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“Ah, Sassy, how lovely you look,” he drawled.
“Won’t you come in,” she asked, turning, “and have a cup of tea?”
He followed her inside with mincing steps, his ennui displayed by his expression and the use of his handkerchief swishing before him.
Sassy’s gaze went to his bright yellow waistcoat and then to his matching nearly as bright breeches. Turning away, she bit back a giggle.
She found him right at her back as she turned to bid him be comfortable. He stopped and touched a long strand of her hair. “Lovely,” he whispered, “so like midnight. Quite alive with shine.” He sighed heavily. “I could write an ode to your hair … but, egad, your eyes!” He paused once more, using this acquired affectation as though on a stage. “I have never seen a shade quite as green … touched with aqua. Yes, I shall write an ode to both your hair and your eyes.”
Sassy giggled and could not stop herself. “But what of my face?”
/> “Dash it, Sassy … piquant and beautiful …” He moved closer, and his voice lowered as he said, “Delectably ripe.”
Sassy suddenly realized she should not have teased with him. He had crossed the line, and she stiffened. “And here I was thinking that the black of my mourning clothes made me look dowdy.” One brow was raised with a warning.
“Black? Mourning? Ah yes, to be sure. So sorry about your father. Been in London. Shame and all … shame … but, well, shall we be off now?” He fidgeted uncomfortably.
Sassy looked to the three portmanteaus packed and ready to go near the door. All her things, all her mother’s things—not clothes but other very important things—had been stuffed inside those bags. It was as though her whole life were now on the move. “Yes, of course,” she said with a sigh. “We just need to put my bags at the boot.”
“Is that all you have?” Sir John frowned over the luggage.
“That is all,” she said. “And quite enough.”
“Yes, yes, of course … got what you need. Fine, then … let me get you situated while the lad packs it up. Can’t keep m’mother waiting. She is anxious to have you at Tanderlay with her.” He took her elbow, but she gently withdrew it.
“One moment, Sir John … I have some farewells to make to my friends.”
“Friends?” He looked about, and dawning displayed itself on his face. “Er … servants … I see … friends.”
He moved about impatiently as Sassy kissed the people she had grown up with and bade them be happy with the new vicar. When she finally allowed him to lead her to the waiting carriage, he released a relieved sigh; once again she smiled to herself.
As the carriage rumbled over the sandy driveway and onto the paved road, Sassy made an attempt at conversation. “I can’t imagine why you have left London in the height of the season?”
“Er … one gets weary of parties …” he said evasively.
She smiled, but suddenly she got a vision of him, and it wasn’t what she was expecting. He was in his undergarments and running out of a bedroom. Another man was shouting and waving a gun … and a woman, naked, was pleading with her husband not to shoot him, saying it meant nothing.
Sassy shook this off and turned to the window, once again biting her lip. She had heard Sir John had a penchant for women—young, old, married, widowed. Servants talked, and her family’s servants weren’t above chatting about him within her hearing. Apparently Sir John was, in his own estimation, ‘a ladies man.’ Sassy repressed a giggle, for he was not that in her opinion—not at all!
And once again her thoughts drifted briefly to the illusion of the man, the mesmerizing man who haunted her dreams. How could she stop it? Was it part of her final transition? Was that what was happening?
* * *
The Marquis of Dartmour wielded his new phaeton through London’s traffic. He was, as he had been ever since he had seen that exquisite creature in the village of Sutton, totally distracted by a vision, albeit fading as the months passed by, that repeated itself both day and night in his mind.
The thing was, he had experienced something that felt as though it was taking place even as he looked into her eyes—those compelling, beautiful eyes. It hadn’t come from him; he knew that. But what then was the explanation?
He had experienced the event as though it had been real. He had actually been in his bedroom with her, looking at her as she lay on his bed—naked.
He had touched her skin and felt her tremble to his touch. He had licked her nipples, felt them harden … Bloody hell, he had felt her exquisite flesh beneath his fingers! It was so much more than a dream. It had felt as though, when he looked at her across the avenue—this was insane, absolutely insane that he should think this—but it was as though he had been transported in time, to a place where they belonged together …
Madness—and yet, it haunted him. She haunted him.
What had triggered it?
She had, of that he was certain. When those speaking green eyes met and locked with his gaze, he’d lost himself to a living dream. An explanation presented itself: Magic. It could be nothing else.
He wasn’t an innocent young man capable of being captivated by a lovely young woman to the point of being consumed by a fantasy. That wasn’t what happened, but what then? He didn’t have the answer, so he tried to forget it, forget her. But then, without realizing it, his thoughts would stray, he would find himself staring at a beauty, and that beauty was in his bed!
