Anne O'Brien (14 page)

Her face was instantly flushed with deepest rose. ‘I have only—that is, I bought some clothes.’

‘Again, as I see. Definitely not my severe housekeeper!’

‘I did not think that you would mind if I spent some money—’

‘As I do not. Did I not tell you to be extravagant?’ There was still no warmth here, no acceptance of their new relationship. He would try again. Perhaps he should not have left her alone at this critical time before their marriage.

‘The colour is most becoming. And your hair—very elegant.’ He lifted a hand to stroke one finger round an errant curl. Her light perfume touched his senses. ‘All in all, my dear Sarah, I believe you are quite the thing.’

Sarah merely shook her head, misery clouding her eyes.

‘What is it, Sarah? Whatever it is cannot be so bad that you flinch from telling me. I am not an ogre.’

‘I know. I would never suggest…’ Well, she would say it. ‘I cannot think why you would wish to marry me.’ Sarah found herself speaking her fears against every intention.

‘Why should I not?’

‘I am not beautiful or elegant or sophisticated—or any of the things you would look for in your wife.’

‘Why do you say that? I find you to be everything I wish for. At this moment you look perfectly lovely. Why should you deny yourself?’

‘How can I believe you?’ The memory of the gloves returned in bright focus. ‘I know that I cannot possibly measure up to the glamour of the Countess of Wexford.’

‘I do not wish to marry the Countess of Wexford.’ Here was dangerous ground.

‘No. But I still do not understand why you should wish to marry
me
.’ All Sarah’s self-doubts and insecurities rolled back to swamp her.

‘Then I will show you.’ He drew her closer, releasing her hands to run his hands the length of her arms, smooth and slow, to her shoulders. ‘Look up.’ What he saw in her face, trepidation, nerves, a little fear, persuaded him of the need to be considerate with her, but he would kiss her. So he did. The first intimate demand he had ever made on her. A kiss that began as a simple touch of mouth against mouth. Until his response to her astounded him. Taken aback by the utter sweetness of her, hunger lunged as a wild beast and gripped him. And heat struck him as a fist to the gut when her mouth opened under the demand of his. Her light perfume filled his head and his loins, seductively sweet. Instinctively he tightened his hold and deepened the kiss, changing the angle of his head to take her lips as he wished. His body would not allow him to refuse the gift she offered so innocently as she moved closer within his arms and let him mould her soft curves to his firmly muscled frame.

Joshua lifted his head and took a breath. Well. He had not expected so basic a response to her. Sarah might claim to have no skills to attract, but her effect on him was undoubtable. Eyes wide, her lips parted, she looked up at him, as much shocked as he. He had, of course, to kiss her again. Thoroughly, needily, absorbing the warmth and softness of her body against his.

Sarah could not recognise, could not accept, the sheer glory of it. Every nerve in her body jumped in immediate answer to his demand, the thrill of his mouth on hers. Every inch of her skin so sensitive from that one kiss, so that when he claimed her mouth again she had no qualms about surrender. Her lips parted to accept the imperious invasion of his tongue, her arms crept around his neck, her fingers locking against and through his soft, dense hair. Had she not desired exactly
this? When he pressed her closer yet so that she might be aware of his need, she did not resist but exulted in it. She could feel the hunger in him and allowed it to dissipate her own insecurity.

Did he truly want her in that way?

Joshua released her, held her a distance away from him, knowing his own vulnerability. His dining room was no place to satisfy so raw a hunger with his housekeeper, no matter how great the temptation. He took a step back, but not before he smoothed his thumb along her lips—so tempting to take them again—in a tender caress.

‘As I said, I had missed you, dear Sarah.’ He bit down on the urgency that swam in his blood. ‘I just did not realise how much.’

The marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon and Mrs Sarah Russell, celebrated by special licence in St George’s Church, Hanover Square, followed by a breakfast at the home of the happy couple, was an occasion for a positive fusillade of good wishes and advice and warnings from all sides. It was, the groom decided, since most of the barbed comments were fired in his direction, a most exhausting occasion. The bride was composed and charmingly pretty in pale silk. The groom austerely dramatic in a deep blue superfine coat, highly polished Hessians, his cravat superbly tied by the hand of a master. The bride was suitably fragile and slender, the groom stood straight and tall at her side. He would not limp to his own marriage.

‘Be happy,’ Theodora whispered to her sister with a congratulatory kiss. ‘The Faringdon men are magnificent.’

‘I know it,’ Sarah replied with a quick hug, unable to believe that this splendid man, head bent in serious and probably unwelcome conversation with Lady Beatrice, was now her husband.

Since Nicholas had already expressed his concerns to Joshua, he said no more than, ‘I wish you well. We have a habit of marrying Baxendale women, do we not? You have a lovely bride, Sher.’

‘So I have.’ Joshua turned to watch her, the obvious pride in his face causing Nicholas to smile.

Theodora found much more to say to Lord Joshua. She pinned him with her direct regard, but was not unfriendly. Joshua seized the opportunity.

‘Theodora. Rumours, may I say, were not false.’

‘Rumours?’ She eyed him suspiciously.

‘That Nick has found himself a prize. A jewel of great price.’

‘Are you trying to charm me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ha!’ But, allowing herself to be charmed by this extremely handsome man—only second to her own darling Nicholas—she touched a hand to his wrist as her lips curved and her eyes twinkled. ‘Be kind to Sarah.’

‘Well—it was my intention to beat her soundly every night until she obeyed my every whim!’

‘That is not what I meant, as you very well know!’ She had the grace to laugh and ask forgiveness. ‘Can I tell you? Perhaps I should not, but Sarah… Well, she carries a—’

Joshua put out a hand to stop her. ‘You are a good friend, Thea, but there is no need. Judith has told me of Sarah’s life and the…the difficulties she encountered.’ Thea could not but admire his sensitive discretion. ‘I know the truth of it. I hope that I can win my lady’s trust.’

Thea decided to take a risk. ‘And her love?’

He thought for a moment, eyeing his cousin’s beautiful wife. And with a steady gaze, chose not to dissemble. ‘It would be my wish.’ If his answer surprised him, he hid it well.

The reply was certainly one that robbed Thea of any lighthearted repartee. Before she could think of a suitable answer,
Nicholas stepped up to take her arm. ‘Thea. Don’t harass the poor man. Come and talk to Aunt Beatrice, who is most concerned about your state of health! As ever. Try to be tactful.’

Which gave Judith the opportunity to descend on her brother. ‘I am delighted,’ she announced with a kiss to his cheek. ‘But don’t break her heart. I will never forgive you if you do. She is my dear friend. And there is John to consider.’

‘I shall, my dear Judith, do all that is necessary.’

By which time Lord Joshua Faringdon was feeling besieged and in need of a fortifying brandy.

Lady Beatrice, still unbending but at least present for the occasion in deep purple satin, had nothing but smiles and good wishes for Sarah.

‘I presume that you know what you are about, my dear. It pleases me to have you as one of the family, now that all the past unpleasantness is over.’

Which surprised the bride, who had always regarded the imposing Dowager with not a little trepidation.

To Joshua she was less complimentary but, as he admitted to himself, at least in communication again. Perhaps he had discovered a way to redeem himself in her eyes.

‘Congratulations, Joshua.’ She raised the lorgnette, bringing back to his lordship uncomfortable memories of the misdemeanours of his childhood. But the Dowager was inclined to be generous. ‘The best decision you have made for years. A far more suitable bride than that French person whom we rarely met. Not that I would have wished Marianne’s death, of course, but Sarah is
English
. A perfect outcome, I must tell you, for that poor neglected motherless child of yours.’

And that, Joshua decided with a non-committal reply, was the best that he could expect.

The motherless child, anything but neglected, eyes sparkling with excitement over her new dress with its pink ribbons, was present with John’s hand clasped in hers to ensure his good behaviour. John was completely overawed by the whole proceedings and the sudden inexplicable smartness of his mama.

Olivia Wexford was not invited.

One shadowy figure, unknown to any of those present in the church, watched and noted and wrote a concise but highly specific report of the marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon to Mrs Sarah Russell, late of Whitchurch and New York, and had it hand-delivered to an unobtrusive address in the City.

At last Joshua managed a private conversation with his bride.

‘Well, my lady? Are you satisfied?’

‘Oh, yes.’ For once the new Lady Faringdon answered without hesitation, straight from the heart, without thought or pretence. ‘I think it must be the happiest day of my life.’

Joshua was entranced.

‘Then it is my wish to give you many more such days. Why do you suppose that my family presume that I will bring you nothing but pain and heartbreak?’

Sarah tried to hide her amusement, having seen Lady Beatrice’s censorious expression when in conversation with her son, but failed. ‘I cannot understand where they got that idea!’

He laughed. ‘You are very loyal. I think we shall deal well together.’

‘As do I.’

‘And if I do not, you can wave the contract under my nose at the breakfast table.’

‘As I will, my lord, without doubt.’

‘Joshua.’

Sarah laughed in response, unable to repress the bubbles that positively glittered through her veins as if she had drunk more
than a single glass of champagne at her wedding breakfast. ‘Yes, Joshua.’

‘Why did I not realise that my housekeeper was so beautiful?’

‘It is the dress.’ Suddenly sober again, as if she would deny the evidence of his own eyes. ‘It is all Thea’s and Judith’s doing.’

‘No. It is definitely you.’
Because today you are happy.
It made his heart turn over. ‘Thea is a remarkable woman. But so, I believe, are you.’

Sarah flushed under his gaze, a comforting warmth stealing around her heart. She had never been called remarkable in her life.

Joshua bent his head to kiss her hand and then her cheek, where the skin was satin-smooth, and then her lips. They were warm and soft and trembled a little under the easy pressure of his own. But she did not pull away. And when he lifted his head she smiled up into his face with unclouded joy.

It stopped his breath. If the occasion had not been so public, he would have claimed her lips again, in a sudden heat of desire that no longer took him completely by surprise. It was so easy to be seduced by her sweetness.

Whilst for Sarah, his kiss painted a gloss of crystal-bright happiness over her whole world. She loved him. And perhaps he did not find her totally unattractive.

And those who saw them together wished them well and noticed his care of her.

The deed was done. She had married him. Sarah sat at her dressing table. Her maid—she had a maid now and a sumptuous bedchamber—had left her after folding away her wedding finery. Now she sat in a dream of cream silk and lace, more delicate than any garment she had ever owned.

She sat quietly, her hands clasped loosely on her lap, and thought back to her first wedding night. A long time ago now. And tried to call to mind the first time that she had stepped into the arms of her husband John as his wife. How sad, she thought,
a little melancholy that she could remember so little. It was difficult to bring his precise features to mind now beyond a fair complexion and eyes of a deeper blue than her own, although there were echoes of his face in their son, in the angle of his jaw, the line of his nose, the flat planes becoming clearer as he lost the chubby contours of babyhood.

As for intimate relations, they were even more hazy and indistinct. There had been so few. A short time together after the wedding—of necessity, dependent on shore leave and the prosecution of the war. Then war and John’s untimely death had robbed her of his comforting presence. She remembered more than anything that he had been kind to her. Understanding and careful of her shyness and innocence. He had never hurt her. But, if honest, she could recall little pleasure of a physical nature except for the warmth of curling into his arms. The safety and comfort. Had that been love? Sarah supposed it had.

Then her fingers entwined in her lap with a fierce grip. If it was love, it was nothing in comparison with her feelings for this man whose name she now bore and whose ring encircled her finger as a mark of his possession. A ripple of heat shot down her spine to centre in her loins and her mouth was suddenly dry. She had no previous experience of this emotion. Or the sensations that overwhelmed her when his mouth claimed hers.

Sarah looked at her reflection in the glass and began to take the pins from her hair. The soft waves and curls, released in a cloud of perfume, drifted to her shoulders. She suddenly looked so much younger, so unsophisticated without her fashionable garments. What would her lord expect from her? If he hoped for the experience and knowledge of the Countess of Wexford, he would be severely disappointed. She had little experience and no knowledge of how to bring pleasure to a man. Nerves shivered in her belly. What if he did not like her? What if he did not desire her physically? A flush stained her cheeks and she turned her eyes from her reflection. There was nothing in her contract—or his—to cover that embarrassing eventuality.
What did she have to offer to an experienced man of the world compared with Olivia? Her eyes flew once again to her image before her, eyes wide, lips a little tremulous. Or an opera dancer. She had neither the face nor the figure to entice a man. Insipid was the word that came to mind. And perhaps the cream lace did nothing for her colouring. How lowering it was. Her confidence, built up through the day through the power of good wishes and kind words, drained away along with her finery.