The Sum Of All Kisses Part 27

He reached down with one hand until he found the hem of her nightgown. She gasped as his finger slid underneath, but the sound was lost under his own moan as he ran his hand along the warm skin of her leg.

No one had ever touched her there. No one had ever dragged their hand up and up until it was above her knee. That spot was his now.

"Do you like that?" he whispered, lightly squeezing.

She nodded.

He moved a little higher, still far from her center, but he s.h.i.+fted his grip a little so that his thumb stroked the tender skin of the inside of her leg.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes." It was barely a sound, but he heard it.

"What about this?" His other hand, the one that had been toying with her hair, cupped her breast through her nightgown.

"Oh my- Oh, Hugh."

He kissed her slowly, deeply. "Was that a yes?"

"Yes."

"I want to see you," he said, dragging his lips to her ear. "I want to see every inch of you, and I know I'm not going to, not right now, but I want some of you. Do you understand?"

She shook her head.

"Do you trust me?"

She waited until their eyes met. "With my life."

For a moment he could not even move. Her words reached into him, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. And when they were done with that, they moved lower. He'd thought he'd wanted her before, but that was nothing compared to the primal l.u.s.t that washed over him with her three softly spoken words.

Mine, he thought. She's mine.

With trembling fingers, he untied the little bow that kept her neckline modest, and he wondered what foolish, foolish person thought to put such a thing on a nightgown that was not meant to tempt. It was a bow, and he got to unwrap her.

With one little tug of his fingers, he was opening his gift, and with one more little nudge, her gown was sliding down, baring one perfect breast. Her neckline had not loosened enough to show them both, but there was something intensely erotic about having just the one.

He licked his lips and slowly pulled his gaze back to her eyes. He did not say a word, and he did not look away from her face as he took one hand and lightly skimmed his palm over her nipple.

He didn't ask her if she liked it. He didn't need to. She whispered his name, and before he could say a word, she nodded.

Mine, he thought again, and it was the most incredible thing, because until recently, he'd a.s.sumed-no, he'd known-that he would not find someone, that there would never be a woman he would call his own.

Softly, he kissed her lips. Then her nose, then each of her eyes in turn. It was bursting out of him that he was falling in love with her, but he had never been a man to speak of his feelings, and the words choked in his throat. So he kissed her one last time, truly and deeply, hoping she recognized it for what it was, an offering of his very soul.

Yours, he thought. I am yours.

Chapter Fifteen.

Sarah was aware that she shouldn't have gone outside in the middle of the night. She wasn't allowed to step outside her house in London without a chaperone; she knew very well that a post-midnight jaunt in Berks.h.i.+re was equally verboten.

But she had been so restless, so . . . itchy. She'd felt wrong in her own skin, and when she had climbed out of bed and touched her feet to the carpet, her room had felt too small. The house had felt too small. She'd needed to move, to feel the night air on her skin.

She had never felt this way before, and truly, she had no explanation for it. Or rather, she hadn't.

Now she did.

She'd needed him. Hugh.

She just hadn't known it.

At some point between the carriage ride and the cake and the crazy waltzing on the lawn, Sarah Pleinsworth had fallen in love with the very last man she should ever have wanted.

And when he kissed her . . .

All she wanted was more.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, and for the first time in her life, Sarah truly believed that she was.

She touched his cheek. "So are you."

Hugh smiled down at her, a silly half grin that told her he did not believe her for one second.

"You are," she insisted. She tried to make her face stern, but nothing could dampen her smile. "You shall have to take my word for it."

Still, he did not speak. He gazed down at her as if she were something precious, and he made her feel precious, and in that moment, all she wanted in the world was for him to feel the same thing.

Because he didn't. She knew that he didn't.

He had said things . . . little things, really, just an odd comment here and there that he surely did not expect to stick in anyone's memory. But Sarah listened. And she remembered. And she knew . . . Hugh Prentice was not happy. Worse, he did not think he deserved to be.

He was not the kind of man who sought large crowds. He did not wish to be a leader among men. But Sarah also knew that Hugh did not wish to be a follower. His was a fiercely independent nature, and he did not mind being alone.

But he had been more than alone these past few years. He had been alone with only his crus.h.i.+ng sense of guilt to keep him company. She did not know what Hugh had done to convince his father to allow Daniel to return to England in peace, and she could not begin to imagine how difficult it had been for Hugh to travel to Italy to find Daniel and bring him back.

But he had done all that. Hugh Prentice had done everything humanly possible to make things right, and still he was not at peace.

He was such a good man. He defended young girls and unicorns. He waltzed with a cane. He did not deserve to have his life defined by a single mistake.

Sarah Pleinsworth had never done anything by half measures, and she knew that if she loved this man, that meant that she would devote her life to making him understand one simple fact.

He was precious. And he deserved every drop of happiness that came his way.

She reached up and touched her finger to his lips. They were soft, and wondrous, and she felt honored just to feel his breath on her skin. "Sometimes at breakfast," she whispered, "I can't stop looking at your mouth."

He trembled. She loved that she could make him tremble.

"And your eyes . . . ," she continued, emboldened by his reaction. "Women would kill for eyes that color, did you know?"

He shook his head, and something about his expression-so baffled, so overcome-made her smile with pure joy. "I think you're beautiful," she whispered, "and I think . . ." Her heart skipped a beat, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. "I hope that mine is the only opinion that matters."

He leaned down and lightly touched his lips to hers. He kissed her nose, then her brow, and then, after one long moment when his eyes held hers, he kissed her again, this time holding nothing back.

Sarah let out a moan, the husky sound becoming trapped in his mouth. His kiss was hungry, ravenous, and for the first time in her life, she understood pa.s.sion.

No, this was more than pa.s.sion.

This was need.

He needed her. She could feel it in his every movement. She could hear it in the harsh rasp of his breath. And with every touch of hand, every flick of his tongue, he was stoking that same need in her. She had not known it was possible to crave another human being with such intensity.

Her fingers found the untucked hem of his s.h.i.+rt, and she slid her hand under the edge, skimming lightly over his skin. His muscles jumped beneath her touch, and he drew a sharp breath, the air whispering past her cheek like a kiss.

"You don't know," he rasped. "You don't know what you do to me."

She could see the pa.s.sion in his eyes; it made her feel womanly and strong. "Tell me," she whispered, and she arched her neck to bring herself up to his lips for a soft, fleeting kiss.

For a moment she thought he might. But he just shook his head and murmured, "It would be the death of me." Then he kissed her again, and she didn't care what she did to him, just so long as he kept doing the same thing to her.

"Sarah," he said, lifting his lips from hers for just long enough to whisper her name.

"Hugh," she whispered back, and she could hear her grin in her own voice.

He drew back. "You're smiling."

"I can't stop," she admitted.

He touched her cheek, gazing down at her with such emotion that for a moment she forgot to breathe. Was it love she saw in his eyes? It felt like love, even if he had not said the words.

"We have to stop," he said, and he gently tugged her nightgown back to its proper place.

Sarah knew he was right, but still she whispered, "I wish we could stay."

Hugh let out a hoa.r.s.e chuckle, almost as if he was in pain. "Oh, you have no idea how much I wish the same thing."

"It's hours yet until dawn," she said softly.

"I won't ruin your reputation," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "Not like this."

A bubble of mirth floated inside her. "Does that mean you intend to ruin me some other way?"

His smile turned hot as he stood and pulled her to her feet. "I would very much like to. But I shouldn't call it ruining. Ruin is what happens to a reputation, not what happens between a man and a woman. Or at least," he added, his voice dropping sensually, "not what happens between us."

Sarah s.h.i.+vered with delight. Her body felt so alive; she felt so alive. She did not know how she managed to walk back to the house. Her feet wanted to run, and her arms wanted to wrap themselves around the man next to her, and her voice wanted to laugh, and deep inside . . .

Deep inside . . .

She was giddy. Giddy with love.

He walked her to her door. No one was up and about; as long as they were quiet, they had nothing to fear.

"I will see you tomorrow," Hugh said, lifting her hand to his lips.

She nodded but said nothing. She could not think of a word big enough to capture everything that was in her heart.

She was in love. Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was in love.

And it was grand.

The following morning "Something is wrong with you."

Sarah blinked the sleep out of her eyes and looked at Harriet, who was perched on the edge of their four-poster bed, watching her with considerable suspicion.

"What are you talking about?" Sarah grumbled. "Nothing is wrong with me."

"You're smiling."

This caught her off guard. "I can't smile?"

"Not first thing in the morning."

Sarah decided there could not possibly be an appropriate response and went back to her morning routine. Harriet, however, was in full curiosity mode and followed her to the washbasin, eyes narrowed, head tilted, and letting out dubious little "hmmms" at irregular intervals.

"Is something amiss?" Sarah inquired.

"Is there?"

Good heavens, and people called her dramatic. "I'm trying to wash my face," Sarah said.

"By all means, you should do so."

Sarah dipped her hands in the basin, but before she could do anything with the water, Harriet poked her own face even closer, scooting right between Sarah's hands and nose.

"Harriet, what is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with you?" Harriet countered.

Sarah let the water drain through her fingers. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're smiling," Harriet accused.

"What sort of person do you think I am that I'm not allowed to wake up in a pleasant mood?"