Duel of Hearts (2 page)

For Sarah, however, there was little in this list of attributes which she could like. Even before she'd met North, eight years earlier, she'd heard rumors about him that made her take him in dislike. He was said to spend a great deal of his time at gambling. It was whispered that he'd been involved in a number of duels—all at his instigation. And she'd heard that a married lady had attempted suicide for his sake, and that one of his fancy-pieces had complained publicly that, once he was done with her, he had treated her with extreme cruelty.

When North, without the slightest encouragement from Sarah, became her suitor, there had been nothing in his arrogant demeanor to make her feel that the gossip she'd heard about him was unjustified. He'd taken one look at her and—in spite of her protestations that she had no wish for his attentions—he'd adopted the most infuriating attitude of possessiveness toward her. Frightened and angry, she'd attempted to encourage several other young men to court her, more in self-defense than in real attraction toward them. But no sooner was she seen three times in the company of any one gentleman than Lord North would pick a quarrel with the fellow and challenge him to a duel.

Lord North's prowess with either pistol or sword was legendary. It was not very surprising, therefore, to learn that two of the gentlemen who'd courted her had promptly become engaged to other, safer females; another had fled the country; and a fourth (even though he went through with the duel and suffered a minor wound) eventually had found it expedient to give up his pursuit of her. And the lesson had not been lost on the other eligible gentlemen. Sarah had soon found herself completely bereft of beaux.

The only course left to her was to go into seclusion. But if truth were told, that course suited her quite well. Sarah had taken little pleasure in the carousel-like whirl of social amusements. She disliked the superficial chatter, the noisy gaiety, the shallow flirtations which were part and parcel of London's social life. She was quite content to withdraw, to spend her time at the pianoforte, at her books, exchanging quiet visits with one or two good friends and seeing to the domestic concerns of the household. Her mother, whose interests were completely frivolous, protested loudly against her daughter's hermit-like existence, but in reality Lady Stanborough was quite content to leave the burden of the household and money management in the capable hands of her quietly authoritative daughter. What bothered Lady Stanborough more than anything else was the fear that her daughter might—Heaven forbid!—turn into a spinster.

For her part, Sarah had long since accepted her spinster state. Even Lord North had eventually become convinced that she would have none of him, and he'd left her alone. By that time, Sarah had grown accustomed to her withdrawn, reclusive style of life and would do nothing to change it. The little white cap in her hand was merely the symbol of her complete withdrawal from the mating rituals of London society. Why, then, was she so hesitant to put it on?

She got up from her bed and returned to the dressing table, the cap still in her hand. Her reluctance, she supposed, came from the ending of the dream. She would have liked to be married, if she could have found someone like … like …

Like whom?
she asked herself, staring at the hazel eyes that looked back at her from the mirror. In all these years, had there been
no one
she'd met whom she would have liked for a husband? Alain du Bois had been charming, but too weak to stand up against North's assault. Bertrand Quayle had been considerate but a bit of a bore. Lord Osterend was cultured and loved music as she did, but he was close to fifty and admitted honestly that he was much too old to change his bachelorish ways. North, although her mother's set considered him the best catch, was too debauched and unscrupulous. No, there had been no one whom she could honestly say she should have wedded. In fact, she'd not met
one man
whose acquaintance she would have liked to pursue.
Except
…

Except … the gentleman who'd come to her rescue at Corianne's come-out. He had seemed to be just the sort—But it was foolish to speculate about him. She didn't even know his name!

She closed her eyes. Sometimes, just before she fell asleep at night, she would think of him, and his face would flash before her mind's eye in complete detail. It was a quite astounding phenomenon, especially since she couldn't bring her own father's face nearly so distinctly to mind. But even now, sitting here in the daylight at her dressing table, she could see the stranger's face almost as clearly as she'd seen it that evening two years ago: his short-cropped, dark hair lightly sprinkled with grey; those eyes so piercingly light in a dark-skinned, weathered face; a pair of heavy brows; a strong nose and a mouth, thick-lipped and firm, that had altered radically when he'd flashed a grin—a smile that gave him a look of surprising sweetness.

Of course, she was quite ready to admit that the circumstances of their meeting might have distorted her impression of him. If she saw him today, she might very well find him disappointingly ordinary. Considering the circumstances of that dreadful night, it was entirely possible that she had endowed him with an aura of heroism he really didn't have.

It had all come about when her uncle Roland, the Earl of Daynwood, had written to his sister, Sarah's mother, to assist him with a problem. He had been widowed when his daughter Corianne was a child, and he had brought her up in the quiet of his Lincolnshire estate. But the child was about to come of age, and she wanted nothing so much as to be presented to London society. Roland himself hated London and knew nothing about such things as come-outs. He hesitantly and humbly begged his sister Laurelia to be good enough to present the girl.

Laurelia Stanborough had been delighted to agree. There was nothing she'd more enjoy than taking her niece about on a whirl of parties, balls, dances and fêtes. And Sarah, on whom all the responsibilities of the complex arrangements had fallen, had accepted with equal willingness because of her great affection for her uncle. Thus, for one hectic month, she had been brought back into the social maelstrom.

For most of the period of her cousin's come-out, Sarah had managed to keep in the background, but the presentation ball had been held at Stanborough House, and Sarah, as one of the hostesses of the occasion, could scarcely fail to appear. She'd unpacked her most elegant ball-gown, she'd permitted her mother's hairdresser to arrange her hair in the latest fashion, she'd taken her grandmother's pearls from the safe and, thus accoutered, had emerged from hiding.

To her dismay, she'd discovered that Lord North was among the hundred-and-fifty guests her mother had invited. She could feel his eyes on her wherever she moved. Twice he asked her to dance, but each time Sarah managed to fob him off. Shortly before the late supper was announced, however, he found her taking a brief respite from her duties in a little, secluded sitting room. “At last!” he sneered triumphantly as he came up behind her chair.

She jumped up and made for the door, but he was too quick for her. He grasped her hands and, pinioning them behind her back, he pulled her to him. “Still trying to avoid me, my dear?” he asked, looking down at her with what she could only describe as a leer. “Then why did you bother to invite me?”

“But I
didn't,
” she said hastily, trying to free her hands. “My mother must have—”

“Oh, yes, your mother! Of
course!
” he said with a smile of patent disbelief. “
You
knew nothing of it.”

“I tell you, I
didn't
—!”

“Never mind. It's a mere detail. And quite irrelevant. The
important
fact is that we're here together. And you are looking as beautiful as ever. It's quite remarkable, really, to find you still in such high bloom.”

“Well, I'm not yet ninety,” she answered with asperity, twisting her wrists painfully in his unyielding grasp.

He laughed. “No, a ripe twenty-five, if my calculations are correct. An age of female perfection—no longer green, but not yet on the road to decay. At the very point, from the look of you, of luscious sweetness.” He might have been speaking of a plum or a pear! His eyes gleamed, and he inclined his head as if he intended to ascertain the correctness of his judgment by taking a taste of her.

She gasped and pulled away as far from him as she could. “I trust you've not completely forgotten, my lord, that you are supposed to be a gentleman,” she said, turning her head away. She tried to keep her voice steady and her nerves calm. “It would be unfortunate if I were forced to scream.”

“Unfortunate for whom, my dear?” His smile was so smugly complacent that she would have loved to slap him. “An episode of this sort is what people have come to expect of me. But you, on the other hand, would be bound to suffer excruciating pangs of embarrassment. So scream if you must, my sweet. You have more to lose by it than I.”

Sarah looked up at him with contemptuous loathing. “What have you to
gain
by this, my lord? You surely can't believe that such arrogant behavior will enhance your standing in my eyes.”

“Are you certain, dear girl? I've known many women who've responded very prettily to just this sort of physical persuasion.”

“I assure you, sir, that
I
shall
not
!” Sarah declared disgustedly, trying in desperate anger to wrench her hands free of his grasp. “Let me go, my lord,
at once!
”

His lordship merely laughed again and bent his head toward her once more. She struggled fiercely, crying out, “No,
please
! Let me
go
!” in a choking gasp as his face moved inexorably toward hers. But before his mouth could touch hers, someone loomed up behind him, grasped him by his neckcloth and whirled him around. “I think I heard the lady ask you to let her go,” the man said quietly.

Sarah, so abruptly freed, tottered a step backward and stared at her rescuer. His face was vaguely familiar, and she suddenly remembered that she'd been introduced to him earlier in the evening—he was Corianne's neighbor who had come down from Lincolnshire for this occasion. He was sturdily built and broad in the shoulders, and although he was not quite as tall as Lord North, he seemed not in the least daunted by the furious glower which North fixed on his face.

“By what right do you barge in here, damn you?” North demanded, trying to shake the man's grasp on his neck. “Do you realize that I'm
North?
”

The stranger only shrugged, one corner of his mouth turning up in a tiny suggestion of a grin. “North or south, you seem to have been moving in the wrong direction
here
, old fellow,” he said pleasantly, not loosening his hold. “I suppose you're foxed. Why don't you sit down on the sofa there until you've sobered up a bit?” And to the astonishment of both Lord North and Sarah, the man propelled his lordship firmly to the sofa and pushed him down upon it.

A shocked oath broke from Lord North's throat. The stranger ignored it and turned to Sarah. “I hope this little brangle hasn't upset you, ma'am. A man will sometimes take on like a tom-doodle if he's cast away.” The startlingly sweet smile lit his face as he offered her his arm. “May I escort you to the supper table?”

Floundering somewhere between tears and hysterical laughter, Sarah found herself unable to utter a word. She gulped, nodded and took the stranger's arm. But before they could take a step, Lord North leapt from the sofa with the growl of a strangling animal. He pulled them apart, grasped the stranger by the shoulder and pulled him round. “Interfering dolt!” he hissed between clenched teeth. “You'll pay dearly for your presumption. What's your name and direction? You'll be receiving a call from my second!”

“Your
second
?” the stranger asked with a tinge of amusement in his voice. “What are you talking about? A
duel?
”

Sarah tensed. Lord North seemed not to have outgrown his hotblooded habit of trying to kill or maim those who crossed him. He was rapidly recovering his equilibrium and, in this mood, could easily turn dangerous. The stranger was taking the entire matter to be rather a joke, but Lord North was not noted for possessing a sense of humor. “Of
course
I mean a duel,” his lordship barked, glaring at the stranger with cold superiority.

The unknown gentleman laughed out loud. “Don't be a clunch,” he advised the smoldering Lord North, drawing Sarah's arm through his again and leading her to the door. “If you had any sense,” he added as they crossed the threshold, “you'd put your head under the pump.” With that, he closed the door in Lord North's face.

Sarah, unable to find her tongue, said not a word as the stranger led her to the banquet room. There, with a bow and another of his remarkable smiles, he left her. She knew quite well that he'd left an indelible impression on
her
, but apparently she'd made only a passing impression on
him
. It was soon clear that he had eyes for no one but Corianne. Sarah couldn't help noticing how his eyes seemed to follow the girl wherever she was. Sarah had had the pain of realizing that the gentleman from Lincolnshire had completely forgotten her existence by the end of the evening.

Lord North had spent the rest of that evening watching the stranger, his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. But he'd soon discovered that the fellow was a mere bumpkin from the country, and his vengeful interest had faded. The next day, the stranger had called to take his leave of Corianne and had returned to Lincolnshire. Sarah had not seen him again.

But she knew he was more than a mere country bumpkin. He had shown signs of humor, courage and strength of character. She would have liked to know him better. But there was little profit in dreaming of the might-have-been. She would show better sense to pay attention to the here-and-now.