Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Unfortunately.

  Matthew stood at his bedchamber window and stared out into the darkness. Rain lashed against the glass panes, accompanied by howling gusts of wind, and he cursed the fates that had brought the inclement weather. If not for this bloody storm, he’d right now be in the rose garden digging trenches in the moonlight—certainly not his favorite place to be or his favorite thing to do. But they’d taken on new meaning and enjoyment over the past week because of his companion.

  Sarah.

  He closed his eyes and blew out a long sigh. This past week following that first afternoon digging expedition with Sarah had simultaneously proven both the most enjoyable and the most frustrating he’d ever known. But tonight, because of the storm, there’d be no digging. Which meant there’d be no Sarah.

  Which meant there’d be no companionship. No moonlit walk to the lake, as they’d done after each unsuccessful digging expedition. No sharing stories of childhood adventures and mishaps. No skipping stones along the water’s glasslike surface. No tossing sticks for Danforth to fetch. No frog catching, as they’d indulged in last evening. No smiles. No laughter. No easing of the knot of loneliness that had gripped him so tightly for so long.

  No profound sense of happiness.

  Of course, it also meant he was spared the torture of being close to her yet not able to touch her. The torment of inhaling the seductive scent of lavender that clung to her soft skin and gloriously unruly hair. The agony of clenching his teeth every time their shoulders or fingers accidentally brushed. The frustration of wanting her so damn badly yet having to pretend that he felt nothing warmer for her than tepid friendship.

  It had indeed been a week of torturous contentment.

  Last night, after watching her enter her bedchamber, he’d gone to his room and paced until dawn, unable to sleep, unable to erase her from his mind. With failure to find the money looming ever larger, he’d told himself that surely after spending more time with her, he’d discover aspects of her nature he didn’t like. Quirks that annoyed him. Personality traits that he didn’t admire.

  But now, a week later, he could only laugh at the folly of that belief. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to spend with her. For all his hope of finding something about her he didn’t like, their excursions only served to reinforce all the things he already liked and admired about her. Not only that, but he also discovered new aspects of her, all of which greatly appealed to him.

  She was fiercely determined and optimistic, refusing to allow him to give up hope that the money would be found. And she was patient and tireless, never once complaining about the strenuous work or the blisters that formed on her hands. She hummed while she worked, a habit that made him smile because she was clearly tone deaf—a flaw he should have found irritating but instead found utterly endearing.

  Highly concerned for their safety, he’d brought his knives each night, and a pistol as well, but not once had he sensed any threats or anyone watching them, nor had the ever alert Danforth. If someone had previously been watching him, it seemed clear they’d abandoned the endeavor. And just this evening he’d heard through the servant gossip grapevine that Elizabeth Willstone’s brother Billy Smythe had abruptly left Upper Fladersham, fueling speculation that he was responsible for Tom’s death. A very sad outcome for the Willstone family, but a huge relief, as far as his own circumstances were concerned.

  He’d left Sarah at her bedchamber door each night around three A.M, his heart heavy with a sense of loss at departing her company. He’d then spent each day filled with impatient anticipation for their nightly sojourn into the garden.

  Yet each digging expedition that brought them closer to completing their search of the rose garden also brought them closer to failure. As much as he didn’t want to acknowledge that fact, in his heart he knew it was only a matter of time. He estimated that they would finish within the next five nights—time that he could have shortened, but doing so would then shorten the time he spent with Sarah, and he craved those hours alone with her too fiercely to give them up any sooner than necessary.

  So, five nights remained. At which point there’d be nothing left to search. And no further hope that he’d find the windfall his father claimed to have left behind. No further hope he’d be free to marry whom he wanted.

  That depressing thought had him opening his eyes and dragging his hands down his face. Turning away from the rain-splattered window, he paced across the room and sat heavily in the armchair set before the fire. Danforth, sprawled out on the hearth rug, rolled to his feet, padded over to him, then promptly sat on his boot. After Dan-forth shot him a questioning look that clearly indicated the beast knew all was not well, the dog plopped his massive head on Matthew’s thigh and heaved a doggie sigh of commiseration.

  “You said a mouthful,” Matthew said, lightly scratching behind Danforth’s ears. “You have no idea how lucky you are to be a dog.”

  Danforth licked his chops then glanced longingly at the door.

  Matthew shook his head. “Not tonight, my friend. There will be no Sarah tonight.”

  Danforth’s entire body seemed to droop at the news, a sentiment Matthew keenly understood.

  No Sarah tonight…

  The words echoed through his mind, filling him with an ache he couldn’t name. An ache that only grew when he considered that in a mere five days from now, there’d be no Sarah any night. Ever. The house party would be over and she’d be gone from Langston Manor. He’d soon after be married—thus fulfilling his promise. To an heiress—to satisfy his responsibilities to his title.

  An heiress… He leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling, and an image of the lovely Lady Julianne materialized in his mind. Over the past week, he’d made a concentrated effort to spend time with her, sitting next to her at several meals, partnering her in whist, inviting her for a turn around the garden, all under the watchful eye of her very unsubtle mother—not to mention the baleful glares of Hartley, Thurston, and Berwick, all of whom clearly much admired Lady Julianne.

  With a groan, he lifted his head and stared at the dancing fire. From every aspect, a match between him and Lady Julianne would be perfect. She had the money he needed, he had the lofty title her family desired, and she possessed a most pleasant disposition. She was, in every way, perfect.

  Yet the mere thought of marrying her brought on an unpleasant sensation akin to a cramp. No matter how he tried to picture himself sharing his life with her, the image simply wouldn’t form in his mind.

  And that’s when the realization suddenly hit him. Smacked him so hard, he abruptly sat bolt upright.

  Perfect though Lady Julianne may be, he simply could not marry her. Would not marry her. Not with this unquenchable desire for Sarah burning in his veins. Marrying one of Sarah’s dearest friends would mean constant reminders of the woman he truly wanted, frequent visits, and he knew in his heart, in his soul, that he wouldn’t be able to stand it. It was an untenable situation that would dishonor both him and Lady Julianne, a very decent young woman who deserved more than a man who lusted after her closest friend.

  For his own sanity, when Sarah left his home he needed her to leave his life as well. He needed an heiress, but he’d simply have to look elsewhere. By virtue of her friendship with Sarah, Lady Julianne was no longer a viable candidate—indeed, she never truly had been—something he should have realized sooner. And surely would have if he hadn’t been so distracted by his attraction to Sarah.

  He exhaled a long sigh of relief. Now that he’d made the decision to cross Lady Julianne off his list of marriage candidates, it felt as if at least a portion of the crushing weight pressing on him was lifted. He’d received letters today from Lady Prudence Whipple’s and Jane Carlson’s households stating that neither would be able to join the house party, as they were both traveling on the continent. But London was littered with wealthy young women anxious to marry a title. In spite of time being tight, the fact that he was young and not hideous would ensu
re him success.

  However, that meant that a trip to London was now necessary, and time was indeed short. His year was up in only three weeks. Which meant that he had to accelerate the digging pace to complete the search. After a quick mental calculation, he decided they could finish in the next three nights, rather than five. Which meant only three more nights with Sarah, a realization that felt like a knife twisting in his gut. And, barring an unlikely but still hoped for success, he’d then leave immediately for London.

  To find a bride.

  Who wasn’t Sarah.

  Bloody hell, if only she were an heiress, all his problems would be solved. If only he hadn’t made bloody deathbed promises that his honor demanded he keep. If only he hadn’t inherited the bloody title and all the responsibilities—and crushing debts—that went along with it.

  He dragged his hands through his hair. No point dwelling on if onlys. He knew what he had to do, and that was that.

  Gently nudging Danforth’s chin aside, he arose and made his way toward the decanters, where he poured himself a generous brandy. He tossed back a swallow, savoring the warmth against his tight, dry throat. His gaze fell upon his desk, and he instantly thought of the contents of the top drawer. They seemed to beckon him like a siren’s call.

  As if in a trance, he set down his snifter and walked across the room. Slid open the top drawer. And withdrew the two drawings. Holding them in his hands, he studied the first one, which depicted Danforth sitting on the grass, his rump settled on what was obviously a man’s black boot. His pet was so realistically drawn, Matthew could almost imagine him breathing. Could nearly feel the beast’s weight upon his foot.

  He carefully set the drawing on top of the desk then studied the second sketch. It portrayed him as a bespectacled boy dressed in pirate garb, saluting with a stoic expression while standing in a half-sunken rowboat set in the middle of a lake. A headless, tailless mermaid adorned the bow of the ship, along with the name of the ill-fated vessel: Blackguard’s Booty. She’d captured the moment so vividly, so accurately, it was as if she’d been there.

  Last night, after their digging expedition, she’d given him the rolled sketches tied with a ribbon. When he teasingly said it wasn’t his birthday, she blushed and replied that it wasn’t much of a present.

  Oh, but how wrong she’d been. He’d stared at the drawings, much like he was doing now, speechless from the lump of emotion swelling his throat. They were…perfect. And unique. Just like the woman who’d made them for him.

  He now stared at the sketch for several more seconds, then turned it over to read the brief inscription: For Lord Langston, in memory of a perfect day.

  She’d signed her name, and he gently brushed his finger over her neat, precise signature, his imagination instantly recalling how it had felt to touch her soft skin. Something nudged his leg, and he blinked away the mental pictures of her that haunted him day and night and looked down. Danforth had joined him and was looking up at him with an expectant expression which he then shifted toward the door.

  Matthew shook his head. “Sorry, old boy. As I said, it’s just you and me tonight.”

  Danforth gave him what appeared to be a reproachful look. Then, in a flash, the dog nipped between his teeth the ends of the sketch Matthew had laid on the desk. Before Matthew could recover his surprise, the beast dashed for the door, the sketch flapping from his jaws.

  It took Matthew several seconds to recover his surprise. Then he demanded in a sharp tone, “Stop.”

  Danforth did indeed stop. Directly in front of the door. But only long enough to lift one massive paw and employ the door opening trick Matthew had taught him. In a heartbeat the beast disappeared into the corridor.

  “Bloody hell.” Determined to rescue his sketch, Matthew took off at a dead run after his suddenly insane dog.

  He entered the corridor and looked both ways. Danforth stood at the end of the long hallway, sketch dangling from his jaws, tail wagging as if this were some grand game and he was waiting for his master to join him and play.

  “Come here,” Matthew commanded in a quiet whisper, not wanting to rouse the household.

  The normally obedient Danforth instead turned the corner and disappeared from view. Thoroughly aggravated, Matthew jogged down the corridor. When he turned the corner, he halted as if he’d walked into a wall. Danforth stood halfway down the hallway.

  Directly in front of Sarah’s bedchamber.

  “Come here,” he said in a whispered hiss. When Danforth didn’t move, Matthew strode toward him. “If you’ve ruined my sketch, you’ll never see another beef bone,” he vowed. “Or another of Cook’s biscuits. It’ll be nothing but mush for you from now on.”

  Danforth didn’t appear the least bit concerned about those threats to his dietary happiness. Indeed, he appeared not to be paying the slightest attention to Matthew. No, instead he lifted his paw, set it on the brass doorknob, and once again employed his favorite trick. Matthew broke into a run. The door swung open, and before Matthew could get close enough to stop him, Danforth—and his sketch—disappeared into the room.

  Matthew skidded to a halt just outside the door. Bloody hell, what to do now? Her bedchamber…the one place on the entire planet he most wanted to be, but the one place he knew damn well he shouldn’t venture anywhere near. She might be in the bath. Or in the process of undressing. Heat scorched him at the mere thought.

  But…perhaps she was asleep. Why, she most likely already was! And he had to enter the room—he needed to rescue his sketch before Danforth’s drool ruined it. In fact, it was his duty to retrieve the gift she’d given him. If she happened to be in the bath or undressing when she should be sound asleep, well, that was hardly his fault.

  He drew a bracing breath, cracked his knuckles, then walked into the den of temptation, er, the bedchamber.

  The instant he stepped over the threshold, his gaze flew to the hearth. No steaming tub was set before the fireplace filled with a wet and naked Sarah. Damn. Er, good. He then looked toward the bed. Empty. He scanned the room, his gaze halting on the sight of her, standing in front of the wardrobe. His heart executed the tumbling maneuver it seemed to perform whenever he laid eyes on her.

  She wore a plain white night rail that covered her from her chin to her toes, a completely modest ensemble that should not have set his blood on fire. She held his sketch in her hands and gazed at him, her eyes huge with obvious surprise. Danforth, who appeared to be grinning, sat at her feet—actually, most likely on her feet, Matthew didn’t doubt, rendering her unable to move. And it occurred to him that Danforth was one damn smart dog.

  She flicked what looked like a nervous glance over her shoulder, then moistened her lips, a quick flick of pink that made Matthew clench his jaw. “Lord Langston…what are you doing here?”

  He hated that she insisted upon the formality of his title. He wanted to hear her say his name, watch her lips press together then pucker softly as she said each syllable. And although he’d invited her to do so, she adamantly kept to his title.

  “Danforth,” he said, shaking his head. “That devil. He snatched the sketch you’d drawn of him from my desk, and before I could stop him, entered your room. As you know, he’s quite adept at opening doors.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her gaze again flicked over her shoulder toward the wardrobe behind her.

  She looked and sounded nervous. Agitated. Clearly his presence had her rattled. Well, good. Why should he be the only one suffering?

  “I apologize for Danforth’s behavior.”

  “There’s no need.” She held out her hand. “Here’s your sketch.”

  He didn’t reach for it. “Thank you, but I believe he had a reason for bringing it to you. I think he wants you to write a brief message on the back, as you did for the other sketch.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he confided, “He was a trifle insulted that you hadn’t. He told me so.”

  Her lips twitched and she looked down at the dog. “Is that true, Danf
orth?”

  Danforth gazed up at her adoringly and made a pitiful whine. By God, that dog truly was smart. And a talented actor. If only he were human, he could walk the boards at the Lyceum Theater.

  “I apologize for the oversight and will correct it immediately,” she said in a properly contrite tone.

  Matthew watched her ease her foot from beneath Danforth’s rump then walk to the escritoire in the corner. In an effort not to stare at her while she busied herself with her task, he looked around the room, noting the stack of books on the bedside table. The robe laid neatly across the bottom of the bed. The hairbrush and comb on the dresser.

  The pair of men’s black boots visible beneath the partially closed wardrobe doors.

  Matthew’s gaze halted. Then narrowed. Then widened. He stared at the masculine footwear for several seconds in stunned disbelief. He then blinked several times, certain he was seeing things. But no, there were the boots, clearly visible from the ankles down. Which could only mean—

  There was a man hiding in the wardrobe.

  A man who, based on Sarah’s agitation and looks over her shoulder, she was perfectly aware of being there. And as she’d shown no signs of fright, she clearly welcomed his presence.

  He actually felt the blood drain from his head. Bloody hell, she was entertaining a man! A man who wasn’t him. A cowardly bastard who’d obviously ducked into the wardrobe the instant the door opened, interrupting their tryst. A tryst that wasn’t with him.

  Anger, shock, outrage, jealousy, and—damn it—hurt all collided in him, crashing through him, leaving him dazed and battered. And darkly furious.

  His first reaction was to march to the wardrobe, yank open the doors, and call out the bastard cowering behind the oak panels. But that could wait. Instead he walked to the escritoire with slow, measured steps. When he stood opposite Sarah, the desk between them, he planted his hands on the polished wood and leaned closer.

  “Sarah?”

  She looked up from her writing on the back of the sketch. “Yes, my lord?”