The Sum Of All Kisses Part 16

She didn't clarify. She couldn't, because she wasn't even sure what she'd meant. Just that, maybe, she didn't completely detest him any longer. Or at least not enough to deny herself cake.

"I have a question," she said.

He c.o.c.ked his head, indicating that she should proceed.

"Yesterday, when we were in the drawing room, when you, erh . . ."

"Woke you up?" he supplied.

"Yes," she said, wondering why it had felt embarra.s.sing to say it. "Well, after, I mean. You said something about ten pounds."

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that was born deep in his throat.

"You wanted me to pretend to swoon," she reminded him.

"Could you have done?" he asked.

"Faked a swoon? I should hope so. It's a talent every lady should possess." She shot him a cheeky grin, then asked, "Did Marcus really offer you ten pounds if I fainted on the lawn?"

"No," Lord Hugh admitted. "Your cousin Daniel felt that the sight of us both armed with pistols might be enough to make a lady swoon."

"Not just me," she felt compelled to clarify.

"Not just you. And then Daniel announced that Lord Chatteris would pay us each ten pounds if we managed it."

"Marcus agreed to this?" Sarah could not think of anything less like him, except possibly jumping onto a stage and dancing a jig.

"Of course not. Can you imagine such a thing?" Lord Hugh smiled then, a real, true one that curved more than just the corners of his mouth. It reached his eyes, sparkling in those green depths, and for the most staggering, horrifying moment, he turned almost handsome. No, not that. He'd always been handsome. When he smiled, he turned . . .

Lovable.

"Oh, dear G.o.d," she choked out, jumping back. She'd never kissed a man, never even wanted to, and she was starting with Hugh Prentice?

"Is something wrong?"

"Ehrm, no. I mean, yes. I mean, there was a spider!"

He looked down at the floor. "A spider?"

"It went that way," she said quickly, pointing to the left. And sort of to the right as well.

Lord Hugh frowned, leaning on his cane as his body swayed to one side to better glance down the hall.

"I'm terrified of them," Sarah said. It wasn't quite true, but almost so. She certainly did not like them.

"Well, I don't see it now."

"Should I go find someone?" she blurted, thinking that a trip across the house, perhaps all the way to the servants quarters, might not be such a bad idea. If she could not see Hugh Prentice, this madness would have to end, wouldn't it? "You know," she went on, making it all up as she went along, "to search it out. And kill it. Good heavens, there could be a nest."

"I am sure the maids of Fensmore would never allow such a thing to come to pa.s.s."

"Nevertheless," she squeaked. And then she winced, because the squeak had been awful.

"Perhaps it would be easier to ring for a footman?" He motioned to the drawing room, which was just a few feet away.

She nodded, because of course he was correct, and already she felt herself returning to normal. Her heartbeat was slowing, and as long as she did not look at his mouth, the urge to kiss him was gone. Mostly.

She straightened her shoulders. She could do this. "Thank you for your kind escort," she said, and stepped into the drawing room.

It was empty.

"Well, this is very strange," she said.

Hugh's lips pressed together. "Indeed."

"I'm not sure . . . ," Sarah began, but she didn't have to figure out what to say next, because Lord Hugh had turned to her with slightly narrowed eyes. "Your cousin," he began. "She wouldn't-"

"No!" Sarah exclaimed. "I mean, no," she said in a much more appropriate voice. "Iris maybe, but not Hon-" She cut herself off. The last thing she wanted was for him to think any of the Smythe-Smiths were trying to throw them together.

"Look!" she said, her voice coming out overbright and loud. She flittered her hand toward a table to the left. "Empty plates. There were people here. They're just gone now."

He didn't say anything.

"Should we sit down?" she asked awkwardly.

He still didn't say anything. He did turn his head, though, to more directly face her.

"And wait?" she offered. "Since we said we would?" She felt ridiculous. And uncommonly fidgety. But now she felt as if she had to prove something to herself, that she could be in the same room as him and feel perfectly normal.

"Frances will be expecting us to be here," she added, since Lord Hugh had seemingly gone mute. She supposed he was just thinking, but really, couldn't he think and make idle conversation at the same time? She did it all the time.

"After you, Lady Sarah," he said. Finally.

She made her way over to a blue and gold sofa, the same one, she realized, she'd been sleeping on the day before when he'd woken her up. She was tempted to glance behind her as she walked to make sure that he did not need her a.s.sistance. Which was ridiculous, because she knew he didn't need her a.s.sistance, at least not in such a simple endeavor as this.

But she wanted to, and when she finally reached the sofa and sat down, she was unaccountably relieved to be able to look up at him. He was only a few steps behind, and a moment later he was seated in the blue chair he had occupied the day before.

Dej vu, she thought, except everything was different now. Everything except where they were sitting. It had taken only a day, and her world had been turned upside down.

Chapter Nine.

"Dej vu," Lady Sarah quipped, and Hugh was thinking that very thing, except it wasn't quite the same. The table was not where it had been the day before. He'd thought it had looked off when he sat down.

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

He had a feeling he was frowning. "No, just . . ." He shifted in his seat. How difficult would it be to move the table? It was still covered with half-empty plates that the servants must not have realized were ready to be removed. But surely he could shove those aside. . . .

"Oh!" Lady Sarah said suddenly. "You need to stretch out your leg. Of course."

"I think the table is not quite where it was yesterday," he said.

She looked down at the table and then back at him.

"I had room to extend my leg," he clarified.

"So you did," she said briskly. She stood, and he almost groaned. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, getting ready to push himself up, but Lady Sarah placed one hand lightly over his and said, "No, please do not feel you must rise."

He looked down at her hand, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and she started to move the dishes to a different table.

"Don't," he said, finding no joy in watching her perform menial tasks on his behalf.

She ignored him. "There," she said, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the partially cleared table. She looked up. "Would it be more comfortable to have your foot on the floor or on the table?"

Good G.o.d. He couldn't believe she was even asking. "I'm not going to put my foot on the table."

"Would you do so at your home?"

"Of course, but-"

"Then you have answered my question," she said pertly, turning back to the dirty dishes.

"Lady Sarah, stop."

She kept clearing and did not bother to look at him. "No."

"I insist." It was too strange. Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was clearing away dirty dishes and preparing to move furniture. Even more astonishing was that she was doing it in order to help him.

"Be quiet and allow me to help you," she said. Rather sternly, too.

His lips parted with surprise, and she must have taken a bit of pleasure in his astonishment, because her lips formed a smile, and then that smile turned smug.

"I'm not helpless," he muttered.

"I didn't think you were." Her dark eyes sparkled, and as she turned back to the task of clearing the dishes, realization thundered through him like a hot desert wind.

I want her.

His breath caught.

"Is something wrong?" she called out.

"No," he croaked. But he still wanted her.

She looked up. "You sounded funny. As if . . . well, I don't know what." She resumed clearing the dishes, speaking as she worked. "Maybe as if you were in pain."

Hugh held silent, trying not to stare at her as she moved through the drawing room. Dear G.o.d, what had happened to him? Yes, she was very attractive, and yes, the velvet bodice of her dress was fitted in such a way that a man could not help but be aware of the exact-exactly perfect-shape of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

But this was Sarah Pleinsworth. He had hated her less than twenty-four hours ago. He might still hate her a little bit.

And he b.l.o.o.d.y well didn't know what a hot desert wind felt like. Where the h.e.l.l had that come from?

Sarah set the final dish down and turned to look at him. "I think what we need to do is get your foot on the table, and then pull the whole thing toward you so it will support the rest of your leg."

He didn't move for a moment. He couldn't. He was still trying to figure out what the h.e.l.l was going on.

"Lord Hugh," she said expectantly. "Your leg?"

There was no stopping her, he realized, so he imparted a silent apology to his hosts and set his booted foot on the table.

It did feel good to stretch out the leg.

"Hold on," Sarah said, coming back around to his side of the table. "It's not supporting your knee." She moved next to him and pulled the table closer, but it set the whole thing at a diagonal. "Oh, sorry," she said, scooting around the back of his chair. "Just a moment."

She stepped sideways through the s.p.a.ce between the sofa and his chair, squeezing herself into a spot right next to him. They were not touching, but he could feel her warmth, pulsing off her skin.

"If you'll just excuse me," she said under her breath.

He turned his head.

He really shouldn't have done so.

Lady Sarah had bent over to get a bit of leverage, and that dress . . . the dip of the neckline . . . so close to him . . .

He shifted in his seat again, and this time it had nothing to do with his injury.

"Can you lift it a bit?" Sarah asked.

"What?"

"Your leg." She wasn't looking at him, thank G.o.d, because he could not stop looking at her. The shadow between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s was so close, and the scent of her was swirling around him-lemons and honeysuckle and something far more earthy and sensual.

She had been dancing all morning. Out of breath and dizzy with exertion. Just the thought of it made him so desperate for her that he thought he might stop breathing.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

Dear G.o.d, yes. He hadn't been with a woman since his injury, and the truth was, he hadn't really wanted to. He had the same needs as any man, but it was so b.l.o.o.d.y hard to imagine anyone desiring him with his ruined leg that he'd not allowed himself to feel it for anyone else.

Until now, when it had hit him like- Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, not a hot desert wind. Anything but a hot desert wind.

"Lord Hugh," Sarah said impatiently, "did you hear me? If you lift your leg, it will be easier for me to pull the table in."

"Sorry," he muttered, and he lifted his leg an inch.