Chapter Twelve #2
That was so opposite to the truth—that she was starting to care for him so deeply, she hardly knew what to do with herself when in his company—that Sarah just looked up.
Into his dark eyes and passionate expression. The way he looked at her, territorially in a way she could not decipher and was afraid to. The breadth of his shoulders, the power in his arms.
Sarah swallowed. How could she explain it? How could she make him understand that by coming here—but she shouldn’t have to! He was a duke, wasn’t he? He should know these things!
A strange uneasiness swept across her heart. He…he was a duke, wasn’t he? She only had his word for it, after all. Dukes did not typically reside in single rooms in Oxford colleges. She may not know any other duke in person, but she was at least sure of that fact.
He would not…he would not have lied, would he?
Sarah gazed deeply into those eyes and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he would not lie. He just couldn’t.
“I am not ashamed of you,” she said softly.
Just ashamed of how much she wanted him. How desire rose every time she saw him. How every fencing lesson was an opportunity to touch him, be touched by him. Tease him into another kiss…
“But?”
Sarah took his arm without any invitation and started to walk. The last thing she needed was her mother peering out of the window—which she undoubtedly would be—and presuming some sort of lover’s tiff.
The very idea!
“But,” Sarah said with a sigh. “Well, you know mothers, and mine is the very worst for…she’ll get the wrong idea. About this. About us.”
Her cheeks burned as she spoke, but she could comprehend no other explanation.
Was that a quirk of a smile on his lips? “And what is that wrong idea?”
Fury tinged with delight bubbled within Sarah as she looked up, all fire forgotten. How did he do that? Reduce her to a stammering idiot in his presence?
“You know,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to the pavement as they turned a corner.
Sarah felt, as well as heard, the duke’s chuckle. “And what is the right idea?”
Her cheeks were definitely burning, but there was nothing she could do to quiet her frantically beating heart.
“And what is the right idea?”
If she were bold, she would say that they should kiss again, wildly and passionately.
That he should propose on bended knee—preferably somewhere private, though Sarah would accept an audience if absolutely necessary—and then marry.
And make love. And make babies, and publish her poetry, and buy a dog, and—
A mere glance at Montague reminded Sarah precisely why all that could never happen.
His cane clacked along the pavement with every other one of his steps.
He is going back to France, Sarah tried to tell herself. Back to his regiment, and the war. Back to where he believes he has left his honor.
Far from her, at least.
“You are teasing me,” Sarah said aloud, ignoring her scattered thoughts and hoping she sounded impressive.
Montague chuckled. “Only a little.”
“Well, two can play at that game,” she said mischievously, an idea coming to her just as they turned onto another street. “Come on.”
She pulled him across the street, narrowly avoiding a carriage driven too fast. Her heart soared with excitement as they grew closer to it.
And then Montague groaned. “No.”
“You deserve it.”
“I beg of you—”
“Absolutely no prisoners,” said Sarah with happiness, power roaring through her.
She had never felt like this before, as though she were in control of a situation, as though she could speak so boldly to a gentleman.
But Montague was different. More than a gentleman, but somehow less. Nowhere near as frightening as he used to be.
A wide smile stretched Sarah’s mouth as they stopped outside the Norton Bookshop.
Montague groaned. “Books—this is going to be about poetry, isn’t it?”
“Is not life itself a great and wondrous—”
“Sarah Lockwood, I am going to drill you so hard at your next fencing lesson, you won’t be able to stand,” Montague murmured in her ear.
Tingles of pleasure and anticipation of more rushed over her skin. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Oh, the way he spoke to her…he could do that anytime, anywhere, and she would welcome it—but to do so here, in public!
Hoping her cheeks were not so crimson as to cause comment, she grinned. “You’ve schooled me thoroughly in your world, Your Grace. Let me introduce you to mine.”
The duke groaned as she pulled him into the shop. “But I’ve never met a poet I liked!”
“All the more reason to browse the shelves,” Sarah said, nodding at Mr. Norton, the owner, who beamed back at her. As well he might. She was probably one of his best customers.
All the fear and uncertainty about bringing such a man into such a place—being seen with Montague anywhere—melted away.
Sarah breathed in the heady aroma of books en masse, and knew this was a place where she could be confident. This was her territory, as it were, and Montague would be unable to overwhelm her here.
Probably.
At the moment, Montague was looking suspiciously at the bookshelves, which reached almost to the ceiling, stacked with leather-bound books of all shapes and sizes.
“You cannot have read all these.”
Sarah shook her head, pulling him toward the poetry section. “No—but that does not mean I am not making my best effort.”
Montague groaned. “And does that mean I have to read them all?”
“Just the best,” she said with a laugh. “Come, have you read Byron?”
It was a rather scandalous suggestion, even she would admit. Sarah watched as Montague’s eyes widened, watched as he glanced about the shop. They were alone, save for Mr. Norton who was otherwise engaged on the other side of the bookshop.
Before Sarah knew what was happening, before she could cry out—not that she would wish to—Montague had pushed her up against a bookcase and covered her body with his.
Oh, this was heavenly! Sarah stared into his dark eyes and saw something there she could not understand—though perhaps that was because her breasts were pushed up against his chest, his breathing erratic, her heart rate soaring—
And Montague breathed, “Byron? I prefer his earlier work, don’t you?
No more that bosom heaves for me,
On it another seeks repose,
Another riot’s on its snows,
Our bonds are broken, both are free.”
Sarah tried to breathe, but it was impossible. Such seductive poetry, whispered under Montague’s breath, his eyes never leaving hers…
Desire was roaring within her, desire that needed to be released.
She reached for his hand, but Montague was faster. He grabbed her wrist, pinning her hand to her side, and she whimpered with the intensity.
His eyes did not leave hers as he continued.
“No more with mutual love we burn,
No more the genial couch we bless,
Dissolving in the fond caress;
Our love o’erthrown will ne’er return.”
Sarah swallowed and tried to remind herself she was not about to be taken against a bookcase in Mr. Norton’s shop!
She saw the lust in Montague’s eyes. Probably not.
Clearing her throat, Sarah whispered, “A…a good poem. To Mary, I think it is called.”
Montague’s gaze flickered from her eyes to her lips, then further down. Sarah’s breath hitched in her throat, her breasts rising and pushing once more against his chest, as she allowed herself to be viewed.
Oh, this was…
“I suppose I would have preferred it if it were To Sarah,” Montague breathed.
He lowered his head, and Sarah’s eyelashes fluttered, unable to take in the heady experience of being kissed thoroughly by a duke in a bookshop—
“Miss Lockwood? That treatise on fencing you requested has arrived.”
Sarah’s eyes snapped open and she saw Montague chuckle as he stepped back.
Oh, to lose the connection of his body—it was an outrage!
She had to take several deep breaths before she was able to answer. “Th-Thank you, Mr. Norton, I-I shall be over there directly.”
Montague was grinning. “You know, I think I like poetry more than I thought.”
Sarah breathed a laugh as her only response. This duke was going to be the end of her.