Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires (4 page)

Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy for her. Very well then, she deserved it. Straightening her back, she forced herself to remain unaffected by his handsomeness, focusing on a spot beyond his left shoulder. “You were just trying to help, my lord. It was unfair of me to blame you for your lack of success.” Her eyes shot to his face. Oh dear. He was going to think she was mocking him now.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Apology accepted,” he said, “even though I suspect it sounded better in your head than it did once you spoke it out loud.”

“Quite.” Sarah dropped her gaze to the floor, hating how stupid he made her feel—­especially since she'd always prided herself on her smart rejoinders. She caught a flickering movement out of the corner of her eye. There, peeking between some fern leaves, nose twitching as he scouted the area, was Snowball.

“Don't move,” she whispered. Cautiously, she then eased her hand forward, hoping to coax her little pet from his hiding place. To her frustration, he started backing away from her, forcing her to lean forward even further, until, sensing she would lose her balance, she brought down a hand to steady herself, her fingers pressing through wet soil just as a fern leaf brushed against her cheek.

Patience fled and so did Snowball as soon as Sarah attempted to snatch him. A moment later, she heard Lord Spencer muttering something from behind her. It was then that she became acutely aware of her unladylike position. Fighting the wave of embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm her, she applied her driest tone and said, “Perhaps when you have finished judging me (she could just imagine him rolling his eyes), you'll be good enough to help me up?”

A measure of discomfort filled his voice as he said, “Of course. My apologies,” and then she felt his hands on both sides of her waist, gripping her firmly as he gently pulled her back to solid ground. It was a quick endeavor really, and quite efficient, since she was now safely out of the dirt. His hands didn't linger upon her either—­indeed, there was nothing in the effort that could be construed as inappropriate in any way—­and yet, Sarah could still feel the heat of him upon her after he'd let her go. His touch . . . it had somehow curled its way beneath her skin, warming her insides—­an odd sensation, considering his ability to vex her. It had to be his handsomeness, she decided. Against her better judgment, she looked up, her eyes settling on the soft curve of his mouth—­a mouth that threatened to smile, even though it resisted—­and she inadvertently wondered what it might be like to place a kiss there.

She jerked away from him. Where on earth had that thought come from? She didn't even like this man! Not particularly.

“Are you all right?” Lord Spencer asked.

“Yes,” Sarah replied, hating the high pitch of her voice. “Thank you. I um . . . I think he went that way.” With a sniff intended to hide her discomfort, Sarah pushed past Lord Spencer and went after Snowball, pretending all the while that her heart was completely immune to the viscount's presence.

“You must be terrified,” Sarah whispered moments later when she discovered Snowball in a gap at the base of a fountain. “Come on,” she added, hoping her voice would soothe the anxious creature. How awful it must be for him to be chased through a veritable jungle by two stomping giants. Sticking her fingers inside the hole, Sarah coaxed him out toward her, murmuring words of reassurance until she finally managed to scoop him up in both hands while gently stroking his head with her thumb. “Shh . . . it's all right. You're safe now.” Remembering she was not alone, Sarah turned to Lord Spencer, her eyes meeting his as she smiled and said, “My lord, we've finally got him!”

Lord Spencer tilted his head and peered down at the subject of their discussion. “
We
? To be fair, you're the one who caught him.”

Determined to part with Lord Spencer on good terms, Sarah shook her head. “It was a joint effort.” She hesitated a moment before reaching her cupped hands toward him. “Would you like to hold him?”

Lord Spencer eyed her offering with clear apprehension. “I don't think . . .” He straightened, his features hardening as he looked in the direction of the door.

Sarah stilled. Voices were approaching.

Clutching Snowball against her chest, Sarah looked to Lord Spencer, who appeared to be equally aware of their problem, his eyes as dark as when he'd accused Sarah of trying to trap him.

His eyebrows drew together. “Hide yourself,” he said, his expression both rigid and cold. “I'll divert their attention. You can come out and leave as soon as we're gone.” And then he strode away along the path without another word, leaving Sarah behind with an unexpected pain in her chest.

 

Chapter 3

T
wo hours later, Sarah was summoned to a small parlor by her father. A footman showed her in, and as she stepped inside, she realized that her father was not alone. He was accompanied by a man who looked to be of similar age to her father, with a figure that showed a great fondness for food.

Caught off guard, Sarah dipped into a curtsy as the door closed behind her.

“My dear,” her father said, his voice more loving than it had been these past two years, “I'm so glad you could join us.” She rose, straightening her spine. The man with her father . . . it couldn't be . . .
please don't let it be
. . . “Why don't you have a seat on the sofa beside Mr. Denison so you can become better acquainted?”

Oh dear God, it was.

The man she was meant to marry was as old as her father, making him a good thirty years her senior. His head was balding too, whatever hair that remained there as gray as ash from a burned-­out fire. Meeting his gaze, she was instantly struck by the look of pleasure shining in his eyes. She forced a smile, even as her stomach contracted at the thought of what was in store for her.

“I must say I am delighted to finally meet you,” Mr. Denison said as she stepped toward the vacant spot on the sofa.

“Likewise,” she said as he bowed toward her. She cast a hesitant look in her father's direction. Noting the beaming smile upon his face, she knew it would not go well for her if she complained about this match. Reluctantly, she took her seat, with Mr. Denison beside her.

“I understand from your father that your journey to Thorncliff went well?” Mr. Denison inquired.

Of course her father would not have mentioned the strained atmosphere that had prevailed inside the carriage. “It did.”

There was a brief silence, broken by her father's cough. Sarah glanced toward him. He nodded in Mr. Denison's direction. “And you, sir?” Sarah asked Mr. Denison, taking the cue her father had given. “Did your journey pass without incident?” Lord, this was mundane conversation! If only she could be quarreling with Lord Spencer instead.

“My daughters found it rather tedious, but I didn't mind it so much. In fact, I could gaze upon the English countryside all day without tiring of it.”

“You . . . you have daughters?” Of course he was bound to have children at his age if he had been married before, which meant he must be a widower.

“Victoria is two and twenty, and Diana will be three and twenty next month. It is my hope that they will be able to make good matches for themselves during our stay here. Since it is my wish—­my fondest wish, I might add—­that you and I will . . . become better acquainted over the next few weeks, I was hoping you might be willing to help them. They're wonderful girls, both of them. I'm sure you'll find . . .”

Mr. Denison's voice faded into the background until Sarah was oblivious to what he was saying. She could scarcely breathe, her stomach bottoming out as reality hit her: marriage to an aging man she did not know and being stepmother to women who were older than she was. It was unthinkable, yet it seemed that this would be her lot—­the price she must pay for her transgression.

“ . . . and you are far more beautiful than I had ever imagined,” Mr. Denison continued. “To think that I have been given the chance to court you is indeed an honor. Your father had so many positive things to say about you in his letter, and I've already discovered that we have something in common—­a fondness for the outdoors!”

Didn't most ­people enjoy a bit of fresh air and sunshine? It was hardly enough basis for marriage. Sarah's hand curled around the fabric of her gown. Perhaps . . . She glanced at her father, aware that she was about to risk his wrath. “Mr. Denison, has Papa also told you of my scandalous behavior?”

Mr. Denison coughed. “Well . . . he . . . er—­”

“I have informed Mr. Denison that you are no longer chaste. He has kindly agreed to accept. Is that not so, sir?”

“Oh, indeed it is, my lord.” Mr. Denison's mouth drew into a wide smile. “In fact, I suspect I'll find Lady Sarah's willful nature most agreeable.”

For once, Sarah's father looked just as disgusted as Sarah felt. Unlike her, however, he quickly recovered. “Two weeks, Mr. Denison. Will that be enough time for your courtship?”

Sarah stared. It was as if she wasn't even in the room.

“Certainly, my lord. It's more than sufficient,” Mr. Denison said. His laughing eyes looked Sarah up and down.

“Good,” Lord Andover clipped. “The sooner we plan this wedding, the better.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Mr. Denison said. He edged closer to Sarah. “What say you, my dear?”

Nooooo!!!

Realizing that her hands were trembling, Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for strength. “Perfect,” she managed, even as her mind began contemplating a speedy escape. Portsmouth wasn't far. Maybe she could board a ship bound for America. If she could find the money to sponsor such a journey.

“Well then,” Mr. Denison said, “perhaps you'd like to join me for a stroll in the garden tomorrow. I've been told there's an antique sundial—­should prove interesting.”

“I'm sure it will,” Sarah said politely. Apparently she would not have to plan an escape after all, since she was clearly destined to perish from boredom.

Once again Mr. Denison beamed, offering Sarah a direct view of his teeth. Each was crooked, and one was even missing. She tried not to wince at the thought of eventually having to kiss him. Ga!

Mr. Denison rose. “If you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest before dinner this evening. Thank you for your time, Lord Andover. Lady Sarah, I'll look forward to seeing you later.”

Sarah nodded, still struggling to comprehend what had just transpired—­that her future had been determined by men and that it didn't look the least bit bright. She'd always imagined she'd marry for love.
Love
. How easy it was to conjure an empty reflection of that emotion with pretty words. Words she'd fallen prey to once with embarrassing ease. No, she would not marry for love. She would marry because her parents were desperate to be rid of her, which, to be fair, was not such an uncommon reason.

Schooling her emotions, Sarah rose, as did her father. “I ought to go and pick out a gown for dinner this evening,” she said, grateful that her voice did not reflect her inner turmoil. “I'll want to look my best for Mr. Denison.”

“Don't squander this opportunity,” her father said, his face drawn in grim lines. “You have your sisters to consider. As soon as you are settled, they'll be less likely to have their reputations ruined by association, if word were to get out.”

“It won't,” Sarah said. It hadn't yet.

“Still, you'll be your husband's responsibility, and as a married woman living in Yorkshire—­”

“I'm going to Yorkshire? For good?” She might as well be going to the moon.

“It's where Mr. Denison has his home—­a horse farm with spectacular Thoroughbreds, including ten prime mares, in case you're wondering. Once we breed them with that stallion I bought in Germany last year, we'll produce some fine racers.”

“A horse farm,” Sarah echoed, feeling weak. Of course her father would leap at the opportunity to form an alliance with a fellow horse enthusiast. Especially if there was money in it, which there would be, considering the best horses sold for somewhere in the vicinity of one thousand pounds, perhaps more.

“And if I don't comply?”

Heavy creases formed upon her father's brow. “We've been over this a dozen times before, Sarah. You were born to procure land, status and opportunity through marriage. Squandering your chance to do your duty . . .” He took a breath, visibly agitated as he stared at her without compassion. “I have done the best I can, under the circumstances, providing a match for you that will benefit this family greatly.”

“By sending me off to Yorkshire to live on a horse farm.”

“If it's any consolation, I wish I could go in your stead.”

“And marry Mr. Denison? I'm sure you'd make a delightful ­couple. I certainly woul—­”

“Watch your tongue, Sarah!” Her father's voice ricocheted off the walls. He paused and took a fortifying breath before continuing. “The important thing is that nobody there will care one way or another about your past—­especially not when you're a married woman.”

“I'll be out of the way,” Sarah murmured.
While you and Mr. Denison will be filling your coffers.

“It's for the best,” her father said, upon which he left the room.

“Y
ou made the right choice, selecting the blue gown this evening,” Lady Andover said as she and Sarah followed the rest of the family down the stairs to supper that evening. “No doubt Mr. Denison will find you pleasing.”

“You speak as though I deliberately aim for him to do so,” Sarah muttered.

“You continue to try my patience,” Lady Andover said. “Your papa and I have been exceedingly tolerant. We have even found a man who is willing to marry you when most would have shuddered at the thought of accepting another's castoff. But rather than show us some gratitude, you treat us with contempt.”

“
I
treat
you
with contempt, Mama?” Sarah could scarcely believe the accusation. “You wouldn't say so if you were in my shoes.”

“I hope you're not implying that we have been unjust with you or that we've treated you any differently than you might have expected under the circumstances. There are many parents who would have disowned their daughter for what you've done, yet you continuously act as though all of this is our fault, when you have only yourself to blame.”

There was a measure of truth to that which Sarah could not deny.

“I doubt I'm likely to forget it, Mama,” Sarah said, “but if you wish to maintain some semblance of normalcy and prevent unnecessary gossip, I would suggest we try to pretend I've done nothing wrong. To that end, it wouldn't hurt if you smiled at me on occasion.”

Halting, Lady Andover stared at her stepdaughter, her lips stretching into a tight smile. “Will this do?”

Sarah's heart crumpled, but she held her head high as she said, “It's fortunate you're not an actress, since you'd hardly have much success on the stage with such a meagre effort.”

“Pretending one's daughter is not a disappointment is no easy task, Sarah, but I do what I must, and so will your Papa. All I ask is for you to follow suit so we can put this mess behind us.”

And with that final bite, Lady Andover sailed after her husband and her other, untarnished, daughters, entering the green salon with them while Sarah trailed behind. As much as it hurt, she knew she only had herself to blame. She also knew she had a duty to fix her mistake as best she could for the sake of her sisters' reputations.

Straightening her spine, Sarah followed her family, aware that her arrival had not gone unnoticed. She was being watched by several prominent guests, their curiosity undoubtedly enormous due to Sarah's absence from Society for so long.

Quickening her pace, she hurried past the Duchess of Pinehurst, a dragon outfitted with a pair of quizzing glasses, her attention fixed directly on Sarah. Her Grace was notorious for hunting down brides for her grandsons—­of which she had several. Explaining to her that she would rather marry Mr. Denison was not a conversation Sarah wished to endure.

Catching her breath, she looked about, seeking her soon-­to-­be fiancé, relief flooding her when she failed to find him. Glancing at her parents and younger sisters, she decided to avoid that quarter, since they were now busily conversing with the Earl and Countess of Wilmington. Panic set in at the thought of being questioned by
that
inquisitive ­couple, so Sarah continued past them, hoping she would soon discover a small nook where she could go unnoticed until they were all called into the dining room.

To her relief, she discovered an alcove with a low bench and a window looking out on the garden. Heading straight for it, she almost reached it when a young lady stepped into her path and said, “I believe I've yet to make your acquaintance.”

Sarah froze, her eyes shifting between the dark-­haired woman and the window seat that beckoned. “I . . . er . . .”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the lady said with an air of confidence that was difficult not to admire. “I'm Fiona Heartly—­the Earl and Countess of Oakland's youngest. And you are?” Lady Fiona tilted her head as she peered up at Sarah with great interest.

There was no getting around it without being rude. Sarah was going to have to introduce herself to someone for the third time that day, so she forced a smile and said, “Lady Sarah—­the Earl and Countess of Andover's eldest.”

Lady Fiona frowned. “Are you married?” she asked rather bluntly.

Sarah shook her head, not liking the direction in which this conversation was going. “No,” she said, deciding to keep her reply short.

“Perhaps you have a fiancé then?” Lady Fiona inquired.

Heavens, but the woman was being forward! Sarah pressed her lips together and fought the urge to run. “Not really,” she said. Technically this was true. Lady Fiona's frown deepened. “Forgive me, but I'm simply trying to place you. I made my debut last Season, but I didn't see you at any of the social gatherings. Had you been there, I would have noticed, since I do have a tendency to be quite observant.” She narrowed her gaze, and Sarah's skin began to prick. “You're not old enough to be on the shelf yet, which makes me wonder why we've never met before.”

“I made my debut two years ago,” Sarah explained, “but then Grandmamma died and I went into mourning, which is why I was absent last Season.”