Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires (3 page)

Snowball darted off beneath a fern, and Sarah swore with vigor. Hands clenched into two tight fists, she prepared to rise and give whatever creature it was that had produced the sound a proper set down, when a voice spoke, saying, “Aren't you a bit too old to be crawling about on the floor?”

Sarah froze. If the grunt had belonged to a pig, she might have understood. A pig would not have been clever enough to know what Sarah was trying to accomplish, but then again, a pig would not have been roaming around a conservatory either. Her irritation grew. Of course her efforts had failed because of a man. Brilliant!

Expelling a deep breath, she unclenched her fists, closed her eyes for a brief second and rose, determined to avoid a quarrel with the foolish individual behind her. She prayed that somehow she'd find the ability to be polite in spite of her annoyance. “Sir,” she started to say as she turned toward the dunce, “I will have you know that I . . .” Her words trailed off as he came into view.

Heaven above if the addlepated dunderhead had not been graced with looks that could easily make a roomful of women swoon. Sarah steeled herself. She would not allow his handsome face to affect her. “Where else should I be, all things considered?”

“On your feet?” he suggested, as if he were speaking to a child.

Sarah glared at him. “Obviously,” she said. “Why on earth didn't I think of that?”

Idiot.

The man's eyes widened as he leaned back a notch, and Sarah realized to her horror that she'd spoken the insult out loud.

 

Chapter 2

C
hristopher trained his features. Surely the young lady—­if such a term could even be used to describe a woman who scrambled about on the floor—­had not just called him an idiot. The look of horror upon her face confirmed that indeed she had, and as he stood there staring back at her, wondering what she would say next, Christopher considered taking the gentlemanly approach and saying something to save her from further embarrassment. He quickly dispelled the notion. “Do your parents approve of your poor manners?”

“
My
poor manners?” Her eyes glinted. “I . . . I . . . I will have you know—­”

“Yes, so you said before, and as a result, my eagerness to discover what it is you wish for me to know is increasing by the second.” Then, to prove himself completely unsympathetic, he followed the statement by saying, “By the way, there's dirt along your hemline.”

She dropped her gaze, shifted a little, then let out a sigh. “So there is,” she said, her tone suggesting that the state of her gown was presently of very little concern to her.

Clearing his throat to fill the silence that followed, Christopher stepped forward, intending to make up for his poor behavior by introducing himself properly. But as he moved toward her, she quickly retreated, the heel of her foot hitting the edge of the path just as a gasp burst from between her rosy lips. One second she was standing upright, and the next she was tumbling backward, arms flailing as she reached for something to grab onto.

He was before her in two long strides, his arm reaching around her back, catching her while her weight carried him forward until he loomed over her, one leg bending at the knee as his booted foot sank into the boxed soil behind her. She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide, and he became instantly aware of their inappropriate closeness.

“What are you doing?” she asked irritably.

“Isn't it obvious? I'm saving you.”

“As gallant as that may seem, you wouldn't have had to make the effort if you'd only stayed where you were.”

“Are you saying this is my fault?”

“Of course it is. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to return to an upright position.” Briefly, Christopher considered dropping her. Thinking better of it, he pulled back instead, bringing them both away from the dirt. He immediately released her, aware that she was looking terribly shocked, perhaps even frightened. “Forgive me,” he said as she stepped out of his reach. Bowing, he added, “Viscount Spencer at your ser­vice, Lady . . . ?”

“Sarah,” she supplied. “Lord Andover's eldest.”

“Ah.” He studied her a moment, deciding that she must be roughly twenty years of age. That meant she would have made her debut years ago, yet he failed to recall ever meeting her before. How curious, considering that her hair was such a pale shade of blonde it bordered on white and was bound to draw attention. Silence drew out between them, and he became acutely aware of just how inappropriately alone they were. Why the devil hadn't he noticed it sooner? Christ, what a bloody idiot he was for allowing himself to forget how manipulative the fairer sex could be.

He leaned toward her, perversely pleased by the little gasp of distress she exerted, her eyes darting about as if seeking escape. “How did you find me?” he asked. It had to be his mother. Or perhaps one of his sisters? Somehow one of them must have discovered his hiding place and sent Lady Sarah after him.

“Wha-­what do you mean?”

“I think you know,” he told her gruffly. “You. Me. Alone. All we need now are some witnesses and you can look forward to becoming Viscountess Spencer. But just so you know, I will ruin you before I marry you if that is indeed your game.”

She edged away from him, her breaths coming short and fast while her throat worked at getting her words out. “You're mad,” she muttered, her hand rising like a shield before her. “Stay back! Don't you dare come any closer.”

Studying her, he noted the fear that rose from the depths of her clear blue eyes. Was it genuine? Or just another part of the game she played? Miss Hepplestone had been an exemplary actress, portraying any emotion at will. “You should leave,” he muttered, hating the power Miss Hepplestone still held over him after all these years. She'd made it impossible for him to judge ­people objectively.

“I cannot,” Lady Sarah said, not budging an inch in spite of her clear apprehension. She crossed her arms and stared back at him with defiance, eventually saying, “I have to find Snowball first.”

Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Snowball?”

“Yes, my lord.” When Christopher said nothing further, momentarily distracted by an unexpected curve to her lips, she added, “My pet hamster.”

His frown deepened. “Pet hamster?”

Lady Sarah sighed, her posture going from rigid to . . . less rigid. “I am aware that repetition can be useful when acquiring a new skill, my lord, but I fail to understand its purpose at present unless it is to help you with your comprehension?”

Christopher forced his expression to remain still. By deuce if the chit had not just insulted his intelligence. Again. He should be offended, but to his amazement he found her candor oddly refreshing. It was absurd, except that she appeared to be quite serious as she peered back at him with . . . concern? “I suspect you think me obtuse, my lady.” She didn't respond in the affirmative, but she didn't deny the claim either. There was something admirable about that. Christopher straightened himself. “I was merely surprised, that is all. A lady with a pet hamster named Snowball is somewhat unusual, wouldn't you agree?”

Her lips parted ever so slightly. For a long moment she remained unmoving, saying nothing, and Christopher wondered briefly if time had perhaps frozen to a halt. “Not to me, it isn't,” she finally said.

“No,” he agreed as his gaze swept over her. “I don't suppose it is.”

Something flashed behind her eyes. Uncertainty perhaps? She sighed again, this time with very clear frustration. Unfolding her arms, she spread them wide, raised her eyebrows and said, “Well? Are you just going to stand there, or will you help me find him? After all, it is your fault he went missing in the first place.”

“I don't see how it can possibly be my fault, since I was fast asleep at the time.”

“Precisely,” she muttered, turning away from him and peering through the greenery.

Apparently, she'd decided that he didn't pose a threat after all, or perhaps finding her blasted hamster was just more important than her own safety. Christopher was damned if he knew. “You're doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

Christ, she could be infuriating.

“Speaking in ambiguities. And just so you know, I abhor ambiguities.”

“Then let me be clear,” Lady Sarah said as she moved along the path, her eyes searching the undergrowth. “When I arrived here, I thought the room was empty. But then there was a sudden grunt, which startled me, causing me to drop Snowball.”

“A grunt?”

“Precisely. It was not entirely dissimilar to the sound a pig might make,” she explained, “but now that I've discovered you were sleeping in here, I think it's safe to assume you were . . . snoring.”

Christopher's lips twitched. “Lady Sarah, did you just compare me to a pig?” He ought to feel affronted. Instead, he found her strangely amusing.
Be careful,
an inner voice warned. He stopped the smile that threatened.

Sarah hesitated, her focus riveted on the undergrowth as she fought the distraction Lord Spencer offered. “I wouldn't dream of it, my lord.” She was mortified by each word she'd spoken since making his acquaintance. Really, there was no excuse for it—­not even after his unpredictable outburst earlier. To think that he would accuse her of trying to trap him into marriage. What a ridiculous notion. Still, she wasn't fool enough not to recognize a threat when she saw one. Good heavens, he was a handsome devil, with that penetrating gaze of his and that mouth forever promising to smile without actually doing so. It was maddening.
He
was maddening. She had to find Snowball so she could escape.

“I think you did,” he said.

Sarah blinked. What was he talking about? Rummaging through her brain, she sought the answer, embarrassed all over again the moment she found it. “To be precise,” she said, “I wasn't comparing you to a pig, my lord. I was merely comparing your snore to a pig's grunt. There is a difference.”

“I think you just insulted me again,” he said, sounding pensive.

Indeed she had, though she was too deep in her own mess by now to right her wrong with a mere apology. Still, she decided to make an attempt at it, since it was clearly the proper thing to do. So she straightened herself and spun toward him, eager to have it over and done with, only to find herself chest to chest with the man. Her breath caught, heat flooding her cheeks as her hands came up of their own volition, grabbing at his shoulders as she tried to steady herself.

He reached around her, holding her still, and she looked up, her eyes meeting his—­dark and unyielding. She gasped then, realizing her mistake. They were close—­too close—­and she was too aware of him, his heat, his strength, his scent. The man was a threat—­a danger she had to avoid. Experience screamed for her to beware. She decided to listen. “If you'll please release me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. He let her go and she took a step back. “That was terribly careless of me, Lord Spencer. Whatever must you think?”

His mouth was set in a firm line. “That the conservatory appears to be a hazardous place for you, Lady Sarah, considering that I've had to rescue you twice already.”

She wanted to look away, to run, hide and retreat. To think that she had silently referred to him as foolish—­an addlepated dunderhead—­when she herself could hardly be credited with exhibiting much intelligent thought since making his acquaintance. Not that she cared about his opinion. Really, what did it matter if he considered her a clumsy dimwit incapable of keeping her balance? Ignoring the voice that told her it mattered more than she wanted it to, Sarah looked him straight in the eye and said, “Then perhaps you'll be good enough to help me find my hamster so I may leave?” Inhaling deeply, her nose filling with the scent of wet soil, she quietly added, “Please.”

“I'd be delighted to,” he said, his expression softening. It even looked as though he just might smile this once. Instead he turned away and disappeared around a corner.

Recalling her task, Sarah continued along the path she was on, anxious to find Snowball. What on earth had she been thinking, venturing downstairs on her own in a house she didn't know? And now, here she was, alone with Lord Spencer. It was a situation she of all ­people should have known to avoid. Really, she was far too curious for her own good—­a trait that had led her into trouble on too many occasions.

Hurrying after Lord Spencer, her slippers tapped bluntly against the tiles as she approached the spot where he now stood. “Shh!” He raised his finger to his lips to underscore the need for silence.

Sarah paused, her gaze dropping to the same bit of plant-­filled dirt he was looking at. She spotted a streak of fuzzy white fur. Snowball. Holding her breath, Sarah watched as the viscount crouched down slowly, the fabric of his breeches tightening across his thighs as he did so. A shiver spread across Sarah's back. She ought to look away, but it was impossible with her eyes already roaming to the wide sweep of Lord Spencer's shoulders, the tousled coffee-­colored hair in need of combing, hands large enough to encompass her own and legs she'd made a stoic attempt to ignore, but couldn't.

And then, like a wolf on the prowl, he lurched forward, hands swooping down on their prey as he tried to grab Snowball. “Damn!” The expletive was swiftly followed by “I beg your pardon, but that's one swift creature you've got there, my lady.” Instead of a hamster, Lord Spencer was holding a lump of dirt, which he quickly discarded before shooting to his feet and darting along the path, clearly giving chase.

Sarah rushed after him, almost skidding sideways as the path curved to the right. She nearly collided with Lord Spencer when he came to an abrupt halt. “Blast,” he muttered. “I think I lost him.”

Sarah studied the ground on both sides of the path, her eyes seeking white amidst the green, or even the slightest movement that would give her a hint of Snowball's presence. “You almost had him before, but then . . .” What was she doing? Was she seriously going to criticize his efforts, when he had agreed to help her?

“Then what?” he asked, hands on hips as he turned a pair of narrowed eyes on her.

“Nothing,” Sarah said. Blast her quick tongue. She should learn to keep her thoughts to herself. “Let's keep looking, shall we?”

“Not until you tell me what you were about to say.”

Lord, the man was stubborn. “I already told you it was nothing.”

He leaned toward her, crowding her with his much larger size. “I think you were about to tell me it's
my
fault your hamster ran off again.”

“You obviously frightened him,” Sarah said. She was tempted to say,
again
but thought better of it. Already she didn't like the way Lord Spencer was looking at her—­as if he was considering marching her back to her parents and asking them to keep her under lock and key.

“As it happens, I am perfectly content with returning to the comfortable chair I was occupying before you woke me,” he said as he started moving away.

Sarah couldn't blame him. In the space of half an hour she'd been less than polite toward him, all because he made her feel uncomfortable. But that wasn't his fault. It was hers. “I'm sorry,” she said.

He stopped. Turned. One eyebrow rose slowly as he regarded her with his dark eyes. “I beg your pardon?”