Page 30 of The Trouble with a Dare

He was still supporting Henry, who’d begun singing again, though thankfully more quietly.

Florence hurried to take her husband’s other arm and guided him through to the drawing room. “Yes, Henry, it’s a very fine song. You sing if you wish to,” she murmured soothingly as he went.

Sterling snorted as Arabella dashed past them to see to Bainbridge who was snoring now, oblivious to the indignant bees buzzing about the crushed lavender.

“I told them my beer was the best around and kicks like a mule,” he said, grinning beatifically at her. “But they swallowed it down like lemonade. They’ll be sorry in a few hours, I can tell you.”

“I think you might be a little sorry too,” she said, watching this new, less buttoned-up version of her husband with great interest.

Sterling shook his head. “No, just a bit foxed. I’m used to it. Mind, the amount they put away, I’m astonished they made it back to the house. Would have felled an elephant.” He turned back to the open door and called out to Arabella. “Do you want me to get him up?”

Arabella stroked her husband’s thick hair and looked up with a smile. “No, he seems happy enough. Let him sleep for a bit, the big lummox.” The words were said with such affection it was clear she was not the least bit cross with him. She got up, smoothed out her skirts, and walked back into the house. “Mr Oak, a pleasure to meet you at last. I hope my husband didn’t upset you too badly. I know he’s provoking, but it is done out of love, I assure you.”

“Yes, Lady Bainbridge, I see that,” Sterling said, considering the prone figure of the marquess sprawled across the front path.

“Well, we had better see if we can sober Henry up,” she said, heading towards the drawing room once more. “Or heaven alone knows how we’ll get them both back to the Hall.”

She disappeared, and Sterling frowned after her.

“I’ll put them in a barrow and wheel them back myself if it comes to that,” he muttered.

Grace watched him, still a little anxious. “Are you dreadfully vexed? I am afraid you must hold me responsible. If Arabella hadn’t worried herself to such a pitch—”

Sterling snorted, looking at her in outrage. “I’ll not have you hold yourself to account for that great oaf, Bainbridge. I’d say he’s harmless enough if it weren’t for the fact he brings chaos in his wake, but it seems he means well and, if Henry couldn’t keep him in check, I don’t see what else was to be done but let him see for himself.” His face softened, and perhaps it was the drink that warmed his eyes and made his expression grow fond as he gazed at her. “Your friends were worried for you, little wren, afraid you’d made your nest on a precipice.”

Grace blinked, startled by the endearment, more so by the large hand that reached up and traced a path down her cheek.

“So soft,” he whispered, and then gave a great sigh before leaning heavily against the wall. He frowned and stared down at his boots. “Reckon that beer caught up with me after all,” he said, sounding somewhat mystified, and slid down to the floor as his knees gave out.

Chapter 11

Monsieur Le Comte,

How lovely it was to see you yesterday. It was such a wonderful surprise when I did not expect you to arrive out of the blue and bearing gifts too.

The picnic was splendid, and Miss Evie is so much fun, I like her ever so. Indeed, I do not believe I have ever heard you laugh so much for she is so droll and amusing. She has been coming often to the school and all the girls adore her, for she is not the least stuffy and so easy to talk to. I know she will return next week. Might I hope you will come and surprise us again? I know you have far better things to do than spoil me as you do, but I very much look forward to your visits and should so like to see you again soon.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Agatha Smith to her guardian, Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

11th of September 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

Sterling groaned as the dull pain in his head intruded on his slumber and dragged him unwillingly into the faint light of the morning. He came to slowly, his mind foggy and his limbs heavy with sleep and the excess of the day before. The bed was warm and soft and if not for the throbbing pulse in his temples, his position rather blissful. The sweet scent of chamomile filled his nostrils, and he breathed deep, reluctant to wake fully. Yet a lifetime of rising with the dawn would not allow him to return to sleep, and gradually his faculties returned to him, and with them the realisation that he had not slept as tidily last night as he had schooled himself to do.

His heart gave an erratic thud in his chest as he became aware of the slight, warm body tucked against his. Oh, God. Now wide awake, he realised his cheek rested against a ripple of long, golden hair and he had wrapped himself about his wife as if his body was protecting her from some unseen danger. As he became vibratingly aware of her warm, soft bottom pressed snugly against his groin, and the fact he had one deliciously rounded breast cupped in the palm of his hand, it became blatantly obvious the only danger was him. Yet… Yet that was foolishness. He was her husband and anything that passed between them was only right and natural, so asserted a persistent voice in his head. Yes, true enough, answered another, more civilised voice, but you smell like a brewery and your mouth tastes like the floor of the duchess’s hogpound. Yes, a fine first impression he’d give his beautiful bride of what making love with her husband would be if he attempted it like this. Not to mention the fact that he’d be damned if he’d make her his own with the devil striking an anvil against his temples to mark the time.

All of this passed through his mind, and he agreed that it was quite correct. Getting his disgusting self to let go of his wife’s glorious form and remove himself from her vicinity was another matter entirely. His body cried out, aching with desire as it had ached and protested every damned interminable night since the first she had slept in his bed. If this kept up, he might run mad, either from thwarted desire or lack of sleep.

Just… move, you wicked brute, he chided himself, to no avail. Grace sighed to herself, wriggling back against his warmth and Sterling’s breath caught in his throat as her lush bottom pressed snugly against his arousal, causing desire to slam into him so hard he was in danger of disgracing himself. Involuntarily, his hand tightened over her breast and Sterling knew at once that Grace had woken, for her body tensed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, the word strained as he forced himself to release her breast and moved his aching loins away from her. Before he could leave the bed, however, her hand slid over his, drawing it back against her breast. Sterling’s heart, already hammering too fast and hard for comfort, settled into a flat-out gallop.

Grace turned her head, and her storm grey eyes met his, a questioning look there that he did not know how to answer. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment, but she held his gaze and returned a tentative smile.

“Sorry,” he said again, for lack of anything more intelligent. “The beer makes a fellow, er… friendly.”

“Friendly?” she repeated, something that might have been amusement flickering in her eyes.

He nodded. “Must have… in my sleep.” Sterling cleared his throat. Her lack of shock or revulsion was not only a revelation but a joy, but there was no way on earth he’d touch her smelling like a damned brewery, unshaven and…. God, she deserved better than this. “Need to wash. Badly,” he added for the sake of honesty.