She let out a breath, clearing her thoughts. “Two blinks in a row is intentional. One is not.”
“Show me.” His words were as seductive as his gaze, and were she inclined to give in to rash impulses, Sarah would have leaned forward and shown him how much his voice affected her—with the very kiss she had so brazenly promised him in the inn yard. The Kama Sutra had referenced the action, and Sarah had wholeheartedly studied its pages on many a dreary and sunless day. What else was a girl to do but read ancient texts on how to entice, seduce, and feel?
But she was no fool. She knew very well there could be nothing between her and Jonathon. His political platform forbade it. Her reputation marred his chances at securing votes amongst the conservative Tories in the ton. A future with Jonathon was impossible—though not altogether undesirable.
Many married strangers. With Jonathon, she was ensured a friend, and one who knew her more intimately than most. He was fully aware of her unusual inclinations toward reading and oenology—and never once discouraged them. Instead, he encouraged her, even at times, praising her achievements.
A future with Jonathon, with his easy familiarity and roguish smile, had merit. She could easily envision a life at his side, drinking in his smiles and reveling in his laughter. If the desire she held for him now was any measure of what was promised after vows were exchanged, happiness would be ensured. Yes, a future with him was very alluring…which was why she had to shake herself of the notion and focus on the task at hand. She could never consider a future with him unless she absolved herself of her sins and cleared away the stains on her reputation.
“You wish me to show you a blink?” she asked. “I should think it self-explanatory.”
“An intentional flutter. If I can detect it as false, so will Lady Vincent.”
“Yes, but the lighting here is—”
“Sufficient,” he said firmly.
“All right.” Sarah squeezed her lids shut twice. “How is that?”
He eyed her through the dim light afforded by the single flame. “Passable.”
She rolled her eyes at his less than patient behavior. “Now you do it.”
“I know how to blink.” Of course he knew how to blink. As did she.
“If I am required to flutter my lashes, then you are as well.”
Sighing, he blinked twice. “Better?”
Yes, it was better. Far better. Of all the men in her acquaintance, Jonathon had the longest, darkest lashes of them all. They dusted the darkened area beneath his eyes, so long were the soft extensions, she near cried out of envy. Were that she had such lashes, she’d already be married—so mesmerized by her eyes, no man would question her reputation. He’d look past her oddities and imperfections and do her bidding every time she blinked.
She scrunched her nose. “It will do.”
“It will do?” He leaned forward, the scent of his peppermint soap hanging in the air. It once again stirred unusual sensations deep in her belly.
“For a blink, yes. Just be certain not to blink so fast that I count it as one rapid flutter rather than the two you intended.”
“And what if I want you to hold, to reserve your highest trump for another round?” he asked. “What do you propose to do then?”
Sarah nibbled on her bottom lip.
“Perfect,” Jonathon exclaimed.
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, but you did. You will simply have to be mindful of your natural habits.”
Sarah frowned. “But I—”
He put a finger against her lips, staring at the appendage as little bumps rose across her flesh. Her eyes crossed as her blood roared.
“Watch,” he whispered.
She was watching and straining her eyesight because of it. What precisely did he want her to see inches in front…
His front tooth caught on the full fleshy part of his bottom lip.
Oh.
Her belly flopped as a thousand butterflies took flight inside her chest.
His finger fell from her lips as a smile caught on his. “See there?” His voice was deep, the low tone resonating in the room. Her pulse quickened, and she merely nodded in response.
“Whenever you wish me to pass on the trump or play low, take your lip between your teeth.”
She could do that. And easily. It would be an issue of mind over matter to restrain from doing it subconsciously. But were he to do the same, and take the soft flesh between his lips as he did a moment ago…she’d lose her focus, as she was doing now.
Damn The Kama Sutra. She was regretting reading its enlightening content. Had she not educated herself with its instruction on love and copulation, her imagination would not overwhelm and her mind would stay on task.
“W-what if I fail? What if I nibble out of habit rather than strategy?”
His eyes darkened further. “Then look at me. I’ll run my fingers over the top of my cards. If you release your lip, then I know the action was a habitual one.”
It sounded simple enough. “And if I have a bad hand? Where you’ll have to support the play because I will be unable to do so, what then?
“Hmmm.” He studied her, his gaze falling beneath her chin. Lifting an errant lock of hair from her shoulder, he rubbed the black strand between his fingers. “What if you were to touch a curl? Reposition it, or wrap it around your finger, like so?” He wound the long piece of hair around the tip of his forefinger.
Her breath caught. The motion itself was not extraordinary. She had often absentmindedly touched upon the ringlets at her nape, the natural curls there providing a modicum of comfort. That Jonathon should touch one was unprecedented, which evoked an odd heat between her thighs. Much like the sensation she had learned about in the chapter on virile behavior in females as they experienced lust with a mate.
Her body had determined precisely with whom it wished to copulate.
Good gracious.
The hour was beyond late and her mind was taking her places she had no business visiting. She pulled on the strand, unraveling it from his finger, her skin tingling from touching him as she did so. “I shall make certain my maid leaves out a few curls at my neck tomorrow. If I touch one, my plight is very poor, indeed.”
He shook his head, as though pulling himself out of an affected, lust-induced daze. Had he more on his mind than cards? Was he attuned to their chemistry, as the ancient text called it? Sarah squashed the swell of hope that burgeoned on the idea as he spoke. “If it all comes to naught, remember it is just a game.”
“To you, maybe, but to me it is my future and my well-being. For both are dependent on Lady Vincent’s opinion of me.”
Whatever words were meant to follow were lost as Olivia stretched and let out a yawn.
Sarah stood as Jonathon did the same, all thoughts of the desire, referenced by her Indian book, fleeting from his face. “Good night. I pray rest finds you swiftly.”
His crooked grin appeared, along with the slight indention in his left cheek. “And to you as well.”
He walked to the door and peered out. Apparently assured no one was in the hall, he nodded again and left.
Her blood thrumming fast and fierce through her veins, Sarah slid under her covers and blew out the light. And tried very hard not to think thoughts of a future that included Jonathon’s kisses.
Chapter Eight
Exhaustion did not begin to describe the heavy weight pressing down upon him, making even the simplest of actions a hardship. Jonathon stifled a yawn as he stepped out of his chambers and into the hall a scant three hours after returning to the dark and empty room.
Despite his taste of Sarah’s soothing elixir, his dreams were not the meaningless voids he had hoped them to be, but rather were vivid, detailed fantasies filled with inexplicably erotic images of Lady Sarah Beauchamp. Naked. And in his bed.
He’d tossed and turned more in the last few hours than in all his previous evenings combined. He’d even screamed his frustrations into his pillows, but to
no avail. His desire for her had not diminished. He wanted her more now than he did before.
His heart yearned for what it could not have.
He’d hoped sheer exhaustion alone would purge his mind. Empty it of the soft, voluptuous curves haunting him whenever he closed his eyes, the same curves he had been forced to view upon seeing her to her room…a room he had left unfulfilled, because just like she, he valued what others thought of him. And they would not approve of his attachment to Lady Sarah Beauchamp.
He glanced out one of the windows evenly spaced throughout the men’s corridor. Rain splattered against the thick-paned glass as a gale of wind howled.
The weather was as dismal as his mood. And while Lord Vincent had earlier voiced his eagerness to run the dogs in the rain, Jonathon doubted a violent storm was conducive to hunting. Or riding. The hounds would have to wait out another day, which meant the entirety of the party would be forced indoors, and their game of whist, ensured. A welcome diversion, indeed.
He shot his cuffs and headed toward the main receiving room.
“Annesley.”
Jonathon stalled and turned around. The Marquess of Satterfield stepped into the corridor, exiting his own chambers. He strode toward him, a look of concern darkening his face. “A word, if you will.”
“Of course,” said Jonathon, curious. The marquess was a man of few words. And even fewer at this hour of the morning. While acceptable for breakfast, conversation was usually kept at a minimum, at least until one had downed a stout cup of coffee. Or two.
“I did not sleep well last night.”
Jonathon gave a smile of relief. Was this what the man was about? A complaint about the firmness of his pillow? He almost believed his concern held some merit. “Neither did I. I’m afraid I’ve grown overly found of my own bedding and do not fare well when at the mercy of another.”
The furrows on the marquess’s forehead deepened. “You miss your pillow?”
Truth be told, he missed the restorative qualities of Sarah’s wine, but he could hardly own to it. His quest was to earn her merit, not censure. And, with his crevassed brow, the marquess did not appear in mind for humor, which would be the certain response, should Jonathon reveal Sarah’s gift for winemaking. He would do well to keep his conversation easy and cordial. “Well, yes,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, honestly. My mind has been consumed with other thoughts.” The marquess peered out one of the windows, his gaze pensive.
“Such as?” Jonathon asked.
“Well, I…” He frowned. “I thought I might ask after Lady Sarah.”
Jonathon arched a brow. “Lady Sarah?”
“You and she are close, are you not?” He adjusted his cravat.
“We have known each other for quite some time, yes,” Jonathon said slowly.
“The two of you confide in the other.”
They did. More so than most couples comprised of opposite sexes. But at present, with the marquess staring at him with a peculiar and worrisome expression, it seemed prudent to downplay their connection. “We are but friends, my lord. My sister is her true confidante.”
“Yes, yes.”
The marquess glanced out the window again. “I wonder if you might relay to her a message I am unable to give her myself.”
“Of course.” Jonathon eyed the marquess. His age was indiscernible, but Jonathon knew him to be a few years older than himself. What could he possibly have to say that could not be said to Sarah?
The man returned his gaze to Jonathon. “I do not know her reasons for coming here, but I presume she wishes to have her past forgiven. Please let her know she has my full support. While my relationship with her family is complicated at best, Amhurst is a friend, as Lady Sarah is to you. And friends do not allow young upstarts and second sons to bandy about unverified information as though it were gossip.”
Jonathon bit back a smile. “Quite so. I shall relay your sentiments to her. Though, I must confess, I do not understand why you cannot say as much yourself. You were her champion at dinner. I am certain—”
“As a man who curries favor in the House of Lords, you know the importance of a clean reputation.” The elder lord shot his cuffs and stared at the fine diamond-encrusted links holding the starched linen together.
Jonathon frowned. “I do. But it sounds as if you are offering your support so long as she does not acknowledge you.”
The marquess gave a placating smile. “I found her with her hands dirty, Annesley. Literally covered in whatever godforsaken substance she had intended for her sister’s competition for Amhurst’s affections. I cannot discredit the possibility that should she feel wronged she might concoct another potion to eliminate an opponent.”
“You think she will poison another?”
The marquess shot him a look of condescension. “Do not be so quick to judge my opinion when you have not borne witness to her crime.”
“I fail to see how this opinion supports your earlier statement, Lord Satterfield,” he said acidly. “Did you not, only moments ago, wish me to tell her she has your backing? Yet, you fear her capable of repeating her past, when you believe she has come to Barrington to start afresh? Whatever crime you witnessed her committing is not one she is likely to repeat. She has already paid for her poor choice. I do not see why she should continue to do so.”
The marquess snorted. “Because we all know she is an oddity, Annesley. You have been blinded by her pleasant smile if you do not agree. She is different. A woman with a queer propensity for knowledge any man has a right to fear.”
“You judge her unfairly. Is she to be condemned by one misguided act of loyalty in trying to help her shy sister garner the attention of the Earl of Amhurst?”
“Let me ask you, Annesley, did you ever think her capable of her crime? Did you believe she had the knowledge necessary to knowingly taint a tea and then offer it maliciously to another for the purpose of furthering her own agenda?”
Did he believe her capable of possessing knowledge? Absolutely. Should Sarah wish to harm someone, she was well-read enough to know how to do so, effectively and without detection. She was also purpose-driven and exceptionally loyal to her family. He let out a little breath. Were she to be confronted and desperate, and out of all logical options, she would absolutely use her wisdom to ensure her end goal was met.
But he did not believe she would harm another to do so again.
“Precisely,” said the marquess, misunderstanding his hesitation as an affirmation. “Show me the men who have offered her marriage, and I will offer you an apology. Until that time, my support will be directed toward her family and passively given at a distance.” With a curt nod, he made his way toward the staircase.
His mouth agape, Jonathon stared after the man.
The Marquess of Satterfield was no more forgiving than he was understanding. And Sarah thought marriage to a peer of Satterfield’s ilk would yield happiness?
He shut his eyes and ran a hand over his face. His morning was going from bad to worse. He had to placate an imbecile, and not just one, but a whole room of them. For if the marquess did not believe Sarah incapable of poisoning again, no one else did, either. He’d known restoring the luster to her reputation would be a challenge, but a surmountable one. The marquess’s declaration revealed common opinion to be far more condemning than he’d believed.
He had more than his work cut out for him. His one potential ally had just proven himself a giant ass. Oh, the man would offer his support, all right. At a price, with the cost being Sarah’s pride.
Even if she were to beg for forgiveness, he wasn’t quite certain the ton would listen to her groveling, the vast majority of them likely turning deaf ears to her cries. And a number of them guilty of crimes far worse.
How many of them would look at each other the same if their secrets were revealed?
Jonathon tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat. How many, indeed.
He could do nothing more
for Sarah than continue to prove she was worthy of their trust, good opinion, and place in Society. Even if he firmly believed she was worth far more than the value the ton would ever bestow her. Unfortunately, his opinion did not matter. Not if he wished to pursue social reform and the opening of his reformatory school. Support was required to pass votes. Votes cast by Lord Satterfield and men like him.
He let out a heavy sigh, and resting his hand on the polished railing of the staircase, he made his way down to the lions’ den.
…
Sleep availed Sarah. And no wonder. Her thoughts had refused to quiet, continuing to drift to Jonathon and his mesmerizing green eyes. To the way they had darkened as he had touched upon her loosened curl, heating her insides and giving a lot of credence to her studies on lust…
Oh, botheration. There was only one place Sarah could withdraw to find any sort of peace and solace—the library. Contentment and comfort was found within the pages of old texts and lectures. She was quite happy to wake at first light and peruse Lord Vincent’s stores of books. His collection was extensive…and surprisingly enough, he had his own copy of The Kama Sutra hidden away for reference.
She’d found it tucked amongst books on enlightenment and mystical religions of the Orient. She hadn’t thought the marquess one for exotic samplings, especially a book as graphic and detailed as The Kama Sutra, but then perhaps he was a collector of all genres and well-known texts. Judging from the amount of dust clinging to the shelves in this particular part of the library, she gathered he hadn’t referenced the book in some time. Perhaps that explained his cool hauteur and indifference toward everyone, but specifically toward the marchioness. He needed only to read a few chapters on pleasuring one’s mate to know distance and haughtiness had no place in a marriage.
Sarah clasped the book to her chest and carefully descended the ladder she’d used. She often found the most interesting pieces of a collection in the out of way areas, removed from convenience and the curiosities of reading guests. She’d been so lucky as to find not only The Kama Sutra, but also a small volume on English trees, with a detailed portion on elderberries she had not read before. Carrying both titles, she slipped down to the main floor of the well-lit room, where rows upon rows of popular novels and reference books lined the shelves. All she had to do now was learn about elderberries and revisit the Indian book’s ideologies to know if she was reading too much into Jonathon’s alliance. If his posture indicated he reciprocated her newly discovered yearnings—which were forbidden, given her past—well, she was curious, nonetheless.
The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst) Page 10
