Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(50)

Everyone acknowledged that Perry was the best-looking man in Greenwood Corners. His hair, a little too long at the moment, was a coppery shade of gold. The rich jewel-blue of his eyes was far more striking than her own. His nose was small and straight, his lips fine, his forehead high and pale, all in the mode of a romantic Byronic hero.

After glancing around to make certain they were unobserved, Perry leaned forward to kiss her. Sara lifted her chin willingly. But suddenly all she could think of was a scarred face close to hers, the gleam of wicked green eyes, a hard mouth that searched and plundered ruthlessly…so different from Perry’s gentle lips. Closing her eyes tightly, she willed herself to respond.

Finishing the kiss with a slight smacking noise, Perry lifted his head and smiled at her. “Where is your cap?” he asked. “It always looks so pretty with the lace framing your cheeks.”

“I decided not to wear it today,” Sara frowned as his arms loosened from around her. “No…don’t let go just yet.”

“Mother will interrupt us soon,” he warned.

“I know.” Sara sighed and stood back from him reluctantly. “It’s just that I missed you so.”

“As I missed you,” Perry replied gallantly, gesturing to the painted beechwood settee. “Let’s sit down and talk, darling. I believe Mother means to bring in some tea—I hear her stirring about in the kitchen.”

“Couldn’t we have some time alone?” she whispered, mindful of Martha’s acute hearing. “I have some things to tell you privately.”

“We’ll have a lifetime of privacy, you and I,” Perry promised, his blue eyes twinkling. “Surely an hour here and there spent with my mother isn’t too much to endure?”

“I suppose not,” she said reluctantly.

“That’s my darling girl.”

Glowing at his praise, Sara allowed him to take her cloak. She seated herself on the heavily embroidered cushions of the settee. Perry took her hands, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. “Well,” he said fondly, “it appears your visit to London did you no harm.” His lips parted in a teasing smile. “Mother has some absurd notions about your research trips. ‘How does that girl know all about such indecent things as harlots and thieves?’ she asks. I’ve had a difficult time convincing her that you haven’t been roving through back-street gin shops and bordellos! Mother simply doesn’t understand what a marvelous imagination you have.”

“Thank you,” Sara said uncomfortably, fixing her gaze on the pair of black and gilt sconces on the opposite wall. Although she had never lied to him about her research in the city, she had gently misled him, glossing over most of her dangerous activities and making it all sound rather dry and dull. Perry had always accepted her descriptions without question, but his mother had a suspicious nature.

“After all,” Perry continued, “my darling Sara spends most of her time sorting through book collections and touring old buildings. Isn’t that so?” He beamed at her, while Sara felt heat creeping up from her neckline.

“Yes, indeed. Er…Perry…there’s something I must tell you. During my stay in London, there was a night or two when I came in very late. Mrs. Goodman threatened to write to my mother and her other friends in Greenwood Corners that I’m a ‘reckless hoyden.’ ”

Perry collapsed with amusement at the notion. “Sara Fielding, a reckless hoyden! Anyone who knows you would laugh at that.”

She smiled in relief. “I’m glad you won’t pay attention to anything Mrs. Goodman might say.”

Perry squeezed her hands. “Perhaps some old biddy might spread gossip about you because you’ve written some foolish story about Mathilda. But I know you better than anyone, darling. I know the fondest wishes of your heart—and I’m going to make them come true. After that, there’ll be no need for you to worry with all your daydreaming and scribbling. You’ll have me and a houseful of your own children to occupy your time with. All a woman could want.”

Sara looked at him in surprise. “Are you saying you would want me to stop writing?”

“I’ve brought tea,” came Martha’s voice from the doorway. She entered the room bearing an engraved silver tray and a tea service that had been in the Kingswood family for three generations.

“Mother,” Perry said with a brilliant smile. “How did you know that was exactly what we wanted? Come join us while Sara regales us with an account of her visit to the wicked city.”

Prodded by Martha’s disapproving gaze, Sara inched away from Perry until they were seated at a more circumspect distance from each other.

Martha placed the tray on the round boulle table in front of them. She settled into a nearby chair. “Why don’t you pour, Sara?” Martha invited, in a tone that implied she was bestowing an honor on a favored guest. But somehow Sara had the feeling she was undergoing a test. Carefully she strained the tea into one of the delicate china cups, and added milk and sugar. Her suspicion that she was being tested was confirmed by Martha’s sourly pleased expression. “That is not how Perry likes it,” Martha said.

Sara turned a questioning gaze to Perry. “You take milk and sugar, don’t you?”

He shrugged slightly. “Yes, but—”

“You poured the milk in last,” Martha interrupted, before Perry could enlighten her. “My son prefers the milk first and tea added second. It makes a distinct difference in the flavor.”