Sarah's Surrender (Novella) (3 page)

“I had not imagined differently.” She felt her lips draw tight and tried to soften them.

“Then why have you changed your mind? You cannot even claim that passion makes you foolish at this late date. Or do you frequently proposition men in gardens?”

She ignored the last and forced a laugh from her lips. “Oh, I can definitely claim that passion is making me foolish, the passion of a woman who sees her youth fleeing, rather than that of a girl who dreams of love and princes.”

“I was never a prince.”

“Believe me, I know.” Only he had been. In her dreams he'd been her prince. She turned and stared into the dark of the trees. The air moved with each breath he took, caressing her. No other man had ever made her feel this way, ever made her consider doing things she knew she should not. And she did know she should not. It did not matter that Mr. Meyers was acting despicably and that she was only trying to get a little piece, a tiny little piece, of the world for herself. It was still wrong.

And yet, it was so right. “So does your offer still stand?”

“The offer to take you to my bed and rid you of your virginity? Assuming you are still a virgin.” He said the words callously as if trying to scare her.

“I doubt that the offer was ever to take me to your bed. I seem to remember a hayloft. And yes, I am still a virgin. If I wasn't, I doubt I would be making this offer.”

“That makes little sense.” He seemed to grow even larger and imposing.

She was not to be intimidated. Not by him, not by the pounding of her heart, and certainly not by lungs that ceased to function. “It makes sense to me and that is all that matters. Now, do you say yes or no?”

Before she could try to inflate her still malfunctioning lungs, she found herself pressed back against a tree as Jonathan stepped forward, invading her space. Her hair was gripped tight and her head tilted back, with force rather than tenderness. “Why do you want this?” he asked. And then, “Hell, it doesn't matter.”

And then his lips were on hers.

It should have felt familiar. She'd kissed him so many times in the past. A first kiss. A knowing kiss. A friend's kiss. A deep kiss. A soft kiss. A kiss to relieve pain. A kiss to bring joy. They'd had them all.

A lover's kiss. Yes, even a lover's kiss. She might have balked at the final step, but her kisses had not.

And yet nothing was familiar, his lips were hard, demanding, unyielding.

Her body relished it, but her soul did not.

This was not the man she had known. This kiss came from someone far removed from the Jonathan she had loved.

Her mind roiled in confusion, unable to become swept away by the passion of the moment.

And there was passion, more passion than she could ever remember, even with the most memorable of their earlier kisses.

There was a heat here that was new, a desire to climb into the other's skin, to merge, to become one.

It was fire, hot, burning fire. A fire that consumed all—and left nothing in its wake.

And yet she was strangely unmoved. Her body longed for more, pressed forward in demand, but her mind held back, observed. She felt the power of his body, the strength inherent in his every movement and the grip of his fingers as they pushed her back against the tree. The bristle of his light stubble rubbed against her cheek, although she would have guessed his valet had shaved him within the last couple of hours. Jonathan's cheeks had always darkened quickly as the day progressed. She remembered when he'd been seventeen and had grown a beard as full as the local hermit's. It had taken less than two weeks. And then his mother had grabbed him by the ear and demanded its removal.

He pulled back. His dark eyes stared deep into hers.

Her eyes fixed on his lips, red and swollen from even the brief kiss. She was glad she could not see her own. Her face was probably flushed and her lips equally puffy. No, she did not want to see herself. The back of her hair probably curled out like a bird's nest from rubbing against the tree.

“What are you thinking?” Jonathan's voice was gruff.

“What?”

“You never used to think when I kissed you. It was one of the things that I adored about you.”

Adored about her.
Her mind stuck on the phrase. He'd adored things about her. She'd always thought he had, but after that last night, she'd been filled with nothing but doubts. “I am not really thinking about anything.”

“Yes, you are. Tell me.”

A slight sigh. “If you must know, I was thinking about how awful I must look. My hair probably looks like creatures are living in it. I am unsure if they be birds or mice.”

A brief smile crossed his lips. “Actually, I think you look better than you have all evening. Even in the darkness I can see the color in your cheeks and a flash of sparkle in your eyes. You are far closer to the girl I used to know than you were when you walked out here.”

Was that a compliment or not? It was hard to tell. And who trusted a man's opinion anyway? She'd never known a man who understood the importance of hair. “I will have to trust you.”

“And have I so lost my touch that you are truly thinking of your appearance as I kiss you?”

“How do I reply to that? I do not want to damage your image of yourself.”

He smirked. “When have you ever known me to be so fragile?”

“But I do not know you anymore. I believe we have already established that.”

“I do not quite recall such a conversation.”

“You know it was implied.” How had she ended up sounding the belligerent one? Fiery words were surely no way to seduce a man. Although strangely Jonathan seemed far more interested now than he had a few moments before. There was a gleam in his eyes and they kept dropping to her lips.

“I admit no such thing. Although I would admit that you never before had problems thinking too much when I kissed you. We will need to work on that.” And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers once again.

What was he doing? He'd certainly had no plan to kiss her when he followed her out—and he was always careful to never muss a woman when she could be seen in public. He was careful to stay far from any scandal. And yet, he'd wrecked her hair without a thought. Sarah was not far wrong that it looked as if small rodents had been scurrying through her hair. And he found it adorable.

He never found such things adorable.

Hell, he wasn't sure he found anything adorable—not even kittens.

But Sarah, even this new lifeless Sarah, was somehow adorable. It made no sense. It was alien to him. This was not the man he was. It was better to concentrate on this moment only, to concentrate on the kiss.

Her lips were hot, firm, wet beneath his own. Her small puffs of breath filled his mouth and then withdrew. Lemonade. Honeysuckle. God, she'd always smelled of honeysuckle, even when she'd been barely a sprout.

His mind filled with images, a confusion of past and present.

Sunlight, moonlight, winter chill and hot summer days.

Laugher. Tears. Kisses so hot the soles of his boots began to melt. Her long hair wrapped about him. Her soft breasts pressed against him, pale in the moonlight, the dark tips begging for his kiss.

Kiss.

Kiss.

Kiss.

God, the woman could kiss. They'd started almost soft this time, but now tongues danced and lips sucked and consumed. He could eat her alive—if she didn't devour him first.

Heat. Passion. Fire.

He was burning from the inside out.

His cock rose hard in his breeches, pressing into the sweet softness of her belly.

He needed to be in her.

His long fingers rose to the top edge of her dress, playing with the stiff lace, trying to push it down, trying to find the nirvana that so beckoned him. The tight fabric refused to budge. He yanked, harder. It descended barely a fraction of an inch.

His concentration moved to her lips again; they were easy, pliable, giving, offering all to him. So sweet. Too sweet.

She was moaning beneath him, small sacred sounds that filled the emptiness within him.

He pressed his lips harder against hers. She was his. She'd always been his.

Mouths moved furiously, wanting more, needing more.

Her small hands moved up his back, sliding under the tight weave of his jacket. He wanted them on his skin. He just wanted skin; the feeling of damp skin pressed to damp skin, the wonder that only came when flesh met.

His hands cupped her breasts again, longing to feel her softness, but finding only the stiff fabric and scratching lace. He curved his fingers under the lace—pulled, hard. He would not be defeated.

An almost deafening tear sounded.

It was probably almost inaudible, but in his ears it echoed endlessly.

He pulled back, and stared down with cold eyes.

She was lost, so lost. This is what she had dreamed of for years. Jonathan's touch, the sensation that nothing in the world mattered beyond this moment, this second, this minute. She could have stayed here an eternity, never wanting anything but this touch, this kiss.

There was the sound of a brief tearing and suddenly she could breathe more easily, but it hardly mattered. Her whole world was Jonathan—and only Jonathan. Strong hands holding her tight, lips devouring, and—and him, just him. How had she lived all these years without this?

A sudden cold breeze.

His lips left hers.

His hands pushed her away.

What?

She blinked. And blinked again.

And stared up into icy, unforgiving eyes. She'd been here before, five years ago when she'd said no and he'd turned from her friend and lover into a nightmare.

“Are you trying to trap me?” His voice was brittle.

She could only blink one more time, her mind not understanding. “What?”

“Are you trying to trap me?”

“Trap you?” What was he talking about? Five years ago she'd understood her crime, now she was without a clue.

“The dark garden. A dress designed to tear. Is your father about to appear? Perhaps with some great lady of society? I should warn you, I will never be trapped.”

“I don't think a bolt of lightning could separate Papa from the card room if he were occupied—although as it happens he is not here this evening. And even if he were, I doubt any great lady would spend time in his company. I am here with my Aunt Sadie, my mother's oldest sister. I am not sure she can walk far enough to come to the garden.”

Jonathan continued to glare down at her, not looking convinced.

“And as for my dress, what do you mean designed to tear? If there is one thing positive I can say about this dress it is that it has no tendency to rip. The fabric could probably be used to haul about bags of coal and it would emerge unscathed.” Her own anger was beginning to rise to meet his coldness. She had never wanted to trap him, never wanted that which he did not freely offer. This whole idea was absurd and always had been.

“I do apologize then. If your dress was not designed to rip then I am sure it has not.”

She glanced down. Her bodice was gaping. He'd torn a good four inches of side seam. “You would leave me like this.”

A long sigh passed his lips. “No, I would not. I will admit to still retaining some decency. And I did cause the rip; for that I truly do apologize.” His voice held a hint of sincerity that his earlier words had lacked.

“Good, then give me the pin from your cravat.”

“You must have some pins in your hair that could be used.”

She'd been right, Jonathan was clueless about hair. “They are only
called
pins. They are not designed to stick through cloth.”

“Fine. It's only a trinket anyway. A lava cameo some friend brought back from his travels. Don't think it can be tied to me. A dozen men, a hundred dozen men, must have one similar.” The doubt had returned to his voice.

She grabbed the cameo from him and used it to piece her dress back together. If she kept her arm down it would be almost unnoticeable. She would have to make her excuses and leave, but that was not a hardship. “You can be an ass,” she said with complete calm. “An absolute ass, always speaking before you think. Some day you will learn that not every woman wants to trap you into matrimony.”

“You wished to marry me.”

If only she could deny it. “Yes, but I never wished to trap you. There is a great difference.”

He snorted.

She refused to allow her temper to rise further. “I will return it to you tomorrow. I have no wish for any reminder of this evening.”

“What do you mean tomorrow?” he asked, still wary.

“Tomorrow when we finish what we started five years ago.”

His eyes darkened with consideration. “I have not agreed.”

“But you will. Your kiss told me that.”

“I will need to plan. I do not wish either one of us compromised.”

Seduction was far harder than she had ever expected. “I can assure you I have no desire to be compromised. I merely wish one night, out of time, away from my real life, away from the past—and from the future.”

“I am not sure that is possible. Our pasts are always with us.”

“Don't play the philosopher now.”

To her surprise, his lips crooked up with humor. “I am making no commitment. I will send you a note in the morning, letting you know if I have found a way to make this work.”

“Do not send it to the door. Leave it as we used to leave notes. The rock is still loose; even after all these years it has not changed.” It was perhaps the only thing that had not changed; the same could clearly not be said for either of them.

“Are you trying to soften me with memories? Do you think that playing the childhood game of passing notes through a hole in your garden wall will make me more kindly?”

“I don't think anything could make you more kindly, but strangely I find I do not care. I merely do not wish Papa to decide to be dutiful and to feel he must read my correspondence. I imagine that you do not wish him to know of our arrangement either.”

“No, I cannot say that I do.” His eyes flashed down her body and then slowly made their way up. “Perhaps, as you do not mind my lack of manners, I should let you persuade me that I wish to take this risk tomorrow night—and at the same time let you understand exactly what it is you will be getting, let you understand the man I have become.”

Something in his tone made her shiver; it was not cruel, but it was nothing like that of the young man she still clung to in her dreams. It was commanding. The Jonathan she had known had been full of questions and self-doubt, not command. “What do you mean?”

“Step back. Let your back rest against the tree.”

“But my hair…”

“Is already ruined.”

He did not say more, and without knowing quite why she found herself backing up until the rough bark of the tree brushed against her. Her hands curled about the trunk, fingers feeling the rough grooves.

“Give me back my pin.”

“But…”

“You must learn not to protest everything I say if you wish me to do as you desire. Trust me.”

That was ironic, given how little trust he had of her. “I will try.” She opened her hand and held out the pin.

His lips pressed together and she could tell her answer did not please him, but he did reach out and take the stickpin, placing it into his pocket. Then he pulled a deep breath into his chest, the linen of his shirt stretching tight. “If you want to do this you must learn to do as I say. It is the only way it will work—for both of us.”

“But…”

He glared and she shut her lips. She was not at all sure he was right. In fact, she was rather sure he was not, but she was determined in her plan. She nodded.

“Good, now keep your hands on the tree. No matter what happens I do not want you to move.”

Her mind raced. What if the party moved outside? Or even a single couple did? What if a bat flew in her hair? What if…?

“What does it take to make you stop thinking?” he growled. “To stop worrying? You never used to be this way. Oh, never mind, I've a few ideas.”

She could have told him that in the past she'd always had him to make her feel safe—and that was definitely no longer true, but she held her words back. This was not the time, and she was far too intrigued by the look in his eyes to wish to argue. “I will try.”

“I will make sure you do.”

His words could have been offensive, but instead they made her toes curl with want, with need. What was so different about him? Where had this sense of mastery come from? She found herself straightening her spine against the bark, her eyes looking into his, holding all the questions that did not spring from her lips.

He smiled, only the slightest of one, but still most distinctly a smile. “You do learn quickly, my dear.”

My dear.
She knew it was only a turn of phrase, but something in her warmed at his words, and at the look in his eyes. His moods might flit by faster than a bumblebee's wings, but when he looked at her with passion it filled her entire being. And her heart told her there was more than passion in that gaze, that there was caring and affection as well. It had been years since she trusted her heart, but the temptation was great.

His smile grew. “Now stay still; do not move a fraction of an inch.” His eyes studied her with care.

Suddenly it was hard not to move, not to sway toward him, not to invite his touch, but she held firm, kept her back straight, her eyes steady.

He lowered his gaze, and his eyes swept over her from head to toe, pausing, lingering at her full hips and then up to her breasts, straining against the torn fabric. He stopped there and considered. She could feel the weight of his gaze like a tangible thing. The silence between them grew.

And still his eyes stayed focused, not moving.

It was hard to breathe. She felt her bosom rise with each intake, felt the fabric of her gown slide against her, felt her breast swell toward him and then recede.

She was going to go crazy. How could mere seconds stretch so long?

She had to move. She had to say something. This could not continue.

And he wasn't even looking at her. Well, not at her eyes. How could she judge him when she could not read his glance?

And then, just when she could take no more, he reached out and ran a single finger along the top of the lace. A thousand shivers took her.

Still without meeting her eyes, he traced his finger back and forth over her flesh, slowly, sensuously. Now it was hard to swallow. His finger trailed back and forth, never moving from its path.

Please touch me more. Please. Please,
her mind cried.

But his finger never varied.

“You should wear softer fabrics,” he said after a bit, his voice hardly rising above a whisper. “I am surprised this has not chafed your skin.”

Her lips parted to answer, but what could she say?
I'd love to wear something else, something soft, something I chose. I can imagine nothing more wonderful than to not be the poor relation, always destined to wear another's castoffs.
That would sound either like whining or begging and she would do neither.

His finger traced up her chest, stopping briefly to circle the indent of her throat, and then proceed up her neck. His fingers held her chin firm, allowing no movement.

And then he raised his eyes, meeting hers and holding them. If ever she'd questioned her desirability, she did not now. It was impossible not to feel beautiful when she could feel his desire and admiration.

She swallowed, her throat finally easing as her own power filled her for the first time in years.

She was doing that to him.

She was making him look that way.

It seemed an improbable thought. She'd become so used to being the invisible woman in the hideous gown.

But he saw her; there was no mistaking that.