Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Sarah Moorehouse.

  Damn it, he suspected he was going to need to dig a lot of holes to accomplish that particular feat.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he noted the procession of servants carrying steaming buckets of water. One of his guests had clearly ordered a bath. A fissure of envy snaked through him. A hot soak certainly sounded much better than hole digging. Perhaps he’d order one for himself when he returned.

  He was about to turn in the direction of his bedchamber when the servants halted and the one in the lead knocked. On the door to the bedchamber belonging to—

  “ Moorehouse? Yer bath-water’s arrived.”

  Matthew quickly ducked into the small alcove and remained out of sight until the last of the servants had disappeared into the bedchamber. When the corridor was again empty, he quickly headed toward his own chamber, a smile tugging at his lips.

  His digging would have to be postponed for a while.

  Right now he was much more interested in a bath.

  Chapter 10

  Wearing only her loosely knotted robe, Sarah added several drops of lavender oil to the steaming water in the copper tub set up before the fireplace in her bedchamber. She dipped her fingers beneath the surface and slowly stirred, noting that the hot water would need to cool a bit before she entered. But that was fine. She had plenty to keep her occupied.

  Turning, she stared at the man sitting across from her on the settee. The dim light from the low burning fire cast him in intriguing shadows, and her pulse quickened just gazing upon him. Her avid gaze moved over him, taking in broad shoulders covered in a snowy linen shirt, loosely tied cravat, black breeches and boots. He remained utterly still, utterly silent, as if waiting to obey her every command. A smile curved her lips.

  Franklin N. Stein was indeed the Perfect Man.

  Well, except for the fact that his right leg was somewhat fatter than his left. But that was only because they’d run out of stuffing. Of course, they wouldn’t have run out of stuffing if they hadn’t, amidst much giggling, overly gifted Franklin in other areas of his breeches in a manner that surely wasn’t anatomically possible.

  And there was the slight problem of him not having any hands. And the slightly larger problem of him not having a head.

  Sarah frowned at the headless yet extremely well endowed Franklin. No, that simply wouldn’t do. Carolyn, Emily, and Julianne had departed her bedchamber after helping her stuff and assemble Franklin, and she’d hidden him in the wardrobe while the tub was being filled. But she’d dragged him out again after the servants departed. She simply couldn’t enjoy her bath then go to bed and leave their creation in such a deplorable condition.

  Crossing to the wardrobe, she pulled out her oldest night rail. Then she moved to the bed and stripped the white pillowcase from one of the pillows. After stuffing her night rail into the linen case, she formed the bundle into a round shape. She then set the makeshift head between Franklin’s broad shoulders. Stepping back, she examined her handiwork.

  A bit lumpy, but definitely an improvement. Except now he had no neck. Of course, that had to be better than not having a head. But now that he had a head, he really needed a face.

  And instantly a face—the perfect face—materialized in her mind. Intelligent hazel eyes. Chiseled features. Firm, full lips that didn’t smile nearly enough, but when they did smile…

  Oh, my.

  Her heart stuttered as she recalled how Lord Langston had smiled at her across the dinner table. In spite of the fact that she’d sat next to the very charming Lord Surbrooke and across from the very entertaining Jennsen, part of her had remained preoccupied with Lord Langston. Who’d spent the long meal conversing with Julianne. Julianne, who had looked absolutely stunning.

  Sarah closed her eyes and tried to fight back the unwanted feeling that had pressed on her all evening, but she could no longer do so. Jealousy flooded her, and with a groan she buried her face in her hands.

  Since there was no stopping it, she decided she might as well just let the feeling come, allow herself to wallow in it for several minutes, then lock the useless emotion back in the furthest corner of her soul.

  Damnation, she didn’t want to feel jealous, and most especially not of one of her dearest friends. Jealousy was a foolish, empty emotion that served no purpose, that only came upon her when she stupidly wished for things she could not have. Such as beauty.

  She’d long ago accepted the limitations of her appearance. Instead of uselessly railing against the fates that had chosen not to bless her with the sort of stunning looks they’d bestowed upon Carolyn, she’d concentrated her time and energy on her interests in horticulture and drawing. She’d forced herself to set aside the sort of feminine dreams that occupied the minds of most girls, impractical dreams of love and romance and grand passion, and in doing so had found great satisfaction within the confines of her garden and sketch pad. Her great passions were of the nonromantic sort. She was fulfilled by her interests, her friendships, her pets, her love of cooking, and was quite content with her life.

  Yet every once in a while, most often when she lay in bed at night, alone, surrounded by quiet darkness, a sense of emptiness would sneak up and ambush her. Make her ache for the things she didn’t have, would never have. Love, a magical romance, and a grand passion. A husband and children to love.

  Allowing herself to entertain such thoughts always angered and frustrated her. She led a very satisfactory life, one for which she should be thankful, grateful. She had a sturdy roof over her head, and unlike her widowed friend Martha Browne, never lacked for food, and unlike her friends the Dutton sisters, was in excellent health. And most of the time she was content.

  But sometimes, like now, she wanted more. Wanted the things that Carolyn had had with Edward—love, magic, and passion. Wanted Emily’s vivacious beauty, which caused not one, but two men to dance attendance on her all evening. Wanted the sort of quiet beauty that Julianne possessed. The sort that turned heads. That made a man seat her next to him at dinner. And gaze upon her as if she were the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

  Sarah sank onto the settee and pressed the heels of her palms harder against her eyes to hold back the moisture that threatened to spill over. Stupid! Stupid, useless thoughts. Ridiculous, futile dreams that served no purpose but to make her ache with a loneliness and emptiness that could never be filled. She needed to bury these thoughts, once again lock them away in the deepest recess of her soul where they couldn’t haunt her. Taunt her. Or hurt her. Until the next time she foolishly allowed them to see the light of day.

  She drew a shuddering breath and impatiently dashed away the wetness beneath her eyes. Feeling something pressing against her shoulder, she lifted her head. Franklin, as if sensing her mood, had tilted toward her and his stuffed shoulder now touched hers. Commiseration—a lovely trait in the Perfect Man. Unfortunately, his lumpy head had rolled off his shoulders and now rested on the floor near his booted feet. The tendency to literally lose one’s head—not quite so lovely. Obviously a needle and thread were called for.

  With a sigh, she pushed Franklin upright, plucked his head from the floor and plopped it back on his shoulders. Then she straightened her spine. Enough. She’d wasted enough time wishing for things she couldn’t have. Wanting a man she could never have and whom she shouldn’t even want in the first place. A man whose interest in her was both suspect and most certainly fleeting. A man who, for all she knew, was a dastardly murderer.

  Yet the instant that last thought formed in her mind, her heart vehemently rejected it. There had to be another reason Lord Langston had been returning to the house carrying a shovel the night Mr. Willstone was killed. But what? She knew his claims regarding night blooming flowers were false. Was he capable of the sort of sinister experiments Frankenstein had conducted? Dear God, surely not. But that simply brought her back to the same question: What had he been doing that night?

  With an impatient sound, she rose. Time to put aside these
thoughts and get into the tub. But first she needed to take care of Franklin—best not to leave him sitting about unprotected while she was indisposed. After tucking his unwieldy body under one arm and his head under her other arm, she walked to the wardrobe and hid him in the farthest corner. He didn’t look particularly comfortable, and his head wasn’t on quite straight, but given the tight quarters, there was nothing she could do. Good thing he didn’t have a neck, because if he did, he’d definitely have a crick in it by morning.

  She closed the wardrobe’s double oak doors, then crossed the room, her bare toes sinking into the thick carpet. After setting her spectacles on the table next to the tub, she untied her robe’s sash and shrugged out of the garment, allowing it to puddle at her feet. Then she carefully stepped over the copper edge and slowly sank into the hot water.

  A satisfied ahhhh rushed past her lips. Bending her knees to compensate for the fact that she was longer than the tub, she scooted lower, until the fragrant heat reached her chin. Then she rested her head on the curved copper lip, closed her eyes and let the warmth seep into her, the only sound in the room the steady ticking of the mantel clock.

  The heat and steam loosened her tense muscles, and she let out a long, deep, contented sigh. And was suddenly reminded of another bath…

  An image of Lord Langston took shape behind her closed eyes. Rising from the tub. Water sluicing down his wet, naked form. Lifting his muscled arms to push back his wet hair. Oh, my. There was nothing quite so perfect as a bath—unless it was watching a perfect male specimen take a bath.

  “There’s nothing quite so perfect as a bath—unless it’s watching a perfectly lovely woman take a bath.”

  With a gasp, Sarah’s eyes popped open at the soft, deep, familiar voice whose words so closely reflected her own thoughts. She sat abruptly upright, sloshing water over the side of the tub, and squinted toward the fireplace. Although he was blurry about the edges, there was no mistaking the figure leaning his shoulder nonchalantly against the mantel as anyone other than Lord Langston. He held a long swath of white material in one hand, and when she squinted harder, she realized it was her robe.

  She snatched her glasses from the table, slid them on, then crossed her arms protectively over her chest. Glaring up at him, she noted that he’d removed his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, leaving him dressed in a white shirt, black breeches, and black boots. His shirt was open at the throat and he’d rolled back the sleeves to his elbows.

  Her heart seemed to perform a somersault. He looked deliciously undone, wonderfully masculine, and wickedly handsome. When she raised her gaze to his, she found him looking at her, a lazy smile curving his lips.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a whispered hiss.

  He raised his brows and adopted an innocent expression. “Is it not obvious? I’m watching you bathe. As you watched me.” He lifted the hand that held her robe. “And borrowing an article of your clothing. As you borrowed one of mine. It’s a little something I like to call an eye for an eye.” His gaze flicked to her chest. “Or tit for tat, if you prefer.”

  Surely it was anger that made her pulse race and her heart pound so hard. Hugging her knees closer to her chest, she said, “You mean revenge.”

  He made a tsking sound. “Revenge is such an unattractive word.” His gaze slid slowly over her and his eyes seemed to darken. “And allow me to assure you, there is nothing in the least bit unattractive about the picture you make in that tub. You look delightful. Very…Botticelliesque.”

  A blush seemed to suffuse her entire body, right up to the roots of her untidily upswept hair, which she was certain resembled a pigeon’s nest on top of her head. “You’re making sport of me, my lord.” Dear God, was that breathless sound her voice?

  “I’m doing nothing of the kind. Instead of skulking behind a curtain to watch you bathe as you did me, I’m merely being up-front and honest.”

  Without taking his gaze from hers, he pushed off from the mantel and dragged an armchair to the edge of the tub. After laying her robe over the back of the chair, he sat. Making a rolling gesture with his hand, he said, “Please, continue. Don’t mind me.”

  “Continue?”

  “With your bath.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the edge of the tub. His fingertips dipped below the surface and lazily circled in the water. Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Do you need help finding the soap?”

  The thought of his hand delving farther beneath the surface stole every bit of air from her lungs. Unable to speak, she shook her head, an action that sent her glasses sliding down her nose. Before she could push them up, he plucked them from her face and set them on the table.

  “They’ll only get foggy from the steam,” he said. “And you won’t need them. I’ve every intention of remaining close by.”

  She had to swallow to find her voice. “This is extremely improper.” Finally—her common sense roused itself.

  “You didn’t seem to think so when you entered my bedchamber and watched me bathe. This is clearly a case of someone who shall remain nameless”—he leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice—“but we both know I’m referring to you—finding fault with someone else for faults that are conspicuously their own. I believe that it is referred to as the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Botheration. Vexing as it was, she couldn’t deny he had a point. “But this can hardly be considered fair. You didn’t know I was watching you bathe.”

  “No.” A devilish smile curved his lips. “If I’d known I had an audience, I would have put on a much more entertaining show.” He stroked a single fingertip up her calf, eliciting a gasp and a frenzy of tingles. “You’ve seen mine, Sarah. It’s only fair that I see yours.”

  The sound of her name spoken in that husky, deep whisper sent a heated tremor through her. She had indeed seen his, and it was a sight she’d never forget. Sadly, however, she greatly feared that she would not prove so unforgettable. But the way he was looking at her…behind the teasing glimmer, his eyes were dark, steady, and intense. And there was no missing the glitter of challenge as well. She could almost hear him asking, Do you dare?

  Did she?

  As recently as a few short days ago, she would have answered with an emphatic no. She wasn’t the sort of woman to bathe in front of a man. Yet a few short days ago she also would have sworn she wasn’t the sort of woman to hide behind a curtain and watch a man bathe. Or share a mind-numbing intimate kiss with a nearly naked man.

  She drew in a shaky breath. Where was her outrage at this invasion of her privacy? Why wasn’t she demanding he leave at once? Why did she, at this moment, inexplicably feel more alive than she could ever recall feeling—except for those magical moments she’d spent in his arms? Instead of saying or feeling what she should, she remained silent, rendered mute by an exhilaration and anticipation that bordered on pain.

  No man had ever looked at her like this. Ever made her feel like this. So breathless. So reckless and bold. So filled with wants she couldn’t even name.

  So alive.

  No man except him.

  “Would you like me to wash your back?”

  His voice was a seductive whisper that curled around her, persuading her to comply, to accept his challenge. Her better judgment tried to warn her to refuse, but her heart—so filled with wants and curiosity and desire—drowned out the sound.

  Without a word, without taking her gaze from his, she slowly unwrapped one hand from around her knees then moved it unsteadily along the bottom of the tub until she found the soap. Lifting her hand from the water, she held out the rectangular bar.

  Eyes glittering, he took the bar from her, then moved to the head of the tub. She heard his boots creak as he crouched down behind her. “Lean forward,” he instructed softly.

  With anticipation snaking through her, she did as he bid, wrapping her arms tighter around her bent legs and resting her chin on her upraised knees. His hands scooped warm water over her shoulders then began to touch her
in a way that she could only describe as magical. His soapy palms and fingers glided slowly up and down her back, over her shoulders, massaging her in a way that produced the most delightful, pleasurable sensations she’d ever experienced. She no more could have squelched the moan of pure pleasure vibrating in her throat than she could have stopped tomorrow from coming.

  “Feel good?” he asked, his breath blowing warm against the back of her neck.

  “Yes.” Good lord, yes. So much better than merely good.

  “Your skin is beautiful. So incredibly soft. Did you know that this…” He traced his fingers down the center of her spine, under the water, then circled them lightly over the small of her back. “…is one of the most sensitive spots on a woman’s body?”

  She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “I…I believe it.” His fingers continued their slow caress, and she could no longer speak. Could only feel. Tingles vibrated through her entire body, and every breath melted into a sigh of pleasure. His hands moved slowly back up, then he smoothed water over her back and shoulders, rinsing them of soap.

  “More?” he asked softly.

  God yes. Please yes. Don’t ever stop. Indeed, it seemed her entire existence had boiled down to the word more.

  A small part of her tried to interject, tried to tell her that she had to stop this madness. That this had gone far enough. Was completely improper. Could lead to scandal. Ruin. But her body refused to be denied the flood of wondrous sensations coursing through it.

  “More,” she agreed.

  Lightly clasping her shoulders, he urged her to lean back. She obeyed, but modesty forced her to cross her legs and fold her arms over her chest.