The Sum of All Kisses (18 page)

He still wasn’t finding it easy to fall asleep. He probably never would. But the reason why . . .

That was the difference.

In the years since his injury, there had been plenty of nights that had found him awake and wishing for a woman. He was a man, and except for his stupid left thigh, all parts of him were in working order. There was nothing unnatural about it, just a lot that was uncomfortable.

But now that woman had a face, and a name, and even though Hugh behaved with perfect propriety throughout the day, when he was lying in his bed at night, his breathing would grow ragged and his body burned. For the first time in his life, he longed for the numbers and patterns that plagued his mind. Instead all he could think about was that moment a few days earlier, when Sarah tripped over the rug in the library and he’d caught her before she fell. For one ecstatic moment, his fingers had brushed against the side of her breast. She’d been wearing velvet, and God knows what else underneath, but he’d felt the curve of her, the soft tenderness, and the ache that had been growing inside of him turned rampant.

And so he wasn’t particularly surprised when he rolled over fitfully in his bed, picked up his pocket watch, and saw that it was half three in the morning. He’d tried reading, as that sometimes nodded him off, but it hadn’t worked. He’d spent an hour doing really boring equations in his head, but that hadn’t done the trick, either. Finally, he admitted defeat and walked to the window. If he could not sleep, at least he could look at something other than the insides of his eyelids.

And there she was.

He was stunned, and yet not surprised at all. Sarah Pleinsworth had been haunting his dreams for more than a week; of course she’d be out on the lawn in the middle of the night the one time he stood at his window. There was some sort of insane logic to it.

Then he blinked himself out of his stupor, because
what the hell was she doing
? It was half three in the morning, and if he could see her from his window, at least two dozen others could, too. Hugh let out a string of expletives that would have done any sailor proud as he strode to the wardrobe and yanked out a pair of trousers.

And yes, he could stride when absolutely necessary. It wasn’t pretty, and he’d feel it later, but it did the trick. A few moments later he was more or less dressed (and the parts that were “less” were covered by his coat), and he was moving through the halls of Whipple Hill as quickly as he could without waking up the entire house.

He paused briefly just outside the rear door. His leg was nearly in spasms, and he knew that if he didn’t stop and shake it out, it would collapse beneath him. The delay gave him time to sweep his gaze across the lawn, looking for her. She’d been wearing a coat, but it hadn’t completely covered her white gown, so she should be easy to spot . . .

He saw her. Sitting on the grass, so still she might have been a statue. She was hugging her knees to her chest, gazing up at the night sky with an expression of serenity that would have taken his breath away if he weren’t already so wrecked by fear and fury, and now by relief.

Hugh made his way slowly, favoring his leg now that speed was no longer of the essence. She must have been lost in her thoughts, for she did not seem to hear him. At about eight steps away, however, he heard her sharply indrawn breath, and she turned.

“Hugh?”

He didn’t say anything, just kept walking toward her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, scrambling to her feet.

“I might ask the same thing of you,” he snapped.

She drew back in surprise at his display of anger. “I couldn’t sleep, and I—”

“So you thought you would wander outside at half three in the morning?”

“I know it seems silly—”

“Silly?” he demanded. “Silly? Are you bloody well kidding me?”

“Hugh.” She reached out to place her hand on his arm, but he shook her off.

“What if I hadn’t seen you?” he demanded. “What if someone else had seen you?”

“I would have gone inside,” she said, her eyes searching his with an expression of such perplexity that he nearly flinched. She could not possibly be so naïve. He had raced through the house—he, who on some days could barely walk, had raced through this bloody monster of a house, unable to beat away the memory of his mother’s cry.

“Do you think that every single person in the world has your best interest at heart?” he demanded.

“No, but I think every person
here
does, and—”

“There are men in this world who hurt people, Sarah. There are men who hurt
women
.”

Her face went slack, and she didn’t say anything.

And Hugh tried so very hard not to remember.

“I looked out my window,” he choked out. “I looked out my window at half bloody three in the morning, and there you were, gliding across the grass like some sort of erotic specter.”

Her eyes grew wide, and they might have filled with alarm, but he was too far gone to notice.

“And what if it hadn’t been me?” He grabbed her arms, both of them, his fingers biting into her flesh. “What if someone else had seen you, and what if someone else had come down here, with different intentions . . .”

His father had never been one to ask permission of the women in his life.

“Hugh,” Sarah whispered. She was staring at his mouth. Good God, she was staring at his mouth, and his body felt as if it had been set afire.

“What . . . What if . . .” His tongue felt thick, and his breath was no longer even, and he wasn’t even sure he knew what he was saying.

And then she caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he could practically feel the soft scrape of it across his own lips, and then . . .

He was gone.

He crushed her to him, his mouth taking hers with no subtlety, no finesse, nothing but raw passion and need. One of his hands tangled itself in her hair, and the other roamed down her back, finding the lush curve of her bottom, pulling her close.

“Sarah,” he moaned, and some part of him realized that she was touching him, too. Her small hands were behind his head, holding him against her, and her lips had softened and opened, and she was making little sounds that shot through him like lightning.

Never once breaking the kiss, he shrugged off his coat and let it fall to the ground. They sank to their knees, and then she was on her back, and he was over her, and he was still kissing her, hard and deep, as if he could remain in this moment forever, just so long as his lips never left hers. Her nightgown was white cotton, designed for sleep, not temptation, but it left the flat plane of her chest bare, and soon he was trailing his lips across her creamy skin, wondering how close he could get to those perfect breasts without taking the edge of her bodice in his teeth and tearing the bloody thing off her completely.

Her hips shifted, and he groaned her name again as he found himself settling between her legs. He was straining against his trousers, and he had no idea if she knew what that meant, but he was not capable of cautious questions. He arched himself against her, knowing full well that even through their clothes, she would feel him at her core.

She let out a little gasp at the pressure, and her hands grew fierce against him, sinking into his hair before sliding down his back and under his untucked shirt.

“Hugh,” she whispered, and he felt one finger along the line of his spine. “Hugh.”

With fortitude he had no idea he possessed, he pulled back, just far enough so that he could look in her eyes. “I will not— I won’t—” Dear God, it was hard to wrench out even a single word. His heart was pounding, and his insides were twisting, and half the time he wasn’t even sure he was still breathing.

“Sarah,” he began again, “I won’t take you. Not now, I promise. But I have to know.” He didn’t mean to kiss her again, but when she looked up at him, she arched her neck, and it was as if he’d become possessed. His tongue found the hollow of her collarbone, and it was there that he finally got the words out. “I have to know,” he repeated, and he tore himself away to once again see her face. “Do you want this?”

She looked at him in confusion. Her desire was written all over her, but he needed to hear her say it.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice down to a hoarse plea. “Do you want me?”

Her lips parted, and she nodded. And she whispered, “Yes.”

Hugh let the breath leave his body in one ragged exhale. The magnitude of her gift suddenly hit him. She was opening herself to him . . . and trusting him. He’d told her he would not claim her virtue, and he wouldn’t, at least not tonight. But he wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life, and he was not enough of a gentleman to button her back up and send her to her room.

He reached down with one hand until he found the hem of her nightgown. She gasped as his finger slid underneath, but the sound was lost under his own moan as he ran his hand along the warm skin of her leg.

No one had ever touched her there. No one had ever dragged their hand up and up until it was above her knee. That spot was his now.

“Do you like that?” he whispered, lightly squeezing.

She nodded.

He moved a little higher, still far from her center, but he shifted his grip a little so that his thumb stroked the tender skin of the inside of her leg.

“Do you like
that
?”

“Yes.” It was barely a sound, but he heard it.

“What about this?” His other hand, the one that had been toying with her hair, cupped her breast through her nightgown.

“Oh my— Oh, Hugh.”

He kissed her slowly, deeply. “Was that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see you,” he said, dragging his lips to her ear. “I want to see every inch of you, and I know I’m not going to, not right now, but I want some of you. Do you understand?”

She shook her head.

“Do you trust me?”

She waited until their eyes met. “With my life.”

For a moment he could not even move. Her words reached into him, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. And when they were done with that, they moved lower. He’d thought he’d wanted her before, but that was nothing compared to the primal lust that washed over him with her three softly spoken words.

Mine,
he thought.
She’s mine
.

With trembling fingers, he untied the little bow that kept her neckline modest, and he wondered what foolish, foolish person thought to put such a thing on a nightgown that was not meant to tempt. It was a bow, and he got to unwrap her.

With one little tug of his fingers, he was opening his gift, and with one more little nudge, her gown was sliding down, baring one perfect breast. Her neckline had not loosened enough to show them both, but there was something intensely erotic about having just the one.

He licked his lips and slowly pulled his gaze back to her eyes. He did not say a word, and he did not look away from her face as he took one hand and lightly skimmed his palm over her nipple.

He didn’t ask her if she liked it. He didn’t need to. She whispered his name, and before he could say a word, she nodded.

Mine,
he thought again, and it was the most incredible thing, because until recently, he’d assumed—no, he’d known—that he would not find someone, that there would never be a woman he would call his own.

Softly, he kissed her lips. Then her nose, then each of her eyes in turn. It was bursting out of him that he was falling in love with her, but he had never been a man to speak of his feelings, and the words choked in his throat. So he kissed her one last time, truly and deeply, hoping she recognized it for what it was, an offering of his very soul.

Yours,
he thought.
I am yours
.

Chapter Fifteen

S
arah was aware that she shouldn’t have gone outside in the middle of the night. She wasn’t allowed to step outside her house in London without a chaperone; she knew very well that a post-midnight jaunt in Berkshire was equally verboten.

But she had been so restless, so . . . itchy. She’d felt wrong in her own skin, and when she had climbed out of bed and touched her feet to the carpet, her room had felt too small. The
house
had felt too small. She’d needed to move, to feel the night air on her skin.

She had never felt this way before, and truly, she had no explanation for it. Or rather, she hadn’t.

Now she did.

She’d needed him. Hugh.

She just hadn’t known it.

At some point between the carriage ride and the cake and the crazy waltzing on the lawn, Sarah Pleinsworth had fallen in love with the very last man she should ever have wanted.

And when he kissed her . . .

All she wanted was more.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and for the first time in her life, Sarah truly believed that she was.

She touched his cheek. “So are you.”

Hugh smiled down at her, a silly half grin that told her he did not believe her for one second.

“You are,” she insisted. She tried to make her face stern, but nothing could dampen her smile. “You shall have to take my word for it.”

Still, he did not speak. He gazed down at her as if she were something precious, and he made her
feel
precious, and in that moment, all she wanted in the world was for him to feel the same thing.

Because he didn’t. She knew that he didn’t.

He had said things . . . little things, really, just an odd comment here and there that he surely did not expect to stick in anyone’s memory. But Sarah listened. And she remembered. And she knew . . . Hugh Prentice was not happy. Worse, he did not think he deserved to be.

He was not the kind of man who sought large crowds. He did not wish to be a leader among men. But Sarah also knew that Hugh did not wish to be a follower. His was a fiercely independent nature, and he did not mind being alone.

But he had been more than alone these past few years. He had been alone with only his crushing sense of guilt to keep him company. She did not know what Hugh had done to convince his father to allow Daniel to return to England in peace, and she could not begin to imagine how difficult it had been for Hugh to travel to Italy to find Daniel and bring him back.

But he had done all that. Hugh Prentice had done everything humanly possible to make things right, and still he was not at peace.

He was such a
good
man. He defended young girls and unicorns. He waltzed with a cane. He did not deserve to have his life defined by a single mistake.

Sarah Pleinsworth had never done anything by half measures, and she knew that if she loved this man, that meant that she would devote her life to making him understand one simple fact.

He was precious. And he deserved every drop of happiness that came his way.

She reached up and touched her finger to his lips. They were soft, and wondrous, and she felt honored just to feel his breath on her skin. “Sometimes at breakfast,” she whispered, “I can’t stop looking at your mouth.”

He trembled. She loved that she could make him tremble.

“And your eyes . . . ,” she continued, emboldened by his reaction. “Women would kill for eyes that color, did you know?”

He shook his head, and something about his expression—so baffled, so overcome—made her smile with pure joy. “I think you’re beautiful,” she whispered, “and I think . . .” Her heart skipped a beat, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I
hope
that mine is the only opinion that matters.”

He leaned down and lightly touched his lips to hers. He kissed her nose, then her brow, and then, after one long moment when his eyes held hers, he kissed her again, this time holding nothing back.

Sarah let out a moan, the husky sound becoming trapped in his mouth. His kiss was hungry, ravenous, and for the first time in her life, she understood passion.

No, this was more than passion.

This was need.

He needed her. She could feel it in his every movement. She could hear it in the harsh rasp of his breath. And with every touch of hand, every flick of his tongue, he was stoking that same need in her. She had not known it was possible to crave another human being with such intensity.

Her fingers found the untucked hem of his shirt, and she slid her hand under the edge, skimming lightly over his skin. His muscles jumped beneath her touch, and he drew a sharp breath, the air whispering past her cheek like a kiss.

“You don’t know,” he rasped. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

She could see the passion in his eyes; it made her feel womanly and strong. “Tell me,” she whispered, and she arched her neck to bring herself up to his lips for a soft, fleeting kiss.

For a moment she thought he might. But he just shook his head and murmured, “It would be the death of me.” Then he kissed her again, and she didn’t care what she did to him, just so long as he kept doing the same thing to her.

“Sarah,” he said, lifting his lips from hers for just long enough to whisper her name.

“Hugh,” she whispered back, and she could hear her grin in her own voice.

He drew back. “You’re smiling.”

“I can’t stop,” she admitted.

He touched her cheek, gazing down at her with such emotion that for a moment she forgot to breathe. Was it love she saw in his eyes? It felt like love, even if he had not said the words.

“We have to stop,” he said, and he gently tugged her nightgown back to its proper place.

Sarah knew he was right, but still she whispered, “I wish we could stay.”

Hugh let out a hoarse chuckle, almost as if he was in pain. “Oh, you have no idea how much I wish the same thing.”

“It’s hours yet until dawn,” she said softly.

“I won’t ruin your reputation,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “Not like this.”

A bubble of mirth floated inside her. “Does that mean you intend to ruin me some other way?”

His smile turned hot as he stood and pulled her to her feet. “I would very much like to. But I shouldn’t call it ruining. Ruin is what happens to a reputation, not what happens between a man and a woman. Or at least,” he added, his voice dropping sensually, “not what happens between us.”

Sarah shivered with delight. Her body felt so alive;
she
felt so alive. She did not know how she managed to walk back to the house. Her feet wanted to run, and her arms wanted to wrap themselves around the man next to her, and her voice wanted to laugh, and deep inside . . .

Deep inside . . .

She was giddy. Giddy with love.

He walked her to her door. No one was up and about; as long as they were quiet, they had nothing to fear.

“I will see you tomorrow,” Hugh said, lifting her hand to his lips.

She nodded but said nothing. She could not think of a word big enough to capture everything that was in her heart.

She was in love. Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was in love.

And it was grand.

The following morning

“S
omething is wrong with you.”

Sarah blinked the sleep out of her eyes and looked at Harriet, who was perched on the edge of their four-poster bed, watching her with considerable suspicion.

“What are you talking about?” Sarah grumbled. “Nothing is wrong with me.”

“You’re smiling.”

This caught her off guard. “I can’t smile?”

“Not first thing in the morning.”

Sarah decided there could not possibly be an appropriate response and went back to her morning routine. Harriet, however, was in full curiosity mode and followed her to the washbasin, eyes narrowed, head tilted, and letting out dubious little “hmmms” at irregular intervals.

“Is something amiss?” Sarah inquired.

“Is there?
”

Good heavens, and people called
her
dramatic. “I’m trying to wash my face,” Sarah said.

“By all means, you should do so.”

Sarah dipped her hands in the basin, but before she could do anything with the water, Harriet poked her own face even closer, scooting right between Sarah’s hands and nose.

“Harriet, what is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with
you
?” Harriet countered.

Sarah let the water drain through her fingers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re smiling,” Harriet accused.

“What sort of person do you think I am that I’m not allowed to wake up in a pleasant mood?”

“Oh, you’re allowed to. I just don’t believe that you’re constitutionally able.”

It was true that Sarah was not known to be a morning person.

“And you’re flushed,” Harriet added.

Sarah resisted the urge to flick water on her sister’s face and instead splashed some on her own. She dried herself off with a small white towel, then said, “Perhaps it is because I have been forced to exert myself arguing with you.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Harriet said, ignoring her sarcasm completely.

Sarah brushed past her. If her face hadn’t been flushed before, it certainly was now.

“Something is wrong with you,” Harriet called, hurrying after her.

Sarah paused but did not turn around. “Are you following me to the chamber pot?”

There was a very satisfying beat of silence. Followed by: “Er, no.”

Shoulders high, Sarah marched into the small bathing room and shut the door.

And locked it. Really, she wouldn’t put it past Harriet to count to ten, decide that Sarah had had more than enough time to complete her business, and barge right in.

The moment the door was safely barred from invasion, Sarah turned, leaned back against it, and let out a long sigh.

Oh dear heavens.

Oh dear heavens.

Was she really so fundamentally different after last night that her younger sister could see it on her
face
?

And if she looked that different after a night of stolen kisses, what would happen when . . .

Well, she supposed technically it was “if.”

But her heart told her it would be “when.” She was going to spend the rest of her life with Lord Hugh Prentice. There was simply no way she would allow anything else to come to pass.

B
y the time Sarah made it down to breakfast (Harriet hot on her heels and questioning every smile), it was clear that the weather had turned. The sun, which had spent the last week resting amiably in the sky, had retreated behind ominous pewter clouds, and the wind whistled with the threat of an oncoming storm.

The gentlemen’s excursion (a horseback journey south to the River Kennet) was canceled, and Whipple Hill buzzed with the unspent energy of bored aristocrats. Sarah had become used to having much of the house to herself during the day, and to her surprise, she found herself resentful of what felt like an intrusion.

To complicate matters, Harriet had apparently decided that her mission for the day was to shadow—and question—Sarah’s every move. Whipple Hill was large, but not large enough when one’s younger sister was curious, determined, and, perhaps most importantly, aware of every nook and cranny in the house.

Hugh had been at breakfast, like always, but it had been impossible for Sarah to speak with him without Harriet inserting herself in the conversation. When Sarah went to the little drawing room to read her novel (as she had casually mentioned she planned to do at breakfast), there was Harriet at the writing desk, the pages of her current work-in-progress spread before her.

“Sarah,” Harriet said brightly, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Fancy that,” Sarah said, with no inflection whatsoever. Her sister had never been skilled in the art of subterfuge.

“Are you going to read?” Harriet inquired.

Sarah glanced down at the novel in her hand.

“You said you were going to read,” Harriet reminded her. “At breakfast.”

Sarah looked back toward the door, considering what her other options for the morning might be.

“Frances is looking for someone with whom to play Oranges and Unicorns,” Harriet said.

That clinched it. Sarah sat right down on the sofa and opened
Miss Butterworth
. She flipped a few pages, looking for where she’d left off, then frowned. “Is that even a game?” she asked. “Oranges and Unicorns?”

“She says it’s a version of Oranges and Lemons,” Harriet told her.

“How does one substitute unicorns for lemons?”

Harriet shrugged. “It’s not as if one needs actual lemons to play.”

“Still, it does ruin the rhyme.” Sarah shook her head, summoning the childhood poem from her memory. “Oranges and unicorns say the bells of St. . . .” She looked to Harriet for inspiration.

“Clunicorns?”

“Somehow I don’t think so.”

“Moonicorns.”

Sarah cocked her head to the side. “Better,” she judged.

“Spoonicorns? Zoomicorns.”

And . . . that was enough. Sarah turned back to her book. “We’re done now, Harriet.”