Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires

 

Dedication

For Erika Tsang.

I couldn't have done this without you.

And for my family.

I love you all so very much!

 

Acknowledgments

W
riting is a continuous learning experience—­a journey of the imagination—­and because of this, there are moments when I find myself stumbling, overthinking an issue, or simply coming to a complete standstill. Thankfully, I work with an extraordinary group of ­people who always help me get back on my feet, point me in the right direction, or give me that extra push that I need. Each and every one of them deserves my deepest thanks and gratitude, because when all is said and done, a book isn't the work of just one person but of many.

I'd like to thank my wonderful editor, Erika Tsang, and her assistant, Chelsey Emmelhainz, for being so incredibly helpful and easy to talk to—­working with both of you is an absolute pleasure!

Together with the rest of the Avon Books team, which includes (but is far from limited to) copyeditor Judy Myers; publicists Pam Spengler-­Jaffee, Jessie Edwards, Caroline Perny and Emily Homonoff; and senior director of marketing, Shawn Nicholls; they have offered guidance and support whenever it was needed. My sincerest thanks to all of you for being so wonderful!

Another person who must be acknowledged for his talent is artist James Griffin, who has created the stunning cover for this book, capturing not only the feel of the story but also the way in which I envisioned the characters looking—­you've done such a beautiful job!

To my fabulous beta-­readers Codi Gary, Mary Chen, Cerian Halford, Marla Golladay and Kathy Nye, whose insight has been tremendously helpful in strengthening the story, thank you so much!

I would also like to thank Nancy Mayer for her assistance. Whenever I was faced with a question regarding the Regency era that I couldn't answer on my own, I turned to Nancy for advice. Her help has been invaluable.

My family and friends deserve my thanks as well, especially for reminding me to take a break occasionally, to step away from the computer and just unwind—­I would be lost without you.

And to you, dear reader—­thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. Your support is, as always, hugely appreciated!

 

Epigraph

Even though I fear for the future, I find I have no choice but to act—­indeed, morality and honor compel me to do so, my only consolation being that I will not be facing this battle alone. How great my influence will be remains uncertain, but I must at least try to make a difference.

To those of you who may happen upon these words in the future, please rest assured that my companions and I did what we could, and that even if I were to die tomorrow, it would be with a clear conscience.

The diary belonging to
the 3rd Earl of Duncaster, 1792

 

Map

 

Contents

 

Chapter 1

In a carriage on the way to Thorncliff Manor

1820

“D
o you suppose we'll be arriving soon?” Rachel asked with an edge of impatience. “Before leaving the last posting inn, Mama assured me that it would only be another two hours, but according to my pocket watch it has already been one hundred and twenty-­seven minutes. To be exact.”

Christopher gazed across at his younger sister. “I don't believe Mama has ever visited Thorncliff before,” he said, referring to the Countess of Duncaster's large estate, which she had turned into a guesthouse. He and his family would be spending the summer there. “This makes her estimate regarding the duration of this journey exactly that—­an estimate.”

Rachel didn't look pleased. “I wish everyone would appreciate the importance of precision as much as I do.”

“Cook does,” Laura said sweetly, directing Christopher's attention to another sister. He had five in total. “I'm sure she would acknowledge the importance of accuracy. After all, there's nothing worse than a cake with too much flour in it.”

“Do you have to encourage her?” Fiona asked. As the youngest of the Heartly siblings, she had never developed the sort of patience the rest of the brood possessed.

Christopher frowned, while Rachel's face beamed with newfound pleasure as she latched onto Laura's comment. “Life as we know it would be impossible without adhering to mathematical and scientific principles. Buildings would fall to the ground, dough would refuse to rise, your clothing would be ill-­fitting . . . why, I could go on forever about the effect a lack of structure would have on us all.”

“Must you?” Fiona asked with an underlying note of dread.

“Why not distract yourself by contemplating the splendor of our destination?” Christopher suggested. As much as he loved Rachel, he had little desire to endure a prolonged lecture on Euclidean geometry or, God forbid, her recent study on the movement of slugs.

“I've heard that Thorncliff is magnificent. Apparently the third Earl of Duncaster wasted no expense when he expanded it,” Laura said before Rachel could comment. “My friend Lady Harriet visited last year with her family, and she has assured me that the estate can easily amuse us all for the duration of our three-­month stay.”

“I've no doubt about that,” Fiona said promptly, her eyes lighting, “especially since I've every intention of putting my own time there to good use. I mean to find that jewelry box Grandmamma spoke of when we were little.”

Christopher stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't you remember? She always said her family in France sent heirlooms to England during the revolution to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. It was all she would have had left of her family after they all perished at the guillotine, but for unknown reasons, the box of heirlooms never arrived. I'm convinced they must be hidden away at Thorncliff. Considering Grandpapa's close friendship with Lord Duncaster, I—­”

“Now that you mention it, I do recall her saying something to that effect, but I never really put much weight in it,” Laura said. “You know how badly Grandmamma suffered the loss of her family. I always believed her talk of the jewelry box was her way of hoping a part of them had been left behind and would eventually come to her.”

“But she specifically mentioned receiving a letter from her sister, the Duchess of Marveille, in France, encouraging her to wait for it—­that the duchess had sent it to England and that arrangements had been made for it to be delivered to her.”

“Your memory is certainly to be admired,” Rachel said, “but I think we must accept that the heirlooms never left France, as unfortunate as that is.”

“But in her diary,” Fiona insisted, “Grandmamma wrote of a visit Grandpapa made to Thorncliff shortly before his death. She wrote that she prayed her husband would soon return home with
the box
.”

“And yet she never received it,” Christopher pointed out.

Fiona sighed. “No, she didn't. Grandpapa set sail for France, perishing with the third Earl of Duncaster when the ship went down.” She sighed, her expression somber, though her eyes remained sharp with determination. “It's possible the jewelry box is still at Thorncliff, in which case, I've every intention of locating it. You can count on that.”

Christopher had no doubt about it. If there was one quality his sister didn't have in short supply, it was tenacity, which was why he was surprised when she dropped the subject completely to say, “I still can't believe Mama and Papa convinced Richard to join us.”

Christopher curled his fingers into a fist. “He had little choice in the matter. Oakland will be overrun by workmen the entire summer, and I daresay they'll be busy if Mama's plan to redecorate the entire place in the Greek style is to be fulfilled according to schedule.”

“Even so, you must admit that it's surprising,” Laura said.

Christopher chose not to comment. Contemplating his younger brother's ser­vice to the Crown made him uncomfortable. As Richard's older brother, he'd always felt a certain responsibility—­a need to protect him—­but the war against Napoleon had left Christopher with nothing but a distinct sense of failure. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulled out his own pocket watch to assess the time. It was one minute after two in the afternoon. He waited a minute before brushing his thumb across the watch face three times.

“There's no point in that, you know,” Rachel said. “Good fortune is derived from hard work and common sense, not from silly rituals.”

Although her comment was to be expected, it still annoyed Christopher. “I believe in luck, Rachel, and if that means adopting a few oddities, then so be it.” Turning away from her, he determined to savor the gentle sway of the carriage as they tumbled along, thankful that his sister chose not to comment any further. The truth of it was that his superstitious nature embarrassed him, for he knew it defied all logic and reason, yet he couldn't seem to avoid the feeling that awful things would happen unless he took certain measures to prevent them. He sighed. The hold it had on him had only increased after passing a tree with two ravens in it in 1815. That year, he'd not only been unlucky in love but his brother had also been captured by the French.

“Do you think Chloe will ever remarry?” Laura asked suddenly, referring to their widowed sister and consequently drawing Christopher out of his reverie.

“Probably not, all things considered,” Rachel muttered.

It occurred to Christopher that Rachel might be prettier if she didn't insist on pulling her hair so tightly back. Her sisters ought to offer their assistance, for they all looked pretty with their soft curls framing their faces, but Christopher knew that to suggest such a thing would only invite argument. Rachel had some very stubborn ideas—­none of which were likely to get her married.

“It's a good thing her husband died in that duel, or I would have run him through myself,” Fiona stated.

Christopher frowned. He wasn't sure if he ought to be proud of his sister's thirst for blood or terrified. Hell, he wished he'd had the opportunity to challenge the late Lord Newbury himself after discovering the man's numerous affairs. In the end it had been the unhappy husband of Newbury's latest paramour who'd seen to the man's demise. “One can only hope that if she does remarry, it will be to a man who deserves her,” he said.

Laura's eyes lit up. “Perhaps she'll meet an eligible gentleman at Thorncliff!” She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on her brother. “There might even be a young lady there to—­”

“You'd better not finish that sentence if you know what's good for you,” Christopher warned.

“There's no need for you to be so touchy,” Laura told him primly as she straightened and raised her chin a notch. “I only want what's best for you.”

Christopher groaned. His mother and father had told him the exact same thing. Repeatedly. It was the reason he'd avoided sharing a carriage with them to Thorncliff. The last thing he needed was to be trapped with them for six hours while they took turns suggesting potential brides to him. As the eldest son and heir to the Oakland title, he knew he'd eventually marry. He just wanted to wait until he was ready—­perhaps enjoy another Season of blissful bachelorhood in the arms of that little opera singer he'd had his eye on. He certainly had no desire to repeat the mistake he'd made five years earlier. “If I may offer a suggestion, dear sister—­restrict your romantic musings to the heroes and heroines in those wildly creative novels you're writing and keep me out of it.”

“But—­”

“No buts,” he told her firmly. “I won't allow you to play matchmaker for me.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Laura stared back at Christopher, glowering. He knew she was struggling to hold her tongue, and he admired her effort. Truly he did. But there was no telling how long her self-­restraint would last. Deciding to steer her attention away from him completely, he said, “All things considered, I think it would be more prudent if I were to find husbands for each of
you
.”

“W-­h-­a-­t?” The outburst came from Rachel, which wasn't the least bit surprising. Christopher knew her entire world revolved around math and science. Settling down and starting a family was probably the furthest thing from her mind.

“You're not getting any younger,” he said, indelicately addressing the subject their mother had broached so often that it had turned into a regular sermon.

“I'm only eighteen,” Fiona said with marked indignation. “Hardly an old maid yet.”

“True,” Christopher agreed, patting her hand in a gesture he hoped would soothe her. “I admit that your situation is not as urgent as Rachel's or Emily's, who, if I may remind you, are three and twenty and two and twenty, respectively.”

“It's good to know that when age is of concern, everyone in this family can be quite precise indeed,” Rachel said, her eyes flashing as she pressed her lips together in a firm line.

“Surely you must have considered leaving your scientific discoveries to someone—­a legacy of sorts, if you will? Who better than a child, whom you can educate and influence so he or she will share your enthusiasm for . . .” Christopher searched his brain for a suitable word but could only think of “ . . . slugs?”

“Since you've developed such a keen interest in my research,” Rachel said, the fire in her eyes cooling a fraction as she spoke, “I'll have you know that I intend to publish my work as soon as it is completed.
That,
dear brother, will be my legacy. Husbands and children will only complicate the issue.”

“I don't think Christopher intended for you to have more than one,” Laura murmured.

Christopher's lips twitched as he fought against the smile that threatened. Appearing to be amused by this conversation would not be to his benefit, trapped as he was with three women in a closed carriage.

“More than one what?” Rachel asked, her head swiveling toward her sister. There could be no denying her irritability.

“You spoke of husband
s
just now,” Laura explained. “As in plural?”

“I . . .” Rachel began. She must have realized that denying her error would be futile with witnesses present, for she crossed her arms instead and said, “Oh! You know what I mean.”

“Did you ever consider,” Christopher remarked, “that there might be a lonely scientist out there who'd be thrilled to make you his bride? Shared interests and all that?”

“There isn't,” Rachel said, her expression so tight she looked positively frightening. “Not unless I am willing to settle for a man who's either thrice my age or one who can barely afford to put food on the table. I calculated the probability of it last year.”

“The statistics might have changed since then,” Christopher offered.

Rachel said nothing further. She merely glared at him.

“Well, perhaps I will focus on settling Emily's future instead,” he said. He wasn't sure why he insisted on continuing this discussion, other than that he took pleasure in teasing his sisters.

“She won't like your meddling any more than you would ours,” Fiona said with a seriousness that belied her age. “And don't forget that unlike the rest of us, you're Papa's heir. It's your
duty
to find a wife and start producing children.”

Christopher angled his head just enough to stare down at his youngest sister. “And what, pray tell, would you know about that?” he asked.

“Enough to inform you that you cannot accomplish it alone,” Fiona declared. Laughter sprang from Laura's lips, and Rachel turned a deep shade of crimson. “You will need a lady to assist.”

Hoping to hide the rising sense of discomfort that always came with this particular subject, he assumed his most arrogant tone and uttered the only word that might be considered appropriate in such a situation. “Indeed.”

Unwilling to discuss the subject further, he proceeded to stare out the window, forcing his thoughts away from the woman he should have married five years earlier if she hadn't turned out to be a complete fraud.

“That can't possibly be it,” Laura said a short while later.

Christopher turned toward the sound of his sisters' voices all
ooh-­
ing and
aah-­
ing, as if they'd just stepped inside La Belle Anglaise, an exclusive fabric shop in Mayfair. They were all blocking the window of course, preventing Christopher from glimpsing the subject of their excitement until Rachel moved aside, apparently through with her inspection.

Christopher leaned forward, equally amazed. In the distance, nestled against a soft swell of hills, stood a manor . . . no . . . a palace, more splendid than any he'd ever seen. Hell, it put Carleton House to shame with its regiment of marble columns standing sentry before each wing, the central part of the building paying tribute to a Greek temple.