Lords of Desire (33 page)

“I was only seven. I remember very little,” she lied.

“Still.” Lorelei sniffed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh, look at me! They say a baby makes you fretful, and I fear it is true. I will ask your father about her, if you like.”

“No, I don’t wish to distress him.”

Lorelei nodded. “When he mentioned her illness, he seemed very subdued. I think he must have loved her very much.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, do have a treat,” Lorelei urged, reaching for a plate. “It will give me an excuse to eat more. And I’m sure you need your strength, too. No doubt you will also be enjoying motherhood soon if James is doing his duty.”

Though she hadn’t yet taken a bite of sweetmeat, Sarah choked.

Her dry throat seemed to send Lorelei into a swell of giggles. “The last time you were here, I was talking with your husband when you laughed at some ridiculous thing my cousin said. James’s eyes were drawn to you like a magnet. The man watched you laughing from across the room and completely lost track of our conversation! I wondered if you might not get pregnant that very night.”

“Lorelei!”

“Oh, pshaw. We are wives now, Sarah. What is the point of being married except to enjoy it? Do you not feel so…whole?”

“Whole?”

“Yes! For so many years I was led about with blinders on, always aware of the hushed conversations that ended when I stepped into a room of women my own age. They had all married years before, and I was not one of them. I was some sort of bizarrely overgrown child to be patted on the head and guided back toward the younger girls so that the adults could talk. And unmarried women were even worse. How many conversations can one have about bonnets before one goes mad? And to be treated as if my circumstance might rub off and curse them to spinsterhood as well…”

“Lorelei,” Sarah sighed. “I had no idea.”

“I do not mind now, for I have your father and he is wonderful. Forty-two is not so old a man, I’ve found.” Her grin nearly split her face. “Not very old at all.” Her hand went to her belly, and Sarah watched her fingers curl gently over the treasure there.

If only Lorelei wasn’t married to Sarah’s father, she could answer so many questions.Do you enjoy your husband’s attentions? If so, how often? Does his touch make you shake and sob? Has he ever approached you in the morning?

But she could not ask those questions of her father’s wife, so she didn’t. And when she left an hour later, Sarah knew nothing more than she had when she’d arrived, except that there would be one more life affected by any disease she might eventually succumb to.

James Hood scowled at the man on the opposite seat of the carriage. “If that piece of rubbish imagines he can convince me to support his measure over Harding’s, he’s clearly picked up more than bad manners at that whorehouse he frequents.”

Montgomery snorted. “Syphilitic or not, he has high hopes for that bill.”

“I’d rather cross the aisle than throw my support behind him.”

“Come now, the bill simply expands—”

“He not only wants to send women of ‘doubtful morals’ to the workhouse but also he wishes to confiscate their children for factory work?He, who refers to the Priory as his London home? That level of hypocrisy begs a beating.”

Montgomery arched an eyebrow. “Have you everbeen to the Priory? I wouldn’t say those girls’ morals are in any doubt at all. I’d say they are quite delightfully irredeemable.

No need to send them to a workhouse; it wouldn’t take.”

“Christ,” James muttered as Montgomery laughed.

“Come, James. You’ve been married for weeks now. Time to get back to the hunting grounds. I’d planned a trip to the Priory myself tonight. Come along and I’ll give you a tour.”

James glanced out the window to see how close they were to his house.

“Good man.” Montgomery slapped his shoulder and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Listen, they’re a bit pricey, but there are a pair of twins—rather fleshy, but they’re identical twins, you understand—and they will absolutely devour your—”

“No.”

“I’ll treat. Consider it a belated wedding gift.”

“Bugger yourself, Monty.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with my wife.”

Montgomery’s hand froze on James’s shoulder, then dropped back to his side of the hack as if he feared contagion. “Pardon?”

James glanced up to find his friend watching him as if he’d just announced that he was running off to Timbuktu with a stable hand. He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m in love with Sarah.”

“Since when?” Monty scoffed.

Since the day I met her,he wanted to say, but didn’t. “None of your business. Just watch your mouth if she ever deigns to invite you to dinner.”

He scowled. “I can’t imagine when that will be. I don’t think she likes me.”

“Hard to fathom.”

His friend’s confusion wasn’t feigned. He’d flirted with Sarah the way he flirted with every woman and grew more dumbfounded each time she responded with annoyance.

Most women loved Montgomery. Sarah did not. James felt inordinately pleased.

“Well, this is intolerable,” Monty complained. “You were enough of a stick-in-the-mud before.”

“Then it’s not much of a loss, is it?” When James saw familiar doorways begin to pass by the window, he smiled. He’d had no choice but to attend this dinner meeting, but now he was home and his pretty, surprising wife awaited within. He had the door open before the carriage rocked to a stop. “Good evening, Monty.”

His friend snorted in disgust as the hack pulled away, but James only grinned wider. Half an hour, tops, and he planned to have the taste of Sarah on his tongue. He’d spent a good quarter of the day hard. At every opportunity, his mind turned to the image of her sex spread wide for his enjoyment. How pretty and delicate she was down there, how perfect as she shuddered against his lips.

His mouth watering, he inclined his head at Crawford’s greeting, then contemplated holding on to his hat to avoid embarrassing the servant.

“Sir?” the butler intoned.

James gave in and turned over the hat, spinning quickly toward the parlor in an attempt to flee with his pride intact. “Is Mrs. Hood still up?”

“No, sir. She retired a half hour ago.”

“Ah. Wonderful.” He’d already made it halfway up the stairs when Crawford’s next words reached him. “Madam was suffering from the headache and decided to retire early.”

“Oh.” He froze, one foot already on the next step. Was she sick or was she laid out naked in anticipation of his arrival? He thought of the blush that so easily overtook her, and revised his fantasy. Not naked, perhaps, but still anticipating his return? “Thank you, Crawford.” He continued on, hopeful.

There was no hint awaiting him in his dressing room. Tugging off his tie, he dropped it on a table as he passed through to the dark bedroom beyond. His cock throbbed in anticipation as he moved toward the bed.

“Sarah?” he murmured.

“Hm?”

“Are you unwell?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “A bit.”

“Oh, I see.” He tried not to indulge the disappointment that flooded his veins. The disappointment had no effect on his erection, unfortunately, but it also did not dull his need to breathe her in after a full day away from her side. Whether they made love or not, he wanted to be in bed with her.

He looked toward the pale smudge of her face in the dark. “Can I get you anything, sweetheart?”

“No, Mary has already brought a glass of wine to help me sleep.”

“Very well.” He walked slowly back to the dressing room, wondering if she was really sick or only suffering a guilty conscience as she had the day before. Or, he supposed, it was possible she was miffed over his long absence today. Regardless, he meant to join her in their bed.

A few minutes later, he slid beneath the cool sheets, startling a little jerk from her side of the mattress. “James?”

“Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh.” That one little sound seemed full of relief, forcing James to push down his wounded pride.

“Go back to sleep, Sarah.” He felt her nod and reached to smooth a hand over her brow.

No fever, at any rate. When he repeated the motion, she sighed. “A headache?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Come.” He tucked her into his shoulder, meaning to offer comfort, but the seconds dragged into minutes before her body relaxed into his. “Go to sleep, love.”

Her nod stirred up the scent of her soap as she finally lay an arm across his naked chest.

She was thoroughly clothed in a long-sleeved gown far too hot for the night. Staring at the blackness above him, James wondered what that meant. His chest ached with the answer.

He could not be so greedy next time. As he’d said himself, they had a lifetime of nights together. Sarah had lived nineteen of her twenty years knowing nothing of her own body, much less her husband’s. He could not resent her nervousness…even if it did thrust a knife through his gut.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered again, as if she could feel the sorrow churning inside him. Her hand stroked his chest, smoothing away some of the pain.

When he pulled her tighter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, Sarah’s arm wrapped farther around him. She rolled her whole body against his side, snuck one flannel-covered knee up over his thigh, and the rest of his worry flowed away like a receding tide.

She’d never lain like this before, pressed so comfortably against his naked flesh. She’d never sighed into his skin and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a settling cat.

This was a headache, nothing more.

She was his wife and he loved her. All would be well, or he would make it so.

CHAPTER 6

The nondescript door gave no indication of what Sarah would find within. It looked neither seedy nor stately. The blue painted wood wasn’t scarred, but neither was it ornate.

A tiny sign hung above the lintel, naming the occupant of the space and his credentials, but again, that offered her no help. She already knew who Dr. Whitcomb was and why she was here.

Sarah clutched her reticule tighter and eyed his doorstep from the opposite side of the narrow street. She needed answers. She could not go through one more day of lies and subterfuge. Of course, her head really had been pounding the night before, but she knew that wasn’t why she’d apologized to her husband. She’d apologized for bringing this curse into his house, for lying, for failing to live up to the promises she’d made at their wedding. For pretending to be a whole woman, when it seemed more clear every day that she was not.

She needed to know.

Her foot had just touched the first cobblestone in the street when that dreaded door swung open. Sarah leaped back, nearly tumbling to her backside when her heel caught on the curb.

A lady emerged. A real lady, not a shopgirl or seamstress. The feather in her hat bobbed jauntily as she descended the steps. Her cheeks glowed with good health. Her smile looked soft and sleepy, relieved even. Was this woman under his care? Impossible to think she could be ill, but in his book Dr. Whitcomb promised an 85 percent success rate with his specialized battery of treatments.

Sarah watched the woman touch a lace-edged handkerchief to her brow before a shiny carriage pulled up to take her away.

Bolstered by the innocuous scene, she stepped off the curb again and rushed across the street. If Dr. Whitcomb could save her and her marriage, Sarah would risk anything. She knocked before she could lose her nerve, and a thin maid in an oversized mobcap opened the door.

“I need to see Doctor Whitcomb, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s an emergency. I’m sure he’ll see me. He treated my mother.”

The maid looked doubtful, but she opened the door wide, revealing a small entry.

“Doctor Whitcomb is a busy man, of course, but I’ll convey your message.”

Sarah gave her name and her mother’s name, then stood rigid as the woman plodded up a short set of polished stairs. The maid knocked on the first door and waited until a male voice called out before she disappeared inside.

She’d been afraid of the doctor as a girl. Would he frighten her now? Would he even see her? Perhaps her mother’s name meant nothing to him.

All her doubts spun around her, weaving a tight net that slowly squeezed the air from her lungs. The room seemed to recede until all she could see was a wide square of sunlight where it struck the landing.

“Mrs. Hood?”

She blinked, and he was there, at the top of the stairs. He smiled as he descended, and she was relieved to see that he grew smaller with each step. He’d seemed a giant for a moment, but when he stood before her, her eyes were even with his.

“Mrs. Hood, I’m honored that you’ve come to see me.” His gaze seemed to devour her.

“Why, you are the very image of your mother.” His smile widened until she could see his back teeth. She had expected someone older; he had seemed so intimidating in her youth.

But in truth he must have been a very young man then, for he looked only a few years older than her husband.

“Doctor Whitcomb,” she finally managed to say.

“Please come up to my office. I’d imagine that you didn’t stop by simply to chat about the weather.”

“No.” She drew a deep breath before she took his arm.

His office was very much like the man himself, clean, simple, attractive. Not the least bit intimidating. A large desk sat in front of the window, faced by two delicate chairs. A chaise longue dominated the rest of the room, remarkable only because of the linen sheets folded at the foot of it and the chair snug against its side.

“Please,” he said, indicating the desk area. “Have a seat.”

He held a chair out for her before rounding the desk and taking his place behind it. His short blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. “What can I help you with today, Mrs. Hood?”

Sarah cleared her throat, shocked to find that she actuallywanted to talk to him. “I’ve read your book.”

He nodded and rubbed a hand over his close-clipped beard.

“My mother…I suspect that her illness was described there?”

“Yes, of course. She was one of my most tragic cases.”