Five minutes later, her eyes popped open.
She wished she had a book to read. Something lurid, or even frightening, a plot that would banish all her thoughts. She would have written in her journal but she didn’t want to wake Florie.
He had kissed her, and she’d wanted more.
She lay staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Florie sleeping on the cot on the other side of the room. Her maid had not been happy to be separatedfrom Tim, but he was sleeping in the stable, and there hadn’t been any room for Florie.
Husbands and wives should probably always sleep together. Did they? How very odd that she didn’t know. Her own parents’ union was not usual; she was well aware of that. Her father utterly despised her mother and made no secret of it. But did normal husbands and wives sleep together?
Had her mother ever been lonely? That was another question she had never asked herself, had never thought until this moment. The Duchess of Herridge had seemed content enough with her flowers and gardens, her needlework and her love of the pianoforte. But had she ever lain awake like Sarah was now, listening to the sounds of night and wishing for something she couldn’t name?
A soft knock sounded on the door.
She sat up, draped her legs over the mattress, and slid from the bed, padding barefoot to the door.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Douglas.”
She pressed her hand flat against the painted wood.
“Just a moment.”
She found the key on top of the bureau, returned, and opened the small lock. She turned the knob slowly and pulled the door open.
Douglas stood there attired in a white shirt half-unbuttoned and black trousers. His hair was mussed; his night beard gave his face a saturnine appearance, and he looked monumentally irritated.
“What is it?” she asked softly, conscious of her sleeping maid.
She opened the door farther so he could enter the room, put her finger to her lips, then pointed to Florie.
“Do you have a bottle of your scent?” he asked, his voice sounding gruff.
“My scent? Yes, of course. Why?”
“It’s of no importance,” he said. “May I have it? I’ll return it in the morning.”
“You want a bottle of my perfume?” she asked, not comprehending exactly what he needed.
He scowled at her, an expression of such animosity that she almost took a step back. Then her pride came to the forefront, and she frowned right back at him.
“I can’t sleep,” he said. “And I thought it might help if I smelled you.”
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and walked to the bureau, clutching her hands into fists so that he couldn’t see that her hands were trembling.
She returned with a bottle in her hand and held it out to him. “It has a screw top,” she said. “You must be certain to close it tight, else it will spill everywhere.”
He took the bottle from her, and looked as if he would like to say something but evidently thought better of it. With his mood as sour as it was, she had no idea what he might have said. He held the bottle in his hands, studying the triangular top and faceted crystal body as if it were the most important object in the world.
“You needn’t use the perfume,” she said. “If you would prefer to sleep in here, I would have no objections.”
He glanced over to where Florie was sleeping.
“I don’t believe I will,” he said, looking at her. His gaze was so direct and unflinching that she felt speared by it.
A moment later, he simply whirled on his heel, turned the handle of the door, and was gone, leaving her staring after him.
Chapter 18
