However, at some point, she fell asleep.
She woke with a start to see that the only light in the other room was from a candle burned down to the nub and she was alone in the bed.
At first, she believed he had left. She rose from the bed and with silent steps peered into the sitting room. Gavin was sprawled out in the upholstered chair, his booted heels propped up on a chair. He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and untied his neck cloth, but he still looked decidedly uncomfortable.
On the table were three folded sheets of paper. Each said, “Upon my death,” and were addressed separately. There was one for Lord Liverpool. Another for his brother Ben. The third was addressed to her—
“You remind me of one of those stories,” Baynton’s deep voice said, catching her off guard, “that my Nan used to tell of fairies who stole in the night and counted the sins of bad little boys. Except I never imagined fairies being so beautiful.”
Sarah’s first impulse was to want to hide her nakedness, but then where was the trust? She lowered her arms. “And what did these fairies do to those boys?”
He dropped his heels heavily on the floor and sat up. “They lured them away and stole their souls and they were never heard from again.” His keen gaze wandered over her. Her breasts grew full, tightened.
She told herself it was the night air.
She knew it wasn’t.
“Come to bed,” she said and held out a hand.
Chapter Fifteen
Gavin rose, took her hand, and let her lead him into the bedroom. Sarah walked to the other side of the bed while he undressed.
She slipped between the sheets. His shadow blocked the light in the other room. She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of his boots being placed on the floor, the rustle of his clothing sliding over his body.
The air was full of him, the spiciness, the masculinity, the person.
He did not join her under the sheet but stretched beside her and pulled the coverlet over him. Her body naturally moved toward him as the mattress accommodated both of their weights, the sheet the only barrier to his body heat.
The duke bunched the pillow up beneath his arm and rested his head.
With eyes shut, Sarah waited for him to move upon her. He didn’t.
She opened her eyes. He was watching her. His lips curved into a smile at her notice. He traced her bottom lip with the tip of one finger. The motion tickled.
“Don’t you want to complete this matter between us?” she asked, the combination of fear and anticipation making it hard for her to speak.
“Is that what you want?”
“I’m ready,” she answered. And she was. She was resolved to see the matter through.
“So lovely,” he whispered. His fingers followed the curve of her neck, down to her breasts. His palm covered her and the nipple tightened under the smoothness of the sheet and heat of his touch. “So afraid . . .”
“I’m trying not to be,” she said in her defense. “I’m better than I was last night.”
“This is true.”
“It isn’t you.”
“I know.” He was not looking at her as he spoke, but at the way his thumb now circled that one tightened nipple. The move, even in spite of the sheet, inspired that hitch of anticipation, that stab of need.
His fingers moved the sheet down, exposing her breast.
Sarah started and then willed herself to be still, just as she had in the sitting room. This, too, called for an act of faith in him.
He watched her intently as if he had expected her panic—but she was better. Couldn’t he see that? She reached over and placed her hand against the side of his jaw. His whiskers were smoothly rough beneath her touch. She pressed her lips to his.
His body pulled her closer, the sheet still between them.
