Sold to a Laird Page 8

  Chavensworth was silent tonight. She wished she could hear something, anything, other than this unearthly quiet. Even the owls’ calls seemed muted, and she couldn’t hear the sound of the foxes in the nearby woods. Birds were normally silent at this time of night, but she found herself straining to hear them nonetheless.

  Nor were there any sounds from inside the house. Normally, she could hear a snatch of conversation as a footman would pass another in the hall or the faint, far-off, sound of laughter.

  Sarah returned to the bed, sliding her feet beneath the covers. She laid her head on the pillow Douglas had used the night before. Even though the sheets had been changed—there were sufficient linens in the press that she’d given the order that sheets were to be changed each day—she could smell him.

  He was not here, but somehow it felt as if he occupied half the bed. Annoyed with herself, she rolled over and stretched her hand across the expanse of sheet until she felt the edge of the mattress. There was no one there. Not even the ghost of Douglas Eston, wherever he was.

  Did he chafe under the restrictions of marriage? Was there someone in his life whom he loved? He’d married Sarah simply for expediency’s sake, and had come close to admitting that to her. Did he regret it now, enough to leave her?

  How very odd that he seemed to have a presence even when he was gone. Once more, she found herself wondering where he was.

  She lay flat on her back and stared up at the tester above her head, now only a dark shadow. She knew that her family coat of arms was embroidered there, but she couldn’t see the delicate needlework in the darkness.

  It was time for her prayers, time to implore the Almighty to look after her mother, to bless Chavensworth, to grant Sarah the wisdom to adjudicate those disputes falling to her, and to help her care for those within her keeping. Her prayers done, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

  Five minutes later, she sat up, punched the pillow into shape, and lay back down again.

  Tomorrow was going to be another busy day; she needed her rest.

  Why was the mantel clock so loud?

  She rolled to her side, bunched up the sheet beneath her chin, and stared into the darkness. As a child she’d always loved the dark. It seemed exotic, somehow, an exciting land only as far away as extinguishing her lamp. She had never been frightened of the idea of monsters. There was, actually, nothing quite as frightening as the Duke of Herridge when he was angry. Any other monster simply paled in comparison.

  In the dark, almost anything could happen. Chavensworth could become an enchanted fairy castle. She could be its princess. Or it might be a foreign land, someplace she’d only read about in books, or heard of in stories her mother told. The dark always seemed to be safe, surrounding her like a warm, soft, woolen blanket. Sounds were more entrancing in the night. Scents seemed stronger, more powerful.

  She’d never before considered that emotions might be heightened in the darkness as well. She was never lonely, never had an occasion to be lonely. Then why did she feel adrift now? She did not feel so much connected to Chavensworth as simply within it.

  Very well, she was lonely. Even more disconcerting was the fact that it felt almost painful.

  Was this what marriage had brought her? The sensation of being truly lonely, the experience of feeling abandoned?

  Ever since her two disastrous seasons, she’d given no thought to marriage. Oh, when she’d first gone to London, yes. She’d entertained romantic notions of suitors. More than one handsome lord had attracted her attention, but all for naught, as it turned out. None of them were acceptable to her father. Not one. They didn’t have enough money, and the one man who’d been wealthy enough to be acceptable to the Duke of Herridge ended up offering for another. And so, she’d been put back on the shelf, until the following season, at which time she was dusted off, dragged away from Chavensworth, and paraded among London’s elite once more.

  Thank heavens her father had refused to pay for another season. Nor had she allowed herself to think about a potential husband since that announcement. Instead, she’d busied herself with those tasks that occupied her days. There were always things to do, chores to accomplish. Each day had its purpose. She’d filled her life, given it meaning, one day after another. She had no need to dream of the future or to wonder about it. What she did today would need to be replicated for ten years or twenty years or even thirty. Nothing would essentially change, and in her routine, there’d been contentment.

  Douglas Eston had ruined that.

  Instead of contentment, now she felt only uncertainty and this curious loneliness that she’d never before experienced. She didn’t know the man, and there was no certainty that she would even like him once she became acquainted with him. Yet irrationally, unbelievably, she found herself thinking about him. Where was he? What was he doing? Why was he doing it? Was he safe?

  Why did she care?

  What if he came back while she slept? What if, somehow, he unlocked the door and came to the bed? Would he touch her? Would he place his hands on her, divest her of her twisting nightgown? Would he disrobe her in silence, expose her to the cool night air?

  Would he be able to see in the dark? Would his eyes have been so accustomed to the shadows of night that he could discern her shape? Or would he touch her with his hands, his fingers, sliding over the curves of her shoulders, down her arms to rest at her wrists? Would he press his fingertips against her breasts and cup his hands to measure their fullness? And through it all, would he whisper decadent things, shocking things to her?

  Or would this perusal of her be done in silence, as if the darkness demanded it?

  It was all his fault, of course, that she couldn’t sleep. Not only was he not there, and he should very much be there since he’d married her, but he’d set into motion all these thoughts by saying what he had last night. Dear heavens, was it just last night?

  I want to see your breasts.

  Oh. He had said nothing about touching her. Those had been her thoughts alone. Now, that wouldn’t do.

  She sat up again, punched her pillow once more, then flounced back on the bed, drawing the sheets up to her chin. She closed her eyes, determined to fall asleep and dream of pleasant things, and not of Douglas Eston.

  Chapter 10

  Sarah was awakened by a warm breath on her eyelids. In her dream, she was being cuddled by a fox, his tail whisking back and forth over her face. She drew back, blinked open her eyes reluctantly, and realized that she was face-to-face with her husband.

  Douglas smiled at her, his expression clearly visible by the lamp he’d lit. The wick was trimmed low, so the glow was barely visible beyond the bed, but she could see him quite clearly.

  Her eyes widened, and her breathing quickened. Her heart was beating so rapidly in her chest that it felt like a trapped bird.

  “You’ve returned,” she said, gathering up the sheets in front of her. They were no protection at all, but the barrier made her feel marginally better.

  “I have.”

  How utterly polite they were being, especially since she didn’t feel the least bit amiable toward him at the moment.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I was unpacking my crates,” he said.

  She frowned at him. “Why?”

  “To make sure my equipment was undamaged.”

  Of all the things he could have said, that was the one guaranteed to render her silent. She had thought that he might have gone to see her father, to complain about her behavior, perhaps. Or to see an old love.

  “You were unpacking your equipment,” she said softly. Repeating it aloud didn’t make any more sense.

  “If you’ll recall,” he said, smiling, “it’s the reason for our marriage. Your father expects me to fulfill my part of the bargain.”

  “You might have told me,” she said.

  “Were you worried? I should have told you not to worry.”

  “Do you have the power to command emotions?” she asked.
“If I had wished to worry, I would have, and I doubt anything you might say to the contrary would have stopped me from doing so.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did not,” she said. “In fact, I barely noticed you were gone.”

  And she wouldn’t notice that he was here now, except for the fact that he had rolled off the bed and was beginning to remove his clothes.

  With his eyes still on her, he slowly unfastened the row of buttons on his shirt. She looked away, down at the floor, across the bed, before returning her gaze to him.

  Was it considered proper for a wife to watch her husband disrobe? She didn’t think so, but despite herself, her gaze returned to him again and again.

  He was a well-made man. Quite a spectacular specimen of manhood, as a matter of fact. A statue of a young man in the Greek Garden was equally as fine, but after her mentally comparing the two, Douglas was the clear winner. Perhaps it was because he was human, and the statue was only marble. More likely it was because God’s handiwork was superior to anything that man could attempt to render.

  There, she’d managed to think of God, and in doing so she had turned her thoughts from a naked man.

  “I won’t undress in front of you if it disturbs you,” he said softly.

  “I think you do so to put me at a disadvantage, Mr. Eston.”

  Without warning her, he turned, giving her a picture of his back. Quite a handsome back it was, too, with those sinewy muscles and broad shoulders. There were two scars on his back that made her wish to reach out her hand and touch them, so odd were they. The first was a small line near his right shoulder. The second almost a circular scar near the left part of his back.

  He had been an adventurer, an explorer—of course he would have scars all over his body. His life had probably been one exciting event after another. Chavensworth was going to prove excessively tedious for him.

  When he walked from the bed, she had a fine view of tight buttocks. For a moment, she considered closing her eyes again. But who would know if she studied him?

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever seen a naked man, Lady Sarah?”

  Her gaze flew to the back of his head. How did he know?

  He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled.

  She really wished he wouldn’t smile, especially as he was still naked. Nor had he made any attempt to cover himself. Except for a quick flash of a glance, she had determinedly kept her gaze on his face. How very odd that night seemed to suit him. He was most attractive with his shadow of the beard. Almost wicked-looking.

  She shut her eyes before she was tempted to look lower than his chin.

  “Of course it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a man without clothes,” she said, refusing to be humiliated.

  “Do you care to reciprocate in kind?”

  She opened her eyes again, but this time she kept her gaze on the tester above her head.

  “I would venture to guess that you’ve seen a naked woman before, Mr. Eston.”

  “Ah, but I haven’t seen you.”

  She reached over and extinguished the lamp, then sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him before beginning to don her wrapper.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I only occupied the bed because you were not here, Mr. Eston. Now that you are, I shall return to my cot.”

  “A pity,” he said. “It’s a very large bed, and I’m very tired.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Go back to sleep, Sarah,” he said softly. “I’ll not bother you.”

  She wanted to ask him, irrationally and pedantically, if he would promise on his honor to leave her alone, but instead, she remained mute, removed her wrapper, and slid her legs below the counterpane. She lay back on the pillow, her arms at her side.

  When he lay beside her, his bare arm brushed against hers. Pulling away would have seemed rude, almost a rebuff. Instead, her skin warmed where they touched. Her little finger was beside his, and she didn’t doubt that if she moved her foot a little to the left, it would brush his leg.

  “Do you not sleep in a nightshirt?”

  “I do not. Nor have I ever. Nor will I ever.”

  “I locked the door,” she said.

  “I noticed.”

  Did he unlock it? Or did he force the lock? Had he damaged the door? She certainly didn’t want word of that getting around Chavensworth. She could just imagine the gossip below stairs.

  She wasn’t about to ask him. Nor could she get up and check herself. Not with him lying there naked.

  Moonlight shone into the room, too bright for her peace of mind.

  “Isn’t it odd,” she said. “I was so tired earlier, and now I don’t seem to be at all sleepy.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Had he already fallen asleep? If so, she envied him.

  Finally, he spoke. “Tell me what growing up at Chavensworth was like,” he said.

  “Busy,” she said, so quickly that it startled her. Nor had she envisioned telling him the truth, so starkly and unadorned. “I was very busy,” she added quickly. “Between my lessons from my governess and my lessons about Chavensworth, I had very few free hours.”

  He didn’t respond. No one had ever asked her about her childhood before now. No one had ever been interested.

  “And your childhood?” she asked politely.

  “I had few free hours as well,” he said.

  There was a tone in his voice that she wanted to examine, but before she could say a word, his hand reached out and covered hers. She was so surprised by the gesture that she didn’t know what to say.

  A few minutes later, she thought of a question. “Tell me about your adventures all over the world,” she said.

  “Tales of a foolish young man?”

  “Were you?”

  “At first,” he admitted. “I had to learn quickly, else I doubt I would have survived. I was all for seeing the world, for learning as much as I could about as many things as I could. I’ve always had a healthy curiosity.”

  She moved away, slid from beneath the sheets, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What’s the matter, Sarah?” he asked, leaning up on his elbow and looking over at her.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  He placed his hand on the small of her back. It was the first time he’d ever done so, the first time he’d ever touched her while she was so flimsily dressed. Only one small layer of clothing separated his bare palm from her bare back. Her body knew instantly, sending a shiver up her spine, tightening her nipples.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “You always want to know what I’m thinking,” she said, twisting to look at him. “What does it matter?”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “I am the Duke of Herridge’s daughter. The Duchess of Herridge’s daughter. Your wife. Can someone not once belong to me instead of me forever belonging to someone?”

  “So you would have me be Lady Sarah’s husband?”

  She knew only too well that she wasn’t being entirely rational. The moonlit night with its heady mix of warm, lavender-perfumed air seemed to call for strong emotion.

  “Is that why you wanted to see my breasts?” she asked. “Because of your healthy curiosity?”

  She spoke to the other side of the room, knowing that if she turned to face him, she probably wouldn’t have the courage to continue.

  “Why?” He laughed, a sound she hadn’t expected. “Sarah, I want to see your breasts so I can at least dream of how it will be to touch you.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re strangers to each other, and it’s too soon to take you as my wife.”

  Were all bridegrooms as considerate?

  “Besides, you’re a beautiful woman, and I’m a man who appreciates beauty. Especially beautiful breasts. But you needn’t worry, I’ve never yet ravaged a woman.”

  Women probably threw themselves at his feet, like roses wishing to shed their petals.

  S
everal moments passed.

  “Even if you weren’t my wife,” he said softly, “I would be taken by the striking color of your eyes, your black hair. Or perhaps it’s your bearing that entices me, your habit of looking at people intently, one eyebrow raised, as if you are waiting for them to prove themselves to you.”

  “I don’t do that,” she said, taken aback.

  “Yes, you do, and if you doubt me, I suggest you ask anyone at Chavensworth what it’s like to be stared down by Lady Sarah.”

  She faced forward, staring in the darkness, the moonlight adding shadows to the shape of the bureau. “Am I that frightening, truly?”

  “Not frightening it all,” he said. “Merely arresting.”

  He thought her eyes striking. Did he think the color of her hair was attractive? And her figure? He hadn’t said anything about her figure. Did he think her ugly and was just too kind to say?

  If she had any courage at all, she would confront him on that point. But she discovered that she wasn’t as brave as she thought herself to be, at least not in regard to her own appearance. Nor did she like facing the fact that she wanted him to consider her pretty, or if not pretty, then certainly acceptable.

  A word or two of flattery would not be amiss from time to time.

  Were men ever as uncertain about their own appearance? She had never heard that they were, and had it not been for her two seasons in London, she wouldn’t have known that other women felt the same way.

  Her mother had never spoken of her appearance, had never seemed concerned by it. She never spoke about her green eyes or mentioned her curling auburn hair. They were simply part of her, like her legs or her arms. Her mother seemed not to give a whit about her appearance and, until Sarah went to London, it hadn’t been her focus, either. Once there, however, she’d felt ugly, ungainly, and too tall.

  She didn’t have the blond locks and pale blue eyes that were all the rage. Her coloring was too stark, and different. Her figure was too odd, her breasts were too large in comparison to her waist, which was relatively small. She was used to her body, comfortable within it, understanding it, but until she went to London, she had never judged it.