The Governess Club: Sara (11 page)

Mr. Grant glanced at her, his eyes mocking. “You were occupied by something important? Oh yes, watching your friends have fun.”

“I was enjoying myself,” she replied, defending herself.

“Hmm. Do you like pasties?”

Sara tore her eyes from his plate. Her stomach growled. He chuckled, making her face flush again.

“Come, let us sit.” When she didn’t move, he spoke again. “I understand that choice is important to you. You can either stand at the side of the dance floor, alone, to watch your friends take pleasure in the evening. Or you can sit with me where you can still see your friends, but no longer be alone.” When he saw her hesitation, he continued. “Look, true to my word, I have been pleasant, haven’t I?”

Sara couldn’t stop the quick laugh. “You and I have different definitions of pleasant, sir.”

He grinned at that. “For me, then. I have been pleasant in comparison to other behavior previously demonstrated. Come and sit with me.” His tone had turned cajoling. “I can further practice my good behavior, perhaps soon even be suitable for genteel company.”

His playful tone relaxed her. She laughed again and followed him to the open table at the side, half shrouded in darkness. She settled her skirts under the table, feeling her knees brush against his. He situated the plate between them and took a seafood patty, popping it into his mouth. Gesturing to a volunteer, he requested two glasses of wine to be brought to their table, indicating his cane. The volunteer hurried away to do his bidding.

“You are shameless,” Sara accused.

“Guilty,” he replied with a grin. “If I have to live with it, I might as well make it useful when I can.”

“How did it happen?” she asked. She quickly closed her mouth and looked down at her hands folded on the table. “I am sorry, I did not mean to pry.”

“I fell from my horse when I was fifteen,” he answered. “I was fine until the rearing horse landed on my leg. The surgeon did his best.”

“Dear heavens, you were very fortunate to not have lost it completely.”

“You apologize quite a bit. Why is that?”

Sara pulled back at the change in subject. “Should I model myself after you and throw my conscience away?”

“Not at all. But it seems your conscience overwhelms you. I am surprised you do not buckle under the weight of it.”

“I thought you were going to practice pleasantness.”

He selected a sweet cake and offered it to her. At her shake of head, he put it into his mouth. “You are correct. I shall be more diligent, but be sure to tell me if I am failing. Tell me, have you heard from your brother recently?”

Sara shook her head. “No. I have not expected to. Adam writes infrequently. Even if he were more prolific, the nature of being on a ship prevents regular access to the post.”

“Ah. So no sea stories for you.”

She smiled. “I have been reading some of Hakluyt’s stories recently for entertainment.”

“Hakluyt? The minister who wrote down sailors’ stories?”

Sara nodded. “Yes. I find the tales he relates absolutely fascinating. I just finished reading of Frobisher’s first voyage. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to be the first one to see all those ice fields. Ice and snow for as far as the eye can see. And to think there are people who live there. Incredible, is it not?”

“This sort of thing amuses you?”

“Does it not amuse you? Think of the adventures one may have.”

“So you are an adventure seeker? You do not strike me as the sort.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled and shook his head. “What sort of adventures have you pursued?”

She bristled at his mocking tone. “I fail to understand what I have done to deserve your mockery, sir. I do not ridicule that which amuses you.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, challenge glinting in his eyes. “That whole ‘treat your neighbor as yourself’ bit again? I doubt you would mock my amusements if you even knew what they were.”

Swallowing, she lifted her chin in uncharacteristic defiance and answered his challenge. “Try me.” Her voice was a squeak.

His brows lifted in surprise. “Very well. My dreams amuse me.”

“Indeed? What sort of dreams amuse one such as you?”

“I believe I’ve mentioned it before, Nymph. I dream of you.”

Sara stared at him. He had been serious about that?

“Oh, yes,” he said in a raspy voice, his eyes darkening into clear, hot springs. “I dream of you.”

Had she spoken out loud?

“I dream that you come to me at night, your body veiled in a thin night rail, hugging your curves. Your hair is undone and the curls tease your nipples into tight buds as you walk toward me.” His gaze flickered over her hair and settled on her lips. He licked his own. “You open your mouth without hesitation when I kiss you and our tongues touch and learn each other anew every night. I touch your neck, feel your pulse beat and speed up when I trail my fingers down to your bosom.”

She felt her pulse race, true to his words. His eyes were following the path he described and she felt it as much as if he were actually touching her. Fingers of fire threaded down her throat and she felt her nipples harden to the point of aching. Wetness pooled between her legs and she shifted in her seat.

Mr. Grant raised his eyes to hers again, trapping her with the blatant lust she saw in them. “I kissed you, Nymph, the day you came to my library. I put my tongue in your mouth, and I dream of doing it again and again and again and doing so much more than that. That is what amuses me.”

Sara’s breath came in short pants. Her body ached to be touched—for his touch, she knew. How had he done this to her with mere words? The temptation of him was tantalizing.

As she watched, he looked down at the plate of food between them and selected a cake, popping it into his mouth. When he looked back at her, the lust she had seen had been banished, replaced with an innocuous expression. Had it merely been her imagination moments before? Had he done this to be cruel to her? Or was this all a part of his challenge, of him believing her incapable of adventure, of being incapable of answering his mockery?

She found her voice. “Well,” Sara said, pursing her lips. “You are proving to be unpleasant again.”

He cocked a brow, one side of his mouth curling up. “Am I? I suppose I could be doing worse. This is the most you have ever spoken to me without retreating into one of your silences. That must count for something.”

“Why are you like this?” she asked. “Why do you insist on provoking me?”

“Why do you not fight back?”

Sara was saved from answering by the wine arriving. She took a quick sip, surprised at how easily it went down. The ants were not present, despite the taxing conversation. Odd.

Mr. Grant took a pasty and pushed the plate toward her. “Have something to eat.”

Sara shook her head. “I have no wish to eat.”

“Yet you keep looking at it. Take something.”

“I cannot eat your food. It would be unmannerly.”

He smiled. “I filled my plate with both of us in mind. I cannot eat all this on my own.” He took a big bite of his pasty, arching his eyebrows as he chewed. Juices ran down his chin and he wiped them away with his napkin. He extended his arm, offering her his pasty.

Sara stared at him, watching his eyes turn from chilly pools to hot springs once more. This time she knew it was not her imagination. She knew what he wanted her to do, but she couldn’t do it. Not like that.

When she didn’t accommodate him, disappointment flickered in his eyes and he pulled away, taking another bite. He chewed slowly, watching her closely as she sipped her wine. Swallowing his food, he chased it down with wine. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why do you dislike taking what you want?” He asked his question in a soft, dark voice. It was a distinct shift from his previous, more playful tone.

“Excuse me? I don’t understand what you mean.” The ants began to slowly march in her throat. She cleared her throat, feeling them fall away and disappear.

“I think you understand exactly what I mean,” he replied. He picked up a pasty and put it into her hand. “You want to have a pasty; I can see it in your eyes and hear it from your stomach. There is nothing wrong with taking what you want.”

“That is the definition of greed, sir,” Sara replied quietly, the pasty warming her hand and teasing her nostrils.

“To eat when you are hungry is greed?”

“To desire more when you have already been satisfied is.”

“But hunger is never permanently satisfied. Surely that philosophy cannot be applied here.”

Sara stared at him.
Gluttony is a sin, girl. What would people say if they saw the way you eat? You know how people talk about girls who carry too much weight on them.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Eat it.”

She looked at Mr. Grant, his eyes steady on hers.

You are the Devil’s instrument, girl, with the way you open yourself up with sin.

“It is getting cold,” he said. “Stop thinking about it and just eat it.”

She shifted her gaze to the pasty, her eyes eating in the crisp, golden exterior. The crescent, despite its large size, fit nicely in her hand. The soft heat enveloped her skin, reminding her of how his body felt against hers, of the hot trail his gaze had left on her.

Sara slowly lifted the pasty to her mouth, fitting the corner in between her teeth and bit down. The pasty crumbled in her mouth, and the flavor of meat and onion swarmed over her tongue. She closed her eyes in ecstasy and chewed.

“There you go, Nymph.” His voice was soft and billowed around her, seductive in its cadence.

She took another bite, savoring each taste. She smiled at him around the food, enjoying his returning one, thrilled to see his eyes shifting to hot springs again, her insides leaping at the growing lust she now recognized in them.

“Sara, here you are.” Claire’s voice broke the spell and Mr. Grant leaned back, putting more distance between them. “We’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

She turned her head to see Claire approaching with Jacob, his gait unsteady and her arm around his waist. It appeared she was supporting him. She stood, putting the pasty back on the plate. Mr. Grant rose with her as well. “Is Jacob ill?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Not exactly. He participated in a drinking contest. Whoever could drink three pints of ale the fastest would win two pounds.”

Jacob grinned, listing to one side. “And a glorious contest it was!” he roared. Other men added their roars to his, pounding the tables.

“One you did not win,” Claire pointed out, displeased.

“Do not burden me with your details, woman,” he said, an unsteady frown on his face.

“We need to return home,” Claire said to Sara. “Louisa is already fetching the carriage.”

“Of course,” Sara replied, moving away from the table. She turned back to look at him and gave him a quick curtsey. “Good night, Mr. Grant. Thank you for the pasty.” She looked at him, confused by the warring sensations of relief and regret at leaving him.

He looked at her, his eyes hot springs, and answered her curtsey with a slight bow. “I assure you, Miss Collins, the pleasure was all mine.”

Nathan watched her go, licking the juices off his fingers as she disappeared into the crowd with her friends.

S
ara stared out the window from where she sat, the rain obscuring the vista of the park surrounding Ridgestone. She felt listless and restless all at once. The ants that usually made themselves known in her throat seemed to have moved outside of her body and were currently setting her nerves on edge. She often looked down at her arms or scratched them, the sensation was so real, only to find that nothing she did provided her with the relief she sought.

She had not slept well the night before. Mr. Grant’s wicked words had burrowed inside of her head. She did not want them there, but had no control over her dreams. Her conscious mind had little conception of what happened in the bedchamber of a married couple, but her unconscious took her experience of Mr. Grant’s kiss and enhanced it by an undeterminable degree. She had woken several times during the night, her body sweaty and aching, disappointment pulsing with every beat of her heart that her dream had not succeeded in educating her beyond his kiss, the
more
he had mentioned.

Why do you dislike taking what you want?
His words continued to ring in her mind, rebelling against everything her mother had taught her. The pious life was one of sacrifice and denial, not greed and gluttony.

To eat when you are hungry is greed?

Sara tried to rid herself of his words, but they only settled in more firmly. And, she hesitated to admit, she understood his reasoning. Even perhaps agreed with it. Why was it a sin to eat when one was hungry? Why had her mother taught her that? Were there any other flawed teachings?

“Miss Collins, are you unwell?”

Sara blinked and turned her attention back to the one who had spoken. Mr. Pomeroy. Right, he had come to visit today. Louisa, acting as chaperone, was sitting at the other end of the sofa, looking at her with concern.

“Excuse me?” Sara asked.

“I asked if you were unwell,” the vicar repeated. “You seem distracted, staring out the window and sighing.”

Oh dear. “I beg your pardon sir,” Sara apologized.
You apologize quite a bit. I am surprised you do not buckle under the weight of your conscience.

She forced herself to ignore Mr. Grant’s words. “I am distracted,” she continued. “I did not sleep well last night and am finding it hard to concentrate.”

“Oh,” Mr. Pomeroy replied. “I should not be keeping you then. Shall I leave you to your rest?”

A thought flashed through her mind that Mr. Grant would not be so indecisive; instead, he would act without hesitation. She wondered at the lack of betrayal she felt at that thought; Mr. Pomeroy was best suited for her and here she was, comparing him to another man and finding him lacking.

She forced a smile. “No, please stay,” she said. “I am fine, truly.”