by Karen Ranney
“You education is lacking, I can see,” he said.
“You weren’t at dinner,” she said.
“I would have made it to dinner if I could have.”
“Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “We entered through the kitchens. I’ve been fed by an assortment of females.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose.
“All aged, with missing teeth and hairy moles,” he said.
“I cannot remember encountering anyone of that description.”
“Surely you’re not jealous.”
The fact was unavoidable—she was. How idiotic of her. She was feeling jealous and unsettled, and a dozen other emotions.
He came out from behind the basin. “What is it, Sarah?” He reached for a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and led her into the sitting room, to the sofa. Instead of sitting opposite her, he sat next to her, so close that she could feel the heat from his body.
Was this entirely proper?
“Are you glad you came to Scotland?”
“I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I met my grandfather, but I know when we leave here I’ll probably never see him again. I don’t want to find someone only to lose him.”
His smile surprised her.
“Have I said something amusing?” she asked.
“What you’ve just described is life itself, Sarah. Not very much about life is permanent. We find friends only to lose them. We find lovers only for them to prove inconstant. We assume we’ll always be young and healthy, and yet time delivers its own blow.”
“That sounds horribly dour, Mr. Eston.”
His smile deepened at the use of his surname.
“Not at all, Lady Sarah. The lesson is to celebrate what we have, when we have it. Love as if you will never love again. Share each moment with a friend. Never take your life for granted or your health. Wring from each day all the laughter that’s in it, all the adventure you can stomach, all the emotion your heart can hold.”
She listened to him in silence, then glanced away. “I think it’s easier to hide yourself away rather than to be hurt repeatedly,” she said.
“I never said it was easy living in the moment, Sarah. It takes courage.”
“I am not certain I’m that brave,” she said.
“While I’m absolutely certain you are.” He picked up her hand and studied it in silence. “Do you regret last night?” he asked finally.
She looked at him, shocked. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Is that horrible of me?” she asked. Her own voice sounded small and tiny and frightened. She cleared her throat. “Is it wrong to want to feel joy and pleasure?”
“That’s called life, Sarah,” he said, smiling.
What had he said? You and I shall have a love affair. At the moment, that was exactly what it felt like. He smiled at her, and her heart felt absurdly light, as if he were capable of washing away grief with an expression.
He stood. As he stretched out his hand to her, the towel dropped to the floor.
Oh my.
What a truly mesmerizing sight, especially the way his manhood seemed to grow as she stared at it, as if it were a giant waking and stretching.
She took his hand and stood, reaching up to touch his shoulder below the scratches.
“Did I do that?”
He glanced at the mark and smiled. “I’m more than willing to be wounded in the art of love, Sarah.”
With that, she allowed him to lead her to their bed.
She looked as if she were torn between running away and pulling him after her, propriety vying with decadence. She bumped against him, her skirts enveloping him, her breasts against his chest.
A gasp escaped her.
“Are you well, Sarah?”
She nodded, her hair brushing against his bare chest. He tried not to shiver at the feel of her breath against his skin.
“I didn’t hurt you last night?”
She shook her head, tossing her hair against him again.
How did he ask his wife if she would couple with him again? There was nothing in his journal addressing the situation.
He was hot and hard and heavy, breathing with great difficulty as if the room were an oven and not the chilly place it was. He wanted to be inside her, and surrounding her, keeping her warm and loving her. He wanted it all, all the feelings of her, the smells, the silkiness of her skin, the sighs she gave when her body pleased her.
In the most carnal and atavistic way, he wanted to mate with her, place her legs over his shoulders and bury himself in her.
He walked into the bedroom and halted at the side of the bed. He turned his back to the bed and pulled her into his arms. Not to kiss her; kissing Sarah was an occupation in itself. No, right now he needed to rid her of all those clothes.
He began unbuttoning the buttons of her black dress. Should he tell her that she looked beautiful in her mourning, or would that be considered loutish behavior?
“Why are you even wearing a corset?” he asked, annoyed with the laces that stood between him and her skin.
“Would you have me act the harlot?” she asked breathlessly. “Dear heavens, I am, aren’t I?”
He raised his head. By the lamplight her eyes were bright, her hair tumbled, color suffusing her cheeks and a smile curving her lips. She had never looked lovelier. His wife, waiting to be ravished.
“If you are, then I’m…” He hesitated. “What is the male equivalent of harlot?” he asked.
“Pan?” she suggested.
He didn’t know who or what Pan was, and made a mental note to write the name down in his journal and learn about it later. For now, he concentrated on unlacing her corset.
“Why do women wear these infernal things?” he asked, fumbling with the long cords.
“To produce the right curves of the female frame,” she said.
He stared down at her upturned face. “You have to be jesting. You have the perfect form.”
Her color deepened.
She bent her head, removing first one sleeve, then the other. Finally, she pulled off the bodice of her dress and her unlaced corset, tossing both to the bench at the end of the bed. She was left with a shift, he thought it was called, and her skirt, round and plumped by more confusing womanly garments.
“It’s a hoop,” she said, brushing away his impatient hands so she could untie the tapes herself.
“I know nothing of fashion,” he said.
“A hoop is to shield the female frame.”
“The same one the corset is trying to form?”
She laughed, one of the first times he’d ever heard her laugh so freely.
He stilled, his hands on his hips, feeling his heart turn over.
“I know well enough where all your parts are,” he said softly. “Do you not realize I think about you all the time, Sarah? Or that my hands can feel the shape of you even when you’re not around?”
She didn’t speak, concentrating on untying the tapes, both hands at the task. But her face was flaming red, and her fingers trembled. Finally, the tapes were untied, and the hoops dropped to the floor, along with the skirt, leaving her attired in her shift and the cutest ruffled garment he’d ever seen.
He realized he’d never before seen her undress. She’d always been in her nightgown, or had disrobed behind a screen.
“There’s a lot to this getting you naked, Sarah,” he said, smiling.
She looked as if she wanted to admonish him, but she smiled instead, slowly dropping the lacy drawers to the floor.
“Could we extinguish the lamp?” she asked softly. She was still dressed in her shift, but the garment was so sheer that he could see enticing shadows and her breasts pressing against the thin linen.
Darkness would ease her, even though it would strip him of the pleasure of looking at her. He walked to the bedside table and extinguished the lamp, then returned to her side.
A rustle of fabric alerted him to the fact that s
he was now naked.
He reached out and pulled her into his arms, holding her against his body for a moment until she gripped his shoulders. A moment later, he effortlessly lifted her to the bed, joining her there.
His fingers swept from beneath her arm, along the swell of her breast then down to her waist and stomach. The palms of his hands pressed against the side of each breast until the plump curves met. He bent his head and kissed both of them at the same time.
“You’ve beautiful breasts, Sarah,” he said. “Not only are they lovely in shape and form, but they’re very sensitive.” He bent and licked one nipple.
“Douglas,” she whispered.
“My dearest Sarah. My lovely Sarah.” My beloved.
He cradled her in his arms, whispered in her ear, crooned to her in a soft, entreating voice. She turned to him, her face nestled in the space between his neck and shoulder, her breath hot, her heart racing.
“Oh, Douglas.”
His fingers knew her, stroked across her skin, explored her, seeking out places that made her sigh, that made her clutch him with urgent fingers. She repeated his name, her voice sighing. His palms tenderly stroked across her skin, his lips followed, and when he kissed her, his mind quieted and found peace.
His open lips touched hers, and in that kiss was all the reserve he used, all the tenderness he’d ever shown her, and just a hint of the passion he felt.
His body was simply an extension of his mind, or a wick to his soul. Slowly, gently, carefully, so as to cause her no harm or discomfort, he entered her, centered himself, seated himself, and felt in that instant that in her heat, dampness, and mystery, he’d found himself home at last.
“Sarah,” he whispered, nearly done in by the pleasure coursing through his body, by the astonishing joy lightening his spirit. “Sarah,” he said, and her name became a benediction, and a way of expressing the inexpressible.
Chapter 26
Leaving Kilmarin was more difficult than Sarah had anticipated.
She hugged her grandfather, who suffered her embrace in silence. When she drew away, he reached out to touch her cheek, and she was surprised to feel his hand tremble.
“I’ll not see you again, child,” he said. “But I’ll be sure and tell your mother that you’re doing well.”
Without giving her time to respond, he turned to Douglas.
“You need to come home to Scotland,” he said. “Bring my granddaughter back to her home.”
They exchanged a look, and Donald finally nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw. He turned, and without another word, walked back inside Kilmarin, leaving Sarah and Douglas standing beside the carriage in the porte cochere.
Douglas smiled, helped her inside, where she sat next to Florie. Her maid yawned discreetly behind a gloved hand, then smiled a greeting.
Before they could pull away, the carriage door opened again, and Linda peered inside. Her face was radiant; the girl had gone from lovely to exquisite. Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached out one hand to Sarah.
“I don’t know how you did it, cousin, but thank you. Thank you!”
“What did I do?” Sarah asked, confused.
“Grandfather has said that I can marry Brendan, after months of refusing. Months!” Her smile was tremulous but joyous all the same. “Thank you.”
Sarah grabbed her hand and squeezed, wishing that she could have met this version of her cousin earlier.
“Be happy,” she said, knowing that they would probably never see each other again.
Linda startled her again, by reaching behind her and then handing her the box she’d found in her mother’s room.
“Grandfather wanted you to have this, since you found it. Something of your mother’s, to remember your visit to Kilmarin.”
She smiled again, and withdrew, closing the carriage door.
When Douglas opened the box, she glanced at the mirror and then away.
“It’s very old and very ugly,” she said, careful not to look into the mirror. She wasn’t certain of what she’d seen, but she didn’t want to view it again.
“But you’ll cherish it all the same,” he said, returning the mirror to the box, “because it belonged to your mother.”
He placed the box on the floor of the carriage, in the clever little well designed to store small articles, and she smiled her thanks.
She glanced at Kilmarin only once as they pulled away, then concentrated on her clasped hands.
Douglas handed her a handkerchief.
She glanced over at him and smiled, even as a tear fell down each cheek. His look was compassionate, and much too intimate to be witnessed by Florie. A glance at her maid, however, proved that Florie was as tactful as she was talented. Florie was staring out the window as if the view were fascinating.
In the circumstances, it was all too natural for Douglas to lean forward and place a kiss on Sarah’s forehead. She pulled back, blotting her face with his handkerchief and holding on to it as a talisman for most of the day.
The journey back to Chavensworth was, thankfully, quickly done. Or perhaps it had taken the same time as traveling north and just seemed faster to Douglas. The weather was fair; the stops to change the horses and stretch their own legs were the only punctuation to the days.
The same inn at which they’d stayed on the way north had only one room available, and he gave it up to Sarah and Florie. Sarah had slipped her bottle of scent into his hand when he’d escorted them to the room. They’d exchanged a look that had warmed him through the night.
The train was as comfortable; the only difficulty was waiting for their car to be attached and the carriage lashed to an available flatcar.
When Chavensworth was sighted, he almost sighed in relief. Even the horses seemed ecstatic to have reached the end of their journey. Their pace sped up, as if Tim couldn’t control them, and all of them had to hold on to the straps mounted above the windows in order not to be tossed to the side of the seats.
Tim pulled to the front of Chavensworth, and Douglas exited first, holding out his hand for Sarah, then Florie. Thomas was coming down the steps, two footmen behind him.
“Have our trunks taken to the Duke’s Suite,” he directed, before turning again to Sarah. “I’ll go with Tim to the stables,” he said. “I need to check on the diamonds.”
She patted his lapel with one gloved hand, the brim of her bonnet shielding her face.
He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers sliding over the smoothness of her skin, resurrecting other memories, creating a yearning in him for a proper kiss.
She tilted her head back and smiled at him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I shall see you later?” she asked. “Not much later, I hope.”
Did she ache for him as much as he ached for her?
“If it weren’t necessary to see to the diamonds,” he said, too softly for Thomas or Florie to hear, “I’d accompany you to our room right this moment.”
She flushed, the perfect response, and one that summoned his smile. With that, he bent and kissed her, ignoring the presence of the others. Sarah must have forgotten them as well, because she placed both hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe to deepen the kiss.
Finally, he pulled back, smiling at her. She picked up her skirts with both hands, turned, and ascended the steps.
He watched her all the way.
At the top, she turned and glanced down at him, her smile a sign that she was well aware of his perusal.
He entered the carriage again, and when they reached the stables, left Tim, heading for the observatory. Alano had been busy in his absence.
Two dozen square wooden frames were scattered throughout the observatory, propped on ledges and resting against walls. Each frame held more than a dozen twisted silk fibers. On each strand were dozens of viscous droplets now glittering in the faint light from a dwindling sun. Interspersed between the droplets were translucent granules, some no larger than clumps of sand. He began ins
pecting the diamond threads. Growing diamonds was successful only if the area was pristine. Anything in the air, such as dust or dirt particles, could be transmitted to the granules themselves, resulting in dirty diamonds. Diamonds with flaws wouldn’t fetch a good enough price to satisfy the Duke of Herridge.
Alano had been fastidious, as usual.
Douglas had replaced the dirt floor with long planks of wood nailed together and sealed with a marine varnish. Alano had covered the floor with linen to catch any dust seeping up into the observatory. Likewise, he’d covered the dome ceiling with a canopy of linen, another preventative measure. Every shelf was carefully dusted and covered, every surface in the observatory was as clean as they could make it.
The clusters fed on the droplets, growing quickly over a period of days. After they dried, the final part of the process was heating the clusters, the most dangerous part of the process, simply because the formula used to grow the diamonds was volatile.
Satisfied with the results inside the observatory, he left the building to inspect the construction of the furnace. Hearing a noise behind him, he turned, expecting to see Alano, and faced, instead, Simons, the Duke of Herridge’s ubiquitous majordomo.
“Simons,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“His Grace is very displeased, sir. It’s been some time, sir, and you’ve not reported to him. Nor have you produced any diamonds. He’s done his part of the bargain, Mr. Eston; he is most impatient to see that you perform your part.”
“There have been a few mitigating factors, Simons, or has His Grace forgotten the death of his wife?”
Simons had the good sense to look a little embarrassed.
“I understand that you’ve been to Scotland. Is that another mitigating factor, sir?”
He didn’t answer that comment. “His Grace is going to have to be patient, Simons.”
Simons allowed himself a small smile. “Patience is not one of His Grace’s better qualities. You must give me your cooperation, Mr. Eston. I implore you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“The Duke of Herridge is not a man to take lightly, Mr. Eston. He is capable of a great many actions.”
