Very well, she wouldn’t return to her own chamber. But she wasn’t about to sleep on that miserable cot, either. Instead, she would be the one to sleep in the ducal bed tonight.
Sarah walked to the door and took the precaution ofengaging the latch, just in case her husband did return. He would find the door barred against him, an indication of her displeasure, if nothing else.
She removed her dressing gown and arranged the folds of her nightgown so that when she sat on the edge of the bed, it wasn’t twisted around her legs. In truth, there were times when a nightgown seemed almost a strangling garment. Once or twice, she’d even thought of what it might be like to sleep entirely naked, without clothes of any kind. Now, that would truly be decadent, and decidedly wanton. Still, it was a thought, a temptation to which she’d almost surrendered once or twice. At the last moment, however, reason always returned. What if Margaret summoned her to her mother’s bedside in the middle of the night?
It would not do for Lady Sarah to be thought of as immodest and abandoned.
She sat on the edge of the bed and dangled her feet. A moment later, she leaned over and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table.
In the gap between the curtains, she could see the pale moonlight. She slid from the bed and opened the curtains wider until the room was bathed in a bluish white glow. She bent and opened the windows, not believing the night air noxious. The lavender fields perfumed Chavensworth’s air even in spring, and the early-blooming roses added a note of fragrance of their own.
Chavensworth was silent tonight. She wished she could hear something, anything, other than this unearthly quiet. Even the owls’ calls seemed muted, and she couldn’t hear the sound of the foxes in the nearby woods. Birds were normally silent at this time of night, but she found herself straining to hear them nonetheless.
Nor were there any sounds from inside the house. Normally, she could hear a snatch of conversation as a footman would pass another in the hall or the faint, far-off, sound of laughter.
Sarah returned to the bed, sliding her feet beneath the covers. She laid her head on the pillow Douglas had used the night before. Even though the sheets had been changed—there were sufficient linens in the press that she’d given the order that sheets were to be changed each day—she could smell him.
He was not here, but somehow it felt as if he occupied half the bed. Annoyed with herself, she rolled over and stretched her hand across the expanse of sheet until she felt the edge of the mattress. There was no one there. Not even the ghost of Douglas Eston, wherever he was.
Did he chafe under the restrictions of marriage? Was there someone in his life whom he loved? He’d married Sarah simply for expediency’s sake, and had come close to admitting that to her. Did he regret it now, enough to leave her?
How very odd that he seemed to have a presence even when he was gone. Once more, she found herself wondering where he was.
She lay flat on her back and stared up at the tester above her head, now only a dark shadow. She knew that her family coat of arms was embroidered there, but she couldn’t see the delicate needlework in the darkness.
It was time for her prayers, time to implore the Almighty to look after her mother, to bless Chavensworth, to grant Sarah the wisdom to adjudicate those disputes falling to her, and to help her care for those within her keeping. Her prayers done, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Five minutes later, she sat up, punched the pillow into shape, and lay back down again.
Tomorrow was going to be another busy day; she needed her rest.
Why was the mantel clock so loud?
She rolled to her side, bunched up the sheet beneath her chin, and stared into the darkness. As a child she’d always loved the dark. It seemed exotic, somehow, an exciting land only as far away as extinguishing her lamp. She had never been frightened of the idea of monsters. There was, actually, nothing quite as frightening as the Duke of Herridge when he was angry. Any other monster simply paled in comparison.
In the dark, almost anything could happen. Chavensworth could become an enchanted fairy castle. She could be its princess. Or it might be a foreign land, someplace she’d only read about in books, or heard of in stories her mother told. The dark always seemed to be safe, surrounding her like a warm, soft, woolen blanket. Sounds were more entrancing in the night. Scents seemed stronger, more powerful.
She’d never before considered that emotions might be heightened in the darkness as well. She was never lonely, never had an occasion to be lonely. Then why did she feel adrift now? She did not feel so much connected to Chavensworth as simply within it.
Very well, she was lonely. Even more disconcerting was the fact that it felt almost painful.
Was this what marriage had brought her? The sensation of being truly lonely, the experience of feeling abandoned?
Ever since her two disastrous seasons, she’d given no thought to marriage. Oh, when she’d first gone to London, yes. She’d entertained romantic notions of suitors.More than one handsome lord had attracted her attention, but all for naught, as it turned out. None of them were acceptable to her father. Not one. They didn’t have enough money, and the one man who’d been wealthy enough to be acceptable to the Duke of Herridge ended up offering for another. And so, she’d been put back on the shelf, until the following season, at which time she was dusted off, dragged away from Chavensworth, and paraded among London’s elite once more.
Thank heavens her father had refused to pay for another season. Nor had she allowed herself to think about a potential husband since that announcement. Instead, she’d busied herself with those tasks that occupied her days. There were always things to do, chores to accomplish. Each day had its purpose. She’d filled her life, given it meaning, one day after another. She had no need to dream of the future or to wonder about it. What she did today would need to be replicated for ten years or twenty years or even thirty. Nothing would essentially change, and in her routine, there’d been contentment.
Douglas Eston had ruined that.
Instead of contentment, now she felt only uncertainty and this curious loneliness that she’d never before experienced. She didn’t know the man, and there was no certainty that she would even like him once she became acquainted with him. Yet irrationally, unbelievably, she found herself thinking about him. Where was he? What was he doing? Why was he doing it? Was he safe?
Why did she care?
What if he came back while she slept? What if, somehow, he unlocked the door and came to the bed? Would he touch her? Would he place his hands on her, divest her of her twisting nightgown? Would hedisrobe her in silence, expose her to the cool night air?
Would he be able to see in the dark? Would his eyes have been so accustomed to the shadows of night that he could discern her shape? Or would he touch her with his hands, his fingers, sliding over the curves of her shoulders, down her arms to rest at her wrists? Would he press his fingertips against her breasts and cup his hands to measure their fullness? And through it all, would he whisper decadent things, shocking things to her?
Or would this perusal of her be done in silence, as if the darkness demanded it?
