The Taste of Innocence (21 page)

His charm came to his aid in conducting his prospective in-laws and his bride-to-be out to their carriage. He seized the moment as Lord Conningham helped his wife into the carriage to lean close to Sarah, on his arm, and whisper, “To night. As usual.”

She caught his eye, hesitated, then nodded. “All right, but I might be late. They’re going to want to talk for hours.”

He grimaced, but nodded back. The look in her eyes was some consolation. As he helped her into the carriage, she met his eyes again. Her fingers tightened on his; he returned the pressure, then released her and stepped back.

The groom shut the carriage door. Charlie raised his hand in salute, and saw Sarah look back, and smile.

As resigned as he felt. The sight left him feeling just a little less frayed.

9

Put upon—that’s how Charlie was feeling by the time he finally reached the summer house, only to discover Sarah still not there.

In the gloom, he cursed, then paced and waited.

The stresses of the evening had been many. Celia and Martin Cynster, along with Alathea, Gabriel, and their children, had descended on the Park; together with Sarah’s sisters, her parents, and Jeremy and Augusta, they’d formed the family core of the gathering before which Lord Conningham had announced the engagement of his daughter to Lord Charles Morwellan, eighth Earl of Meredith.

Also present had been the vicar, Mr. Duncliffe, who would officiate on Tuesday next, Mrs. Duncliffe, and Lady Finsbury and Lady Cruikshank and their lords, among others from the local area summoned to bear witness. Given the latter-named ladies’ propensities, Charlie had no doubt that news of the betrothal would soon be spread the length and breadth of the ton.

His mother, Celia, and Alathea would, of course, do their part, too.

The gathering had been joyous, the tone happy and relaxed; indeed, the whole had passed off better than he’d hoped, yet throughout he’d been conscious of building impatience.

In business dealings he’d never had this problem, the feeling he was constantly battling to restrain himself, to hold himself back, to make some powerful and quite primitive part of him toe a civil line. And there was no real reason for it now that Sarah had agreed to be his; logically he knew that, yet the driving insistence had yet to ease.

Indeed, if anything, it had grown more pronounced.

He could only attribute it to the unusual depth of his hunger for her, a depth he’d yet to sate; presumably once she’d been his, had given herself to him a few more times, the compulsive itch would fade.

He wished he could believe that, believe that the compulsion was purely physical, that its power arose from nothing more than as-yet unslaked desire. He told himself that it couldn’t be anything else, yet…

A light, fleeting footstep had him turning.

Sarah came running down the path, then pattered up the steps. She came quickly to him. “I’m sorry—it was as I said. They wanted to—”

He jerked her into his arms.

Sarah swallowed her next words as he kissed her, ravenously hungry and demanding. All thought of apology fled from her head, overwhelmed by the need to appease, to sate, to give him all he wished, all he wanted.

He transparently didn’t want to talk.

In what felt like mere seconds, he had her beneath him on the sofa, her bodice open to her waist, her breasts swelling under the expert ministrations of one hand, while his other hand drew up her skirts, and slid beneath.

The fires between them had already flared and ignited; his seeking fingers found her entrance already slick and wet—he caressed, probed, and the flames roared.

Having weathered the storm once, she embraced it and gloried in it, thrilled to be wanted with such unwavering intent, with such concerted focus, with such…adoration. Despite the passion driving him, despite the desire that had hardened his body, that infused every caress with a driven edge, behind all was a care that never wavered.

A care that had him holding back, his breathing as ragged as hers, his kiss every bit as desperate, until his clever fingers sent her wits spinning from this world and submerged her senses in indescribable plea sure.

Only then did he shift, pin her beneath him, and thrust into her.

She gasped, arched beneath him, then moaned as he took advantage of her instinctive invitation and drove even deeper into her very willing body. She clamped around him and he paused, eyes closed, every muscle clenched and tight, on the cusp of quivering, then he drew in a labored breath, withdrew and thrust anew, and she lost touch with the world.

And once again all she knew was the heat and the flames and the steady, relentless possession. The giddy plea sure and delight, and beneath and through it all threaded the elusive evidence of his loving.

It was there in the catch in his breath when she shifted, rose beneath him and moved against him, letting the fascinatingly crinkly hair on his chest abrade her excruciatingly sensitive nipples.

There in the way he slowed, metaphorically gripped her hand and drew her back from the brink so that she didn’t rush ahead and end the plea sure too soon, but instead caught her sensual breath and joined again with him in that primitive and evocative dance. An extended mea sure, more detailed than the first time. More all-consuming, all-absorbing. More intimate.

Love was there in the guttural whispers of encouragement he fed her when she once more started that inexorable climb, when passion roared and she suddenly found it upon her, near and so intense.

There in the way in which he held her, cradled her, all the while moving so relentlessly within her, stoking the flames, sending her senses careening.

There in the moment when ecstasy claimed her and he held her close, and held still, muscles quivering with restraint, prolonging the moment until she wept with simple joy.

There in the final helpless moment when he lost himself in her.

Because she was looking, and now knew what to look for, and when, she saw.

Sarah set off the next morning with her mother, Twitters, Clara, and Gloria for five days in Bath, sleepily content, convinced that she’d made the right decision.

Whether Charlie knew it or not, whether it was love full-blown or merely the first tender shoots of a plant they would take a lifetime to fully cultivate, she didn’t know. But the potential was there, beyond question, beyond doubt, and that was all she needed to know.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes, settled her head back against the squabs, and relived, yet again, the events of the previous night.

Where was his control? Why, when faced with her, did it simply evaporate?

That and similar questions wreathed through Charlie’s brain as, two days later, he guided his grays down the slope into Watchet.

He’d spent the time since Sarah left immersed in business, not only that of estate and fortune but also the business of marriage. He and Lord Conningham had agreed on the marriage settlements; they were presently being drawn up. His lordship had been surprised by his stipulation regarding Quilley Farm, and had commented on his generosity and understanding. He’d held his tongue, yet the urge to admit that generosity had had little to do with it, but that understanding of Sarah had indeed driven the matter, had been strong.

Quilley Farm had been a small price to pay to ensure that she became his.

Which brought him once again to the vexed question of his passion for her, his wife-to-be. With no prior experience to guide her, she couldn’t know, and with any luck would never guess, that his…desperation—he had no other word for it—when he was with her was not the usual, customary way of things for gentlemen such as he.

Never before had passion ruled him, not like this. Not to the extent that when he was with her, driving her to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, preferably while he was buried deep inside her and subsequently, as his reward, joining her, became to all intents and purposes his single overriding aim in life.

It was…faintly shocking. Even harrowing. Such a connection was certainly not what he’d expected, not with sweet innocent Sarah.

Yet sweet innocence seemed to be his sensual drug. How could he have known?

The archway of the Bell Inn appeared before him. Slowing the grays, he told himself, as he had a hundred times over the past forty-eight hours, that his reaction to her was an addiction and, once sated, that addiction would fade.

He simply had to see it through, and that would certainly be no hardship. A month or so of married life, and all would be well. He just had to stay the course.

Leaving the grays at the inn, he walked up to the shelf of land on which he intended to build his new ware house. Sarah had been right; a ware house twice the usual size would be a better investment on numerous counts than two normal-sized structures. The local builder he habitually employed, Carruthers, was waiting to meet with him. They discussed the project at length, then parted, Carruthers to liaise with the local draftsman over plans and costs while Charlie wandered back to the docks and thence to Jones’s office.

The agent was pleased to see him. “I don’t know what’s in the air,” Jones said, “but there’s a number of outsiders sniffing around.”

Charlie raised his brows. “Sinclair?”

“He’s one. But there’s another man about, not a gentleman but he’s asking questions for someone.” Jones grinned. “And if the latest news from the shipping lines is anything to go by, they’re onto the right scent.”

By which Jones meant the scent of increasing traffic in goods through Watchet. Charlie smiled back. “Excellent news for us, then, as I’ve decided on the new ware house.” He filled Jones in on his decision; the prospect of a double-sized structure quite made Jones’s day.

After discussing when the new ware house might be usable, and matching that with the seasonal traffic of goods and thus which merchants Jones should approach, Charlie left the agent juggling figures and stepped back into the High Street.

He paused on the narrow pavement, looking down toward the harbor.

“Lord Meredith. Well met.”

Charlie turned. Smiling, he held out his hand. “Sinclair. And it’s Charlie.”

Returning his smile, Malcolm Sinclair shook his hand. “Malcolm. I was about to adjourn to the Bell Inn for luncheon. Will you join me?”

“I’d be delighted.”

They crossed the cobbled street and entered the inn; the advent of two such customers, both tall, well setup, elegantly accoutered gentlemen, brought Matthews, the owner, scurrying. He bowed them to the same table Sarah and Charlie had shared, set in the nook with a view of the harbor.

Malcolm nodded toward the cargo vessels undulating on the waves. “I’ve seen many small harbors around the coast, but this one’s always busy.”

“It’s an excellent alternative to Bristol, especially for certain cargoes.” They sat and Matthews hurried to serve them a first course of soup and fresh crusty bread.

When the innkeeper withdrew, Charlie glanced at Malcolm. “Are you intending to stay in the area?”

Malcolm sampled the soup, then admitted, “I’m definitely looking to settle in the locality.”

“You don’t have a residence elsewhere?”

While they ate the soup, Malcolm explained, “I was orphaned at an early age with no close relatives. Consequently it was Eton, Oxford, and my guardian’s house in London—and London is home to all Englishmen after a fashion—so no, I never formed connections to any region. Now, however, I feel the lack of a place to which I can retreat, and of all the counties of En gland, and I’ve traveled over them all, this area appeals to me the most.”

Malcolm met Charlie’s eyes. “You might not notice it, having been born to it, but the countryside hereabouts is uncommonly attractive and simultaneously restful. Not spectacular so much as soothing. I’ve been looking around for just the right estate.”

Charlie smiled. “If I hear any useful whispers I’ll pass them on.”

“Do,” Malcolm said. “But one question I wanted to ask of you. Given that you are, as I am, involved in investing to a high degree, how do you find doing business from here? How reliable are communications with London, for instance in winter? Is this area cut off? And if so, for how long?”

“In that, we’re uncommonly lucky.” Charlie sat back as the soup plates were removed, then outlined the various modes of communication with the capital, explaining why they were rarely disrupted. From there, they moved to a discussion of investments, which types each favored long-term, and so to their current personal interests.

While both avoided naming specific projects, Malcolm let fall enough for Charlie to realize that the man was as inherently cautious as he and Gabriel were; not one of them liked to lose money. However, Malcolm had plainly found ways in which to make investments that were inherently risky, and which therefore, if successful, gave commensurately greater returns, somehow acceptable to his cautious soul.

That intrigued Charlie. While he’d never had any difficulty resisting the lure of risky investments, not sharing in the success—and those commensurately greater returns—nevertheless irked. Gabriel felt the same.

“I do much of my investing through the Cynster funds—those managed by Gabriel Cynster.” Twirling a goblet of red wine between his fingers, Charlie grimaced. “But I have to admit we tend to stick to the tried and true—it’s mostly funds themselves, and the financing of projects, rather than the direct development of new ventures.”