Cheryl Holt (10 page)

Still, she struggled not to be petty or bitter over all the blessings that had been conferred on Sarah and that she perpetually took for granted. After all, Sarah had offered her shelter at a desperate time, and because of her generosity, Rebecca had managed to gain Hugh’s regard. If Sarah hadn’t asked her to live at the estate, Rebecca would never have had a chance at Hugh’s affection.

Considering all that Sarah had done for her, she tried not to be resentful, yet she was irked that Sarah refused to utilize her assets to help Hugh. Through the simple step of marrying—which was unconditionally required for a woman of her class and station—she could fix so many problems.

That’s why Rebecca had concocted her scheme to see Sarah expeditiously wed. Rebecca wanted Sarah gone from Scarborough, plus she wanted to make Hugh proud. He never was, always claiming she was useless and ineffectual.

Despite the three Seasons she’d joined him in town, acting as his hostess and more, he was never satisfied with how she carried out her tasks. But she’d show him!

For a long while, she’d been reflecting on how she could force Sarah into marriage. Sarah seemed in no hurry to accomplish the deed, so Rebecca merely intended to give her a little shove in the right direction.

When the invitation had come from Lady Carrington, Rebecca had instantly mulled the possibilities and decided it would be the ideal method of achieving her goal. Since he knew how ribald the party would be, it had been easy to convince Hugh that Sarah should attend. The opportunity to have her completely compromised was simply too good to pass up, and Rebecca wasn’t about to be thwarted.

She’d invested too much energy, and endured too much of Hugh’s distasteful conduct, to admit defeat. If Rebecca had anything to say about it, Sarah’s reign at Scarborough was about to conclude, because Rebecca had other motives, more personal ones, for wanting Sarah gone from Yorkshire. She didn’t dwell upon them, because she hated to
seem exceedingly covetous, but once Sarah wed and went to live with her husband, Rebecca would finally get to marry Hugh, just as he’d promised from the first time she’d shared his bed.

She’d become the mistress of Scarborough.

And wasn’t that a glorious notion? How she’d lord it over all those slothful servants who perpetually treated her like a dreaded poor relation! Once she was their countess, they’d snap to when she passed! She’d dreamed about it at length and often, and the fantasy was about to change into reality.

So . . . though she liked Sarah well enough, she also believed that—sometimes—you had to lend fate a hand. Sarah would marry eventually, and Rebecca pictured herself as simply hurrying matters along, and she wasn’t unduly bothered about the identity of the prospective bridegroom. As far as she was concerned, men were all alike. Any of them would be acceptable so long as they had money. Lots and lots of money to bail Hugh out of his latest misfortune.

There were a half-dozen suitable prospects already on the premises and, upon perusing Sarah, each had expressed an interest in what they presumed would be a tiny taste of her abundant delights, although with Rebecca’s solicitous facilitation, a
taste
would develop into the full meal. She’d do anything to become Hugh’s wife, and like it or no, one of the blasted fellows would be betrothed to Sarah in the impending fortnight.

She peeked over her shoulder, stealthily appraising Michael Stevens as he walked Sarah up the hill toward the manor, and she couldn’t help but notice how the two of them were whispering as though they were fondly acquainted. Sarah was captivated by the notorious gambler and ladies’ man—just as Rebecca had suspected she would be.

Now, all Rebecca need do was work on the timing. She thought she’d had it arranged the prior evening but, for some reason, Stevens hadn’t followed through as Rebecca
had postulated he would. He hadn’t been in Sarah’s room when she’d
happened
to stop by, but clearly, something had occurred between them.

“Oh, well”—she reminded herself of the adage—“good things come to those who wait,” and she was extremely patient.

How could Sarah resist the man’s precarious charms? And if, at the conclusion, Sarah’s husband turned out to be Michael Stevens, wouldn’t that be the most apt resolution for all concerned?

From somewhere distant, a clock chimed the midnight hour, and Sarah slipped from her bed and crept to the peephole in her dressing chamber. After retiring, she’d lounged and walked the floor, occasionally checking to see if anyone occupied the hidden room, but so far, it had been empty, and her apprehension and anticipation grew.

Michael Stevens completely absorbed her thoughts. Their nude encounter the previous evening, followed by their brief chat on the lawn that afternoon, had her head spinning. She’d kept tiptoeing to the door that separated their suites and pressing her ear to the wood, yearning to detect him moving about, but her attempts had been greeted by silence. No one appeared to be there.

Once, she’d even firmly and carefully turned the knob, though she wasn’t certain of her intent should the loathsome thing have swung open. Almost with relief, she’d discovered it locked from his side, precluding any decision about how she’d progress, or there was no telling what heedless act she might have perpetrated.

Would she have brazenly entered? Searched his personal papers or read his diary? Hoping to find what?

Though she hated to admit it, she was desperate to breathe the air he inhaled, to inhabit the territory where he roamed, to handle his belongings, to rifle through his shirts, and examine his cuff links. Thank goodness he’d had the foresight to secure his door, thus preventing any such foolishness on her part!

Cursing her sorry, disordered mental state, she climbed onto the footstool and, silent as a mouse, adjusted her eye to the peephole. She froze; her heart pounded. The event
for which she’d been waiting all day was about to commence.

Michael Stevens rested against the pillows and sipped red wine from a stemmed goblet. His steady gaze remained fixed on the entrance.

He was once again wearing only a pair of trousers, chest bared, and the sight was extremely arousing. All that naked male flesh, all that dark, swirled hair, was unsettling and thrilling. She longed to run her fingers through the matted pile, to rub her nose against it, while she traced over sinew and bone.

With a slow hand, he stroked the bottom of his chalice against his torso, arcing down in circles to his stomach, then lower, to the ridge in his trousers. The motion induced him to stir uncomfortably, and his groin flexed.

Just then, a woman joined him, another cloak shielding her identity, but she wasn’t the same lover Sarah had spied upon the night before. She moved differently, and she was shorter and broader across the shoulders and buttocks.

Mr. Stevens rose up off the cot and stalked toward her like a predatory beast, all elegance and smooth, menacing purpose. His whole torso seemed to glimmer with an undefinable emotion that reached out to Sarah, billowing across her nerve endings, tickling her abdomen and breasts. A wall separated them, yet he beguiled her, and she couldn’t prevent herself from wishing that his enticing regard was focused in her direction.

How she’d adore the chance to become the female enclosed with him! To stand next to him, to bask in his presence, to have those stunning blue eyes searching her own. If she was ever lucky enough to acquire a subsequent opportunity at being sequestered with him, she wouldn’t be so quick to send him packing!

Mr. Stevens began with the same question he had the prior night. “What’s your name?”

The woman spoke softly and, as before, Sarah couldn’t detect her answer.

“Who is your husband?” There was a telling silence, a
muttered comment, then Michael’s sarcastic grin, and Sarah would have given all she possessed to behold the woman’s expression. Finally, he asked, “What is it you would like to do for me?”

After a lengthy hesitation, the woman leaned forward and whispered in his ear, hovering close. He’d cocked his head, listening, and Sarah suffered a strange flash of envy and jealousy at noting their nearness, but she impelled herself to remain calm. To watch. To study. No matter how disturbing, she had to ascertain what they were contemplating.

“Ah . . .
I
get to choose . . .” he mused. “Have you been informed about what I like best?”

The woman nodded and said something, but the only word Sarah could decipher was
mouth
, and, upon hearing whatever she was suggesting, Mr. Stevens’s eyes glittered with triumph. What was it that he liked
best?
There seemed to be a cryptic code to these assignations that everyone could interpret but herself, and not understanding the intricate meanings was the worst sort of torture.

“And you’re still inclined to proceed?”

Another nod.

“I’m a big man. Bigger than most.”

“Aye,” the woman murmured, “so I’ve been told.”

“Once you’ve started, you have to finish. You might find it unpalatable.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong. I expect it will be
very
pleasant.” The woman was obviously regarding him speculatively, appraising his marvelous physique. “I wouldn’t have scheduled an appointment if I wasn’t disposed to continue to the end.”

For what precisely was he contracting?
Sarah wondered. How many ways could a man and woman delight in each other’s physical company? Plainly, there were many clandestine behaviors about which she was unaware, though Mr. Stevens had hinted at some of them during his abridged visit.

Eagerly, she eavesdropped, anxious to learn more.

“Are you undressed under your cloak?” Mr. Stevens inquired.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Coming up behind her, he trapped her in the corner, and she stiffened at the sudden contact. His hands fell to her waist, and the muscles across his back tensed and bulged as he pulled her against him. She unfastened the clasp, and he dictated, “Push it off your shoulders.”

She complied, but the hood stayed on, so her face was still hidden, and Sarah’s view included the woman’s arm and back. Mr. Stevens’s questing fingers lifted to cradle her breasts and, although Sarah couldn’t see the maneuver, she sensed his ministrations.

He was trifling with the woman’s nipples, twisting and twirling them as he had Sarah’s own, and she observed, stimulated and agog. He rocked his front against his lover’s backside, and he dallied, his searching hands never still, until he had her squirming. The woman groaned, as though in misery, but Mr. Stevens only gripped her tighter.

“Does your husband touch you like this?” he queried.

“No, never.”

“How about like this?”

“No,” the woman repeated, gasping and writhing, and Sarah received the distinct impression that he was smirking and preening.

Men! She’d never comprehend their thinking or their motives!

She strained against the peephole, but she couldn’t discern exactly what he was affecting. He was caressing the woman, but how? How was he provoking her to dissemble so dramatically?

His paramour was definitely relishing his thoroughness. Guttural moans issued from her throat, a fist wrestled against the leg of his trouser, grappling for purchase against the taut fabric. In visible ecstasy, her head tipped back, and Mr. Stevens kissed and bit against her nape.

He rotated her, until they were facing the mirror, and
the moment became too personal for Sarah, because she recalled only too well how he’d positioned
her
when he’d been in her dressing room, how he’d cupped her breasts and toyed with her nipples. She could still vividly recall the heat and scent of his skin, the strength of his resolve.

Her nipples began to ache. With each beat of her heart, her pulse pounded through them. They cried out for a type of relief she couldn’t describe and, hoping to ease their distress, she covered one of them with her palm. The contact set off a maelstrom of agitation that rolled through her chest and rushed down her stomach, centering between her legs.

Her womanly cleft dampened, the flesh swelled. In agony, she grazed down her abdomen to her wet core. Even through the fabric of her nightrail, she could feel the radiating warmth. Her total being pleaded for a release that was outside her realm of experience, and a frantic longing seemed about to sweep her away. Without a doubt, the novel, strange appetites were stirred by what she was perusing.

Stop watching!
she ordered herself.
This isn’t right or proper
. But she could no more quit than she could halt the sun from rising on the morrow. She was mesmerized by the sight of his bronzed fingers on the woman’s pale breast. The display incited unnatural cravings and kindled formerly shrouded desires, desires that she had no means of quelling.

Although she should have felt ashamed or—at least—confused, she simply became more and more curious.

Unrepentant, she pressed against the peephole, braced for more.

Mr. Stevens’s arm was draped across the woman’s torso and spread low where Sarah couldn’t investigate its performance. Presumably, he was fondling her cleft as he had Sarah’s, and the woman zealously luxuriated in his intimate treatment. Their bodies rode together in an adapted rhythm, the woman making pitiful, begging noises.

“Look at us,” Mr. Stevens commanded. “Look at what I’m doing to you, and say my name.”

“Michael Stevens,” she replied.

“Louder.” She uttered it distinctly, and he appeared exultant. His hips ceased their perpetual movement. “I’ll have you now,” he declared. “On the bed.”

Where the minute before, he’d been amorously attuned and greedy for her, he’d instantly changed, strutting away as though he hadn’t a care, as though it didn’t matter if the woman followed.

Sarah held her breath as he relaxed and arranged a pillow. What did he propose? What would he require?

She couldn’t see enough of the room to know!

Frustrated, she attempted to alter her location on the stool, peering up and down, seeking a wider panorama, but to no avail. The peephole offered only limited access. Mr. Stevens’s head and chest were discernible, but not his waist or anything lower.