Hands bundled in her lap, Sarah stared at the empty chair behind Arthur Davenport’s desk. She’d arrived ten minutes ago and had been somewhat disappointed to learn he wasn’t in his chambers. However, Arthur’s clerk had informed her he was less than twenty minutes due and so she sat here now, unaccustomed butterflies flying about her stomach.
Good Lord. Anyone would think she was eager to see him.
It had been six days since the last time she’d been in these rooms. During that time, she’d received two missives from Arthur’s chambers, the first informing her a cessation letter had been sent to Robert’s father, and the second informing her of the receipt of one. Robert’s father had reacted as predicted and refused to recall his claim. Arthur’s letter had stated he would pursue the course upon which they had agreed, and she should be assured this matter would end.
She smoothed her gown. She believed him. He had said it would end, and she believed he would do all in his power to ensure it did. If nothing else, their acquaintance had proved him a man of his word—if he said he would do something, he did it. It had annoyed her to no end as a girl, that implacableness nothing could pierce, but now she relied upon it. Now, she knew he would help her, would turn Robert’s father from his course.
He would help her.
Shifting in her seat, she laced her fingers tight. In all her life, she’d hated to ask for help. She could undertake things for herself, and she didn’t need her mother or her suitors or anyone else to smooth her way. She had a brain, and she could figure her way out of most things without turning to anyone. Robert had known that. He had been pleased to allow her control of their finances, to attend assemblies and gatherings in his fine officer’s uniform and be very merry indeed. And to now have that negated….
Exhaling, she looked down at her balled hands. She had the most appalling habit of chewing on her thumbnail when nervous, and she was fairly itching to rip her glove from her hand. And the reason for her nerves? She could claim it was the suit or her finances or her mother, but all things considered…. She didn’t have a reason to be here apart from a desire to see Arthur Davenport.
Her breath left her. There was no point lying to one’s self, and it would be a lie to say she didn’t want to see him. Somehow, since the last time they’d spoken, she’d been looking forward to their next meet. She’d wanted to talk with him again, to laugh over their mothers’ foibles, to discuss how to foil their plots. And when there seemed no reason to see him, she invented her own.
So here she sat, hands balled in her lap and awaiting his arrival.
The door opened and she almost wrenched her neck turning to regard it. Arthur walked through the door, his clothing precise, his chestnut hair perfectly coiffed. He hesitated when he saw her and there was an infinitesimal change in expression, perhaps displaying…pleasure?
Oh, but he was so hard to read. He always had been, but then she’d never taken the time to learn him. She’d wanted to learn his tells, like she’d learned the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth meant he was amused, and he straightened his cuffs when he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
The smile that stretched her features felt unnatural. She hoped to God it didn’t appear so.
Expression still unreadable, he started toward his desk. “Mrs. Wetherall.”
Unaccountably nervous, Sarah tightened her grip. “Mr. Davenport. I hope you don’t mind my unscheduled visit.”
“Of course not.” Seating himself, he straightened his cuffs. “How may I be of assistance?”
Some of her nerves disappeared. He had straightened his cuffs. Perhaps he was as nervous as she. “I wanted to see this letter you received. From my husband’s father.”
His brows twitched. Perhaps that indicated a frown? “Yes, the letter. I must apologize again. I had no notion the lengths Wetherall would go to, but his letter made it abundantly clear. This new claim, that your marriage was false, is patently ridiculous. You have been dealing with their harassment alone until you saw me?”
“Yes.” He had called it harassment. She had thought it so, but she hadn’t been sure. For Arthur Davenport to confirm her belief, he who only ever spoke plain and true…. Well, she hadn’t been imagining mistreatment where there was none.
“They have no legal basis for any of this. You were his wife. There is no dispute of that. You hold the marriage lines, complete and correct, yes?” At her nod, he continued, “They can check as many registers as they like, it doesn’t change the fact you were legally wed.”
She nodded again, unable to speak.
His brows drew into what could only be a frown. “So you have not told your mother or any other of this?”
She took a breath. A weight had lifted at his words, one she didn’t even know she carried. “I have told them, but I haven’t…. They don’t know the whole of it.”
“That is foolish. You cannot carry this burden alone, nor should you have to.”
“I know. I know all this, Arthur. This is why I wanted legal representation.”
“I apologize. This whole thing is ridiculous.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you call me Arthur?”
Oh Lord, she had. Her cheeks burned. “Perhaps.”
His expression remained neutral, but she could swear humor somehow colored it. “Perhaps?”
She exhaled. “All right, yes. I did. What of it?”
“Nothing.” The corner of his lip twitched. “Only I should like to call you Sarah in return.”
The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver through her, though she disguised it by lifting her chin. “You may.”
“Excellent.” He seemed to hesitate and then he rose. She watched, wide-eyed, as he came around his desk to stand before her.
He stared down at her, and then straightened his cuffs. “Do not worry. I will take care of this letter.”
She stood also, shifting from foot to foot and just as uncertain of what to do with her hands. “I know you will. Though I should like for you to keep me informed of developments.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Of course.”
She nodded. “Well, then, I suppose there is nothing else for us to discuss.”
Adjusting his cuffs, he regarded her. “I suppose not.”
Her lips parted as her breath locked in her chest. How he was looking at her…. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Ignoring the sudden thud of her heart, she waved her hand. “That.”
His fingers rubbed his cuff. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”
“Yes. You are.” A way that made her feel shivery and weak and desperately wanting his body against hers. She had wanted to see him, had wanted…something, but this was too much, too fast.
She squared her shoulders. “I’m leaving.”
“Are you?” He took a step forward.
The chair behind her, she couldn’t take a step back. Not that she would. Oh no, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Yes! Must you answer everything with a question?”
He took another step forward. “Am I?”
He was so close, she could see the faint pattern of freckles on his skin. “What are you doing?”
He was silent a long moment. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you should know. You should be aware of your actions and their consequences.” Words bubbled from her, nerves running them together. “This is insupportable, ridiculous, and—and—”
“Sarah. Hush.” He put his hand to her cheek.
Slowly, she covered his hand with hers. The air between them thickened, as if a hundred thousand expectations rode the space.
She didn’t know if it were she or him who swayed first, but their lips brushed. Soft, gentle, his lips clung to hers, and she could not remember ever feeling such sweetness in her life.
They parted. Opening her eyes, she found a hesitant hazel gaze regarding her. She couldn’t describe how she felt. She felt warm and comforted and happy and hopeful. She felt…possibility.
Tentatively, their lips brushed again and, with a sudden boldness, she traced the seam of his lips with her tongue.
Innocence fled. His mouth opened over hers and passion flooded her, intense and bright. How could he do this to her? They’d been adversaries all their lives, sniping at each other, attempting to ignore each other. She’d not thought of him above ten times since that last letter. And yet, with his mouth on hers and emotions tearing at her, she knew he now meant so much more.
Hands against the small of her back pressed her to him as his lips trailed a path along her cheek, her brow. She curled her hand around his biceps, loving the hardness of his body against hers, wishing there was nothing between her touch and his flesh. She arched her neck as his lips found the cord, his tongue dipping into the hollow. Blood pounded through her, a glorious cacophony, as his lips took hers once more. Wild, passionate, her fingers curled into the hardness of his flesh.
Wrenching from her, he rested his forehead against hers, breath harsh.
Silence descended, punctuated by a tick of a clock, the faint sounds of the world beyond his chamber door.
“I did not expect this,” she said in the hush.
His eyes remained closed. “No.”
She traced a line from his brow to his chin. “I adore the unexpected.”
Still he didn’t open his eyes, but his lips quirked.
Cupping his cheek, she grinned. “Adore it.”
He actually barked a laugh. Fancy that. Arthur Davenport showing emotion.
Thumb rubbing his lower lip, she traced its path with her gaze. “What shall we do about this unexpectedness?”
His hands tightened on her back. “Do it again.”