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Authors: Jennifer Haymore
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trust and telling him about Esme’s aversion to the city.
“I believe I will like London,” she told
Simon. She didn’t know how she knew it; she just did. London would have to do
something truly horrible to her to prove her instincts wrong.
And if Simon was there, how could she not
like it?
Late that afternoon, Simon and Sarah had
fallen into silence. Esme had tried to read but the motion of the carriage had
made her queasy, so she’d fallen asleep, her cheek resting on a silk pillow
wedged between the door and the back seat cushion.
Sarah possessed the boundless curiosity of
a child discovering a part of her world for the first time, and Simon couldn’t
take his eyes off her. The scenery, each structure that they passed and each
subtle change in landscape, entertained her endlessly.
She was so different from the bitter and
cynical men who frequented Simon’s club, those men who were weighted down by
politics, their positions and their responsibilities. By the fact that America
was close to declaring war on Britain, or by the fact that Wellington was
taking the war on the Peninsula deeper into Spain. Men who could no longer find
joy from an early daffodil jutting up from the grass. Men like himself.
Sarah’s fascination with the world around
her reminded him of his humanity. Of the small things that were still worth
looking at.
If he wasn’t so consumed by looking at
her, his gaze, too, might have been drawn out the window. But he was content to
watch her stare out at the pastures and meadows and rolling hills of the
Cotswolds.
“Endless green,” she murmured without
looking at him, quiet so as not to wake Esme. “And every shade encompassed, it
seems, from yellow all the way to blue.”
Simon glanced out his window. “Yes,” he
said simply. It was true – the expanse of land between Ironwood Park and London
was quintessentially English and not unpleasant to look upon.
The carriage began to traverse the arched
stone bridge that descended onto the high road of the town of Burford. “What
river is this?” she asked, one of the many, many questions she’d asked today.
He didn’t always have a ready answer for
all her questions, but this time he did. “River Windrush.”
She was silent as they passed through the
village, studying the landmarks, the church and sandstone architecture. To
Simon, Burford was just one of the many villages they passed through on the way
to London – its only special quality being that it was near Oxford, where
they’d spend the night before continuing on to London tomorrow. But Sarah saw
something new and wonderful in it, her big, expressive blue eyes taking it all
in. Her lips parted as she absently twirled a dark curl around her finger, her
deep breaths showing in the rise and fall of her bodice.
Her lips were pink, plump, and her tongue
peeked out and ran over them. God, he wanted a taste. He wanted to know if she
was as sweet as he remembered.
She glanced at him, then quickly back to
the window, a light pink flush rising on her cheeks.
So pretty.
Something clenched inside him at that
thought. He’d thought of Sarah as pretty for years, but in a detached way.
She’d been pretty to him like a painted landscape might be pretty, or even like
he might describe his sister as pretty.
But this kind of pretty was altogether different.
This kind made his body harden in places it should damn well be prohibited to
harden in her presence. And, God forbid, in the presence of his sister,
sleeping or not.
He tore his eyes away from Sarah to stare
up at the ceiling of the carriage, willing his body to cool.
Chapter
Four
Something was wrong. Simon had turned
inward. It had begun this afternoon and had continued this evening as they’d
settled at the Angel Inn in Oxford.
Perhaps Sarah had been too exuberant in
her expressions of delight as they passed through the English countryside.
Or… perhaps he worried for his mother.
Not wanting to upset Esme, Sarah
“I believe I will like London,” she told
Simon. She didn’t know how she knew it; she just did. London would have to do
something truly horrible to her to prove her instincts wrong.
And if Simon was there, how could she not
like it?
Late that afternoon, Simon and Sarah had
fallen into silence. Esme had tried to read but the motion of the carriage had
made her queasy, so she’d fallen asleep, her cheek resting on a silk pillow
wedged between the door and the back seat cushion.
Sarah possessed the boundless curiosity of
a child discovering a part of her world for the first time, and Simon couldn’t
take his eyes off her. The scenery, each structure that they passed and each
subtle change in landscape, entertained her endlessly.
She was so different from the bitter and
cynical men who frequented Simon’s club, those men who were weighted down by
politics, their positions and their responsibilities. By the fact that America
was close to declaring war on Britain, or by the fact that Wellington was
taking the war on the Peninsula deeper into Spain. Men who could no longer find
joy from an early daffodil jutting up from the grass. Men like himself.
Sarah’s fascination with the world around
her reminded him of his humanity. Of the small things that were still worth
looking at.
If he wasn’t so consumed by looking at
her, his gaze, too, might have been drawn out the window. But he was content to
watch her stare out at the pastures and meadows and rolling hills of the
Cotswolds.
“Endless green,” she murmured without
looking at him, quiet so as not to wake Esme. “And every shade encompassed, it
seems, from yellow all the way to blue.”
Simon glanced out his window. “Yes,” he
said simply. It was true – the expanse of land between Ironwood Park and London
was quintessentially English and not unpleasant to look upon.
The carriage began to traverse the arched
stone bridge that descended onto the high road of the town of Burford. “What
river is this?” she asked, one of the many, many questions she’d asked today.
He didn’t always have a ready answer for
all her questions, but this time he did. “River Windrush.”
She was silent as they passed through the
village, studying the landmarks, the church and sandstone architecture. To
Simon, Burford was just one of the many villages they passed through on the way
to London – its only special quality being that it was near Oxford, where
they’d spend the night before continuing on to London tomorrow. But Sarah saw
something new and wonderful in it, her big, expressive blue eyes taking it all
in. Her lips parted as she absently twirled a dark curl around her finger, her
deep breaths showing in the rise and fall of her bodice.
Her lips were pink, plump, and her tongue
peeked out and ran over them. God, he wanted a taste. He wanted to know if she
was as sweet as he remembered.
She glanced at him, then quickly back to
the window, a light pink flush rising on her cheeks.
So pretty.
Something clenched inside him at that
thought. He’d thought of Sarah as pretty for years, but in a detached way.
She’d been pretty to him like a painted landscape might be pretty, or even like
he might describe his sister as pretty.
But this kind of pretty was altogether different.
This kind made his body harden in places it should damn well be prohibited to
harden in her presence. And, God forbid, in the presence of his sister,
sleeping or not.
He tore his eyes away from Sarah to stare
up at the ceiling of the carriage, willing his body to cool.
Chapter
Four
Something was wrong. Simon had turned
inward. It had begun this afternoon and had continued this evening as they’d
settled at the Angel Inn in Oxford.
Perhaps Sarah had been too exuberant in
her expressions of delight as they passed through the English countryside.
Or… perhaps he worried for his mother.
Not wanting to upset Esme, Sarah
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