The Taste of Innocence Read online

  She’d thought the same. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  But the last person she wished to discuss Madame’s revelations with was him. She glanced around as they strolled side by side, then realized the others were nowhere in sight. “Where are the others?”

  “They headed this way.”

  She glanced at him, waiting, but he didn’t add anything, no suggestion that he intended to find, let alone rejoin, the rest of their group. She thought, then inwardly shrugged. That suited her well enough.

  Especially given Madame Garnaut’s revelations. If matters were going to be complicated and if all would hinge on her decision, then the more she knew…

  Her gaze fell on a portly figure, nattily dressed, promenading down the alley toward them. She leaned closer to Charlie. “I gather you keep abreast of changes in the industries around Taunton. Have you met Mr. Pommeroy?” With her head, she indicated the man approaching. “He’s the owner of the new cider company—they’ve set up premises just outside town.”

  “Out to the west, isn’t it? I’ve heard of it, but I rarely pass that way.” Charlie drew his gaze from Mr. Pommeroy and met her eyes. “Do you know him?”

  She nodded. “He’s taken on two apprentices from the orphanage so far.” Without waiting to be asked, she put on her best smile and angled toward Mr. Pommeroy.

  Noticing her approaching, he beamed and halted. “Miss Conningham.” He took her hand between both of his. “I have to tell you those two lads of yours have been working out very well—very well, indeed. If you have any more like them coming along, we’ll be happy to have them join us.”

  “Excellent!” Retrieving her hand, Sarah gestured to Charlie. “Might I introduce Lord Meredith?”

  Mr. Pommeroy was gratified. He bowed. “My lord.”

  Charlie nodded, precise and correct. Mr. Pommeroy introduced his wife, after which he and Charlie spent the next five minutes talking of factories, and yields, and transport. Sarah listened; she was always on the lookout for any new openings for the orphans—such as the increase in carting that, from Charlie’s and Mr. Pommeroy’s discourse, she realized must be occurring. She made a mental note to have a word with Mr. Hallisham, who owned the local cartage business.

  Mrs. Pommeroy, however, despite the smile fixed on her face, started shifting. Taking pity on her, Sarah intervened; under cover of asking a more general question, she pinched Charlie’s arm. He glanced at her, but fell in with her clearly concluding remarks, and they parted from the Pommeroys.

  As they moved on, she murmured, “You can ride out and visit him sometime. It doesn’t do to put up the backs of owners’ wives.”

  Charlie’s brows quirked, then his lips curved and he inclined his head. “I suppose not.”

  “Lady! Pretty lady!”

  They’d turned into the next avenue of booths. An older man with a broad weathered face and gnarled hands waved Sarah to his counter.

  “Come see! Just right for you—pretty as a picture.” His head bobbed as, beaming, he beckoned her nearer. Curious, she stepped his way. He glanced down at his tray, thick fingers picking over his wares, searching. “Straight from London. Enamels from Russia. Perfect colors for you.”

  There was no harm in looking. Sarah towed Charlie to the booth, stopping before the raised counter.

  “Ah!” The man looked up. Draped over his large fingers he displayed a necklet of interlinked enamels. A medley of bright spring greens and summer blues patterned on white decorated each shield-shaped piece. The strand looked ridiculously delicate against the man’s huge hands.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. She reached to touch.

  “Come.” The trader whisked out from behind the counter. “You try it and see.”

  Deftly, he strung the necklet around Sarah’s throat and fastened the catch.

  Charlie watched, resigned; he had to give the man points for adroitness. He knew how to sell to ladies.

  But the necklet did indeed suit Sarah. Head tilted, Charlie examined it, considered how it looked on her as, fingers lifting to stroke the enamel, she studied her reflection in a spotty mirror the trader had produced from beneath his counter.

  The effect was…complex. The enameling appeared to be quite fine. The result was a piece that melded innocent simplicity with the decadence of vibrant color.

  One look at Sarah’s face was enough to tell Charlie that she appreciated the piece as much as he. He didn’t need to glance at the shrewd trader to know the man was now watching him closely—ready to encourage him to indulge and impress his lady.

  Charlie studied the necklet. The light seemed to corruscate with color when it struck. Despite an ingrained resistance to wasting any blunt on fairground gegaws, he raised a finger and traced the shields. In the mirror, Sarah glanced at him; he saw but didn’t meet her gaze.

  The work was smooth, as good enamels should be. Hooking a fingertip inside the strand, he flipped it so the underside showed.

  And was impressed. The work on the reverse of the shields was of similar quality to that on the faces.

  Alathea had a fondness for enamels—preferably from one of the Russian masters. From her he’d learned the rudiments of distinguishing good from bad. This piece wasn’t from one of the masters’ studios, but it was a significant cut above the average.

  Having a business-trained face was so useful. His expression utterly impassive, he met the trader’s gaze. “How much?”

  Sarah blinked at him. She’d intended buying it for herself, he realized, but when he didn’t look her way, and instead engaged the trader in a brisk round of bargaining, she closed her lips and let him buy it for her.

  A small, almost insignificant victory, yet he felt it to his marrow.

  By the time he and the trader exchanged nods and he and Sarah stepped away from the booth, he’d bought not just the necklet, but also a ring and three brooches. One brooch for Alathea in red, black, and gold, and one for Augusta in her favorite purple, amethyst, and mauve. Steering Sarah away from the counter, he halted her by the side of the booth and pinned the third brooch, a match for the necklet in blues and greens, into the lapel of her riding habit.

  Lips gently curved, she brushed her fingers across the surface, then looked up into his face. “Thank you. They’re very pretty.”

  He met her gaze for an instant, then looked down, found her right hand, and raised it. Slipping the matching ring onto her middle finger, he raised her hand and laid it at her breast so he could view all three pieces together.

  He did, and felt his lungs contract. He knew he was looking at enamels, but that wasn’t, in his mind, what he was seeing.

  Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “Until you agree to let me give you something more valuable.” Her lips quirked, but before she could speak he asked, “Have you seen the Morwellan emeralds?”

  She blinked, then slipped her hand into his arm; they started strolling once more. “No.” Frowning, she shook her head. “I can’t recall ever seeing—”

  “You might not have. Mama rarely wears them—they don’t suit her. They’re pale, clear, and flawless. The set—necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring—contains the largest group of perfectly matched emeralds currently known.” He glanced again at the woman on his arm—his countess. “They will suit you.”

  She glanced up and met his eyes. “If I marry you.”

  There was no “if” about it. The quiet challenge in her eyes provoked a quiet storm in him—an impulse to react and ruthlessly quash her resistance, to deny beyond doubt or even imagination that there was any other outcome possible. A muscle in his arm flexed. In something close to horror, he fought down the nearly overwhelming urge, primitive and powerful, to demonstrate the truth for her in simple, impossible-to-misconstrue actions, to make it plain that she was his.

  His. He felt his jaw set. He fought and forced himself to acknowledge her words—her right to deny him—with an inclination of his head. Then he faced forward, unseeing, still struggling to subdue his reaction.


  He wasn’t, hadn’t thought himself, a particularly possessive man. So where had such intensity come from? Why was it so strong, and what did that mean?

  Regardless, if he gave in to it, if he in any way let her guess that in truth she had no choice—that she hadn’t had any choice from the moment he’d stood in her father’s drawing room and offered for her hand, quite aside from all that had passed between them since—if he gave her any inkling that their path was set regardless of her thoughts, he would run into a wall of feminine resistance.

  One he knew well enough to avoid. Alathea had a similar defense, that construct of a steely female will, and so did many, if not all, the Cynster ladies. No sane male knowingly provoked such a defense.

  There were some battles from which it was wiser to retreat.

  He repeated those strictures until he calmed, until that prowling, lurking beast she’d pricked settled grudgingly back to watch, and wait.

  Strolling by his side, Sarah pretended not to notice the tension that had flared, that he’d subdued and smothered, but that only gradually faded from the arm on which her hand lay.

  Only gradually did the large hard body pacing beside her regain its customary loose-limbed ease, his signature grace.

  Once it had, she breathed a little more easily. He definitely didn’t like her even obliquely suggesting that she might not marry him. Which again raised the question of what it was that was driving him—why he was so intent on marrying her.

  If only he would tell her, life—his and hers—would be considerably simpler, yet it was patently clear that he didn’t wish her to know. So she’d have to keep pressing, holding to her line, until she learned enough to understand.

  “Miss Conningham!”

  “Yoo-hoo, miss!”

  Sarah halted and turned. Smiling, she watched three lads—well, they were young men now—come pushing through the crowd. Reaching her, all three bowed their best bow, then grinned at her cheekily.

  “I say, miss,” Bobby Simpson said, “have you seen the half man–half woman? He’s in a tent over there.”

  “He—or she. It’s really amazing, miss,” Johnny Wilson averred.

  Naturally the boys thought that that was the most exciting sideshow. Sarah swallowed a laugh. “What else is there to see?”

  They were only too happy to pour into her ears a catalogue of the carnival delights to be found on the perimeter of the fair. They’d known her through their formative years and felt no constraint; they eagerly gave her their young male views. They’d noticed Charlie by her side—how could they not?—noticed that her hand lay on his arm, but from the quick, uncertain glances they threw him, none of the three had recognized him.

  Eventually their patter ran out.

  “Thank you. Now I know what there is to see in the remaining time I have.” She indicated Charlie. “This is Lord Meredith.”

  All three immediately tugged their forelocks; they recognized the title well enough.

  “Now tell me,” Sarah continued smoothly, “how are you getting on at the tannery?”

  They told her, but their eagerness in that was clearly not matched by their fascination with the fair. Smiling, she let them go. After quick bows to her and Charlie, they pelted off through the crowd.

  Charlie watched them disappear. “There must be quite a few around here who know you through the orphanage.” They started strolling again. “How many such do you release into the world each year?”

  “It varies. And there are girls, too. They go into the major houses, most often as maids but sometimes in training as cooks.”

  They continued on down the alleyways of the fair, idly scanning the booths, resisting all inducements to draw near and sample the wares, or to view the numerous sideshows. The crowd of children before the Punch-and-Judy was considerable; they paused at the edge of it and watched for a time, more entertained by the children and their raucous reactions than the show itself, then walked on.

  Nothing occurred to reinvoke their earlier clash of wills, for which Sarah was grateful. She saw no benefit in further prodding a point over which she knew he would react.

  His uncanny, indeed ruthless and quite relentless habit of always getting his own way, regardless of his outward charm and apparently easygoing nature, was well recognized within his family and, courtesy of his sisters, had long been well known to her, too. Intriguingly, he hadn’t attempted to charm her. A wise decision; glib charm never worked well with her, and in his case, she saw through his veneer as if it were thinner than a gossamer veil.

  She knew what he was, underneath the glamor; the closer they drew, the more time they spent together, she realized that that was true—more true than she’d realized. That her vision of him was…as clear and flawless as his family’s emeralds. She’d somehow always known him in a way she couldn’t explain.

  And as she wasn’t yet able to tell him yay or nay, and from the occasional sidelong glances he threw her, his gaze sharp as a lance, studying her face, she knew that he was evaluating ways and means to bring her answer—the right answer—about, it was undoubtedly wise to let the question lie, unresolved and for now unapproached between them.

  To night would be soon enough to push ahead with that.

  Such were her thoughts. Her nerves and senses, however, were nowhere near as well ordered. As cool and collected.

  She wished they were. Wished that her senses wouldn’t leap and jump whenever the crowd forced them close, that her nerves didn’t make her shiver with reaction when, in a sudden crush, his arm brushed her breast.

  As the afternoon rolled on and the crowd grew denser, all Charlie’s misgivings over the outing were borne out. Unfortunately, he derived no joy from having been right in his predictions. Not even a perverse joy from knowing that Sarah was equally susceptible, that her nerves skittered every time he touched a guiding hand to her back, that her breath caught, suspended, when in the press of bodies his thigh brushed hers.

  Then a rowdy group of journeymen came caroling and leaping down the crowded alleyway, their rush forcing all others to give way, to draw aside and let them pass.

  The sudden movement threatened to bowl over those walking at the edge of the alley.

  Charlie reacted instinctively, whipping an arm around Sarah and half lifting, half sweeping her out of danger, into the protective lee of his body, and then into the cramped space between two booths.

  The wave of jostling humanity rolled through the crowd and past. To the sound of curses, the pack of overexuberant young men disappeared, leaving those scattered in their wake to right themselves, dust themselves off, and resume their more sedate progress.

  Leaving Charlie and Sarah upright, but close. Very close.

  He’d been watching the young men disappear; as he turned his head to look at her, he felt a shiver of sensual awareness, of sheer sensual anticipation, ripple through her from her shoulders to her knees. Felt his reaction—not a shiver—race through him, hot, ardent, hungry, and greedy, even before his eyes met hers.

  And he saw his own need, his own flaring desire, mirrored in the cornflower blue of her eyes.

  Her lips were parted, her breath caught, her hands raised between them, suspended before his chest; she didn’t know where to put them, knew well enough not to touch him, but she wanted to.

  That last was a palpable, tangible thing, real enough to feel like a caress even without the contact. In response his own need rose in a surging wave, like a cat arching into that phantom caress. Wanting more.

  For one definable instant, he teetered on the brink of surrendering—to his need and hers. Taking just one moment to let passion have its way—but it wouldn’t be for just one moment.

  Dragging in a breath and easing back, deliberately breaking the spell, was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was a wrench, a pain, a denial that hurt. Both of them.

  He managed to step back; taking her hand, he drew her, unresisting, out of the cramped space, back into the alleyway. Linking their arms, he turn
ed; after an instant’s hesitation, they resumed strolling.

  Minutes passed before they were breathing freely again.

  He drew a deeper, still not entirely steady breath. Eyes fixed forward, he said, “To night.”

  A statement, no question. He felt her gaze briefly touch his face; from the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.

  She looked ahead. “Yes. To night.”

  To night they would deal with what had flared between them.

  For now…“This crowd is getting too dense for comfort.” Talk about stating the obvious. “Perhaps we should head for the meeting place.”

  She glanced at the clock tower; the time was two-thirty. But she nodded. “The crowd might be less thick over there.”

  To their mutual relief, that proved to be the case. Even more helpfully, the others had also found the increasing crowds off-putting; within ten minutes, they’d all arrived.

  “How about a quick tea at the Arms before we take to the saddle?” Jon suggested.

  The group agreed. They walked back to the Arms. After duly refreshing themselves, they mounted their horses, and headed north for their homes.

  Sarah rode alongside Charlie and tried not to think. Not to dwell on that fraught moment between the booths, not to dwell on their interlude to night. To night would be time enough to think of that. Until they were alone, there was nothing more they could do.

  Nothing to quell the urgency driving them, or still the insistent pounding in their veins.

  7

  He wasn’t there when she reached the summer house, sunk in the quiet of the night. She listened, but heard nothing beyond the soft slink of the water over the lip of the weir, no footsteps, no impatient strides approaching.

  Pressing her hands together, straightening her curling fingers, she forced herself to calm; drawing in a steadying breath, she willed her wits from the whirl of anticipation they’d too eagerly allowed to claim them. She tried to think, to reason, tried to focus firmly on her goal, reminding herself of what that was and how she intended to pursue it.

  How she intended to force him to reveal what lay behind his desire for her.