Jennifer Haymore Page 11

  “Esme is tenderhearted, yes, but this has little to do with a person’s weakness or strength, Your Grace. It is more about how the ton can sink its poison-tipped claws into a person and never let her go.”

  “Ah. I see you have listened to our stories of Town.” He leaned toward her slightly, his expression somber and serious. “I am willing to risk it in this case, again, because the threat is slim and vastly outweighed by the benefit of you being in London with Esme. I can lay it all out for my sister if you’d prefer, but if she has any sense at all, she’ll come to the same conclusion.”

  Sarah sighed. She knew Esme well enough to believe that she would indeed agree with this plan—to Esme, Sarah was as comfortable as a well-worn old blanket and preferable to a stranger any day—but whether her agreement would be based on sense, Sarah had her doubts.

  Still, she understood Simon’s logic. He was willing to risk a relatively minor scandal, in this case, for the ultimate good of his family.

  It warmed her that he thought her presence would be for the good of his family.

  “Very well,” she told him. “I’ll go.”

  He raised a brow. “But you don’t wish to?”

  She hesitated, then smiled. “I haven’t ventured beyond the village since I first stepped foot into Ironwood Park sixteen years ago. During those years, I have watched you and your siblings come and go again and again, and…” Her voice dwindled.

  “And…?”

  She squeezed the front edge of the bench, the marble cold and hard under her palms. “Well,” she admitted, “I’ve always wished I could go with you.”

  He smiled at that, showing that slight cleft in his chin. She’d pressed her lips there three years ago. She averted her gaze.

  “You should have told one of us sooner,” he said.

  She laughed softly. “Lord knows what people might have thought if I accompanied Lord Luke to the Continent or Lord Theo to Cambridge.”

  A shadow passed over his face. As he looked away, Sarah saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, and it struck her then exactly what people would have thought.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean in that way.”

  He was silent for a moment before his gaze swung back to her. “I know you didn’t.”

  But the way he looked at her, his eyes narrowing, turning dark green and hungry and possessive, stole her breath.

  In three years, Simon’s skin hadn’t come in contact with hers. But it did now, warm and firm, his fingers heavy and blunt and so masculine as he cupped her face in his palm. His cedar scent wrapped around them both like a cocoon, and his heat radiated through her.

  She tried so hard not to close her eyes, to sink into his palm. But the pleasure of touching him was so overwhelming, she couldn’t help herself.

  “The last time we were here…on this bench…” His voice was a husky whisper. “It was so long ago, but I’ve craved your mouth ever since.”

  Heat emanated from him. His breath whispered across her cheek. She released a shaky sigh of pleasure at his words.

  “I’ve wanted to touch you everywhere. Kiss you all over.”

  She opened her eyes, because she wanted to see him as she leaned closer in—

  He dropped his hand from her face, jerking back as if she’d burned him.

  “God.” A low groan emitted from his throat as he thrust his hand into his hair and turned away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s…all right…” she managed to say through her dry throat. Her skin was still buzzing from the contact, her cheek tingling and warm where he’d touched her.

  “Sarah—it was a mistake. I shouldn’t ever have touched you. It was disrespectful of me…and wrong.”

  “Oh…Your Grace. No.” She had felt anything but disrespected that night. She’d felt…desired. And for the last three years, she’d savored that feeling.

  “It was late at night, and I took advantage of you.”

  “No,” she repeated.

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  He rose to his feet. She, stubbornly, remained seated.

  He clenched his hands at his sides. “I’ve spent three years reminding myself of how wrong it was to touch you, and yet I sit here and all I can think about is putting my hands all over you. Tasting you all over again.”

  His words sent a delicious shudder through her body. She wanted that, too. She gazed up at him, waiting, wishing he’d give in and sit beside her again, take her into his arms, and drown her in his kisses.

  Raising his hand, he bent his head and rubbed his temple, then blew out a breath and met her gaze again. “I shouldn’t—mustn’t—touch you. I want to do right by you, Sarah. It is morally reprehensible for me to have these feelings for someone who is under my care.”

  If she were a London debutante, it might be different. But she was Sarah Osborne, his head housemaid, and she understood exactly why Simon felt like it would be morally reprehensible to touch her again. It had everything to do with those vast chasms that separated her social class from his.

  Damn them, she thought brutally. Why must it matter? He was hungry for her—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. And, Lord knew, she was hungry for him, too.

  Her gaze dropped to his fist, clenched so desperately at his side. He really did believe it would be wrong to touch her. She knew Simon’s deepest fear was that he’d become like his parents, whose lives had been replete with scandal, betrayal, and flagrant promiscuity.

  Above all, she didn’t want him to lose sight of who he was, who he wanted to be, who he never intended to be.

  If he ever did touch her again, she didn’t want him to regret it afterward.

  So she took a deep breath and rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt to keep her shaky hands occupied. Giving him a slight smile, she asked, “Walk me home?”

  “Of course.”

  They walked down the path side by side. Awareness of him still resonated through her, stronger than ever. She watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked.

  She knew there was wisdom in his reluctance. His brother Luke had boldly ventured into an affair with one of the maids at Ironwood Park once, and it had turned into an unpleasant situation all around. What could come of a relationship between a housemaid and a duke? Very little but heartbreak for the housemaid. Sarah knew this. She wasn’t stupid.

  Her traitorous body clearly had no intention of listening to her mind, though, because it desperately longed for more of his touch. For another of those hot, passion-filled kisses of three years ago. For more.

  Simon stared ahead, silent and brooding, his gaze never wavering from the path. When it narrowed in spots, he stepped aside to give her a wide enough berth to pass before falling in behind her.

  The distance to Papa’s cottage felt interminable when it usually seemed so short. When they finally reached the cottage door, Simon finally spoke. “I don’t want you walking the grounds alone anymore. Not until we discover exactly what happened to the duchess. I should have had someone walk you home tonight.”

  “But—”

  He raised his hand. His gaze drilled into her. “From now until we leave for London, a footman will accompany you where you need to go.”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  Stepping forward, he bent low over her, his eyes narrow. “I know you, Sarah. You haven’t stopped wandering about since you were eight years old. Promise me you won’t until we’re sure it’s safe.”

  He was close enough that she could wrap her arms around him and pull him to her. Her gaze flickered to his parted lips, so close, so deliciously edible. Her heartbeat spiked in anticipation. And for the first time, she realized she could do it, if she chose to. She could bring her lips to his and take them. He wasn’t the only one who could initiate a kiss. She could kiss him, too.

  But before she had a chance to adequately process this new information or to consider her options further, he repeated in a low growl, “Promise, Sarah.”<
br />
  “I promise,” she breathed. She didn’t take her eyes from his lips. Her voice could have fluttered away on the wings of a butterfly.

  He straightened and took a step back. “Good.” He gave a short nod, but his eyes had lightened, and his hungry gaze burned hot under her skin. “Good night, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  With that, he swiveled and retreated down the path, leaving her to watch his broad, wool-covered shoulders recede into the darkness, her heart galloping again.

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