by Erica Taylor
But who had time to sleep when there was love?
The sunlight was warm on his face, even if the air he breathed was bitterly cold. William tucked his nose beneath the thick quilt, snuggling into Sarah’s dark chocolate hair, breathing in her heavenly lemony scent. It was his new favorite smell.
Sarah didn’t move as he removed himself momentarily from under the blankets. Pulling on his discarded trousers, lacing up the front, he smirked at the rest of their scattered clothing. Quickly, he built the fire back up to a crackling warmth before slipping back into the bed, wrapping his arms around his lovely bedmate. His fiancée.
Trailing the tip of his fingers along the length of her hands, he admired her long fingers, delicate yet hiding an inner strength. He remembered her smoothing the blood-soaked hair from little Gracie’s face, tender and gentle.
“Good morning,” she murmured, snuggling into his chest.
William kissed the top of her head. “Good morning,” he replied.
“Were you watching me sleep?” she asked.
“Not quite,” he replied. “I was looking at your hands.”
Sarah held her hand up, flipping it over. “It’s a hand, Will. It’s nothing special.”
“I think it’s lovely.”
Sarah’s nose scrunched up. “I have my mother’s hands. She was the daughter of an earl, granddaughter of marquess, blue-blooded as they come and raised as highly as possible, and yet she loved to be in the kitchen. We would always find her there, her own little sanctuary. She made the best biscuits. I would watch her for hours as she mixed and rolled and cut the dough into little shapes. She was a duchess, and yet she didn’t shy away from doing something herself, taking pride in accomplishing something on her own.”
“You do have your mother’s hands,” William cooed softly, his voice soft. “Look here, feel the different bones in your hand?” He pressed his fingers along her finger. “There are three bones in each finger. The distal, intermediate, and proximal. You have twenty-seven bones in your hand alone. Your distal phalange is connected to your intermedial phalange which is connected to your proximal phalange.”
“Do you remember the names of all the bones?” she asked.
“Unfortunately,” he replied.
“That seems complicated.”
“It makes sense after a while,” he answered. “I’m sure you can remember the intricate family connections of the ton.”
“Well, not all of them,” she admitted. “It makes sense after a while.” Her gaze moved to the sun streaming in from the window. “What time is it?”
“Do I look like a clock face?” he asked, winking. She nodded, smiling up at him.
He couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face.
“I imagine you just know the time innately,” she answered.
“I surmise it is around seven in the morning,” he replied, kissing her nose. “What time shall we depart?”
“Never,” she signed, closing her eyes again. “We should never leave this bed or this room.”
“People might come looking for you,” he predicted. “They might think I kidnapped you.”
Sarah laughed. “I imagine you could fight them off.” She wiggled closer, her hand roaming south of his navel. “How are you with a pistol? I know you are an excellent swordsman.”
“Lady Sarah!” he cried in mock outrage. “Of all the improper unladylike things to say! Why one would think I’ve completely had my way with you and turned you into some saucy light skirt. What would your sisters say?”
She laughed again, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her for a kiss. “Lydia, Clara, and probably Susanna would tell me a good tupping is good for my disposition. Norah would ignore me. Mara would congratulate me in an offhand way that would show she was bored and above the entire situation. I swear that child has the soul of an eighty-year-old. Not a string of silliness in her bones.”
“Well then, let’s go with the first reactions, the ones from the grownups in the room,” he suggested, leaning into her again, deepening their kiss as her fingers under the duvet.
A good while later, when the sun was higher in the sky and the morning dew had long melted away, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon finally left the Swan and Hoof Coaching Inn.
It was nearly four in the afternoon when Sarah’s carriage rolled along the streets of the fashionable neighborhood of Mayfair. Mthunzi drove them up the lane adjacent to Hyde Park and through the gates of her brother’s London mansion, Bradstone House.
Neither occupant of the carriage made any movement to leave, even as the carriage rocked to a stop before the steps, bouncing on its hinges as the coachman descended from his perch.
“Nothing will change if we don’t ever leave this carriage,” Sarah said softly.
“Nothing is going to change once we do,” William countered. Taking her hand in his, he kissed her palm. “Sarah, I meant every word I said to you this morning, and the night before, and the night before that. I will deal with my father and return to you.”
“And then?”
William’s face softened, his gaze roaming across her face. “And then we will ease out of the confines of our past and move forward, together.”
Shaking her head, she looked away. “You make it sound so simple.”
“You make me believe it can be that simple.”
Sarah studied him, memorizing the lines of his face, the arch of his brow, the exact shade in his eyes, the blue mixing with the brown, frightened she would never see him again, but more so what would happen if she did.
“If you come back for me, then I am leaving everything behind, Will,” she told him.
“When I come back, are you willing to do that? Leave all of this? I’m still a lowly physician, despite my father’s title.
My life is in Scotland, Sarah. Your life is here.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The freedom she had craved since her husband died, since he began his tenure of cruelty, since her parents and brother died, since probably even before she knew it was something she wanted, it all seemed to be within her reach and she was terrified.
Terrified William would not come back, and it would all shatter—she would shatter.
Terrified he would return and she would willingly walk away from a family who loved her, a place in society. She knew what distances did to a family, what missing out of their lives might do to her.
Terrified she was willing to walk away from the life she knew for someone she had only known for three days.
Terrified she was on the precipice of something incredible, and only hoped she was strong enough to jump.
Meeting William’s gaze, she nodded. “Will, I need you to come back for me.”
“Darling,” William said, moving across the small space in the carriage so he was beside her. Pulling her to him, his lips brushed softly over hers and her eyes fluttered closed, savoring the feelings the small contact alone could muster within her. Pulling away, he rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks, brushing away the errant tears that had fallen from her eyes. “It would take an act of God to keep me from you.”
Taking a deep breath, Sarah believed him, and that was reassuring in itself.
“Now,” William said, his hand resting on the adjacent door handle. “I’m going to pop out this other door, so we don’t give this grand house a show. You hurry inside so no one wonders what you are doing out here just sitting in your carriage. Mthunzi and I will sort out a hackney and making certain no one thinks anything untoward has occurred.”
If they only knew, Sarah thought to herself, but nodded, grateful he was at least taking precautions to uphold her reputation. She really shouldn’t flaunt the fact she had been holed up with a virtual stranger for three days, even if they were to be married. They weren’t married yet.
“How long will you be?” she asked.
“Just a few hours,” William replied hopefully. “Potentially a few days. A
week at the very most.”
“How am I to contact you if you are longer than a week?” she asked, frowning.
“If it’s longer than a week, I will send word.”
“Yes, but, what if something happens to you?” Sarah asked. “If you’re in a carriage accident, or shot, or you fall from your horse?”
“Well, then I might be dead, and I doubt you’d want to marry someone recently deceased.”
Swatting him with the back of her hand, she managed to laugh at her own worries.
“I will be fine, Sarah,” he said, squeezing her hand. “If you don’t hear from me within a week, which is highly unlikely, I plan to take rooms at Blackmoor on the Mall. You can find me there, dead or alive. Though if I’m alive, I suspect I’d rather be dead than deal with your wrath.”
“I’m glad we both understand each other then,” she replied with a smirk. “Right, then. Be off before someone comes and knocks on the carriage door, wondering why I am just sitting here.”
Leaning in for one last kiss, Sarah’s eyes fluttered closed. Ignoring the pain of worry in her heart, she breathed him in, the warmth of his scent, a mixture of a mint balm and leather and something just undefinably him.
With a wink, he was out the door, and she heard his deep voice, laced with his light Scottish brogue as he spoke to Mthunzi outside the carriage.
There was no fanfare for her entrance into Bradstone House, though she hadn’t expected any. Standing in the front entrance hall of her brother’s home, she took a long look around the square entry, the long sweeping mahogany staircase, the white walls with carved alcoves and plasterwork. It was as familiar to her as her own name, and yet she was an outsider. Though she had once belonged here, the time for moving on had long passed.
“Has there been any mail?” Sarah asked the butler, Howards. The aging gentleman had looked after the Bradstone household for longer than Sarah could remember.
“Yes, my lady,” he said gently, indicating the side table where there stood a few stacks of envelopes. The family mail. A stack for Clara, one for Susanna. Norah’s was missing, indicating she had already been down to collect it. One larger pile, plentiful enough to not remain neatly stacked, was housed in a silver bowl. Social invitations. Sarah’s own pile was measly compared to that of her sisters’, but she didn’t expect anyone to write to her, aside from Lydia.
The stack of envelopes consisted of exactly three, one from Lydia, and one from Mrs. Coltrane and one from . . .
Sarah squinted as she tried to read the tight writing, frowning as she made out the name.
Not wanting to deal with it just yet, she stuffed the third letter behind the others and made her way up the staircase towards her bedroom, sending Howards her thanks.
The following three days, Sarah surprised even herself with her unusually good mood. It wasn’t as though she were perpetually unhappy, but since arriving home, she felt lighter, cheerful. She didn’t have to wonder at the reason for the change in her disposition. She knew she was eager for William to send for her, or appear at the door. Something to prove she hadn’t made the whole thing up, that their time together had been more than just an improper encounter.
The morning and into the afternoon of the third day, a small knot of nervousness started to form, and her eagerness turned into impatience. What could be taking William so long? She wished he had disclosed more about his business in London, or the identity of his father, or even his name for goodness’ sakes. Forcing herself to remain calm, she was resigned to waiting him out and attempting to remain focused on her siblings, and as there were six in residence, as well as Andrew’s new wife Clara, and herself, there was enough noise and bustle to keep her distracted.
The evening of the third night they all dined together as a family, warmth and laughter seeping into her bones, and she was grateful for the distraction. It wasn’t until Susanna was pulled away from the table, only to return with a man who looked vaguely familiar, that the uncertainty returned.
Sarah watched the strange man as he spoke with her sister, wondering if it truly was the same man who they had met along the storming river bed. His height was correct, his voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t be certain. The man she had met had been as rain-soaked as she, so perhaps if it was him, he wouldn’t recognize her either.
He glanced at her, acknowledgment reverberating in his green eyes, and she swallowed hard. It was the same man.
How could he be here? At her brother’s dinner table? Hanging on her sister’s every word?
Forcing herself to not stare at him in horror and to remain calm, she was compelled to just sit and prepare for him to call her out.
But he didn’t say a word to her. It appeared he was familiar with her family and very familiar with her sister Susanna. He spoke freely with her brothers, laughing and engaged in their nonsensical stories of boyish mirth. He talked amiably with Andrew, who was just as comfortably friendly in return.
It was curious, and she was perplexed as to the nature of his connection to her family, but when Susanna addressed him as Ian, the pieces fell into their respectable places.
The man she had known as Mr. Westcott was in fact the earl her sister had been silly over for the past two months, despite being courted by another man. Curious she had not realized it when they met before during the storm, though they’d been barely introduced then, and Susanna had not disclosed much about the man in her letters.
After dinner, and an announcement of Clara’s increasing they all knew was imminent, the Macalister clan retreated to the drawing room for cards, the youngest, Mara, treating them to her wonderful talent on the pianoforte.
“Lady Hartford,” Westcott proclaimed as he approached. Sarah took a steadying sip of the brandy her brother had poured her. The other occupants of the room were engaged in setting up the tables for cards, and would not pay attention to their conversation.
“Lord Westcott,” she nodded. “Though you must know that is not my name. Not exactly.”
“And I presume Mr. Gordon is not Lord Hartford?”
Sarah shook her head, swallowing down a painful knot in her throat at the mention of William. “No, he is not my husband.”
“I see.”
Taking a deep breath, Sarah glanced pointedly around the room. “I would appreciate your discretion, my lord. That was a very . . . unfortunate circumstance, and I don’t wish my sisters to know of my involvement.”
“Or the duke?”
“Or the duke,” she agreed.
He nodded. “I am nothing, if not discreet.”
Frowning, she wondered what else in his life needed such discretion.
“It is curious that you are the same man my sister has written to me about.”
“Susanna writes about me?” he asked. “All wonderful things, of course?”
Nodding, Sarah replied, “She called you Ian in her letters, so I did not recognize you as Westcott. It always seemed forward of her to not use your title, but it seemed that was who you were to her, and in a personal letter between sisters it hardly mattered.”
Westcott stole a glance at Susanna, an emotionally charged expression settling across his gaze before looking back to Sarah. “Susanna mentioned your name and title,” he admitted. “But in the brief moments we spent together, I barely heard your name, and amongst the confusion and terrifying events, it did not register. I should have seen your resemblance. Even in such inclement weather, you do look like sisters when standing together.”
“Quite,” Sarah agreed. “You seem to have the trust of my brother, so I will not bore you with idle threats.”
“You’ll just issue real ones?”
“Precisely.”
He smirked. “Well, your ladyship, don’t be worried for Susanna where I am concerned. Love wins out in the end, eventually.”
“That’s not my experience of the world, Lord Westcott,” Sarah admitted.
“Don’t give up on your dashing kn
ight just yet, my lady,” Westcott said with a shrug. “It’s only been a few days. He will find you again.”
“How do—”
Westcott shrugged again, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You wouldn’t be so jaded against love if you were in the midst of bliss yourself, which indicates he has done something dastardly wrong, and since he is not here, it leads one to believe you don’t know where he is.”
“You gathered all that from one statement?”
“I gather a lot from little all the time,” he replied, his face breaking into a broad grin. “It’s one of my particular charms. But don’t fret, my lady. You will see your knight again. He did not seem the type of man to take liberties with a lady and then leave her high and dry. He endangered himself to rescue children, for goodness’ sake.”
“It has been a couple days yet,” Sarah admitted. “He said his business could take up to a week, so I have a few days to wait and wonder.”
Their interlude was interrupted with the start of the card games, and Sarah took her place opposite her sister Norah, who was not a very eager whist player. Sarah would have rather partnered with Susanna, but her new charming partner did not seem keen to let her out of his sight.
As ridiculous as he seemed, she couldn’t fault Westcott for falling for her sister, or her sister for falling for him. At least another sibling was on their way towards matrimony, Sarah mused, setting down a trump card and grinding her jaw when Norah trumped her card.
“The ace was mine,” Sarah told her.
“Hey, no cross table chatting!” Nick complained.
“Oh, sorry, Sarah,” Norah said, frowning absently at the cards. “I’m not paying attention it seems.”
“No chitty chat!” Charlie nagged, folding away the trick and setting it in Norah’s pile.
The game didn’t fare much better afterwards, a reflection of her week that had been perpetually angled downhill.
The Devonshire All Hallow’s Eve Ball was two nights later. It was the whole reason Sarah had come to London, and yet she did not want to attend. William had not yet appeared; there had been no letters, no secret messengers, and Sarah’s hopes were beginning to fall. She had told Lydia about her encounter with William, and despite Lydia’s amusement at Sarah’s forlorn heart, sharing the experience had been a bit cathartic. If someone else knew about her and William, it seemed less of a dream.