Lady Sarah's Redemption (15 page)

“I’m promised for this dance.” Frantic, she skirted the bushes which
separated the terrace from the French doors leading into the house. “Say
nothing.
Please
,” she begged over her
shoulder. “My entire life’s happiness depends on this waltz.”

She was reassured more by his expression of dawning understanding
than his attitude of resignation. But she’d known James her whole life. He’d
often looked at her like this. And he’d never yet let her down.

Smiling, Roland watched Miss Morecroft weave her way over to the
supper table. For such a slender young woman she had a hearty appetite. It was
the second time this evening she had piled her plate so high. A frisson of
excitement ran through him as he anticipated their forthcoming encounter on the
dance floor.

“Know you’d have me whipped for the sentiment if you could,
Hawthorne, but I wasn’t sorry to see those trouble-makers swing.”

Roland turned with a resigned smile. He’d known it wouldn’t be long
before Colonel Doncaster espoused such sentiments. Wrinkling his claret nose,
his oldest friend and neighbour went on, “They’d turn England on her head if
they could.”

Now was not the time to enter into a spirited debate on politics,
justice and the social system, though Roland knew this was what the colonel was
angling for.

“Colonel, we are celebrating my daughter’s come-out.” He smiled a
warning before greeting Mrs Doncaster with genuine pleasure. A sensible, good
looking strawberry blonde in her early forties, she knew how to keep her
husband in check.

“You’ve picked up a pistol for less, Roland,” the colonel reminded
him.

It struck a nerve. “I was a callow youth.”

Mrs Doncaster put a gentle hand on her red-faced husband’s sleeve.
“Roland has more sense now. It’s time you married again, Roland,” she told him.
“The days of Venetia and duelling and risking your life for your beliefs is
over.” There was a glint in her eye. “I know several young ladies who would
suit you very well if you’d let me introduce them.”

“Frances prides herself on being the canny one in matters of the
heart,” her husband said, putting an arm about her waist,
 
“but I’d wager something’s already in
the wind if Roland won’t talk politics with me.”

Roland gave a good-natured laugh. He’d lost sight of Sarah though
he’d scanned the room several times for her. The ‘Sir Richard de Coverly’ was
winding down and he was aching for the promised waltz.

Unconsciously he shifted position to ease his growing anticipation,
and was whisked into the present by Frances remarking slyly, “I believe you’re
right, Seb! Tell us, Roland, is Cecily’s position as mistress of Larchfield
about to be usurped?”

Roland blinked. Was he that transparent?

Laughing, she observed, “You always were one to wear your heart on
your sleeve, which is why I know there’s been no one since Venetia.”

“Frances, you’re embarrassing the poor man.” The colonel’s tone was
full of disgust. “Men of sound mind do not wear their hearts on their sleeves
like namby pamby boys or swooning maidens.”

“But my dear, I well remember Roland doing just that when you
brought me here as a new bride,” she objected, undaunted. “He was captivated by
Venetia, just as you were captivated by
your
new bride.” She patted the colonel’s arm as his complexion took on the deep
ruby hue of her gown.

“Excuse me.” Roland left them with a bow and a smile. “I am under an
obligation to claim the next dance.” Full of expectation he left their
good-natured circle in search of Miss Morecroft.

“Caro, you haven’t seen Miss Morecroft?” he asked his daughter, who
was being escorted onto the dance floor yet again by Mr Hollingsworth.

“No, Papa. Aunt Cecily, have you seen Miss Morecroft?”

 
“Miss Morecroft?” Her
aunt sniffed while Lady Charlotte indicated the doorway. “Left a couple of
minutes ago. Seemed quite discomposed by some fellow who’d just arrived.”

With a final, worried glance around the room Roland turned into the
passage as the orchestra tuned their instruments.
 
Waltzing with Godby’s daughter would
cause far more of a stir than dancing with a mere governess. Had Miss Morecroft
taken it upon herself to
spare
him?

Impatiently, he waited outside the mending room set up for minor
repairs to the ladies’ gowns. He could think of nowhere else she’d be. She
wasn’t downstairs, Augusta and Harriet were in Ellen’s care, and Miss Morecroft
would hardly be out in the chill night air.

He willed her to issue through the doorway; to look him up and down
in that assessing way of hers which always reassured him she didn’t find him
wanting.

Pacing impatiently, he pictured her in his mind’s eye. Like Venetia,
she was beautiful and proud. But Venetia had been venal and calculating.
Venetia had taught him how to reap the rewards of desire: how to pleasure a
woman and what unexpected pleasures a man might likewise enjoy at the hands of
a woman. He’d been a willing pupil, hurling himself headlong into a surfeit of
lust. And when he had totally surrendered to her all he had to give – his
heart, his body, his every waking thought, almost his own sense of self –
he had realized her pleasure had been largely in his surrender, in her ability
to conquer.

Then she had moved on, like a predatory shark, to fish other waters.

But Miss Morecroft was not like that. Miss Morecroft had kindness
and sincerity to compensate for the traits she shared with Venetia.

 
“Mary, have you seen
Miss Morecroft?” he asked the maid who opened the door of the mending room.
Hearing the urgency in his voice, he added, “Caro is looking for her.”

Instantly he was ashamed of himself. Was it necessary to conceal
from one of his employees that it was he, himself, who wished to find the
governess?

No, he didn’t care what Mary, or Cecily, or anyone thought. Miss
Morecroft was the most divine, spirited, engaging woman he’d ever met. He’d thought
keeping her at Larchfield as the girls’ governess would be enough. Now he knew
he had to marry her.

Instead of being dismayed, he exulted. For the first time in his
life he was about to yield to his desires with supreme confidence in the
outcome. They would make each other happy. He was certain of it.

His frustration increased as the orchestra launched into the waltz
he had looked forward to with such anticipation.

“I saw her running outside just a few minutes ago, sir.” The maid
looked disapproving as she rose from her curtsy. “Not even a cloak or shawl to
keep her poor bare shoulders warm this freezing night.”

Thanking Mary, he stepped through the French doors. He was worried
now. The sharp air stung his face and he stamped his feet and rubbed his hands
together to warm them. Why on earth would Miss Morecroft rush outside into the
freezing night when she was supposed to be enjoying the warmth of his embrace?
He thought of a dozen reasons to reassure himself as he crunched his way along
the terrace. Perhaps she’d fallen ill, or felt faint, then re-entered the house
by another door.

He scanned the immediate area as far as the light from the windows
penetrated, then continued along the side of the house to where the terrace
disappeared around the corner, half shrouded by shrubbery.

Hearing voices, he moved closer.

“Oh, James …” There was anguish in the young lady’s voice. He could
not see her, obscured as she was by the shrubbery, but it was clear by the sigh
and tone of her voice as she continued, that she was in company with someone
familiar to her.

Caught between making his presence known, and the natural impulse to
eavesdrop, Roland was on the point of retracing his footsteps to the house when
the urgency in what only now he realised was Morecroft’s voice arrested him.

“I wanted to marry you as much as you wished to marry me.”

Disgust infected Roland’s veins with cold, sluggish blood as he
heard her next words. “I thought that disappearing would be the best way of
winning Papa round.”

Then the young man answered. “Lord Miles would hardly have forced
you to the altar against your wishes. Sarah, come back!”

Roland stepped back against the bushes as she ran past him. He heard
the doors slam shut behind her. The low groan of the now deserted young man was
followed by the sound of his footsteps disappearing in the opposite direction.

Roland’s breath rasped on the icy air as he stumbled towards the
house.

Sarah scanned the room from her secluded corner vantage point while
she regulated her uneven breathing. There he was, talking to Colonel Doncaster
on the far side of the room.

Surely, she thought, Mr Hawthorne could not be thinking her a flirt
or a jilt for missing their appointed waltz? A sudden call upon her time by one
of the girls, a torn skirt, or twisted ankle was far more likely.

He appeared not to be aware of her as she brushed past him and the
colonel. Glancing over her shoulder, she tried to catch his eye as she wove her
way through the crowd. Her ploy was not successful.

For a few moments she stood alone by the double doors which
separated the card room from the dance floor. Her glass replenished, but not
her spirits, she frowned at him as he disengaged himself from the colonel. If
she didn’t know better she’d think he was ignoring her.

Out of pique?

She felt sick. Mr Hawthorne couldn’t imagine she was playing games
with him — could he?

James had engaged Caro for the next set. Caro smiled, acknowledging
her governess with a wave as they passed nearby. To Sarah’s relief, James
pretended ignorance of who she was.

Growing fear twisted her gut. Miserably, she watched as Mr Hawthorne
stood, grim and woodenly, conversing with Lords Digby and Denning, ancient
acquaintances of her father. It felt as if the evening were closing in on her.

Sarah positioned herself a little away from Philly and Georgiana so
as not to bring attention to her solitary state while she waited for an
opportunity to waylay him. He must know she was here. All evening she’d been
thrillingly aware of his eyes following her around the room.

Watching him discuss a matter that was apparently of weighty
concern, she was gripped with longing as he raked his hand through his hair in
that familiar gesture of his.

Was he talking of universal access to education and male suffrage?
Such notions would send her father into paroxysms. He’d certainly have
paroxysms if she informed him she intended marrying Roland Hawthorne.

With a determined tilt to her chin she pushed her shoulders back.
Marrying Mr Hawthorne was exactly what she intended doing.

Lord Denning shook his head with sudden vehemence and Lord Digby
scowled. She wondered what Mr Hawthorne could have said. Both men were her
father’s age, with a propensity towards apoplexy – on little provocation.
Just like her father. She felt a pang, then rallied. Soon, this whole charade
would be at an end.

As he extricated himself from the group Sarah seized her moment and
glided into his path.

“Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, for missing the waltz I promised you. I
was called away, suddenly.” When her apology was not greeted with the immediate
pardon she’d expected, she stammered, “Calls on my time come from all quarters
and the little girls required me for a moment. I am merely the governess, after
all.”

He frowned down at her. “Ah, yes, merely the governess.”

Discomposed, she suggested, “Perhaps the next waltz?”

“There will be no more waltzes for me tonight,” he said. “Forgive
me.” He bowed and was about to pass on but she stopped him, alarmed.

“Mr Hawthorne, I have angered you? Surely you understand-”

“Indeed I do, Miss Morecroft. If you will excuse me, there has been
distressing news this evening. I am poor company in my current mood.”

With another cursory bow, he was gone.

Sarah stared after him, fear and disappointment wrestling one
another.

Think
! It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, that a man with
such a powerful social conscience would need to mull over events in private.
She’d do herself no favours badgering him for the cause of his distress.

Ignoring Mrs Hawthorne’s beady-eyed stare, she rested against the
large urn where he’d caressed her arm. Longing tore through her. And
uncertainty. Perhaps he’d call her into the library to apologise, later.

“I’ve been trying to put my finger on it all evening, Miss
Morecroft, and at last it’s come to me.”

Sarah met Mrs Hawthorne’s gloating smile across the top of the
plinth. She didn’t intend straightening out of deference.

“Those dancing slippers belonged to Lady Venetia. I recognise them.”

“You don’t think I—”

“I’m not accusing you of theft, Miss Morecroft, merely recalling the
last time they graced her ladyship’s dainty feet.”

Sarah said nothing. Mrs Hawthorne clearly would enjoy telling her.