by Cheryl Holt
"I have a secretary who works for me at the club," he said. "He'll visit you tomorrow. Tell him what you need; he'll handle it."
"Thank you." There was a protracted pause, then she forged on. "I'm prevailing on you horridly, but there's one thing more."
She was still staring at the wall, and it annoyed him that she wouldn't roll over. Usually, she was stubborn enough to confront any obstacle, to slave through any disagreement, and he recognized that he'd succeeded in pushing her past her limits.
"You're my wife." As he acknowledged her, he experienced an extraordinary rush of pride at claiming her. "I'll render to you whatever I have the means to provide."
"Then ... I ask that you put some money in a trust for me. Not very much," she hastened on, lest he rebuff her.
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"Just enough so that if you gamble away what we have, I will have some funds to tide me over. That way, I won't be cold, or hungry, or scared ever again."
His heart flipped over in his chest. What had he done? While he'd inflicted a terrible price on Hugh Compton, he'd avoided estimating the probable repercussions to her.
"Oh, Sarah ..." Like a blind man, he stumbled toward the bed and glided down onto the mattress, resting a hand on her back, massaging in soothing circles. "I'm not a gambler," he declared. "I wager on occasion, but rarely, and only for meager amounts. I'm not obsessed like your father was. Or your brother."
"Swear it."
"I swear it to you," he reassured her. "You'll never go without."
Her body shuddered, then she nodded, accepting his pledge, and he caressed across her hair as though she was a young child in need of comfort. Her tension dissolved, and he turned her onto her back. Tears streaked her cheeks, and his heart lurched once more. He couldn't bear to have her unhappy.
"Don't cry, love." He swiped at the residue with his thumb.
"I didn't plot with Hugh," she fervently attested.
He examined her, scanning for deceit or cunning, but there was no sign of duplicity and likely never had been. Hugh's treachery had instigated an anger that had burned furiously, but it was rapidly waning. She was wiser than he, pursuing a new beginning, and his initial step toward her had to commence with a speck of trust. Of her, and her motives.
"I believe you."
Chastely, he kissed her, with the simple embrace, tendering apology and receiving pardon. When he tried to move away, she held him just there against her mouth. She opened for him, and the tranquil kiss became something more, something profound and poignant that brushed his very soul.
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As their lips parted, she was beholding him with a clear, abiding affection, and he earnestly stated, "I haven't been with Pamela. After you ... after we ..." How to divulge this? His chagrin was excruciating. "I went to her bed once, and I couldn't go through with it."
"I believe you," she said, as well.
"I kept thinking about you"—he hated to disclose that she was his greatest—his only—weakness—"and about how much it would hurt you if you knew."
"I'm glad."
"So am I."
There was so much more he yearned to say, but powerful sentiment rocked him, and he was frightened by its strength. Suddenly out of his element, he extended himself next to her, burrowing himself in the crook of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, inhaling the musk that was her very essence.
He snuggled down to her chest, where her pert nipple poked at his cheek, and he sucked at it, nursing at her breast, easing his woes and consternation. But when she was near, his need for succor transformed, and he grew hard with wanting her, the force of it never ceasing to amaze. He positioned himself, bracing his weight on his arms, and he gazed down at her with what could only be unbridled joy.
Flexing his hips, he dallied until he was fully sheatfied, snug in her succulent haven, and his cock expanded as her muscles clenched around him.
"Let's make a babe, Michael." She smiled up at him, welcoming him home. "Give me someone to love besides you, you miserable oaf."
She loved him! Pulse racing with excitement, he was desperate to repeat the sentiment, but the words—never uttered to another—were lodged in his throat, and he couldn't push them out.
His dread of abandonment reared up. It had ruled his life, ever since the day when he was three and his father
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had forsaken him, and he was overcome by his dormant, destructive fears.
"I can't get you with child!" He was almost wailing. "I'll grant you anything but that!"
"Why?"
"I couldn't bear it."
"Michael..."—her exasperation withhim was evident— "we're going to have beautiful children. Many, many of them."
"But if you left me, or if something happened . . ."
"I promise you"—she laid her palm on his cheek—"that I will never leave. No matter what." She grinned wickedly. "Despite how obnoxious you are, or how horridly you try my patience, I'll always remain by your side."
He felt driven to explain his anguish, but he wasn't sure he could. After the upheavals of his childhood, he'd survived by becoming a creature of habit, needing regularity and normal routine. He loathed change; it was too painful.
Candidly, he admitted, "I don't know where I belong anymore."
"That's easy. You belong with me. You always have."
He filled her then, entering and retreating, slowly, mindfully, basking in the delectation, but he couldn't restrain himself for long. His hunger ran fierce as ever, and he was frantic and precise, taking them both beyond space and time to where they could soar as one.
When she called his name, he captured her rapturous cry on his lips, cherishing the exquisite and total wantonness with which she let herself go. United with her, his body quivered and, at the last, when he would have pulled away, something mighty—his love for her—prevented him from disengaging.
He longed to gift her with her heart's desire. In a fiery torrent, he emptied himself against her womb, flooding her, and he whispered a prayer that his seed would take root, that he could give her the child she craved.
They floated back to reality, and he was safely cradled in her arms. He kissed her hair, her cheek, her mouth, and
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his fondness for her wrenched the avowal from his very core.
"I love you," he choked out on a hitched breath.
"Yes, you do," she said, "and I love you, too."
"Will you marry me?" She was confused, so he clarified, "Again? So everyone will know that you are mine?"
She assessed him, checking for cowardice or indecision, but saw neither. "I'd like that very much."
In accord, he nodded, and she nodded, too. Then, he kissed the middle of her hand and laid it on his chest, directly over his heart so that she could feel it beating in a tempo with her own.
He was sated, assuaged, reposed, and as sleep took him, he rested peacefully, aware that when he awoke, she would still be there. That she would be there forever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sarah dallied in her bedchamber, admiring the beautiful emerald band that Michael had placed on her ring finger, and listening to how quiet the house had grown. With the exception of James and Abigail, the wedding guests had departed, and she was relieved by the pending solitude. Although the occasion had been happy and jubilant, she was impatient to have her husband all to herself.
Day was rapidly turning to evening, and Michael's efficient staff—with a few female members added for her comfort—had the fire burning, candles lit, and a bath laid out in the dressing room.
Iced bottles of French champagne, and an assortment of delectable chocolates, were arranged on a table in the corner, and she couldn't help but be warmed by the sight. On her first wedding day, that horrid event at the chapel in Bedford, when she'd erroneously presumed they would have a wedding night in which to partake of them, she'd impishly demanded the treats of Michael.
To her de
light, he'd remembered her request, and the humble gesture seemed to be another quiet apology for the things he'd done. In every feasible manner, he continually let her know he was sorry, and she was consistently touched and moved.
Michael had even offered to suffer through the grandest nuptials London had ever seen—if that's what she'd fancied—but he'd have been miserable with an elaborate fete, and opulence had never been her style, either, so she'd opted for an unpretentious affair, one that could be effortlessly planned and hastily thrown together.
With Rebecca still visiting in the country, Sarah hadn't
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had any guests to invite, so they'd filled the list with Michael's handful of friends, the senior staff from the club, and a few of his and James's more prominent business associates. They were an engaging, entertaining group of people, their wives amicable and accepting, and the celebration had been extremely merry.
The group was cordial, and they'd appeared sincerely pleased to have Michael married and settled. Any fears she'd harbored about fitting in had vanished. With ease, she could envision herself established in his world. What a blessing that she'd finally escaped her doldrums and traveled to town!
At the window, she stared down into Michael's backyard. Her yard, too, she reminded herself, amazed at how she'd barged into his life, at how quickly she'd begun to think of the property as her own. With no trouble at all, she'd made herself at home.
The modest, neatly groomed garden appeared forlorn and dilapidated in the cold of the late December afternoon, and she could just picture how pretty it would be in the spring, when the trees started to bud and the flowers to bloom.
James and Michael were huddled in the center, their heads pressed close, their breath mingling and swirling in a white cloud. The grays and blacks of their formal wedding attire blended with the decaying foliage, but clothing couldn't dull their appeal. They shone brightly, too intrepid, too bold, like exotic birds who'd been dropped from the sky into an alien habitat.
She raised her hand to the pane, feeling the cool glass against her fingertips, as she furtively watched them and wondered what they were discussing. Their relationship had realigned to the steady, firm condition they'd previously enjoyed, their bond devoted and true as it had been before Michael had fled to the country.
Although she wasn't cognizant of what had transpired to resolve their tensions, she supposed that they were simply too attached to be at odds for long. They were different,
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yet so alike—two peas in a pod, as the saying went—and it was fascinating to be in their company. Their minds worked in similar patterns, their thoughts so attuned that they frequently finished one another's sentences.
James uttered a remark that made Michael laugh aloud and vigorously shake his head, and she couldn't stop smiling. She loved the sound of his joy.
Though she'd only been in residence for two weeks, he'd been transformed, and she liked to secretly postulate that her presence had brought about the striking, welcome changes.
Now, if she could just figure out how to convince him to emit even a fraction of the same openness and solicitude for his parents when they returned from their honeymoon on the Continent, she'd consider herself to have accomplished a major feat.
Sensing her presence, he focused on the upper floors, searching the windows. His blue eyes locked on her, glittering with approval, roving over her form in a languid, sensual perusal. Her nipples were instantaneously alert, her corset laced too tightly, and she was boorishly anxious for James to leave, for her wedding night to commence.
Behind her, footsteps resonated in the hall, and she glanced over her shoulder as Abigail entered the room. With her own family gone, Sarah had every intention of replacing it with Michael's, so she called upon Abigail at every opportunity. In a smattering of days, their relationship had evolved to where it seemed they'd been companions since childhood, that Abigail was the sister she'd never had.
"May I come in?" Abigail asked, her demeanor disheveled and a bit bewildered.
"Please do."
With her pregnancy playing tricks, Abigail had dozed off on a couch during the noisy, boisterous reveling that ensued after the ceremony and, without the woman stirring, James had affectionately carried her upstairs and tucked her in bed for a nap.
"I fell asleep."
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"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Only about two hours."
"Aren't I interesting company! How embarrassing."
"Don't worry. No one noticed."
Actually, everyone had, but they'd discreetly watched how sweetly and tenderly James had seen to her welfare. Apparently, James's circle of acquaintances was amazed by the modifications that matrimony had contributed to his character, and the variations were a perpetual topic of gossip by all.
"I was never informed that a woman underwent so many bodily alterations when she was increasing." Abigail moved to Sarah's side. "Just wait till it happens to you."
Sarah absently ran a hand across her abdomen, speculating as to whether it might have already occurred. As though he'd stored up months of lust, Michael couldn't get enough of her. Evidently, he'd merely been biding his time until he could show her how much he needed and wanted her, and now that he could unleash his desire, there was no reining him in.
Since the afternoon of her arrival, they'd rarely left their bed. They couldn't make it down to the parlor, or sit through an entire meal, without rushing back to the bedchamber for another experiment with passion. When they'd been in Bedford, Michael had taught her much, but the brief stint had provided her with only an inkling of the vast array of rapture that was available under his tutelage.
Abigail sidled nearer in order to see what had Sarah so preoccupied. On perceiving the two men, she murmured, "What a dashing pair of rogues they are."
"It ought to be a sin to look so splendid."
“I’ve always thought so."
Abigail sounded almost petulant about it, and Sarah laughed as they surreptitiously spied on their husbands. Eventually, the duo concluded whatever conversation had them so engrossed. James wrapped an arm across Michael's
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shoulder—very much the elder, wiser sibling—and they vanished into the house.
For several lengthy moments after they'd disappeared, the two women peered at the spot where they'd been, then the observation burst from Sarah: "Lord, but we're fortunate, aren't we?"
"For a couple of girls from the country," Abigail concurred, "we didn't do too badly for ourselves."
"We certainly didn't."
Downstairs, the men were moving about, the soft hum of their voices drifting up, and Sarah concluded that they were in the parlor, having a last whisky.
She and Abigail shifted away from the window, causing Abigail to heed the candlelight, the covers that had been turned down on the bed, the rose petals strewn about, and Sarah hoped her zeal to be secluded with her husband wasn't too manifest. While she liked Abigail very much, she was ready for some privacy.
"I should be going," Abigail judiciously pronounced, but then she didn't budge. A tad flustered, she ultimately said, "Ah ... I have something for you."
"Really?" Abigail had planned and hosted the reception, so Sarah had insisted on no other wedding gift from her. They'd agreed, so she couldn't conceive of what it might be, and her curiosity flared when she noted that Abigail was clutching a small leather satchel.
"A few weeks ago," Abigail explained, "I found these pictures of Michael in an old trunk in the attic, and I... I ... didn't imagine they should just be lying about. I thought you might like to have them."
Unable—for some reason—to meet Sarah's gaze, Abigail proffered the portfolio. Sarah opened the flap and pulled out a dozen pen-and-ink drawings. Of her husband. Outrageously handsome. A decade younger. And naked. Very, very naked and disturbingly sexy in each one.
"What the devil. . .
" Sarah briskly skimmed through the stack.
"You're aware that they grew up in Paris, aren't you?"
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"Yes."
"Well, in their teen years, they had a friend," Abigail clarified. "An artist, who painted this sort of thing for money."
"You have some of James?"
"Three sets," she admitted, blushing a bright scarlet. "It's a long story," was all she added by way of elucidation. "Until I stumbled upon these, I hadn't realized that Michael posed, too."
As she persevered with her chatter, Sarah was energetically thumbing through the pile. From every angle and perspective, Michael was graphically, diligently depicted. He was etched with great care; front, back, side, no position remained unportrayed, and the artist was clearly a master at detailing the human form.
Michael was sumptuous, smug, vainglorious and, while much of his torso was narrower—his muscles and bones not thoroughly matured into the manly physique he would ultimately acquire—other parts of his anatomy were painstakingly delineated, and she couldn't quit gawking.
Even at such a tender age, his best attribute had been fully developed.
"Oh, my . . ." She used one of the drawings to fan her face against the sudden temperature of the room. "Did you peek at these?"
"I told James I hadn't, but"—a wicked and naughty disposition glimmered in Abigail's eye—"I especially like number six."
"You brazen hussy!" Sarah giggled like a schoolgirl as she swiftly hastened to the sixth picture. Michael was a negligent model, with an arm leaned against a window frame as he insolently pouted over his shoulder at the artist. The posture was provocative, arousing, his hind legs tight and defined. And his bare posterior was so damned cute.
"Number six is definitely entertaining," she promptly assented.
"Anyway"—Abigail was almost stammering—"you might have fun with them. Tonight and whenever. .." Her
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