The Sum Of All Kisses Part 17

She pulled at the table, but it rubbed against the upper of his boot and caught a little, forcing her to take a step to maintain her balance.

She was so close now he could reach out and touch her. His fingers clamped down on the arms of his chair lest they give in to desire.

He wanted to touch her hand, to feel her fingers curl around his, and then he wanted to bring it to his lips. He would kiss the inside of her wrist, feel her pulse thrumming beneath her pale skin.

And then-oh, dear G.o.d, this was not the time for an erotic daydream, but he could not seem to help himself-then he would lift her arms above her head, the motion arching her back, so that when he pressed her body against his, he would feel all of her, every dip and curve. And then he would reach beneath her skirt and slide his hand up her leg to the sensitive crook of her hip.

He wanted to know the exact temperature of her, and then he wanted to know it again, when she was hot and flushed with desire.

"There we are," she said, straightening back up. It was nearly impossible to think that she was oblivious to his distress, that she could not know that he was within inches of losing control.

She smiled, having got the table into the position she wanted. "Is that better?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Are you all right? You look a bit flushed."

Oh, dear G.o.d.

"Can I get you anything?"

You.

"No!" he blurted, rather too loudly. How the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l had this happened? He was staring at Sarah Pleinsworth like a randy schoolboy, and all he could think about was the shape of her lips, the color.

He wanted to know the texture.

She placed a hand on his forehead. "May I?" she asked, but she was already touching him before she finished her query.

He nodded. What else could he have done?

"You really don't look well," she murmured. "Perhaps when Frances arrives with the cake, we can ask her to fetch you some lemonade. You might find it refreshing."

He nodded again, forcing his mind to focus on Frances. Who was eleven. And liked unicorns.

And should not, under any circ.u.mstances, enter the room while he was in such a state.

Sarah removed her hand from his forehead and frowned. "You're a little warm," she said, "but not overmuch."

He could not imagine how that was possible. Just moments ago, he'd thought he might go up in flames.

"I'm fine," he said, almost cutting her off. "I just need more cake. Or lemonade."

She looked at him as if he'd sprouted an extra ear. Or turned a different color.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said, although she didn't sound as if she entirely meant it. "You just don't sound like yourself."

He tried to keep his tone light as he said, "I wasn't aware we knew each other well enough to make that determination."

"It is strange," she agreed, sitting back. "I think it's just that- Never mind."

"No, tell me," he urged. Conversation was a very good idea. It kept his mind off other things, and more importantly, it ensured that she was sitting on her sofa and not bending over him in his chair.

"You often pause before you speak," she said.

"Is that a problem?"

"No, of course not. It's just . . . different."

"Perhaps I like to consider my words before I use them."

"No," she murmured. "That's not it."

A small laugh escaped his lips. "Are you saying I don't consider my words before I use them?"

"No," she said, laughing in turn. "I'm sure you do. You're very clever, as I'm sure you know that I know."

This made him smile.

"I can't really explain it," she continued. "But when you look at a person- No, let's not be unnecessarily vague- When you look at me before you speak, there is frequently a moment of silence, and I don't think it's because you are picking and choosing your words."

He watched her intently. Now she had fallen silent, and she was the one who was trying to decide what she thought. "It's something in your face," she finally said. "It just doesn't look like you are trying to decide what to say." She looked up quite suddenly, and the contemplative expression left her face. "I'm sorry, that was quite personal."

"No apology is needed," he said quietly. "Our world is filled with meaningless conversations. It is an honor to partic.i.p.ate in one that is not."

Her cheeks took on a faint blush of pride, and she looked away almost shyly. He realized in that moment that he, too, knew her well enough to know that this was not a frequent expression on her face.

"Well," she said, folding her hands in her lap. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again. "Perhaps we should- Frances!"

The last of this was said with great fervor and, he thought he detected, some relief.

"I'm sorry that took so long," Frances said as she came into the room. "Honoria tossed her bouquet, and I didn't want to miss it."

Sarah straightened like a shot. "Honoria tossed the bouquet when I wasn't there?"

Frances blinked a few times. "I suppose she did. But I shouldn't worry about it. You'd never have outrun Iris."

"Iris ran?" Sarah's mouth fell open, and Hugh could only describe the expression on her face as a mix of horror and glee.

"She leapt," Frances confirmed. "Harriet was knocked to the floor."

Hugh covered his mouth.

"Do not stifle your laughter on my account," Sarah said.

"I didn't realize Iris had set her cap for someone," Frances said, looking down at the cake. "May I have a bite of yours, Sarah?"

Sarah motioned with her hand to go ahead and answered, "I don't think she has."

Frances licked a bit of icing off the end of her fork. "Perhaps she thinks the bridal bouquet will hasten her discovery of her true love."

"If that were the case," Sarah said wryly, "I might have leapt in front of Iris."

"Do you know how the tradition of the bridal bouquet toss was formed?" Hugh asked.

Sarah shook her head. "Are you asking me because you know, or are you asking me because you want to know?"

He ignored her slight sarcasm and said, "Brides are considered to be good luck, and many centuries ago young women who wanted a piece of that luck tried quite literally to get a piece of it by tearing off bits of her gown."

"That's barbaric!" Frances exclaimed.

He smiled at her outburst. "I can only deduce that some clever soul realized that if the bride could offer a different token of her romantic success, it might prove beneficial to her health and well-being."

"I should say so," Frances said. "Think of all the brides who must have been trampled."

Sarah chuckled and reached out to take what was left of her cake. Frances had made significant progress on the icing. Hugh started to tell her to take his; he'd already had a piece back when he'd been watching her dance. But with his leg on the table, he couldn't bend forward enough to slide his plate in front of hers.

So he just watched as she took a bite and listened while Frances chattered on about nothing in particular. He felt remarkably content, and he might have even closed his eyes briefly, until he heard Frances say: "You've got a bit of icing."

He opened his eyes.

"Right here," Frances was saying to Sarah, motioning to her own mouth.

There were no napkins; Frances hadn't thought to bring them. Sarah's tongue darted out of her mouth and licked the corner of her lips.

Her tongue. Her lips.

His downfall.

Hugh yanked his foot off the table and came awkwardly to his feet.

"Is something wrong?" Sarah asked.

"Please give my apologies to Lady Chatteris," he said stiffly. "I know she wanted me to wait for her, but I really do need to rest my leg."

Sarah blinked with confusion. "Weren't you just-"

"It's different," he interrupted, even thought it wasn't, really.

"Oh," she said, and it was a very ambiguous oh. She could have been surprised or delighted or even disappointed. He couldn't hear the difference. And the truth was, he shouldn't want to be able to hear it, because he had no business l.u.s.ting for a woman like Lady Sarah Pleinsworth.

No business at all.

Chapter Ten.

The next morning The Fensmore drive was one long line of carriages as wedding guests prepared to depart Cambridgeshire and travel southwest to Berkshire, more specifically to Whipple Hill, the country home of the Earls of Winstead. It would be, as Sarah had once put it, the Great and Terrible Caravan of British Aristocracy. (Harriet had, quill in hand, insisted that such a term required capitalization.) As London was only a bit out of the way, some of the guests who had been relegated to the nearby inns chose to return to town. But most had elected to turn the dual celebration into a three-week-long traveling house party.

"Good gracious," Lady Danbury had declared upon receiving her invitations to both weddings, "do they really think I'm going to reopen my town house for ten days between weddings?"

No one had dared to point out that Lady Danbury's country estate was located in Surrey, which was even more directly between Fensmore and Whipple Hill than London.

But Lady Danbury's point was a valid one. The ton was a far-flung society this time of year, with most people in the north or the west, or more pertinently, somewhere other than Cambridgeshire and Berkshire and points between. Hardly anyone saw reason in opening their London houses for less than two weeks when they could enjoy the hospitality of someone else.

Although it must be said, that opinion was not shared by everyone.

"Remind me," Hugh said to Daniel Smythe-Smith as they walked through Fensmore's entrance hall, "why am I not going home?"

It was a three-day journey from Fensmore to Whipple Hill, two if one wanted to push it, which no one did. Hugh supposed it meant less overall time in a carriage than returning to London and then heading out to Berkshire a week later, but still, it was going to be a mad journey. Someone (Hugh was not sure who-it certainly wasn't Daniel; he'd never had a head for such things) had plotted the route, marked all the inns (along with how many rooms each held) and figured out where everyone must sleep.

Hugh hoped no one not planning to attend the Chatteris-Smythe-Smith-Wynter weddings was out on the roads this week because there would not be a room to be had.

"You're not going home because your home is dull," Daniel told him with a slap to his back. "And you don't own a carriage, so if you were to return to London, you'd have to find a seat with one of my mother's friends."

Hugh opened his mouth to speak, but Daniel wasn't done yet. "And that's to say nothing of getting to Whipple Hill from London. There might be room with my mother's former nanny, but if not, you could try booking a seat on the mail coach."

"Are you done?" Hugh asked.

Daniel held up a finger as if he had one last thing to say, then brought it back down. "Yes," he said.

"You are a cruel man."

"I speak the truth," Daniel replied. "Besides, why wouldn't you want to come to Whipple Hill?"

Hugh could think of one reason.

"The festivities begin as soon as we arrive," Daniel continued. "It shall be continuous and magnificent frivolity until the wedding."

It was difficult to imagine a man with a soul lighter and more filled with joy than Daniel Smythe-Smith's. Hugh knew that part of this was due to Daniel's upcoming nuptials with the beautiful Miss Wynter, but truthfully, Daniel had always been a man who made friends easily and laughed often.

Knowing that he had destroyed the life of such a man, Hugh had found it that much more difficult when Daniel had been exiled to Europe. Hugh was still amazed that Daniel had returned to his position in England with grace and good humor. Most men would have burned for revenge.

But Daniel had thanked him. He had thanked him for finding him in Italy, and then he had thanked him for calling off his father's witch hunt, and then finally, he had thanked him for his friendship.

There was nothing, Hugh thought, that he would not do for this man.

"What would you do in London, anyway?" Daniel asked, motioning for Hugh to follow him down the drive. "Sit about and do sums in your head?"

Hugh gave him a look.

"I tease because I admire."