by Cheryl Holt
Surreptitiously, she scanned the long porch that wrapped around the mansion, wondering who his lover had been. She scrutinized the mannerisms of the women, evaluating how they moved, tipped their heads, and gestured, but to no avail. She couldn't tell.
During the night, she'd removed herself from the dressing room and the temptation it provided, but she'd spent interminable dark hours regretting her decision. To her ultimate dismay, she wished she'd continued on! She was frantic to learn how the rendezvous had developed and how it had ended.
Shocking as it seemed, she hoped she'd have the fortuity to watch him again before too much time had passed. There was something abominably erotic and alluring about spy-
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ing. If she shut her eyes, she could pretend that she was the woman in the room with him, and that he was perpetrating those treacherous exploits against her own person.
What was the matter with her? Why did she find his comportment so titillating? Even as she recognized the impropriety of her conduct, and even as she exhaustively chastised herself for her wantonness, she was craving a repeat performance.
Her nocturnal reveries about him and his antics had grown cumbersome as he now commanded her entire daylight attention, as well. She couldn't stop conjecturing as to where he was and how he was spending his afternoon. Disgustingly, she was perpetually craning her neck, searching the crowd for a glimpse of him, but she'd not seen him anywhere.
While she'd never admit as much to another soul, she was fascinated by him and what she'd witnessed, and she was impatient for the chance to ask him: Why? Why did he act so decadently? Why did his physical peccadilloes hold such appeal? What was the attraction?
For some inexplicable reason, she felt as though she'd always known him and could interpret his thought processes, and she'd been left with the overwhelming impression that he hadn't actually wanted to be engaged in such depraved misdeeds. Deep down, he was a good man; she was certain of it, though why she believed so, or why she might presume to judge, was beyond her ability to explicate.
She perceived an affinity between them that she'd never had with another, and she couldn't shake the sensation that he didn't belong at the party any more than she did. Their strange assignation had so thoroughly disordered her world that she was convinced there was a larger purpose behind their meeting, and she refused to go home until she had occasion to explore what it might be.
As she fantasized about Mr. Stevens, her gaze wandered to the sloping green yard where several couples competed at an informal lawn game. They were hitting a ball across
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the grass with a sort of mallet and aiming for a basket that was located quite a distance away at the base of the hill. She wasn't sure of the rules, but it seemed that whichever couple landed their ball in the basket with the least amount of strokes was the winner.
Rebecca was one of the participants and, when the contest had begun, she'd invited Sarah to play, but Sarah had declined, and she was relieved that she had. On the surface, the sport seemed harmless enough, with eager contestants and innocuous jesting and wagering over the tough shots, but there were undercurrents to the verbal banter that she didn't grasp, and a great deal of unusual, intimate touching that would have been disconcerting.
She couldn't pinpoint what was making her uncomfortable. Perhaps the laughter was a little too familiar, the subtle looks between the partners a tad too prolonged, but whatever it was, there was a strain in their interacting that bothered her.
As the women leaned down and positioned their sticks, the men were constantly nearby, snuggling themselves against the women in order to abet them with their swings. After the episode with Michael Stevens, she recognized how unsettling it was for a man to press himself against a woman's buttocks. She readily recalled how he'd held her hips and flexed his groin, and she shifted uneasily, relieved that she hadn't allowed any of the men to act so familiarly.
However, she was striving to be fair about the entire event. So far, she'd witnessed nothing that she would deem downright inappropriate, and she was forced to speculate if this wasn't how adults related when they were visiting. This was unmistakably a fête for grown-ups. There were no children invited; only men and women who had plenty of leisure time and who required some means of occupying it.
Perhaps she simply didn't understand the social conventions when a crowd of such people gathered together. Obviously, the standards were a trifle lower, but casting about, she couldn't help but remember Mr. Steven's descriptions about the assemblage. He'd contended that the women
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wouldn't be accompanied by their husbands, and apparently, he was correct. While there were many gentlemen present, none were married to any of the ladies.
She endeavored to guess at the number of guests, but tabulation was difficult. Lady Carrington was adept at offering varied amusement, with concurrent merriment occurring, so visitors weren't convened in the same spot.
Card games were progressing in the house, gambling in some of the backrooms, where even the women were permitted to join in. Outside, there was horseback riding, meandering through the gardens, and one bunch had even commandeered several carnages for a picnic at the lake.
Just then, her hostess emerged through the French doors and blazed a trail through the guests. Sarah enviously studied her, trying not to be overly conspicuous. A beautiful woman, ten years Sarah's senior, Pamela Blair had been the fourth wife of an elderly earl, but also his favorite, and thus, upon his death, he'd graciously bequeathed several valuable properties and a significant income with which to enjoy them.
She regularly entertained huge groups, and her soirees were invariably the rage, with people begging invitations whenever she was having a particularly interesting masquerade or banquet.
Tall, blond, slender, and graceful, she murmured hellos and conversed with old friends. Eventually, she reached Sarah, and the two women chatted, while casually regarding the competitors in the yard.
As a girl of seventeen, Sarah had met Pamela during her failed debut outing, but they'd not crossed paths since that dreadful debacle. Pamela had been twenty-seven years old, already a widow, and Sarah much younger, so they'd not formed a confidential association. Nevertheless, Sarah had discovered her to be direct and forthright, which had been refreshing in view of how ghastly her brief excursion had been, and she retained fond memories of the woman who'd never been judgmental or cruel during a period when Sarah had been so terribly out of her element.
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Pamela was amiable but detached, welcoming but not inordinately so, absorbed but not acutely. There was a coolness that kept others at a distance, especially someone like Sarah who had never made friends effortlessly, yet Sarah trusted the older woman and suspected that the fickle members of High Society preferred her fellowship for the same reason. She had a reputation for being loyal, reliable, and discreet, admirable qualities in a small, elite community where everyone attended to everyone else's business.
Pamela inquired after Sarah's family, her brother, their Yorkshire estate. As Sarah was umiformed as to Pamela's private life, she had difficulty making chitchat in return, so she stuck to flattering observations about the weather, the festivities, the company.
When Pamela quizzed her about the adequacy of her accommodations, Sarah finally found the opening for which she'd been waiting.
"Do you happen to know who's been assigned the suite next to mine?"
"Why?" Pamela laughed softly. "Were they keeping you awake?"
"No, nothing like that. I just noted a gentleman when he exited." She was dying to simply speak the name Michael Stevens aloud, but she was a horrid liar, and she couldn't fabricate an acceptable story as to how they might have met. "I recognized him from somewhere, but I wasn't positive of his identity."
"Hmmm ..." Pamela brooded, pondering the arrangements of the sprawling mansion. "I didn't realize there was anyone in that room. Once Hugh advised me
that you were coming, I intentionally gave you a quiet chamber away from the gaiety. Some of my companions can be ... rambunctious ... in the night, so I figured you'd relish the additional privacy."
"I do," Sarah agreed, while theorizing as to the woman's definition of rambunctious. "Thank you.”
"What did this mystery man look like?"
"Handsome. Broad shouldered. Dark haired." More
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wistfully than she intended, she added, "He has the most spectacular blue eyes."
"Well... that would have to be Michael Stevens. He definitely has eyes that prompt a woman to fantasize about things she oughtn't." Pamela chuckled, then leaned over and patted Sarah's hand. "I wasn't aware that I'd situated him near you, but trust me, dear, you're not acquainted with him. Nor should you be."
"Now I'm absolutely intrigued."
"To put it bluntly, Sarah"—Pamela stared out at the yard for a lengthy interval, carefully choosing her words—"he wouldn't be a fitting prospect for you, so there's no excuse to amble down that road." At Sarah's raised brow, Pamela hastily supplied, "Pardon me if I sound unduly harsh, and please don't misconstrue. Michael is a great friend of mine, but he's not at all what you're seeking."
Sarah blushed to the tips of her toes. Did Pamela suppose she was husband-hunting? Did everyone? What indiscreet statements had Hugh used to explain Sarah's attendance? Flustered, she glanced around. Were the other guests stealthily assessing her, eager to behold more of her inept forays into the matrimonial quagmire performed by the aristocracy?
"I'm not searching for a man," she felt obligated to clarify.
Pamela bent closer still, and Sarah was frightfully glad that .they were sequestered. If a single utterance of their conversation was overheard, she'd expire from humiliation. "Let me be frank, Sarah. I know why you're here—"
"No you don't," she interrupted. "Not if you think I'm stalking after a husband."
"But Hugh said—"
"Hugh was wrong."
"Oh, my apologies." Confused, Pamela queried, "So, why exactly are you here?"
"I'm not sure," Sarah replied with such candor that Pamela laughed aloud. "I was just so tired of being at home. It's been ..." She paused. Though she liked Pamela very
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much, and the woman inspired confidences, Sarah wasn't ready to confess how dire were the circumstances, so she finished with, "It's been hard. I was anxious for a change of scene, and it's been terribly long since I've gone visiting."
'Too true," Pamela concurred. "This is so embarrassing. Hugh told me that you were set to wed, and he requested that I facilitate matters by introducing you to any gentlemen who might suit. I've been racking my brain and luring some of them out to the country. Hugh insisted you were disposed."
"That rat! I'll kill him."
"Don't waste your energy, dear," Pamela succinctly asserted. "Hugh can manage to kill himself without any assistance from you."
Because the proclamation was so agonizingly accurate, Sarah didn't respond. Hugh was in a descending spiral that couldn't have a satisfactory conclusion, but she'd deduced ages ago that there was nothing she could do but persevere while preparing for the worst. "Hugh presumes I'm in pursuit of a husband," she grumbled, "but really, I just came to get away from all the pressure."
"As you should have"—Pamela smiled conspiratorially— "and I'm honored that you selected my party for your holiday. How long will you stay?"
"How about three weeks?"
"Marvelous. We'll fill your time with engaging recreation, then send you home refreshed and primed to face whatever is approaching."
From Pamela's shrewd expression, Sarah suspected that the other woman had learned much more about Hugh's affairs than she was willing to divulge, but then, it was rumored that there were few secrets Pamela Blair hadn't uncovered.
Sarah affirmed, 'The rest will be vastly appreciated."
"Then rest you shall. And who can say? Maybe my machinations won't be for naught. Perhaps some dashing beau will catch your attention."
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"I doubt it," Sarah griped, which caused Pamela to laugh again.
"An innocent flirtation might be just the ticket." Ready to move on, she stood. "If I can do anything to make your visit more pleasant, please notify me." She turned to go, hesitated, then whispered, "And at all costs, avoid Michael Stevens. You don't need a complication like that in your life."
With a wink, she sauntered down the terrace, and Sarah jealously critiqued how she mingled with the crowd, how readily she belonged in any situation. The ability to fraternize was never a gift Sarah had possessed, and she suddenly felt all alone even though she was surrounded by dozens of people. She hated being so detached, and she yearned to fit in, so when Rebecca waylaid her a second time and urged her to attempt the game of balls, she grudgingly acquiesced.
As she walked down the steps and onto the grass; a man got up and followed her, and if Rebecca looked as though she'd beckoned him into action with an urgent tip of her head, Sarah chose not to heed her ruse.
What did she care if Rebecca was soliciting gentlemen to court attention on her? Their courtesy and civility didn't have to portend anything more than Sarah wanted it to. She was adept at the art of putting imprudent men in their places; she'd had a lifetime of practice with her father and Hugh, so she wasn't worried that one of them might take unfair advantage on Pamela's lawn.
Besides, she would be carrying a rather large mallet. If any of the men became exceedingly fresh, she wasn't averse to rendering a deserving smack!
Another contest was about to commence, and there were ten couples geared to shepherd their various balls down the grass. Sarah and two other ladies were new to the sport, so everyone chattered jovially about the necessary techniques. Bets and boasts were affably bandied about as the first pair took their turn. The woman always began, with her male
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cohort positioned behind and guiding her through the motions.
Sarah's partner had been introduced to her by Rebecca as George Wilson, a gangly, balding man with bad teeth and body odor. He'd bowed politely over her hand, but when he'd risen, she could smell alcohol on his breath, and there was a disquieting gleam in his eye. Evidently, he was sizing her up with dubious intent, and though he struggled valiantly to lock his gaze on hers, it kept dipping to her cleavage, so she faced the yard and the line of players, but the maneuver provided him with a profile of her breasts, and his stare was blatant and incessant.
The couple ahead of her hit their ball, then trailed after it, leaving her with George, and he gallantly offered her their stick, gesturing magnanimously. "After you, Lady Sarah."
As she stepped to the ball, he converged on her from behind. In a low whisper, revolting in its intimacy, he declared, "Allow me to show you how it's done."
Despondency had prompted her into the rash diversion, but reality had rapidly settled in, and she thought she might die if he laid a hand on her. She dithered, trying to conceive of a gracious retreat, just as a familiar voice spoke.
"Hello, Wilson." Michael Stevens casually strutted up as though his entrance was the most ordinary of occurrences, when it obviously wasn't. His interjection of himself into the proceedings had heads swinging from all directions. He called several people by name—he knew many of the male guests—and they grumbled their welcomes in return. No one was glad to see him but, almost as if they were fearful of insulting him, they couldn't show their displeasure too openly.
Surprised and thrilled, Sarah jerked around to face him, only to confront his resigned stare that seemed to say: / knew I'd find you in the middle of a calamity.
He was more dynamic than she recollected, his dark hair shimmering in the bright sunshine, and his piercing sap-
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phire eyes silently scolding until he had her squirming under his meticulous assessment.
With his generous height and wide-shouldered physi
que, he towered over everyone, and the entire group appeared to be furtively analyzing him, while flagrantly pretending not to have taken excessive note of his arrival.
He exuded an energy and intensity that had the men discreetly checking him out, hoping to ascertain how he carried himself so effectively. The women were more impertinent in their evaluation, boldly examining him as one might a rare jewel or extraordinary painting.
Dressed as the finest gentleman, his light blue coat and tan trousers precisely outlined his muscled form. His black boots sparkled, the white of his shirt blinded, his cravat was expertly tied, and he was frowning at her with a severity that stole her breath.
When she'd fantasized about the subsequent appointments they might share, she assuredly hadn't dreamed of anything like this. Why had he put in an appearance? What did he contemplate?
"My apologies, Wilson," he was stating to her partner, "but her first game was promised to me long ago." He glowered at her, challenging her to contradict him. "Isn't that right?"
The onlookers were spellbound by the fascinating display. Not wanting to cause a scene, she lied affably. "I'd given up on you, Mr. Stevens, and decided you weren't coming. How kind of you to finally join me."
"I was detained." He ushered her away, efficiently dismissing George. "Perhaps you can have a subsequent match with her, Wilson, although I doubt she'll be inclined. Once she's had the best, it will be hard for her to lower her standards."
Sarah didn't exactly comprehend the implications of his remark, but she was astute enough to perceive that it had been uttered at her expense. Several men snickered, a woman briskly fanned herself, and Sarah's cheeks blushed bright red as dozens of meddlesome eyes fixed on her.
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For a brief instant, George vacillated as if he might protest Mr. Stevens's usurpation, but Rebecca shot a quelling glare that had him scurrying off.