The Seduction of Sara (22 page)

She smiled, her teeth glimmering whitely between her rose-petal lips. It was always this way right before he suffered an attack. Colors and sounds stretched, capturing other senses with them until they drove him mad.

The tang of metal in his mouth made him realize how little time he had. “I will be back in an hour.” Without giving her time to protest, he left, forcing himself to keep his shoulders straight. As soon as he was out of sight, he let the pain go and almost staggered at the impact.

A steady arm gripped him. “
Mon ami
, you would not listen to Wiggs, would you? You have nearly left it too long.” Henri kept him from sliding to the floor. “Come, I shall call Sara and—”

“
No
.”

The comte frowned. “But—”

“I don't want her to know how bad they are. Not yet.”
Not ever
.

“
Mon ami
, if you do not tell Sara about your illness, what will she think when she sees you?”

He hadn't thought that far ahead; the senseless, stupid part of him had held out false hope that this
episode might be brief. “I will go away. Maybe the cottage. The worst attacks only last a day or two before they pass; I will just tell Sara I have to go away on business.”

“I am not one to give advice, but I think you are in error. Sara is a strong woman. Why not just tell her—”

“I won't have her frightened.”

Henri's brow creased in confusion. “What's there to be frightened of?”

Nick turned away. Even Henri did not understand. Nick never wanted Sara to see him so desperate, so wracked with pain and terror that he didn't know where or who he was. Like his mother had been, the night she died, so crazed that she hadn't known her own son.

It took all of Nick's strength and Henri's assistance, but he made it to the gatekeeper's cottage. There he collapsed into bed and let the pain take its course.

“M
y lady, you asked for me?” Wiggs said, standing uneasily inside the morning room.

Sara had been nervously pacing the carpet, wondering where her elusive husband had disappeared. “Yes, Wiggs. Just where is the earl?”

Wiggs hesitated, his watery blue gaze slipping past her to the front door. “Where is who, madam?”

Sara plopped her fists on her hips. “His Lordship. The tall, handsome blond man who owns this house.”

Wiggs shifted uncomfortably. “I'm sure I don't know. His Lordship was here yesterday.”

“I realize that. I ate luncheon with him, remember? But today he is nowhere to be found.”

“I believe he left you a message, my lady.”

“Saying that he would be back this morning.” She gestured to the late-afternoon sun that was swiftly sinking. “Does it look like morning to you?”

Wiggs's gaze drifted to the window over her shoulder, his expression carefully blank. “No, my lady.”

It was obvious Wiggs was not going to give an inch. But she'd been on tenterhooks all morning, her imagination running wild. “Surely you know something!”

Wiggs stared stoically ahead, like a prisoner facing a firing squad. “His Lordship rarely takes me into his confidence.”

“He may not have told you precisely
where
he was going, but you at least know when he left.” Sara took a step closer to the butler. “You did see him, didn't you?”

His gaze grew wild, but he didn't move. “I-uhm, I believe I might have.”

“And when was that? Midnight? One o'clock? Two?”

“Your Ladyship, I'm not sure I should—”

“Let me make this easy for you. If you don't tell me when you saw his Lordship last, I shall lie on the floor and have a fit.”

He blinked. “A…fit, my lady?”

“A complete, unstoppable fit of hysterics. Mrs. Kibble has already twice suggested that I should lie down, in case I was feeling dizzy.”

The butler's thin mouth twitched in a smile that was quickly suppressed. He looked at her for a long
moment, then said carefully, “My lady, I assure you I would tell you if I were able. But I cannot.”

Sara's jaw tightened. So Nick had forbidden his servants to betray his whereabouts, had he? She could only think of one reason he would go to such lengths. The black ooze of betrayal made her stomach sicken.

Damn his soul, she was
not
about to be made a fool again. But first she had to find the bastard. Taking her emotions firmly in control, Sara sat down in a chair and removed her slippers.

Wiggs's eyes widened. “My lady! What are you doing?”

Sara dropped her shoes onto the carpet beside her. “I am preparing to go into hysterics. I cannot abide women who drum the heels of their slippers while screaming. The one sound drowns out the other, so it is a completely wasted effort.”

“My lady, surely it is not necessary—”

“Will you tell me where His Lordship is?”

“No. I cannot.”

She sat on the floor and neatly arranged her skirts about her legs. “You'll forgive me if I seem unpracticed in this. I haven't been treated as a child in years, and it is difficult to remember all the nuances of such a performance.”

Wiggs wrung his hands. “My lady, I cannot tell you where…he expressly forbade me…” The butler's voice was growing progressively weaker, his Adam's apple bobbing in an alarming fashion. “My lady, please reconsider—”

“As soon as you tell me when you last saw His Lordship.”

The determination in her eyes made him sigh, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Very well, my lady. Please do get up from the floor.”

Sara accepted his hand as she climbed to her feet. “Excellent, Wiggs. It was going to be very difficult to revive me.”

A reluctant smile touched his weathered lips. “Thank you for not forcing me to such lengths, my lady.”

Sara grinned, pushing her feet back into her slippers. “So, Wiggs. I understand you cannot tell me exactly where His Lordship went. You are honor-bound to do as the earl requests, and if he expressly told you not to tell me about certain aspects of last night, then you cannot do so. However, it will not hurt you to impart what information he
didn't
order you not to pass on.”

Wiggs looked impressed. “That is quite true, madam.”

“Then let us begin. Where is His Lordship?”

Wiggs looked at the ceiling.

“I see. Well, then, at what time did you last see His Lordship?”

“Shortly after lunch, madam.”

“Where did he go?”

Again the butler stared at the ornate ceiling.

Sara sighed, her brow furrowed in thought. “I assume he was ready to leave when you saw him?”

The butler nodded.

“Hm. Did he receive a billet of some type, a message that sent him out?”

“No, madam.”

Sara frowned. “Did he seem distressed?”

Wiggs leaned forward eagerly. “If I may venture to mention it, my lady, His Lordship did not look well. In fact, someone had to help him to his carriage.”

He'd been ill and he hadn't told her. Suddenly, the conversation they'd had yesterday took on a more ominous meaning. “Who helped him into the carriage?”

The butler's rheumy gaze lifted toward the ceiling once again.

“Ah,” Sara said. “The comte.”

Wiggs bowed. “Very good, madam.”

“And is the good Henri here now?”

“He returned just this morning. I believe he is in the breakfast room.”

Gratitude warmed her heart, and Sara placed her hand on the butler's thin arm. “Thank you, Wiggs. If the earl is ill, I need to know about it. Some men let their pride do their thinking, and it can be very damaging.”

He smiled in such a fatherly way that Sara was tempted to rest her head on his shoulder.

She found Henri facing a plate of ham and eggs, his usually cheerful mien gone. As soon as he saw Sara, he flashed a brilliant smile and stood. “Ah,
chère
! There you are!”

“Here I am indeed.” She crossed the room and took the chair by his side, turning it to face him. “Henri, I am not a woman given to dissembling.”

Henri's smile froze as he resumed his seat, eyeing her warily. “No?”

“No. I'm much more likely to demand an explanation forthwith.”

Henri sighed. “I warned him how it would be, but he would not listen.”

“He is ill, isn't he?”

“The headaches, they plague him. He did not wish to frighten you.”

Frighten her? “How bad are they?”

“There are days when he does not leave his bed.” Henri began to say something else, but stopped and shrugged. “It is a family illness. You should ask him.”

“I will if I can find him. Where is he?”

“The gatekeeper's cottage.”

“Is he alone?”

“No. There is a manservant who will stay with him, should he need anything. I, too, planned on returning after—”

“After you had convinced me that he had left on a matter of business.”

The door opened, and Sara was surprised when Aunt Delphi traipsed in. The older woman halted when she saw the comte, bright pink touching her cheeks. Sara absently noted the blush as a thought occurred to her. “Aunt Delphi, do you have the recipe for that tisane you made when your head pained you so last year?”

Delphi blinked. “I think I remember it. Why? Do you have the headache, dear?”

“No, no. It's not for me.” Sara jumped up and
grabbed Delphi's hand, pulling her from the room. “Henri, I will be back shortly.”

“Very well,
ma chère
,” he called, waving her away, though his gaze was fixed on Delphi's retreating figure. “I will escort you to the cottage when you are ready.”

Sara bustled Delphi into the library and set the elderly lady to the task of writing her tisane recipe while Sara quickly packed. She returned to the library just as Delphi was folding the recipe into a neat square.

Sara grabbed the paper and handed it to Wiggs. “Have Mrs. Kibble find these ingredients and bring them to the gatekeeper's cottage.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, beaming with importance. He immediately hobbled off.

Henri entered the room. “Are we ready to go, then?”

“Almost. Aunt Delphi gave me the recipe for her tisane.”

“He won't take it. He does not like medicine, you know.”

Sara straightened her shoulders. Nick would drink it if she had to pour it down his throat.

“Sara, what of our shopping?” Delphi asked, pulling her gloves back on.

“Shopping?” Sara turned a confused gaze on her aunt.

“We were going to look for a hat to go with my new pelisse of Brussels green. You sent me a note just yesterday saying that you would be here and had nothing to do, and—”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten.” She couldn't go anywhere now; Nick needed her. “I'm afraid something has come up this morning, and I cannot come with you.”

“But I—”

“Fortunately,” Sara interjected smoothly, “the comte has agreed to escort you to town.”

“Mon Dieu!”
the comte burst out, though he quelled his outburst when Sara turned a minatory stare on him. “I—”

“Would be pleased to escort Her Grace,” Sara finished inexorably. “Don't worry about Nick. I'll tend to him myself.”

Sara didn't wait to see them off. Her portmanteau neatly strapped on the back of the curricle, a basket of food at her feet, she was soon on her way to find her foolish husband.

S
ara found the cottage curtains drawn, the door tightly closed and locked. She knocked repeatedly, pounding until her fists felt bruised. Finally, just as she was considering climbing in a window, the door opened. Sara recognized the servant as one of the new footmen. He bowed low, an unmistakable flash of relief in his eyes as he informed her that His Lordship was in his chamber.

Ordering the man to see to her portmanteau and the basket, she dashed up the stairs. Once she stood outside the door, she faltered, suddenly unsure. What if Nick refused to see her? She almost knocked, then thought better of it. Thankfully, the knob turned easily in her hand.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the
air heavy with the scent of the beeswax candles that guttered on a low table. Sara could just make out Nick's dark form across the room in a chair. Girding herself, she walked closer and could see his head resting on the high chair back, his eyes closed, his hair in disarray. There was a tenseness to his face, a sign of the pain that raged through his head and the fight he made to maintain his pride.

Sara quietly stood at the edge of the rug. His pride would hate her being here, but hers wouldn't let her retreat.

He opened his eyes and turned his face toward her; her hands fisted at her sides when she saw the torment in his gaze.

“What do you want?” His voice sounded as if the pain had scraped the edges of it raw.

She took a step toward him. “I came to help. Can I get you—”

“No. Just leave me alone.” Eyes closed, he turned his face away. The faint light touched the length of his lashes and played along the hard line of his mouth.

Sara longed to reach out and trail her fingers through his hair, to touch the bold lines of his mouth, to brush her lips across his unshaven cheek. But she dared not; he would welcome no hint of affection from her now.

Nick stirred restlessly, his brow furrowed. His face was pale beneath his tan, his hands tightening about the arms of the chair until the knuckles shone. The demons were in full force.

Sara took a step closer. “Nick,” she said softly, “you must get into bed.”

His eyes opened to a slit, the hard blue gleam startling between the thick lashes. “I told you to leave.”

“No, you
ordered
me to leave. I don't take orders well.”

His mouth curved into a sneer. “Which is why I was left with no choice but to wed you.”

Although she should have expected such a reaction, the words stung. She cleared her throat. “You should be in bed.”

“I don't want to be in bed. I want to be left alone.” He raised his head, his mouth white. “This is my fight, Sara, my problem. Not yours.” She didn't answer and he sighed. “It is already easing, or I wouldn't be in this chair. I just need another day, and then I shall return home.”

“Surely there is medicine—”

“No!” He winced at his own raised voice, dropping his head back against the chair once again. “Damn it, Sara, I don't want anything or anyone. I just want to be left alone.”

Sara's frustration began to simmer. Here she was, trying to help the man, and all he did was order her about. “You, sir, are an ungrateful devil and a coward.”

He turned slowly to face her, his hair a warm gold in the dim light. “What did you say?”

“I said you were an ungrateful devil.”

“And?” he prompted softly, his eyes unnaturally bright.

Pushing Nick when he was ill was pure madness, but his refusal to accept her assistance angered
her—as if she were too unimportant to be bothered with. She'd had enough of that with Julius, and she wouldn't allow it to happen again. She lifted her chin. “I said you were a coward.”

He was out of his chair and facing her in the beat of a heart. His eyes blazed down at her. “Say it again,” he said softly, the threat heavy.

She squared her jaw. “You are afraid of this illness. I can see it in your eyes. I just don't know why.”

He grabbed her by the arm and stalked toward the bed, yanking her along behind him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her heart pounding furiously.

His grip tightened and he increased his pace. Fear chaining her feet, she stumbled on the edge of the rug. Nick gave a muffled curse, then picked her up and tossed her onto the mattress.

Sara scrambled madly for the edge of the bed, but he was too quick. The weight of his body forced the air from her lungs and she lay caught, his large, warm body pinning her into the softness.

His mouth touched her temple, his breath hot on her skin. “You wanted me in bed, and by God, that's where you'll have me.”

“Get off me,” she responded through clenched teeth. “This is ridiculous. All I did was request that you get in bed because you are ill.”

“Ah, to be blessed with such a caring and tender wife.” His voice brushed her ear, hard and unforgiving. “It isn't a very natural role for you, Sara. Find another.”

His sneer fired her anger to new heights. “Damn you, Nick! I'd appreciate it if you would move so that I can breathe.”

His weight shifted slightly to one side, but his body still pinned her down. “There. Are you better now, dearest wife?”

Sara hated the way he said the words, as if they tasted foul. “What do you want?”

He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it against his cheek. “If I must go to bed, then it will be with my lusty wife. I'm glad you didn't arrive last night, when I would have been unable to oblige your demands.”

Sara sighed and ceased struggling. “Nick, I was just trying to alleviate your headache.”

“How? By giving me an ache somewhere else?” He moved against her suggestively, and she could feel his arousal against her hip. Her body warmed instantly.

His gaze darkened. “If you must doctor me, then tend me where you can do the best good.” A sensual smile flickered in his eyes, and he whispered huskily, “I should not be doing this, but I no longer care. Besides, who am I to refuse such a compelling woman?”

“What you need is good food and rest. You've been working much too hard on the Hall.”

His smile curved slowly. “If you want me to stay in bed, Sara, then you will have to entertain me.”

She looked at the tempting line of his mouth, at the masculine strength of his throat, and she burned for him. Heavens, but he was enticing, and he was
finally saying all the things she'd wanted him to say for the past week. But he was ill, she reluctantly reminded herself. “If you must be entertained, then I'll find some cards for you to while away the time.”

“I'd rather while away my time with you, madam. And on you.” He nuzzled her neck and murmured, “And in you.”

Surely this couldn't be good for him. Though she knew she should refuse him, her ability to do so was melting with each word.

He cupped one breast through her dress, sending hot shivers to her stomach. “Ah, Sara. You smell heavenly; all fresh and spicy, like a walk through a summer garden after a rain.” His lips touched her throat, and tremors raced through her.

His other hand slowly pulled up her skirt. The fine material slid along her leg, inching past her calf, where he finally slipped his hand beneath. His fingers were unnaturally hot as they skimmed her leg, her thigh. He found her most secret place, his long fingers opening the folds and touching her in a way that made her arch against him.

She was on fire. She yearned for him, ached for him deep within. He kissed her cheek with the softest of touches, his mouth leaving a damp trail as he traced a line to her ear. His breath fluttered against her earlobe and sent a deluge of delicious shivers through her. He was slow, deliberate, his intent all too clear—he meant to make her crazy with desire, and then he'd take her, slake his pain in the ecstasy of their lovemaking.

And why not? Why not use this method that
gave them both such pleasure? If it gave him respite for an hour or two, it was the least she could do.

He unlaced her gown, and before she knew it, he had her bare before him. She touched his face, gently smoothing away the lines about his mouth, then she tugged at his shirt. Without a word, he stripped. Sara ran her hands over his hot skin, kissing his throat, his chin.

His hand cupped her breast again. “Look at me, Sara.”

She opened her eyes. He was so incredibly beautiful, his golden skin damp with perspiration, his blue eyes vivid. Holding her gaze, he dropped his mouth to her breast and laved the peak, his hands now stroking higher, up her thigh, returning to the taut core of her womanhood.

She gasped, her head thrown back. Nick soaked in the sight of Sara's face as she gave herself to the passion. Her face flushed, her eyes glistened, her face softened with wonder.

He covered her mouth with his and kissed her softly, deeply, mingling his soul with hers. Thank God she hadn't come until this morning, after the unholy terror of the night had passed. But this…this was madness. Yet he was beyond caring, beyond anything other than the feel of this moment, this second. He lifted himself and poised above her, his hands tangled in her midnight black hair. “Love me, Sara. Let me come in.”

Her thighs widened and she held him close. Nick lowered himself into her slowly, so slowly that she moaned her impatience. He held still, savoring his
entry, reveling in the heat and tightness. Suddenly, he could take it no more and he pushed deep within, cupping her closer to him, losing himself inside her silken softness. Her eyes widened and she gasped, her body clenching about him. He ground his teeth against the waves of pleasure she gave him, losing himself in the onslaught of sensation. The silky tug yanked him over the edge, and he climaxed deep inside her.

For a long moment he lay there, absorbing her softness, her warmth. Then realization of what he'd done crept into his awareness.
Dear God, no
. What the hell had he been thinking? Cursing his own weakness, he forced himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands. “
Damn
.”

Sara lifted herself onto her elbow, and her voice instantly filled with concern. “Oh, no. Did it make your headache worse?”

He glanced back at her, then could not look away. Her hair was tangled about her shoulders in a midnight cloud, her face flushed. A soft light shone in her pale blue eyes, her face alight with worry.

Surely one mistake would not be a disaster. After all, she'd been married to Julius for three years and had not gotten pregnant. Relief washed over him at the thought, and he managed to shake his head. “Actually, my headache is almost gone.” And it was true—the pain was still there, but distant now, a mere memory of what it had been.

“Almost?” She frowned and he could tell her
mind was working furiously. “Nick, perhaps physical exertion is good for you.”

It was possible, he supposed; he'd never really tried it. As he wondered if perhaps she was right, her hand slipped into his lap and found his manhood. It leapt to life at her touch, growing harder as her fingers tightened about him. “Nick,” she said softly. “If our first try didn't rid you of all your pain, then perhaps once more would completely cure you.”

She stroked him and Nick had to bite his lip to keep from moaning aloud. She was erotic and yet innocent, the combination as intoxicating as brandy. And he was addicted—he craved her, desired her, wanted her with every breath he took.

Yet the thought of her face when she realized he was too weak to fight the pain by himself, of what she'd think of him when he finally had to turn to laudanum for relief, made him cringe inwardly. He could bear a lot of things, even the loss of Hibberton Hall and his own pride. He could accept the loss of everything but her.

He took Sara's hand from his groin and placed it above her head. Then he captured her other hand and held it there as well. She immediately rubbed her hips against his, her nakedness brushing over his manhood in a way that made him grit his teeth. “Sara, stop. We can't do this.”

She looked at him and smiled, thrusting her hips toward him again. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.” He placed a quick kiss on her forehead, released her, and rolled out of bed. He
must be crazed to have taken this as far as he had. He yanked on his trousers, pulled his shirt over his head, and grabbed his boots, feeling guilty.

“Nick.” Sara's voice was low and husky, the voice of a woman who wanted to be touched. “Please come back to bed.”

He kept his back to her and fastened his breeches. He didn't trust himself to even look at her. “Not now.” He heard a rustle from the bed as if she had moved to the edge.

“Nick, I—”

“Get dressed, Sara.” He dropped a quick kiss on her hair, then left, closing the door behind him.

Out in the hallway he paused, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart aching worse than his head ever had. He rested his forehead against the smooth wooden door and closed his eyes. God help him, he was becoming too attached to Sara, his happiness too involved in hers. It would be better for them both if they maintained their distance, coming together for mutual pleasure and no more.

He should not have allowed her to muddle his thinking, but he'd been powerless to resist her. And once he'd had her in his bed, he'd been unable to let her go. He craved her fiercely; his every waking thought was tangled up with images of her. Was it simply because of her proximity day in and day out? Or was it more?

Though he'd thought it would have the opposite effect, the fact that she now belonged to him made her all the more entrancing. He'd never thought of marriage as an erotic experience, but it was, intensely
so—Sara's every move, the timbre of her voice, the fresh scent of her skin, the thick tangle of her hair—they belonged to him and no one else. To his shock, he was discovering he was a possessive man.

He closed his eyes as a massive rope of tightness banded about his throat and threatened to stop his breathing. His headache had melted during their lovemaking, but now it returned, pounding through his brain. He had to resist her. And if he could not, then he would leave her.