The Taste of Innocence Read online

Another frisson, different, more intense, slithered down Sarah’s spine.

  “Well, m’boy—” Lord Conningham broke off and laughingly grimaced at Charlie. “Daresay I shouldn’t call you that anymore, but it’s hard to forget how long I’ve known you.”

  Seated in the chair before the desk in his lordship’s study, Charlie smiled and waved the comment aside. Lord Conningham was a bluff, good-natured man, one with whom Charlie felt entirely comfortable.

  “For myself and her ladyship,” Lord Conningham continued, “I can say without reservation that we’re both honored and delighted by your offer. However, as a man with five daughters, two already wed, I have to tell you that their decisions are their own. It’s Sarah herself whose approval you’ll have to win, but on that score I know of nothing what ever that stands between you and your goal.”

  After a fractional hesitation, Charlie clarified, “She has no interest in any other gentleman?”

  “No.” Lord Conningham grinned. “And I would know if she had. Sarah’s never been one to play her cards close to her chest. If any gentleman had captured her attention, her ladyship and I would know of it.”

  The door opened; Lord Conningham looked up. “Ah, there you are, m’dear. I hardly need to introduce you to Charlie. He has something to tell us.”

  With a smile, Charlie rose to greet Lady Conningham, a sensible, well-bred female he could with nothing more than the mildest of qualms imagine as his mother-in-law.

  Ten minutes later, her wits in a whirl, Sarah left her bedchamber and hurried to the main stairs. A footman had brought a summons to join her mother in the front hall. She’d detoured via her dressing table, dallying just long enough to reassure herself that her gown of fine periwinkle-blue wool wasn’t rumpled, that the lace edging the neckline hadn’t crinkled, that her brown-blond hair was neat in its knot at the back of her head and not too many strands had escaped.

  Quite a few had, but she didn’t have time to let her hair down and redo the knot. Besides, she only needed to be neat enough to pass muster in case Charlie saw her in passing; it was too early for him to be staying for luncheon and there was no reason to imagine that her mother’s summons was in any way connected with his visit…other than the ridiculous suspicion that had flared in her mind and set her heart racing. Reaching the head of the stairs, she started down, her stomach a hard knot, her nerves jangling.

  All for nothing, she chided herself. It was a nonsensical supposition.

  Her slippers pattered on the treads; her mother appeared from the corridor beside the stairs. Sarah’s gaze flew to her face, willing her mother to speak and explain and ease her nerves.

  Instead, her mother’s countenance, already wreathed in a glorious smile, brightened even more. “Good. You’ve tidied.” Her mother scanned her comprehensively, from her forehead to her toes, then beamed and took her arm.

  Entirely at sea, her questions in her eyes, Sarah let her mother draw her a few yards down the corridor to an alcove nestled under the stairs.

  Releasing her arm, her mother clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Well, my dear, the long and short of this is that Charlie Morwellan wishes to offer for your hand.”

  Sarah blinked; for one instant, her mind literally reeled.

  Her mother smiled, not unsympathetically. “Indeed, it’s a surprise, quite out of the blue, but heaven knows you’ve dealt with offers enough—you know the ropes. As always the decision is yours, and your father and I will stand by you regardless of what that decision might be.” Her mother paused. “However, in this case both your father and I would ask that you consider very carefully. An offer from any earl would command extra attention, but an offer from the eighth Earl of Meredith warrants even deeper consideration.”

  Sarah looked into her mother’s dark eyes. Quite aside from her pleasure over Charlie’s offer, in advising her in this, her mother was very serious.

  “My dear, you already have sufficient comprehension of Charlie’s wealth. You know his home, his standing—you know of him, although I accept that you do not know him, himself, well. But you do know his family.”

  Taking both her hands, her mother lightly squeezed, her excitement returning. “With no other gentleman have you had, nor will you have, such a close prior connection, such a known foundation on which you might build. It’s an unlooked-for, entirely unexpected opportunity, yes, but a very good one.”

  Her mother searched her eyes, trying to read her reaction. Sarah knew all she would see was confusion.

  “Well.” Her mother’s lips set just a little; her tone became more brisk. “You must hear him out. Listen carefully to what he has to say, then you must make your decision.”

  Releasing her hands, her mother stepped back, reached up and tweaked Sarah’s neckline, then nodded. “Very well. Go in—he’s waiting in the drawing room. As I said, your father and I will accept whatever decision you make. But please, do think very carefully about Charlie.”

  Sarah nodded, feeling numb. She could barely breathe. Turning from her mother, she walked, slowly, toward the drawing room door.

  Charlie heard a light footstep beyond the door. He turned from the window as the doorknob turned, watched as the door opened and the lady he’d chosen to be his wife entered.

  She was of average height, subtly but sensuously curved; her slenderness made her appear taller than she was. Her face was heart-shaped, framed by the soft fullness of her lustrous hair, an eye-catching shade of gilded light brown. Her features were delicate, her complexion flawless—including, to his mind, the row of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. A wide brow, that straight nose, arched brown brows, and long lashes combined with rose-tinted lips and a sweetly curved chin to complete a picture of restful loveliness.

  Her gaze was unusually direct; he waited for her to move, knowing that when she did it would be with innate grace.

  Her hand on the doorknob, she paused, scanning the room.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. Even across the distance he sensed her uncertainty, yet when her gaze found him she hesitated for only a second before, without looking away, she closed the door and came toward him.

  Calmly, serenely, but with her hands clasped, fingers twined.

  She couldn’t have expected this; he’d given her no indication that marrying her had ever entered his head. The last time they’d met socially, at the Hunt Ball last November, he’d waltzed with her once, remained by her side for fifteen minutes or so, exchanging the usual pleasantries, and that had been all.

  Deliberately on his part. He’d known—for years if he stopped to consider it—that she…regarded him differently. That it would be very easy, with just a smile and a few words, for him to awaken an infatuation in her, a fascination with him. Not that she’d ever been so gauche as to give the slightest sign, yet he was too attuned to women, certainly, it seemed, to her, not to know what quivered just beneath her cool, clear surface, the sensible serenity she showed to the world. He’d made a decision, not once but many times over the years, that it wouldn’t do to stir that pool, to ripple her surface. She was, after all, sweet Sarah, a neighbor’s daughter he’d known all her life.

  So he’d been careful not to do what his instincts had so frequently prompted. He’d studiously treated her as just another young lady of his local acquaintance.

  Yet when he’d finally decided to select a wife, one face had leapt to his mind. He hadn’t even had to think—he’d simply known that she was his choice.

  And then, of course, he had thought, and visited all the arguments, the numerous criteria a man like him needed to evaluate in selecting a wife. The exercise had only confirmed that Sarah Conningham was the perfect candidate.

  She halted before him, confidently facing him with less than two feet between them. Confusion shadowed her eyes, a delicate blue the color of a pale cornflower, as she searched his face.

  “Charlie.” She inclined her head. To his surprise, her voice was even, steady if a trifle breathless. “Mama said you wi
shed to speak with me.”

  Head high so she could continue to meet his gaze—the top of her head barely reached his chin—she waited.

  He felt his lips curve, entirely spontaneously. No fuss, no fluster, and no “Lord Charles,” either. They’d never stood on formality, not in any circumstances, and for that he was grateful.

  Despite her outward calm, he sensed the brittle, expectant tension that held her, that kept her breathing shallow. Respect stirred, unexpected but definite, yet was he really surprised that she had more backbone than the norm?

  No; that, in part, was why he was there.

  The urge to reach out and run his fingertips across her collarbone—just to see how smooth the fine alabaster skin was—struck unexpectedly; he toyed with the notion for a heartbeat, but rejected it. Such an action wasn’t appropriate given the nature of what he had to say, the tone he wished to maintain.

  “As I daresay your mother mentioned, I’ve asked your father’s permission to address you. I would like to ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  He could have dressed up the bare words in any amount of platitudes, but to what end? They knew each other well, perhaps not in a private sense, but his sisters and hers were close; he doubted there was much in his general life of which she was unaware.

  And there was nothing in her response to suggest he’d gauged that wrongly, even though, after the briefest of moments, she frowned.

  “Why?”

  It was his turn to feel confused.

  Her lips tightened and she clarified, “Why me?”

  Why now? Why after all these years have you finally deigned to do more than smile at me? Sarah kept the words from her tongue, but looking up into Charlie’s impassive face, she felt an almost overpowering urge to sink her hands into her hair, pull loose the neatly arranged tresses, and run her fingers through them while she paced. And thought. And tried to understand.

  She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had to, every time she first set eyes on him, pause, just for a second, to let her senses breathe. To let them catch their breath after it had been stolen away simply by his presence. Once the moment passed, as it always did, then all she had to do was battle to ensure she did nothing foolish, nothing to give away her secret obsession—infatuation—with him.

  It was nonsense and brought her nothing but aggravation, but no amount of lecturing over its inanity had ever done an ounce of good. She’d decided it was simply the way she reacted to him, Viking-Norman Adonis that he was. She’d reluctantly concluded that her reaction wasn’t her fault. Or his. It just was; she’d been born this way, and she simply had to deal with it.

  And now here he was, without so much as a proper smile in warning, asking for her hand.

  Wanting to marry her.

  It didn’t seem possible. She pinched her thumb, just to make sure, but he remained before her, solid and real, the heat of him, the strength of him wrapping about her in pure masculine temptation, even if now he was frowning, too.

  His lips firmed, losing the intoxicating curve that had softened them. “Because I believe we’ll deal exceptionally well together.” He hesitated, then went on, “I could give you chapter and verse about our stations, our families, our backgrounds, but you already know every aspect as well as I. And”—his gaze sharpened—“as I’m sure you understand, I need a countess.”

  He paused, then his lips quirked. “Will you be mine?”

  Nicely ambiguous. Sarah stared into his gray-blue eyes, a paler shade of blue than her own, and heard again in her mind her mother’s words: Think very carefully about Charlie.

  She searched his eyes, and accepted that she’d have to, that this time her answer wasn’t so clear. She’d lost count of the times she’d faced a gentleman like this and framed an answer to that question, couched though it had been in many different ways. Never before had she even had to think of the crux of her reply, only the words in which to deliver it.

  This time, facing Charlie…

  Still holding his gaze, she compressed her lips fleetingly, drew in a breath and let it out with, “If you want my honest answer, then that honest answer is that I can’t answer you, not yet.”

  His dark gold lashes, impossibly thick, screened his eyes for an instant; when he again met her gaze his frown was back. “What do you mean? When will you be able to answer?”

  Aggression reached her, reined but definitely there. Unsurprised—she knew his charm was nothing more than a veneer, that under that glossy surface he was stubborn, even ruthless—she studied his eyes, and unexpectedly found answers to two of the many questions crowding her mind. He did indeed want her—specifically her—as his wife. And he wanted her soon.

  Quite what she was to make of that last, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she know how much trust she could place in the former.

  She was aware that he expected her to back away from his veiled challenge, to temporize, to in one way or another back down. She smiled tightly and lifted her chin. “In answer to your first question, you know perfectly well that I had no warning of your offer. I had no idea you were even thinking of such a thing. Your proposal has come entirely out of the blue, and the simple fact is I don’t know you well enough”—she held up a hand—“regardless of our long acquaintance—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean—to be able to answer you yay or nay.”

  She paused, waiting to see if he would argue. When he simply waited, lips even thinner, his gaze razor sharp and locked on her eyes, she continued, “As for your second question, I’ll be able to answer you once I know you well enough to know which answer to give.”

  His eyes bored into hers for a long moment, then he stated, “You want me to woo you.”

  His tone was resigned; she’d gained that much at least.

  “Not precisely. It’s more that I need to spend time with you so I can get to know you better.” She paused, her eyes on his. “And so you can get to know me.”

  That last surprised him; he held her gaze, then his lips quirked and he inclined his head.

  “Agreed.” His voice had lowered. Now he was talking to her, with her, no longer on any formal plane but on an increasingly personal one; his tone had deepened, becoming more private. More intimate.

  She quelled a tiny shiver; at that lower note his voice reverberated through her. She’d wanted to increase the space between them for several minutes, but there was something in the way he looked at her, the way his gaze held her, that made her hesitate, as if to edge back would be tantamount to admitting weakness.

  Like fleeing from a predator. An invitation to…Her mouth was dry.

  He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “So how long do you think getting to know each other better—well enough—will take?”

  There was not a glint so much as a carefully veiled idea lurking in the depths of his eyes that made her inwardly frown. She was tempted to state that she had no intention of being swayed by his undoubted, unquestioned, utterly obvious sexual expertise, but that, like fleeing, might be seriously unwise. He’d all too likely interpret such a comment as an outright challenge.

  And that was, she was certain, one challenge she couldn’t meet.

  She hadn’t, not for one moment, been able to—felt able to—shift her gaze from his. “A month or two should be sufficient.”

  His face hardened. “A week.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That’s impossible. Four weeks.”

  He narrowed his back. “Two.”

  The word held a ring of finality she wished she could challenge—wished she thought she could challenge. Lips set, she nodded. Curtly. “Very well. Two weeks—and then I’ll answer you yay or nay.”

  His eyes held hers. Although he didn’t move, she felt as if he leaned closer.

  “I have a caveat.” His gaze, at last, shifted from her eyes, drifting mesmerically lower. His voice deepened, becoming even more hypnotic. “In return for my agreeing to a two-week courtship, you will agree that once you answer and ac
cept my offer”—his gaze rose to her eyes—“we’ll be married by special license no more than a week later.”

  She licked her dry lips, started to form the word “why.”

  He stepped nearer. “Do you agree?”

  Trapped—in his gaze, by his nearness—she managed, just, to draw in a breath. “Very well. If I agree to marry you, then we can be married by special license.”

  He smiled—and she suddenly decided that no matter how he took it, fleeing was an excellent idea. She tensed to step back.

  Just as his arm swept around her, and tightened.

  His eyes held hers as he drew her, gently but inexorably, into his arms. “Our two-week courtship…remember?”

  She leaned back, keeping her eyes on his, her hands on his upper arms. His strength surrounded her. She felt giddy. “What of it?”

  His lips curved in a wholly masculine smile. “It starts now.”

  Then he bent his head and covered her lips with his.

  2

  She’d been kissed a number of times. None of them had been like this.

  Never before had her senses spun, never before had her thoughts suspended. Simply stopped.

  Stopped to allow sensation to burgeon, to well and grow and fill her mind.

  She didn’t question the wisdom of it, couldn’t think enough to do so. Couldn’t free her mind from the sinfully tempting touch of his lips on hers, from the artfully applied evocative pressure, from the warmth that seemed to steal into her bones—just from a simple, not-so-innocent kiss.

  A kiss with which he fully intended to steal away her wits.

  She realized, understood, yet was too intrigued, too enthralled, to deny him.

  Charlie knew it. Knew she was fascinated, that she was perfectly willing to have him show her more.

  Precisely as he wished, as he wanted.

  Enough; this was supposed to be just a kiss, nothing more. Yet to his surprise it took an exercise of will before he could bring himself to give up the subtle plea sure. Before he could force himself to break the kiss, to draw back from the rose-tinted lips that had proved more luscious, more tempting, than he’d thought.