The Taste of Innocence by Stephanie Laurens Page A

features felt graven.
    “It’s late.” He forced his hands from her waist, reluctantly relinquishing the feel of her body supple and lithe between his palms. “Come. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
     
    Sarah found the next day trying, and the evening was even worse, complicated by being able to see Charlie, being able to sense his impatience for their next meeting in the summer house, which in turn fed her own.
    The evening dragged while her father played host to the other local landowners, using a dinner to consult over matters pertaining to the local hunt. By the time the gentlemen eventually rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, her frustration had reached new heights; as their neighbors milled and chatted, keeping a sweet smile on her face and polite and appropriate comments on her lips was a distracting irritation.
    At last they all left, Charlie included. Surrounded as they parted in the front hall, she had no chance to learn whether he intended to drive home and then ride back, or whether instead he would drive the grays out of the gates and around to the weir through the fields. As she climbed the stairs behind her mother, she weighed distances and times against the likelihood of him leaving his precious pair in a field, and couldn’t be certain; she remained unsure at what hour to expect him, at what hour he would reach the summer house.
    Yet she was absolutely sure he would come. Sometime that night he would return, and she would be able to learn, if not all, then at least more.
    Reaching her bedchamber, she sent her sleepy maid, Gwen, to bed, and regretfully changed out of her pretty silk evening gown and donned an old plain walking dress instead. If by some chance she was discovered wandering the gardens in the dead of night, she could say she’d been unable to sleep and had taken a short walk.
    Selecting a woolen shawl that at least matched the gown, she blew out her candle and sat down before the dying fire to wait until her parents went to bed and the house quieted.
    Half an hour later, she rose and slipped out. She crept down the side stairs and eased open the side door; exercising caution, she walked slowly, drifting from shadow to shadow across the lawn.
    Once she gained the path and was out of sight of the house, she picked up her pace; drawing the shawl firmly about her shoulders, she allowed her mind to focus on what lay ahead.
    Literally, and figuratively.
    After last night…she’d returned to her room, her bed, and unexpectedly fallen into a sound sleep. But she’d had all day to mull over Charlie’s actions, his direction; it seemed clear enough that he intended to tempt her into marriage with desire. With the promise of passion, and all that would mean.
    Why else had he stopped? Why else had he drawn such a definite line at such a relatively early—and unrevealing—point? She’d sensed his control, the steely will he’d ruthlessly wielded in order to stop when he had; he hadn’t stopped because he’d truly wanted to, but because it was part of his plan.
    His plan wasn’t, quite, what she wanted, but his direction suited her well enough.
    She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t appreciate that he could well make her so desperate to experience the ultimate plea sure that she would set aside all reservations and agree to marry him regardless of whether he loved her or not. In falling in with his scheme, she was taking a risk, yet against that stood the reality that in order to learn what she needed to know, his plan—essentially to seduce her into marriage—held out the best prospect of her gaining what she wanted, of revealing to her why he was so set on marrying her. Specifically her.
    She’d asked, but he hadn’t truly answered; he’d given her all the conventional reasons, but such reasons weren’t enough for her, and, more importantly, she was quite sure they weren’t—wouldn’t have been—enough for him, enough to move him to offer for her.
    He could have had