Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires (30 page)

 

Chapter 18

“I
t's chillier tonight than I expected,” Juliet said that evening at dinner. As promised, Lady Duncaster had arranged for her guests to dine on board the
Endurance.
Though the air was regrettably cooler than it had been on the previous days, the setting was splendid, with globular lanterns strung along the rigging. Trays filled with water, on which roses and candles had been set afloat, were placed in the middle of each round table, while music drifted forward from the stern, where the orchestra played.

“You should have worn your spencer as I suggested,” Lady Andover told Juliet.

“But Mama, it would have spoiled the entire effect of my gown,” Juliet said as she looked to her sisters for support.

Sympathizing with her, Sarah said, “She does have a point, Mama. A spencer would crush those puffy sleeves to an indistinguishable mess.” She looked at Juliet, who appeared quite pleased with Sarah's defense. “However, you could have brought a shawl. I'll fetch one for you if you like. Perhaps the pink one?”

“Oh, would you? I'd be ever so grateful,” Juliet said, her smile widening into a happy grin.

“And since you're going anyway,” Lady Andover said, “perhaps I can convince you to bring my lorgnettes? Unfortunately I cannot see as well as I'd like to in this dim lighting.”

Hiding a smile, Sarah agreed to return with the items as quickly as possible. She made her way toward the gangplank leading down to the lawn, passing several footmen as she went. It seemed so strange to think that she'd be leaving in the morning. Stepping onto the springy grass, she hastened toward the house, determined to return before dinner was served. Thankfully, the seating arrangement had placed her at the opposite end of the deck from where Lord Spencer was seated with his family, saving her from having to endure a strained atmosphere with awkward conversation.

Reaching the glass door leading back inside, Sarah considered Lady Duncaster's offer. It was extremely generous of her, promising Sarah a comfortable life without marriage to a man she detested, and without leaving England either.

Passing a ­couple of footmen in the hallway, she started up the stairs. Turning down the corridor that would take her to her bedchamber, she paused at the muted sound of footfalls on the carpet behind her. Turning to see who was following her, she didn't quite complete her rotation before a heavy hand covered her mouth and she found herself pushed through a doorway and into a room filled with darkness. The door swung shut behind her. Panic rose up inside her as a strong arm grabbed her firmly about the waist, holding her arms in place and preventing her from lashing out, leaving her with no other option than to kick.

“Hold still, you little bitch,” a harsh voice growled when the heel of her foot connected with a leg.

Mr. Denison.

However concerned Sarah had been for her safety a moment earlier, she was now terrified. Mr. Denison's words, ­coupled with the fact that he'd been seriously humiliated by her, did not bode well. Neither did the strong whiff of brandy on his breath. She tried to speak—­to ask him why he was doing this, but his hand made that impossible.

“This is all your fault,” he said in a gravelly tone. “Why the hell couldn't you just agree to marry me? I need that heir you were going to give me. But you think yourself better than me—­that you deserve more. Well, you're not going to get more than what I've got to offer you now that his lordship knows you for what you are. Considering all the time and effort I've invested, I daresay it's time you paid your due.” Reaching up, he pawed at Sarah's breast. Her blood ran cold. “If you'd protected your virtue, men like me would not be so tempted, but knowing you've already been had . . .” He grunted while he tugged at her nipple. “I daresay you've provoked the wildest imaginings.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sarah tried to block out the painful words—­the reminder of her stupidity and the nausea that threatened in response to Mr. Denison's touch. It made her sick to think of what she'd done—­of what she'd given away in a moment of youthful folly—­and what she'd denied Lord Spencer as a result.

Aware of what was likely to happen if she did nothing, she stepped down hard on Mr. Denison's foot. He muttered an oath. “Try that again and I'll make this painful for you,” he sneered. He then chuckled and licked the side of her neck, making her shudder with disgust. “I wonder if Lord Spencer has had his chance to sample you yet,” he continued as his hand left her breast and drifted lower, across her belly and toward the juncture between her thighs. Sarah struggled against him, but her attempts were futile. He merely laughed in response as he tried to force his hand between her legs. “You're not quite as willing today as I suspect you've been in the past,” he said. “I find I rather enjoy it.”

Locking her knees together with all her strength, Sarah fought to deprive him of what he was now after, though she feared she would not be able to do so much longer. He was stronger than she was, and she could feel her body weakening as she struggled against him. She tried to scream, but it was to no avail. Nobody would hear her or know of what was about to transpire. That was when the tears came. Sobbing, she reached out and tried to grab for something—­anything—­she could use as a weapon, but in the next instant, the door to the room crashed open. Mr. Denison muttered an oath, followed by a loud groan as he dragged her to the side. His hand left her mouth and Sarah gulped for air as she fell toward the floor, landing on top of Mr. Denison, who'd grasped hold of her gown in his own attempt to stay upright.

Sarah still wasn't sure of what had happened until she felt firm hands upon her arms, lifting her away from Mr. Denison and removing her to safety before dealing the vile man a hefty blow to the nose that produced a loud cracking sound. “I'll kill you, you despicable cad,” Lord Spencer growled.

The room grew brighter, and Sarah saw to her horror that two footmen had arrived, alerted by the noise. “Lord Spencer, that's enough,” she told Lord Spencer urgently as he punched Mr. Denison again. “Please stop.”

But there was no stopping Lord Spencer's attack. He was like a man possessed with only one goal—­to beat Mr. Denison until there was nothing left of him.

With rigid expressions, the footmen stepped forward and pulled Lord Spencer back, almost taking a hit themselves in the process as Lord Spencer flailed to be free from their grasp so he could finish Mr. Denison off. Or so it seemed to Sarah as she watched the scene unfold. Never before had she seen a man attack another. There was a mad brutality to it—­a deep fury that seemed to consume—­and although she knew Mr. Denison deserved a thrashing, she was glad the footmen were there to put an end to it, since she feared for Lord Spencer and what might happen to him if he managed to kill Mr. Denison.

“My lord,” one of the footmen said, “Lady Duncaster is quite fond of her carpets. It would be unfortunate if you and your . . . er . . . friend were to get blood on it.”

Panting heavily from the exertion, Lord Spencer stared down at the mess he'd made on the floor. Eventually he nodded and shrugged himself free of the footmen's grasp. “My apologies,” he said. “If you'd please see Mr. Denison back to his bedchamber, I'll inform Lady Duncaster that he's feeling slightly unwell.”

The other footman grunted. “I daresay that's an understatement, my lord.” He hesitated briefly before saying, “May I ask what brought this on?”

“It was merely a quarrel,” Lord Spencer said as he straightened the cuffs of his shirt and rearranged his jacket. “We just got a bit carried away. That's all.”

“As you say, my lord,” the footman replied as he stepped toward Mr. Denison, no doubt preparing to hoist the man back up to his feet.

“Come with me,” Spencer told Sarah as he offered her his arm.

She went to him hesitantly, not liking the anger that lingered in his eyes. But she was grateful that he'd arrived as quickly as he had, and she therefore allowed him to escort her out of the room.

“Are you all right?” he asked her as soon as they were alone.

“I've had better days, I must admit, but I'll be fine. Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, her entire body trembling in the aftermath. “The thought of what might have happened if you had not arrived when you did is too unbearable to consider.”

“Shh . . . you're safe now.” Placing his free hand over hers, he squeezed her fingers. “I'm just glad that I saw him following you when you left the ship, though I do wish I'd found you sooner.”

“You mustn't berate yourself for anything, my lord. You saved me, and that is all that matters.”

“Perhaps you should stay in your bedchamber and rest. I can inform your family that you have taken ill.” His expression was set in hard lines, reminding Sarah of the breach in their friendship.

“If you don't mind bringing my sister her shawl and Lady Andover her lorgnette, I think that your idea is a good one.” She hated the way her voice shook as she spoke.

Arriving at the suite of rooms Sarah shared with her sisters, Lord Spencer waited outside while Sarah went in to fetch the shawl, and then again while she went in search of the lorgnette. After she handed him the items, they stood facing each other in silence for a drawn-­out moment. Sarah wondered if he was mourning the loss of their previous camaraderie as much as she was. “Thank you again,” she eventually said, suddenly eager to be alone so she could prepare for her departure the following day. The sooner she left, the better.

He sketched a stiff bow. “I'm just glad I could help.” He stepped back, fists clenched at his sides. “Until tomorrow.”

Sarah watched him walk away, then quietly closed the door behind her. If only she could leave Thorncliff this instant. Entering her bedchamber, she knelt down and watched the soothing rhythm of Snowball's tiny body rising and falling as he slept. “He won't come for me,” Sarah whispered. Lady Duncaster was wrong. Lord Spencer had done his duty toward her this evening as a gentleman, but he had put all thought of sharing his future with her from his mind. Acknowledging this, the last of her hopes crumbled.

“W
hat will you do?” Chadwick asked Christopher later that evening as they each enjoyed a glass of after-­dinner brandy in the library. They were seated in a secluded corner, while other groups of gentlemen were scattered around the exceedingly long room.

“I don't know,” Christopher said. Staring into his tumbler, he suppressed a shudder. The image of Lady Sarah being assaulted by Mr. Denison still shook him. “I didn't imagine finding a bride when I chose to come here with my family.”

Chadwick snorted. “No. I don't suppose you did. But Lady Sarah will make a fine wife for you, Spencer, if you can muster the courage to ask her, that is.”

Looking up, Christopher met Chadwick's gaze. “It's not that simple.”

“The devil it isn't.” Chadwick took a sip of his brandy. “If what I said about Harlowe is affecting your decision, I urge you to reconsider. After all, we played cards with Harlowe, caroused with him, invited him into our homes, not one of us aware of his true character. If he was able to fool the lot of us, then it goes without saying that he was capable of charming a young lady.”

“I don't know . . .” Chadwick's comment didn't make Christopher feel any better. He wished he could tell his friend what the real issue was, but that would be dishonorable, so he glowered instead.

“Forget Harlowe,” Chadwick said.

Christopher raised a brow at the impossibility of that request. What he'd started to feel for Sarah was more than just a passing fancy. He'd genuinely liked her, admired her, longed for her company . . . to his consternation, he found that he still did. She had done the honorable thing by telling him the truth and he had understood her reluctance to do so, but he couldn't seem to forget about Harlowe. The man seemed to be haunting him from beyond the grave in the most disturbing of ways.

“Think of her character instead. She's a good person, Spencer, and more than that, she is good for you. Don't be a fool and pass up this chance at happiness.”

Christopher considered his friend's words. Chadwick didn't know what Sarah had done, and Christopher was unsure of whether or not he was capable of accepting her mistake no matter how much he cared for her. Having thought of little else since the duel against Mr. Denison, Christopher had concluded that the incident was unlikely to harm his own family, now that Mr. Denison had been made aware that Christopher would use his influence to discredit him completely if he chose to spread malicious rumors. “I don't know . . .”

“Then perhaps I should make it easier for you by pursuing her myself,” Chadwick said.

Christopher gripped the armrest and leaned forward, his brandy almost sloshing over the sides of his glass in response to the jerky movement. “You will not.”

“So you won't stake your claim to her and you won't allow another man to do so either? Honestly, Spencer, I think there's something wrong with your head.”

“My head is perfectly fine,” Christopher grumbled.

But he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he was being too hard on Lady Sarah—­that he was allowing the ingrained rules of Society to guide him instead of considering his own opinion on the matter. Was her mistake really so severe that it should alter all his feelings for her? He still trusted her, more so now that she had told him everything. A lesser person would have avoided the truth until he discovered it for himself on their wedding night. Searching his mind, he considered all the other ladies he had ever known. None had affected him as much as Lady Sarah. None had made him as happy. Not even Miss Hepplestone. Dragging in a breath, he met Chadwick's speculative gaze. “You're right,” Christopher said.