The Sum of All Kisses (21 page)

“Take a deep breath,” Honoria said soothingly, but her eyes were horrified.

“How can I even talk about it?” Sarah cried. “How awful I would feel about Hugh and how angry I would be at him when obviously that would mean Daniel is already dead, and shouldn’t
that
be what crushes me and— God above, Honoria, it is against the very nature of man. I can’t— I can’t—”

She fell into her cousin’s arms, gasping through her tears. “It isn’t fair,” she sobbed into Honoria’s shoulder. “It just isn’t fair.”

“No. It’s not.”

“I love him.”

Honoria did not stop rubbing her back. “I know that you do.”

“And I feel like a monster, being upset that he said—” Sarah gasped, her lungs pulling in an unexpected gulp of air. “That he said that he would kill himself, and then I begged him to tell me that he wouldn’t do it, when shouldn’t I really be upset that all this would mean that something had happened to Daniel?”

“But you can see why Lord Hugh made that bargain in the first place,” Honoria said. “Can’t you?”

Sarah nodded against her. Her lungs hurt. Her whole body hurt. “But it should be different now,” she whispered. “He should feel differently now.
I
should mean something.”

“And you
do,
” Honoria said reassuringly. “I know that you do. I’ve seen the way you look at each other when you think no one is watching.”

Sarah pulled back just far enough to look at her cousin’s face. Honoria was gazing down at her with the tiniest of smiles, and her eyes—her amazing lavender eyes that Sarah had always envied—were clear and serene.

Was that the difference between the two of them? Sarah wondered. Honoria approached each day as if the world were made of greenglass seas and soft ocean breezes. Sarah’s world was one storm after another. She’d never had a serene day in her life.

“I’ve watched the way he looks at
you,
” Honoria said. “He is in love with you.”

“He has not said it.”

“Have you?”

Sarah let her silence be her reply.

Honoria reached out and took her hand. “You might have to be the brave one and say it first.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Sarah said, thinking of Marcus, always so honorable and reserved. “You fell in love with the easiest, loveliest, least complicated man in England.”

Honoria gave a sympathetic shrug. “We can’t help with whom we fall in love. And you’re not the easiest, least complicated woman in England, you know.”

Sarah gave her a sideways look. “You left out loveliest.”

“Well, you might be the loveliest,” Honoria said with a crooked smile. Then she nudged Sarah with her elbow. “I daresay Lord Hugh thinks you’re the loveliest.”

Sarah buried her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“I think you’re going to have to talk to him.”

Sarah knew Honoria was right, but she could not stop her mind from racing through all of the eventualities such a conversation might bring. “What if he says he will hold to the bargain?” she finally asked, her voice small and scared.

Several seconds went by, and Honoria said, “Then at least you will know. But if you don’t ask him, you will never know what he might have said. Just think if Romeo and Juliet had actually
talked
to each other.”

Sarah looked up, momentarily flabbergasted. “That’s a
terrible
comparison.”

“Sorry, yes, you’re right.” Honoria looked abashed, then changed her mind and pointed at Sarah with a jaunty finger. “But it made you stop crying.”

“If only to scold you.”

“You may scold me all you wish if it brings a smile back to your face. But you must promise me that you will talk to him. You don’t want some big, awful misunderstanding to ruin your chance at happiness.”

“What you’re saying is, if my life is to be ruined, I need to do it myself?” Sarah asked in a dry voice.

“It’s not quite how I would have put it, but yes.”

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, and then she asked, almost absentmindedly, “Did you know he can multiply large sums in his head?”

Honoria smiled indulgently. “No, but it does not surprise me.”

“It takes him only an instant. He tried to explain it once, what it looks like in his head when he does it, but I couldn’t follow a thing he was saying.”

“Arithmetic works in mysterious ways.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “As opposed to love?”

“Love is entirely incomprehensible,” Honoria said. “Arithmetic is merely mysterious.” She shrugged, stood up, and held out a hand to Sarah. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Shall we go find out?”

“You’re coming with me?”

“Just to help you locate him.” She gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “It’s a large house.”

Sarah quirked a suspicious brow. “You’re afraid I will lose my nerve.”

“Without a doubt,” Honoria confirmed.

“I won’t,” Sarah said, and despite the butterflies in her stomach and dread in her heart, she knew it was true. She was not one to back down from her fears. And she would never be able to live with herself if she did not do everything in her power to ensure her own happiness.

And Hugh’s. Because if anyone in this world deserved a happy ending, it was he.

“But not right away,” Sarah said. “I need to tidy up. I don’t want to go to him looking as if I’ve been crying.”

“He should know he made you cry.”

“Why, Honoria Smythe-Smith, that might be the most hard-hearted thing I have ever heard you say.”

“It’s Honoria Holroyd now,” Honoria said pertly, “and it’s true. The only thing worse than a man who makes a woman cry is a man who makes a woman cry and then doesn’t feel guilty about it.”

Sarah looked at her with a new sort of respect. “Married life agrees with you.”

Honoria’s smile was a touch smug. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Sarah scooted herself to the edge of the bed and slid off. Her legs were stiff, and she stretched each one in turn, bending and straightening at the knee. “He already knows he made me cry.”

“Good.”

Sarah leaned against the side of the bed and looked down at her hands. Her fingers were swollen. How did
that
happen? Who got sausage fingers from crying?

“Is something wrong?” Honoria asked.

Sarah gave her a rueful look. “I believe I would rather Lord Hugh think I’m the sort of woman who looks gorgeous while she cries, eyes all glistening and such.”

“As opposed to red-rimmed and puffy?”

“Is that your way of telling me I look a mess?”

“You’ll want to redo your hair,” Honoria said, ever the epitome of tact.

Sarah nodded. “Do you know where Harriet is? We’re sharing a room, and I don’t want her seeing me like this.”

“She would never judge,” Honoria assured her.

“I know. But I’m not up to her questions. And you know she’ll have questions.”

Honoria bit back a grin. She knew Harriet. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “I will make sure that Harriet is distracted, and you can go to your room to . . .” She fluttered her hands near her face, the universal signal for fixing one’s appearance.

Sarah gave a nod. “Thank you. And Honoria . . .” Sarah waited until her cousin had turned back around to face her. “I love you.”

Honoria gave a wobbly smile. “I love you, too, Sarah.” She brushed a nonexistent tear from her eye, then asked, “Would you like me to send word to Lord Hugh, asking him to meet with you in thirty minutes?”

“Perhaps an hour?” Sarah was brave, but not that brave. She needed more time to bolster her confidence.

“In the conservatory?” Honoria suggested, walking toward the door. “You’ll have privacy. I don’t think anyone’s used the room all week. I imagine they’re all afraid they might stumble upon us practicing for a musicale.”

Sarah smiled despite herself. “All right. The conservatory in an hour. I shall—”

She was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

“That’s odd,” Honoria said. “Daniel knows we—” She shrugged, not bothering to finish her statement. “Enter!”

The door opened, and one of the footmen stepped in. “My lady,” he said to Honoria, blinking with surprise. “I was looking for his lordship.”

“He very kindly allowed us the use of his room,” Honoria said. “Is there a problem?”

“No, but I have a message from the stables.”

“From the stables?” Honoria echoed. “That’s very strange.” She looked over at Sarah, who had been waiting patiently through the exchange. “Whatever could be so important that they told George to come find Daniel in his bedchamber?”

Sarah shrugged, figuring George was the footman. Honoria had grown up at Whipple Hill; of course she’d know his name.

“Very well,” Honoria said, turning back to the footman. She held out her hand. “If you give the message to me, I will make sure that Lord Winstead receives it.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. It’s not written down. I was asked just to tell him.”

“I will relay it,” Honoria said.

The footman looked undecided, but only for a moment. “Thank you, ma’am. I was asked to tell his lordship that Lord Hugh took one of the carriages to Thatcham.”

Sarah snapped to attention. “Lord Hugh?”

“Er, yes,” George confirmed. “He’s the gentleman who limps, isn’t he?”

“Why would he go to Thatcham?”

“Sarah,” Honoria said, “I’m sure George doesn’t know—”

“No,” George interrupted. “That is, I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to cut in.”

“Please, go ahead,” Sarah said urgently.

“I was told that he went to the White Hart to see his father.”

“His
father
?”

George didn’t quite flinch, but it was close.

“Why would he go see his father?” Sarah demanded.

“I-I-I don’t know, my lady.” He threw a rather desperate glance over at Honoria.

“I don’t like this,” Sarah said.

George looked pained.

“You may go, George,” Honoria said. He gave a quick bow and fled.

“Why is his father in Thatcham?” Sarah asked the moment they were alone again.

“I don’t know,” Honoria replied, sounding as baffled as Sarah felt. “He certainly wasn’t invited to the wedding.”

“This can’t be good.” Sarah turned to the window. The rain was still coming down in sheets. “I need to go to the village.”

“You can’t go in this weather.”

“Hugh did.”

“That’s entirely different. He was going to his father.”

“Who wants to
kill
Daniel!”

“Oh, dear God,” Honoria said, giving her head a shake. “This is all such madness.”

Sarah ignored her, instead dashing out into the hall and yelling for George, who thankfully had not yet headed downstairs. “I need a carriage brought ‘round,” she said. “Immediately.”

As soon as he was gone, she turned back to Honoria, who was standing in the doorway. “I will meet you in the drive,” Honoria said. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you can’t,” Sarah said immediately. “Marcus would never forgive me.”

“Then we’ll bring him, too. And Daniel.”

“No!” Sarah grabbed Honoria’s hand and yanked her back even though she hadn’t taken more than a step. “Under no circumstances may Daniel go see Lord Ramsgate.”

“You cannot leave him out of this,” Honoria insisted. “He is as deeply involved as—”

“Fine,” Sarah said, just to cut her off. “Get Daniel. I don’t care.”

But she did care. And the moment Honoria dashed off to fetch the two gentlemen, Sarah yanked on her coat and raced to the stables. She could ride to the village faster than any carriage could be driven, even in—no,
especially
in this rain.

Daniel, Marcus, and Honoria would follow her to the White Hart; Sarah knew that they would. But if she got there far enough ahead of them, she could— Well, to be quite honest, she wasn’t sure what she could do, just that she could do something. She would find a way to placate Lord Ramsgate before Daniel showed up, irate and itching for a fight.

She might not be able to engineer a happy ending for all; in fact, she was fairly certain she could not do so. More than three years of hatred and bitterness could not be swept away in a single day. But if Sarah could somehow keep tempers from rising, and fists from flying, and—good heavens—anyone from getting killed . . .

It might not be a happy ending, but by God, it would have to be happy enough.

Chapter Eighteen

An hour prior

Whipple Hill

A different room

I
f Hugh eventually did become the Marquess of Ramsgate, the first thing he was going to do was change the family motto. He could do that, couldn’t he? Because
With Pride Comes Valor
made no sense in the context of the current generations of Prentice men. No, if Hugh had any say in the matter, he was changing the whole bloody thing to
Things Can Always Get Worse
.

Case in point: the short missive that had been delivered to his room at Whipple Hill while he was off in the little drawing room, breaking Sarah’s heart, making her cry, and apparently being a terrible person.

The card was from his father.

His father
.

It had been bad enough to have to look upon his familiar sharp handwriting. Then he read the words and realized that Lord Ramsgate was here. In Berkshire, practically down the road from Whipple Hill at the White Hart, the most fashionable of the local inns.

How the marquess had got a room when all of the inns were full of wedding guests, Hugh could not imagine. But his father had always had a way of bludgeoning through life. If he wanted a room, he’d get one, and Hugh could only pity the cascade of guests who would be moved to the next-nicest room until some poor bloke found himself out in the barn.

What his father’s note had not indicated, however, was
why
he’d traveled to Berkshire. Hugh was not particularly surprised by this omission; his father had never believed in explaining himself. He was at the White Hart, he wanted to speak to Hugh, and he wanted to do so immediately.

That was all he wrote.

Hugh generally went out of his way to avoid interaction with his father, but he was not so stupid as to ignore a direct summons. He told his valet to pack up his things and await further instructions, and then he set off for the village. He wasn’t sure that Daniel would look kindly upon his using one of the Winstead carriages, but as the rain was still beating mercilessly against the earth, and Hugh was a man with a cane . . . He really didn’t see how he had much choice in the matter.

Not to mention that this was his
father
he’d been forced to go see. No matter how furious Daniel was with Hugh—and Hugh suspected he was irreversibly furious—he would understand the necessity of meeting with the marquess.

“God, I hate this,” Hugh said to himself as he climbed awkwardly into the carriage. And then he wondered if some of Sarah’s propensity toward drama was rubbing off on him, because all he could think was—

I’m off to meet my doom.

The White Hart Inn

Thatcham

Berkshire

“W
hat are you doing here?” Hugh demanded, the words spitting from his mouth before he had taken more than two steps into one of the White Hart’s private dining rooms.

“No greeting?” his father said, not bothering to rise from his seat. “No ‘Father, what brings you to Berkshire this fine day?’ ”

“It’s raining.”

“And the earth is renewed,” Lord Ramsgate said in a jolly voice.

Hugh gave him a cold stare. He hated when his father pretended to be paternal.

His father motioned to the chair across the table. “Sit.”

Hugh might have preferred to stand, if only to countermand him, but his leg ached, and his desire to thwart his father was not great enough for him to sacrifice his own comfort. He sat.

“Wine?” his father asked.

“No.”

“It’s not very good, anyway,” his father said, tossing back the remains of his glass. “I really ought to bring my own when I travel.”

Hugh sat in stony silence, waiting for his father to get to the point.

“The cheese is tolerable,” the marquess said. He reached out for a slice of bread from the cheeseboard on the table. “Bread? They can’t really muck up a loaf of—”

“What the devil is this about?” Hugh finally exploded.

His father had been clearly waiting for this moment. His face stretched into a smug smile, and he leaned back in his chair. “You can’t guess?”

“I wouldn’t dare try.”

“I’m here to congratulate you.”

Hugh stared at him with unconcealed suspicion. “On what?”

His father wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be coy. I heard a rumor you were to be engaged.”

“From whom?
” Hugh had only just kissed Sarah for the first time the night before. How in God’s name did his father know he’d been planning to ask her to marry him?

Lord Ramsgate flicked his hand. “I have spies everywhere.”

This Hugh did not doubt. But still . . . His eyes narrowed. “Who were you spying upon?” he asked. “Winstead or me?”

His father shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Intensely.”

“Both, I suppose. You make it so easy to kill two birds with one stone.”

“You’d do well not to use such metaphors in my presence,” Hugh said with a raised eyebrow.

“Always so literal,” Lord Ramsgate said with a
tsk-tsk
sound. “You never could take a joke.”

Hugh gaped at him. His
father
accusing
him
of being without humor? It was staggering.

“I am not engaged to be married,” Hugh said to him, each word a crisp and precise dart from his lips. “And I won’t be anytime in the foreseeable future. So you can pack your things and go back to whatever hell you crawled out of.”

His father chuckled at the insult, which Hugh found unnerving. Lord Ramsgate never brushed off insults. He fisted them up into tight little balls, filled them with nettles and nails, and hurled them back at the sender.

And then laughed.

“Are we done?” Hugh asked coldly.

“Why such a rush?”

Hugh gave a sick smile. “Because I detest you.”

Again, his father chuckled. “Oh, Hugh, when will you ever learn?”

Hugh said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter if you detest me. It will never matter. I’m your father.” He leaned forward with an oily grin. “You can’t be rid of me.”

“No,” Hugh said. He leveled a frank stare across the table. “But you can be rid of me.”

Lord Ramsgate’s jaw twitched. “I assume you refer to that unholy document you forced me to sign.”

“No one forced you,” Hugh said with an insolent shrug.

“You really believe that?”

“Did I place the pen in your hand?” Hugh countered. “The contract was a formality. You know that as well as I do.”

“I know no such—”

“I told you what would happen if you harm Lord Winstead,” Hugh said with deadly calm, “and that stands whether it is in writing or not.”

It was true; Hugh had had the contract drawn up and placed before his father and his solicitor because he’d wanted them to know he was serious. He’d wanted his father to sign his name—his full name and the title that meant so much to him—acknowledging all he would lose if he did not let go of his vendetta against Daniel.

“I have kept my end of the bargain,” Lord Ramsgate snarled.

“Insofar as Lord Winstead is still alive, yes.”

“I—”

“I must say,” Hugh interrupted, taking great pleasure in cutting his father off at the very first pronoun, “that I’m not asking much of you. Most people would find it rather easy to conduct their lives without killing another human being.”

“He made you a cripple,” his father hissed.

“No,” Hugh said softly, remembering that magical night on the lawn at Whipple Hill. He had waltzed. For the first time since Daniel’s bullet had torn apart his thigh, Hugh had held a woman in his arms, and he had danced.

Sarah had refused to allow him to call himself a cripple. Was that the moment he had fallen in love with her? Or was it one of a hundred moments?

“I prefer to call myself lame,” Hugh murmured. With a smile.

“What the devil is the difference?”

“If I’m a cripple, then that’s all I—” Hugh looked up. His father’s face was red, the kind of veiny, mottled red that came from too much anger, or too much drink.

“Never mind,” Hugh said. “You’d never understand.” But Hugh hadn’t understood, either. It had taken Lady Sarah Pleinsworth to make him understand the difference.

Sarah
. That was who she was now. Not Lady Sarah Pleinsworth or even Lady Sarah. Just Sarah. She’d been his, and he’d lost her. And he still didn’t quite understand why.

“You underestimate yourself, son,” Lord Ramsgate said.

“You just called me a cripple,” Hugh said, “and you’re accusing
me
of underestimating?”

“I do not refer to your athletic ability,” his father said, “although it is true that a lady will want a husband who can ride and fence and hunt.”

“Because you’re so good at all those things,” Hugh said, dropping his gaze to his father’s paunchy middle.

“I
was,
” his father replied, apparently taking no offense at the insult, “and I had my pick of the litter when I decided to marry.”

Of the litter
. Was that really how his father saw women?

Of course it was.

“Two daughters of dukes, three of marquesses, and one of an earl. I could have had any of them.”

“Lucky Mother,” Hugh said flatly.

“Indeed,” Lord Ramsgate said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Her father may have been the Duke of Farringdon, but she was one of six daughters, and her dowry was not large.”

“Larger than the other duke’s daughter, I assume?” Hugh drawled.

“No. But the Farringdons descend from the Barons de Veuveclos, the first of whom, as you know—”

Oh, he knew. Lord, but he knew.

“—fought alongside William the Conqueror.”

Hugh had been forced to memorize the family trees at the age of six. Luckily, he had a talent for such things. Freddie had not been nearly so lucky. His hands had been swollen for weeks from the caning.

“The other dukedom,” the marquess finished with disdain, “was of a relatively new creation.”

Hugh could only shake his head. “You really do take snobbism to new levels.”

His father ignored him. “As I was saying, I believe you underestimate yourself. You may be a cripple, but you have your charms.”

Hugh practically choked. “My charms?”

“A euphemism for your last name.”

“Of course.” How could it be anything but?

“You may not be first in line for the title, but much as it disgusts me, anyone who bothers to do a bit of digging will realize that even if you never become the Marquess of Ramsgate, your son will.”

“Freddie is more discreet than you think,” Hugh felt compelled to point out.

Lord Ramsgate snorted. “I was able to find out that you’re panting after Pleinsworth’s daughter. Do you think her father won’t discover the truth about Freddie?”

As Lord Pleinsworth was buried in Devon with fifty-three hounds, Hugh thought not, but he did see his father’s point.

“I would not go so far as to say that you could have any woman you wanted,” Lord Ramsgate continued, “but I see no reason you could not snag the Pleinsworth chit. Especially after spending the entire week mooning over each other at breakfast.”

Hugh bit his cheek to keep from responding.

“I notice you do not contradict.”

“Your spies, as always, are excellent,” Hugh said.

His father sat back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. “Lady Sarah Pleinsworth,” he said with admiration in his voice. “I must congratulate you.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, dear. Are we being shy?”

Hugh gripped the edge of the table. What exactly
would
happen if he leapt across the table and gripped his father by the throat? Surely no one would mourn the old man.

“I’ve met her, you know,” his father continued. “Nothing much, of course, just an introduction at a ball a few years ago. But her father is an earl. Our paths cross from time to time.”

“Don’t talk about her,” Hugh warned.

“She’s quite pretty in an unconventional way. The curl of her hair, that lovely wide mouth . . .” Lord Ramsgate looked up and wagged his brows. “A man could get used to such a face on the pillow next to his.”

Hugh felt his blood growing hot in his veins. “Shut up.
Now
.”

His father made a show of conceding. “I can see that you don’t wish to discuss your personal affairs.”

“I’m trying to recall when that has stopped you before.”

“Ah, but if you were to marry, then your choice of bride would be very much my affair, too.”

Hugh shot to his feet. “You sick son of a—”

“Oh, stop,” his father said, laughing. “I’m not talking about
that,
although now that I think of it, it might have been a way around Freddie’s problem.”

Oh, dear God. Hugh felt ill. He wouldn’t put it past his father to force Freddie to marry and then rape his wife.

All in the name of dynasty.

No, it wouldn’t work. Freddie, for all his quiet ways, would never allow himself to be forced into a marriage under such pretenses. And even if somehow . . .

Well, Hugh could always put a stop to it. All he had to do was get married himself. Give his father a reason to expect that a Ramsgate heir was forthcoming.