Page 31 of The Trouble with a Dare

Grace released his hand, but not all at once, her fingers trailing over his skin for a moment before she let him go. Sterling closed his eyes, praying for the strength to resist.

“Sterling?”

Oh God, please don’t talk to me. Not now, he begged silently. I’ll not stand much more of this.

“Yes?” he croaked.

“Have… Have I been a torment to you?”

“What?” he asked, not comprehending at once.

“Sleeping beside me and n-not…. Do you sleep or… I mean… I do not wish to cause you any… um… discomfort.”

He blinked at her. God bless her. She was afraid she was teasing him to death. She was, obviously, but it had been his own decision to keep his hands off her for it had seemed the right thing to say, but the Lord knew he was a fool and had regretted it every night since the damned words had slipped out before he could think better of them.

Sterling took a breath, trying to compose himself, for too much of his brain was focused on the most demanding part of his anatomy and the bit used for thinking was feeling the strain. Honesty, he reminded himself, and yet he did not wish to sound as if he were complaining.

“I sleep… a bit,” he said cautiously.

“Oh.” She chewed her lip, considering this, and he realised at once she was not ready to give herself to him, not entirely at least. He thanked God he’d not pressed and made her give in out of guilt or a sense of duty. The idea revolted him.

“When I was a boy,” he said, frantically searching for a way to explain and make it right. “I used to work myself up to a pitch of excitement for birthdays and Christmas. My mother disapproves of spoiling children and expensive presents, but my father would never heed her. He loved me fiercely and was proud of me too, though he rarely said so, but Christmas and birthday he’d buy me something splendid to show me what he had no words for.”

Grace smiled at him, and her expression set off that sharp stabbing sensation in his heart.

“He sounds like a wonderful father,” she said.

Sterling nodded, staring down at her, and thinking he had seen nothing so lovely as his wife in his life before, all soft and warm, pink and tousled with sleep.

“Yes, he was. The night before my birthday or on Christmas eve, I could barely sleep a wink though. I would set my mind on the present coming my way, wrapped up with paper and a great bow. The anticipation was nigh on unbearable.”

She stared back at him, her colour rising as she understood what he was telling her.

“So, yes, love. You are a torment to me, but the very best kind, for you are every Christmas and birthday rolled into one, and I shall wait for as long as you need me to. Do you understand?”

Grace nodded, and the look in her eyes made him glad to wait for her, glad to give her back what the fellow who’d taken her innocence from her had stolen.

“You are a lovely man, Sterling Oak,” she whispered.

The words slid under his skin and settled there, and Sterling smiled all the way out into the yard, where he resolutely stuck his head under the pump and chased away his demons with the icy torrent.

Grace hummed as she dressed that morning, ridiculously eager to see her husband when he returned to the house to break his fast. On hurrying into the breakfast parlour, her disappointment was evident when she discovered he would not be eating with her, as Mrs Gladwish was quick to point out.

“Well, there’s no need to look like you’ve lost a penny and found sixpence,” she said, chuckling with amusement as she set a basket of fresh rolls down on the table. “He said to be ready for him at eleven, for he’s taking you into Tunbridge Wells for lunch and to do some shopping.”

“Oh!” Grace said, brightening at once. “Oh, how lovely.”

“Aye, my ducks, so it is, and nice to see him acting the bridegroom at last. About time, if you ask me,” she added over her shoulder as she bustled out of the room.

Grace could not help the delighted smile that played over her mouth at the thought of an outing with Sterling, and did not linger over her breakfast but, despite the early hour, hurried upstairs to ensure she looked her best and would not keep her husband waiting.

Decked out in her finest and despite having been ready for half an hour, Grace fidgeted under Maggie’s eagle eye as she returned to tweak the bow of her bonnet.

“I told you not to put it on so early,” her maid scolded her. “So, you can just keep still while I put it to rights.”

“Ought I to have worn the green?” Grace fretted, though she had never been overly vain or fussy about her dress—well, no more than any other young woman, at least. Today, however, it seemed dreadfully important that she look her best, and she had agonised over her choice of gown for far too long.

“Gracious, no, madam. That redingote is the prettiest shade of satin I’ve ever seen. Why, look at the way it reflects the light: blue here, and that lovely turquoise as you move.”