He was right on two counts. While they had talked and eaten and talked some more, night had fallen. Then too, their inn was on the edge of town and their room at the back. From their balcony, they could see the moon rising over the fields and pastures used by the inn’s dozens of coaching horses.

“Pretty night.” Beck settled his arms around Sara, holding her back to his chest. “And lucky me, I’m in the company of a pretty lady.” His lips grazed the side of Sara’s neck, and just like that, the pleasant meal with the congenial gentleman was over.

“Beckman, we need to talk.” She pulled away from his embrace, relieved he let her go without resistance.

“I’m listening.” He came to her side, where she stood against the railing, facing out toward the moonlit countryside. He didn’t try to touch her, but Sara was abundantly aware of him nonetheless.

“You asked earlier did I valet my husband,” Sara began. “And you let it drop when I answered in the negative.”

“I am bent on seduction, Sara.” Beck’s voice held a hint of humor. “What was I doing, bringing up the man you chose for your mate, and your intimate ease with the business of helping him undress? Not well done of me, but I was curious.”

“I never…” Sara glanced at him in the moonlight and saw his expression was cool, for all the humor in his tone. “That’s what we need to talk about. You need to understand the way I was married.”

“Unhappily,” Beck said. “I wish for you it could have been different, just as I’m sure you wish the same for me.” He didn’t want to belabor the subject, which sparked Sara’s curiosity regarding Beck’s brief and ill-fated marriage.

Sara crossed her arms over her chest and prepared to be more honest than she had thus far. “My marriage was not unhappy, Beckman, it was miserable, filled with bewilderment at first, and loathing, and then—thank God—a towering indifference to anything save the ways and degrees in which Reynard’s decisions impacted my survival, Polly’s, and Allie’s. He was my intimate enemy, by most lights.”

“You did not want to be performing on stage,” Beck concluded, and in the assurance of his tone, Sara understood that he was not merely being sympathetic. Beckman had been forced to perform somehow, perhaps solving the family problems, perhaps in his marriage.

Was he still being forced?

“I did not want to be performing on his terms, certainly,” Sara agreed. “And then Allie showed up, and it became perform or starve. I did not want to learn what desperate measures starvation might inspire in my husband.”

Beck tucked her braid over her shoulder. “That sounds ominous.”

Sara merely nodded, because the private performances were her most personal shame. Those and the things Polly had suffered because her sister could not protect her.

“I don’t like to think of it, though you need to know I do not come to this situation of ours with a great deal of experience.”

“Not with a great deal of good experience,” Beck said. “It can be my privilege to address that lack, if you’ll allow it.”

“I’m going to allow it.” The words were true, but they sounded far more confident than Sara felt. Far more calculating. “You have to understand, Beck, it’s… I’m selfish about this attraction between us. I’m indulging a curiosity, nothing more.”

He gazed out over the cool, silvery landscape. “You’re taking your pleasure from me, striking a blow at the weasel you were forced to support with your music. I understand.”

“You don’t.” Sara shook her head, amused at his words, sad though they were. Reynard’s teeth had been a trifle prominent. “But you aren’t wrong, either. You are a confection, Beckman. The male version of a woman’s dreams. Handsome, charming, kind, generous… It would be better for me did you scratch more in public, swear, have a fondness for cock fights, or put your muddy boots up on my tables.”

He turned so his backside rested against the balcony railing. “My sisters would skin me where I stood if I behaved like that. You deserve a man who is well mannered, clean, and considerate, Sara. Every woman does.”

“You aren’t simply well mannered, clean, and considerate. I think I’ve made my point as well as I’m able, particularly with you standing there in the moonlight in just your dressing gown.”

“Having trouble with rational discourse, are you?” Beck slipped an arm around her waist. “That’s a start.”

“Naughty man.” Sara rested her head on his arm. “We are agreed, then, our expectations of each other are low and transitory?”

“Are you trying to wave me on my way before I’ve even shown you pleasure, Sara?”

“In a sense, yes.” Sara thought of the letter she’d received a week ago, the letter she was going to have to deal with. “Your stay at Three Springs is temporary, and I might have reason to find a different post at any time. You’ve pointed out that Allie is isolated, and her art would prosper were we a little nearer civilization. This is a… frolic, Beckman. A frolic in which you’ve already pleasured me witless.”

He shifted, putting himself between Sara and the balcony railing. “Love, I haven’t begun to pleasure you witless.”

He eased his arms around her waist, the character of his touch becoming seductive. He didn’t merely hug her; he let her feel the slow glide of his hand on the thin material of her dressing gown, starting at her midriff and working his way around her ribs, down to her waist, over her hips, then around to rest on the upper swell of her derriere. “Let yourself come closer.” Beck tugged on her. “Much closer.”

She gave him her weight, her trust, and a bit of her heart, keeping her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heart beating a slow, reassuring tattoo and feel the tempo of her own heartbeat rising. One of Beck’s hands slid up her spine and rested on her nape, where his thumb made slow, languorous circles.

“You don’t have to be certain, you know.” His voice was suited to darkness, low, sensuous, and soothing. “If you’re uncomfortable, Sara, you tell me to stop, and I’ll damned well sleep in the stables.”

“I won’t tell you to stop,” Sara assured him, though it was almost as if he were daring her to reject him, so insistent was he on reminding her of this. She offered him assurances in false coin, though, because in the past week, between fits of worry over Tremaine’s missive, Sara had tried to puzzle out her reasons for consorting with Beckman Haddonfield. The best she could do, as she’d told him, was that she was using him in some manner to recover from her marriage. Reynard had left her dreams in tatters, her body exhausted, and her spirit hurting.

She would treat herself to the attentions Beckman offered, learn something of dalliance, and see what it was like to be held in affection by a man she respected—nothing less, and nothing more.

When his fingers stilled on her nape, she put aside her musings, waiting for his next word, his next breath, his next anything.

“A lady can change her mind, Sara,” Beck whispered, cruising his lips over her closed eyes. “At any time, she can change her mind.”

Provided she had a mind left to change. Beck’s hands framed her face, his thumbs feathering over her cheeks and jaw. The care in his touch, the unhurried, savoring quality of his explorations turned Sara’s knees unreliable and her spine into a lyrical, lilting melody. When Beck settled his lips over hers, she had a sense of sinking, of going under and drowning in pleasurable sensations.

He commanded all of her attention by virtue of showering all of his on her. He was touching her, breathing her, tasting her, wrapping his body around hers in such a way Sara felt him surrounding her every sense—sight, scent, hearing, taste, touch. She became filled with Beckman Haddonfield.

How long they stood there kissing, Sara could not have said. Long enough to leave her clinging to him, desperately needing more and clueless how to find it.

Beck broke the kiss and tucked her under his arm. “I’ve been waiting lifetimes for this, Sarabande Adagio, and for what follows now, we need and deserve a bed.”

* * *

Beck had not exaggerated. For him, his extravagant statement was simple truth. Sara wasn’t his usual fare—a discreet widow or a titled lady out for an evening’s romp. She wasn’t one of Nick’s hopefuls; she wasn’t anything Beck had allowed himself before.

She was decent. Good. She was choosing him for herself, and he wanted to be worthy of the honor.

He also—God help him—hoped she was choosing him, Beck Haddonfield, not simply a randy and convenient male whose discretion could be trusted in the morning, but a person. This was greedy and foolish of him—he invariably stumbled when dealing in sentiment—but he was honest with himself out of habit, and it wasn’t such a sorry thing to want.

To be a person to one’s lover.

And for that reason, he’d changed his mind when he’d gone out on his errands. He’d retrieved Sara’s packages and bathed, as intended, but he had not stopped by the common room and procured for himself enough brandy to ensure the evening would start with a pleasurable glow.

He’d taken his courage in one hand, his self-discipline in the other, and for the second time in his life, he’d resisted the temptation to get drunk his first night in Portsmouth. The decision was paying off, in the acuity of his senses, in the clarity of his will and the sure knowledge he would recall every sigh and caress Sara graced him with the whole night through.

He searched her face in the moonlight, seeing desire, but also uncertainty in her eyes. If he’d made that stop in the taproom, would he have missed the uncertainty?

“I want to see you. All of you, Sara.”

She nodded but made no move to take off her dressing gown. Ah, well, he’d ever been one to enjoy unwrapping pretty gifts.

Slowly, his fingers went to the sash belting her dressing gown. He tugged it free then pushed the robe off her shoulders and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. Her nightgown was old, plain, and, in keeping with the warmer weather, came only to her knees. He knelt before her and slid off her slippers, one at a time. Rather than rise immediately, he nudged the hem of her nightgown up and ran his cheek over the smooth skin above her knee.

Heaven help him, even her knees smelled good—tasted good.

Sara’s fingers tugged at his hair. “That tickles.”

“What about this one?” Beck nuzzled the other knee. “Is it ticklish too?”

“Yes.” He suspected she was trying not to giggle.

He wanted to hear her giggle. Wanted her giggling, laughing, crying, and yelling in his bed. He wanted her free there to be herself in every respect.

“Are you ticklish here?” he asked, rising and running the edge of his thumb along her ribs.

She flinched away. “Are you?”

“It will be your privilege to find out. Perhaps you’d like to start by removing my dressing gown?”

The humor left Sara’s expression, replaced by wary curiosity.

“You’ve seen me before, Sara. All of me, and not just across the barnyard.”

“We’re not in the barnyard.” Sara glanced at the bed fleetingly, as if it might burst into flames—which possibility Beck dearly treasured. She took a breath then reached out her hand and tugged the belt of his dressing gown free. It fell open, but she didn’t immediately take it from him.

She studied the bed this time as if it were a map, not a common piece of furniture. “We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”

“If you allow it.” Beck’s tone was level, as if he waited on her to choose between different flavors of ice. “As you allow it.”

Because God knew, left to his own devices, he’d toss her back across the bed, fall on her, and commence rutting. He was grateful again he’d not had that brandy, though Sara might have benefited from a tot.

Slowly, so slowly he wanted to scream, Sara’s hand flattened against the bare skin of his midriff then eased around to his back. Her fingertips left a trail of heat, and when she stepped closer, her scent came with her.

“You’ll have to tell me what to do.” Sara rested against him, only her nightgown between them now.

“You have only one responsibility.” Beck settled his hands on either side of her neck. “Enjoy yourself. You wanted to use me. I want to be used. Tonight, you say what you want, Sara, and you get it.”

She slipped the blue velvet from his shoulders, tossed it across the foot of the bed, then took a step back.

Beck unwrapped his gift, peeling the flimsy old nightgown off of her as if it were the finest silk, lifting it from her as if to reveal the most gorgeous courtesan, not a tired, no longer young housekeeper with a daughter nearing adolescence.