"I don't recall asking you to," Sarah replied. "At least, not since I turned ten or so…"
Jarrod stared at her, openmouthed.
Sarah placed her index finger beneath his chin and pushed upward. "Don't look so stunned, Jays," she said softly. "It's all right. I'm not a little girl anymore. I don't expect you to marry me."
"Why not?" he asked, slightly affronted. Over the years, he'd grown quite accustomed to Sarah professing her intention to marry him.
"Because," she breathed against his lips, "I finally realized that you're a very attractive man and I have no doubt that you'll be an excellent lover, but you're hardly what one would want in a husband."
"I beg your pardon?" Jarrod opened his eyes and stepped back, all thoughts of kissing her temporarily forgotten as he stared down at Sarah's upturned face.
She smiled. "There's no need to beg my pardon, Jays. I invited you to kiss me."
"You ordered me to kiss you," Jarrod corrected. "But that's neither here nor there at the moment." He frowned. "What makes you think that marriageable young women consider me unsuitable as a husband? Because I assure you most young ladies and their parents or guardians find me eminently suitable."
"I didn't assume most young women would consider you an unsuitable husband," Sarah corrected.
"I believe your exact words were — " Jarrod began.
"I know what my exact words were," she interrupted. "I wasn't speaking in general terms of what most young women want." She looked him squarely in the eye. "I was stating my view."
"Your view of my suitability as a husband?"
She nodded. "As opposed to your suitability as a lover, yes."
"An opinion you base, of course, on your vast experience," Jarrod reminded her.
Sarah wrinkled her nose at him. "I'm well aware that I'm lacking in experience, Jays. That's why I came to you."
"To learn how to kiss."
The husky timbre of his voice sent shivers down Sarah's spine. She slanted a look at him from beneath the cover of her eyelashes. "Among other things…"
She was an innocent, but the warmth in her voice and the look in her eyes were invitations as old as time. Jarrod's body tightened even further and he marveled at the strength of his trouser buttons. "You want me," he confirmed. "As your lover."
"As my first lover," she corrected, tracing a line through that fascinating wedge of hair on his chest with the tip of her index finger.
"Your first?" Jarrod caught hold of her hand, halting her exploration. "Have you others waiting in the wings?" He consulted a mental list of men Sarah might have chosen as prospective lovers and frowned once again. There were dozens of likely prospects. Men of all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life. Men who were older, younger, richer, poorer, more handsome, and less handsome than he was. Men whose only common trait would be their desire to take his place in Sarah Eckersley's bed and become her next lover.
"Not yet," Sarah answered. "But I'm a young woman, Jays. And your reputation precedes you."
Jarrod lifted his eyebrow in query. "How so?"
"You've a reputation for demanding absolute perfection in everything you do," Sarah explained. "I don't doubt that you'll prove to be a most excellent tutor, but I believe it would be most unrealistic to suppose that in the course of my lifetime, you will be my only lover. Or my only tutor. I am, after all, nearly nine years your junior."
Looking at her, Jarrod found it much more likely that he would be quite satisfied to become her first and only lover. He was disappointed to think that Sarah felt otherwise. "You're eight years my junior," he reminded her. "And you're assuming I'll be willing to accommodate your request."
"Aren't you?"
Jarrod relaxed his grip on her hand, then reached out and cradled her face in his hands. "If, as you say, my reputation precedes me, then you should know that I pride myself on being a gentleman. And no gentleman would agree to divest a young lady — any young lady — of her maidenhead. Especially a young lady he's known and" — he faltered, surprised to find the word loved on the tip of his tongue — "regarded fondly since she was a child. A young lady who happens to be the daughter of the rector who's always held that gentleman in high esteem." He leaned closer. "Good lord, Sarah, what were you thinking to come here at this time of night? Where are your aunt and your father? What were they thinking to let you?"
Sarah paused, then looked at him sharply. "When I left her, Aunt Etta was sleeping soundly in our room at Ibbetson's Hotel."
Ibbetson's? A tiny prickling feeling of unease lifted the hair on the back of Jarrod's neck. He had assumed that Sarah, her father, and her aunt were renting a town house for the season. Ibbetson's wasn't as fine a hotel as the Clarendon or Grillon's or the Pulteney, but it catered to members of the clergy and to academics and was completely respectable. "And your father?"
"My father died, Jarrod," Sarah answered flatly. "Two months ago."
Jarrod was stunned by the news. He released her, then stepped back out of reach. "I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head in a gesture of respect for the reverend, staring at the toes of his boots for a moment before he met Sarah's gaze once again. "I wasn't aware — " He faltered. "I don't recall a notice…"