The Taste of Innocence by Stephanie Laurens
Sarah inwardly preened. “Who owns the land?”
Retaking her arm, Charlie turned back to the town. “I do. I bought it years ago.”
She raised her brows. “A speculative investment?”
“One that’s about to pay handsomely.”
They walked back to the inn, taking their time, casting their eyes over the various ships tied up at the docks, at the cargoes being unloaded. The central wharf was a bustling hive of activity; Charlie helped her over various ropes and between piles of crates until they could turn the corner for the inn.
Once within its portals they were greeted by the owner; he knew them both, but Charlie—his lordship, the earl—clearly commanded extra special attention. They were shown to a table in a private nook by a window from which they could see the harbor.
The meal was excellent. Sarah had expected their conversation to falter, but Charlie quizzed her on local affairs and the time sped by. It was only as they were leaving the inn that it occurred to her that he’d been using her to refresh his memory; much of what he’d asked he wouldn’t have seen over the last ten years—the years he’d spent mostly in London.
Pausing on the inn’s porch, they studied the sea. The wind had dropped to a gentle offshore breeze, and the waves were no longer choppy. The sun had found a break in the clouds and shone down, gilding the scene, easing the earlier chill.
Charlie glanced at her. “Are you game?”
She met his eyes, and smiled. “Where’s your boat?”
He steered her down the wharf, heading east beyond the commercial docks to where narrower piers afforded berths to smaller, private craft. Charlie’s boat was moored toward the end of one pier. One look at its bright paintwork, at its neat and shining trim, was enough to assure her that it was in excellent condition.
The glow in Charlie’s eyes as she helped him cast off, then hoist the sail, informed her that sailing was a passion; his expertise as he tacked, taking them swiftly from the pier out into the open harbor, told her it was one in which he often indulged. Or had. It seemed unlikely that he’d managed all that much sailing over recent years.
She sat back and watched him manage the tiller. Watched the wind of their passage ruffle his golden locks; she didn’t want to think what her own coiffure must look like.
“Do you miss this when you’re in London?”
His eyes, very gray now that they were on the water, swung to her face. “Yes.” The wind snatched the word away. He shifted closer, leaning as he tacked; she moved nearer the better to hear.
“I’ve always loved the feeling of running before the wind, when the sail fills and the hull lifts, then slices through the water. You can feel the power, you can harness it, but it’s not something you can control. It always feels like a blessing, whenever I’m out here on a day like this.” He met her eyes. “As if the gods are smiling.”
She smiled back, restraining her whipping hair as they reached the end of their eastward leg and he shifted to tack. And then they were racing away again, faster, farther. She leaned back and laughed, looking up at the clouds that careened overhead, then gasping as a larger wave struck and they jolted, then flew anew.
The gods continued to smile for the next hour.
Again and again, she found herself gazing at Charlie, a silly smile on her lips as she drank in the sight of him, his hair whipped wild, gray eyes narrowed against the spray, shoulders flexing, arms powerfully bracing as he managed the tiller; never before had she seen the Viking side of him more transparently on display. Time and again she’d catch herself mooning and look away, only to have her eyes drift back to their obsession.
At first she thought her awareness was one-sided, then she realized that whenever she moved to assist with the sail, his gaze traveled over her, lingering on her breasts, her hips, her legs as she stretched and shifted. That gaze felt strangely hard, possessive; she told herself it was her imagination running wild with thoughts of Vikings and plunder, yet she couldn’t stop a reactive shiver every time he glanced at her that way. Couldn’t stop her nerves from tightening in expectation each time he gave an order.
Luckily, he knew nothing of that, so she felt free to let her nerves and senses indulge as they might, while she pondered the implications.
They fell into an easy partnership; she did, indeed, remember enough to act as crew, ducking low when the boom passed overhead, deftly taking in slack in the appropriate ropes.
By the time Charlie turned the bow for the pier, she felt wrung out yet exhilarated. Although they’d spoken little, she’d learned more than she’d expected; the day had revealed aspects of him she hadn’t known were there.
The boat was gliding toward the pier on a slack sail when, leaning back against the side and looking up at the town, she noticed a gentleman with another man on the shelf of land where Charlie was proposing to build his new ware house. Shading her eyes, she peered. “Someone’s looking over your land.”
Charlie followed her gaze. He frowned. “Who is he—the gentleman? Do you know?”
She stared, taking in the neat attire, the fair hair. She shook her head. “He’s not anyone local. That’s Skilling, the land agent, with him.”
Charlie was forced to shift his attention to the rapidly nearing pier. “I bought the land through Skilling, so he knows it’s mine.”
“Perhaps the other gentleman is looking to build ware houses, too?”
Charlie shot a narrow-eyed glance at the mysterious newcomer. He and Skilling were now leaving the vacant land, heading not to the wharves but into the town. “Perhaps.”
As he guided the boat into her mooring, he made a mental note to ask Skilling who the gentleman was. A nonlocal gentleman—if Sarah didn’t know him at least by sight he was definitely not local—who happened to have an interest in land and/or ware houses in Watchet was someone he needed to identify, to know about.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to speak with Skilling now; the sun was already slanting low. He needed to get Sarah home before the light faded.
He leapt up to the pier and lashed the craft securely. Sarah finished furling the sail, then reached up and gave him her hands. He lifted her easily, balancing her until she steadied, her soft curves pressing fleetingly against him.
Desire leapt.
He felt it surge and sweep through him, urging him to lock her against him, bend his head and take her lips—and plunder. The power of the impulse rocked him; its hunger shocked him.
Unaware, she laughed up at him; he forced a smile at the musical sound. He looked into her eyes, alight with simple joy—and cursed the fact that kissing her witless in full view of the multitudes bustling about the docks was something he really couldn’t do.
Gritting his teeth, ruthlessly ignoring his baser self, the increasingly compulsive need to kiss her again, he set her back from him.
“Come.” His voice had lowered. Drawing in a breath, he took her hand. “We’d better head back to the manor.”
The next day was Sunday. As he usually did when in the country, Charlie attended morning ser vice at the church at Combe Florey with those of his family residing at Morwellan Park—on this occasion his mother, brother, and youngest sister, Augusta.
His other three sisters—Alathea, the eldest, and Mary and Alice—were married and living elsewhere. Although Alathea, married to Gabriel Cynster and mostly resident at Casleigh to the south, lived close, she and the Cynsters attended ser vices at the church near Casleigh.
A fact for which Charlie was grateful; Alathea’s eyes were uncommonly sharp, especially when it came to him. Throughout his minority she’d guarded his interests zealously; it was largely due to her that there’d been an estate for him to inherit. For that, he could never thank her enough, yet while he understood that she had a vested interest in his life—in the well-being of the earldom and therefore him as the earl—her acuity made him wary.
He didn’t, at this point, wish undue attention focused on himself and Sarah.
She’d smiled at him when he’d followed his mother down the nave to take his seat. He’d smiled easily back, all too conscious that the gesture was a mask; inwardly he hadn’t felt like smiling at all.
Gaining time alone was proving difficult, time alone in which he could further his aim. Her aim was progressing reasonably well, but his aim required greater privacy than he’d yet been able to arrange.
Yesterday he’d hoped that when they’d returned to the manor, he would have a moment when he walked her to the door—one moment he could grasp to kiss her again. But her sisters had come running from the house; they’d all but mobbed his curricle, even though there’d been only two of them. From what he’d gathered, they’d been harboring designs on his grays. They’d smothered him with questions, many ridiculous, but he hadn’t missed the sharp glances they’d thrown Sarah and him.
Clary and Gloria were now wondering. A dangerous situation. When it came to those two, he shared Sarah’s reservations.
The ser vice finally ended; he rose and escorted his mother up the aisle with the rest of the congregation falling in behind, the Conninghams foremost among them.
Instinct prodded him to turn and smile at Sarah, almost directly behind him with only her parents between—but Clary and Gloria were immediately behind her. Lips compressing, he told himself to wait; they’d be able to chat once they gained the church lawn.
But the Combe Florey church was well attended, the congregation thick with the local gentry; he and his mother were in instant demand. As he was so rarely in the country these days, there were many who wanted a word with him.
Tamping down his unruly impatience—Sarah and her family were coming to lunch at the Park—he forced himself to do the socially correct thing and chat with Sir Walter Criscombe about the foxes, and with Henry Wallace about the state of the road.
Yet even while discussing the qualities of macadam, he was acutely conscious that Sarah was close. She stood a yard behind him; straining his ears, he caught snippets of her conversation with Mrs. Duncliffe, the vicar’s wife.
The tenor of that conversation—about the orphanage at Crowcombe—recalled the impression he’d received at the Finsburys’; while watching Sarah dance, then standing by her side chatting to others, he’d noticed that she was respected, and often deferred to, by their peers, by the unmarried gentlemen and young ladies of their wider social circle, that her quiet assurance was admired by many.
From Mrs. Duncliffe’s tone, it seemed that the older generation, too, accorded Sarah a status beyond her years. She was twenty-three, yet it seemed she’d carved a place for herself in the local community somewhat at odds with those tender years and her as-yet-unmarried state.
Precisely the right sort of status on which, as his countess, she could build. He hadn’t given a thought to such aspects when fixing on her as his wife, but he knew such nebulous qualities mattered.
Finally, Henry Wallace was satisfied. They parted. Expectation surging, Charlie turned to Sarah—only to discover her father gathering his family preparatory to herding them to their waiting carriage.
Smiling, Lord Conningham nodded his way. “We’ll see you shortly, Charlie.”
His jaw set, but he forced a smile in reply. He caught Sarah’s eye, caught the understanding quirk of her lips; he half bowed, then, his expression impassive, turned to gather his own family and head for Morwellan Park.
Sarah relaxed into a comfortable armchair in the drawing room at the Park, and rendered mute thanks that neither Clary nor Gloria, nor Augusta nor Jeremy, had yet tumbled to Charlie’s intention. She’d wondered if this luncheon would prove hideously awkward, but the meal had passed as over the years so many similar Sunday luncheons had, in pleasant and easy comfort.
The invitation had arrived yesterday while she’d been in Watchet with Charlie, but such short notice wasn’t unusual; the Morwellans and the Conninghams had been sharing Sunday luncheons every few months for as long as she could recall. Her mother and Charlie’s were contemporaries, and their childrens’ ages overlapped; naturally the families, both long-standing in the area and with estates abutting, had drawn close.
Observing her parents and Charlie’s mother, Serena, grouped about the fireplace and discussing some tonnish scandal, Sarah felt sure Serena, at least, knew. Or had guessed. There’d been a hint of encouragement, of a certain unvoiced hope in the way Serena had squeezed her hand when she’d arrived, in the warmth of the older woman’s smile. Serena approved of Charlie’s choice and would welcome Sarah as her daughter-in-law; all that had been conveyed without words. However, although comforting, the point was still moot. She had yet to learn what she needed to know.
She’d learned more about Charlie, but not the vital point. On that, she’d made very little headway.
“Sarah!” From the French door, Clary called, “We’re going to walk around the lake. Do you want to come?”
She smiled, shook her head, and waved off her sisters and Augusta, one year older than Clary and shortly to embark on her first season. Jeremy had buttonholed Charlie at the other end of the room; the instant he saw the three girls step outside, Jeremy grinned, said something to Charlie, then turned and slipped out of another door, escaping while he could.
The door closed silently; Sarah’s gaze had already shifted to Charlie. He glanced at their parents, engrossed in their discussion, then came down the long room to her side.
Halting, he held out a hand. His blue-gray eyes trapped hers. “Come. Let’s go for a walk, too.”
Sarah considered his face, his eyes; she was perfectly certain he didn’t intend to join their sisters. Anticipation leaping, she put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Where to?” she asked, as if only vaguely interested.
He gestured to the French doors. “Let’s start with the terrace.”
Without looking back—she had no need to catch any hopeful glances their parents might throw their way—she let him lead her out onto the flagstones. He waited while she hitched her shawl about her shoulders, then offered his arm. She took it, and they strolled side by side along the terrace.
Their sisters were three small figures dwindling in size as they followed the path that bordered the ornamental lake.
“Pray they don’t see us and turn back.”
She glanced up; Charlie, eyes narrowed, was watching the other three. Smiling, she looked ahead. “They’re discussing Augusta’s come-out. It would require something significantly startling to distract them from that.”
He humphed. “True.” He glanced at her as they continued along the terrace. “You don’t appear as afflicted as the norm when it comes to feminine mania for the Season.”
She shrugged. “I enjoyed my seasons well enough, but after the first blush, the balls are just balls, the parties just more glittering examples of the parties we have here. If one had a reason for being there, I suspect it might be different, but behind the glamor I found it rather empty—devoid of purpose, if you like.”
He raised his brows, but made no reply.
They reached the end of the terrace; instead of turning back, he led her around the corner where the terrace continued down the south side of the house.
He glanced up at the façade beside them. “You must know this house nearly as well as I.”
“I doubt anyone knows this house as well as you. Perhaps Jeremy…” She shook her head. “No, not even he. You grew up here; it’s your home, and you always knew you would inherit it. It’s Jeremy’s home, but it isn’t his in the same way. I’d wager you know every corner of every attic.” Head tilted, she caught his eye.
He grinned. “You’re right. I used to poke into every distant corner—and yes, I always knew it would be mine.”
“The library. I haven’t been in here for years.” Stepping over the threshold, she looked around. “You’ve redecorated.”
He nodded. “This was Alathea’s domain until she married, then it became mine. For some reason my father rarely came here.”
She slowly pirouetted, absorbing the changes—the masculine atmosphere imparted by deeply padded armchairs covered in dark brown leather, the heavy forest-green velvet curtains framing the windows, the lack of delicate vases and lamps, the ornaments she’d grown accustomed to seeing scattered about the room during Alathea’s tenure. But the sense of luxury, of pervasive wealth, was still there, carried in the rich hues in the portrait of some ancestor hanging above the fireplace, in the clean lines of the crystal decanter on the tantalus, in the large urn by the door with its transparent antiquity.
“The desk’s the same.” She studied the massive, wonderfully carved piece that sat across one end of the room. Its surface was lovingly polished, but the stacked papers, pens and pencils upon it bore mute witness that the space was in use.
Charlie had closed the French doors on the chill air outside. At the other end of the room a fire leapt and crackled beneath the old, carved stone mantelpiece, shedding warmth and light onto the Aubusson carpet—a new one in shades of deep greens and browns. Firelight flickered over myriad leather-bound tomes crowding the shelves lining the inner and end walls, striking glints from the gold-embossed titles.
Sarah drank it all in, then turned to where Charlie had halted before the middle of the three sets of French doors facing the terrace, the south lawn, and, in the distance, an arm of the lake. He was looking out. She moved to join him.
Turning his head, he caught her eyes, held her gaze for a moment, then asked, his voice deep, quiet, “Wouldn’t you like to be mistress of all this?”