Cheryl Holt by Total Surrender Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Total Surrender
idea, as had the choice of location, and other than his efforts to coerce her into rescuing him from his financial straits, she couldn’t recall any untoward remarks with regard to the party or the people who would attend.
How about her cousin Rebecca? Rebecca’s decision to accompany Sarah had also come about at Hugh’s recommendation. Was she simply a congenial, innocuous traveling companion, or was she actually an instigator of trouble? Mr. Stevens seriously believed that Rebecca had steered him to Sarah’s room, then stopped by—supposedly innocently—to check if Sarah was settled. Why? Was she anticipating that she’d catch Mr. Stevens on the premises? Could she have acted so despicably?
They were friends, relations. When Rebecca’s parents had died four years earlier, Sarah had taken her in and provided food and shelter when Rebecca was out of options, when she’d had nowhere else to go. After prevailing on Sarah’s generosity for so long, what could Rebecca hope to gain by sending an unknown man bent on ravishment? Had that been her aim?
Sarah refused to credit it.
And the party . . . Was it the lewd assembly Mr. Stevens insisted? How could she find out? She could hardly wander the halls and go sneaking into people’s bedchambers.
Should she depart for home as he’d demanded? Did she wish to leave?
There was nothing for her in Yorkshire, no reason to rush back, and now that she’d met Michael Stevens, shewas determined to stay. Distressing as it might be to chance upon him, she
had
to see him again.
Throughout her musing, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she noticed a sliver of light emanating from the dressing room. No lamps or candles were burning, so she couldn’t fathom from where it emerged. She walked into the smaller room and was surprised and astonished to discover a peephole.
Intrigued, she marched over to it and stood on tiptoe, trying to peek, but the hole was too high, so she retrieved a footstool, climbed upon it, and peered inside.
A tiny room was visible. She couldn’t see the entirety, just part of one wall, a chair, a table, and a narrow bed. Two candles flickered in a holder, illuminating the enclosed space.
Michael Stevens was there, alone, dressed as he had been earlier in a pair of tight-fitting trousers and naught else. He lounged negligently on the bed, his back against the wall, one ankle carelessly crossed over the other. From his rapt stare, Sarah assumed he was waiting for someone to join him. On the surface, he appeared relaxed and bored, but there was a restless energy hovering about him that piqued her interest.
Would he realize she was watching? Was she the only one? He was acquainted with the purportedly perverted workings of the manor and had intimated that there were copious peepholes, so there could be many people spying on him.
Did he know? Did he care?
Conspicuously unconcerned, he rubbed circles across the center of his chest, his fingers scratching through the mat of curly, tempting hair. Languidly, methodically, he arced lower, past the waist of his trousers, across the placard. He was swollen down below, the odd ridge of flesh prominently manifested, and he stroked the heel of his hand along it, a pained look on his face, as though he was extremely uncomfortable.
Despite the fact that she barely knew him, she sensedmany things about him—what he was thinking, what he was feeling—and she could tell he was eager, expectant, anticipating whatever was about to happen. She strained against the peephole, searching for clues.
Off to the side, a door opened, and a woman stepped into view. She was wearing a cloak, the hood pulled over her head and shielding her identity. Sarah rudely studied the goings-on, and when the pair began to talk, she pressed her ear against the hole so that she could eavesdrop on what was being said.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Stevens asked, his voice husky.
The woman spoke softly, and Sarah couldn’t discern
How about her cousin Rebecca? Rebecca’s decision to accompany Sarah had also come about at Hugh’s recommendation. Was she simply a congenial, innocuous traveling companion, or was she actually an instigator of trouble? Mr. Stevens seriously believed that Rebecca had steered him to Sarah’s room, then stopped by—supposedly innocently—to check if Sarah was settled. Why? Was she anticipating that she’d catch Mr. Stevens on the premises? Could she have acted so despicably?
They were friends, relations. When Rebecca’s parents had died four years earlier, Sarah had taken her in and provided food and shelter when Rebecca was out of options, when she’d had nowhere else to go. After prevailing on Sarah’s generosity for so long, what could Rebecca hope to gain by sending an unknown man bent on ravishment? Had that been her aim?
Sarah refused to credit it.
And the party . . . Was it the lewd assembly Mr. Stevens insisted? How could she find out? She could hardly wander the halls and go sneaking into people’s bedchambers.
Should she depart for home as he’d demanded? Did she wish to leave?
There was nothing for her in Yorkshire, no reason to rush back, and now that she’d met Michael Stevens, shewas determined to stay. Distressing as it might be to chance upon him, she
had
to see him again.
Throughout her musing, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she noticed a sliver of light emanating from the dressing room. No lamps or candles were burning, so she couldn’t fathom from where it emerged. She walked into the smaller room and was surprised and astonished to discover a peephole.
Intrigued, she marched over to it and stood on tiptoe, trying to peek, but the hole was too high, so she retrieved a footstool, climbed upon it, and peered inside.
A tiny room was visible. She couldn’t see the entirety, just part of one wall, a chair, a table, and a narrow bed. Two candles flickered in a holder, illuminating the enclosed space.
Michael Stevens was there, alone, dressed as he had been earlier in a pair of tight-fitting trousers and naught else. He lounged negligently on the bed, his back against the wall, one ankle carelessly crossed over the other. From his rapt stare, Sarah assumed he was waiting for someone to join him. On the surface, he appeared relaxed and bored, but there was a restless energy hovering about him that piqued her interest.
Would he realize she was watching? Was she the only one? He was acquainted with the purportedly perverted workings of the manor and had intimated that there were copious peepholes, so there could be many people spying on him.
Did he know? Did he care?
Conspicuously unconcerned, he rubbed circles across the center of his chest, his fingers scratching through the mat of curly, tempting hair. Languidly, methodically, he arced lower, past the waist of his trousers, across the placard. He was swollen down below, the odd ridge of flesh prominently manifested, and he stroked the heel of his hand along it, a pained look on his face, as though he was extremely uncomfortable.
Despite the fact that she barely knew him, she sensedmany things about him—what he was thinking, what he was feeling—and she could tell he was eager, expectant, anticipating whatever was about to happen. She strained against the peephole, searching for clues.
Off to the side, a door opened, and a woman stepped into view. She was wearing a cloak, the hood pulled over her head and shielding her identity. Sarah rudely studied the goings-on, and when the pair began to talk, she pressed her ear against the hole so that she could eavesdrop on what was being said.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Stevens asked, his voice husky.
The woman spoke softly, and Sarah couldn’t discern