answer."
"What has changed from this week and the last?" she whispered.
He seemed to edge closer to her. She savored talking to him like this in
the dark. 'Twas intimate, the way a husband and wife would communicate,
at night when all was quiet and the children were asleep.
"What did I do if not challenge Blair to a duel of sorts?" Graham said,
bringing her thoughts to the present. "One that did not offend my moral
sense of what is right?"
"And what role does Miss Whitlow play?" she dared to ask and held her
breath waiting for his response.
His response was to pull away suddenly. He stood, a silhouetted figure
in the dark. "I'd best be going." He moved toward the door leading out
into the hall.
She sat up, kneeling on the mattress. "I'll see you tomorrow night? For
our dancing lesson?"
He stopped. "Do you still believe there is hope?"
"The ball is in two days. You will dance. I promise."
"Then I will be here tomorrow." He opened the door. "Thank you, Sarah. I
value our friendship."
"As do I, Graham."
There was a beat of silence and then he said, "I like your hair down,
too." He left.
Sarah sat back on her heels, her hands coming up to her hair. The rest
of the pins had fallen or pulled out with her pretending to be asleep.
She ran her hands down to where her hair curled at the ends and then,
thoughtfully, rose and undressed. Returning to her bed, she paused. The
room still held a sense of his presence.
Climbing into bed, she hugged her pillow. She no longer considered the
wager a disaster. If it had not been for Sir Edward's greedy desire to
keep Graham chained to him, or the young woman's beauty, Graham would
have been gone, busy setting up his own practice in medicine.
As it was, the chain of events had snapped her out of her complacency.
She had begun to yearn for what other women had . . . and to recognize
her friendship for Graham as something deeper, something more meaningful.
Something she still couldn't put words to.
Chapter Six
The next night when Graham arrived in Sarah's room, he didn't greet her
with his customary good humor but moved restlessly around the
schoolroom, intent on looking at everything but her. She hadn't seen him
since the night before.
"I forgot," she said, "I have this gift for you." She lifted
Machiavelli's book /The Prince /from her desk. " 'Twas the first book
you borrowed from me when I arrived here."
Graham turned the volume over in his hands, one finger tracing a line
across the leather cover. "This belonged to your father."
"I have other books from him." Although none that she valued more, a
fact Graham already knew. "I was going to give it to you the day before
yesterday but the news about Miss Whitlow caused me to forget."
He nodded. "I remember returning it to you. I told you I thought
Machiavelli's arguments were flawed."
"And I informed you that one didn't argue with a master of philosophy.
One either accepted or rejected their ideas."
He lay the book down. "You accepted; I rejected. I thought you the most
headstrong woman I'd ever met."
"You had just never met one daring enough to argue with you," she
countered but Graham didn't return her smile. Instead, he wandered over
toward the windows.
Sarah could no longer endure such distant, unusual behavior from him.
"Graham, what is the matter?"
A moment passed while he seemed to process her question in his mind.
Then, "My uncle had his tailor deliver a new suit of clothes cut to my
size for the ball."
"Do you not like the cut of the suit?"
" Tis fine. My customary blue and brown." He paced the length of the
room, turned and walked back.
Sarah placed herself in his path. "Graham, talk to me."
He stopped. "I'm going to concede the wager to Blair."
"What?" Sarah almost choked on the word.
Graham focused on a point past her shoulder. "This morning, he almost
killed another man in a duel. Mister Fielder called me in to help."
"The man will live?"
"Yes." His mouth flattened. "But will the next?"
Sarah crossed her arms against her chest, a coldness spreading through
her limbs. "You can't let him get away with it. You can't let him bully
his way into controlling your life."
"Sarah," he said with a note of irritation.
She confronted him. " 'Tis the truth, no? Men don't need to fight."
He didn't answer, shifting his gaze to stare off into the darkness
beyond the windows.
Sarah pressed on. "Mister Fielder lives on the other side of the city.
Why did they call him first and not you?"
Graham's eyes narrowed as he turned to her. "Because I was working for
my uncle. Because no one realizes I am free to practice on my own."
"They think of you as Sir Edward's man of business and not a man of
medicine. I'll make a wager with you. I'll lay odds that if you lose
this bet to Sir Edward, he will work you harder than ever and you will
never practice medicine. You will spend your time healing servants and
ostlers but they are a mere few compared to those you could help. You'll
be little more than a slave to your uncle's whims."
"Sometimes I wonder, Sarah, why I've done any of it. I would have been
better off to have stayed in Kirriemuir." He referred to the village
he'd left years ago in pursuit of his dream of becoming a doctor.
"And done what?" she said without sympathy. She waved her hand in front
of his face. "Are you the same man who informed me the day I first
arrived here that he was studying to be the finest doctor in Scotland?
You had purpose, Graham, and I hate to see people as selfish as your
uncle and Blair steal it."
His gaze met hers. "I stole it myself. I was foolish?"
"You were proud," she corrected. "There is nothing wrong with pride,
unless it is misplaced like 'tis with Blair." She took his hand and
squeezed it tight, attempting to pass on her faith, her belief in him.
"My father told me once things happen for a reason." He'd said those
words when Gerald had deserted her. "You can't go back and undo the
past, Graham. Your only choice is to win this wager. Then you will stop
Blair and do what you were meant to do with your life."
He ran the pad of his thumb back and forth along the line of her hand
covering his. "What if I'm not so certain I know what I want anymore?"
he asked, his words measured and introspective.
Something about his tone set Sarah's heart beating faster. She lowered
her gaze to where his thumb still stroked her hand. His fingers were
long, his hands strong. Longing rose in her, a longing she refused to
acknowledge.
Graham was her friend.
She pulled away. "Let's start our lesson." Her voice sounded husky and
slightly breathless. She wondered if he noticed.
He nodded, his hand dropping to his side. "You are wearing your glasses
tonight," he observed as if truly seeing her for the first time since
entering the room.
; She'd forgotten she had them on. "Well, there are no pretenses between us."
"No," he echoed. "Shall we get started?" He didn't act eager.
"Tonight we will succeed," she promised. "Come here, I have a plan. I've
been thinking about this." She pulled him to the middle of the room and
turned her back. "Place your hands on my waist."
"Why?"
She glanced up at him. "Because I'm the teacher." Her retort earned a
smile from him. "Because," she explained patiently, "I hear the music.
You hear it too but you need coaching to capture the rhythm. Hear it
through me. When I move, you move. Then, tomorrow evening when you dance
with Miss Whitlow, pretend I am standing in front of you." She couldn't
help adding with a quick grin, "You may make a mistake or two, but men
are forgiven such things."
"Even tramping on their partner's feet?"
"It depends upon their appeal in other areas."
"Ah," he said sagely and she could hear laughter in his voice. The blue
devils that had assailed him when he had first come into the schoolroom
were now at bay. Of course, she was very aware of how close he stood and
of the weight of his hands on her waist.
She wondered if he were as conscious of their closeness as she was.
Forcing her thoughts on the business at hand, she hummed a few bars to
warm them up, reminded him to step off on the right foot, and counted,
"One . . . two . . . three?" She started dancing.
And it was a disaster.
Graham's hips bumped hers in the most intimate way possible. His steps
were too long and almost tripped her. 'Twas a comedy of errors.
Graham and Sarah broke apart like two repelling magnets. For the space
of a heartbeat, they stared in stunned surprise before practically
rolling with laughter. They were laughing so hard, they had to hold each
other up.
She shushed him lest they wake the whole house.
"Shall we try again?" he asked when he could catch his breath. "I think
I almost have it."
Sarah stifled more hiccupping laughs with her hand over her mouth and
attempted to be serious. "Yes, we /are /going to try it again and we
/will /succeed." She swiped the tears from her eyes. "The same thing.
But not the same way?hopefully."
The pins had come loose in her hair between dancing and laughing. With
efficient movements, she pulled her hair back and started to braid it.
"No, leave it," he said. "I told you last night I like it down. You have
lovely hair, Sarah."
The compliment sobered her. The air in the room grew close, very close.
Sarah feared she was creating meaning where there was none intended and
decided the best way to handle the matter was to act as if all were
normal?even if her heart pounded against her chest.
She turned her back. "Ready?" 'Twas the only word she could manage with
a steady voice.
He came up behind her, standing so close she could feel the heat
radiating from his body. This time, he placed his hands at her waist
with assured familiarity . . . but she did not move away.
"One, two, three . . . ," she said and then started humming, almost
swallowing the tune when her buttocks moved suggestively against his
crotch. She wasn't a naive schoolgirl who didn't understand the way of
men and women. Graham was fully aroused.
As was she.
They moved, this time in harmony. Once to the right, once to the left.
"Now /chasse," /she whispered.
"Do you mean 'fiddle your feet'?" he asked, his voice surprisingly close
to her ear. The sound of it vibrated through to the very deepest reaches
of her.
She didn't trust herself to answer. Instead, she stopped thinking
altogether. She let herself relax in his arms and for a few moments
pretended they were more than friends.
They moved as one, performing the whole series of steps four times
before she realized she'd been so lost in his nearness that she had
stopped humming.
And they had still danced in perfect rhythm.
Graham stopped dancing, but still he held her. She dared not breathe or
do anything that could dispel the magic of this moment.
She closed her eyes, reminding herself he was learning to dance for
another woman. He was her friend. He was the man she loved?
She turned, reached up for him and gave in to a sudden moment of
And he kissed back. Without hesitation. As if he'd been thinking the
same as herself.
His lips parted covering hers. Graham's mouth. His wonderful, wonderful
mouth. She'd not kissed often in her life but kissing him was as natural
as breathing.
She needed no schooling. No lessons. All she had to do was listen to her
heart.
His tongue stroked hers and pressed closer, wanting more. Wanting,
wanting, wanting.
"Sarah." He sighed her name as if it were a benediction. His kisses
brushed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips.
His strong, capable hands traced the line of her rib cage, coming up to
cup her breasts in his palms. His thumbs stroked the tender skin over
her bodice.
His breath brushed her ear. "I've been wanting to touch you here ever
since the other night in the ballroom."
Sarah melted into his arms at his words. His lips captured her mouth
again. He was moving, taking her with him step-by-step back toward the
connecting door of her private quarters.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, this time holding on and not ever
wanting to let go. Her back bumped the door frame.
"Sarah," he whispered and pressed himself against her, lifting her
slightly so they fit perfectly. One hand cradled her buttocks against
the door, the other ran up and down along her thigh, pushing her skirts.
Sarah lost herself in his kisses and when she felt his palm rub along
the bare skin of her leg above her garters it felt good and right.
She opened her legs, drawn by heat and need. Common sense no longer
ruled her brain. Instead, she was overcome by passion. Now she
understood why the poets sang its praises and why overprotective fathers
and mothers warned their daughters. It numbed the mind and stirred the
soul. For the first time in her life, she felt vividly alive . . . and
in need, such terrible, yearning need.
Their kiss deepened. Graham moved against her intimately and she was
undone. His hands returned to her breasts. Her nipples felt swollen and
hard against the soft material of her bodice. He slipped his hand inside
her bodice and she cried out from the pleasure of his touch.
She pulled at the buttons of his vest, needing to remove every barrier
between them. 'Twas a dance they were doing, one she'd never done, but
already she knew the steps in her heart.
Then, Graham's hands came away. He braced himself with his hands against
the door frame above her head. "Dear God, what are we doing?"
His question was like being doused with ice-cold water. Her senses
returned and she saw herself as she was, leaning against the doorjamb,
her skirts up around her knees, her breasts popping out of her bodice.
Graham struggled for control. His lips brushed her forehead and the top
of her hair, his breathing labored. "Forgive me, Sarah. I?"
He broke off and stepped back. His dark hair had come loose from his
queue to hang down around his shoulders. He pushed it back from his
face. His eyes glittered with concern.
Sarah stood, straightened her bodice, and shook down her skirts. Guilt
surged thick and hot between them.
Graham walked back into the schoolroom. In the middle of the room, he
stopped, hands on hips. "I'm sorry?"
She cut him off. "Please, don't apologize. I was as much a willing
participant as you were."
He turned. "How did that happen between us? We're friends." He spoke as
if needing validation.
" 'Twas the dancing," she replied tightly. "It does such things to people."
Graham's lips twisted skeptically. "Is that all it was?"
She shot a glance at him. He stood rigid and somber, his stance anything
but that of a lover pleased with his actions, and suddenly she had the