Instead, he stooped, swept her off her feet, up into his arms, then he swung around and sat on the sofa with her on his lap.
His hand slid beneath her bodice and closed about her breast; his lips covered hers and drank her gasp.
He held her cradled as he pandered to her senses, as he made them spin, made her arch and invite and delight in his skillful play.
But that wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
She had to experience more to learn what was driving him.
Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him back. And wantonly, with full intent, with lips and tongue and her restless body, issued a clear invitation.
She didn’t expect him to refuse, and he didn’t. But she hadn’t foreseen what he would do. She’d had no real idea, so was only mildly surprised when he released her breast, raised his hand to her shoulder and pushed aside her gown.
Until her breast was bare, exposed to the night air, to his hot palm and hard fingers, to his too-knowing caresses.
She savored each one. Eyes closed, she let her head fall back, arching as his fingers closed, tweaked. His lips traced her jaw, then slid down the long curve of her throat to the hollow at its base, to place a hot, openmouthed kiss over the spot where her pulse thundered.
Catching her breath was hard, near impossible—and became even more difficult as his lips cruised her skin, trailing over the upper swell of her bared breast, then dipping.
His hot breath bathed her nipple, then his lips touched—a delicate kiss that sent a jolt down her spine.
The caress came again, barely there, and she gasped.
Arched.
He opened his hot mouth and took her nipple within.
She cried out as sensation—burning and wet—streaked through her, smothered another cry as he gently suckled. Heart galloping, she struggled to find some purchase in her whirling mind, to understand, to see—but for the moment she was blind.
Blinded by passion, by plea sure and delight.
He knew what he was doing; he sent all three racing through her, wreathing and beckoning and luring her to be even more wanton than before. Even more blatant.
Of their own volition, her hands had risen to grasp his head; her fingers tangling in his hair, she gripped, and flagrantly held him to her, arching beneath him, inviting more.
She heard—or was it felt?—an amused chuckle. She would have taken exception, but the sound was strained; he seemed every bit as driven as she felt, every bit as urgently breathless.
Then he complied with her request.
For long moments she knew nothing beyond piercingly sweet sensation. Minutes passed as she savored the plea sure he lavished on her—and it was such a giving. He delighted in her plea sure; she sensed that through his touch, through the kisses he paused to share with her in between his worship of her breasts, his carefully orchestrated educating of her senses.
Of her desires.
Knowing what he was doing, what he intended, gave her the strength to observe, to see more than perhaps he intended to reveal.
Gazing at his face, limned by the faint moonlight, she felt the knowing touch of his fingers, felt the sharper bite of the desire they called forth, but she also saw the hunger etched in his drawn features, sensed the quiver in his control as he looked down at his hand gliding over her bare flesh.
Reaching up, she drew his head down to hers, drew his lips to hers, and embraced him. Welcomed him, embraced the desire, and that other, too—his hunger, his passion—welcomed both, and drew them to her. Urged them nearer.
He kissed her, and she thought he shuddered, quaked, as if holding back his need, screening it, was causing him pain.
Another need welled and washed through her, surprising her with its intensity.
She held him to the kiss, tempting and luring and challenging, playing in the ways she’d learned most captivated him; drawing a hand from his nape, she slid it beneath his coat, found his waistcoat in the way, and quickly unbuttoned it.
Pressing the velvet aside, she laid her hand on his chest, felt the warm hardness of the muscles beneath the fine linen, then she laid her hand over his heart, and savored the heavy, thudding beat.
A beat that reached some primal part of her. It emboldened her, turned her brazen enough to slide her hand down, palm flat, between them, over his ridged abdomen, over his taut waist and belly, to caress the iron-hard ridge of his erection.
He stilled. With a predator’s stillness that abruptly reminded her she held something capable of violence in her arms.
But then he broke the kiss and with a muttered oath reached down, manacled her errant wrist in a steely vise and drew her hand away.
Raising it to his shoulder, he turned back to her, clearly intending to resume the kiss. She pressed back, forestalling that. “Why can’t I—”
“Not yet.” His jaw was set.
“But I—”
He kissed her, hard, ruthless, determined.
She met him, just as determined, let him sweep her senses away—for a minute—then exercised her will and drew back.
Enough to make him reluctantly break the kiss.
She met his eyes from a distance of mere inches. Then she let her gaze lower to his mouth, and sent the tip of her tongue skating over her swollen lower lip. “Perhaps,” she breathed, then looked into his eyes, “we’ve gone far enough to night?”
He stared into her eyes; a moment ticked past, then he blinked, and glanced down at her breasts, bare, swollen, flushed, and peaked.
The effort it cost him to draw back and accede to her suggestion was palpable, but…easing back, he nodded. “Yes. You’re right. Enough for to night.”
His diction was clipped and taut.
He helped her straighten her clothes and she let him, studying him, marveling at the tightness of his face, the inflexible control he imposed on his desire. Regardless, his reluctance—the fact that a very large part of him hadn’t wanted to call a halt even if that meant letting her caress him—invested every movement.
He didn’t speak as he walked her back to the house, traversing the night-shrouded gardens, but she walked beside him content enough.
He wanted her to caress him, but didn’t want to risk it.
Why?
That, she felt, as they parted at the side door and she watched him stride away, was a very interesting question.
6
The next day was Saturday. Midmorning found Charlie cantering south along the road to Taunton, guiding Storm in the wake of Sarah’s chestnut and inwardly cursing. How had he allowed himself to be roped into this?
This was an excursion to visit a traveling fair that was currently encamped outside Taunton. At Lady Finsbury’s party he’d been invited to join the group of young ladies and gentlemen who had decided the fair provided the perfect opportunity for some innocent fun. He’d accepted, at that time viewing the jaunt in the light of a useful, entirely aboveboard—entirely innocent—opportunity to get to know his wife-to-be better.
That had been then. This was now.
Innocent outings, especially with Sarah, especially after last night, no longer featured on his agenda; he no longer viewed such encounters with equanimity, much less comfort.
After last night, having her close, even within sight, was enough to raise prospects his body yearned for regardless of the repressive instructions from his brain. Riding when half aroused had never been his idea of fun.
Yet here he was, in discomfort if not pain, condemned to spending the entire day by Sarah’s side—in public. Worse, under the interested gazes of six others, three of them young ladies who were avidly curious over the purported link between himself and Sarah. He would have to endure, to literally grit his teeth and bear it, but he certainly wasn’t happy about it, much less looking forward to the hours he would have to stand and walk beside her, watching over her while chatting and being sociable with the others.
He couldn’t imagine any activity more inimical to his mood.
After last night…on one level all he wished was to get Sarah in suitable surroundings alone and take her a great deal further down their sensual road, sweep her deeper into desire until she surrendered and agreed to marry him forthwith. However, on another, less physical, more intellectual plane he was, if not uneasy, then certainly of the opinion that caution would be wise.
She’d surprised him. With one innocently sultry caress, she’d very nearly cindered his control. That wasn’t something she should have been able to do, much less so easily. Consequently he kept reiterating to himself that in all future engagements, he would need to keep a firm hold on the reins.
An unbreakable hold on his reins.
Losing control in any sphere wasn’t something he was comfortable even contemplating, much less doing. Not being in control, as he well knew, was, for a Morwellan, the road to ruination.
The roofs of Taunton appeared in the distance, materializing out of a wreathing mist of fog and woodsmoke that the light breeze and the weak sunshine were between them endeavoring to disperse. Charlie surveyed the sight, then considered the riders ahead of him. The four ladies were cantering two abreast; immediately ahead of him Sarah rode beside Betsy Kennedy, with Lizzie Mortimer and Margaret Cruikshank in the lead. Sarah was wearing her pale green velvet riding habit. For the occasion, she’d perched a small hat with a curling feather atop her shining hair.
The ladies, of course, were chatting, their light voices trailing over their escorts, following in similar pattern, two abreast. After exchanging greetings when they’d assembled at Crowcombe, other than a few desultory remarks, the gentlemen had held their tongues and simply enjoyed the ride and the views, both pastoral and feminine.
Behind Charlie rode Jeremy, his brother, another observer Charlie could have done without.
They all slowed to a trot as the first houses neared. When they reached the cobbles of Bridge Street, they reined in to a walk. The thoroughfare was crowded. Not only was the fair in town, but it was market day, too. Luckily, they didn’t need to go through the town to reach the fair.
They left their horses at the Taunton Arms, a large posting inn just over the bridge, then strolled back across the river and down the gentle slope to the bright tents and caravans spread over a fallow field bordering the river Tone.
On the opposite bank, the high stone walls of the Norman castle rose, severe and brooding; against that silent backdrop, the richly colored flags and noisy gaiety of the fair stood in bright relief.
It was close to noon when they paid their pennies and entered the fairground beneath an arch resplendent with gaudy pennants and ribbons; the place was already crowded, the lanes between the booths and caravans bustling with people and children of every degree and station.
They halted just inside the gate to take stock. Jeremy, standing beside Charlie, glanced around, then said, “There’s no way we’ll manage to stay together. Let’s meet back here at three o’clock. We’ll have to start for home then if we don’t want to be riding through the dark.”
Everyone murmured their agreement; the clock in the tower of the nearby church could be seen from most of the fairground. Then the four ladies, eyes bright, determinedly set off for the first of the alleys lined with booths selling every conceivable trinket. Perforce, the gentlemen followed. This was not the sort of gathering in which their female folk could safely wander unescorted; there were a number of unsavory characters amid the crowds, and while the atmosphere was gay and said crowds were presently laughing and joking, one never knew what might occur.
Initially, the four ladies stayed together, moving from booth to booth, admiring ribbons and lace, calling to one another to point out items and compare opinions. But then Margaret Cruikshank dallied by a magic stall. Also mildly interested, Jeremy remained with her as the others moved on. Margaret and Jeremy were the youngest of the group, much the same age, and had been friends all their lives; Charlie knew he could rely on his younger brother to keep an eye on Margaret.
As the oldest of the group, he felt a certain responsibility toward the others, but that didn’t mean he wished to spend the next three hours in their company. With Margaret and Jeremy occupied, that left Lizzie Mortimer and Betsy Kennedy, along with Jon Finsbury and Henry Kilpatrick, to deflect.
At the end of the first alleyway they came upon a bright purple and gold tent with a sign announcing the Great Madame Garnaut, fortune-teller extraordinaire. Lizzie and Betsy were keen, Sarah less so, but she allowed herself to be persuaded. The three ladies lined up and paid their sixpence, then waited to be summoned into Madame’s presence.
Charlie had escorted females enough to fairs and similar diversions; with barely a sigh, he took a position by the side of another tent from where he could keep the entrance of Madame’s garish abode in view. Younger than he, Jon and Henry grumbled, but nevertheless joined him, debating whether they would manage to find time to view the pugilistic displays being held in roped arenas on the other side of the field.
Charlie listened to their chatter; they politely included him, although he contributed little. They were five or six years his junior, and consequently viewed him with a certain awe; while Charlie found that mildly amusing, it created a certain distance between them. He turned his mind to detaching himself and Sarah from the other four.