Page 35 of The Trouble with a Dare

“No,” she said, and with such absolute certainty he wondered just what she had seen in him and feared she did not like it. “I would not change you or wish for you to change yourself for me, but that is not it. I think you only need to feel comfortable, and that you dislike making small talk. You do not waste your breath on flattery for flattery’s sake, but when we speak of something important, like today, you are never short of words, the right words, the ones I needed so very badly to hear.”

She reached up and touched his face and smiled at him, and Sterling was lost. He had been falling since the first time he had seen her, but with that gentle touch of her fingers against his cheek and that devastating smile, there was no help for it.

He fell hard, tumbling down, and with such a sense of inevitability that it felt like peace, like surrender, and so he let it happen. Sterling fell in love with his wife with every fibre of his being and swore that he would always love and protect her and her child, their child, and any children that came after, so long as he lived.

Chapter 12

Dearest Grace,

I was so pleased to spend time with you yesterday and meet your Mr Oak. Finally, I can sleep easy, for he seems an honourable man, if at first a little stern and humourless. Bainbridge assures me he is not the least bit humourless, only rather dry and quiet spoken, and has taken a great shine to him which you may or may not be pleased about. He does not take to many people so quickly and seems to have decided your husband is a good fellow and worthy friend. I can only apologise in advance for any mayhem resulting from this association. Please forgive me.

Having said that, I do hope you will respond to the invitation Florence is sending, inviting you to dine at Saxenhurst before we return home. It will be her first dinner party as a married lady, and she is very excited. Do please persuade Mr Oak that he must come and meet your friends.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Arabella Grenville, The Marchioness of Bainbridge (daughter of Mr and Mrs Nathanial and Alice Hunt) to Mrs Grace Oak (daughter of Baron and Baroness Solomon and Jemima Rothborn).

11th of September 1839, on the road between Tunbridge Wells and Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

Grace stared down at the little wrapped parcel in her lap and smiled. Though many of their purchases were to be delivered, and the rest stored safely in a box behind the seat used for luggage, she had refused to let go of this one.

Feeling eyes upon her, she glanced up to find Sterling watching her. He looked pleased.

“It made you happy, the gift I gave you?”

She nodded, struggling to put a name to what it was she felt, but happiness was certainly a large part of it. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she looked away, smoothing her gloved hands over the carefully wrapped present. It was a keepsakes box, made of Tunbridge Ware, which the town was famous for. The box was decorated with tiny strips of different coloured wood to make up a picture, a little like the Romans had used their coloured tesserae to make beautiful mosaic floors. It was a masterpiece of delicate colour and technique, and when she had seen the picture he had commissioned for her, emotion had clogged her throat.

The sides of the box were decorated with minutely observed images of an English hedgerow through each season, with wild roses and ivy, brambles and berries. In the centre of the box, surrounded by a delicate pattern that made a frame about the image, was a tiny Jenny Wren. The little bird was perfect in every feather, it’s eye bright and alert, as if she might fly away at any moment. Grace had been enchanted, and more so for she realised it was very personal. On the few occasions he had given her an endearment, he had called her his little wren, and now that knowledge made her smile and feel warm inside.

It was not the only thing that warmed her.

When he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, the passion of it had stunned her, the way he had made her feel with just a kiss. He had not pressed for more, had never moved his hand farther than her hip, and yet she had burned beneath his touch. She could feel it still, the press of his lips upon hers and raised a hand to touch her mouth, wondering if the sensation had left a visible mark.

“I feel it too.”

His voice startled her out of her reverie, and she turned to look at him, finding his dark eyes fixed upon her mouth.

“Like you’ve branded me, marked me as yours.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment she thought perhaps he would throw down the reins and haul her up against him, but he let out a ragged breath and forced his attention back to the road.

Good heavens.

Grace swallowed, uncertain of how she felt. Today had been wonderful, and all she had discovered of her husband told her he was a good, kind, and honest man in whom she could put her trust. She was not so certain of what she had discovered about herself. Though it was right and proper for a woman to yield to her husband and find pleasure in his touch, it troubled her, too. Theirs had not been an ordinary marriage or courtship. For all Sterling’s assurances that she ought to feel no guilt, she did still. She had given herself to passion once before, and not so very long ago. To yield to it again now, so easily… what did that say about her? What kind of woman was she to be roused so effortlessly? What kind of wife would she be to a good man like Sterling Oak? Was she capable of deceit? Would another man come along and tempt her into his arms, too?

The idea made her feel sick, and yet she had gone from her lover to her husband in a matter of months and… and she had wanted far more than just a kiss. She had wanted to feel his body, to press her skin to his with nothing in the way and—

Oh, God. Perhaps she was morally corrupt, perhaps there was some flaw inside of her that men could see or sense, which drew them to her. Perhaps she was….

“Grace?”

She jumped, flushing hot as she found her husband watching her.

“What is it?”

Grace shook her head at once. “Nothing.”

There was nothing on earth that would induce her to explain her depravity to this kind, caring man.

She must be on her guard, that was all. She must never allow him to suspect the wicked creature that dwelt inside of her, and she must stay away from men, any other men. Just in case. Though the idea made her nauseous, she could not entirely trust herself to be the woman she wanted to be.