Chapter 23
Douglas awakened to the feeling of Sarah’s skin against his. His right hand lay on her hip, as if claiming her even in sleep. He lay still, listening to her breathe, the curve of her derriere against his cock coaxing him stiff without one movement on her part.
Raising himself on one elbow, he studied her as she slept. Were all women as beautiful? Despite a wealth of experience with women, he’d never been captivated by the sight of one asleep.
But then, Sarah had been a first for him in a great many ways.
He’d never before been taken by a woman so instantaneously, to the degree he’d married a stranger.
He’d been astonished by the sheer amount of work she performed, by her judgment and persistence.
His heart had been touched by her grief, and by the depth of her courage.
A touch of pink colored her cheek; a smile curved her lips. He fought a battle with himself—to kiss her or to leave her in peace?
She’d been a virgin the night before. He needed to restrain himself, not a common response around a beautiful woman, especially the one who was his wife.
She had the ability to arouse him simply by walking into a room, but he doubted she was aware of his reaction.
Or the fact that he’d been in love with her from the very moment he’d seen her—he, Douglas Eston, scientist, adventurer, explorer, a man with a single-minded focus on his own pursuits.
Her hair was strewn across the pillow. She would fuss at him this morning for the time it took to comb out the tangles. He smiled. Perhaps she would allow him to be her maid.
Watching her sleep made him melancholy for some odd reason. Was it because he felt closer to her now than he would when she was awake? She’d become the duke’s daughter then, a woman born to privilege, unlike him.
He left the bed, grabbed his clothes, and dressed in the sitting room. A quick glance at the mantel clock assured him he had plenty of time before his meeting.
Douglas left the chamber without disturbing Sarah, almost immediately regretting his chivalry and the fact that he hadn’t kissed her.
When she awoke, Douglas was gone. Sarah sat up on the edge of the bed, realizing she was sore in places she’d never before felt.
This matter of being a wife was a great deal more complicated than she’d believed.
It wasn’t simply losing her virginity. She was not prepared for the emotions, either.
She felt absurdly joyous, then just as oddly filled with sorrow, as if consummating her marriage had set her on a journey from one emotion to its extreme counterpart.
Perhaps her confusion was due to her mother’s death and the fact that tears were never far away.
Her grief was almost like a black miasma hanging over her head, surrounding her like a veil.
Even in the midst of it, however, she’d smiled and felt amusement, and the layering of that emotion on top of her sorrow seemed to give it a different dimension.
So did passion.
He’d put his mouth on her. He’d kissed her just below her shoulder on the upper curve of her breast. He’d kissed her everywhere tenderly and lingeringly, then delivered her delight, offering it up to her with the knowledge that her body was capable of bliss.
She stared down at her feet. How strange that they didn’t seem like her feet. But then, her body didn’t feel quite hers either. Nothing felt the same. Even the morning air was a little different, as if she’d never before noticed what it was like to feel chilled.
She didn’t know what to do, how to behave, and in a lifetime of being told how to act, how to comport herself, she was left floundering.
She wasn’t certain that what had happened last night was proper at all, but there was no one to ask, of course.
There were some questions, evidently, that were destined never to be voiced.
Perhaps she should simply ask Douglas. She would frame the question in a very desultory manner, as if she were not even interested, then pay great attention to his answer.
“Does everyone do this?” There, that seemed like a proper enough question.
“Does every woman want to do this?” A less proper question, but closer to what she truly wished to know.
“How do you make me want to do this?” That question was devoid of pretense entirely.
Why did she feel warm every time he came close to her? Why did her breath feel tight and her heart begin to pound so relentlessly even when looking at him?
Slipping from the bed, she went into the bathing chamber and took care of those necessary morning ablutions.
She really should ring for Florie, but she wanted a few more minutes to herself.
Standing at the foot of the bed, she looked up at the mussed pillows.
The sheets were tangled, and there was an impression on the side of the mattress where Douglas had slept.
Why hadn’t he awakened her? Or had he been as strangely sensitive this morning as she felt? But then, he wasn’t a virgin, was he?
After last night, almost any question should be acceptable to ask.
Evidently, she wasn’t expected to observe a mourning period for her marital duties. Was it entirely proper to feel so delighted at that prospect?
A knock on the door made her sigh, and she grabbed her wrapper and answered it. A young maid stood there, nearly bent over with a heavy tray, and standing next to her was her cousin, exquisitely gowned in a lovely emerald day dress Sarah recognized as French.
She directed the maid to the sitting room and greeted Linda.
“Grandfather says you should be shown Kilmarin,” Linda said. “Shall we meet in the Great Hall? In an hour?”
Sarah nodded, and her cousin turned and walked down the corridor without another word. Did Linda resent her presence at Kilmarin? Or was she just short with everyone? The lamentable fact was that her cousin was not entirely likeable.
Anthony, Duke of Herridge, surveyed himself in the mirror.
He was not a vain man, yet for the first time in his life he was conscious of the fact that while he might possess an acceptable appearance, he was not handsome.
However, he was the Duke of Herridge. A heritage of twelve generations preceded him. Chavensworth accompanied him.
Soon, he would have to begin looking for a bride, one with a fortune to bring to their marriage. A fertile girl, as well, one who would give him a son.
He went to the bureau, withdrew the jewelry box, and overturned it on the top of the bed. The pieces were small, inconsequential. Hadn’t he given Morna anything better over the years?
He’d hardly had the money, had he? He’d married her thinking that her wealth would solve his dilemma. Instead, her family had disowned her, and he’d been left with a wife and the same problem: no funds.
If he were a yokel, he could live well at Chavensworth.
The family estate had always paid its way.
But he was destined for better things, for cosmopolitan life in London, for entertainments.
For that he needed money. An heiress was the answer.
First, however, he had to bolster his bargaining position.
What the hell had Eston been doing all this time?
He walked to the door, opened it, and shouted for Simons.
A half an hour later Sarah was dressed, her hair set to rights, and she was waiting in the Great Hall. Being perennially early was a fault, perhaps, but she’d been taught that it was rude to be late to any meeting.
When she’d agreed to meet in this room, she’d not realized that the chamber would be so oppressive, even on a sunny day.
Its dark shadows and weapons of death did not lend itself to pleasant thoughts.
She was very much filled with pleasant thoughts this morning.
In an attempt to retain her good mood, she wandered out a door she’d not seen the night before and into a portico that led, surprisingly, to a garden.
Flowers blossomed along the path, their full-bodied heads bowing beneath the brush of her skirt.
Sarah halted, taking in the wonders of this unexpected oasis of beauty: the birdbath in the shape of a giant lily pad, the gurgling fountain with a wolf’s head, the graveled walks adjacent to the walls and cutting through the internal square in an X.
Lining the walks were hedges and more plants, left to grow as high as they wished.
The whole of Kilmarin’s walled garden was a hodgepodge of types and heights of flowers, in abundant and glorious profusion.
The sound of the birds was comforting although she couldn’t see them. Had they been rendered invisible in this enchanted garden? Or simply perched high in the branches of the trees? Sarah could also feel a soft breeze and suspected it came from another hidden corridor.
Benches were placed against each of the four walls, as if to encourage the examination of the garden.
Sarah sat, drawing her skirts around her.
Dancing light filtered through the fully leafed branches of the trees and played on the stone path.
This was a lovely place to be alone, and she reveled in the peace and silence.
She needed the solitary moment.
Even in the midst of the quiet, with the sound of the birds and the fountain to keep her company, her mind was occupied with recollections of last night.
“You’re the Englishwoman.”
Sarah looked up to find that the garden wasn’t solitary after all. A man dressed in dark brown trousers and a white shirt stood at the corner of the garden staring at her.
Slowly, he advanced, stopping until he was only feet away.
His eyes were the same shade as hers, and his hair the same color. His nose was not unlike hers as well. In fact, his features were so similar, it was almost like looking into a mirror, if the mirror had been a masculine one.
“Aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m Sarah Eston,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Brendan Tulloch.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “You’re Morna’s daughter,” he said, studying her intently.