wonderfully warm. “So tell me then, why did you have ‘a hell of a day’?”
He sighed heavily. “It’s a long and involved story that I’m sure you’d have no interest in. Suffice it to say that it’s all due to family problems.”
“Ah, now that I do understand.” She nodded her head toward him.
He chuckled ruefully. “You have no idea about family problems. You, my darling Sara, have the most wonderful family.”
Why did the sound of him saying her name delight her so much, especially with the words “my darling” in front of it?
“You make it sound as if your family is dreadful. Have you forgotten that I’ve met your sisters, Christopher, and they are as nice as can be,” she pointed out, while emphasizing her use of his given name, which she liked using. Christopher was a good name. Not as good as Alexander, but good just the same.
“Yes, my sisters are nice”—he took a swig of brandy—“but you have never met my parents.”
“How bad can they be?” she questioned. “They raised you, and you are perfectly nice. And so are Evelyn and Gwyneth.”
He scoffed. “We turned out well in spite of their best efforts to do otherwise. And the girls, well . . . The girls bear a lot of ugly scars that you can’t see.”
Suddenly Sara felt as if she were about to learn something dreadful, something perhaps she didn’t wish to know. But the utter look of sadness on his face pulled at her heart. She had no choice but to let him continue. Slowly she drew her legs up beneath her. “And you have these scars too?” she asked on a whisper.
He nodded and drank more of his brandy. “I didn’t come here to discuss my childhood with you.”
“But it’s on your mind right now . . .”
With a quick movement of his wrist, he downed the last of his brandy. “You’re the one on my mind.”
Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Had she misunderstood what he just said? “Christopher?”
He rose from the sofa without a word, strode across the room, and poured more brandy from the decanter. She watched him carefully as he returned to sit beside her.
He sighed so deeply she could feel his breath. “My childhood was not like yours, Sara. Not everyone is as lucky as you are, or is as lucky as your entire family is. I didn’t have parents who loved and cared for me, who wanted me to do well and encouraged me. My father—” He broke off, as if he were quite angry.
Sara said not a word. She barely breathed, sensing he needed to share what he was about to say to her. The fire crackled on the hearth, the golden glow of flames flickering around them. She waited patiently.
Christopher began again. “My father was a vicious and cruel man who brutalized my sisters and me, while my mother did nothing to stop him. In fact, she often joined in. Our home was a house of horrors filled with humiliation and pain.”
Silence enveloped them, broken only by the rolling rumble of thunder and the torrential rain outside. Sara was speechless. Not knowing the words to comfort him, she continued to remain quiet. Slowly she sipped from her glass of brandy, only this time it didn’t warm her.
Lightning flashed across the room.
“My father’s idea of fun was to torment his children, whether it was slowly starving one of us for months at a time, or beating us for the slightest infraction of his ridiculous expectations or irrational rules. He was worse to the girls. Much worse.” He paused, and there was a hitch in his voice when he spoke again. “And I couldn’t stop him. I could never stop what he did to the girls.”
“Oh, Christopher.” Her voice was so soft she wondered if he even heard her. Yet the pain of which he spoke was quite palpable.
“To the outside world, I suppose we appeared to be a normal family, but the Townsends were far from normal. Very far. Growing up, I always felt as if it were my fault somehow. That I did something wrong to make my father hate me so much, but I could never
figure out what it was. So I just tried my best and worked my hardest to be the best son and brother I could be. But I was the lucky one, because I got sent away to boarding school. Evie and Gwyneth had to stay there with our mother and father, at their mercy. That killed me. Every time I had to leave them, I hated myself for going.”
Barely able to imagine such a life, Sara remained silent. It was unthinkable, what he was saying to her. Picturing Christopher as a young boy, trying to protect his little sisters, she was overcome by emotions she couldn’t even name. His words touched her deeply. She reached over and gently squeezed his hand.
“I hated myself because I was glad to leave. Yet I felt guilty for leaving Evie and Gwyneth alone, especially when they had no escape or refuge. My sisters were trapped in that house with them and I could do nothing to help them.”
“I’m sure you did all you could and they know that,” Sara said.
Christopher took a deep breath. “I tried. I always wished there was more for them. A safe place I could send them. But at least my father is dead now. He died a year ago and we are finally free from his cruelty. My sisters are only just learning to live their own lives.”
“And what about your mother?” she asked in a hesitant whisper.
“Oh, she’s still a miserable, vindictive woman, but she lost most of her power over us when my father died. She screams and rants and raves, but she’s basically a recluse and won’t leave Bridgeton Hall. As the head of the family, I’m the one in control now.”
“I’m so very sorry.” Sara would never complain about her parents again. Never had her mother or father raised their hand to her. Not once had she been treated cruelly or humiliated or harmed in any way. Throughout her entire childhood, she had only been loved and adored, and admittedly quite spoiled. Which made it impossible for her to comprehend the horrors that he and his sisters endured. She had a newfound respect for Christopher Townsend. For in spite of all the darkness in his life, one would never guess all that he had been through.
“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for, Sara. It is what it is. And it’s finally over. Or the worst part of it is anyway. The oddest thing is, I have never spoken of this to anyone before. Ever. Even my sisters and I avoid discussing our childhood at all costs. It’s just something that’s understood between us.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this now.”
Sara was more than a little overwhelmed by his confession and yet profoundly moved that he had chosen her as the one to whom he would reveal his darkest secrets. She’d never known anyone like him, anyone who had experienced what he had, and she wished there was something she could do to help ease his pain. “You told me because you know I care about you.”
“Do you care about me?” he asked intently, his brown eyes questioning her.
“Of course I do!” she insisted. “I care about you very much, and in such a short amount of time, no less.”
“But you’re still in love with him?”
She knew he referred to Alexander Drake. Their conversation had suddenly taken an odd turn. A bit confused, she said, “One has nothing to do with the other, but yes. Yes, I’m still very much in love with him.”
Once again his eyes fixated on her. “Why do you love this man? Whatever his name is.”
Now Sara took a big sip from her glass of brandy. “I love Alexander because he’s handsome and romantic and charming. And he loves me.”
“Alexander.” Christopher muttered the name dismissively and Sara was about to protest when he suddenly asked, “So what happened?”
“You mean why am I here in London and he’s still in New York?” She sighed heavily. “I’m sure you can guess.”
“Your parents don’t approve of him. I’ve gathered that much. But why?”
A silence grew around them as Sara paused. She drank more of the brandy. “There is definitely something about him that they won’t share with me yet, but basically it boils down to the fact that they believe he is not good enough for their precious little girl.”
“So what happens now?”
“I wait for him to come to me. Or for my parents to bring me back to New York, I suppose. But I’m sure he will come here.”
“With the intention of marrying you when he gets here?” he asked. His voice sounded rather husky.
“Yes. At least I hope he still plans to marry me. I haven’t received a letter from him yet.” It was so odd to be discussing her feelings for Alexander with another man.
“Of course he still wants to marry you. Who wouldn’t want to marry a girl like you?” he muttered very low. “Do you still wish to marry him?”
Sara nodded her head slowly.
The rain pelted the windows and the fire crackled. For a moment neither of them said a word.
“So tell me, Miss Captain’s Daughter, has this Alexander kissed you?”
Before she had time to consider what she was saying, she answered his impertinent question. “Of course he has.”
Alexander had first kissed her in the living room of her parents’ New York brownstone. She had been thrilled by the feel of his soft lips on hers, and he had been sweet and gentle with her, as a gentleman should always be with the lady he loved. There had been a few more stolen kisses when they were able to sneak away from the watchful eyes of her parents.
Christopher took another swig of brandy. And Sara did too, the warmth of the liquid finally flooding her body once more. It felt good again now. She relished the taste of it on her tongue and felt invigorated by it.
“So this man has kissed you.”
“Yes, I believe I just said so.” Sara jutted out her chin in defense, refusing to feel ashamed for kissing the man she loved and intended to marry. “I’m sure you’ve kissed your share of women.”
He smiled roguishly. “Yes, I suppose I have done more than my fair share of kissing at that.”
“Then why are you angry with me?” she demanded heatedly.
“Why am I angry with you?” he said with a rueful tone. “I’m not angry with you, my beautiful Sara. I’m angry with him for kissing you.”
The brandy was making her a little light-headed, but she drank more anyway. She needed to make sense of what Christopher was saying. He just called her beautiful. His beautiful Sara, and again, it gave her the oddest sense of exhilaration. What was happening here? She stared at him, noting the light growth of stubble that covered his usually clean-shaven jaw. Fighting the impulse to reach out her hand and rub her fingers slowly across his cheek, she questioned, “You don’t even know him. Why are you angry with him for kissing me?”
His words were sharp. “Because I want to be the one to kiss you.”
“You?” Sara unexpectedly found it difficult to catch her breath. “You want to kiss me?”
“Yes.” His eyes flickered across her face. “I want to kiss you.”
“So kiss me then.” Goodness gracious! Had she really said that aloud to him?
“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice low and husky, his eyes focused on her. “For me to kiss you?”
Her heart was beating so loudly in her chest Sara was positive he could hear it. Breathing became an agonizing chore. She didn’t know if it was the warmth of the brandy, or his heartbreaking confessions about his childhood, or the raging storm outside, or the sight of his muscled arms in his loose white shirt, or the firelight playing across his handsome face, but she suddenly and desperately wanted Christopher Townsend, the Earl of Bridgeton, to kiss her more than anything in the world.
Carefully, she set her empty brandy glass on the table and turned to face him. “Yes. I want you to kiss me,” she confessed softly. “I think I shall die if you don’t.”
For a moment, time stood still.
She waited with bated breath as he set his glass down. Again, he looked into her eyes, their gazes locked, as he reached for her with a throaty growl. Pulling her into his strong arms, he whispered her name as he brought his lips down over her
s.
His embrace was warm and he tasted of brandy and his breath was hot. As his mouth covered hers, Sara was lost in the deep sensuality of being kissed by him. His soft lips pressed firmly against hers, tasting her, wanting her. Roughly positioning her across his lap, he held her in his arms as he continued to kiss her. It was amazing that a kiss could last so long. This was certainly nothing like any of the hasty and brief kisses she’d had with Alexander and the intensity of this kiss rushed through her veins, saturating every nerve in her body with a languid, molten heat.
Then he gently parted her lips with his tongue and she reeled from the sensation.
Her whole being spun with the beauty of it. As his tongue swirled with hers, the taste of brandy shared between them, Sara melted deeper and deeper into his embrace, his arms holding her to him. Slowly her arms found their way around his neck, pulling him even closer to her.
Just when she thought she might faint from the pleasure of it, he gently drew away from her. He cradled her face in his hands, staring at her.
“Did he kiss you like that?”
For a second Sara couldn’t remember who “he” was. Her brain felt a little foggy and it took a moment for her to recall Alexander’s name. With slow deliberation she shook her head, whispering, “No. No, he never kissed me like that. I didn’t know such kisses even existed.”
“Good,” he muttered before bringing his mouth down over hers again.
This time she was eager for him, opening her mouth, inviting him in. He groaned and held her tighter. That same molten heat and wickedly new sensations of desire raced through her entire body, leaving her breathless, incapable of doing anything but kissing him back. It felt as if she were drowning in him, becoming part of him. Yet it wasn’t enough. She craved more and more of him as the kiss deepened. The faint, spicy scent of him enveloped her and her fingers curled through his thick, damp hair. The light stubble that covered his cheeks grazed her skin and she didn’t care.
The Heiress He's Been Waiting For Page 11
