“Let’s hope the mice haven’t got to everything.” He strode across to unlatch the first trunk. Anything to break the web of intimacy slowly spinning between them.
“I can’t smell mice. Your cats must be ferocious hunters.”
“Under my father’s and brother’s careless regime, they had to be to keep their bellies full.” He flung back the heavy lid with a bang. Immediately faded scents crammed his senses. Lavender to keep the clothes fresh. A faint echo of rose fragrance that must have belonged to his mother.
Sarah stepped softly to his side. “I feel like she’s here.”
“So do I.” His voice was flat with control. He placed his candle on the trunk behind. Sarah must see how his hands shook. She couldn’t miss the way the flame wavered in the airless room.
Reluctantly, he began to sift through the trunk’s contents. Bonnets. Hats. Scarves. Handkerchiefs. Stockings. Shoes. Soft kidskin gloves that had shaped themselves to his mother’s hands. Hands he’d never touched.
Finally, at the bottom, he found neatly folded clothing. His gloved hand brushed heavy silk, and he carefully lifted what proved to be an evening cloak. As the shining blue fabric unfurled, a gust of rose perfume drifted into the still room.
He’d never touched his mother’s things before. It had seemed somehow wrong to pry into her private possessions. Although he’d always known which trunks were hers.
Carefully, he laid the cloak aside. Behind him he was vaguely aware of Sarah’s footfall as she explored the attic. Then suddenly light bloomed around him.
“This might help.” She set the lantern down near him.
“It’s the one I used to read by.”
“I found it with your books.” She knelt, her shoulder inches from his.
He desperately wanted to tell her to move away. She was close enough for little eddies of scent to tease him, her peppery carnation fragrance mingling with the evocative rose. She was close enough for him to hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing.
Did his proximity disturb her as hers disturbed him? Sweet God, this became more impossible with every second. Briefly he shut his eyes and prayed for strength. When he opened them again, Sarah pored over the items he’d discarded on the floor.
“Everything is so delicate,” she said softly. “Like it was made by angels. Look.” She held up a filmy shawl of lace fragile as a spider’s web.
He reached out to touch the fabric, then jerked back. All his life, his mother’s gentle ghost had haunted him. Touching her clothing made her tragedy poignantly immediate.
He struggled to inject a prosaic element into his voice. “Not exactly suitable for late winter.”
He had to get this over with quickly, before he made an utter fool of himself. He drew out a satin ball gown. Its rich peach color gleamed in the candlelight.
“Nor is that.” Sarah’s voice sounded h
uskier than usual. As if she’d just got out of bed, God help him. His hands curled in the slippery material.
“These must have come from her London season.” Still, he strove to sound casual, unconcerned. The last thing he needed was Sarah to discover her interest in him was reciprocated. “My father never socialized. Or not with people he’d introduce to his wife. She’d have little call for a dress like this at Penrhyn.”
All the gowns were too elaborate for Sarah to wear around the house. Gideon repacked the trunk, his hands lingering on the fine materials. He knew it was only imagination, but a hint of warmth from that pretty laughing girl, the toast of London, still remained. He shut the lid and turned to the next trunk.
As with the other one, accessories lay on top. He quickly riffled through them. He passed Sarah a sturdy pair of half boots. “See if those fit.”
The first gown he pulled out was a sprigged muslin day dress. He stood and turned around, then wished to God he’d stayed put.
Sarah sat on the trunk they’d already checked, sliding on the shoe. Her skirts hiked to reveal two trim ankles. Petticoats frothed, white and alluring, around her shapely calves. Her thick braid tumbled over one shoulder to dangle between her breasts. As she leaned forward, her bodice gaped to reveal the pale skin of her cleavage.
His mouth went dry as sand. His heart slammed hard against his ribs. Hunger to tumble this girl on the dusty floor made him giddy. The urge to escape rose to choke him.
He must have made a noise because she turned startled eyes in his direction. “Gideon?”
Just his name. A low question. Just as he’d started calling her Sarah, somewhere she’d started calling him Gideon. He whipped around and dropped to his knees before the open trunk. His breath rattled loud in his ears as he fought to rein in the agonizing conflict inside him.
He couldn’t touch her. No matter how much he wanted to. He knew what would happen. He’d frighten and disgust her.
He fumbled in the trunk, roughly pushing aside the first gown. Without looking, he grabbed something and shoved it in Sarah’s direction.