Kit watched Sarah fuss with her clothing, touch her unmussed hair over and over again in a nervous flutter of movements. He knew she’d enjoyed what he’d done. He’d felt the fluttering force of her powerful orgasm. He’d wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her twitching body and pound into her until he found his own release.
He’d only barely resisted that urge.
He pushed to his full height from his position on the floor and smiled at her in the hopes it would soothe whatever nervousness she now felt.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked.
She froze at the question and pivoted to face him. The high color that had filled her cheeks at the height of her orgasm had faded now, leaving her pale and worried. Not the result he had wanted from this stolen moment of bliss.
“I-I don’t know,” she stammered at last. “I’m not trying to do anything to you.”
There was a lilt of defensiveness to her tone. Like she was under attack. He wrinkled his brow. “Having regrets?”
She paused and her shoulders rolled forward. “No,” she whispered, and that one syllable was so comforting he nearly sagged beneath it. “I have been alone a long time, Kit. And what just happened…I liked it, whether I should admit that or not.” Her gaze darted away. “I just hope you know that I understand it cannot last. I have no expectations, Your Grace. I have no desire to trap you or use this against you.”
He froze at her words. Here he’d been worried about taking advantage of her, but she was talking about taking advantage of him. It was possible, of course—he’d watched it happen with his father and Phoebe’s nightmare of a mother. Obviously Sarah was thinking of the same, trying to push herself out of the category of villain.
One he hadn’t thought to put her in, still didn’t. And yet her words stung. As did the fact that she was trying to push them so far apart after an act that could have brought them closer.
“I should…” she began. “I should go check on Phoebe now.”
She moved toward the door, and Kit felt a swell of need rise up in him. Not need for her body—something else. A desire to have her stay at his side. And that was dangerous, indeed.
“Sarah!” he burst out.
She turned at the door, just as she had earlier, and he could see her anxiousness, her uncertainty. “Yes?”
“The others will begin to leave tomorrow,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, I know the Northfield, Crestwood and Roseford parties are all departing before luncheon. The rest after, save for Willowby. Barrymore told the staff about the schedule.”
“And you know there is a small party tonight, with all my houseguests and a few friends from the surrounding area?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you want Phoebe to make an appearance?”
He frowned. “No, she’s too young. No reason to stress her with that sort of thing. I wanted…will you come?”
Her lips parted, and for a moment he saw how much the request meant. How much she’d lost when she lost her place in Society. Then she bent her head and the connection he’d seen there departed.
“I-I do not think that would be best, Kit,” she said softly.
Her rejection stung more than it should have, and he turned away from it and from her and retook his place at his father’s desk in order to create a barrier between them.
“I see,” he said, picking up a quill and dipping it into ink, though he had no idea what he would write. “As you wish, Miss Carlton. Good day.”
She took a moment at the door, watching him as he pretended to do something official. Then she inclined her head. “Good day, Your Grace.”
And she was gone, leaving him alone in his office, alone with his thoughts. Exactly where he didn’t want to be.
Chapter Fourteen
Sarah was distracted as she hurried down the hall away from Kit’s study. Her body still tingled from his touch. And she also still stung from his attitude. When she’d refused his request about her coming to the gathering, it was like a wall had slammed down between them, closing off whatever progress they’d made.
But why? He couldn’t truly want her there, in a place she didn’t belong. And yet it was like she’d hurt him.
She turned a corner toward the stairs and, in her upset, slammed straight into another person. Not just any person. Margaret, Duchess of Crestwood, staggered back from their collision, then righted herself with a laugh.
One Sarah didn’t share. She covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Your Grace, I’m so dreadfully sorry. I was not paying attention. Are you injured?”
