But she hadn’t been allowed that chance.
And so, as the carriage picked up speed, and her family’s estate passed in a rapid blur, Sara said her goodbyes by way of the old tradition. She sang them. And soon her father joined in, though his eyes were still closed, and Lana, too, though she wasn’t very good at it. But together they sang of the land, of Ireland. Of tall towers, reels danced under summer sunsets, and the haunting sound of the western shore. And to Sara’s mind that was good enough.
It had to be.
TWO
Liverpool
“It is half past eight.”
Sebastian, Marquess Beaufort, cracked a smile, tucked away his pocket watch. Steadied his anxious stallion. “She’s right on time.” His blond brows drew taut. “You seem nervous, Justin. Surely you’re not worried about a young chit from Dublin?”
Justin, Marquess Carrington, chuckled at the easy jeer, the tension in his limbs impairing his will to defend his less-than-perfect reputation. He smoothed a gloved thumb over the grip of his reins, flicked a piece of dried mud from the supple leather.
It was true enough. He shouldn’t be worried. This ... girl, his betrothed, would be no different than the dozens upon dozens of other women he’d encountered over the past couple of seasons back home. By all accounts, she would be worse. One, she was far too young. Eighteen, his father had told him. Two, she was an Irish. Together, those faults should have been enough to put a scowl on his face and throw worry to the wind.
But he was worried. Why? Had to be the sheer mysteriousness of a marriage to someone he’d never even met. Well, at least he couldn’t recall ever having met her. Then again, he’d had plenty of first encounters with young women, whether in passing or at a ball or soiree. Hell, he’d even met a couple at Sunday meeting. Though he was certain the debauchery following services went far beyond being considered holy.
She’ll be no different, he’d told himself over and over. Like every other woman: easily seduced, easily controlled. A marriage of convenience. For status. For title.
For honoring a ridiculous contract made between Father and a man he doesn’t even speak to anymore, over a few glasses of God-only-knows-what in the wake of England’s victory over France.
Life won’t be any different than it is now.
“She’s probably not even pretty,” Sebastian mused aloud when Justin didn’t answer. “Irish women usually aren’t, you know. At least, nothing worthy of poetry.”
Justin looked ahead at the docking ship and gave his horse’s neck a good pat. “I’ve yet to find any woman worthy of such,” he said, and Sebastian laughed. “But you are undoubtedly right about this one, my friend. She’s probably too thin.”
“Or too fat.” Sebastian’s frosty blue eyes flickered in the moonlight. “With crooked teeth and a witch’s nose.”
“Or a witch’s mole.”
“Ha!” Sebastian clapped a hand over his taut stomach, covered by layers of linen and broadcloth. “You may have lost your nerve this evening, old chap, but you certainly haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
With a slight tilt of his head, Justin regarded his friend from under the brim of his slouch hat. “I have not lost my nerve,” he stated firmly, and the smile slowly fell from Sebastian’s face. “This entire situation reeks awkward, as I’m certain you can understand. So, if my mannerisms fall short of my usual self, I’ll kindly ask they be overlooked.”
Sebastian nodded, curtly.
“Now, being she is most likely a fat witch with a crooked set of teeth and a hooked nose,” Justin continued, and Sebastian’s mouth curled back into a smile, “it shall be all the easier to politely set her aside.”
“And keep your mistress.”
Justin grinned, the fleeting thought of Milly passing through his mind, and his body, like a wave of intrinsic heat.
As soon as they returned to London, and his betrothed was promptly deposited at his family’s Mayfair estate, he would take his leave for a few days, perhaps even a week or two, and steal to the old bachelor house or, perhaps, the country estate in Dover.
After a healthy stint of animalistic sex with Millicent St. Clair, a wealthy widow ten years his senior, perhaps he’d be ready to face the bitterness of having to marry the damned Irish halfwit his father had bound him to when he was but twelve years old--too young to regard the opposite sex as anything but repulsive.
But he couldn’t spare another thought on that now. There would be time aplenty in which he could bury himself between Milly’s thighs, but not tonight. Tonight was about honoring his father’s wishes.
He loved the old man. Sometimes to a fault.
“My lord.” A footman appeared at the shoulder of Justin’s mount. “They’ve arrived.”
Breathing deeply through his nostrils, Justin upturned his gaze to the night sky and made an attempt, once again, to align his thoughts. The moon was full, accompanied by a canopy of brilliant stars in a clear night sky, and the wafting breeze from the sea stirred the air around him. If he didn’t know better, for pleasing aromas of any kind were uncommon this close to the shoreline, he would have sworn he’d caught the faintest scent of flora.
Impossible, of course. Perhaps he was merely eager to get home. His mother did have the most exquisitely aromatic gardens.
“Ready the coach,” Sebastian told the footman, and the man bowed and stepped away, snapping for the help of the coachman. “Justin, are you well? You look a trifle pale.”
“I’m fine.” Justin glanced down at his horse’s mane, so black it appeared blue in the moonlight. “Dismount and let us greet our guests, shall we?”
Sebastian nodded, and the two of them masterfully swept in unison to the ground.
“Remember,” Sebastian said quietly, as he and Justin walked side by side toward the docks, “she’ll not be anything you haven’t handled before.” He chuckled before adding, “Good God, Justin. She might be easier, if you understand my meaning. I’d wager the men she’s accustomed to in Ireland, if she’s even been offered by any, cannot possibly hold a candle. You have a hard enough time keeping beautiful women at bay.”
“Your flattery is riveting, Sebastian,” Justin said, glancing at his friend askew. “That is, however, untrue and highly unlikely. She probably doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”
He looked forward again, only this time four distinct figures--two men, two women--came into view. His footmen rushed ahead, greeting them with swooping bows, which were countered with curt nods and well-practiced curtsies.
He felt Sebastian’s fingers tugging at his coat sleeve. “Neither is fat.”
“I have eyes,” Justin ground out slowly, quietly.
He narrowed his gaze, discovering one of the men, the one giving instructions to the dockhands, was unmistakably a servant. While the other, dressed in a coat of brocade superfine and buff breeches, was likely Kilkenny himself.
The taller, curvier of the two women fell behind, and wagged her finger at a dockhand who had dropped a piece of luggage. The smaller, daintier one linked her hand inside the duke’s arm and leaned into him, whispered something in his inclined ear.
The duke smiled and patted her gloved hand.
This must be her.
He couldn’t see her face; she wore a wide brimmed bonnet and a plain muslin gown, both of which appeared black in the night. Though, as he looked closer, the moonlight hinted they could have been a dark shade of blue.
As she approached, she kept her face averted. Justin repressed a grin. Indeed, the bonnet and gown were blue. Union Jack blue, if he had to make a comparison. A mighty appealing contrast to the expanse of pale skin glowing like raw innocence in the moonlight.
Intrigued, Justin allowed his male eyes a downward trail, an indulgence in the hint of soft cleavage peaking from a bed of lace fringe. It was then he noticed the subtle shimmer of black curls falling over one creamy shoulder.
Suddenly, Milly’s locks of goldenrod seemed dull and lifeless.
&n
bsp; “My, my, Lord Carrington.” Kilkenny smiled, the small lines at his eyes creasing. “It’s been a long time.”
Justin removed his hat, mirrored the duke’s bow. “Your Grace,” he murmured. “I assure you, the honor is all mine. My father speaks of you often.”
“Your father is a good man.” Kilkenny’s brow sketched a frown. “How is he?”
“Better, actually,” said Justin. He attempted to steal another glance at the young lady attached to the duke’s arm, but to no avail. She remained statuesque, her face down-turned just enough he still could not see her fully. Was she embarrassed to show herself?
Ridiculous. That any woman would grow suddenly shy to the point of not wanting to show her face in his presence? Almost every woman he’d encountered, whether dreadfully ugly or even moderately agreeable, had been eager to prove herself to him, to win his attentions.
He’d never had this effect on a woman before now.
Strange, that.
“That is indeed good news,” Kilkenny returned in kind. His gaze shifted to Sebastian. “I do not recall having ever met your friend.”
Perturbed by the lady’s shyness, Justin’s speech remained taut. “Forgive me, Your Grace, may I present Sebastian Rochford, Marquess of Beaufort, and a close friend of mine?” He paused as Sebastian bowed, with a touch of over-exertion as was merely his nature, and then added, “He agreed to accompany me in escorting Lady Ballivar to London.”
At this, the lady’s head lifted, and Justin, who prided himself in his ability to maintain perfect reserved composure in even the gravest of situations, felt his breath catch hard in his throat.
In an instant, awareness spread through his body like a thief in the night. His limbs stiffened, froze. Their gazes tangled. A pair of rich brown eyes, the color of expensive whisky, assessed him carefully. As though he was on display, not her.
His hands started shaking.
She was lovely. Divine. More than divine. “Beautiful,” he murmured aloud.
The duke cleared his throat. “My daughter, Lady Sara Ballivar.”
The lady, Sara, curtsied, her gaze leaving Justin’s for but a fleeting moment before returning again.
Letting out a shaky breath, Justin managed a short nod. “My lady.” The greeting exited a trifle huskier than he’d anticipated. He barely noticed Sebastian had turned away, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.
Those whisky eyes shifted, and the tiny space between her perfect winged brows knitted as she regarded Sebastian’s behavior.
“I trust your journey was satisfactory,” Justin continued in a quick attempt to regain her attention. Her eyes were mesmerizing, her long dark lashes framing their demureness like a veil he itched to unsheathe.
“Yes, my lord.”
Her accent was beautiful. The kind of ancient, refined Brogue so pitifully rare among Irishmen these days.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, unable to refrain from smiling as she bit her lower lip. My, but she did have the most delicious looking mouth. To the duke, he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of securing the inn for tonight, Your Grace.”
“Splendid.” Kilkenny murmured something to his daughter, and she nodded compliantly, retrieving her hand from the crook of his arm and taking a step forward.
She eyed Justin warily. “Help me to the coach, my lord?”
She proffered her hand, and Justin took it, raised it to his lips in a gesture that, while uniform in expected formalities, sent a scorching wave of pure lust through his loins.
She smelled of lavender, sweet yet refined.
He couldn’t deny the thought of what it would be like, exploring her perfumed body with his hands, his mouth. He wanted to kiss the hills of her cheeks, flushed the most innocent shade of pink. Kiss the mounds of supple cleavage straining against her gown with every breath she took. Kiss those lush, rosebud lips until they cried his name.
And he’d only touched her hand. Her gloved hand.
Sweet Mary and Joseph. This was not going at all as he’d expected. She was not what he’d expected.
Struggling to maintain what little poise he had left, Justin stiffened his back, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and led her to the awaiting black lacquered coach.
Sebastian, who still had a grin of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, swung an open-palmed hand in a grand gesture as the footman opened the door and unfolded the steps.
Justin nearly cursed aloud. He’d hear it later, the look of shock on his face upon discovering the chit was far from hideous. Sebastian never missed the chance for a good laugh, especially at Justin’s expense.
Sara climbed into the coach, her hand sliding from Justin’s as she settled onto the plush velvet seat. Justin braced a hand on either side of the door, leaned in, and flashed his most charming smile.
She regarded him through widened eyes.
“There is a foot warmer just there.” He pointed to a pottery container on the floor. Anticipating cooler weather, he’d had it filled with boiling water before reaching the coastline. “And a blanket, if you should get cold. It’s not far to the inn from here.”
“Thank you.” Whispered so softly that, had his eyes not been focused on her mouth, he mightn’t have heard.
“Thank you,” he repeated absently. “That is, you’re most welcome. Shall I ride with you?”
She shook her head. A lock of dark curls fell over her shoulder, brushed the exposed skin below her neck.
“That won’t be necessary, my lord.” Folding her hands in her lap, she turned her gaze straight ahead and stared blindly into the green velvet upholstery across the way.
So, she was choosing to ignore him. Not that he could blame her. If the circumstances were awkward for him, he could only imagine how difficult they were for her. She was young and, by the look of her, quite virginal. If asked, he’d almost stake his life she hadn’t even been kissed, much less experienced any sort of intimacy with a man.
Two matters he could remedy easily enough.
Justin returned to the duke and suggested he ride with his daughter in the warmth of the coach. That he, along with Lord Beaufort, would follow on horseback.
The duke wasn’t pleased. In fact, he appeared to be quite vexed, snapping his fingers at his footman and the other woman--Sara’s maid perhaps?--to follow him.
Both shot him a strange look, as if he weren’t always so brash, but willfully obeyed, the maid climbing into the coach and the footman seating himself beside the driver.
Raised voices came from inside as the vehicle lurched forward, its candlelit lanterns flickering wildly in the wind.
Justin heaved a sigh, swept up into his saddle, and urged his horse forward.
“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian, riding alongside Justin. “She’s beautiful. No, by all accounts, she’s …”
“Striking,” Justin murmured without thinking.
To his surprise, Sebastian did not utter another word. He’d expected to hear the obvious; that the look on his face had been priceless, as he was sure it had been.
He’d never seen anything like her. She was small in stature, yet the boldness in her eyes hinted she had more courage in that petite body than Hercules. Not to mention the Irish were notorious for their brazen nature, though he’d never seen one quite so lovely.
And God help him, was she lovely.
He’d never been one for poetry, had hated studying the stuff more than listening to his mother’s attempts at playing the pianoforte. But at that moment, riding closely behind the coach that carried his bride-to-be, he thought about every bloody love poem he’d heard. Wordsworth. Byron. Bloody Shelley.
“Well, I will say one thing.” Sebastian paused. “Wait. No, two things. You are officially the luckiest man I know, and ...” His wintry eyes sparkled with mirth. “She’s all yours.”
A curious smile grew upon Justin’s lips as he contemplated Sebastian’s statement. “Yes,” he said as they neared the inn, a small establishment owned by o
ne of the oldest families in Liverpool. “Yes, she is.”
THREE
“Of all the ... self-righteous ...”
Sara stopped pacing, closed her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, she stomped a boot heel on the wooden floor, curled her hands into fists, and through gritted teeth screeched, “Díomasach!”
Lana gasped.
Sara paid no heed. Screaming the old language always took a little more off the edge than using plain English. Be that as it may, she was beginning to believe even Gaelic could not possibly, nor accurately, describe this man.
Her betrothed.
God, but that word made her cringe.
Ever shrewd, Lana made a little tut sound, and continued spreading Sara’s night garments on the bed. “Arrogant, my lady? He did not speak but a few sentences to you, none of which could be considered arrogant. On the contrary, I thought his attentiveness was quite charming.”
“Charming?” Sara removed her wide-brimmed hat. Tossed it on the bed, along with her shawl. She pulled at the fingers of her gloves, tugging jerkily at each inch of precious lace until, losing all fortitude, she used her teeth.
“Well. He wasn’t disagreeable,” Lana offered, cringing as she observed Sara’s patience, or lack thereof, at its worst. She reached out a hand, withdrew it. Reached again. “Oh, my lady, please let me help you with those. They’ll--”
Sara’s eyes rounded as the ring finger of her right glove ripped between her teeth.
“Tear.” Lana’s shoulders slumped, as Sara handed over the damaged glove. She carefully thumbed over the dainty lace finger. “I think I can repair it.”
“Don’t bother, Lana.” Sara squared her shoulders. “I am not staying.”
“But we’ve come all this way, my lady, you cannot choose now to flee. The ship will not agree to ferry you back to Dublin. Not when they’ve already been instructed by His Grace that if anyone should see you attempting to run, they are to promptly retrieve and return.”
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