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“I was afraid . . .” he started, then shook his head. “I was afraid I had frightened you.”
That made her smile, and she managed to glance up for a brief moment. “I was afraid I had frightened you.”
The unbearable tension broke on the wave of his laughter. “Never think that. You please me to no end, my love.”
“Will you . . . ?” She cleared her throat. “Will you stay for dinner, then?”
His smile changed subtly, shifting from amusement to satisfaction. “Yes.” His eyes drifted down her yellow gown. “I had no plans to go anywhere at all.” Then he met her gaze.
Oh, mercy. Now James was changed, too. A different creature than when he’d first returned from work. Instead of joviality, his green eyes glinted something dangerous. His jaw was harder, etched from a material more ruthless than flesh.
The new mood in the room reminded her of the countryside in the fall, when buck deer would suddenly transform from gentle, pretty animals to fierce creatures bunched with muscle. The males wanted something, and they seemed mad with that want. But the doe responded, just as Sarah was responding to her husband’s possessive gaze.
It was frightening to be wanted so. Frightening and stunningly exciting.
When he stepped toward her, Sarah tensed with the impulse to
flee. She was too new to this to respond any other way, regardless of her intentions. But a shadow fell into the room, and Crawford bowed from the doorway. “Sir, madam, if it pleases you, dinner will be served when you are seated.”
James stared at her a moment longer, but when he blinked, the spell was broken. “Madam,” he said, offering a little bow before he held out his arm.
The imagined danger had passed and, with a sigh of mild relief, Sarah went to him and took his arm. The simple touch made her burn.
* * *
My wife thinks of more than kissing.
James clutched his glass of port and stared daggers at the library clock.
My wife, he repeated to himself, thinks of more.
When this change had started, he had no idea. Had there been new signs of passion he’d missed? Was it only that she’d begun to trust him? Perhaps it simply took time for a restrained gentlewoman like Sarah to become accustomed to a man’s touch. Whatever the reason, he could think of nothing else now.
The second hand of the clock had become weighted down, too heavy to keep the right time, he was sure of it. According to that blasted clock, Sarah had excused herself only five minutes before to prepare for bed.
Dinner had been enjoyable, despite the fact that James had been in a painful state for most of it. And at the end, Sarah had stood, hands still clutching her serviette, and announced that she was quite worn out. “I must call Mary to help me ready for bed. Please enjoy your port.” She’d practically run from the room, and left James standing there alone, still caught up in the lovely memory of the pale rise of her breasts above the neckline of her gown.
He knew she wasn’t readying for sleep; sunset was barely upon them. No, she was readying for him.
Six minutes. Was six minutes enough? It would have to be.
James set his drink down with a purposeful clink and headed for the stairs.
When he reached his dressing room, he paused to listen. Not a sound from their bedchamber. Was she lying in bed, waiting for him? Thinking about more? James tugged off his tie, slipped out of his jacket, and turned the door handle.
“Oh!” a female voice gasped. His wife or her maid. He couldn’t be sure. They’d both turned to gape at him. The maid’s hands had frozen over the ties of Sarah’s corset. Her dress was gone, her bustle and petticoats as well.
“I . . .” James tried to think what to say, but his mind was occupied with sending up a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t strolled through the door in the buff. “I apologize,” he finally managed. “I see I did not give you enough time.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, it is just that Mary wasn’t expecting me so early and—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mary murmured, bobbing a curtsy. “Ma’am.” She hovered for a moment, clearly uncertain if she should continue with her task.
James cleared his throat. “Shall I . . . ?”
His wife looked from him to the maid and back again. “I’m sure we can . . . Um, Mary, if you could only unknot the strings?”
Mary’s fingers sprang to action and worked at the laces as if her life depended upon it. A few moments later, the knot gave way to her determination. Before the ties fluttered to rest against Sarah’s back, the maid had dropped her curtsy and spun toward the opposite dressing room door. The door closed, and they were alone.
