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Sara thought she saw brightness like tears in the woman’s eyes. Happy tears for sure. It was all such a surprise. He had disdained the role of Duke of Bedmore, yet here, amongst the people from the village, he was warm and kind and...loved.
‘Would you all like tea?’ he offered behind her.
Mrs Hutchins turned. ‘No, we’ll be getting along. You’ll no doubt have things to do. A wedding to plan.’
The group nodded enthusiastically.
‘I’m leaving all of the arrangements in the hands of my capable fiancée, and she tells me there’s no rush to the altar.’
The group seemed disappointed. They shuffled and moved out into the hall, leaving the house.
‘They adore you,’ she said as he closed the door behind them.
Lance turned, his look sharp. ‘No. They don’t.’
She waved her hand to the door. ‘Then why that? There was no need to come here and bring handmade gifts. It took effort.’
He shrugged and said nothing, his jaw hard as if he were grinding his teeth. ‘This has been my family’s seat for centuries. It’s misplaced loyalty, that’s all. Don’t have any delusions about me, Sara. I’m not a good man.’
‘But—’
‘They’ve reminded me there are a few last-minute arrangements which need to be made for the match, and I need to see to the horses. Can I leave you for the afternoon?’
He’d shut the conversation down, his whole demeanour a warning to tread no further. Anyhow, an afternoon away from each other would be beneficial, allow her to regain her equilibrium, because right now she felt like someone on a boat who hadn’t yet found their sea legs.
‘Of course,’ she said. If he wanted to maintain the façade that he didn’t care, when it was clear to her that he did, then that was up to him. She wasn’t going to be around for long enough to have to worry about it anyhow. But she couldn’t help wondering...
Why did he believe he was so difficult to love?
Lance lay awake. It was well past midnight and it seemed sleep would be elusive tonight. He should be exhausted. He’d spent the afternoon in the stables, working hard with the stable hands to muck out the stalls and clean the tack till it gleamed, not as uncommon an occurrence as some might imagine. He’d always found that hard physical work to the point of exhaustion kept the demons at bay, during the night-time at least. Especially when sleeplessness was a common issue for him in this house, with its oppressive reminders of his unwanted obligations and inexpiable failings.
It wasn’t exactly his failings keeping him awake tonight, though. Through the dark cavern of the doorway to his walk-in wardrobe flickered a dim blue glow that suggested Sara might be awake and on her phone. So close, yet so far.
It seemed she wasn’t sleeping either. He had a few ideas about what could fix that, for them both, and the less circumspect part of him took the thought and grabbed hold with interest. Those glorious breathy moans of hers, the exquisite flush across her cheeks, head thrown back in ecstasy... Lance couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d reacted in his arms that morning. The passion, the pleasure. How responsive she was to his touch, his words. It lit something in him like a fever, leaving him tossing and turning, the crisp cotton sheets scratching rather than slipping over his skin.
Hell, maybe it was these damned boxer shorts he’d put on in case he had to rescue Sara in the middle of the night from...he wasn’t sure what. It had seemed like the respectable thing to do with a woman in the room next door. What if a rat or mouse ran into her room, and she was afraid? In such a situation, a lack of clothing might mean she couldn’t accept his offer of assistance. He almost laughed at how he’d become so decorous. Except the only rat in the house was him.
This was more than mere desire. It was a vicious craving that flayed him alive. Yet here he lay, gripping the sheets of his bed in his fists to stop himself from going to her, when it was clear she didn’t even want to talk about what had happened today, much less engage in a repeat performance. He’d almost made hercry, despite her attempt to hide it. The gleam of tears in her eyes was not something he could ignore. He’d been trying to protect her, and now he wanted to debauch her. None of the things he’d done in his efforts to ruin his family’s reputation had bothered him before. This? She’d come to him for help and he couldn’t keep his grubby hands away from her.
As he rolled over he noticed movement at the door connecting the wardrobe to his room. It was hardly noticeable, the hint of a shadow.
‘Sara?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’
‘I... Yes. I wondered if you were awake.’
His heart pounded at the soft lilt of her voice. And the memory of her throaty moans left him hard and wanting. But he was stronger than this. He leaned over and clicked on his bedside lamp, wincing at the suddenness of the light.
She stood barely inside his room, swamped in a huge, furry pink robe that looked as if a horde of soft toys had been sacrificed for its creation. He should sack the stylist for bringing such a thing into his house. Usually, the clothes she provided were sheer and tantalising silk, but Sara wasn’t a lover who would enjoy the fruits of a fleeting liaison. She was supposed to be his fiancée, and perhaps that was the difference. Now, she looked soft and small like a kitten. Vulnerable and precious. In need of protection.
‘Can’t sleep?’
She shook her head, looking first at her toes and then at him. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his naked chest. He grabbed the sheets and quilt and pulled them up slightly higher, as they’d slipped low. She watched every move, her pale blue eyes tracking over him intently. Heat burst across his skin.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘My family’s been in touch with you?’
‘Yes, they’re not happy with me.’
