The maid dropped her head. “Apologies, Miss Collins. I forgot myself.”

Sara took a steadying breath. “Be more mindful in the future, please.”

“Yes, miss.”

She smoothed the dress over her waist and hips and turned toward the door. She hesitated, glancing at her small bed with its thin mattress and nondescript coverings. How much more she would prefer to sit there, taking tea with Nathan and his rare, boyish grin flashing at her than down in the drawing room with her friends. And possibly Mr. Pomeroy.

Damn you Nathan Grant.

Sara made a mental note to pray after tea.

How had this happened? Nathan held up his glass of whiskey, staring at the fire through the amber liquid.

How had his life become one a poet would be proud of? Lamentations abounded in his head. My arms ache for her, my eyes are starved for her, my lips long for her.

Disgusting.

The whiskey disappeared and he grimaced against the bite. He had not partaken in many spirits since before the May charity fair and he found his throat needed to readjust to the potency of his preferred vice.

She wanted the Goddamn Bloody Vicar. That was abundantly clear. Even if she didn’t, she entertained no thoughts to a more established relationship with him. She had enjoyed Cloverfields, he was certain, but that was it.

What could he offer her anyway? He would be damned if he brought her to London as a politician’s wife to her to such a life, only to watch the innocence and sincerity he loved so much about her drain away. He knew instinctively that she would not be content with an idle husband—not after desiring a vicar active in his godly work—but politicking was all he knew. True, he did have Cloverfields, and now Windent Hall, but he had no experience in being a landed gentleman.

Cloverfields had once been a self-reliant estate. It was where his family’s money had come from, but there had been none to take up the reins since her death so long ago, not with his sights on the prime minister’s office. Could he manage it? It would mean relying heavily on Taggert for the foreseeable future, but it would be worth his pride to have Sara in his life, to be followed with miniature versions of her—and him of course, but mainly her.

With a disgusted snort, Nathan drained another glass of whiskey before refilling it. This is what happened when one allowed a female to crawl beneath one’s skin. Dreams of the impossible.

He was no longer needed. Or wanted. The only thing he could do was ensure that she married the Goddamn Bloody Vicar. At least one of them should be happy in their lives.

Damn you, Sara Collins.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

* * *

Sara poured herself a cup of lemonade, grimacing against the warm, sour drink. An early-summer assembly was not known for chilled refreshments, but that did not deter the majority of Taft from attending. She looked at the dancers lining up in their sets and her eyes met those of Mr. Pomeroy, partnering a young lady at her first social affair. He smiled at Sara, which she obediently returned. He had been a daily visitor at Ridgestone since her return from Cloverfields more than seven days ago; he had yet to ask the question that everyone but her was anticipating, but Sara now felt on intimate terms with each member of his family and the details of his childhood.

She still hadn’t come to a decision regarding her dilemma and she knew it was not well done of her. But the confliction was hard to overcome. Her mind knew that Charles Pomeroy was a good man and would make her a good husband, but those thoughts seemed far away when the man wasn’t in front of her. When he was, she fought to not compare what he said with that of another’s blunt conversation. She even had moments of wanton rebellion, thinking that if the vicar would kiss her, she would be able to make her decision simpler.

But of course he didn’t kiss her. He respected her too much to do more than escort her with her hand on his sleeve. There were moments, flickers in his eyes, where Sara thought she might have glimpsed actual male desire in him, but those were short lived and fleeting, and made her question the confidence she had gained at Cloverfields.

There she had not doubted her appeal, not doubted Nathan’s lust for her. Nor hers for him. You happen to be my preference, Nymph. I like that you are more than a cliché.

Tags: Ellie Macdonald Billionaire Romance
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