Part 17 (1/2)
She pulled at the table, but it rubbed against the upper of his boot and caught a little, forcing her to take a step to maintain her balance.
She was so close now he could reach out and touch her. His fingers clamped down on the arms of his chair lest they give in to desire.
He wanted to touch her hand, to feel her fingers curl around his, and then he wanted to bring it to his lips. He would kiss the inside of her wrist, feel her pulse thrumming beneath her pale skin.
And then-oh, dear G.o.d, this was not the time for an erotic daydream, but he could not seem to help himself-then he would lift her arms above her head, the motion arching her back, so that when he pressed her body against his, he would feel all of her, every dip and curve. And then he would reach beneath her skirt and slide his hand up her leg to the sensitive crook of her hip.
He wanted to know the exact temperature of her, and then he wanted to know it again, when she was hot and flushed with desire.
”There we are,” she said, straightening back up. It was nearly impossible to think that she was oblivious to his distress, that she could not know that he was within inches of losing control.
She smiled, having got the table into the position she wanted. ”Is that better?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
”Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”
Oh, dear G.o.d.
”Can I get you anything?”
You.
”No!” he blurted, rather too loudly. How the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l had this happened? He was staring at Sarah Pleinsworth like a randy schoolboy, and all he could think about was the shape of her lips, the color.
He wanted to know the texture.
She placed a hand on his forehead. ”May I?” she asked, but she was already touching him before she finished her query.
He nodded. What else could he have done?
”You really don't look well,” she murmured. ”Perhaps when Frances arrives with the cake, we can ask her to fetch you some lemonade. You might find it refres.h.i.+ng.”
He nodded again, forcing his mind to focus on Frances. Who was eleven. And liked unicorns.
And should not, under any circ.u.mstances, enter the room while he was in such a state.
Sarah removed her hand from his forehead and frowned. ”You're a little warm,” she said, ”but not overmuch.”
He could not imagine how that was possible. Just moments ago, he'd thought he might go up in flames.
”I'm fine,” he said, almost cutting her off. ”I just need more cake. Or lemonade.”
She looked at him as if he'd sprouted an extra ear. Or turned a different color.
”Is something wrong?” he asked.
”No,” she said, although she didn't sound as if she entirely meant it. ”You just don't sound like yourself.”
He tried to keep his tone light as he said, ”I wasn't aware we knew each other well enough to make that determination.”
”It is strange,” she agreed, sitting back. ”I think it's just that- Never mind.”
”No, tell me,” he urged. Conversation was a very good idea. It kept his mind off other things, and more importantly, it ensured that she was sitting on her sofa and not bending over him in his chair.
”You often pause before you speak,” she said.
”Is that a problem?”
”No, of course not. It's just . . . different.”
”Perhaps I like to consider my words before I use them.”
”No,” she murmured. ”That's not it.”
A small laugh escaped his lips. ”Are you saying I don't consider my words before I use them?”
”No,” she said, laughing in turn. ”I'm sure you do. You're very clever, as I'm sure you know that I know.”
This made him smile.
”I can't really explain it,” she continued. ”But when you look at a person- No, let's not be unnecessarily vague- When you look at me before you speak, there is frequently a moment of silence, and I don't think it's because you are picking and choosing your words.”
He watched her intently. Now she had fallen silent, and she was the one who was trying to decide what she thought. ”It's something in your face,” she finally said. ”It just doesn't look like you are trying to decide what to say.” She looked up quite suddenly, and the contemplative expression left her face. ”I'm sorry, that was quite personal.”
”No apology is needed,” he said quietly. ”Our world is filled with meaningless conversations. It is an honor to partic.i.p.ate in one that is not.”
Her cheeks took on a faint blush of pride, and she looked away almost shyly. He realized in that moment that he, too, knew her well enough to know that this was not a frequent expression on her face.
”Well,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again. ”Perhaps we should- Frances!”
The last of this was said with great fervor and, he thought he detected, some relief.
”I'm sorry that took so long,” Frances said as she came into the room. ”Honoria tossed her bouquet, and I didn't want to miss it.”
Sarah straightened like a shot. ”Honoria tossed the bouquet when I wasn't there?”
Frances blinked a few times. ”I suppose she did. But I shouldn't worry about it. You'd never have outrun Iris.”
”Iris ran?” Sarah's mouth fell open, and Hugh could only describe the expression on her face as a mix of horror and glee.
”She leapt,” Frances confirmed. ”Harriet was knocked to the floor.”
Hugh covered his mouth.
”Do not stifle your laughter on my account,” Sarah said.