Sara drew a sharp breath. “He did not!”
“Aye. He did.”
Defeated, Sara lowered herself to the chair at the small vanity in her room at the inn. She sat up straight. She would not cry. She wouldn’t.
But it was useless.
Her lashes lowered, and droplets of tears spilled onto anger-flushed cheeks.
And then she asked herself the same question she’d pondered while still in Dublin, when she was still in the security of her homeland.
How could her father do this to her?
“You might as well make the best of things, child,” said Lana, and Sara sank her face into her hands. “Because this is not a game. You are betrothed, have been nearly all your life. And His Grace will not debase himself, Tethersal, and, more importantly, the Crown, by dishonoring an agreement.”
She paused, her faint laugh filling the fire-warmed room. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Lord Carrington is quite handsome.”
Sara peeled her hands from her face, regarding Lana through tear-soaked lashes. “I do mind you saying so.” Standing, she brushed the smooth fabric of her dark blue gown. “And that is well beyond the point of this ludicrousness.”
Lana’s eyes widened hopefully. “Ah, you do find him handsome?”
“I didn’t say …” Sara impatiently swallowed her response, thinking it better to end the conversation. Lifting her chin, she turned and made for the inviting warmth of the stone fireplace.
Lana did not further pursue the subject, but continued setting out the items Sara would need for the night and the next morning.
Of course she found him handsome. What woman wouldn’t? He was tall but not too tall; she imagined her eyes would align exactly at the jut of his strong chin.
If she were ever that close to him.
He was thick, his shoulders broad beneath the fabric of his tweed riding coat. Well-defined thighs under fashionable buff breeches. His skin held a bronzed hue, and Sara fleetingly wondered why the son of a duke should be so tanned. Most noblemen were dreadfully pale. Some even powdered their skin, though why any man would desire to appear so feminine was beyond Sara’s comprehension.
But Lord Carrington was anything but feminine.
On the contrary, he was perhaps the most masculine creature she’d ever encountered. Everything about him was inarguably male, from his build to his mannerism. And that roguish, mischievous smile that belonged more on the face of a renowned rake than an heir to a ducal seat. She could still see him smiling at her from the doorway of the carriage, his teeth gleaming white in his sun-kissed face.
And his lips. Those immodestly full lips …
Sara started as a knock came to the door, followed by the easy drawl of a rich male baritone. “Lady Ballivar? May I have a word?”
Her gaze snapped to Lana, and she shook her head hastily, even as Lana scurried across the room for the door, the skirts of her gray dress rustling like crepe paper.
The door opened, and there, leaning lazily against the frame, stood Lord Carrington. He’d removed the hat which reminded her of the leather oilskin hats the horsemen wore in South Ireland, revealing a head of mussed, shiny dark hair, a lock of which fell carelessly over his forehead. His shirt lay undone at the collar.
Sara swallowed as her eyes involuntarily slid from his face to the tanned, smooth skin of his neck.
All at once, the sight of him caused an unfamiliar weakness to gather in her knees, a pleasurable shiver in her innermost parts. As if she’d just indulged in too much wine and dancing. Strange, yet stimulating.
Most unwelcome given the present situation.
Lana curtsied respectfully. “My lord.”
“Good evening.” He flashed an easy grin. “Forgive me. I didn’t catch your name earlier. Miss ...?”
“Mrs. Brennan.”
“Intrigued. I trust you’ll be accompanying Lady Ballivar to London?” His voice was like a web of fine silk, both alluring and captivating. In spite of his brawny appearance, there was no denying this man had come from a long line of aristocrats.
“Yes, my lord.” Lana turned a cheek-popping smile on Sara, her eyes rounded with so much gaiety Sara felt certain she’d let out a squeal at any moment.
Irritated, Sara forced herself to look his lordship square in the face. “I was just about to prepare for bed, sir.”
One of his dark brows lifted inquiringly. Heat infused her cheeks as he pressed his lips together, the hint of a devilish smirk tugging at one corner.
“So,” she continued, “whatever brought you to my door tonight, I’ll kindly ask that you please make it quick.”
Lord Carrington pushed away from the mottled door frame and strode inside. The air in the room swelled and stirred. Sara felt the nerves in her body ignite, a trickle of intimate tingles developing in places she couldn’t understand.
“I came to ask if I could interest you in some supper.” His eyes were dark brown, almost black, veiled by a set of long--too long to be wasted on a man--dark lashes. “And perhaps a bath?”
For reasons she could not explain, the very sound of the word bath coming from him made her blush. As if the innocent word had suddenly accumulated some sort of wild intimacy.
“I ... that would be nice, my lord,” she managed. “However, I should like to dine in my room. Alone, if it is all the same to you.”
The shadow of a frown flashed across his lips, and for a second she felt ashamed for not agreeing to have a meal with him. No matter. She couldn’t take it back now, and how dare he make her feel ashamed? Wasn’t as if she owed him anything.
“As you wish.” Sweeping a short bow, he turned for the door.
Sara closed her eyes, breathed an inward sigh of relief for having successfully evaded his company. Bad enough she’d be engaged in an entire journey with him upon the dawning of the next day, indisputably having to rely on him for more than just meals and baths. She was entitled to her privacy for at least one night.
He paused at the opening of the door and turned his head slightly. “I’ll have your supper sent up in a few minutes, as well as some hot water for your bath. Good evening.”
“Good--” Sara began, but he left quickly, the thunder in his stride bouncing off walls as he retreated down the hall.
“I think,” Lana said, easing the door shut, “that he might have wanted you to dine with him, my lady.”
“Then he should have said so.” Sara returned to the warmth of the fire. “I’m not interested in playing mind games with him, or anyone else for that matter. Especially not him. Furthermore, I don’t like the way he looks at me. It’s as if … as if …”
“He finds you attractive, perhaps?”
Sara felt the heat in her cheeks rising again. “I don’t know what it is.” No man had ever stirred such odd feelings inside her. They were as foreign as her surroundings. Pleasant, yet strange. “It just makes me uncomfortable. That’s all.”
“Mmm,” came Lana’s vague response. “I see.”
*** *** ***
Justin slowed his steps as he reached one of the few parlors hailed at the inn. From inside, he could make out the familiar sound of Sebastian’s voice as well as the deep, heavy Brogue belonging to the Duke of Kilkenny. Both broke into laughter. Knowing Sebastian, it was most likely over a glass of fine whisky, and the conversation had gone from steam engines to gambling to whores in less than ten minutes.
For a moment, Justin waited outside the cracked door, attempting with all he had to collect his wits.
He could still see her, smell her. That wonderful, mild scent of lavender which made him feel as though he’d entered a meadow in spring. Bereft of her hat, he’d had the luxury of seeing her properly. Lovely eyes, cheeks, and lips. Hair so fine and so dark it appeared wet, the silken strands were that shiny. Her body was small, yet softly curved. As though the sculptor had seen fit to maintain an essence of innocence without denying the assets of a woman.
Assets which fully peaked a man’s desires.
And heaven help him, his were definitely peaked. But he couldn’t very well carry out the rest of the evening like this. Pining over beauty like some reckless schoolboy with no couth or sense. For pity’s sake, hadn’t he any pride?
Praying male conversation would somehow put him to rights, Justin stepped inside the parlor. “Your Grace. Lord Beaufort.” He left the door three quarters of the way closed, as he had found it. Habit of living with a meticulous duchess.
“Ahh, Justin.” Sebastian raised his half-empty glass. “We were just discussing the railway industry up north. Booming, it is. Father has been meeting with Pease and Stephenson for a few months now. There’s no stopping the old man from slapping the Worcester name on those steam engines, you know.”
“Yes, how well I do.” Justin sank into the leather armchair across from the duke.
“Whisky, Lord Carrington?” The duke started to pour another glass of the amber liquor.
Justin waived a dismissive hand. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”
The duke looked surprised.
Sebastian chuckled. “Never has, Your Grace,” he said, and drank a generous swill from his own snifter. “Can’t hardly convince him to have a glass of wine with dinner either. What was it you said, Justin? It’s too inebriating?” He leaned back in his chair.
Justin cut his eyes in Sebastian’s direction. “Something like that,” he muttered, and Sebastian lifted his glass in salute. He turned to the duke. “I don’t welcome anything that clouds my ability to reason.”
The duke’s face was kind, and surprisingly young, warmed by one of those smiles some men wore as a seal. “Admirable, Lord--may I call you Justin? Wonderful. But I have to wonder then, and by all means, forgive me for being so forward, if you’ve ever been in love.” His grin widened. “Nothing could possibly be more inebriating than dousing the entirety of one’s being upon the women he loves.”
The observation was forward, to say the least. “Love is something for which I haven’t had much time, Your Grace,” Justin answered politely. “My involvement in other matters has left but only a small portion of my freedom, most of which consists of when I sleep at night. I’ve also had to handle my father’s duties more frequently as of late.”
The duke frowned. “Yes. Please, tell me about your father’s condition. The letter I received from your mother, while most welcome, was rather vague in elaborating on his illness.”
Justin raked a hand through his hair and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “It’s some form of wasting disease. At least, that is what all the physicians tell us. Apparently he’s been living with it for years, but only recently has it become noticeable.”
The crease in the duke’s brow deepened. “Noticeable?”
“Night sweats, fever, coughing, blood. At first the doctors thought it was consumption, but he’s lived with it for so long that ... well, we’re all aware of how consumption works.”
The duke nodded. “He is bed ridden, I presume?”
“At times, yes. Then again, he has his good days. Where he can rise and sit down to eat with the family. He likes sitting outside, mostly. In the sun.”
“And your mother? Your sister? How are they?”
“Mother is in constant distress. Rarely leaves Father’s side. Takes nearly all her meals with him. Refuses to leave him alone for more than a few minutes at a time.”
His mother had become so fragile in the past few months, waiting on his father hand and foot, only allowing a small amount of assistance from the hired help. That the duchess loved his father so unconditionally, with her whole heart, had always been an enigma to Justin. His father was a kind man, but years of being in the king’s service and the hierarchy of England had taken its toll on the family. Justin, his sister, and the duchess had been forced early on to face the reality that having a normal life was a luxury even they could not afford.
“My sister, Lady Anna,” he continued, as Sebastian stood to refill his glass, “is ... well ... she’s Anna. There’s no possible way to describe her, really. She’s not like any lady in the peerage, always the talk of the ton, and I have genuine reason to believe that’s exactly how she likes it.”
This elicited a hearty chuckle from the duke. “She was always a bit on the capricious side,” he agreed. “Like your mother. How old is she now? Nineteen?”
“Twenty. Though I assure you, her mannerisms are nothing short of a woman with much broader experience. She’s always ahead of fashion, sometimes scandalously so, much to my mother’s protests.”
He glanced at Sebastian, who shifted in his seat, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other. Restless, that one. Couldn’t sit still to save his life.
“All in the good name of being the only daughter of the most influential peer in England, she insists,” Justin finished.
“Naturally,” the duke commented. “I’m afraid young women are drawn to fashion the way moths are to a flame. They cannot help it.” He paused reflectively and rubbed his chin. “Of course,” he continued, and swallowed the last bit of his cognac, “that is what I keep telling myself.”
“Your daughter enjoys fashion, does she?” said Sebastian. “She and Lady Anna should get on well.”
“My daughter enjoys fashion as much as the next woman her age, Lord Beaufort, but I assure you, like Lady Anna, she is quite unpredictable. I’ve never seen a girl so adamant in refusing to ride side saddle or insisting, and frequently proving, she can play a game of Rounders better than any of my male servants.”
Justin smiled. “A sportsman, eh?” He was surprised, yet altogether unsurprised. Amusing, it was, that he had been right in his earlier assumption. She was a spitfire, his intended.
“Sportsman, statesman. She’s even been known to sing a note or two. And she’s a fine dancer, I must say. Much better than I ever was. And she’s fluent in the old language.” A husky chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Don’t ever make her angry. You’ll never get her to stop cursing you in Gaelic.”
His eyes shifted, the humor vanishing as he stared unseeingly past Justin’s shoulder. “Just like her mother.”
Justin felt his lips quirk. The duke’s expression softened, his eyes clouding as if he’d slipped into an open-eyed slumber. He missed his wife; that much was obvious.
“Well, then,” Justin murmured, “I shall look forward to …” His breath caught, lodged in his throat. Through the crack in the door, a pair of whisky-brown eyes peered inside. Blinked. Widened.
Vanished.
“Ah, beg pardon, but …” Justin came to his feet. “I think I am in need of some fresh air.”
“By all means.” Sebastian twiddled his elegant fingers. “I would come along, but as you can see I’m a bit ... inebriated.” He flashed a crooked smile, and Justin shook his head, knowing Sebastian would be hard pressed to make it out of that chair tonight.
“Your Grace.” Justin bowed to the duke, who was on the verge of sleep himself, his eyes falling heavier and heavier by the second.
“Lord”--the duke yawned--“Carrington.”
The hallway was empty when Justin stepped outside the parlor, this time shutting the door behind him. He knew it was her. There was no mistaking those eyes. Moreover, the way they stared at him in the most accusing way. As if it was his fault all this was happening.
“Sir?” Justin stopped the innkeeper, who was making his nightly rounds. “Have you seen Lady Ballivar within the past few minutes? Dark hair, small in stature.” He leveled a hand to illustrate her height.
The innkeeper grinned. “Ye finally marryin’ the lass, are ye? A bonnie lass she is, tha’ one. Jes’ saw ‘er runnin’ back fer ‘er room.” He pointed a crooked finger toward the stairs, the same ones from which Justin had stormed no more than half an hour ago.
*** *** ***
Sara succeeded in making it past the stairs, taking the last step so fast she nearly tumbled over her own feet. They were too small, and their smallness was even more disagreeable when she was b
arefoot and running. She’d been struck out on one too many occasions because of it. And now she stood to face the one person she’d so desperately tried to stay away from tonight.
All because she had small feet.
Blast, if she could just make it to the sanctuary of her room, she could stop worrying. She was breathing entirely too hard, her heart pounding against her ribs like a caged animal. A threatening combination in need of finding a happy median if she had any intention on keeping the contents of her half-empty stomach.
She couldn’t bring herself to eat tonight, although the grilled fish and seasoned potatoes did look quite delectable, which Lana confirmed after Sara had insisted she eat instead. She was still much too nervous. Especially after he’d barged in as he had, striding toward her like a lion on the hunt while her stomach did somersaults like a circus monkey. And then he’d left, and just like that, she’d lost her wits and her appetite.
A con-artist, that’s what he was. No other logical explanation existed for how her body had reacted to his nearness.
She’d bathed quickly, washed her hair, brushed her teeth, and prayed the warm water would somehow dull her senses enough to get him out of her brain. Where he had no business being in the first place.
But to her discomfort and utter chagrin, she could think of nothing but him. And the way the word bath had dripped like warm syrup from his lips. Which, she noticed, were perfectly shaped, the lower protruding only slightly further from the upper.
The fact she was imagining his lips made her even angrier.
Afterward, she’d lain in bed for an eternity, waiting for her maid to stop stirring in the next room. Once all noise had ceased, she’d made for the hallway. Disregarding her scarcely clad appearance of wearing only her white night rail, she’d hurried as fast as her small, bare feet could carry her to find her father.
And, once again, beg him to reconsider. She was fully prepared to get down on her knees and sob if she had to.
Of course, who should she find with him but Lord Carrington and that other person--Lord Beaufort was he?--who found her so amusing. What gentleman would make such an open display of laughter over a lady that he should have to turn his back in attempt to stifle it? An English one, that’s who. They were all the same. Mindless, arrogant idiots who thought of nothing and no one but themselves.
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