Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  He pushed gently on her shoulder until she was lying flat on her back. She kept her attention determinedly on the ceiling, but it was difficult when he was leaning over her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  His hand went to the placket of her nightgown, and to her shock, he began to unbutton it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, as her hand went to cover the next button.

  “I want to see your breasts,” he said. “By moonlight.”

  “No.”

  “Pretend it’s a dream,” he said. “I am a mischief-maker in your dream, a brownie come to entice you to dance naked in the meadow.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  His fingers pushed her hand away, unbuttoned one more button.

  “I shall not ask that you light a lamp. Nor will I touch you, unless you ask.”

  “Why would I ask?” she said.

  Her hand rested against yet another button, and when he would’ve pushed it away, she would not let him. The opening in her nightgown, however, was enough that he could slide his hand inside if he wished.

  “Have you never felt the anticipation of desire, Lady Sarah? Have you never wanted something so much that you could almost feel it, even before it happened?”

  It seemed he didn’t need an answer for that question because he bent his head close to her pillow as if inhaling her scent.

  “Sometimes the anticipation is too great for caution. Sometimes, you do something rash in order to relieve the tension.”

  “Are you going to do something rash?”

  “I want to rip the nightgown from you,” he said. “Is that rash enough?”

  Suddenly, she could barely breathe. “Yes.”

  She sat up then, partly to distance herself from him and partly to ease the tension in her own body. She wanted to move, needed to do something almost as reckless as what he had proposed.

  She unfastened the buttons in the front of her nightgown until it was open to her waist. Slowly, but without thinking about it, she withdrew one arm from the long sleeve of her nightgown, then her other arm, until she was sitting with the garment pooled around her hips and her breasts bared to the moonlight.

  Douglas sat up, the sheet falling to below his waist, and began to unbraid her hair.

  There was no fire in the grate, and the night was a temperate one, leaning toward cool. Why, then, was she so warm?

  Because he was threading his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back. Because he was suddenly so close she could see his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Because his breath was coming as harsh and as fast as hers.

  He spread her hair over her shoulders, draped it over her breasts, sitting back to admire his handiwork.

  With a gentle touch, he pushed back her hair so that her breast was exposed, pale white and creamy in the light of the moon. One finger smoothed across the pebbled nipple.

  “You said you wouldn’t touch me unless I asked,” she said, surprised to find the words nearly impossible to speak. Her heart was pounding so loudly it was all she could hear, and her body ached.

  “The anticipation was too much,” he said, and smiled.

  The night was not responsible for her wantonness. Nor was it the naked man beside her. Something within her decreed that she be wild and abandoned. She was suddenly and soberingly ashamed of herself.

  “Shall I seduce you with words, Sarah? Tell you how utterly beautiful you look sitting there, a goddess of moonlight?”

  “You needn’t lie,” she said stiffly.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be a lie,” he said. “In fact, it might be closer to the pure truth than anything I’ve ever said. I think, perhaps, that you don’t know your own strength, your own power. If you did, you would smile at me, coax me a little closer, promise me satisfaction with a glance or a sigh, then when I was just at the knife-edge of anticipation, you’d press your fingers against my lips and tell me no.”

  “That sounds excessively cruel,” she said.

  “What would you do, Lady Sarah, if you were a goddess of moonlight? If you had all the power of beauty and lust at your disposal? How would you use it?”

  She should tell him to leave her alone, to go to sleep, to allow her to return to her cot, to her own chamber. Instead, she reached out and cupped his cheek with her left hand, and with the fingers of her right hand traced the outline of his lips. When that exploration was done, she allowed her fingers to trail up to his temple, then descend to his neck. He had a very strong, masculine-looking neck.

  Her breasts felt heated, the nipple he touched bereft because he’d moved his fingers.

  She leaned close to him and pressed her cheek against his. In this position, her lips were close to his ear. She could whisper to him and no one else in the entire world would hear or know.

  What would she say?

  For the longest moment, he didn’t move. His hands remained on top of the counterpane between them. With an acute sensitivity she’d never experienced, she seemed to know exactly when he began to move, exactly where his hands were, and exactly where she wanted them to be.

  She expected him to place his hands on her breasts to cover her nipples with his palms, to trail his fingers over the swell and curve of each breast. Instead, his hands went to her shoulders and he pulled her back, staring into her face.

  It was his turn to cup her face with his hands, and he did so gently, so slowly that she almost implored him to quicken his pace.

  He lowered his mouth to hers, and for the first time, kissed her. Her mouth opened in a gasp of surprise. At first, the kiss was tender, as soft and delicate as the petals of a newborn rose. Then, startlingly, it grew heated until she was almost dizzy from it. Finally, the kiss was done, and she leaned against his shoulder, breathing quickly. His breath was as harsh as hers, the pulse beat at his throat so rapid that her fingers smoothed over his skin in an effort to calm him.

  He leaned back and studied her. She sat up, her back straight, her chin raised, her attention directed on the far wall. Let him look his fill. She was not cowed by such behavior. She would not be intimidated by his earthiness.

  “Perhaps it’s good you don’t know how exquisite you are,” he said softly. His hand cupped the heaviness of a breast, a thumb pressing delicately against a nipple that had grown shockingly sensitive to his touch. “You would have led the men in London a pretty chase, Lady Sarah.”

  Even if she’d wanted to comment, Sarah doubted she had the capacity to speak the words. Her world was heated; her blood felt as if it were on fire.

  With deft fingers, he smoothed her hair back over her shoulder until it tumbled down her back.

  “What glorious hair you have,” he said. “Why do you insist on braiding it?”

  “Because it would take me two hours to brush it free of tangles in the morning if I didn’t,” she said, grateful that her voice sounded nearly normal.

  “But then I would have the pleasure of watching you brush your hair. Do you ever do so naked?”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Of course not.”

  “I’d like to see you in that pose,” he said.

  “Now?” she asked, astonished.

  “Why not? You can’t sleep, and after seeing you half-naked, I doubt I’ll be able to either.”

  He lit the lamp on the bedside table.

  She bent her head, surreptitiously spreading her hair over her breasts.

  “Must I truly do this?”

  “Do you not wish to?”

  Part of her wanted to slide back time itself to the moment she’d known he was in the bed. Another part, dormant until now, was very interested in what he proposed. Too interested, as a matter of fact, and almost excited.

  She stood, keeping her left arm across her breasts, and with her right hand, gathered up the folds of her nightgown, keeping them at her waist.

  “Come sit here,” he said, indicating the end of the bed.

  She sat and looked up at him.

  “What do you want
me to do?” she asked.

  Her heart was beating so furiously she felt out of breath. Her lips felt full, almost swollen, and her skin so sensitive that the touch of her hair across her shoulders was almost painful.

  “Brush your hair as you would every morning.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t my brush.”

  He moved to the bureau and returned with a silver-handled brush that fit into the palm of his hand.

  “My maid assists me,” she said.

  “Shall I be your maid?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, reaching for his brush. Slowly, she began to pull the brush through her hair, beginning at her temple and continuing until she reached the end.

  As she brushed, Douglas reached over and clasped her left wrist, gently pulling it away from its shielding position. She glanced up at him, but he only smiled and shook his head. A message, then, without a word: It was pointless to ask him for a little modesty.

  Her left hand flattened against the coverlet, and she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and concentrated on brushing her hair. She attempted to ignore him, but that was made more difficult when he spoke.

  “When you raise your arm, your breasts rise, almost as if they were soliciting praise. Or a kiss.”

  She slowed the pass of the brush through her hair, kept her eyes closed by force of will, all the while wondering if he was going to kiss her.

  Would he put his mouth on her breasts?

  If he did, what would she do?

  “Arch your back a little,” he said, and she did, knowing that the pose made her breasts stand out even more.

  Was that his breath she felt?

  “Your back is beautiful as well, Lady Sarah. Such a fine line, such a sweeping curve. I can barely keep my hands from you.”

  Dear Heavens.

  “Stand up.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “Please, Sarah. Stand up.”

  She did, gripping her nightgown with her left hand, the brush in her right. She kept her gaze on the far wall, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see how close he was.

  Slowly, as if giving her time to acquaint herself with the idea of it, he reached out and gripped her hand, gently forcing her fingers to loosen their grip on her nightgown.

  “Do you want me naked, Mr. Eston?” she asked, frantically reaching for the falling garment.

  “Most assuredly,” he said.

  She stopped in the act of bending over. “You do?”

  “What sort of idiot do you take me for, Lady Sarah? It is my earnest desire to have you naked before me, second only to having you naked beneath me.”

  She was naked in front of a man. She’d never been naked in front of anyone. A screen always remained between her and Florie when she bathed or removed her underclothes. Now, she was standing naked in front of Douglas Eston, and he was smiling. Smiling.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  “No.”

  His smile was crooked as his gaze traveled to her face. “No?”

  “No,” she repeated, bending to grab her nightgown. This must stop right this minute. She had allowed herself to go beyond the boundaries of proper behavior, and it really must cease this moment.

  Besides, if he continued, he would want to bed her, and she wasn’t the least bit prepared for that.

  “You have a magnificent derriere, Lady Sarah.”

  Sarah held the nightgown in front of her, well aware that it was a specious covering at best. Still, she kept her back stiff and straight as she walked to the cot and settled herself beneath the sheet.

  Only when the light was extinguished did she allow herself to imagine what bedding Douglas would be like.

  Chapter 11

  Sarah met with the home steward the next day. Since it was an even year, the crops had been rotated according to the schedule put into effect by her grandfather. The eleventh Duke of Herridge had made Chavensworth famous for more than its lavender fields. Thanks to him, the farms that had begun as an experiment were now successful. If it could be grown in England, it was grown at Chavensworth.

  Jeremy Beecher was her home steward, a post he’d held since she was a little girl. His face was long and narrow, his nose thin. His eyes looked too close together, and when she looked at him straight on, it always seemed that he was slightly cross-eyed. For that reason, she always sat at his side at the table in his office. He was a man of advancing years, and frail for his age, if the stooped shoulders beneath the loose-fitting jacket were any indication. Wispy white hair ringed a bald head mottled with freckles and liver spots. Loose skin hung from his jowls, as if he’d once weighed considerably more.

  She never pointed out that his shirt cuffs were frayed and ink-stained or that his hair needed trimming. Such personal details did not detract from Mr. Beecher’s abilities or his loyalty to Chavensworth.

  Today, he presented the monthly budget to her. She reviewed the columns of figures, her eyes widening at the cost of the livery.

  According to custom, the estate paid for everything a footman wore—his work clothes for morning chores, as well as the more expensive livery and party jackets. After six months, if a footman left their employ, he must surrender his livery; but he was free to take all the other clothing with him. All that a footman must provide were his shoes and underclothes.

  “Have we had that much turnover?” she asked, distressed by the figures. The amounts were a full fifteen percent higher than last year’s.

  “No, Lady Sarah. Actually, you haven’t had any turnover at all. Young Thomas was elevated to the position of underbutler, so we took one of the stable lads and moved him to footman. In addition, there are three footmen who seem to be growing out of everything. I attribute it to Cook’s meals. Perhaps we shouldn’t hire them so young.”

  He knew very well that if she didn’t employ some of the young men from the neighboring village, they might well starve. Chavensworth was the only true source of employment for miles around. Either the able-bodied men worked on the farms, or within the house itself.

  More than one young man had left Chavensworth and gone on to more profitable employment in London, but some of the people who worked at the estate had done so for a lifetime. More than one family had two or three members employed here, and it was a common occurrence for a father or a mother to come to her and ask if she could find room for a child to go into service.

  “It’s also time for the Gift, Lady Sarah,” Mr. Beecher said.

  Sarah bit back a sigh. The sinking feeling was harder to prevent.

  Once a year, all the servants were evaluated, not only for the state of their uniforms and whether they needed to be replaced, but personally as well. Which tasks had they not mastered? Which new tasks should be given to them to learn? Another reason to judge their performances was to measure each employee against the greater whole. Had their performances for the prior year been superlative? Should any or all be rewarded with the Henley Gift, a small stipend named after her great-grandfather who began the tradition.

  For the last three years, there hadn’t been any money for the Henley Gift. Sarah had done what she could to compensate by giving the best employees a full extra day off in each of the twelve following months. She knew, only too well, however, that the staff would much rather have had the money.

  Chavensworth managed to support itself, but only barely. She could never expect any funds from her father to support the estate. Instead, the Duke of Herridge swooped down on Chavensworth from time to time to take those furnishings that were not part of the entailed estate and sell them. She knew better than to argue with him. All she could do was stand by helplessly as he had wagons loaded with anything valuable. As it was, the ballroom was left unlit; the chandeliers had been taken years earlier. The windows were unadorned since the gilded drapery rods had been removed a few months ago. None of the guest chambers in the south or north wings were furnished and hadn’t been for longer than she could remember.

  “Very well,”
she said. “I will need the ledger book with all the employee names. Please leave word with Mrs. Williams that I will meet with her and evaluate the housemaids first. Then Cook’s staff, the stables, the farmhands, and leave the dairymaids for last.”

  Mr. Beecher began writing furiously as she spoke. “As for the livery, we shall have to do with what we have. We no longer entertain, so party jackets are not necessary for most of the footmen. As far as ribbons, I absolutely refuse to order new ribbons.”

  Mr. Beecher smiled.

  Even though Sarah had gone to pains to reiterate to all of the staff that they were part of the Chavensworth estate, people had a way of creating hierarchies for themselves. The second-floor housemaids were no more talented than the third-floor maids. Nor did they have more responsibilities. It was simply that they wanted to be different, and she had finally given in, allowing the second-floor girls to wear blue ribbons in their hair, and being totally unsurprised when the third-floor wanted to wear green.

  At least the stableboys and the farmhands hadn’t demanded their own ribbons.

  “When do you wish to inventory the farm tools and implements?” he asked.

  Inventory was a chore she dreaded. In the kitchen, it was done once a week. An estate the size of Chavensworth, especially with the number of people employed, could go through enormous amounts of food. The linen was counted once a month and other essentials every three months.

  “As soon as the evaluations are finished,” she said.

  Somehow, she would have to find the time to do everything that needed to be done.

  She stood, and the steward did as well, looking at her with a kind, almost fatherly, expression. If he had not been of a good disposition, she doubted she would have been able to work so closely with him.

  At half past noon, she entered her mother’s room, nodded to Hester, and took her place on the chair.

  An approaching storm shrouded the room. Hester had lit a lamp on the far table, but the light only served to accentuate the shadows stretching out like fingers from the corners, pointing at the bed. Or perhaps they were reaching for the Duchess of Herridge, to pull her toward Death itself.