The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Read online

  And the flicker of anger bloomed stronger.

  This was what had been expected of her all along.

  This was what she got for her trouble.

  The music ended and Mr. Dixon moved to her side, placing her gloved hand on his coat sleeve and covering it with his, the move possessive. “You’ve always claimed to abhor dancing, but I must say, Miss Tisdale,” he paused, his gaze lowering to rake her breasts once more, “your passion for the art is truly inspiring.”

  Sarah needed to be free of him. Free of the house and all the people in it. Free of the fear that she’d betrayed herself and her emotions tonight.

  She pulled her hand from beneath Mr. Dixon’s and walked away without any explanation. She didn’t look back, her pace increasing until she was nearly running, moving swiftly toward the terrace doors.

  She slipped through them and picked up the blue skirt of her gown as she raced down the steps to the gardens. She didn’t stop running until her legs refused to go on, far from the lights of the ballroom, far from the gathering of polite society.

  And there, in the middle of the Bennington gardens, where the most charming of gazebos stood flanked by roses and hydrangeas, Sarah stopped.

  She pulled at the pins in her hair.

  Kicked off her slippers.

  Ripped the long, white gloves from her arms and flung them to the wind.

  She reached beneath the skirt of her blue gown and ripped the silk stockings from her legs, leaving them to lie where they fell.

  Then, and only then, did Sarah let loose with a string of profanities so coarse that a blue streak could surely be seen from as far as the next county over.

  The woman could run.

  Even if Marcus’s leg was completely healed—or, better yet, never injured at all—he’d have been hard-pressed to keep up with her.

  She’d left the ballroom so abruptly that there was little time to react.

  Dixon had simply stood there, looking annoyed until skulking off toward the dining room.

  Claire had been intercepted by Lady Colby, with no hope of following after her friend.

  Lady Tisdale was frozen in place on the edge of the dance floor, obviously torn between concern for her daughter and fear that any further action would bring unwanted attention.

  “Either you go after her, or I will,” Carmichael told Marcus.

  And so he had, using a circuitous route so that no one would connect his exit with hers.

  He’d run full bore for a time then dropped to a jog when he heard a woman’s voice.

  It was Sarah, all right, the tone elevated, but still recognizable.

  She was swearing up a storm. Literally.

  Marcus stopped dead in his tracks and listened, noting with some interest the clouds that threatened in the east.

  The moment reminded Marcus of when he’d first met her that day at the pond.

  She’d shocked him, wild and unabashed. Her appetite for life had terrified him.

  It terrified him still.

  But he should have known then what was so clear now: One could not avoid falling in love with Sarah Tisdale.

  It was impossible—she was impossible.

  And Marcus could no longer deny what was right in front of his eyes.

  He continued toward the gazebo, circling around to where Sarah stood.

  She stopped abruptly as he approached, a look of disbelief forming on her face. “What do you want?”

  Her tone, so raw yet so sharp, cut him like a knife.

  He’d hardly thought on what he would say, words usually rolling off his tongue like autumn leaves falling off a tree.

  But this was different. This was not a lie.

  This meant something—everything.

  “You.”

  “Really,” she countered, her arms akimbo as she moved to stand near him on the platform, her eyes level with his. “I understood you had grown weary of Lulworth’s charms—”

  “Please,” Marcus interrupted. Hearing his words repeated by her twisted the knife in his gut.

  Lightning flashed, brightening the dark sky, and a soft breeze stirred the warm night air, followed almost immediately by the loud roll and crack of thunder.

  And then Sarah slapped Marcus so hard across his cheek that his ears rang as though a second roll of thunder had arrived.

  “Why did you hurt me?” she demanded, her voice thick with pain and anger.

  The rain began, fat drops landing on Marcus’s shoulders and quickly dampening his coat.

  He thrust a hand through his hair, roughly raking it back from his brow. “You cannot know what a risk it is for me—to be with you.” Even as he spoke the words, he could hardly believe he was exposing a truth he’d never uttered aloud before. Not to anyone. “No one has ever wanted me just for me.”

  Sarah raised her hand again, but she brought her palm to his heart instead.

  “I want you for this,” she said, pressing firmly, as though marking him with a permanent imprint on his flesh. “And this,” she continued, moving her soft palm to his forehead. “You bloody stupid, ridiculous, arrogant ass. I want all of you—and nothing less.”

  The rain continued to fall, soaking his hair above her small hand, running in rivulets down his face, yet Marcus couldn’t move.

  “Can you say the same for me?” Sarah’s fingers trembled as she gently brushed back a lock of his wet hair.

  She gazed into his eyes with heartbreaking honesty and hope—such forgiveness in her deep green eyes. Marcus knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she spoke the truth.

  He stepped up onto the platform. “Sarah.” He wrapped his arms about her waist to lift and carry her to a bench tucked toward the back of the gazebo. “I don’t have the words,” he said as he set her on her feet.

  “Then show me.”

  She half twisted away from him, turning her back. Tucking her chin, she pulled her mass of curls to one side and forward over her breast, the move exposing the row of tiny buttons that ran down her spine.

  “Aye.” His fingers fumbled with the tiny pearls as one after the other popped free.

  Sarah tugged the bodice down over her breasts, slipping her arms free from the sleeves until the gown pooled in a circle of blue silk about her feet, leaving her clad only in her chemise and corset.

  She turned to face him and he slid his hands into the silky mass of her auburn hair. He bent to kiss her shoulder and the soft spot where arm met torso and the side of her breast. The taste and scent of her skin sent impatience roaring through him and he unlaced her corset to peel it free and toss it aside.

  With matching haste, Sarah reached for the buttons at his waist, her nimble fingers eagerly attacking each one, his cock throbbing under the brush of her fingers.

  She pushed his breeches and smalls down his thighs, taking the length of him in one hand while the other closed over the heavy crown.

  “Christ Almighty, woman!” Marcus ground out, tearing his coat and waistcoat off.

  “Oh!” She looked up at him through her lashes, but her curious hands didn’t still. “Is this wrong?”

  Marcus groaned as he licked her right breast through the soft, thin chemise. “On the contrary. It’s very right.”

  “Lovely,” she breathed.

  She released him and pressed hard on his chest, forcefully pushing him back until his shoulders were against a supporting beam.

  Then she sank to her knees, her warm breath stroking him as she descended. Marcus’s muscles clenched, shivering under the erotic brush of her quick breathing as it skimmed over his skin.

  Kneeling at his feet, she pulled off his slippers, tugging first one, then the other free to toss aside. She caught the edges of his breeches and smalls and shoved them the rest of the way to the floor, easing them off over his feet.

  She placed her palms on his thighs, careful to avoid his healing wound. She sank back on her heels, her gaze moving slowly upward. Marcus felt the brush of her stare like a brand moving over his skin and wh
en those emerald eyes finally looked into his, he caught his breath.

  His lust roared out of control and he reached for her, but she shook her head, stopping him. Her gaze left his, following her stroking hands, totally absorbed in his body. She explored him slowly, her fingers petting, stopping to touch here, caress there, until both settled on his testicles, cupping and squeezing until Marcus groaned aloud, his muscles bunching as he clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her.

  She looked up and smiled.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Marcus ground out, determined to let her have this moment, though his cock throbbed almost painfully with anticipation.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, very much so.”

  Her hands encircled his thick shaft, stroking the sensitive skin until Marcus groaned again and muttered a guttural curse.

  His head rolled back and hit the beam, though he failed to notice anything except the feel of her fingers on him.

  But when her mouth came down on him, hot and wet, every inch of his body felt the force of it, her lips lightly clasping as her tongue swirled and her teeth ever so slightly tugged.

  Marcus sank his hands deep into her hair and held on, gently urging her into a rhythm that made him grit his teeth.

  She grabbed his buttocks, her fingernails raking the skin. He had barely enough presence of mind to grab her shoulders.

  “For the love of God,” he growled. Her mouth left the head of his cock as he pulled her up and into his arms. “Where did you learn such ways to bedevil a man?”

  “Claire.” She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as her mouth sought his in a kiss desperate with need.

  “Remind me to thank her,” Marcus said a moment later, lifting his head before his mouth took hers once again and his tongue ravaged the slick inner surfaces of her sweet mouth.

  He walked her backward to the bench and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he laid her down, the cove of her hips rocking against the hard angles of his.

  Marcus looked at her, lying beneath him, beautiful in all her unfettered glory. Her skin glowed with arousal, her eyes filled with passion and promise.

  “Are you certain? Is this what you truly want?” he asked her, his body clenching against the possibility that she would deny him.

  Her hips lifted, pushed, and rocked against him again and she smiled as only Sarah Tisdale could. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  “I love you.” The words had come of their own accord, but Marcus did not regret for one moment having said them.

  Her green eyes flared with fierce emotion, her hands tightening about his arms.

  Before she could answer, he shifted, nudging the blunt head of his arousal against her soft core. She gasped, shuddering as he entered her with a slow, steady thrust.

  Sarah’s breath caught in her throat and Marcus stopped, fearful that he’d caused her pain.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  Mine, he thought for one fierce moment before his lust raged out of control. He partially withdrew before rocking his hips forward, burying himself in her farther with each slow, powerful stroke.

  She bucked against him, demanding more.

  Marcus breathed in the scent of her skin and hair and the smell of sweat and female arousal. He quickened the pace. She breathed faster, her body arching like a bow beneath his. She strained, desperately reaching for the summit.

  And then she cried out, her legs wrapping more tightly about him as she shuddered beneath him.

  His hand closed over her thigh and he drove into her with several quick, deep thrusts before he stiffened, the intensity of his climax tearing a deep groan from his throat.

  He rolled to the side, taking her with him while still so deeply embedded in her body he couldn’t tell where his ended and hers began.

  “Trust me—no matter what happens,” he whispered into her hair. “Promise me.”

  Her hands came to rest on his face. “I promise. With all of my heart.”

  And he believed her.

  There did not seem to be enough sausage nor coddled eggs in the world to satisfy Sarah’s hunger.

  “Did you run the length of Lulworth?” her mother queried, referring to the previous night’s disappearance—and this morning’s appetite. “And truly, all for a case of the vapors? Surely remaining indoors would have been much more prudent.”

  Marcus had created an alibi, insisting that Sarah memorize the story.

  “I simply needed the fresh air—and it was hardly the length, Mother.” Sarah buttered her toast and hid a smile. “Lord Weston sent his valet to fetch me from the garden. It was not my fault that the man could not keep up.”

  “Nor mine that your best dress was ruined, thanks to the rain,” Lady Tisdale complained, gesturing for Sarah to pass the strawberry jam. “Really, if only Lord Weston’s man would have shown some concern, you would have been fetched straightaway.”

  Sarah set her toast down and reached for the jam pot. “I’m sure the Almighty is, at this very moment, rethinking the storm, Mother.” She passed the pot then retrieved her toast.

  She could not deny that the lovely dress had been ruined, though the rain had little to do with its demise.

  Sarah shivered as she remembered just how the creases had been pressed into the blue silk. The soft material wasn’t meant to be so carelessly tossed into a heap in the damp night air.

  Marcus had cursed under his breath when he buttoned her back into the ruined gown, his deep burr making the vulgarity sound like a delicious invitation.

  She’d suggested that next time perhaps her dress should stay on, in the interest of tidiness.

  Sarah took a second bite from the toast point and chewed with enthusiasm.

  “Well, no matter the storm or the dress, it was kind of Lord Weston to offer you use of his coach,” Sarah’s father joined in, eyeing his wife before neatly folding the ironed newspaper in half and burying his nose in the stories of the day.

  Lady Tisdale reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  “Indeed,” Sarah chimed in, making a heroic attempt to keep a smile from her face.

  How could love find one in the deepest pit of despair one moment, then soaring among the clouds the next?

  Nellie, a trusted servant, entered the room and bobbed a quick curtsy in front of Sarah’s father. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Lord Weston awaits you in your study. He says he must speak with you at once.”

  Sarah choked on her toast and half rose from her seat in a rush.

  “Gracious, Sarah, do sit down,” her mother insisted. “Lord Weston asked for your father, not you. Though I’ve no idea why the man would be so presumptuous as to call quite so early.”

  Sarah swallowed the last bite of bread, which had temporarily stuck in her throat. “Really, Mother,” she began as she sank back into her seat. “Lord Weston has shown our family nothing but kindness and consideration since returning to Lulworth. Even your dearest friend, Mrs. Rathbone, has examined her heart as regards the man. Can you not do the same?”

  Lady Tisdale began to furiously apply jam to her toast. “Really, Sarah, I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. I’ve not harbored any ill will toward the earl—though, in truth, I suppose we all—”

  “Ladies,” Sarah’s father interrupted. “No need to quarrel. Let us put this behind us, shall we? The man is sitting in my study as we speak.”

  “Yes, quite,” Lady Tisdale agreed, the layer of jam now an inch thick on her toast.

  Her father’s words caused Sarah’s stomach to roll. Was Marcus going to ask her father for her hand? They’d hardly had time to talk of such things last night. She couldn’t decide if she was excited or terrified.

  Sir Arthur set the folded paper down next to his half-empty plate and rose. “Very well. Don’t want to keep Lord Weston waiting,” he said cheerfully, giving Sarah a merry wink before walking from the room.

  Did her father suspect the same? And for tha
t matter, Sarah continued to speculate, was it possible that her mother did as well?

  She turned and narrowed her eyes at her mother, who sat contemplating her shirred eggs.

  “Sarah?”

  Sarah ignored her mother’s query and leaned forward, searching for some small sign—a twitch, perhaps—that would indicate what her mother was thinking.

  “Is there something on my face?” Lady Tisdale touched the linen napkin to her lips, the gaze she fixed on Sarah questioning.

  “No, Mother.” Failing to discern anything useful from her mother’s behavior, Sarah turned to stare at the doorway. She picked up her teacup, lifting it to sip, but was suddenly too nervous to do so. She set the cup back into its saucer with a click. Absentmindedly, she turned it this way and that, this way and that, until the sweet brown liquid spilled over the lip and onto her hand.

  She hardly noticed.

  “Sarah?” her mother said for the second time, though in a far more irritated tone.

  Sarah’s father appeared in the doorway, worry clearly written on his face. “Where is Nigel?”

  Sarah pushed up from her seat, confused. “What does Nigel have to do with—?”

  “Your brother, where is he?” Sir Arthur demanded.

  “In his room, Father. Why?”

  Lady Tisdale dropped her linen napkin next to her place setting on the table. “Really, what is going on here? First Sarah, and now you. Has the whole world gone mad?”

  “Lenora, see to it that Nellie packs a bag for Nigel.”

  Lady Tisdale huffed indignantly and drew herself up, clearly annoyed. “I’ll hardly do such a thing without knowing why.”

  “You will do as I say, Lenora. Now!” Sir Arthur snapped.

  His temper was so unlike his usual placid self that Lady Tisdale was speechless. Heart filled with foreboding, Sarah dashed around the dining table to run from the room, desperate to speak with Marcus.

  But her father’s study was empty. She peered out the window and caught sight of him just outside, as he untied Pokey’s reins and lifted himself into the saddle.

  Sarah turned to run for the foyer, catching her hip on the edge of her father’s desk and falling hard.