“How old were you?”

“Not old enough. Not nearly old enough.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I have been grateful, on occasion, that Reynard lived long enough for me to see his true colors, to hate him. I cannot imagine losing a spouse with whom there was potential for a lifetime of happiness.”

What did it say, that a woman professed to be grateful to hate her own spouse? Beck’s arm over Sarah’s shoulders became less casual and more protective.

“I would have been grateful for a few years of contentment,” Beck said. “It wasn’t meant to be.” And what a useless, true platitude that was.

“How long were you married?”

“Little more than a summer. At the time, it seemed like forever, and then she was gone, and forever took on a very different meaning.”

“I was married for nearly a decade. That was a forever too.”

A decade was forever to grieve, forever to carry guilt and rage and remorse by the barge load. “So how do you manage now? What sustains you?”

“Allie,” Sara replied immediately. “Polly.”

“But what sustains you?” Beck pressed. “Allie will grow up, sooner rather than later, and Polly could well bring Mr. North up to scratch. Five years hence, Sara Hunt, will it be enough to polish silver, beat rugs, and mix vinegar to shine the windows?”

Would it be enough for Beckman to spend most of his year traveling, to hear more foreign tongues than English, and to be always planning the next journey, even as he turned his steps for home?

Sara was quiet, and Beck regretted the question.

He squeezed her fingers. “Don’t answer. I am feeling philosophical because my father is at his last prayers, and he was always such a robust man. I am aware that any day I could be summoned to his side, and you’ll no longer be plagued by my larking about here.”

“You are on good terms with your father?”

How to answer? “Such good terms, he sent me down here, rather than allow me at his bedside.”

“You’re hurt by this,” Sara concluded. “You mustn’t be. Men are proud, and they can’t admit when they need to draw comfort from others.”

He did not want comfort, he wanted to go home and have his father be there. He wanted…

What he wanted astonished him and made perfect sense. “What of you, Sarabande Adagio? Can you admit you might need to draw some comfort from another?”

She made no answer but didn’t protest when he shifted on the trunk, untangled their hands, and used his free hand to turn her toward him.

“Would you let me give you some comfort, Sarabande?”

* * *

Beckman was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him. Sara felt heat not just radiating from him but welling up inside her body, filling the tired, lonely depths she’d learned to ignore. His lips brushed over hers, and then again, a soft, warm hint of pressure behind the caress.

This kiss was different from the last one, more personal. Sara liked it better and returned his initial gesture, dragging her lips over his as her fingers burrowed into the silky hair at his nape. On a soft groan, he lifted her to straddle his lap, again placing her slightly higher than him and giving her an advantage of sorts.

A control or the fiction of it, even as he so casually demonstrated his superior strength.

Balanced on her knees, Sara was free to explore his body with her hands, to stroke over the breadth of his shoulders, and learn the curious curves and textures of his ears. His hands roamed too, slowly, carefully, tracing the shape of her elbows, the span of her hips, and the bones of her back.

“Settle,” he whispered, urging her to let him have her weight in his lap. She sank onto him, feeling the tumescence of his arousal against her sex. She knew what that was, knew what it meant, and rather than feel embarrassed, she was reassured.

Somebody—a man she esteemed and desired—could feel desire for her, even at her great age. Even though she was mother to a growing girl, measuring her days on some forlorn, neglected estate, she was still desirable.

And—even better—she could still feel desire. Reynard hadn’t taken that from her after all, not permanently. She smiled against Beck’s mouth, the joy of that realization fueling the warmth inside her.

“What?” Beck pulled back and traced her lips with his finger. “Am I amusing you?”

“Not amusing. This isn’t funny.” She curled down against him and felt his hand trace down her spine.

“But you smiled, Sara,” Beck said, his other hand cradling the back of her head. “I like that I can make you smile.”

“This is wicked.” Lest he think she condoned her own behavior—except in a sense she did. His behavior too.

“To find a little comfort isn’t wicked.” Beck kissed her check. “Though it is wicked to take a lady unawares. I can’t offer you much, Sara. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t intend you any disrespect. You can decline my advances, and I’ll understand you aren’t interested in what I’m offering. But while I’m here, I can… share pleasure with you, if you’d like.”

His tone was careful, measured, and that, more than his words, helped Sara surface from the haze of sentiment and physical pleasure clouding her judgment.

“I hadn’t considered this.” That was a lie. She had considered this, particularly since having seen Beckman at the cistern. She’d considered little else.

She lifted her face from his shoulder to peer at him in the shadows. “I am not… sophisticated, Beckman. For all the time I spent with Reynard, who was sophisticated, I still did not discover the knack of dallying.”

He kissed her nose. “I am not as proficient at it as you might think. I am attracted to you, regardless of common sense, regardless of the dictates of gentlemanly behavior, regardless of being physically exhausted. I do not think I am going to plow you out of my system, Sara Hunt.”

Somewhere in his words lurked a compliment, but Sara was too overwhelmed by what he offered to puzzle it out.

He would be lovely in bed. Sumptuous, generous, considerate, and good-humored. He’d be patient with her inexperience, tender with her sensibilities, cherishing of her body. How could she not…?

“And if I conceive a child?” Sara asked, some of the bloom wearing off her pleasurable anticipation.

He did not heave out a manly sigh of long-suffering at a question that would douse most men’s passions. He traced her hairline with the side of one thumb, a caress that beguiled with its very simplicity.

“I understand you have a dim view of marriage, Sara. My own experience with it was not encouraging, but I can provide for you and a child easily and well. You could live anywhere you pleased, in fine style, if that’s what you wanted, but I would not want…”

He paused to nuzzle at her throat.

“You would not want…?” Sara prompted, even as she angled her chin to encourage him to continue.

“I would not want to be a stranger to my own child, and I have to tell you”—he bit gently on her earlobe—“I have an illegitimate half sibling, and I cannot relish the thought of bringing bastardy down on any child of mine.”

“Nor would I relish such a prospect,” Sara managed. He was suckling at her earlobe, and God above, the sensations that evoked were strange and wonderful.

“So we’ll take precautions.” Beck left off touching his tongue to the pulse in Sara’s throat, which was fortunate for her sanity. “I will take precautions, and there will be little chance of a child.”

“If we dally.” Sara willed herself to focus on the words, not on the glorious, naughty, unlooked-for sensations he was creating.

“If we dally,” he agreed solemnly. “You’ll think on it and let me know your decision.”

“I will.” Sara sank against him and realized that big, warm hand of his was stroking her calf. In all her years of marriage and fending off the advances of Reynard’s drunken friends, no man had put his hand on that portion of her body. The caress was different, slow, soothing, and yet… His hand shouldn’t be there, and she loved that it was.

His thumb traveled over the joint of her knee, tracing the bones, bringing a melting warmth that traveled up her thigh. Sara rested against him, listening to the sensations her body was experiencing. Who would have thought a knee could be so receptive to tenderness? Who would have known an earlobe was capable of sensation at all?

Beck’s lips traced over Sara’s cheek, and she lifted her face to meet his kiss. When she raised up on her knees, the better to frame his face with her hands and kiss him back, she felt Beck’s hand on the small of her back, holding her against him.

“Let me pleasure you,” Beck whispered, his hand now stroking slowly over her thigh. “Let me touch you, Sara.”

Of course she was letting him touch her, letting him chase away the chill, the darkness, the years and years of isolation, and the self-doubt that never yielded to common sense or stern admonitions. With a start, Sara realized exactly where Beckman sought to touch her, but just as she would have drawn back to protest, he slid a hand around to cup her breast and gently close his fingers over it.

Sara groaned against his neck as heat and arousal coursed through her from that one gentle caress. “I feel…”

“Tell me.” He did it again then set up a soft, slow rhythm of pressure and release on her breast even as Sara felt the backs of his fingers brush over the curls at the apex of her sex.

“Too much,” she breathed. “This is too much.”

“Not enough,” he countered, his fingers closing around her nipple, intensifying the sensations with a more focused caress. “I want you utterly undone.”