His hands were in her hair, loosening the pins, allowing the dark tresses to spill around them. His mouth hot on hers, his wonderful hands continued to move over her, caressing her back, the arch of her neck. The kiss seemed to go on and on, forever. They could have been kissing for hours or days for all she knew. Or cared.
She was lost in this magnificent kiss of his. Nothing else mattered, but this endless bliss, this cascade of feelings connecting her to this man in this moment. The feel of his lips, his tongue, his breath, his hands, his arms . . . she was surrounded by him, and yet she craved more from him. She pressed her own body against his, craving a closeness with him, a wild yearning to become a part of him.
With an agonized groan he drew back from her and she almost sobbed with the loss.
Panting heavily, he held her close to his chest as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her entire body trembled with a desire she didn’t know she possessed and her head was spinning, whether from the brandy or from his kiss, she knew not which.
Gently he stroked her hair, soothing her. It felt wonderfully delicious to be held by him. So warm. So snug. So intimate. The room was quiet except for the steady rain that continued outside and the sound of his breathing. It was so warm. So utterly peaceful.
She could stay like this forever, she thought, as she slowly closed her eyes.
“Sara?” he whispered softly. “Sara?”
“Yes?”
“You fell asleep.”
“No, I didn’t,” she murmured. “Not really.” Had she fallen asleep? She couldn’t have! For how long? Perhaps she dozed for just a moment. But only because it was so very warm and comforting in his arms. Christopher had the most wonderful arms. And he smelled so nice.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She sat up then, and looked at him, blinking. Goodness, but he was handsome. “Yes, I’m fine.” She placed a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Quite fine.”
He looked a little surprised. “I feel I should apologize to you for this, but I don’t want to.”
“Why would you apologize to me? That kiss was simply magnificent. Didn’t you think so?”
Very carefully, he lifted her from his lap and set her back down on her end of the sofa, softly kissing the top of her head. “As a matter of fact, I thought it was wonderful too. In all honesty, it was the best kiss of my life. But I have a feeling in your case, it’s the brandy talking.”
“The brandy talking . . .” Sara started to giggle then. She couldn’t help herself. It was so terribly and ridiculously funny. “Christopher, brandy can’t talk!” She dissolved in a fit of laughter, finally resting her head on the velvet cushions. Her head felt so very heavy.
Christopher smiled at her. He had such a nice smile. Then it seemed like he went away for a long time, because she couldn’t see him, but he came back with a china teacup.
“Here. You should drink this, beautiful girl.”
“I don’t want any more tea.” She motioned for him to go away. She was just too tired.
“It’s not tea. It’s brandy,” he cajoled.
Oh, well, that was different. Sara sat up on the sofa, which was not the easiest move she ever made. “Thank you.” Glad that she remembered her manners, she reached for the cup and took a sip. It wasn’t brandy after all but cool tea and it was soothing and rather wonderful. She was suddenly very thirsty and found that she drank the whole cup.
“Would you like some more?”
Sara nodded and handed the empty cup to him. “You are quite nice, Christopher. Truly. You are the nicest and handsomest man I’ve ever known. Or ever kissed.” Then she put her head back down on the green velvet pillow. She’d never felt so sleepy in her life.
She simply had to close her eyes for just a minute.
11
Lost at Sea
Christopher Townsend stared at Sara as she slept peacefully on the sofa, her beautiful face illuminated by the flickering firelight. With a gentle motion he covered her with a warm blanket that had been hanging over the back of a nearby chair. Then he crouched down on the floor beside the sofa.
Well, this was just awful.
He had gotten Sara Fleming drunk and taken advantage of her. What was wrong with him? What had he done? What if her parents or one of her many relatives suddenly walked in? What could he possibly say to them?
This was entirely his fault.
Yet she looked so serene, lying there, her dark hair loose, her sweet face at rest, wearing a simple pink dress and covered by a warm blanket. He reached out a hand and brushed a few stray, silky curls from her cheek. The pretty little captain’s daughter. With her four—no, seven—swear words and her unconventional upbringing. Who would drink brandy just to show she could. Who would listen to him and sympathize with him about his god-awful childhood and not pity him. Who would kiss him seductively. Even eagerly.
She was quite astonishing.
The afternoon had taken such an unexpected turn. From getting caught in the storm, to being alone with Sara, to challenging her to drink with him, to confessing his childhood horrors to her, to kissing her passionately.
And it had been passionate. The most erotic and passionate kiss he’d ever had, and that was something in and of itself. She had been so willing and open. Sara wanted to kiss him. Wanted him to kiss her. Nor did she pretend as if she didn’t want to, like some girls did. Hell, she had said she would die if he didn’t kiss her. He’d never expected that.
Never even saw it coming.
Even if it was just the brandy talking, he would cherish that kiss with Sara Fleming for as long as he lived.
And what had prompted him to divulge to her the sordid stories of his childhood? He’d never spoken of that part of his life to anyone before. Not even to Phillip Sinclair, his closest friend. It was something he kept well-hidden. Secret. Separate from the façade he presented to the world. Yet the pity, the shame, and the recriminations he’d always feared did not materialize when he told her. She simply listened and seemed to care about him even more. He felt comfortable talking to her, which was surprising to him. Why should he confide in Sara Fleming? Of all people? A slip of a girl from America?
A sea captain’s daughter.
She was different, this girl. Perhaps it was the very unusualness of her that drew him in. Her honesty. Her openness. Her fearlessness. Her lack of pretense. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met. That she was beyond beautiful didn’t hurt either.
God, but she was lovely. He longed to kiss her again. To hold her in his arms.
Except now what?
He certainly couldn’t marry her, even if she would have him.
Reluctantly he stood, stretched, and walked toward the window. The rain was still pouring down, but the sun had long since set. It was very dark out. The clock above the mantel struck eight thirty. He hadn’t realized it was so late.
Earlier that day he’d called on Bonnie Beckwith and brought her a bouquet of flowers. She’d worn some bright yellow concoction of a dress that made her look like a giant lemon meringue. He’d suffered through twenty minutes of her babbling about he knew not what. Something about a musicale, maybe? Soprano? Pianoforte? She liked to sing basically. That was the gist of it. It was really quite astounding. He’d never before met anyone who could speak nonstop, yet say absolutely nothing of importance or relevance.
Christopher didn’t know if he could do it. Shackling himself to that girl would be like living in his own personal hell for the rest of his life.
However, her parents seemed quite pleased with his visit though, and Bonnie herself was over the moon. She had batted her eyelashes over her wide eyes so many times it made him dizzy.
Christopher sighed heavily. Well, the wheels were set in motion now. He’d let his interest in Miss Bonnie Beckwith be known to her and her parents. But he knew without a doubt that he would never feel a fraction for her of what he felt for Sara Fleming.
A sickening knot formed in the pit of his stomach.
&n
bsp; What about Lady Constance Fuller? Perhaps he should call on her once, before he completely ruled her out. Ever since she brazenly propositioned him during their dance at the Wickham Ball, he’d backed off. He suspected Lady Constance was a bit indiscriminate in her love affairs and wasn’t sure that was a good attribute for his future wife to have. He doubted Lady Constance would be the type to retire quietly to the country. But perhaps that might be preferable after all? If he was going to enter into a loveless marriage, wouldn’t it be better to marry a sophisticated widow who didn’t have idealistic expectations about love and wouldn’t mind leading separate lives?
Hell, he didn’t want to marry either woman. Running his fingers through his hair, he gave a heavy sigh. He didn’t know what was right anymore.
Certainly what happened between him and Sara Fleming just now wasn’t right. He should be ashamed of himself for allowing her to drink brandy and kissing her that way. But good Lord, when she whispered that she would die if he didn’t kiss her . . . How was a man supposed to resist such a temptation? If someone offered him a million pounds not to kiss her just then, he would not have seen a penny of the money.
Pressing his fingers against his temples, he sighed again. Christopher moved to the side table and poured more brandy into his glass, and took a long swig, letting the burn slide down his throat. He walked back toward the velvet sofa.
Sara still slept soundly there, blissfully unaware of his internal turmoil.
Maybe he should wake her and send her up to her room before either of her parents returned. He hoped her head wouldn’t hurt terribly when she awoke. Staring down at her, he desired nothing more than to carry her to his own bed and hold her in his arms all night long.
If he admitted the truth to himself, this beautiful American girl, this little captain’s daughter, was the one he wanted to marry. The one he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with. Life certainly wouldn’t be dull being married to Sara Fleming.
Yet Christopher could never have her. She was already in love with and planning to marry another man and he needed to wed someone very wealthy. It was that simple and that complicated. And definitely not meant to be.
Just then the library door swung open and Phillip Sinclair burst in, dripping wet and making a lot of noise. Awakened by the sudden intrusion, Boots yipped in annoyance, then snuggled back into his blanket. Sara did not move an inch.
“It’s a devil of a night out there! Sorry to keep you waiting, Bridgeton. Parkins told me you were here. Took me hours to get home. The streets are completely flooded, carriages are blocking the roads, and I just walked all the way from—”
Phillip suddenly stopped talking and stared, taking in the situation. The dimly lit room. The intimate setting. The remains of dinner on the table. Empty brandy glasses. Sara out cold on the sofa. Christopher knew it looked bad.
“What the hell is going on in here, Bridgeton?”
Christopher raised his glass of brandy. “Waiting for you, Waverly.”
“Well, I can see that,” Phillip said slowly, rain trickling down his face. He gestured his head toward the sofa. “What happened to her?”
“She had a little too much brandy.”
“Blazes!” Phillip looked stunned. “Did you get my cousin foxed?”
“Guilty,” Christopher confessed. “Now, before you deck me, will you please help me get her upstairs before someone sees her like this?”
“You’re damn right I’m going to flatten you,” he growled in outrage. “That’s my cousin!”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
Phillip paused, his hair still dripping. “But I’d like some of that brandy first.”
Christopher tossed him the towel that he’d left on the chair and went to pour his friend a glass of brandy. “When I arrived, your cousin told me you went with your father and brother out to the estate and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”
“No, no.” Phillip shook his head while toweling his damp hair. “I was never going with my father today. Simon and my uncle went with him. Sara must have gotten it all muddled. I was at the club this afternoon.”
Christopher handed him the glass. “Well, I got caught in the storm as well and arrived here about an hour later than we agreed on, as drenched as you are now. Your lovely American cousin”—he gestured to Sara—“was kind enough to keep me company.”
Phillip stared at his cousin in utter disbelief. “Why the hell did you let her drink, Bridgeton?”
“Have you ever tried to stop her from doing something she wanted to do?”
With a chuckle, Phillip nodded his head. “I see your dilemma.”
“She only had the one glass, but I think she drank it too quickly. For a captain’s daughter, I thought she’d be a little hardier.”
“Me too. I’m rather surprised actually.” Phillip seemed puzzled. “But I supposed we’d better wake her and get her upstairs before Aunt Juliette sees her like this. And you’re a damned sight lucky that her father isn’t here tonight.” He took a swig of brandy and then set his glass down. He walked over to the sleeping form of his cousin and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Sara,” Phillip called. “Sara. You must get up now.”
She mumbled something incoherent into the pillow, but did not awaken.
Looking completely flummoxed, Phillip announced in defeat, “She won’t wake up.”
“Let me try.” Christopher set down his own drink and Phillip moved aside.
Kneeling next to the sofa, Christopher stroked her arm. Then using both hands, he gently lifted Sara to a sitting position, calling her name again.
Sara opened her sleepy eyes, stared at him, and suddenly started laughing. “Brandy can’t talk, Christopher.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Amused, he managed to hold her shoulders securely to keep her from flopping back down on the sofa. “It’s time to go to bed now.”
“Is it really?” she questioned, in utter disbelief. “What time is it? It feels like it must be midnight.” Then she noticed her cousin. “Oh, hello, Phillip! It’s so nice to see you! Where’s Boots? Oh, there he is!”
Phillip traded concerned glances with Christopher. “She’s still soused. This is going to be tough.”
“I am not soused either,” Sara said, somewhat offended. She brushed away Christopher’s hands and attempted to stand up, but the blanket that had covered her had slipped to the floor and tangled around her feet, causing her to stumble back down onto the sofa. “Well. I suppose I am at that.”
He and Phillip couldn’t help but laugh. “Bring some of that tea over here,” Christopher directed. “She needs a little more time.”
He remained kneeling before the sofa and held Sara, propping her up, while Phillip went to get the tea.
“I’m fine really. Just very, very sleepy,” she protested. Her tousled hair cascaded over her shoulders and the sultry little half smile she gave him made his heartbeat skitter. She looked more beautiful undone than she ever had with her stylish clothes and her perfectly arranged hair. She looked more natural and unguarded.
“I know you’re fine,” Christopher said in a soothing tone. He wished he could just enfold her in his arms and hold her until she felt better. “You simply need to drink a little more tea and rest here for a bit.”
“All right,” she said agreeably, staring at him, her blue eyes intent. Then she reached out a hand and gently caressed his cheek. “You’re really quite a handsome man, you know.”
His heart skipped a beat at her touch. He grinned roguishly for a moment, and said, “So I’ve been told.” Reluctantly, he released his hold on her and stood, stepping aside for her cousin.
Sara giggled a little more as Phillip returned with a cupful of lukewarm tea and some bread. He handed the cup to Sara and instructed her to drink it all. Like an obedient child, she drank all the tea and dutifully ate the bread while Christopher and Phillip watched her closely.
“You mustn’t stare at me,” she said to them, becoming cross
. “I’m not an infant, you know.”
“We just want to make sure you’re well,” Phillip said, going to fetch more tea for her.
“You can stop fussing over me.” Her eyes lingered on Christopher and her tone softened. “I’m quite all right.”
“I can see that,” he said to her. He could stare at her and fuss over her all day and not mind in the least. What was it about Sara Fleming that made him want to be near her? Want to care for her? Protect her? Want to kiss her? God, how he wanted to kiss her again!
Phillip handed her another cup of tea. “Drink it all,” he commanded. “And perhaps I won’t mention this little incident to your parents,” he added quite firmly.
“Oh, Phillip, you wouldn’t!” Sara cried, a slight note of panic in her voice, before she gulped down the tea.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. It depends.”
Sara gaped at him. “On what?”
Phillip looked pointedly back and forth between Sara and Christopher. “It depends on a number of things. The first of which begins with the two of you telling me just exactly what happened here this evening.”
“Nothing,” Christopher and Sara said in unison. Surprised at their coordinated answer, they both stared at each other in amazement.
Phillip glanced at them skeptically. “Look at you . . . I come home to find my sweet little cousin intoxicated. Asleep on the library sofa. With her hair loosened. And all alone with my best friend. You tell me what happened, or I will jump to the only obvious conclusion.”
Christopher spoke up. “Listen, Waverly, nothing untoward happened here tonight, except Miss Fleming shouldn’t have had that glass of brandy. I came here this evening to meet you, remember? I was drenched from the storm and Parkins brought me to the library. Your cousin was kind enough to keep me company while I dried off and waited for you to arrive. She and I merely talked for a while and shared a bite to eat and something to drink. For that I apologize. I should have not encouraged her to have the brandy.” He looked directly at Sara, and with a veiled reference to the scorching and passionate kiss they shared, said, “It’s the only thing that I feel deserves an apology from either of us.”
The Heiress He's Been Waiting For Page 12
