The Governess Club: Sara (10 page)

She had to stop. Constantly thinking about it wasn’t helping her. The water would help. The freezing water would help her to stop thinking about Mr. Grant. It had worked before and it would work now.

It had to.

She couldn’t keep thinking about Mr. Grant and his chilly blue eyes that warmed to hot springs right before he kissed her. And his lips were anything but cold—hot bricks had been pressed against her mouth, skillfully used to send her own temperature skyrocketing.

And in the shop, when his tongue touched her ear . . .

Hussy!

Sara covered her face. How could she have enjoyed such a thing? Why would he even think of doing that? Mr. Pomeroy would never consider doing something like it.

The thought of the vicar sent more waves of confusion over her. How could she be thinking of Mr. Grant and his tongue when it was the vicar she should be thinking about? She shouldn’t be wondering about why he was dreaming about her and she shouldn’t be secretly anticipating when he appeared in hers.

You are shameless, girl!

Sara plunged herself under the freezing water again, but Mr. Grant still persisted in her thoughts.

G
oddamnit!
His clatter of his cane on the floor ricocheted off the library walls when he threw it at the sofa. He had meant for it to land quietly on the cushions, but as with everything else in his life at this present moment, he bloody well made a mess of it all.

Nathan turned on his good heel and strode to the window. He pressed his fists against either wall beside the frame and leaned toward the glass. Inches away from resting his forehead on it, he pushed himself away with a growl and stalked over to the fireplace. He put his elbow on the mantle and stared into the cold hearth. Nothing but a pile of gray ashes that Sawyer had not cleaned up; it did not provide him with what he sought.

On that, he turned again and went to the liquor cabinet. He had threatened Sawyer with his life if the decanters were left empty and the man had yet to disappoint. The amber brandy splashed into the crystal tumbler and he lifted the glass to his lips, downing the spirit. He poured himself another one and took a generous swallow.

What in God’s bloody name was I thinking?
Accosting a respectable, unmarried young woman in public?
Nathan shook his head in disgust.

What the hell had he become? Had his years in Parliament corrupted him so much that he no longer had the common courtesy and respect a gentleman shows others? If his grandmother saw him now, she would turn from him in shame after giving him a well-deserved slap on the head.

More brandy slid down his throat, a bit more slowly this time. What did it say about him that even knowing what he did was wrong he did not regret feeling her body against his again? Feeling her nicely rounded backside against his groin had him counting in Latin to save himself embarrassment in the middle of the mercantile.

He hadn’t planned on approaching her at all, didn’t even know she was in town when he happened to see her through the window. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was standing beside her, goading her into conversation.

The snap of anger in her eyes aroused him even now.

Nathan tossed back the rest of the brandy and poured himself his third. His mouth twisted; his third in less than ten minutes. He put the stopper back into the decanter and turned, his eyes falling on his favorite chair to lounge in, the one in which he had held Sara and kissed her for the first time.

He wished he remembered it more. Perhaps that was why he had been so intent on provoking her today—he wanted to replace the blurry sensations with more substantive ones. Every single touch in the mercantile had set his nerves on fire, as though it was the first time he had ever done so. Her ear had tasted so sweet on his tongue and if she hadn’t moved away from him, he would have indulged in another lick.

He knew she had sat on his lap. He knew he had run his fingers through her hair. He knew he had kissed her and had kissed her deeply. He knew his tongue had been in her mouth.

But he had been too damned drunk to remember any of it clearly enough to enjoy the memory. And he knew that it would easy to blame it on that bloody letter, but it wasn’t the letter that had poured his drinks or lifted the glass to his lips.

He looked down at the glass in his hands. His third at a pace that would make university students stand up and cheer. A scowl curled down his mouth.

This had all been his decision. The escape from London, the drinking, the misanthropic behavior. It didn’t matter what had prompted him toward the decision; the truth remained that it was his decision and his alone.

And he didn’t like himself anymore.

That realization startled him into dropping his tumbler on the floor. Brandy splashed his boots and trousers, but he barely noticed. He couldn’t even pinpoint when he had begun to dislike who he had become, but he did not doubt the veracity of the sentiment.

His mind started racing. Had it begun with his first bribe? His first broken political promise? The first time a disgruntled constituent spat on him?

The drinking. The foul language. The volatile temper. The unreliability. The running from all he knew. The accosting of an innocent young woman. All his charges added up, increasing his guilt.

Nathan shook his head to stop the flurry. It didn’t matter when it had started; what mattered was that he was at the point where he no longer someone he could like, someone his grandmother would be proud of.

Bloody hell, what was he going to do? The first thing he could do would be to stay away from the spirits.

The second thing would be to stay away from Miss Sara Collins. No matter how tempting she was, no matter how good she felt against his body, no matter how much he wanted to kiss her again.

He would stay away from her. And let that goddamned bloody vicar have her.

T
he end of May had arrived and people were eager for the charity fair. Children’s activities and performances were arranged for during the day and the evening had a traveling theater troupe performing for the adults, followed by bonfires and feasting and dancing. It was a yearly event that the Ladies Auxiliary for the Betterment of Widows, Orphans and Other Unfortunates held to raise funds for said unfortunates, and Claire and Sara had helped by organizing the children’s performance for their parents and other adults in the town.

Sara now stood several feet away from the dancing floor, watching her friends laugh and twirl, smiling at how much they were enjoying themselves. Claire and Louisa never lacked for partners, much to Jacob’s dismay. He consoled himself by frequently claiming a husband’s privilege to dance with his wife; if they had been in London, it would be a scandal. Sara thought he didn’t mind this particular adjustment to country life.

Bonfires and torches lit the area, fighting off the chill of the spring night. More than one couple disappeared into the darkness, Sara noted. Mr. Pomeroy, recently returned from Ramsey Gate, had shared supper with them, but excused himself soon after, explaining that there are some things the vicar should not be a witness too; it was much easier to discuss it with repentant souls when you were not a participant, he declared with a rueful smile.

Tugging her shawl around her shoulders, she smiled at passing revelers. People greeted her and called out congratulatory comments for the successful children’s pantomime, at which she blushed with pleasure. No one stopped, however, to speak with her at length, and no one asked her to dance, aside from Jacob. She could not refuse her friend’s husband, but winced with embarrassment with every misstep and crunch of his toes. Jacob was kind enough not to comment and even asked her again later, but she preferred to stand on the sides, away from the more crowded areas, and watch her friends enjoy themselves.

Sara glanced over at the food table, constantly refilled by volunteers, her gaze lingering particularly on the pasties and sweets. Supper had been just before sunset and her stomach was beginning to grumble again.
Surely a pasty or two wouldn’t hurt
, she thought.
Claire and I worked hard with the children, so perhaps I deserve a treat.
Thinking more on it, her mouth began to water with the thought of the crescent-shaped delight.

She continued to convince herself of the merits of eating a pasty this late at night, her eyes roving over the dancers again. The music had ended and everyone was applauding while preparing for the next set. Sara smiled when she saw Jacob whisper something in Claire’s ear and her responding laugh and gentle touch to his arm. Louisa had left the floor with some ladies Sara recognized from church and was quenching her thirst at the lemonade table. As she watched, a young man Sara didn’t know approached her friend and spoke to her, gesturing to the dance floor. Louisa stiffened when he first spoke, but after a lengthy perusal of the man and some questions, gave her assent and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.

The couples were lining up, giving Sara a clear view across the floor. It was then she saw him, Mr. Grant, and her breath caught in her throat.

He was standing directly opposite her, his gaze intent as he met her eyes. With his black clothes, he blended into the darkness, the bonfires trying to illuminate him with little success. They had not encountered each other since that day in the shop; although she had seen him lurking around the fair, he had not approached her, despite their gazes meeting several times.

She had come to expect the intensity with which he looked at her; it both confused and thrilled her. Since the shop, she now knew that his look meant he desired her. Mr. Pomeroy didn’t look at her like that; if he did, she was unsure if it would have the same effect on her as Mr. Grant’s gaze did.

The man wielded power with his gaze and he was difficult to fight.

But she must continue to try.

As she watched, he pivoted on his heel and walked around the dance floor, his gaze leaving hers only for moments at a time. His intent was clear; he was coming to speak with her, possibly even ask her to dance. Despite the usual dismay at that prospect, Sara’s breathing hitched again with nervous excitement and her mind raced with what to say to him. She must make her position clear. She was not inclined toward his pursuit and did not appreciate his inappropriate attentions. The nervous excitement pulsed in her chest, putting lie to her thoughts.

Her ear tingled in memory of the touch of his tongue and her mouth parted involuntarily. She pressed them together as he neared her.

“Miss Collins,” he greeted with a nod of his head.

“Mr. Grant,” she acknowledged with a slight curtsey.

He stood beside her, looking out over the dancers; Sara took pains to not look at him. Claire and Louisa twirled and spun with their partners. “Are you enjoying the evening?” he asked after several moment of silence.

“I am, thank you.”

“Your friends seem to be as well.”

“Yes.” Why was she so eagerly anticipating his dance request? She hated dancing and found her lack of ability embarrassing, thinking everyone was watching her making mistakes. Perhaps she should pull the rug out from under his feet, so to speak. “If you wish to ask me to dance, I would rather you didn’t. I shouldn’t like to refuse you.” The words came out in a rush and she felt her face set on fire from her audacity.

Sara felt him turn toward her. “You would refuse me?”

She gave a shaky nod, unwilling to look at him and see censure on his face.

“Then I suppose it is a good thing I was not planning on asking you.”

She felt the anticipation deflate from her body, her shoulders slumping.

He continued. “It saves us both the embarrassing scene.”

She turned her head toward him. With that annoying sardonic smile, he tapped his left leg with his cane. “This makes dancing difficult. I have not asked a lady to dance in over a decade.”

Oh.
Her face flushed with embarrassment after all. She had not even considered that he would be unable to dance. She had been so consumed by her foolish anticipation and thoughts of how to make her position clear that she did not fully comprehend his situation.

“I am sorry,” she said, staring at the ground. “I did not mean to offend you.”

Mr. Grant gave a deep chuckle. “You may consider us even if you answer a question.”

Sara looked at him again, caution in her eyes. Seeing it, he chuckled again and put his hand over his heart. “’Pon my honor, I mean you no mal intent. It is just a question.”

She nodded. “Very well.” His chuckles, unexpected and endearing, made her stomach flip.

“Are you hungry?”

Sara blinked, thrown off guard by his question. Of all the things she had been expecting him to ask, that was not among them.

He gestured to the food table. “I ask because I noticed you looking at it repeatedly, like one who has not eaten in days.”

Her face was flaming now and she turned away from him, returning her attention to the dancers now forming a new set.

Mr. Grant put a large hand on her arm, warm and gentle. Awareness spiraled around it, warmth spreading over her skin through her dress. “I do not mean to embarrass you,” he said. “I merely noticed it and am hungry myself. Would you care for something to eat?”

Sara swallowed and shook her head. “No, thank you.” She had already decided to forego the pleasure of a pasty.

“Are you certain? You were looking quite longingly.”

She shook her head again. “I have already eaten supper.”

“That was hours ago. Surely you could stand to have a few nibbles of something.”

“I am fine, I assure you.”

“Well, I am not,” he said, taking her elbow. “Come and keep me company.” He pulled her along with him, approaching the food table. He released her and hooked his cane over his arm to take a plate and began filling it with small cakes and seafood patties.

How in the world can the man eat so much?
Sara thought. Out loud, she said, “Once again you have commandeered me away from what I was doing.” Her mouth watered as she watched him put several Cornish pasties on his plate.