Sleepless at Midnight (10 page)

Now she knew he was teasing. “I’m here only as a traveling companion to my sister.”

“And I’m only here because…well, I’m not sure yet. But for the first time since I arrived, I’m glad I’m here.” He picked up his wineglass and held it toward her. “A toast. To finding the unexpected.”

He smiled. “And to new friends.”

As it had done repeatedly and very annoyingly since he’d sat down, Matthew’s gaze strayed to the opposite end of the table. What the bloody hell was going on between Miss Moorehouse and Logan Jennsen? The bloody scoundrel was looking at her as if she were a pastry and he’d just discovered a craving for sugar. Every time Matthew looked, they were laughing or smiling or had their heads close together.

“If you don’t quit scowling at Jennsen, he’s liable to stomp down to this end of the table and plant you a facer,” said Daniel, who sat on his left, in an undertone. “You know how uncouth those Americans are.”

“I’m not scowling,” Matthew said. Bloody hell, were Jennsen and Miss Moorehouse making a toast with their wine?

“Of course you’re not. You always have that deep crinkle between your brows and look as if you bit into a rotten egg. What I’d like to know is why you’re not scowling is it Jennsen or Miss Moorehouse who has you so disgruntled?”

Matthew forced his gaze away from the couple and turned toward Daniel. “I’m not disgruntled. I’m…concerned. Jennsen is monopolizing Miss Moorehouse. The poor woman must be bored to death.”

Daniel’s gaze flicked to the other end of the table then back. “She doesn’t look bored to me. In fact, she seems to be enjoying herself immensely.”

Matthew’s wayward gaze shifted to the other end of the table. Yes, she was clearly enjoying herself.

“Jennsen appears happy as well.”

Yes, damn it, he did. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Matthew’s jaw tightened.

“It seems clear you don’t care for the man,” Daniel said, leaning closer so they couldn’t be overheard. “Why did you invite him?”

Actually, he hadn’t disliked Jennsen until about fifteen minutes ago. “Same reason everyone invites him. He’s rich.”

“I can’t see how that is of any use to you unless you’re planning to rob him?”

“Hardly.”

“Hmmm. And I assume you’re aware that although he’s rich, the heiress you need to marry must be a female.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you very much. I invited him because he’s a brilliant financial mind. I’d planned to further our acquaintance then solicit his advice on possible investment opportunities.”

Yes, that had been his plan. Now, however, he had a strong urge to send Jennsen back to London. Immediately. Before the bastard had a chance to ogle Miss Moorehouse again. Too late. The bastard just ogled her again. Matthew felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“Good God, man, your face resembles a darkened thundercloud. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous of the attention Jennsen’s paying the mousy Miss Moorehouse…”

Daniel’s voice trailed off and Matthew again turned toward him. And found Daniel staring at him with a stunned, dropped-jaw expression.

“I may resemble a darkened thundercloud,” Matthew said lightly, “a description I disagree with, by the way, but at least I don’t look like a gap-mouthed carp.”

Daniel’s lips snapped shut. Then he whispered, “Are you mad? She’s…she’s so…so…”

“So what?” Matthew asked, unable to squelch the chill that crept into his voice.

“So…not an heiress.”

“I am aware of that. I’ve already told you I’ve no romantic interest in her.” A tiny voice inside him coughed to life and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like liar. Stupid bloody voice.

“Good God, man, I can’t imagine why you would. Especially with a beauty like Lady Julianne here. Who, as you will recall, is the much-needed heiress. And not in the least bit…spinsterish.” His gaze narrowed and turned speculative. “But something about this Miss Moorehouse has captured you in much more than a simply wanting to discover her secrets sort of way. If that’s all it was, your eyeballs wouldn’t be shooting daggers at Jennsen. And you wouldn’t be eyeing her as if she were a juicy piece of fruit you wanted to nibble upon.”

“I assure you nothing could be further from the truth,” Matthew said stiffly. Liar, sneered the stupid little voice.

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’m simply…surprised at Miss Moorehouse’s amiability toward Jennsen.”

“Surprised? That an unmarried woman, especially one so plain, would revel in the attention of an attractive, unmarried, ridiculously wealthy man?”

“While Miss Moorehouse is unmarried, she is not…unattached. Her affections are engaged by a man named Franklin.” His fingers involuntarily tightened around the stem of his wineglass.

“How do you know this?” Daniel asked.

“I saw a sketch of him she’d drawn.”

“And her feelings are reciprocated?”

An image of the intimate sketch flashed in Matthew’s mind. “I believe so, yes.” He frowned. “I wonder what this Franklin’s last name is?”

Daniel shook his head and chuckled. “Good God, now I’ve heard everything. How you get yourself into these messes, I’ve no idea.”

“A bit of sympathy for my financial and marital plights wouldn’t be unwelcome, you know.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m sympathetic.” Daniel lifted his wineglass and raised it toward Matthew in salute. “I wish you the best of luck, my friend. I’ve no doubt you’re going to need it.”

Sarah quietly opened her bedchamber door and cautiously peeked out. After ascertaining that the dimly lit corridor was empty, she quickly exited her room. Heart pounding, she forced herself to walk at a sedate pace and arrange her features into her most innocent expression. In case she happened upon anyone, her excuse for wandering about when she’d already retired for the night was at the ready. I borrowed my sister’s handkerchief earlier and forgot to return it. Should she be informed that her sister’s bedchamber was in the opposite direction, she’d simply pretend confusion, apologize, then turn around.

But hopefully she wouldn’t come upon anyone. All the gentlemen were in the drawing room, partaking of brandy and whatever else gentlemen partook of after dinner, and all the ladies, including the chaperones, had retired. The chaperones were hopefully both asleep because the Ladies Literary Society of London was meeting in her room at one A.M exactly two hours from now. And she had a shirt to procure before they arrived.

Thanks to a conversation before dinner with the very informative maid Mary, Sarah knew which bedchamber belonged to Lord Langston. All she had to do was slip inside, grab a shirt, then slip back out. With Lord Langston in the drawing room and his valet Dewhurst enjoying his normal eleven P.M tea break another helpful tidbit courtesy of Mary how difficult could this be?

A moment later, during which time she didn’t meet anyone in the corridor, she finally stood outside Lord Langston’s bedchamber. She drew a bracing breath then softly knocked, prepared to claim that she’d believed the room was her sister’s, should anyone answer her summons. If someone did, she prayed it would be the valet and not Lord Langston himself, as he’d appeared to be in a bad temper during dinner. Every time she looked in his direction which had annoyingly occurred far more frequently than she liked he’d been scowling.

When no one answered her knock, she cautiously twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed open the door. After another quick glance up and down the corridor to make certain she wasn’t being observed, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door quietly behind her. She leaned her back against the oak panel, taking a few seconds to allow her accelerated heartbeat to slow. When she drew a deep breath, her senses were instantly inundated with his scent. Freshly laundered clothing and a hint of sandalwood. Just the sort of scent that would tempt her to heave a noisy, feminine sigh if she were the sort to do such heaving which she thankfully was not. Her gaze slowly swept the room, noting the low-burning fire in the grate, which cast everything with a warm golden glow. The large copper bathtub set before the fireplace. The leather sofa and matching chairs near the hearth. The beautiful mahogany furniture. A dressing cabinet, washstand, and several chests of drawers. The huge bed, the navy blue counterpane neatly turned down. The night tables flanking the bed. A kidney-shaped desk and a reading stand. Her gaze lingered longingly on the trestle book stand filled with leather-bound volumes, but she shoved the longing to examine them aside and forced her gaze back to the dressing cabinet and the chests of drawers. Which one held his lordship’s shirts?

Pushing off from the door, she headed toward the closest chest of drawers. Grasping the brass handle on the top drawer, she pulled. And found herself staring at a pile of neatly folded shirts. A breathless laugh rushed from her lips, and she quickly snatched up the top shirt. By God, this had been almost too easy!

She closed the drawer and clutched her prize to her chest. Once again Lord Langston’s delightful scent filled her senses. She stilled and stared down at the snowy shirt. There was something unsettling and intimate about seeing that white material pressed against her breasts. As if in a trance, she slowly raised the garment. Then closing her eyes, she buried her face in the soft material and breathed deeply.

A vivid image of him rushed into her mind, walking with her this afternoon in the sunshine, the warm, golden rays bouncing off his thick, dark hair. His slow smile. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed. Those hazel eyes, which, even when he laughed, somehow looked sad to her. His deep voice

“That will be all, Dewhurst,” came Lord Langston’s deep voice from the corridor. “Good night.”

“Very well, my lord. Good night.”

Good God.

Sarah’s head jerked up so fast she knocked her glasses askew. She looked frantically about for a hiding place, but unlike her bedchamber, there was no dressing screen. With no choices and even less time, she dashed toward the heavy velvet drapes covering the windows. She’d no sooner secreted herself than she heard the door open. Then close.

She squeezed her eyes shut for several seconds and fought to contain her panic. And annoyance. Vexing man! Why wasn’t he in the drawing room as he was supposed to be?

The sound of a long sigh reached her ears, followed by the gentle squeak of leather. Recalling that the leather chairs and sofa didn’t face the windows, she risked peeking around the edge of the curtain.

Lord Langston, his profile clearly visible, sat in the leather chair. With his elbows set upon his knees and forehead resting in his palms, he looked incredibly weary. And inexorably sad. His dejected posture reminded her of the way she’d seen Carolyn looking whenever her sister believed herself unobserved, and sympathy arose unbidden within her. What was making him so unhappy?

Before she could consider the possibilities, he leaned down and grasped his boot. After pulling it off, he removed the other. Then he stood and, to her fascination er, alarm began undressing. She felt her eyes widen and she somehow forgot to breathe, to so much as blink, as she watched him slowly remove his jacket. Then his cravat. Then his shirt.

Oh, my… The Ladies Literary Society had definitely chosen the correct candidate from whom to take a shirt, because the shirtless Lord Langston indeed qualified as perfect. Her fingers curled around the edge of the curtain and her stupefied gaze ran greedily over his broad shoulders. A fascinating sprinkling of dark hair ran across his chest then narrowed to a thin ribbon as it bisected his flat, muscle-rippled abdomen.

She was still drinking in the extraordinary view when his fingers began working the buttons on his black breeches. And before she could so much as draw a breath into her stalled lungs, he swiftly removed the garment.

If she’d had the wherewithal to do so, Sarah would have given thanks that her eyeballs were permanently attached to her head, otherwise they surely would have leapt from their sockets and bounced across the floor.

The only thing to which she could compare Lord Langston was the scandalous statue she’d stumbled upon in Lady Eastland’s conservatory during her musicale last month. So amazed and impressed had she been by the sight, she’d drawn a sketch from memory the sketch Lord Langston had seen in the garden that morning. The one under which she’d written Franklin N. Stein after the ladies had decided to make the Perfect Man. Because up until then, she’d believed that statue was as perfect as one could hope to find.

Clearly she’d been harboring a gross misunderstanding.

For surely there could be no more perfect a male specimen than Lord Langston. While the statue had been lifelike in size, nothing could have prepared her for seeing an actual naked man literally in the flesh.

Her avid gaze tracked down his muscular form, noting the narrow hips and long legs, then settled on his groin with the sort of mesmerized fascination she normally only experienced in bookshops and gardens. On the intriguing thatch of dark hair that surrounded his equally captivating manhood. Dear God, was there no air in this room?

Before she could pull in a much-needed deep breath, he turned, treating her to an equally entrancing rear view. Merciful heavens, there wasn’t a single inch of him that wasn’t utterly beautiful.

The desire to move closer, to study every rippling muscle, to touch every bit of skin, nearly overwhelmed her. She actually had to brace her knees and grip the curtain to keep from giving in to the urge. Her lenses grew foggy and she frowned, blinking rapidly to clear the view-distorting annoyance. Then she realized the cause was her own rapid breaths bouncing off the velvet curtains. She leaned back slightly and forced her lax lips closed. With a smooth grace that caused a heart-pounding, breath-stealing ripple of muscles, he approached the large copper tub. And for the first time she noticed the tendrils of steam rising above the polished rim. Her lips once again dropped open as realization enveloped her like a hot, steamy cloud.