A few muffled words, and Lana began doing as she was told, unfastening the tiny row of pearl buttons at the back of Anna’s green dress. “I am sorry things did not go the way you had wanted, my lady.
“I’ll be fine.” Sara smothered the emotion rising in her throat. “Just tired.”
It was true enough; she was tired. Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t as she’d hoped it would be. From dancing, from laughing, from telling everyone about herself, as they were all certainly eager to know her.
From dancing with him. Being in his arms as everyone watched in wonder, envious of how dashing, how elegant they looked together, what a marvelous dukedom they’d make.
No. Sara’s female emotions were the sole culprit of her drained state tonight. Her feet weren’t even tired. And she’d only talked to Anna. Oh, and said hello to a few guests here and there. Nothing spectacular. Not at all what she’d expected while anticipating her engagement party.
“I think I should like to write to my father,” she said, and Lana stopped unbuttoning. “Just to let him know I am well.”
Evidently satisfied, Lana continued with the buttons. “I shall fetch some of His Grace’s house stationery for you, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
“And send for your bath as well. Miss Clearwater, the duchess’s personal maid, purchased a fair lot of lemon scented soap this morning in London. Would you like to try it?”
As if lemon soap could take her mind off of him. “Yes, Lana. That would be lovely. Thank you.” Indeed, it would be something if it could. At least she could bathe and attempt to get some sleep.
If sleep were even possible tonight.
Probably not.
No matter. She’d square her shoulders, walk tall, and smile as she’d been raised. Mistresses and gentlemen be damned, Sara Ballivar would not let a minor hit to her pride get the best of her. Tomorrow she’d be ensconced in a coach to Worcester with Anna, whom she was beginning to like very much, and together they’d spend the next two weeks listening to the boring gossip of old women.
Splendid.
And she didn’t care that he would be there, too. If Anna could avoid Sebastian, Sara could easily steer clear of Justin. In fact, that was exactly what she was going to do. He deserved it. And as his intended, the penalty for his actions was hers to give. She’d avoid him and be all the better for it.
Stupid man. All men: stupid, stupid, stupid!
“I can finish myself,” she bit off, not meaning to. “Sorry, Lana. I’d just like to be alone for a while, if you please.”
“Yes, my lady. I’ll return when your bath is ready.” Lana quit the room.
Sara held her dress to her chest, shivering as the night air, wafting through the open window, hit her bare back. She wanted to cry. What a fool she was! For almost believing this could have worked, that perhaps he could love her, like she’d imagined when he’d told her they were to be a union.
Closeness, that is what he’d said, right after he’d made the comment about their living arrangements. Or, more plainly, their sleeping arrangements. If one could consider it sleeping, which in the way he’d explained, sleeping didn’t seem to be a very big part of the picture.
Heat rose in her cheeks, and she shook her head. Thinking of him this way was not doing her any good, and thinking of him that way, when imagining what he’d meant by bedding her frequently, was most definitely not helping matters either.
The doorknob turned, clicked.
“That was quicker than I expected, Lana. I--” Sara started. Stopped. Her heart slammed into her ribs.
It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have.
“Justin,” she choked. “What are you ...?”
He shut the door, locked it. “I should ask you. After all, you’re the one who ran away from our engagement party.”
His cravat was undone, his coat unbuttoned. As if he’d spent the past half hour pacing a small room, or perhaps a courtyard. With her. The blond trollop.
That image in mind, gathering her wits came easy. “I had every right to excuse myself from Her Grace’s festivities, I believe, my lord. Since you clearly decided to make a spectacle of yourself tonight, I saw no reason to make one of myself by staying.”
“What you saw in the courtyard was not at all as it appeared.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Ah, so I assume you were just showing her out then? How kind of you to do it in such an affectionate manner. Truly, how lucky of me not to have caught you escorting one of Her Grace’s male guests this evening.” And then, because she couldn’t help herself, the play of emotions on his face was far too amusing: “Kissing a man in the courtyard instead of a woman would have put quite a damper on the future of the Tethersal dukedom, would it have not? For the natural production of heirs, I mean.”
That did it.
He closed the distance between them in three, maybe four, strides and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Deuce take it, woman, why must you insist upon being so difficult?”
Sara’s body went rigid. Her fingers were still tightly wrapped round her gown, her only device in keeping the garment from falling to the floor, though he didn’t appear to have noticed, thank heavens. He was too busy scowling down at her, anger brewing a storm in his dark eyes, chiseled features set, and his lips--why, God, why was she noticing his lips at a time like this?--drew a thin line.
Vexed with her, was he? Just from the kissing a man comment? Really, she could’ve done much worse. She waited for him to speak.
But then he didn’t. So, she did.
“There is no need for this. I have moved on from what I witnessed downstairs. And while I regret to have left our party so abruptly, I fear I cannot return in this state.”
“What state is that?”
Speaking to him like this, when his face was inches from hers, was interminable. “I am tired.” He grumbled something beneath his breath. “So, unhand me, if you please. I should like to retire.”
“She is my mistress.”
An anchor sank, heavily, into her heart.
“Was my mistress,” he amended.
“Was?”
He gave a short nod. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, and her fingers twitched, the sudden urge to brush it aside nearly causing her to let go of her dress.
She clutched harder.
“But not anymore.” His hands tightened around her shoulders, but not unkindly. Comforting. Though why she should feel any kind of comfort with him, especially right now, was unnerving.
She was supposed to be penalizing him for his actions. Ignore him. Yes, that was the plan. But how could she? How could she possibly ignore a man like this?
Stupefied, she fluttered her lashes a few times.
“You do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“That thing with your lashes.” His head tilted to the side. “You do that when you’re trying to think of something to say.”
“Oh.” Indeed, she was trying to think of something to say. Some kind of response to the fact that, apparently, this ... whoever she was ... wasn’t his mistress anymore.
But his thumbs were making tiny little circles on her upper arms. And the heat of his hands against her skin made her insides feel all warm and honey-coated.
“Do you?” he asked.
She blinked again. “Do I ... what?”
“Have something to say? I’d rather you tell me than allow those thoughts to be repressed, as I don’t take well to women stewing on sentiments that involve me. Especially when they’re disagreeable.”
“I do not have disagreeable sentiments.”
“Don’t lie to me, Sara.” His voice was surprisingly calm.
Fine. If he wanted to know what was on her mind: “You make a habit out of kissing your ex-mistresses, Lord Carrington?”
“No. I don’t.”
“She’s the exception?”
“There are no other exceptions, my lady. Lady St. Clair was confuse
d and upset.”
“So, you kissed her.”
“She kissed me.”
Did he really think she was that dim-witted? “You seemed to be mightily involved in that kiss yourself, my lord. From what little I saw, that is. Shock sent my feet in the other direction before I could get a closer look.”
“She kissed me,” he reiterated, emphasis on every word. He paused, lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, Sara, Sara. Could it be that you are jealous?”
The accusation hit like a hammer to an anvil. “I most certainly am not!” And when he made no sign of backing down from his allegation: “In fact, I do not care who you kiss. Kiss whomever you wish, for all you seem most eager to do so anyway.”
A soft rumble echoed in his throat. He brought her closer, if that was feasible. She was already pressed snugly against him. She imagined the whites of her knuckles were peeking through her skin, unyielding as her fingers gripped her dress.
His face moved closer to hers. “I think you do care who I kiss.” His breath fanned over her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. “In fact, I think you want me all to yourself. That’s what this is all about, is it not?”
Of all the-- “Arrogant!” She pushed as hard as she could against him, which did not help.
He didn’t even flinch.
It did, however, cause the dress to slip from her fingers. The gauzy muslin fell off her shoulders, over his hands, which were still wrapped round her arms, and managed to stop just below the ruffled lace of her camisole. All of which managed (naturally) to garner his attention to her chest.
Now he was blinking. Good. Look at that, Lord Carrington. You do that thing with your lashes too. Only your little foible appears to happen when in fact you’re at a loss for words.
Which he definitely appeared to be at quite an impairment of uttering a response, much less the plural of that.
Sara cleared her throat primly. “As you can see, I was preparing for bed when you took it upon yourself to walk into my chambers without knocking.” My goodness, where on earth was this courage coming from? Her knees felt weaker than Lana’s tea. “Now, if you will, unhand me, please.”
But he didn’t.
*** *** ***
He couldn’t. A full week had passed since he’d touched her, since he’d kissed her, held her body against his in the rose garden. And he’d almost forgotten, almost let it slip his mind, how good this felt. How exquisite she felt in his arms.
Like she was meant to be here, and he was meant to hold her. As if this whole betrothal business hadn’t been a load of unwarrantable nonsense. That their fathers somehow knew it would be as thus. That he would want her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman. More than Milly, anyone.
Strange, that. Yet, undeniable all the same.
Particularly since he was certain his eyes had given him away, and since he couldn’t find the will to let go of her, even though she’d just asked him to. After all, that had been the bargain. He wouldn’t touch her unless she instigated it. And he was sure--at least he thought he was sure--that wasn’t the present case.
Still, he couldn’t do it.
“Justin.”
“I don’t want her,” he said. She stared up at him, brown eyes wide. “Do you understand?”
She shook her head, slowly, her bottom lip quivering. “You were kissing her.”
If she cried, he’d lose it. There would be no stopping the inevitable. He’d sweep her into his arms, carry her to the bed, no more than a few feet from where they stood, and show her what he meant. Why he didn’t want his mistress, nor could he fathom ever wanting another woman the way he wanted her, Sara.
“It was thoughtless of me,” he said. “It meant nothing.”
And I’m sorry hung in the air between them, but he didn’t say it. That unrepentant part of him, a trait imbedded since birth, wouldn’t allow passage to remorse or compunction.
He was bred a duke, not a poet.
“I don’t expect you to understand completely,” he said, “though I do expect you to trust me.”
“Trust? I ... How can you …?”
“I told you, Sara. I don’t want her. That kiss you witnessed, it meant nothing. And it doesn’t change our situation.”
“Our situation,” she repeated, blinking.
“That’s right,” he said, and he shouldn’t have, but he did. He slid a hand to her back, held her body tight against his.
Her small hands curled into fists against his chest, but she wasn’t pushing him away. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was aiding him, matching her small curves to his body in a deliberant attempt to prove how perfectly they would fit.
As if he hadn’t thought of that already.
Knowing she might have thought it, too, was incredibly arousing.
He brought his other hand to the back of her neck. “Our situation,” he murmured, “is quite simple.” He lowered his head, repressed the urge to groan as her breasts heaved against his chest. They were perfect.
He dropped a kiss to the soft juncture between her neck and shoulder. “You’re mine,” he said, taken briefly aback by the breaking out of gooseflesh upon her skin. He’d never given Milly chills.
“And because you’re mine …” He dropped another kiss to her shoulder, another to her neck. “I am at liberty to remind you that your trust in me is not up for negotiation. If I tell you it meant nothing …” A moan purred in her throat as he pressed a kiss to the hollow beneath her jaw. “It meant nothing.”
He moved again to her neck. Her hands weren’t fisted anymore; they were flattened, moving up, up his chest, sneaking into the collar of his shirt. Ah yes, he’d removed his cravat in the rose parlor while arbitrating between Sebastian and Anna. The damned thing had been too tight. Everything was too tight when dealing with those two. Cravats, coats, the room, the air.
But removing his cravat, unbuttoning his coat? Routine reactions to being an interceptor for what must have been the thousandth time between his sister and the man who aggravated her more than a woman who wore velvet in the summertime.
Now, he was glad for it. Because his duchess-to-be was explorative tonight. Her timid little hands were cool, soft against his naturally warm skin, and instantly he envisioned them elsewhere, smoothing the breadth of his chest, his arms, his stomach.
Lower.
“Mo chuisle,” she whispered. “Tá sé tapaidh.”
He stopped, mouth lingering on the soft swan-like curve of her neck. “What did you say?”
“My pulse.” Her sweet breath fanned past his ear. “It’s so fast.”
He kissed that pulse. “Indeed.” He kissed it again, touched it with his tongue. She tasted luscious, savory. An appetizing mixture of salt and lavender and woman. “I can see that.” Again, he shaped it with his mouth. “Taste it.”
She made a tiny helpless sound. Chasteness, he acknowledged. Once more, he was reminded of her inexperience in these intimacies, these interludes that had become cravings on his part since he’d first touched her in Liverpool. He couldn’t keep going on like this if he expected to keep her virtue intact until they were wed. Because at the moment, he was certain she was enjoying herself as much as he, and dear God, if she gave even the smallest notion of wanting more ...
He probably couldn’t contain himself. They’d exchange marriage vows tomorrow instead of next month, or whenever the duchess planned on having the ceremony.
Yet, here he was, dropping kisses all over the line of her neck, debating whether he should just let her dress continue its path to the floor, so he could finally touch her. Without layers of gauzy green muslin impeding his hands, his mouth.
He had to stop.
“Sara?” He forced his lips from her skin. “We have to ... that is, I have to stop.” Was he speaking to her or himself? Staring at her neck, slightly pink with his kisses, he wasn’t at all certain.
He closed his eyes, swallowed. “You need to take hold of your dress, or I might ... that is, I might not be able to …�
��
“Justin?” One of her hands slid to his cheek, and he opened his eyes, stared down into her flushed features. Those sincere eyes of hers blinked once, twice. “Don’t you want to kiss me?”
He blinked, too. My God, but didn’t she know? “Of course I do.” He brushed the back of his fingertips down her cheek. “Don’t you realize how hard it is to …?”
“My lady?” The doorknob jiggled.
Sara drew her body closer to his.
“My lady!” her maid persisted from the other side of the door, jiggling the knob again. “The door, it is locked! Are you all right?”
They were in quite the predicament, he and his intended. Fiancé or no, he shouldn’t have been in her room, and certainly not behind a locked door. His mother would have a mouthful of lessons on propriety should she ever find out.
Sara was shaking in his arms, her face buried against his chest. He tensed. Why had he thought this to be a good idea? He’d only wanted to explain himself, and by some miracle of which he cared not to question, she had forgiven him. Or so he hoped. But now he’d ushered himself back to square one, mindless fool that he was.
The shaking became more persistent, intermingled with what sounded like little puffs of air. Sobs, maybe. He looked down.
She wasn’t crying.
Good Lord. Was she ... laughing?
“Lady Ballivar!” Mrs. Brennan rapped her knuckles to the door.
“Sara,” he whispered, and she looked up at him, tears of laughter pooling in her eyes. Lud. Now he was fighting laughter. “I cannot be in here with you.”
“Yes,” she said, but she was smiling, “though you should have thought of that before you barged in.”
“And locked the door,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Though I believe your Mrs. Brennan might break it down soon if you do not answer.” He gazed down at her again, pressed a kiss to her forehead. Allowed his lips to linger. “Tell her you are all right.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’m all right, Lana!”
The knocking ceased.
He kept his voice low. “That you’re undressing.”
Betrothed Page 11
