An Improper Encounter (The Macalisters Book 3) Read online

  Mrs. Hartford glanced at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes stormy beneath her dark lashes as she very coyly blinked up at him. Whether she meant to or not, Mrs. Hartford was igniting flames within him he had not felt in years.

  “I will leave you to finish, then,” he said thickly, quickly escaping to the other side of the room, where witnessing the thunder and lightning from the storm outside should have cooled his blood and brought him back down to a more manageable level. For goodness’ sake, he was not some randy school boy.

  Pulling the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, he wrapped himself in the blanket and sank down onto the chair, hoping to put the lovely Mrs. Hartford out of his mind, though he didn’t anticipate much success with her soon to be sleeping a few feet away.

  He heard her moving about the room, rummaging in her trunk before shutting it with a thud and a click of the lock, snuffing out the few remaining candles and climbing onto the bed.

  Good Lord, she was in the bed. The things he could do to her on the bed, on the floor, on the table . . .

  Proximal, intermediate, and distal, William silently repeated to himself, the medical terms something to distract him from the woman in the bed.

  “Are you certain you are comfortable?” she asked him quietly in the dark. “It cannot be good for you to sleep in the chair. Perhaps we could—”

  William spoke before she could finish. “I am perfectly comfortable on the chair.”

  She had rattled him, and it was vexing. He did not need this sort of distraction, not when his business in London required a clear head. And sleep, he needed to sleep. After his afternoon of misery followed by an evening in the rain, he was exhausted, but he doubted he would be able to sleep one wink with the delectable Mrs. Hartford beside him if he accepted her offer to join her in bed. No, thank you, he was quite content on the uncomfortable chair.

  “Good night then, William,” she said. “And thank you.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Hartford.”

  “Sarah,” she said softly. “My name is Sarah.”

  William didn’t respond, smiling into the darkness.

  Sunlight peeked in from the side window, bright and warm against Sarah’s skin, alerting her that morning had come at last. Despite the invasive thunderstorm that raged through the night, the clouds had cleared away, leaving a bright blue sky in their wake.

  Slowly, Sarah sat up, the down cover drooping from her shoulders. A quick glance told her she was alone in the room, though where William had gone she did not know. His clothes and boots were gone, as was his satchel and the dog, Abe. Her heart sunk like a stone in a deep lake as she realized he had left without a word. Though, what had she expected? A declaration of friendship and devotion?

  She closed her eyes at the humiliation, searching for some clarity, but her head ached in protest. What had she been thinking? Leave it to Lydia and alcohol—the combination was disastrous. All it led to was mortification.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she said out loud to herself. She scooted to the edge of the bed and stepped around the partition, quickly changing into a day dress of smoky grey— her widow’s uniform. It was a simple enough garment, one she could manage without a maid.

  Sitting before the mirror at the vanity, she released her hair from its plait and pulled the brush through her dark tresses. Her reaction to William was troubling, though, in hindsight, she knew she would have never gone through with actual intercourse with the man. If she thought a tryst would have shaken her from her doldrums, she was thankful it hadn’t happened.

  “I am thankful it didn’t happen, am I not?” she asked her reflection.

  Her reflection looked just as conflicted as she felt.

  There was a sound at the door, keys in the lock, and then the door swung open and William was filling the frame, holding a tray of food.

  “You’re still here!” she said jumping up, probably a touch more relieved than she would like to have sounded. Relief rushed through her, and she smiled brightly.

  He blinked dumbly for a few seconds before grinning. “Hello Wife.”

  Sarah pursed her lips. “Are we still carrying on with that?”

  William smirked and closed the door behind him. “Aye, because you told everyone I was your husband,” he replied, setting the tray on the table. “Might be suspicious if we traipsed off separately. Especially after the innkeeper mentioned you’ve stayed here many times in the past, and never once mentioned a husband.”

  Closing her eyes, Sarah silently cursed her own idiocy. Of course they would remember who she was. “Did he mention anything else?”

  “That perhaps you are not simply Mrs. Hartford?”

  “Did he say who I was?” she asked. It was true, she’d stayed here multiple times, but she’d never given her actual title or rank. Thankfully her carriage was without a coat of arms, as that would have made her ruse pointless.

  “He called me ‘my lord,’ mentioned that he didn’t know you had a husband, and that he understood why we were keeping our actual identities secret.”

  “He thinks we are having a tryst,” she concluded. “He assumes I’m cuckolding my husband. Too bad my husband is dead.”

  “So you are a lady then?” he asked.

  “Yes. My name is Lady Sarah Hartford.” It wasn’t completely the truth, though there was really no need to be absolutely honest. He didn’t need to know she was a marchioness or the daughter and sister of a duke.

  “Nice to meet you Lady Sarah,” he said. The way he his tongue rolled over the R was pleasing for some reason, adding more emphasis to the first syllable.

  “No, please, just Sarah,” she insisted, touching his arm. “My title is irrelevant. I just want to be Sarah.”

  He turned towards her and ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Her eyelids drooped at the contact.

  “Then you will be just Sarah to me, no matter if we meet at the royal court or at a street faire,” he said softly. He stared into her eyes, his blue gaze so very bright they could have been poured from the skies overhead. “Sarah?” he asked after a long moment, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Hmmm?” she asked, her mouth not quite working. She was caught up in the warmth of his gaze, and the smell of him, like a fresh rainstorm, something earthy and definably male, mixed with mint, of all things.

  “I’m going to kiss you again,” he stated, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Not because I want to take you tumbling into that bed, but because . . . well, you look like you need to be kissed.”

  His lips were warm against hers as he leaned into her, wrapping his strong arms around her. Her hands came between them, palms against his chest as she clutched at his jacket lapels. He held her, his mouth moving in a gentle torment. She felt safe in his arms, breathing him in and expelling all her fears, though the notion that this stranger she’d known for less than twelve hours could ease her worries was just insane.

  Tears sprung to her eyes and she pushed against him, turning away. He didn’t say anything or touch her in any way. She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill over, taking a slow deep breath to calm her racing heart.

  I am stronger than this, she told herself. She would not be reduced to tears over a man being gentle with her.

  “Come and have something to eat,” he said gently.

  “Yes, in a moment,” she replied and escaped behind the partition. She dabbed at her eyes, and gave herself a mental shake.

  I am a Macalister for goodness’ sake, she said to herself. A Marchioness—dragon in the making within the haute ton. I do not melt into a watering pot when tenderly kissed by a man.

  Eyes bright and head high, she stepped back around to join him at the table.

  William wasn’t an expert on women, not by any means, but he knew that a woman shouldn’t cry when she is kissed.

  She looked well enough, he mused, as they broke their fast, but her smile did not reach all the way across her face, and her
eyes were a tad too bright. Whatever the problem, she was putting on a good show of pretending to be all right, but he could see hints of the turmoil underneath.

  “I met your friend in the taproom as I was ordering a tray to bring up,” he said after a few moments. “She seemed impressed that I was bringing up a breakfast tray.”

  “You mean she was impressed that you had not disappeared at first light,” Sarah amended.

  “Is that the usual outcome?” he asked.

  “For her,” she replied. “As I explained last night, this was the first time I ever let her bait me that far. I normally sleep alone.”

  “You did sleep alone.”

  She dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “You know what I mean.”

  “It seems your friend has broken her own pattern then, as she was leaving with a gentleman in his rig,” he continued. “She asked me to relay a message. I quote, ‘You won’t need me to keep you warm on the journey south.’”

  Sarah lowered the spoonful of porridge. “She’s gone?”

  William nodded, sipping his coffee. “About an hour ago.”

  “Well, that is simply wonderful,” Sarah grumbled under her breath, but William chuckled.

  “So you kept each other warm, did you?” he teased. “Tell me, how exactly did you two achieve that?”

  Sarah swatted him with her napkin. “Oh, don’t be crass,” she scolded, her face turning red. She rose from the chair and moved across the room, pausing to adjust her hair in the reflecting glass, but really, she just needed a moment for her blush to subside.

  “It would be fine with me, you know,” he said with a grin, rising from the table and moving towards her. ’Tis not farfetched that two lusty women—”

  “Will, if you finish that sentence, you will find yourself traveling alone to London.”

  He laughed. “I’m only teasing, Sarah,” he said, smirking. “Doesn’t anyone ever tease you?”

  “Too often,” she sighed.

  “What you need is a rough—”

  “Do not finish that sentence either,” she warned.

  His lips were on hers again, and she wound her arms around his shoulders and neck, clinging to him. His kisses were not gentle, but she did seem to not mind. He backed her up a few steps until she met the wall behind her. He leaned into her, his body hard with a hunger that had not been dispelled throughout the night.

  She pushed against him, and he pulled away, his eyes blazing.

  “Why do you keep kissing me?” she wondered out loud, searching his gaze.

  “You kissed me first,” he replied, claiming her lips again. His tongue stroked hers, tasting her. “And you never told me to stop.” But stop they must. Nothing had changed for him since the previous night. His position on bedding random women hadn’t faltered.

  Though somehow, he couldn’t think of her as random. She seemed familiar to him, and he saw something in her he quite liked. Now that he’d had a taste of her, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her.

  William pulled himself away finally, leaving her looking thoroughly ravished.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, each breathing heavily and struggling to fight the grins forming on pursed lips.

  “Yes, well,” she said absently, turning away towards the vanity, careful not to look at him in the reflecting glass. He watched her run the brush through her hair before wrapping it into a knot and tying it back with a grey ribbon.

  William turned away, needing to do something productive before he found himself in her arms again. He took the last sip of his now cold coffee, though it did nothing to still the pulsing lust in his blood.

  “How are you traveling to London?” she asked curiously.

  “I was in a carriage until its wheel broke,” he replied. “One of my horses did not make it in the crash, and I rode the other here with my canine companion.”

  “In the rain?” she asked.

  His lips quirked. “Aye, we lesser mortals are not above getting wet.”

  Sarah frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “I was planning to offer you a spot in my carriage, as all four wheels are in excellent working condition. But if you are not opposed to riding your horse all the way to London, then I do not see the need.”

  Turning towards her, he smirked. “Is that so?”

  Sarah’s head tilted in challenge. “Yes.”

  “Actually, might I ask a different favor?”

  Curious, Sarah quirked an eyebrow, and he continued.

  “In the darkness I could not assess the full damage to my rig,” he explained. “Would you accompany me to the wreckage, so I may determine what repairs need to be made? If it is drivable, it will require two horses to pull it into the nearest town for repairs.”

  “That seems like a larger favor than the one I was offering,” she replied. “And time spent going the wrong direction.”

  “True,” he lamented. “But you could send your carriage on to the next coaching inn. We are bound to move faster on horseback than in a carriage. Besides, the wreckage is not far off. We won’t get too far from your coachman.”

  Sarah pursed her lips, considering his invitation. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

  “A wee bit,” he admitted, holding his hand up to show the small amount of air pinched between his thumb and finger.

  With a sigh she agreed to accompany him and made arrangements to meet him downstairs before sweeping past him in a swish of grey skirts as she went to repack the few things she had pulled from her valise.

  William had the feeling he had been dismissed and quickly left, lest he pull her into his arms again and forget his own rules about women and coaching inns.

  He stepped outside into the bright morning sunshine, the air crisp as only the morning after a storm can be. The coolness in the air heralded the oncoming winter, but the leaves were still in their vibrant shades of the sunset, having yet to fall from their brittle branches.

  What he hadn’t mentioned to Sarah earlier was that he was already acquainted with her coachman, having been down in the stables earlier in the morning to check in on his horse and let his dog out for a bit.

  “Good morning again, sir,” the coachman said to him in perfect English. The coachman was a burly dark-skinned man, and William could hear the faintest accent left over from a childhood in which English had not been his first language.

  “Good morning,” William replied. “Her ladyship will be accompanying me to assess the damage to my rig. She will need a horse saddled for her.”

  The coachman looked surprised by the request, but he nodded and turned to do as instructed.

  Stepping into the stables, William patted his horse, Fergus, on the nose. Fergus was a mighty animal, strong enough to have carried William across France and the Peninsula. He stood taller than most horses, and William was taller than most men, so it worked out for them both. William worked in silence with Sarah’s coachman, thoroughly brushing down Fergus’s dark hairs before taking the bridle and tack off the wall of the stall and going about saddling Fergus. He was a handsome horse, all black except for a white diamond on his forehead and white socks on all but one of his ankles. Thankfully, Fergus had survived their ordeal the night before, though his other horse had not been so lucky.

  “Where has Abe gone off to?” William asked, looking around the stables for his black dog.

  “He is just there, across the lane,” the coachman said, pointing to a pond in a gentle field. “Two lads took him over to throw a stick for him.”

  William chuckled. “Good luck to them. I haven’t been able to get that dog to retrieve anything in three years. Though what Abe lacks in hunting skill he makes up for in companionship.” William glanced at the coachman. “Tell me your name again? I cannot seem to manage the pronunciation correctly.”

  “I am Mthunzi,” the coachman replied.

  William tried again to say the name correctly and f
ailed.

  “No, not em-thunzi,” came Sarah’s voice as she stepped around the horses. “Mmm-thunzi. You have to be quicker with the mmm.”

  William turned to watch her approach, lovely in the morning light, as much the grey gown she wore attempted to diminish that beauty. She had changed gowns, from a day dress to a riding habit, which boasted the same steely grey hue.

  William tried the name again, and the coachman beamed.

  “Perfect. Mthunzi is particular about his name,” Sarah said, smiling at the coachman. Mthunzi stepped around William, taking Sarah’s valise from her hands and placing it with the other luggage on the carriage.

  “I hope to not butcher his name again,” William said. “You look awfully radiant in the morning sunshine, despite your depressing choice of clothing color.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I am a widow, William. Society dictates that dutiful widows wear half-mourning for the rest of their lives, out of respect for their poor dead husbands.” Her tone suggested respect had little to do with it.

  “Or until they marry again,” William corrected.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I believe half the reason widows choose to remarry is so they are not confined to shades of grey to the end of their days.”

  “Surely once in a while you are allowed to wear something other than grey?” William asked, ignoring her snarky reply. “You should be allowed, at the very least, shades of blue.”

  Sarah’s brow quirked up. “I am surprised you are this interested in my choice of attire. Surely, you have other things to worry yourself over than my fashion choices?”

  “Currently, you are all that is on my mind.”

  Sarah’s brow didn’t drop as her head tilted to the side. He had seen this look on a woman before. Clearly she doubted his sincerity.

  Turning towards her coachman, she instructed, “I’ve spoken to the innkeeper, and my brother has horses positioned here for our use. Please procure one for the next portion of our journey and continue towards London, Mthunzi. I will accompany Mr. Gordon to see what can be done about his carriage. We will travel faster on horseback, so we will meet you at the next coaching inn.”