"Er, it's not exactly suitable for a vicar's sister," she said wryly.
"I know, but it's pretty amusing."
"Don't tell me, you played Horner in a college review."
"How did you guess?" He smiled.
"Because my brother-" She stared. "What did you say? Can you recall the college?"
He thought for a moment. "No."
"The words?"
Alexander's face lit with pleased recognition. "Let me think. Horner comes in and says, 'A quack is as fit for a pimp, as a midwife for a bawd; they are still but in their way, both helpers of nature.' Then the Quack comes in and he asks, 'Well, my dear doctor, hast thou done what I desired?'"
She found the correct place in the book and delivered the Quack's line. "I have undone you forever with the women, and reported you throughout the whole town as bad as an eunuch, with as much trouble as if I had made you one in earnest."
"But have you told all the midwives you know, the orange wenches at the playhouses, the city husbands, and old fumbling keepers of this end of the town? For they'll be the readiest to report it.
"Then they chatter on for a while about the nature of gossip in the town, and I say, 'Doctor, there are quacks in love as well as physic, who get but the fewer and worse patients for their boasting; a good name is seldom got by giving it one's self; and women, no more than honour, are compassed by bragging. Come, come, Doctor, the wisest lawyer never discovers the merits of his cause till the trial; the wealthiest man conceals his riches, and the cunning gamester his play. Shy husbands and keepers, like old rooks, are not to be cheated but by a new unpractised trick: false friendship will pass now no more than false dice upon 'em; no, not in the city.'"
"Very good. Can you remember any more?"
He laughed. "A few of the more bawdy scenes which I will not subject you to."
"I don't mind in this case."
"Ah, but I do. The next thing you know, you'll be asking me to recite passages from Tom Jones and Candide."
She laughed. "There are worse things to read than bawdy novels, I'm sure."
"And far better ones." He shook his head in bemusement. "Well, I can see I won't win any prizes for sainthood."
"Neither would Jonathan, even after becoming a vicar. We are none of us perfect, but better tolerant than priggish."
"I wouldn't want to be accused of impertinence."
"Never that. You enjoy amusing things, but you're not a rattle."
"Only because I can't see. I'm sure if I had a chance to observe people, I should find an infinite variety of things to criticize and mock."
Sarah smiled and stroked his cheek. "I'm sure not. Your discourse seems most sensible, for the most part, and I don't think you the type to be deliberately cruel."
"If I am no Snake, you are certainly no Lady Sneerwell."
"And what play is that from?" she tested him.
"The School for Scandal by Sheridan."
"Very good. And one of my brother's favorites, by the way."
"I can see we have a great deal in common."
She nodded, and took up another stocking to darn. "Yes, it's odd how well you seem to have known each other. Perhaps you were acquainted with each other at Oxford before the war? But I can't for the life of me recall anyone whom the Rakehells mentioned as being so particularly an intimate friend apart from each other.
"But you know how it is. My brother was so popular, knew so many people, it was not likely I would have paid much attention. I'm a few years younger than he, and was no doubt wrapped up in my own concerns.
She paused in her needlework as another idea struck her. "Perhaps Henry Stone might be able to help us, though. He's over in Millcote at Stone Court. He might recollect you, or remember his brother Clifford mentioning someone like you.
"Then there is our friend Dr. Blake Sanderson. He'll be coming home from the war soon. He's a doctor, but also went to school with the Rakehells. It's a lot to ask, I know, but I'm sure he would come down to Somerset to examine you if I asked him. He might even know you. He's served as an Army surgeon since the start of the war."
"He sounds a good man to know."
"Indeed." She resumed her darning. "Or there's Malcolm Branson. He and Henry are the youngest of the Rakehell set, but still. Someone is bound to know of someone who loves roses and speaks with your accent."
"My accent?" he said in surprise. "I wasn't aware I had one."
She put her hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, then resumed her needlework. "Yes, definitely from the South. Southwest is my best guess. It is not as broad as a Cornishman's, or even someone from Devon, but it's not quite Somerset either. Too musical. Of course, a lot of it would have been polished off at one or the other of the schools you evidently attended."
"You think I went to a good school?"
"I'm sure of it. You recall a college review, after all, so you must have."
"Not a private tutor?"
"Possibly, but you would have been a handful. You're exceptionally bright, as much so as any of the Rakehells. They went to Eton. Perhaps you knew them then, or at Oxford."
"I don't think I was that wealthy. Perhaps my father was a teacher?"
"Hmm. Perhaps, though at the risk of sounding snobbish, I would say you appeared to have been raised in a much more refined manner than a schoolmaster's wages would allow."
He kissed her cheek, no more than a boyish peck, but enough to peak her nipples and set her pulse quickening. "Thank you, I think."
"At any rate, we can take a ride over to see Henry in the gig one day when you're feeling up to it."
"That's fine. There's no hurry."
She raised her eyebrows. "I'm surprised to hear you say that."
Alexander sighed. "You're the person who told me to take things one day at a time, Sarah. And that I need to build up my strength first. So if you'll forgive me, I'm just going to eat and retire to my room."
She felt instantly bereft as she saw his retreating back. "Now who is keeping things from whom?" she accused gently.
Alexander turned, shaking his head slowly. "Not keeping things from you, no. Another headache is coming on. I don't want you to nurse me all night again. You've been up two nights running. I can't keep wearing you down like this."
"I don't mind."
"Well I do," he said in a firm tone.
"Would you like me to ask Jenny and Caleb to stay the night again?"
"No, they're weary as well."
"At least have something to eat before you go up."
"Aye, I will, thank you. Soup and sleep are the best medicine for me."
They talked of inconsequential matters as they ate, replaying the lovely day they had had around the Maypole.
"I just hope you didn't overdo it with all the dancing."
"I'm sure not. No, I think it's just my head that hurts."
"Shall I get the vinegar and--"
"No, really." He set his spoon down, wiped his mouth with his napkin, stood up and bowed. "Good night, Sarah. Sleep well." He smiled tightly.
"And you."
She listened pensively to his footsteps carefully ascending the stairs. Now all alone, she wandered through the suddenly empty-feeling house locking up. She headed into the kitchen to say good night and thanks to Caleb and Jenny.
"How is he?" he asked.
"He's not that well," she confided. "He seems to get terrible headaches whenever he recalls things. It's like a dam opening, I suppose. So much power, things just rushing though, well, it's bound to be unsettling."
"He's lucky to have you to take care of him. Do you want us to stay?" Jenny offered.
"No, it's fine," she refused, taking pity on the old couple, who had already done so much for the stranger who had come into their midst. "I'll see you in the morning."
Sarah locked up the back door securely after they'd left, and went upstairs. She peered in on Alexander, but he seemed to be sound asleep. She resisted the temptation to go over and check his heart and his b
reathing. He was going to be just fine. He had to be.
Once in her own room, she brushed out her hair by the window, and gazed out at the stars. She donned a loose wrapper, and kept a candle burning just in case she had to look in on him in the middle of the night.
She stretched out on her bed under the covers, and felt the tension melt from her body. She tumbled into sleep like a boulder over a cliff.
It seemed as if Sarah had only been asleep for a moment when her eyes flew open and she sat up quickly. She had forgotten to draw her curtains and the first rays of dawn were starting to stream in through the window. She lay bathed in sunlight and listened to the birds singing for a few moments, until she heard it again.
"No, no! Marielle! No! Leave her alone! Nooooooo!"
She ran to Alexander's room and found his thrashing about on the bed. "I'm here, it's all right. You're safe, Alexander, you're safe."
He clutched her to him convulsively. She lay on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat gradually subside into a more normal rhythm.
"Better now?" she asked softly, hardly daring to breathe, the contact of her crested nipples against his chest through the thin fabric of her nightrail an exquisite torment.
"Yes," he sighed. His grip loosened, but moved down to her waist. He rolled her off him slightly and tucked her in close to his side.
She forced herself not to stiffen at the intimacy. It was startling, but nowhere she didn't want to be.
"Can you remember anything about the nightmare?" she asked once his breathing had evened out.
"No, nothing."
She didn't press him. She didn't want to know. A jealousy such as she had never known burned in her breast. She knew it was selfish and unreasonable of her. She might have known that he was already spoken for. A handsome virile man like him, it stood to reason. He probably had several children who would be delighted to see their father. Though of course, a lot could happen in a couple of years, including a wealthy widow being persuaded to re-marry.
She forced the myriad of conflicting thoughts and imaginings from her mind. It was enough to lay there with him as the dawn peeped through the trees and the music of spring filled the room. It might indeed have to be all she could ever have of him.
"Sarah, are you asleep?" he whispered against her hair, hugging her to him even more tightly for a brief moment.
"No, I'm just resting, and glad you're all right."
He stroked down her back with one hand, while the other reached up to put her head more snugly on his shoulder. His gradual steady breathing told her that he'd fallen back to sleep, and she closed her eyes. Just a few more minutes couldn't hurt...
Chapter Thirteen
When Sarah awoke a few hours later, the sun was up fully, pouring in through the wide windows, bathing the bed in a golden glow. She and Alexander were twined around each other most intimately, legs and arms tangled, his hands upon her waist and hips.
She was tempted to simply close her eyes and enjoy the feel of his breathing, the sound of his heartbeat. But the clatter of pots and pans downstairs intruded, alerting her to the fact that Jenny and Caleb were getting breakfast and a bath ready for them both. They would no doubt come to look for them soon if they did not go down themselves.
She lifted her head from his shoulder sleepily and peered into Alexander's handsome face.
He smiled up at her. "Good morning."
"Good morning."
"This is a fine way to wake up. I thought I was dreaming for a minute. I'm afraid I checked to make sure you were solid and real."
"I'm not complaining," she said breathlessly as his hands moved over her with devastating assurance.
"Can you do something for me?"
"What is it?" she asked with some trepidation.
"Kiss me, please?"
She touched his cheek and bent her head, kissing him tenderly on the lips. The heat flared between them in an instant. She gasped as his tongue probed her mouth, searching and tasting her most intimately.
"Breakfast!" Jenny called from below.
They sprang apart guiltily, diving to opposite sides of the bed. They kept their backs to each other while they fumblingly adjusted their clothes.
It was just as well. His hands had already begun to seek for her bare flesh underneath her loose wrapper. Sarah knew if Alexander had begun disrobing her, she would never have had the strength to stop him.
"We'd better go," she said, scurrying around the foot of the bed and heading for the door.
"All right," he agreed reluctantly, but reached over to try to snag her wrist and pull her to him for one more kiss. He aimed far too high and accidentally brushed her breast through the thin fabric. Her nipple sprang to life under his hard palm, thrusting against it eagerly.
"Alexander," she gasped, and then they were hip to hip, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. She murmured his name once more against his heated mouth.
He took that as a sign of encouragement, and cupped her breast with erotic intent, kneading gently, stroking and titillating, until she daringly parted her robe and clasped his head, letting him suckle and nibble at her tender flesh.
Her body rose up to meet him, her nipples on a quest of their own, fitting into his mouth as though they were made just for his delectation as he alternated between them.
She clung to him urgently, weak in the knees, her whole world spinning as his tongue twirled and teeth teased. She could feel a building tension between her thighs, a peculiar moistness she had never experienced before, and a torrid heat and tautness in her abdomen.
He moved away slightly and she whimpered, fearful he would leave her. But he was only moving toward the other breast again to give it the same sensual attention. Her nails dug into his bare shoulders as she desperately tried to right her reeling world. His hand moved down to splay against her bare stomach, one finger parting her robe still further to explore her navel in a most suggestive manner.
"Alexander!" she whispered again.
Her hips thrust against his rock-solid thigh convulsively. She was almost begging for some kind of release from the tension that had built within her so rapidly and was now coiled like a spring.
Sensing her urgency, and his own need as well as ambivalence, he gave one last long lingering lick to each nipple, and lifted his head. He kissed her collarbone, the side of her throat, her chin, lips and eyelids, schooling himself to be tender, so that she would not feel any shame. Nor ever suspect what the matter really was. The mind was a powerful thing, but not where the flesh was weak. And they would both hate him if he were ever so selfish as to try to go beyond what he had already allowed himself to in his longing for closeness, feminine warmth. She was Sarah, his friend, not some trollop. But he would ruin her irrevocably if he dared touched her again, despite his body's failings.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I can't- I went too far. I had no right. I'll go downstairs and keep them busy. You come down when you're more composed. I'm sorry. Please don't blame yourself. I was playing with fire, but you were the one who got scorched. Go, now."
He led her toward the door quickly. She was as unresisting as a rag doll, and made no demur when he practically pushed her out the door, then shut and locked it.
She stood on the landing in an agony of shock and indecision, stunned at all that had happened. And how quickly. And how he had got rid of her even more rapidly. She gasped and finally fled to her room, horrified at what she had allowed to happen, and at the fact that she had let him.
That he had been the one to do the decent, sensible thing and stop before things had gone too far. And just how far they might have was not something she really wanted to stop to consider.
She sat quaking at the foot of the bed. If he had begged her, said he couldn't live without her, would she have let him? she thought, shivering like a wet pup. Isn't that what all seducers said?
Except he hadn't said a word. He'd asked for one kiss. Had accidentally brushed her breast. It was she who had melted like butter in the bed.
And had gone off like a Congreve rocket with one touch of her nipple, the pulling caress of his mouth sparking off the powder keg she had never even suspected lay within.
Lord in Heaven, how could she ever face him again? But of course she had to. He had nowhere else to go, and they were supposed to be friends, after all. He had been her friend, caring enough to not allow her to fall any further into folly. At least she would not have to face the embarrassment of him having seen her naked flesh, or put up with any pitying or reproachful looks from the man who had just witnessed her begging for his lovemaking like a Haymarket whore.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 15
