To Kiss a Thief (22 page)

A bit of genuine concern for the people involved
, as she had once told St. John.

In other words . . .
love
.

Still raw from the pain of leaving Haverhythe and its people, she did not know whether she was ready to open her heart again. In time, though, she could learn to love this place. Perhaps St. John would, too.

It was not exactly the love match of which she had once dreamed, a dream whose death she had spent most of the day mourning all over again.

But it was a life in which she could feel fulfilled—sometimes, perhaps, even happy.

In a world in which so many had so little, could she really ask for more?

And she would have a school! It had been her fondest wish to start one in Haverhythe, but a wish far beyond the limited means of
Mrs.
Fairfax. As
Lady
Fairfax, however, what could she not do? A marriage like hers might have its advantages, after all. She imagined little heads bowed over their lessons. Practical lessons, yes, of course. But she would make sure there was a space in the curriculum for music . . .

Behind her, snippets of conversation began to erupt around the room once again. The card games ended and the pairings broke up as all awaited the announcement of supper. Lord Estley, Lord Harrington, Squire Abernathy, and Dr. Quiller gathered at one end of the room to discuss the local sport; both St. John and her father stood near them, but neither joined that conversation nor started one of their own. Closer to the fire, poor, sweet Mr. Pickard's ear was being bent by young Philip Abernathy.

The ladies clustered near where she stood, at the opposite side of the room from the gentlemen. Pleading a headache brought on by the fatigue of travel, her mother decided to retire.

Lady Estley, who had not moved from her comfortable lair, drew Eliza down to her side on the horsehair sofa just wide enough for two.

“Sweet, dear?” the marchioness asked, proffering a tin of crystallized pineapple. “Fairfax brought them from Antigua,” she added as Eliza chose. “They are delectable. I do wish he had brought me a little black page to serve them, though. I delight in those exotic touches.”

Sarah bit her tongue as she spied Mrs. Quiller approaching her.

“I must say, my dear, I found your suggestion of having the family attend the harvest ball in the village most interesting,” the rector's wife said in a low voice.

Or rather, in what she no doubt had intended as a low voice. But as Sarah had gradually realized over the course of the evening, Mrs. Quiller was quite hard of hearing, with the result that her attempted whisper carried easily to the other ladies.

Lady Estley drew in her breath in an audible gasp. “ ‘Interesting'? I for one cannot imagine what could have inspired her to suggest that the chief family of this neighborhood would dance in the public rooms in the village.”

“But you must admit, ma'am,” Eliza said, “the balls in which Lady Fairfax is involved are always
interesting
.” Seizing on the bewildered faces of Mrs. Abernathy and Mrs. Quiller, she dusted the sugar from her fingers and leaned forward as if to share a secret. Time had not dimmed the woman's flame-colored hair or the wicked sparkle in her eyes. “You see, at the last ball attended by Lady Fairfax, she was wearing the famed Sutliffe sapphires, and they simply . . . disappeared.”

Mrs. Abernathy gasped. “Good gracious, Lady Fairfax! What happened to them?”

Turning her back on the picture, Sarah folded her hands behind her back so that no one could see her nervous fingers twisting in her skirts. “Unfortunately, ma'am, I do not know. Lady Estley seemed certain they were stolen.”

Eliza sent Lady Estley a glance.

“Ten to one the clasp broke and you simply did not notice,” Mrs. Quiller suggested with an encouraging nod, much to Lady Estley's amusement.

“Perhaps,” Sarah acknowledged. “On that occasion, I was a trifle—”

“Disguised?” the marchioness supplied wryly.

Recalling the empty wineglass and her stumbling footsteps across the library floor, Sarah felt her face heat. “I was going to say
distressed
.”

“Distressed?” scoffed her mother-in-law.

“You, who had just captured the
ton
's most eligible bachelor? What on earth could have distressed you?” seconded Eliza.

The oft-relived memories pricked her consciousness with the sting of a needle: Eliza's whispered words in her husband's ear. Lord Estley's patent regret at the necessity of his son's having to marry so far beneath him. Lady Estley's assumption that Sarah had been too dull-witted to realize how she was disdained by everyone around her.

This time, however, Sarah pushed those memories aside. It was ridiculous to continue to fixate on things that had happened so long ago. Had nothing else of importance or interest occurred in the last three years?

That might be true for Eliza or Lady Estley, but thank God, Sarah could not say the same.

She had spent a great deal of the last few days contemplating how the passage of time had changed her husband. She had almost forgotten it had changed her, as well.

If she was really going to be
Lady
Fairfax again—with all the privileges, and all the sacrifices, the role entailed—she was going to need to bring a bit of
Mrs
. Fairfax's toughness to the part.

“Do you know, Miss Harrington,” she declared with a shrug, “I simply cannot recall.”

Eliza opened her mouth, but before her reply came, another voice interrupted.

“Lady Fairfax?”

Sarah turned and found the Marquess of Estley at her elbow, offering his escort to supper. With a lift of her chin and a smile for Eliza, she curtseyed and accepted his arm.

M
usic was coming from the pianoforte in the sitting room adjacent to his bedchamber. A Mozart sonata. The piece suited the instrument's bright tone. It suited the player, too, with its precise rhythms and intricate patterns—staggering complexity in the guise of simplicity.

As the sound of Sarah's playing had done once before, it drew him to the door. For a long moment, he stood and listened before lifting his hand to the knob and entering the room.

Instantly, the music stopped. “My lord,” she said as she pushed away from the instrument and rose, her quicksilver eyes darting over him. “I was not expecting you.”

When the music began, he had been reading. Or, rather, thumbing idly through a stack of novels someone had left on the bedside. As soon as supper had ended, Sarah had left to look in on Clarissa. He had lingered—over port, over conversation, over any excuse he could find. Anything to keep him from the temptation of crossing the single room that now separated them and coming to her tonight.

Yet sleep had eluded them both, it seemed. Here he stood in his dressing gown and she clad only in a night rail, her feet bare, her unbound hair cascading over her shoulders.

Her chin lifted defiantly beneath his regard. “Though I might have guessed that an extra ten thousand pounds would recall you to your duty.”

Duty. In the nights following their wedding, it had led him to her bed.

What he felt now was not duty.

It was desire. A flame that had been kindled—
re
kindled—in an abandoned hut in Haverhythe. Despite his reputation for iciness, she had left him burning. And if he thought about that night for one second more, she would see exactly how much he still wanted her.

“No,” he whispered, ruthlessly banking that fire, but still not daring to step closer. Nothing could happen between them until he felt certain it was also more than duty to her. “I came because of the music. Will you play once more?” he asked. “For me?”

At first he thought she meant to refuse. But after a moment she returned to the instrument and began an unfamiliar melody. He could not find the words to describe it—it was not beautiful, exactly. But forceful. Haunting. As changeful as the tides. All at once he realized that she was playing the music that had surrounded her in Primrose Cottage, the rhythms of the ocean just outside her door. And he knew it must be a piece of her own composition.

What other treasures did this woman contain? He longed for the key to unlock them all.

Everything he had been forced to imagine while eavesdropping on the Norris's doorstep, he could now observe firsthand: her bright eyes open but unseeing, never once glancing toward the keys, arched fingers that never stumbled, the graceful curve of her wrists and her neck, the soft flush of her cheek, the way her whole body became one with the music.

“You are an artist,” he said when she paused.

Her hands collapsed onto the keys and sour notes echoed through the otherwise silent room. “
I
am the daughter of a Bristol merchant,” she whispered, lifting her eyes at last to look at him. “Surely you had not forgotten, my lord. It mattered enough to you once.”

“It did.”

Dishonesty now would get him nowhere, and he could hardly deny the truth of her words. She had been chosen as his bride because of her father's money. And although he had complained bitterly about having to marry someone so far beneath him, a part of him had been grateful for the distance between them. He had imagined it would make it easier to hold himself apart. Not to want her. Not to care.

“It is not
all
that matters to me, however.”

With a huff of humorless laughter, she trailed her fingers over the keys, sounding a few random notes. “No, of course not. There is also the matter of my being a jewel thief.”

The words jarred him, pushing him forward. Even if he were afraid of what he felt, that was no excuse for acting a coward. He could not allow her to continue to take the blame for what had happened between them all those years ago.

“A successful jewel thief could have done better than that cheap black dress.”

As the implication of his words settled over her, she stilled. “Surely you do not expect me to believe that something has persuaded you of my innocence?”

Hesitating only for a moment, he crossed the room to her side. “
You
persuaded me.” When she would not meet his eye, he knelt on the floor beside the stool on which she sat. “And Primrose Cottage. Mrs. Potts and Mr. Beals. Susan Kittery's lessons on the pianoforte. A guilty woman would not have done all she could to better the lives of everyone around her.”
Oh, if she would only look at him
. “To say nothing, of course, of Clarissa.”

Her head jerked around and her eyes snapped to his. “What of Clarissa?”

“She looks very like my mother. I was reminded of that when I saw an old portrait here. But even before that moment,” he hurried to assure her, “I knew she was mine.” He lifted his hand beneath hers where it still lay against the keys, turning her slightly so he could lay her palm against his chest. “I felt it here.”

Good God, how had she played so beautifully with fingers of ice?

“Forgive me, Sarah,” he whispered, covering her hand with his. “Forgive me for believing the worst of you then. I was wrong.”

“I ran—”

“I was the one who ran away,” he spoke across her. “Not you. Whatever these last three years have been . . .”

Her fingers curled against the silk of his dressing gown, as if seeking warmth. “They were meant to be my punishment, I believe.”

“Yes,” he conceded with a wry smile. “I'm quite sure my stepmother never would have believed you if you had insisted that marriage to me was punishment enough.” At her frown of incomprehension, he reminded her of her words. “That night on the quay. When I asked if you feared to face your punishment. You said that the thing you feared most was a life lived—”

“—without love. Yes, I did say that,” she whispered, a note of wonder in her voice. “And you remembered.”

“At any rate, I hope that life at Lynscombe will not be a punishment to you,” he ventured. “You will have your daughter with you. And your music,” he said, laying his other hand on the pianoforte case. “Whenever you wish it, without having to walk to the vicarage. Oh, and Pickard's school.” He knew he had not imagined the light that flickered into her eyes with his reminder. “It is a scheme well-suited to your gifts—so well-suited, in fact, I regret not having been the one to think of it.”

“Thank you,” she replied warily. “But I do not wish to get my hopes up. My mother was right. Your father is unlikely to agree to it.”

“He will,” St. John declared, hoping he would not have to say anything more. But she only looked back at him expectantly, as if curious about the source of his confidence. “First thing tomorrow, I plan to meet with my father's steward and learn how things really stand. Have a look at the books, tour the estate, meet the farmers. And then, I will talk with my father.” He hesitated. “I intend to ask him to give me the management of Lynscombe. My stepmother will wish to return to town before long, and I—well, it is time someone looked after this place.”

Because Sarah was right. Despite the risk, he could not continue to hold himself apart from the people and places that mattered.

Her cool fingers slipped from his grasp. “So you mean to stay.”

He liked to think that he was acting with his head, acting in the best interest of those whose lives would depend on him. But he could not claim to be acting
only
with his head. Other organs demanded to be involved in his decision-making of late.

Even, perhaps, his heart.

“Yes.” The firmness in his voice surprised even him. “I will stay.”

Turning her eyes downward, she picked out the notes of a melancholy-sounding chord. “I suppose the terms of our marriage settlement have left you little choice.”

“Even in the most difficult circumstances, we still have choices, Sarah.” Reaching for her with a hand he prayed would not tremble, he slid his fingers along her jaw, lifting her gaze to his. “I am making a choice.”
A difficult one. A painful one
.
But the right one
. “The choice to come home.”

Her eyes searched his for so long he felt scorched by the intensity of her scrutiny. Waiting for her to speak, he was instead shocked when she slid her hands up his chest, stretched onto her tiptoes, and kissed him.

In some remote part of his brain, he recalled his promise to himself. He ought to set her back on her feet and return to his room. He had said what he had come to say.

But God help him, he was not that strong.

He kissed her back.

* * *

She knew she had once again been forward. And quite possibly foolish. But if she had held his gaze just a moment longer, he might have kissed her. At least by kissing him first, she could tell herself afterward that this had happened because she wanted it.

And oh, how she wanted. Wanted to believe that he truly thought her innocent. Wanted to trust the look she had glimpsed in his eyes.

Wanted
him
.

Her hunger startled her, and really, what hope did she have of it being satisfied tonight—or ever? For the hunger she felt was not only physical.

Three years past, on her wedding night, she had known little more than her mother had told her, and Mama had said nothing of pleasure, of joy, of the way a man's touch could spin a moment of bliss into an eternity of peace and light. Sarah had gone to her marriage bed not knowing enough to be disappointed at her husband's coldness.

Now, however, she knew. Knew what he'd held back. Knew what she'd been denied.

After those wicked moments in the watchman's hut, she had wondered what it would be like to look back on that night, to remember his touch when it was gone from her. What could be worse than the memory of a pleasure that would be forever after denied to her? What could be worse than being forever alone?

But now she very much feared it might be worse to be together. To feel him inside her, and wonder whether he despised her.

To want him still, and despise herself.

Then St. John wrapped his arms around her, crowding out her doubts. In another moment, she had lost all track of where her kiss ended and his began. When she pressed against his heat, he groaned and lifted her higher. Only the tinkling protest of the pianoforte brought them momentarily to their senses.

With her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs clinging to his hips, he carried her into his bedchamber and sat her gently on the hearth rug before a crackling fire. Had he, too, felt the chill—of uncertainty, of anxiety—that seemed to have settled into her very bones? The welcome warmth of the fire eased her muscles, and she felt her spine bow in a pliant arc as he leaned his body over hers, bending her gently backward.

But that was not exactly what she wanted.

Settling her hands against his chest, she levered herself onto her knees without breaking the kiss. The new position gave her a certain advantage. Now she was as tall as he, perhaps even taller, and she could push back, lean her body against his, feel him bend, ever so slightly, to her will.

She did not want to be taken.

Tonight, she wanted to take.

Running her fingers over his broad shoulders, she pushed the dressing gown away, baring his chest. Far from resisting, St. John spread his hands on either side of her waist, one hand steadying her while the other cupped her breast. Her nipple stiffed at the insistent stroke of his broad thumb.

Sarah cast off every remaining shred of uncertainty and ran her hands across his skin, tracing the curve of his breastbone and threading through the dusting of hair there before sliding the pad of her thumb over the small, flat circle of his nipple, curious to know whether her touch could have a similar effect.

His slight gasp of surprise was all the confirmation she desired. Her hands slipped lower, feeling his muscles ripple beneath her touch. When her fingertips at last encountered the tie of his dressing gown, she stopped.

“Show me,” she whispered, suddenly shy. “Show me how to touch you.”

For answer, he groaned and lifted his hands to her face, tipping her mouth back to his for another searching kiss. “My God, Sarah,” he breathed against her cheek, his voice a ragged whisper. “I wish you would not.”

Stung by his rejection, Sarah withdrew her hands from his body and curled them in her lap.

Perhaps Mama had been right.

St. John's hands found hers, tangling with them, prying loose her fingers until he could stroke her palms with his thumbs. “Don't misunderstand me,” he murmured against her ear. “I crave nothing so much as your touch.” He drew one of her hands slowly toward him until it brushed the rigid length of his erection. Although the touch could hardly have surprised him, he shuddered and quickly lifted her hand away. “I've thought of little else since that night in the watchman's hut.” She gasped as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. “Do you remember telling me that I would get no satisfaction in Haverhythe?” When he paused, she managed the slightest nod, and he continued in a voice that sent a shiver down her spine. “Tonight, I intend to have satisfaction, Sarah. And if you touch me now, I fear . . . well . . .”

She could not stifle the nervous laugh that rose to her lips as understanding dawned. “Oh.”