Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “What were you doing when Danforth came into the room?”

  Something glinted in her eyes, and her gaze flicked to the wardrobe. Color bloomed on her cheeks. She might as well have had the word guilty branded across her forehead. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Come, come. You must have been doing something.”

  “No. Just…sitting by the fire.”

  He regarded her steadily, biting back the fury and hurt churning in his stomach. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, proud of how calm he sounded.

  She lifted her chin. There was no missing the annoyance that now sparkled in her eyes. “I’ve never aspired to be a good one. And I’m not lying. I was sitting by the fire.”

  By God, if he weren’t so angry, he’d be tempted to applaud her show of bravado. Instead, he straightened and without a word stalked toward the wardrobe. He knew the exact instant his destination became clear to her because he heard her gasp and the sound of her hurrying after him.

  “Lord Langston, what are you doing?”

  He couldn’t speak—pure rage had rendered him mute. Never in his entire life had he felt such violence toward another person as he felt toward the whey-faced milksop skulking in the wardrobe. The bloody bastard she’d clearly invited into her bedchamber. A man who’d no doubt dared to touch her. Kiss her.

  No doubt, his inner voice taunted in agreement. Just as you’ve dared. So how are you any different from the bastard skulking in the wardrobe?

  His jaw clenched so hard he marveled that it didn’t snap. A feral growl vibrated in his throat and he reached for brass wardrobe handles.

  “Stop,” she said from behind him. “Please don’t—”

  Her words were cut off when he yanked open the wardrobe doors, so hard one of the top hinges broke, leaving the panel yawning at a lopsided angle. Prepared to knock the bastard clear to France with his first punch, Matthew reached in and grabbed the man by the cravat and yanked him forward.

  And found himself staring into his own eyes.

  Or rather, a charcoal rendering of his own eyes, along with a nose, mouth, and jaw that weren’t his yet seemed somehow familiar. All drawn upon a lumpy head. Which had no hair. Or ears.

  Fist still drawn, he froze, except for his eyeballs, which skimmed down over this…whatever the bloody hell it was he held. It appeared to be a life-sized replica of a man. A man wearing…his shirt? A man who possessed no hands, one leg that was considerable fatter than the other, and sported what appeared to be an impossibly enormous erection.

  He lowered his fist, then turned toward Sarah, who stood several feet away, her hands clapped to her cheeks, her face frozen with a wide-eyed expression of mortified horror.

  “What the bloody hell is this?” he asked, giving the thing a hard shake. Apparently too hard a shake because there came a tearing sound. The lumpy head rolled off its shoulders and flopped onto the floor.

  Sarah instantly bent to retrieve it, then straightened, holding the bundle protectively beneath her arm. Matthew’s own eyes stared back at him, looking so lifelike he found himself touching his head to make certain it was still attached to his shoulders. When he raised his gaze back to hers, there seemed to be fire spewing from her eyeballs.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” she fumed. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to sew on his head so it wasn’t crooked?”

  He stared at her, nonplussed. A deafening silence swelled between them, until he broke it by saying, “I’ve no idea how long it took you—obviously not long enough. And now I have a question. What the bloody hell is going on? And what the bloody hell is this thing?” He again shook the headless, grotesque figure. “Where did it come from, why is it wearing my shirt, and why does its lumpy head bear a replica of my eyes?”

  She raised her brows. “You said a question. That was five.”

  “All of which I want answered. Immediately.”

  She pressed her lips together and regarded him steadily for several heartbeats, then jerked her head in a tight nod, which sent her glasses sliding. After pushing them back up, she said, “Very well. There is nothing going on save that you saw fit to barge into my bedchamber unannounced and uninvited. This thing—as you so rudely called it—is a life-sized facsimile of a man. It came from the imaginations of the Ladies Literary Society. In addition to your shirt, he is also wearing Lord Thurston’s cravat, Lord Surbrooke’s breeches, and Lord Berwick’s boots. He is doing so because if he weren’t, not only would he have been impossible to stuff, he would have been naked.”

  She raised her chin, then continued, “His lumpy head bears, in addition to your eyes, Lord Berwick’s nose, Jennsen’s mouth, and Lord Surbrooke’s jaw, as our intent was to fashion the Perfect Man.” She made a sound that resembled an injured sniff. “Other than the eyes, there is no resemblance to you.”

  “I should hope not. I do have ears, you know. And hair. Not to mention a neck and—”

  “I meant,” she cut him off in a quelling tone while narrowing her eyes, “that he is the epitome of gentlemanly behavior. He wouldn’t be so brash as to barge into a lady’s bedchamber nor cast aspersions on the unfortunate shape of someone else’s head.”

  “If his dog had run off with something of great importance to him and he was too lily-livered to do what was necessary in order to retrieve it, then he is the epitome of a nincompoop.” He scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Good God, you’ve got me talking about this thing as if he’s real. As if he has a name.”

  “As a matter of fact, he does have a name.”

  “Really? And what is his name? Lord Lumpy?” His gaze flicked down to the tremendous bulge in the front of the thing’s breeches. “Earl Enormous? Sir Anatomically Impossible?”

  “No.” Reaching out, she snatched the thing’s body away from him and clutched it against her bosom. After a brief hesitation during which he could almost hear her debating with herself, she said, “Allow me to introduce you to my very good friend Franklin N. Stein.”

  Chapter 15

  Sarah stood perfectly still and watched myriad expressions flash across Lord Langston’s face—disbelief, confusion, then finally, unmistakable annoyance. Well, good. Why should she be the only one who was annoyed?

  “You made a facsimile of your friend Franklin?” A humorless sound passed his lips. “Why? Did you miss him that much?”

  She tightened her hold on Franklin’s headless body, gripping so hard that a puff of stuffing squeezed up from the gaping hole in his neck. She’d debated whether to tell Lord Langston the doll’s name, whether to admit that Franklin didn’t really exist, but in the end she simply couldn’t lie to him. Besides, he’d find out eventually. Surely, after he and Julianne were married his new wife would share with him the story of how Franklin came into being. So there was no point in not admitting the truth now.

  She cleared her throat. “I haven’t missed Franklin at all.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “The fact that you’re clutching a replica of him to your bosom indicates otherwise.”

  “I’m not clutching, I’m holding,” she informed him, clutching Franklin even closer, “and only because he cannot stand on his own.”

  He shot an askance look at the front of Franklin’s overstuffed breeches. “I can see why.”

  “And it would be impossible for me to miss him, as he doesn’t exist.”

  “Doesn’t exist?” His brows furrowed into a frown. “What nonsense is this? I saw your sketch of him. Perhaps you’ve forgotten? It was the very detailed drawing of the very naked man. You even wrote his name beneath the picture.”

  Drawing a deep breath, she explained about seeing the statue of the naked man in Lady Eastland’s conservatory, making the sketch, then the decision of the Ladies Literary Society, after their reading of Frankenstein, to fashion for themselves a man—the Perfect Man. She told him everything, concluding with, “So you see, Franklin doesn’t really exist, except in our imaginations. And here.” She moved her arms to lift Franklin’s body an
d unattached head.

  He regarded her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “So there was no naked man.”

  “No real naked man,” she corrected. “Except…you.”

  “Yes, except me,” he agreed in a soft, silky voice. His eyes glittered and he took a step toward her. Startled and more than a little alarmed at how her heart lurched at his nearness, she took two quick steps back. Her shoulders hit something hard. The wall.

  He took another step forward. “Tell me, Sarah,” he said, his quiet, deep voice touching her like a soft, dark caress, “did you sketch me?”

  Her breath caught. The way he was looking at her, with that knee-weakening smoldering heat she hadn’t seen during the past week, turned her insides to porridge. His eyes darkened, flaring with the exact fire that had flamed just before he’d kissed her. Touched her intimately.

  Desire gushed through her, bringing with it a rush of dismay at the humbling realization that clearly the only reason she’d been able to control her hunger for him this past week during their digging excursions was because he hadn’t looked at her like this. Like he craved her. Wanted to devour her in one huge gulp.

  A hefty dose of anger suffused her. At him, for making her want him. For being everything she’d always wanted yet didn’t dare dream to hope for. And at herself, for longing to forget all the reasons wanting him was wrong. For yearning to take what she wanted and to hell with the consequences.

  For allowing herself to fall utterly, hopelessly, in love with him.

  The truth she’d tried so hard to deny walloped her without mercy. She loved him. She wanted him. So badly she ached with it.

  But she could not have him. Like so many other facets of her life, she needed to accept that and get on with things. And the first thing she needed to do was finish this conversation and get him out of her room. Before she said or did something that she’d regret. That they’d both regret.

  Straightening her spine, she said, “You know I sketched you. I gave you the picture, in all your adolescent pirate glory.”

  He moved another step closer, until less than two feet separated them. And she knew that if she hadn’t been holding a headless stuffed man. she would have given in to her deepest urges and pressed herself against him.

  He planted his hands on the wall, on either side of her head, caging her in. “I meant naked, Sarah. Did you sketch me in all my naked glory?”

  Numerous times. “Not even once.”

  He made a soft tsking sound. “You really are a dreadful liar. Shall I look through your sketch pad to discover the truth?”

  Annoyance—and dismay—rippled through her. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Words that only serve to challenge. And I think you’d be surprised at what I would dare.”

  Refusing to let him think she was intimidated, she asked in her haughtiest voice, “And if I did sketch you?”

  “I’d be…flattered. And wonder how often you might look at those sketches.” His gaze dipped to her lips and a tingle ran through her. When his eyes once again were raised to hers, he whispered, “I’d wonder how often you might think of me. Wonder if it was anywhere near as often as I think of you.”

  Her heart stumbled and suddenly she felt trapped. By his words and his nearness. His velvety, seductive voice. And her own resolve, which was evaporating with alarming speed. Giving up all pretense of bravado, she pressed herself closer against the wall and shook her head. “Stop. Please.”

  “Because, Sarah…I think of you all the time.”

  Her womb clenched with a stark, raw hunger that frightened her. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the strength to resist him. To withstand her fierce desire for him. “This is wrong. I cannot…I want you to go.”

  “I’m not going to marry Lady Julianne.”

  His words hung in the tension-filled air. Opening her eyes, she gave him a searching look. He appeared in dead earnest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not going to marry Lady Julianne.”

  It took her several seconds to absorb his statement. Then comprehension dawned and her breath caught. “You found the money?”

  “No.”

  The flare of hope that had ignited in her heart vanished in a blink. “Then I don’t understand. You said you needed to marry an heiress.”

  “Unfortunately I do—unless a miracle occurs and we find the money in the next few days. But that heiress will not be Lady Julianne.”

  An overwhelming sense of relief that was purely selfish warred with loyalty for her friend. “But why? You seem to have a liking for each other.” True, although based on what Julianne had said earlier, Sarah didn’t believe for a moment her friend would be heartbroken. “And I assure you, you’ll not find a lovelier, more sweet-natured woman.”

  “The problem is neither her beauty nor her sweet nature. The problem is that she is your friend.”

  His expression indicated that she should understand what he was talking about. His expression was dead wrong. She didn’t have a clue. That being the case, she leaned forward and discreetly sniffed.

  He blinked. “Do I smell?”

  “Yes. Like sandalwood and fresh linen.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Brandy. Or perhaps whiskey. Certainly spirits of some nature.”

  “I assure you I am completely sober. Sarah, I cannot marry your friend when I desire you so very much.” He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, and her insides quivered from the feathery contact. “Such an arrangement would be an awkward, untenable situation for us all. Therefore, barring success in locating the money, I plan to leave for London four days from now to embark on the unwanted but necessary task of finding a different heiress.”

  His gaze searched hers. “Do you count as friends any other heiresses? Tell me now so I can cross them off my list of potential candidates.”

  It was difficult to speak, especially when his words, I desire you so very much, continued to echo through her brain. Caught between a swirl of surprise, confusion, relief, and desire, she shook her head and managed to say, “No.”

  “Excellent.”

  Matthew’s gaze dipped to her lips and he swallowed the groan that rose in his throat. Bloody hell, had he just said that he desired her so very much? If he’d ever in his life uttered a more monstrous understatement, he couldn’t recall the details. And he could tell by the way her chest rose and fell with her quick breaths, the way her honey brown eyes gazed at him so intently, that he wasn’t alone in his desire.

  Damn it, he should leave her bedchamber. Immediately. He knew it, his inner voice was screaming at him to do so, but his feet refused to move. Instead he cupped her face in his palm and stroked the pad of his thumb lightly over her lush bottom lip.

  “My speaking of desiring you,” he whispered. “Did I shock you?”

  She shook her head, sending her glasses downward in that familiar way that both amused him and tugged on his heart. “No. But…” Her words trailed off and she looked at the floor.

  He touched two fingers beneath her chin until their gazes once again met. “But what?”

  She swallowed, then said, “But you should refrain from making such knee-weakening statements until I’m already seated, lest I might crumple into a heap at your feet.”

  Her admission clearly meant that she’d suffered the same torment as he this past week. Thank God. Surely the selfishly motivated sense of relief and elation that suffused him didn’t speak well of him, but he couldn’t stop the feelings.

  “Sarah…” Hell, just saying her name pleased him. He breathed in and the subtle scent of lavender teased his senses. And it seemed as if that one single breath completely unraveled him, loosened the confining ties on the hunger for her he’d suppressed all week. Desire hit him so fiercely he wouldn’t have been able to step away from her if his very life had depended upon him doing so.

  There was no longer a question of loyalty to her friend. Surely, then, just one kiss would be all right. Just o
ne, to satisfy this desperate yearning. Just one, to relieve this edgy pressure that demanded relief. Just one, and then he’d stop.

  He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. A soft reacquaintance after a week-long absence that felt more like a decade. Her lips parted on a sigh, and in a heartbeat he was lost, sinking deeper into the soft velvet of her mouth. He felt her toss aside the bundles she held, and then her arms were around his neck and she was pressing herself against him. And all semblance of control vanished like a puff of steam in a gale force wind.

  With a growl, his arms went around her, crushing her to him but unable to get her close enough. One hand plunged into her soft hair, holding her head still, while his other hand settled on the small of her back, pressing her nearer still. His tongue danced with hers, explored the satin of her mouth. Wild, reckless need pulsed through him and he stepped forward, pinning her to the wall with his lower body.

  The feel of her soft curves cradling his erection dragged a guttural groan from his throat. He rubbed himself against her, slowly, each drag across her body jolting him with waves of shocking pleasure.

  Touch her. Had to touch her. Just once more. Just one touch…

  He lowered one hand and curled his fingers into the cotton of her night rail, dragging the material upward until he touched her drawers.

  Skin. Had to touch her skin. Just one touch.

  He skimmed his hand upward, and her soft, warm breast filled his palm. She gasped against his mouth, that erotic, delicious sound that had haunted him since the first time he heard it. Her nipple pebbled beneath his touch and he teased the tip between his fingers, gently tugging, absorbing her shudders of pleasure.

  And he realized that just one kiss, just one touch, wasn’t going to be enough. He wanted more. He wanted everything. So badly he was all but shaking. Which meant he had to stop this madness. Right now.

  With an effort that required every ounce of his shredded strength, he slipped his hand from beneath her gown, eased his body away from hers, and lifted his head.

  The sight of her, breathing hard, parted lips moist from his kiss, hair disarranged from his impatient hands, glasses fogged over, grabbed him by the throat. Never in his life had he wanted a woman more.