Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “And what would make it necessary? If I did something…untoward?”

  “Yes.”

  Giving into the desire that had gripped him the instant he’d seen her standing beneath the tree, he erased the distance between them in one smooth step. Her breasts brushed against his chest and that whisper of a touch scorched him. He leaned down until only a hairbreadth separated their mouths.

  “Then you’d best prepare to cosh me,” he whispered against her lips, “because I’m about to do something very untoward.”

  Chapter 12

  The fire poker dropped from Sarah’s nerveless fingers.

  Even if she’d had the opportunity to brace herself, nothing could have prepared her for this fierce, hungry kiss. He slanted his mouth over hers, demanding a response. And everything, every thought, fell away except him.

  Closer. She wanted him to hold her closer. Wanted to feel more of the heat that seemed to pump from his skin, warming her in the most delicious way. Wanted his arms tighter around her. His body pressed closer to hers.

  As if he’d read her mind, he gathered her closer, lifting her off her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for all she was worth. She felt him move, then realized that he’d turned them so his back now rested against the tree.

  He spread his legs and yanked her into the V of his thighs, a spot where the fit was…perfect.

  Yet whereas in her bedchamber he’d slowly, gently seduced her, now he swept her away in a fury of passion that tasted of both frustration and dark need. His tongue invaded her mouth while his hands urged her ever closer. The heat and scent of his body surrounded her like a flaming blanket, while the exquisite feel of his hard arousal pressed against the juncture of her thighs, instantly reigniting the fire he’d just recently put out. He rubbed himself against her, shooting sparks through her that loosened her knees.

  One deep kiss led to another, then his lips left hers to skim across her jaw. She arched her neck to afford him better access, and he immediately took advantage of the invitation, kissing his way down to touch his tongue to the hollow at the base of her throat. She tunneled her fingers through his hair, threw back her head, completely and utterly saturated in decadent sensation.

  With a deep groan, he lifted his head, but instead of kissing her again, he gently brushed back strands of hair from her face. With an effort, she dragged her eyes open. And found him regarding her through very serious eyes.

  Her confusion at his ending their kiss must have shown, because he said softly, “Please don’t think I stopped because I don’t want you. The problem is that I want you far too much. My ability to resist you is only so strong, and I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit.”

  Everything inside her, all the dormant feelings he’d awakened with his kisses, his touches, shoved aside her propriety, which begged her, commanded her, to remain silent. Summoning all her courage, she said, “What if I don’t want you to resist?”

  His eyes seemed to darken. “Believe me when I say that it is nearly impossible for me to do so. If I hadn’t stopped when I did…”

  “If you hadn’t stopped, then what?”

  His gaze searched hers. “Do you not know? Even after what we shared in your bedchamber are you unaware of what happens between men and women?”

  Heat flooded her face. “I know what happens.”

  “Because you’ve experienced it with Franklin?”

  “No! I’ve never…no. No one has ever touched me, kissed me, the way you have.” She dipped her chin and stared at his chest. “No one has ever wanted to.”

  He lifted her chin with his fingers until their gazes met. “I want to.” A humorless sound escaped him. “So badly I can barely think.”

  “I know that should frighten me. I wish that it did. I’m ashamed to say that it doesn’t.”

  “You should be frightened. I could hurt you, Sarah. Without meaning to.”

  Her gaze searched his. She knew he didn’t mean physically, which could only mean that he feared she would come to care for him. Which she greatly feared was already happening. And that her heart would break because, as she’d just learned, he’d soon have to marry someone else—

  She froze as the implications hit her like a bucket of icy water.

  Marry someone else…

  How could she have forgotten that, for even an instant? The realization of what she’d done, what she would have done if he hadn’t stopped, suffused her with a sense of horrified shame. He was bound to marry someone else. Within the next few weeks. And worse, that someone else would most likely be one of her dearest friends.

  Dear God, if he married Julianne, how could she ever look either of them in the eye again? How could she ever look at herself again?

  She stepped back, out of his embrace, not sure if she was more relieved or humiliated at the ease with which he let her go. Acute mortification washed through her and she wished she could simply vanish.

  “What have I done?” she whispered.

  He reached for her, but she stumbled back two steps, shaking her head. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking at all, that was the problem. He’d touched her, kissed her, and she’d forgotten everything except for him. The way he made her feel. Which would have been bad enough had he been someone else, but the fact that he might, in a very short time, marry her friend, made this interlude even more unacceptable. In every way.

  She pressed a hand to her churning stomach. “I must go.”

  He stepped toward her but made no move to touch her. “Sarah, you did nothing wrong.”

  “Didn’t I?” Her voice hitched, mortifying her further. “You are a man looking for a wife. And casting your eye in the direction of one of my dearest friends, someone I love.”

  He dragged his hands down his face, looking as tortured as she felt. “I accept full responsibility for what happened between us.”

  “A generous offer, but one I cannot accept. You took no liberties I didn’t freely offer. Indeed, you were the one who had the strength, the sense, to stop. If you hadn’t, I would have agreed to whatever you wanted.”

  That humbling, humiliating truth lodged a lump in her throat. “You’ve clearly set your sights on Julianne,” she said, hating the knifelike stab those words caused, hating even more the fact that he didn’t deny it. “What are your feelings toward her?”

  “Other than believing her to be a nice young woman, I have no feelings toward her.” Again he dragged his hands down his face. “I haven’t been able to think of anyone but you.”

  “I’m not an heiress.” And for the very first time in her life, she wished she was.

  “I am, unfortunately, aware of that.”

  “Which means that this…whatever this momentary madness between us might be called…is finished. And if you do pursue Julianne, you’ll have to tell her the truth of your financial situation.”

  “I assure you, the young lady—be it Lady Julianne or someone else—as well as her father, will be in full possession of the facts,” he said in a stiff voice. “Believe it or not, most heiresses do not expect to make love matches.”

  The air between them felt thick with tension. A breeze blew a lock of her disheveled hair across her face and she impatiently pushed it aside. “I’ve never had to fight temptation of this sort before,” she said, “and I can only say that’s a good thing because clearly I have no talent for it. But I shall simply have to develop that talent. Immediately.”

  She drew a deep breath then continued, “I offered you my help in deciphering your father’s last words and I’ll not renege on that. But there can be no further intimacies between us.”

  Their gazes held for several long, tense seconds, then he slowly nodded. “There can be no further intimacies between us,” he agreed in a flat voice. “I beg your sincerest pardon for my behavior.”

  “As I beg yours. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the house.”

  “With my escort,” he said, his tone making it clear he’d br
ook no arguments.

  Since she didn’t wish to prolong her escape any longer than necessary, she merely nodded, and after picking up the fallen fire poker, walked toward the house as quickly as she could.

  When they reached the French windows through which she’d left the house, he rested his hand on the brass knob. “If you’ll come to my study tomorrow morning after breakfast, I’ll show you the list of my father’s last words.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  He opened the door and she slipped inside.

  His hand brushed her arm, shooting a tingle through her, but even when he whispered, “Sarah,” she didn’t turn around, afraid that if she did she wouldn’t find the strength to keep moving. She hurried toward the stairs, desperate to be alone. When she arrived in her bedchamber, she closed the door behind her then leaned against the oak panel, her chest heaving from her haste and the effort of holding back the misery that threatened to choke her.

  For a tiny, magical moment in time she’d allowed herself to forget who she was, the proper sort of woman she’d always been. She’d felt like a wilted plant someone finally remembered to water, drinking in every drop of the wondrous feelings coursing through her. But then reality had returned, with a particularly hard thump.

  She needed to forget his kiss. His touch. His smile. His laugh.

  She needed to forget him.

  Unfortunately, that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  And the only thing she could do.

  Would she come?

  The next morning Matthew paced in front of the desk in his private study, asking himself the same question that had haunted him ever since she’d walked away from him last night. Would Sarah come to his study as she’d promised? Or would she change her mind?

  Perhaps she’d spent a sleepless night, as he had. Perhaps she’d spent the night packing her belongings, preparing to leave and never return.

  The thought of her going filled him with an ache he couldn’t name. He paused and glared at the ormolu mantel clock, only to discover, much to his frustration, that no matter how intense a glower he shot at the timepiece, the minutes did not pass more quickly.

  With a tired sigh, he moved to the chair by the fire and sank down onto the cushion with a weary plop. Setting his elbows on his spread knees, he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

  An image of her instantly materialized in his mind. As she’d looked last night in her bedchamber, naked, wet, aroused, her hair disheveled from his impatient hands. Her eyelids droopy with arousal, her lush lips moist and parted and kiss-swollen. Her hands splayed against his chest. Her soft curves melted against him. Then, as she’d looked in the garden, so vulnerable that all the desire he’d somehow managed to control earlier exploded. It had required every ounce of his strength to halt the madness that overtook him the instant he touched her.

  If you hadn’t stopped, I would have agreed to whatever you wanted.

  Her words had haunted him through the long night, conjuring dozens of sensual images. Of things he wanted to do with her. To her. How the night would have turned out far differently if his bloody conscience hadn’t intruded.

  But why? Why this woman? What was it about her that had him so undone?

  And suddenly an answer came to him. He frowned and mulled it over for several seconds, trying it on as he would a new cutaway jacket—to see how it fit. And the more he mulled, the more he realized that he couldn’t deny the realization. In addition to being painfully attracted to her—

  He genuinely liked Sarah Moorehouse. Very much. Actually, he suspected, far too much.

  He liked her outspokenness. Her intelligence and wit. Her compassion. Her love for her sister. The way she rose above the petty unkindnesses shown to her by her own mother. Her talent. The hint of vulnerability she worked so hard to hide. The look of her. The scent of her. Her laugh and her smile. The fact that, unlike the young women he normally associated with, her interests didn’t run to soirees and husband hunting—or, in the case of the more mature women in his social set, to soirees and choosing the next man with whom to indulge in an affair.

  Everything about her simply pleased him.

  Which, he realized, was a first for him.

  He had a number of female acquaintances whom he liked but wasn’t attracted to in that way. There’d also been a number of women in his past he’d physically desired but ultimately hadn’t liked very much outside the bedchamber. Was he so attracted to Sarah because he liked her? Or did he like her because he found her so attractive?

  Bloody hell, he had no idea. All he knew was that seeing her in the bath, touching her, watching and feeling her climax, was an unforgettable experience that he needed to find a way to forget. Damn it, if she were only an heiress—

  He froze. He only needed to marry an heiress if he didn’t find the money. If he found it, he could marry whomever he wished.

  He could marry Sarah.

  Elation coursed through him, eliciting a quick burst of laughter. Bloody hell, why hadn’t he thought of that before now?

  Then reality returned with a sharp slap. After months of fruitlessly searching, there was virtually no chance of finding the money, assuming it even existed.

  But still, there remained that tiny flicker of hope that he’d succeed. A flicker that had now taken on an even greater meaning because finding the money would not only solve his financial problems, it would free him to marry a woman he genuinely liked, admired, and deeply desired.

  Do not get your hopes up too high, his inner voice warned, an admonishment he forced himself to heed. He’d be a fool to pin his hopes, his future, on something so nebulous. He therefore tucked away the minuscule flame of hope deep in his heart, before it could burn out of control, and concentrated on the sober, unromantic actuality of his situation: failure was almost guaranteed.

  When Sarah arrived, he’d show her the piece of vellum upon which he’d written his father’s last halting words, see if she could shed any light upon them from a horticultural viewpoint. Then he’d set upon his task with renewed vigor and pray for success. And if he failed, he’d simply have to forget about her.

  Well, perhaps not so simply, but he would forget about her. He’d have to. There was no other choice. She was simply a woman. What had Daniel said about them? Oh yes, that they were all the same in the dark.

  Except…he’d been with her in the dark on several occasions and would have known her even if his eyes were closed. Her scent was embedded in his brain as if branded there. His fingers would know the silky texture of her hair, her satiny skin, even without benefit of light. He would instantly recognize the taste of her kiss. That soft sound of surprise and arousal that vibrated in her throat every time he touched her.

  He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and shook his head. Don’t think of touching her. Don’t think of the way she tastes, the way she feels. Just don’t think of her at all.

  Yes. He needed to think of Lady Julianne, whose beautiful face…

  He couldn’t even recall. Especially now that the hope of marrying Sarah was rooted in his brain.

  “Argh!” he muttered into his hands.

  A knock sounded at the door, and he jumped to his feet as if a giant spring were attached to his buttocks. “Come in,” he said.

  The door swung open and Tildon appeared. “ Moorehouse to see you, my lord.”

  He shot himself a fierce mental frown when his heart seemed to skip a beat at the mere mention of her name. Good God, he was behaving like a green schoolboy.

  “Thank you, Tildon. Send her in.”

  He tugged his jacket into place and straightened his shoulders, fully prepared to embrace an air of utter nonchalance. What difference did it make that he’d seen her naked? Caressed her naked body? He’d seen other women naked. Caressed their naked bodies. Just because he couldn’t at the moment recall either the name or face of any of those other naked women didn’t mean a thing.

  She is merely a woman.
Precisely. Just like any other woman. A woman who was so wrong for him as to be laughable. A woman who would disappear from his life in a matter of days, never to be seen or thought of again.

  Excellent. With everything now in its proper perspective, she could walk through that doorway and he’d be fine. He’d be—

  She walked through the doorway and he felt as if he’d been smacked on the back of the skull with a skillet. His heart turned over at the sight of her eyes, so huge behind her spectacles, vulnerable honey brown pools that bore the unmistakable traces of having shed tears. And her lips…which still bore the unmistakable signs of having been kissed.

  She’d clearly attempted to ruthlessly pull back her unruly hair into a neat chignon, but several tendrils had escaped, and his fingers itched to plunge into the silky strands and disarray the rest. Garbed in an unadorned, mud brown gown, she should not have ignited his desires in the slightest. Yet one look at her and it was as if all his fine resolutions sprouted wings and flew out the window.

  There was no nonchalance. No indifference. Where disinterest should have ruled, intense heat held court. Yet something more than merely desire squeezed him in its grip. He knew what desire, pure lust, felt like. They were simple, basic emotions that were easily satisfied. But there was nothing simple about the way this woman made him feel. Yes, it was desire, lust, but something more.

  Because he didn’t simply want to make love to her then go about his day. No, he wanted to talk to her. Take a walk with her. Laugh with her. Share a meal with her. Find out all about her. And while the fact that he wanted all those things utterly confounded him, they were undeniable.

  There can be no further intimacies between us.

  She’d said it, and rightfully so. And he’d agreed—rightfully so. Good God, she wasn’t some experienced woman with whom he could contemplate an affair. She was a virgin. A guest in his home. And he needed an heiress to marry. He wouldn’t make more a muck of things than he already had. If he found the money, he’d ask her to marry him. But since he couldn’t count on succeeding, he needed to proceed as he had been—on the premise that an heiress was necessary. There was nothing left to do other than get on with the reason she’d come to his study.