éjà vu,” Lady Sarah quipped, and Hugh was thinking that very thing, except it wasn’t quite the same. The table was not where it had been the day before. He’d thought it had looked off when he sat down.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

He had a feeling he was frowning. “No, just...” He shifted in his seat. How difficult would it be to move the table? It was still covered with half-empty plates that the servants must not have realized were ready to be removed. But surely he could shove those aside....

“Oh!” Lady Sarah said suddenly. “You need to stretch out your leg. Of course.”

“I think the table is not quite where it was yesterday,” he said.

She looked down at the table and then back at him.

“I had room to extend my leg,” he clarified.

“So you did,” she said briskly. She stood, and he almost groaned. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, getting ready to push himself up, but Lady Sarah placed one hand lightly over his and said, “No, please do not feel you must rise.”

He looked down at her hand, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and she started to move the dishes to a different table.

“Don’t,” he said, finding no joy in watching her perform menial tasks on his behalf.

She ignored him. “There,” she said, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the partially cleared table. She looked up. “Would it be more comfortable to have your foot on the floor or on the table?”

Good God. He couldn’t believe she was even asking. “I’m not going to put my foot on the table.”

“Would you do so at your home?”

“Of course, but—”

“Then you have answered my question,” she said pertly, turning back to the dirty dishes.

“Lady Sarah, stop.”

She kept clearing and did not bother to look at him. “No.”

“I insist.” It was too strange. Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was clearing away dirty dishes and preparing to move furniture. Even more astonishing was that she was doing it in order to help him.

“Be quiet and allow me to help you,” she said. Rather sternly, too.

His lips parted with surprise, and she must have taken a bit of pleasure in his astonishment, because her lips formed a smile, and then that smile turned smug.

“I’m not helpless,” he muttered.

“I didn’t think you were.” Her dark eyes sparkled, and as she turned back to the task of clearing the dishes, realization thundered through him like a hot desert wind.

I want her.

His breath caught.

“Is something wrong?” she called out.

“No,” he croaked. But he still wanted her.

She looked up. “You sounded funny. As if... well, I don’t know what.” She resumed clearing the dishes, speaking as she worked. “Maybe as if you were in pain.”

Hugh held silent, trying not to stare at her as she moved through the drawing room. Dear God, what had happened to him? Yes, she was very attractive, and yes, the velvet bodice of her dress was fitted in such a way that a man could not help but be aware of the exact—exactly perfect—shape of her breasts.

But this was Sarah Pleinsworth. He had hated her less than twenty-four hours ago. He might still hate her a little bit.

And he bloody well didn’t know what a hot desert wind felt like. Where the hell had that come from?

Sarah set the final dish down and turned to look at him. “I think what we need to do is get your foot on the table, and then pull the whole thing toward you so it will support the rest of your leg.”

He didn’t move for a moment. He couldn’t. He was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Lord Hugh,” she said expectantly. “Your leg?”

There was no stopping her, he realized, so he imparted a silent apology to his hosts and set his booted foot on the table.

It did feel good to stretch out the leg.

“Hold on,” Sarah said, coming back around to his side of the table. “It’s not supporting your knee.” She moved next to him and pulled the table closer, but it set the whole thing at a diagonal. “Oh, sorry,” she said, scooting around the back of his chair. “Just a moment.”

She stepped sideways through the space between the sofa and his chair, squeezing herself into a spot right next to him. They were not touching, but he could feel her warmth, pulsing off her skin.

“If you’ll just excuse me,” she said under her breath.

He turned his head.

He really shouldn’t have done so.

Lady Sarah had bent over to get a bit of leverage, and that dress... the dip of the neckline... so close to him...

He shifted in his seat again, and this time it had nothing to do with his injury.

“Can you lift it a bit?” Sarah asked.

“What?”

“Your leg.” She wasn’t looking at him, thank God, because he could not stop looking at her. The shadow between her breasts was so close, and the scent of her was swirling around him—lemons and honeysuckle and something far more earthy and sensual.

She had been dancing all morning. Out of breath and dizzy with exertion. Just the thought of it made him so desperate for her that he thought he might stop breathing.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

Dear God, yes. He hadn’t been with a woman since his injury, and the truth was, he hadn’t really wanted to. He had the same needs as any man, but it was so bloody hard to imagine anyone desiring him with his ruined leg that he’d not allowed himself to feel it for anyone else.

Until now, when it had hit him like—

Oh, bloody hell, not a hot desert wind. Anything but a hot desert wind.

“Lord Hugh,” Sarah said impatiently, “did you hear me? If you lift your leg, it will be easier for me to pull the table in.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and he lifted his leg an inch.

She pulled at the table, but it rubbed against the upper of his boot and caught a little, forcing her to take a step to maintain her balance.

She was so close now he could reach out and touch her. His fingers clamped down on the arms of his chair lest they give in to desire.

He wanted to touch her hand, to feel her fingers curl around his, and then he wanted to bring it to his lips. He would kiss the inside of her wrist, feel her pulse thrumming beneath her pale skin.

And then—oh, dear God, this was not the time for an erotic daydream, but he could not seem to help himself—then he would lift her arms above her head, the motion arching her back, so that when he pressed her body against his, he would feel all of her, every dip and curve. And then he would reach beneath her skirt and slide his hand up her leg to the sensitive crook of her hip.

He wanted to know the exact temperature of her, and then he wanted to know it again, when she was hot and flushed with desire.

“There we are,” she said, straightening back up. It was nearly impossible to think that she was oblivious to his distress, that she could not know that he was within inches of losing control.

She smiled, having got the table into the position she wanted. “Is that better?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”

Oh, dear God.

“Can I get you anything?”

You.

“No!” he blurted, rather too loudly. How the bloody hell had this happened? He was staring at Sarah Pleinsworth like a randy schoolboy, and all he could think about was the shape of her lips, the color.

He wanted to know the texture.

She placed a hand on his forehead. “May I?” she asked, but she was already touching him before she finished her query.

He nodded. What else could he have done?

“You really don’t look well,” she murmured. “Perhaps when Frances arrives with the cake, we can ask her to fetch you some lemonade. You might find it refreshing.”

He nodded again, forcing his mind to focus on Frances. Who was eleven. And liked unicorns.

And should not, under any circumstances, enter the room while he was in such a state.

Sarah removed her hand from his forehead and frowned. “You’re a little warm,” she said, “but not overmuch.”

He could not imagine how that was possible. Just moments ago, he’d thought he might go up in flames.

“I’m fine,” he said, almost cutting her off. “I just need more cake. Or lemonade.”

She looked at him as if he’d sprouted an extra ear. Or turned a different color.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she said, although she didn’t sound as if she entirely meant it. “You just don’t sound like yourself.”

He tried to keep his tone light as he said, “I wasn’t aware we knew each other well enough to make that determination.”

“It is strange,” she agreed, sitting back. “I think it’s just that— Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” he urged. Conversation was a very good idea. It kept his mind off other things, and more importantly, it ensured that she was sitting on her sofa and not bending over him in his chair.

“You often pause before you speak,” she said.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. It’s just... different.”

“Perhaps I like to consider my words before I use them.”

“No,” she murmured. “That’s not it.”

A small laugh escaped his lips. “Are you saying I don’t consider my words before I use them?”

“No,” she said, laughing in turn. “I’m sure you do. You’re very clever, as I’m sure you know that I know.”

This made him smile.

“I can’t really explain it,” she continued. “But when you look at a person— No, let’s not be unnecessarily vague— When you look at me before you speak, there is frequently a moment of silence, and I don’t think it’s because you are picking and choosing your words.”

He watched her intently. Now she had fallen silent, and she was the one who was trying to decide what she thought. “It’s something in your face,” she finally said. “It just doesn’t look like you are trying to decide what to say.” She looked up quite suddenly, and the contemplative expression left her face. “I’m sorry, that was quite personal.”

“No apology is needed,” he said quietly. “Our world is filled with meaningless conversations. It is an honor to participate in one that is not.”

Her cheeks took on a faint blush of pride, and she looked away almost shyly. He realized in that moment that he, too, knew her well enough to know that this was not a frequent expression on her face.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again. “Perhaps we should— Frances!”

The last of this was said with great fervor and, he thought he detected, some relief.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” Frances said as she came into the room. “Honoria tossed her bouquet, and I didn’t want to miss it.”

Sarah straightened like a shot. “Honoria tossed the bouquet when I wasn’t there?”

Frances blinked a few times. “I suppose she did. But I shouldn’t worry about it. You’d never have outrun Iris.”

“Iris ran?” Sarah’s mouth fell open, and Hugh could only describe the expression on her face as a mix of horror and glee.

“She leapt,” Frances confirmed. “Harriet was knocked to the floor.”

Hugh covered his mouth.

“Do not stifle your laughter on my account,” Sarah said.

“I didn’t realize Iris had set her cap for someone,” Frances said, looking down at the cake. “May I have a bite of yours, Sarah?”

Sarah motioned with her hand to go ahead and answered, “I don’t think she has.”

Frances licked a bit of icing off the end of her fork. “Perhaps she thinks the bridal bouquet will hasten her discovery of her true love.”

“If that were the case,” Sarah said wryly, “I might have leapt in front of Iris.”

“Do you know how the tradition of the bridal bouquet toss was formed?” Hugh asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Are you asking me because you know, or are you asking me because you want to know?”

He ignored her slight sarcasm and said, “Brides are considered to be good luck, and many centuries ago young women who wanted a piece of that luck tried quite literally to get a piece of it by tearing off bits of her gown.”

“That’s barbaric!” Frances exclaimed.

He smiled at her outburst. “I can only deduce that some clever soul realized that if the bride could offer a different token of her romantic success, it might prove beneficial to her health and well-being.”

“I should say so,” Frances said. “Think of all the brides who must have been trampled.”

Sarah chuckled and reached out to take what was left of her cake. Frances had made significant progress on the icing. Hugh started to tell her to take his; he’d already had a piece back when he’d been watching her dance. But with his leg on the table, he couldn’t bend forward enough to slide his plate in front of hers.

So he just watched as she took a bite and listened while Frances chattered on about nothing in particular. He felt remarkably content, and he might have even closed his eyes briefly, until he heard Frances say:

“You’ve got a bit of icing.”

He opened his eyes.

“Right here,” Frances was saying to Sarah, motioning to her own mouth.

There were no napkins; Frances hadn’t thought to bring them. Sarah’s tongue darted out of her mouth and licked the corner of her lips.

Her tongue. Her lips.

His downfall.

Hugh yanked his foot off the table and came awkwardly to his feet.

“Is something wrong?” Sarah asked.

“Please give my apologies to Lady Chatter is,” he said stiffly. “I know she wanted me to wait for her, but I really do need to rest my leg.”

Sarah blinked with confusion. “Weren’t you just—”

“It’s different,” he interrupted, even though it wasn’t, really.

“Oh,” she said, and it was a very ambiguous oh. She could have been surprised or delighted or even disappointed. He couldn’t hear the difference. And the truth was, he shouldn’t want to be able to hear it, because he had no business lusting for a woman like Lady Sarah Pleinsworth.

No business at all.