Sleepless at Midnight (16 page)

His thoughts were interrupted when she reached out and clasped his hand. He looked down. Her slim fingers lightly held his. She gently squeezed, and he reflexively returned the gesture.

“You blame yourself,” she said softly.

He raised his gaze to hers. Her eyes were soft with an understanding and compassion that seemed to compress his chest. “If I’d done what I’d been told…” His voice trailed off, unable to say the words that echoed through his mind. They’d still be alive.

“I understand. Exactly. I wasn’t supposed to race my horse. If I hadn’t suggested we do…” She pulled in a deep breath. “It’s a pain I live with ”

“Every day,” they said in unison.

She nodded. “I’m very sorry for what you’ve suffered.”

“And I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you ever…have conversations with your friend?” He’d never asked anyone that question, fearing they’d think him a candidate for Bedlam.

“Frequently,” she said, nodding. The movement sent her glasses sliding down her nose, and she pushed them back up with her free hand the hand that wasn’t holding his. He flexed his fingers, fitting her palm a bit more snugly against his, finding undeniable comfort in the warmth of her skin pressing against his.

“I visit Delia’s grave regularly,” she said. “I bring her flowers and tell her all the latest happenings. Sometimes I bring a book and read to her. Do you talk to your brother and sister?”

“Nearly every day,” he said, feeling as if an enormous weight was lifted from his shoulders by simply admitting that out loud.

A fleeting smile flitted across her face, then, as if she could read his thoughts, she said, “I thought I was the only one. It feels good to know it’s not just me.”

“Yes, it feels good.” Just as standing next to her and holding her hand felt good. Inordinately so. In a way that confused him yet made him feel…not so alone.

“Now I understand the sadness in your eyes,” she murmured. His surprise must have shown because she added, “I find myself observing people, a habit born of my love of sketching and spending too much time sitting in corners at too many parties.”

“Sitting in corners? Do you not dance?”

A whisper of wistfulness passed over her features, gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“No. I attend the parties merely as my sister’s companion. Besides, gentlemen prefer to dance with dainty, elegant young women.”

She said this last in a matter-of-fact tone, and it suddenly dawned on him why she didn’t dance. No one asked her.

An image embedded itself in his mind, of her at a soiree, sitting alone in the corner, watching while all the dainty, elegant young women danced. And he knew without a doubt that he would have been one of the gentlemen dancing with a dainty, elegant young woman, bypassing the bespectacled, plain Miss Moorehouse. A fissure of shame seeped through him at the realization, along with something that felt like a sense of loss. Because, as he’d discovered upon closer inspection, while she wasn’t a classic beauty, she wasn’t plain at all.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “You’ve observed sadness in my eyes?”

She nodded. “That and…”

Her voice trailed off and a hint of red shaded her cheeks. “And what?”

After a brief hesitation she added, “Secrets.” Then she shrugged. “But everyone has secrets, don’t you agree?”

“Including you?”

“Especially me, my lord.” A teasing gleam entered her eyes, and her smile flashed, affording him a quick glimpse of her dimples. “I am, of course, a woman of great mystery.”

He found himself returning her smile. “And I am, of course, a man of great mystery.”

“Yes, I suspected as much,” she said in a light tone, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. She slid her hand from his, and he immediately missed her touch. Turning once again to face the painting, she said, “Your brother was considerably younger than you.”

“On the contrary, he was nearly a decade older than I.”

She frowned, then looked back and forth between the portrait and him twice, finally staring at him with a half-confused, half-amazed expression. “You mean you are…” Her words evaporated and a fresh rush of color suffused her cheeks.

“The short, pudgy, pasty-faced lad with the glasses. Yes, that’s me. In all my six-year-old glory. The tall handsome young man is my brother James.”

“There is a remarkable resemblance between him and you. And none whatsoever between you and the six-year-old boy.”

“Around age sixteen I somehow sprouted up and outgrew the pudginess.” He might no longer resemble that shy, awkward, lonely boy on the outside, but on the inside…he still knew that boy very well. The boy who hadn’t been able to beg, borrow, or steal his father’s attention until James died. And even then he’d only gained it to be reminded everyday that James’s death was his fault. As if he didn’t already know that. As if that didn’t eat at him every minute.

“The transformation is…remarkable,” she said. She turned back toward him. “What happened to the glasses?”

“By the time I was twenty I no longer needed them. The doctor explained that he’d seen such cases, that as children grow, their eyesight can change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Mine changed for the better.”

“You are very fortunate, my lord. Mine changed for the worse.”

He tilted his head and studied her for several seconds, as one would a work of art. “Yet your spectacles suit you. I occasionally still wear glasses, when I’m reading small print.”

She stared at him then blinked. “Oh, my.”

Those were the same two words and the same husky rasp she’d murmured last night after he’d kissed her. His gaze involuntarily dropped to her mouth. And he immediately realized his error as desire hit him low and hard. Her lips looked moist and plump and were slightly parted, and the urge to kiss her again grabbed him in a vise grip.

Kissing her again was an extremely bad idea. But bloody hell, he wanted to. So very much. Here, in the sunlight, where he could see her, read her every reaction.

Before he could reach for her, however, a knock sounded on the door. Mentally cursing the interruption, he called out, “Come in.”

Tildon entered and announced, “Tea is served on the terrace, my lord.”

After thanking the butler, who closed the door quietly after him, Matthew drew in a slow breath before returning his attention to Miss Moorehouse. His common sense told him it was fortunate Tildon had knocked at just that second, or else he most likely would have kissed her again. Oh, bloody hell, who was he attempting to fool? He definitely would have kissed her again. Which was not how he should be spending his time with her. No, he should be engaging her in conversation, finding out more about her in order to determine what secrets she might have, and to decide if she could help him with his quest. He didn’t need to know if she was a good kisser. He already knew.

She was.

Phenomenally good.

He inwardly frowned and shifted to relieve the growing discomfort occurring in his breeches. Damn it, this unwanted desire for her was simply unacceptable. What he needed to do was pull his attention away from her lips and concentrate on the task before him: to find out more about her. And to that end he extended his elbow and inclined his head toward the terrace. “Shall we?”

Chapter 8

Sarah needed to find out more about him.

Which meant she couldn’t dwell upon the way he made her feel.

Seated at the square, linen-topped, wrought-iron table on the terrace, she eyed the intricately carved silver tea service Tildon had set out. In addition to tea, a polished platter held an assortment of delicate cucumber and watercress sandwiches on thin slices of crustless bread, scones with strawberry jam, and freshly baked, still warm biscuits. The scents wafted toward her on the gentle summer breeze, but they weren’t what made her mouth water. No, Lord Langston was doing that, effectively distracting her from her goal: She had to find out more about him.

Hopefully, something to make him less attractive. Something that didn’t stir her blood, as when she’d discovered he was a marvelous kisser. Or something that didn’t grab her heart like the story of what had happened to his brother and sister. Because grab her heart he had. And dear God, she didn’t want him to. Couldn’t allow him to.

Yet how could she possibly ignore the empathy and sympathy she now felt toward him? She knew the pain he carried with him every day because she carried that same ache that no passage of time completely numbed. He knew. He understood. And that drew her to him more strongly than any manner of handsome looks ever could.

Although…there was no denying his extreme good looks, and as much as she didn’t wish to notice them, she was merely nearsighted not blind. In those few seconds before Tildon had knocked on the door, she’d thought Lord Langston had meant to kiss her again. And rather than being appalled or outraged or disinterested or any of the other things she should have felt, instead her heart had pounded in anticipation and it required all her wherewithal not to throw her arms around his neck and press her body against his. To experience again the wonder she’d felt in his arms last night. To feel his hands on her, urgent, demanding, coaxing her closer while his tongue mated with hers. Her gaze roamed down his masculine form as he dismissed Tildon then moved toward the table and sat down in the seat next to hers. A sigh escaped her, and warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun rushed through her.

“Are you all right, Miss Moorehouse?”

His voice yanked her from her wayward thoughts and she discovered him watching her. With an expression that suggested he knew she’d been staring at him.

Botheration. She could practically feel the blotches creeping up her neck.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said in her most prim voice.

“You look…flushed.”

“’Tis merely the result of the sun,” she lied, inwardly wincing at the falsehood.

“Would you prefer to have our tea inside?”

Yes, preferably in your bedchamber while I watch you bathe.

A horrified ack! rose to her lips, and Sarah clamped her mouth closed to contain it. Good God, this was not good. She needed to forget about their kiss. Absolutely needed to forget about kissing him again. And positively needed to forget about seeing him naked.

What she needed to do was…something. Something that she couldn’t recall. She frowned and forced herself to concentrate. Oh, yes. She needed to focus on finding out his secrets. Excellent. Because even though she’d felt a deep kinship with him and he’d appealed to her sympathies by his story and the fact that he’d talked about something she sensed he didn’t easily discuss, he still had secrets namely the nature of his late night “gardening” missions. Certainly there was no point in asking him outright what he was up to. No, she’d need to finesse the conversation. Encourage him to talk about other things, and hope he’d inadvertently reveal something. But how best to proceed? Most likely by adopting a conspiratorial air and appealing to his vanity. From her observations, she’d concluded that men enjoyed feeling as if they were being told secrets, and they were not immune to flattery.

Picking up her china tea cup from which a fragrant curl of steam rose, she said, “Your transformation from the child depicted in the portrait to the man you’ve become is extraordinary, my lord.”

He shrugged. “I believe many children go through what could be called an awkward phase.”

“Not all children. Take my sister, for instance. She was beautiful as an infant and remains so still today.”

“Your sister is older than you.”

“Yes. By six years.”

“Then how do you know she was a beautiful infant?”

“My mother told me so. With alarming frequency. I believe she hoped the reminders would encourage me to outgrow the ‘awkward’ phase, as you called it, that I’ve exhibited since birth.”

After a quick sip of tea, she said, “Mother thinks I’ve remained plain merely to vex her. She insists I’ve no need for my spectacles and if I’d simply sit still for several hours and allow her to use an iron to flatten out my unruly curls, I wouldn’t be quite so unattractive. Although she did warn me that of course no matter what I did I’d never be half as lovely as Carolyn, but I should at least try.”

He paused in the act of raising his teacup to his lips and frowned. “Surely she didn’t say that to you.”

“Oh, she did. Quite often.” In fact, she still did, but the words no longer had the power to sting her. “As a young child I found it quite devastating, mostly because I didn’t want Carolyn, whom I adored, to dislike me as our mother did for something I couldn’t help.”

She took another sip of tea then continued, “But Carolyn has always been my champion. Indeed, our mother’s overt favoritism toward her has always been a source of embarrassment for her her even more so than for me. Carolyn is a warm, loving person and has never failed to give me her unconditional love. Which has made me love her even more in return.”

He studied her over the rim of his cup. “You seem very matter of fact about your mother’s view.”

“While I think she could have perhaps been more diplomatic, she didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Anyone with eyes can see that Carolyn is stunning and I’m not. It’s simply the truth, no more, no less.” Her lips twitched. “Of course, I occasionally go out of my way to prove to Mother that regardless of looks I don’t deserve the status of favorite.”

His eyes immediately lit up with interest. “Oh? What do you do?”

“You’ll think me awful.”

“Doubtful. Based on what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t think it awful if you said you’d dumped a hip bath filled with water over your mother’s head.”