Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  Her anger had worked itself into such a boiling point she’d almost mustered the courage to barge through the door, invade their male conversation, when he’d seen her. Just like that, just as he had earlier in her room, he’d caused her to lose her nerve.

  All that mattered now was making it back to her room and shutting the door. Locking it was probably a good idea as well. What would he do? Break it down?

  Sara froze at the sound of boot-clad feet drawing near. Two more doors and she’d make it to her room. Two more.

  She gasped aloud, her arm snatched in the vice of a strong hand. Warmth shot through the fabric of her thin gown and straight to her skin, her bones.

  Dear God.

  “We need to talk.” His mouth hovered mere inches above her ear. He coerced her, gently, into the room, then slammed the door behind them.

  He released her, whirling about only to turn the key before his eyes locked with hers. Instinctively, she started backing away, even as he advanced, his long legs covering more distance in three strides than hers could in ten.

  “Why were you eavesdropping?” His head inclined. That lock of dark hair fell over his forehead again, where he must have brushed it back earlier. His eyes roved over her, assessed and scrutinized. All at once she felt inexplicably vulnerable.

  Naked.

  “You look as if you were already in bed. Yet, you got up.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she lied. “I only wanted to speak with my father.”

  One of his dark brows arched. “Truly? And what, pray, could possibly be so pressing you couldn’t wait until morning to speak to your father?”

  She lifted her chin, peeved by his arrogance. “That is none of your business.”

  A ragged gasp escaped her as her back hit the wall between the vanity and the bed. Good heavens, had she been shying away from him?

  Panic swept through her, prickled the tiny hairs at the back of her neck.

  He drew nearer, braced one of his large, bronzed hands on the wall beside her head. She dared not close her eyes, though the heat of him, the air of his calm authority, made her want to do just that. He smelled of horses and sweat. And something which reminded her of the Tibetan incense sold at the perfumer’s in Dublin.

  Exotic and foreign.

  Mouth-wateringly male.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, my lady.” His pupils were dilated, making it even harder to distinguish the dark irises. “We are betrothed. And as your intended, I am compelled to remind you that your business is my business.”

  Sara felt her stomach coil into a knot. Her knees threatened to give way. He had her cornered, which by all reasons of sanity should’ve frightened her enough to duck under his arm and run as fast as she could in the other direction.

  But she didn’t want to move, and that small epiphany was something she couldn’t understand, especially since his apparent motive was making her realize just how much bigger he was than she, how much stronger.

  As if she didn’t know already.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, and Sara took a sharp breath as he tucked a lock of damp hair behind her ear. Roughened fingertips brushed against her temple. “I will not stand for this wall you seem to be determined in wedging between us. The objective of having you sent prematurely to London was not for us to be apart, but to learn one another, which shall prove impossible if you are insistent upon keeping your distance from me.”

  “I know,” she heard herself say, though as nervous as she was, she couldn’t be sure she had said anything at all. His gaze falling to her parted lips was her first clue.

  His response was her second.

  “Then why the evasiveness? I’m not going to hurt you, Sara. I think you might find my company enjoyable if you’d allow it. I’ve even been known to be funny every now and again, though if you spend very much time in the company of Lord Beaufort, you might find his humor far exceeds mine.” The corner of his mouth kicked up a little at the self-deprecating comment.

  “I find Lord Beaufort appalling, Lord Carrington.”

  His dark brows snapped together. “I agree. He can be rather incorrigible, but then again, you’ve yet to spend enough time in his presence to make that discovery. At least not accurately. So, I must ask, why is it you find him so unappealing?”

  “He was laughing at me,” she pointed out, and instead of looking appalled, he adopted a sort of whimsical smile.

  And then, since he obviously couldn’t make light enough of her comment with merely a smile, he bowed his head and released a fit of gentle laughter. He almost seemed ... Well. Boyish.

  “Ah, my lady,” he said, still fighting laughter. “Trust me. Lord Beaufort was not laughing at you.”

  His fingers came to her face, and Sara jerked in reaction, paralyzed, only whether with fear or curiosity, she did not know. Downward, his fingers slid, his head tilting as his dark eyes followed the unhurried action.

  Sara’s breath ratcheted higher. Higher still. Her breast heaved beneath her night rail. Part of her wanted to take his hand and hold it there in effort to keep her heart from bursting through. Or perhaps it was merely the want she suddenly had for him to touch her.

  “You are very beautiful,” he muttered.

  Sara’s lips parted, the rapidity of her breaths coming so painfully hard she felt near faint.

  She’d been told she was beautiful. In fact, she’d heard that sentiment so many times now she had begun to brush it aside as nothing. Her eyes had driven men to poetry, the sensuous shape of her mouth to sonnets recited on bended knee. Lesser women may have found it all rather flattering, but not Sara. Her father had once called her beauty ancient. The kind mentioned in stories of old: fairy-like and extremely dangerous to the hearts of those who would dare risk their sanity by pursuing her.

  Yet somehow the way Justin said those simple words was completely different.

  As if it was a problem, not a compliment.

  His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and Sara closed her eyes as she felt a responsive moan welling in her throat.

  Sweet heavens. He was going to kiss her. She could feel her face reddening at the thought, her body aching now with a want she’d never felt before, the realization that she actually wanted him to kiss her hitting her like a slap to the face.

  But his hand withdrew, and her eyes opened, searching his for something she couldn’t comprehend. An explanation perhaps? Did he not find her kissable?

  He pushed off the wall and backed away, deliberately preserving the distance between them.

  Sara couldn’t speak, couldn’t move for that matter, and as he executed a stiff bow, she felt a whim of ridiculousness rush over her.

  “Good evening, my lady.” He strode for the door. “We depart for London shortly after dawn.”

  The door shut quietly in his stead, and Sara, tired and confused as she was, slid to the floor in a heap of white linen.

  One thing was for certain. This was not going at all as she’d anticipated.

  FOUR

  By the grace of God, and with a little help from Lana, Sara managed to make it downstairs the next morning before everyone--even the duke, who was, in Sara’s opinion, the world’s earliest riser. He was usually awake, dressed and reading the morning papers before most people had given thought to opening their eyes. Because of him, Lana had trained herself to rise at least half an hour before the first sounding of the cock’s crow.

  Heaven forbid the duke should be without a cup of chocolate while reading his morning paper.

  Sara, on the other hand, had always been a late sleeper. With her language, philosophy, history and arithmetic studies, and her riding lessons, lasting until nearly half past noon every day, she barely had enough time to change and make it to the playing field for a game of Rounders before afternoon tea. A tiresome schedule such as hers required extra sleep.

  Until now, however, her daily habits hadn’t included spending time with a gentleman. And Lord Carr
ington had made it perfectly clear last night that spending time together was exactly what he intended to do.

  Sara touched her fingers to her face. Never had she imagined the hands of a nobleman as anything but effeminately smooth. But his were, albeit slightly, rough. As if he’d wielded an axe with those hands, or perhaps a shovel. They were work hands.

  “It is good to see you smiling this morning, my lady.”

  Sara fingers immediately stole from her face.

  Lana smiled. “You look refreshed. And my goodness, that yellow dress does fit nicely. Radiant as sunshine. I daresay his lordship will be enchanted.”

  Warmth rose in Sara’s cheeks. “Thank you, Lana.” She paused. “Any sight of my betrothed this morning?”

  “Aye, my lady. I just passed him having words with Lord Beaufort. Seems as though your father has already departed for Ireland.” Lana shrugged; Sara’s jaw fell open. “Eager to return home, he was.”

  She reached for Sara’s hand, gave it a cheerful pat. “But not to worry, my lady. He will return to London for your wedding. Now, how about a spot of breakfast?”

  “My father’s not coming?” Even as she asked, the words sickened her. All she had left in the world was an overprotective maid and a fiancé she barely knew.

  This simply would not do.

  “My lady, where are you ...?”

  Sara picked up the skirts of her dress, layers of butter-yellow muslin trimmed in white lace, and headed for the rooms, determined to find Lord Carrington and give him a piece of her mind. She didn’t know why her father had left without so much as a fare-thee-well, but she was nonetheless convinced her betrothed had put that calloused hand of his in it somehow.

  She could hear the sweeping of Lana’s slippers scurrying over the wooden floor behind her, the sound of her frantic voice, which always became high-pitched when she was mad or upset.

  “My lady! Don’t interrupt the gentlemen’s conversation! It is un-ladylike! Your father would not be pleased! Oh, a leanbh na páirte, why do you insist on being so difficult?”

  Piece by piece, the coiffure Lana had concocted atop Sara’s head tumbled from its neatly fastened pins, finally falling in a mass of cascading silk as Sara rounded the corner leading to the staircase and hit something broad and hard head-on.

  “Good Lord.” A pair of strong hands caught her by the elbows. “Are you running away already?”

  Lord Carrington.

  Perfect.

  She regarded him narrowly. “You sent my father away,”

  The husky whimsicalness of Lord Beaufort’s laughter pierced through the ensuing silence. “See you outside, my lord,” he murmured, patting Carrington on the back. Then: “My dear Mrs. Brennan.” He proffered his arm to Lana. “Would you be so kind? I’m in dire need of some feminine company, you see, and I highly suspect yours would be most gratifying.”

  His silvery-blue eyes shimmered with friendly mirth as he countered the shocked look on Lana’s face with, “For conversational purposes only, of course.”

  Lana slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, glancing worriedly at Sara from over her shoulder as he led her down the hall.

  Reminded she was now very much alone with her betrothed, Sara swallowed and turned her gaze slowly upward. One of his dark brows lifted. She could try and pull herself free, but ... Oh, it was no use. Clearly he had no intention of turning her loose.

  “Why did you send my father away?”

  “Your father sent himself away, Kitten.”

  Sara’s jaw fell open. “Don’t call me …” Berating him for pet names hardly seemed relevant at the moment. “Why? Why would he leave so abruptly?”

  “He thought perhaps you might try to talk him into taking you back to Ireland.” He paused. “I think he might have been right. But not to worry. I promised I would take good care of you, and that you would write once we reached London.”

  “As if hauling me to London could stop me from running away if I wanted to.”

  Something triggered then, and Sara instantly wished she had never made such a provoking statement.

  Anger sweltered in the depths of his dark eyes. His clutch on her arms tightened, and his jaw, defined like the craftsmanship of a fine artist, set as hard as stone.

  “You, my lady,” he said, “will not run.”

  He pulled her then, coaxed her along several feet through the dark corridor and into an empty parlor. Moodily he ignored her gasping protests, but kept a firm hold on her even as she struggled to pry herself free.

  “Let me go!” she pleaded, as he kicked the door closed.

  He didn’t seem to hear, and Sara fought with all she had to keep from crying as he pressed her back against a book-cased wall. Letting go of her arms, he anchored her with his body and caught both her wrists, one in each hand, and pinned them on either side of her head.

  Any illusion she might have had to claw or hit him vanished. She couldn’t cry out for her father, as he was on his way back to Ireland, and she certainly couldn’t yell for her maid. Lana was likely too busy allowing Lord Beaufort to amuse her right out of her stockings, the traitorous woman.

  She was at his mercy.

  God help her.

  He smelled differently this morning. Like shaving balm, soap. Perhaps aftershave. His hair was damp, his face smooth. A torrent of emotions flashed in his eyes. Emotions she couldn’t name, couldn’t place. Never had she seen eyes so dark and indecipherable. It was like trying to find one’s way through a labyrinth at night, surrounded by nothing but high yew walls and air black as pitch.

  Sara, desperate to calm her racing nerves, finally looked away. She focused on the book beneath her right wrist.

  The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by Henry Fielding, Esq.

  “H-have you read many n-novels, my lord?” His breath fanned across her face. He smelled incredible. “Mr. Fielding’s portrayal of Tom and S-Sophia is quite lovely considering …”

  “I’m not interested in discussing literature with you, Sara,” he said, even as she continued mumbling on about virtue, choosing one’s path by right action, anything to take her mind off being alone with him.

  “Then what, pray, shall we talk about?” Her pulse raced, driven by the heat of his hands, wrapped tightly around her wrists.

  “I’m not interested in talking, either.”

  Sara tightened her closed eyes, frightened he would see through any sort of façade should she risk looking at him. Not that she had enough courage to put on one, mind.

  “Look at me, please.” The thick bands of his fingers loosened. Gently, he used his thumbs to stroke the pulse thrumming in her wrists. “Sara?”

  She gulped audibly, and blushed because of it. She must’ve looked like a prized idiot standing there beneath him, trembling like some skittish forest creature. At that point, she couldn’t be sure what he’d see should she obey.

  “Have it your way, then.” The words whispered across her skin, and before she could think of something clever to say in effort to distract him, her wrists were freed, her face was enveloped by his warm hands, and her mouth was taken.

  Sensation swirled and tormented. Lapped at her thighs, her belly, her breasts, and in places she dared not name. His lips were insistent, teasing and withdrawing. Repeating the process in a way which excited and frustrated.

  What few kisses she’d shared with Cav had been sweet and gentle, but this …

  This wasn’t at all comparable.

  She never dreamed it could be this wonderful. A tantalizing dance of impatient yet tender caresses that robbed her of all care, all thought. And as Justin’s tongue traced the seam of her lips, a wave of heat spread through her body like wildfire through a parched forest.

  Breathlessly, she opened her mouth, and in the next instant, felt his tongue sweep inside, tasting her with newfound desire. Her hands, which up until now had been suspended in midair, were slowly, timidly easing themselves around his neck.

  The gesture seemed to excite him. The
muscles at the back of his neck tensed, the smooth skin beneath her fingertips grew hotter.

  And then the kiss deepened.

  His large hand coasted down the length of her spine, the other cradling her head, and in one easy motion, he brought their bodies together. Flush.

  Weakened, Sara strained against him. His body was solid, his scent intoxicating. And there was something else. Something pressing uncomfortably hard against her abdomen.

  Struggling to shift her body in some way to alleviate the strange pressure, she rose tiptoe.

  He moaned into her mouth. The hand he had resting idly at her back pressed harder, bringing her even closer, until nary an inch was left between their bodies.

  That was the precise moment she realized ... Oh, but it was all so embarrassing, this awareness of him, and her own body’s reaction. To her utter chagrin, her innocent attempts at accommodating to comfort had aligned their bodies in such a way the hard protrusion of his masculinity was positioned perfectly should he desire to...

  Saints and sinners, she’d aroused him.

  There was no other explanation, shameful though it was. But she couldn’t very well help noticing, could she?

  Discomfited, Sara tore her lips from his, and shoved, hard as she could, against his chest. It was as solid as steel. “Please,” she murmured, gasping for air. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” He sought her mouth again.

  Sara turned her head, and his lips brushed across her cheek; attempted to toss her head back, out of his reach, but he caught at the hollow beneath her jaw. Gooseflesh spread all over her skin.

  She felt him smile against her neck.

  “Innocent darling.” He kissed the pulse throbbing wildly in her throat.

  Another gentle kiss. Another just beneath the lobe of her ear. Sara grasped two handfuls of his wool coat, struggling to maintain equilibrium.

  “I love the way you smell.” He sucked an earlobe between his teeth, worried it gently. “The way you taste. So sweet.” His lips were restless, skimming the sensitive line of her jaw to her cheek and again to her mouth. He kissed her softly, angelically, his lips barely brushing hers.