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Sensible? What could possibly be sensible about them? He saw himself in financial trouble; she knew it. That must have been part of the reason he stood there at that moment. She would not make another mistake, for sure. He meant trouble. He meant extreme emotional strain. He would demand all from her and beyond. He acted consuming passionate and kept her lusting for more. A shrill passed through her body at the thought of being married to him. The hellish delights he would proportionate. The mortal danger of her falling for him again. No. Oh, no!
Sensible, was it? “A widow of means is the best position this society can offer a woman.” She looked at him direct in the eyes, playing cold.
“Indeed. How is that?” He paced unperceptively nearer.
“I conduct my life as I please.” She gestured around her.
“I would not restrain you.” Well, not too much at least.
She chuckled sarcastically, disbelieving him openly. “I can manage my money as I wish.”
The laws were clear about that: a woman’s money would be put at the husband’s disposal. “I could compromise on that.” After he paid his debts, he would be back on track.
“A widow can even have discrete lovers if she chooses.”
At that, Hugh’s blood boiled. He wanted to be her lover, her husband, her man! “Do you want a lover, Sarah?” His velvety tone sounded like a caress on her.
He observed her in her beige flowered dress and her sparrow-wing brown hair caught in a smart bun on the top of her head. He wanted to undo that bun; and immerse his face in her hair and then undress her and make them both satiated.
Her eyes widened. She did not wear a corset, her breasts peaked under her dress. Her breath arrested in her throat.
His eyes slid down her body and stopped at her breasts. He extended his arm; his hand covered her breast, his thumb teasing the hard nipple.
She sighed and closed her eyes, her head pending to the left. How she missed his candent caresses! In a second, he enfolded her in his arms and he kissed her. This time she did not refrain from anything. She wanted to feel his sleek hair. She wanted to hold him to her. She wanted to languor at his touch. So she did all of this, revelling in the manly scent of him .
He lifted her in his capable arms, lay her on the couch and came over her, crushing her dome petticoats. Her head rested on the cushioned couch arm and she nested him between her knees, skirts and all. He continued kissing her, feeling he fell in paradise, regained after so long.
Her fingers crept in between the buttons of his shirt to feel his hairy, lean chest that she remembered so terribly well. All sensation channelled in one part of her and it got feverish.
The damn dome dress had a modest high neckline and he wanted to fondle more of her skin. Blast! He needed her. Now! His mouth came to her breast over her dress, nibbling it. The lavender and woman smell of her maddening. He became hard as a rock.
She arched towards him with a frustrated moan. His hands found her thighs under her skirts and caressed them over her drawers.
“Sarah.” The hoarse voice and her name were dangerous combination. “Marry me!” He kissed her neck open mouthed. “I can’t stand this any longer!” Two years were enough! No more!
Sarah opened her eyes and looked at him sceptically. “You want to pay your debts, Lord Hawkmore.” She had matured in those years. She was not a naïve country girl any longer; she had lost all illusions in life.
He stared at her, angry. Angry at her for knowing about his financial problems and for getting him in more, much more, sexual frustration. This had been the coldest bucket of water he could have got. “I want you much more than I want your money, Lady Wilkins!” He stood up abruptly.
“The answer to your proposal is no.” She sat up.
“That we will see.” He bowed and left.
There would be one social occasion Sarah could not miss: Baroness of Flockton’s garden party. The baroness, Lord Hawkmore’s oldest sister; and she knew she risked meeting him, but she did not have a choice if she needed to go around a bit.
So she dressed her best day dress, peach colour and with lace on her sleeves. The colour brought out her sparrow-wing hair and her brown eyes.
When Sarah arrived, the party raged at its peak. The baroness gardens were one of the most famous in town. All Lord Hawkmore’s four sisters were standing together and Sarah went there to compliment them. They all had the Hawkmore’s dark hair and eyes and fair complexion. Beauty borne in the family, she thought. Alice, the baroness, Eleanor, Joana and Laura, the youngest were all married, titled and with children.
She exchanged amenities with them when she heard them call Hugh’s name excitedly. She saw him approaching them.
“Lady Wilkins,” he bowed to kiss her gloved hand, which caused her blood to run faster and she blushed. “I see you have already met my sisters.”
Garden parties proved to be too girlish for Hugh’s taste, but he would not miss this one as he knew Sarah had confirmed her presence. She looked beautiful in her peach domed dress, her skirts moving in the wind.
“Hugh,” Alice called. “Why don’t you take Lady Wilkins to see my gardens?” She sounded too suggestive. Playing matchmaker, was she?
This had been all Hugh came there for. He wanted to be publicly seen in Sarah’s company, mark his territory. So he offered her his arm.
