Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  Then, he let go.

  Sara braced herself against the bookcase, for as drugged as she felt at the moment, collapsing was not an option. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

  However, she suspected by the heat in her cheeks, he already knew.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been kissed, Lady Ballivar.” He was attempting, she thought, to sound lighthearted in spite of the desire in his eyes. “After all, you are ... what? Eighteen?”

  Inwardly relieved the effect of the kiss hadn’t been one-sided, Sara stood taller. She smoothed the wrinkles of her dress with a quick brush of her hands. “Yes.”

  Gathering her bearings, she ignored the look of arrogant satisfaction on his face. “And on the contrary, Lord Carrington, I have been kissed before.”

  “Not like that, you haven’t.”

  Sara opened her mouth in retort, discovered she had none, and closed it again.

  He moved closer, stunned her when he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmured against her bare skin. She’d forgotten gloves this morning. Lana would have a conniption. “In fact, I do think I prefer it.”

  Sara watched as he unhurriedly dragged his lips across her knuckles. “If there is any honor in you, if you call yourself a gentleman, you will promise never to do that again without my permission.”

  His eyes met hers. A wry smile curved his lips. “I don’t call myself anything, my lady. So, I cannot promise you that.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and squared his shoulders. “But I can promise you this: the next time I kiss you, you won’t say don’t.”

  *** *** ***

  Justin had never been one to find any sort of appeal in young, virginal girls. In fact, and by all accounts, he tried his damndest to steer clear of them. They were clingy in the worst sense, too innocent, much too eager to land a husband, and, worst of all, they had no ability whatsoever to distinguish love from lust. Smiling at one could earn a man an innocent giggle behind a fan, which was harmless enough until he asked the young lady to dance. And then he’d better hope the dance was a quadrille and not a waltz, because waltzes only made them giggle harder.

  But when a man was holding a lady that close to his body, giggles were easy to ignore.

  So easy, in fact, he might ask her to accompany him into the garden. Where he’d make the biggest mistake of his life and kiss her. Instantly, she’d be in love with him, declare they were soul-mates, meant to be together. All a box of ridiculous fantasies virgins carried around in their virginal heads.

  But Lady St. Clair didn’t have that problem. She never gave any false illusion she was in love with him, nor did she want anything more out of their relationship than the pleasure he gave her. Justin was well aware he wasn’t her first lover, naturally, as she was a widow. He was sure he wouldn’t be her last, either; she had too great a sexual appetite to stay with one man forever. And where marriage was inevitable for him, the bonds of matrimony held no interest for her.

  But he was more than certain he had been her exclusive for the past several months, during which he’d never gone a full week without visiting her bed, and he was on the verge of two now. In truth, he should have been running back to London with the eagerness of a racehorse, every gallop bringing him closer to Milly and the welcoming warmth of her naked body entangled with his.

  He wasn’t eager.

  If anything, he was dreading the return and reality he would eventually have to face his mistress.

  Dread facing Milly? How could he?

  Ah, but one look over his shoulder at the black lacquered coach bouncing behind said it all.

  He was stricken with his betrothed. Whether with lust or mere curiosity, he could not decide. Her body was heaven, and it fit perfectly to his much taller, broader form. Sweet Lord, her lips. He imagined the richest confection didn’t taste anywhere near as decadent. If he were any other kind of man, he could have easily hiked up her skirts and taken her right there against the bookcase. Shown her what it could be like between them, if she would allow it.

  What was he thinking? No man in his right mind felt this kind of emotion toward his intended. And he wasn’t delusional enough to think she would mean anything more to him in marriage than a mere means of bearing his heirs.

  But all at once, in less than a day, Lady Ballivar had given him the idea that he could have a meaningful marriage, like his father. One that, in time, could develop into deep-found affection.

  If there was such a thing.

  “You know what I was just thinking about?”

  Ah, Sebastian. He never could stand for riding without some sort of conversation, even if it was pointless.

  “Am I to guess?” Justin forced himself to look away from the carriage. He regarded Sebastian evenly. “Or are you going to enlighten me?”

  Sebastian smiled crookedly, still groggy from last night’s whisky-laced conversation with the duke. “When I thought I was helplessly in love with Jane Foster.” Sebastian gazed ahead, reflectively. “She had me smitten like a fool willing to spend his last pence on a stick of licorice. Do you remember that?”

  Briefly taken back by the odd analogy, Justin waited a few seconds to answer. “Of course I remember. That’s the day I met you, half-drunk, half-terrified that her ape-of-a-brother was about to beat your head in with his father’s hammer.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “It wasn’t the best idea I ever had, fooling around with the blacksmith’s daughter.” He cast an aside glance at Justin, squinting against the sunlight. “In fact, there was only one other occasion I felt that way. About a woman, I mean.”

  “Mmm. Well, you were only twelve, Sebastian. Hardly a reasonable age to determine whether or not one is in love.”

  “I was mature for twelve.”

  “You’re not mature now.”

  Sebastian gave the accusation thought. “I’m working on it.”

  “Indeed,” Justin muttered. “You never did thank me for saving your skin that day, you know. I could’ve just left you to the ape-boy. He looked a might determined when he found you--us--at the confectioner’s.”

  A roll of laughter peeled from Sebastian’s throat. “The look on his face when he saw your fist coming.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Justin, as Sebastian sighed and shook his head. “So, tell me, is it so memorable, how close you came to being pummeled on the streets of London?”

  “Memorable,” Sebastian repeated, and then matter-of-factly added, “Of course it was. We’ve been virtually inseparable ever since. But that’s not why I was thinking about Jane Foster.”

  “I won’t pull it out of you, Sebastian. You know how I hate evasiveness.”

  “The expression I wore then,” Sebastian quipped, “before the incident with her brother, and you damn near leveling him in one blow. I was smitten. Not a thought went through my mind, however utterly depraved my mind was--is, that didn’t consist of her in some way.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at Justin. “And you, my friend, have the expression.”

  “What in the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come now, old chap. You don’t expect me to believe the two of you were playing a game of whist whilst alone in the library for fifteen minutes? Something happened that has you in deep thought. Too deep considering in less than two hours, we’ll be back in London. And you’ll be free to visit Lady St. Clair.”

  Justin’s brow pulled with uncertainty.

  “Or perhaps it is your mistress who has so acutely invaded your thoughts.”

  Justin did not respond, but listened to the squeak-squeak-squeak of his father’s new carriage, the pounding hooves of the four fresh horses they’d acquired less than an hour ago in Warwick.

  When they’d stopped to rest and gather a few supplies, he’d gone to the inn near the river and purchased a basketful of sandwiches, shortbread cakes, and a bottle of wine, figuring everyone, including his intended, would be famished. He’d offered her a sandwich
made of smoked meat and thin-sliced cheese, which she’d promptly refused, assuring him she wasn’t hungry.

  And then she’d asked him to leave her be. That she was tired and wanted to be alone, though her idea of alone apparently included the company of Mrs. Brennan, who rarely let the lady out of her sight.

  Had it been left up to him, Justin would’ve sent the maid back to Ireland. Then he could properly court Sara, despite her obvious disinterest in being courted. Or held. Or kissed.

  Ah, but she had kissed him back. There was no way she could’ve responded the way she had without feeling some sort of desire for him. He could still feel her cool hands on his neck, that glorious body molding against his, not knowing whether she should pull away or press harder. He could still taste her, smell her, and he could very well imagine tasting more of her.

  All of her.

  Uncomfortable, he shifted in his saddle, and urged his horse into a steady canter, deciding his first order of business once they arrived in London would be to pay a visit to Millicent St. Clair.

  FIVE

  Sara blinked as a ray of gleaming sunlight moved across the thin skin of her closed eyelid, awakening her from an uncomfortable nap. While the Tethersal carriage was inarguably exquisite--the finest with its velvet upholstery, polished wood, and fox hunting motif painted upon the ceiling--it was still bumpy in travel. She’d rested her head on the wall, right next to the window, and stared out into the open scenery.

  She’d thought on all the trips taken in her father’s carriage. He’d never hesitated in letting her lean against him. Sometimes he would recite a poem. Sometimes one of Shakespeare’s shorter sonnets, as they were her favorite. At other times they’d ride in companionable silence, with only the sound of her father’s breathing and the gentle rise and fall of his chest to induce her into a dreamless sleep.

  Fine polished wood was beautiful, but not nearly as comfortable as the warmth of a loving father.

  Aside from her unpleasant sleep, and one game of solitaire with Lana, Sara had spent the majority of her time thinking of Lord Carrington. The kiss they’d shared in the library at the inn. As inexperienced as she was in the seductive arts, Sara was no fool. She knew perfectly well what she’d done to him. To both of them.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, she reminded herself. He wasn’t supposed to be handsome or charming, and he most certainly wasn’t supposed to kiss her.

  But he was handsome. Devastatingly so. And he could probably charm the wings off a bluebird if he tried.

  Charming wings off avionic creatures aside, Sara had to admit she’d never seen a man with such strong features. His chest rivaled that of the broadest cathedral doors, and his arms felt banded in impenetrable steel. With his impeccable appearance and more than demanding presence, Sara imagined he could enter a room, not utter a single word, and every head would automatically turn in his direction.

  It was his blue-blooded breeding that made him this way, she knew, but he was far from being the model nobleman. In truth, his well-honed physicality reminded her more of a day laborer’s than that of a peer.

  Sara placed a hand over her belly, wishing she would have eaten the sandwich he’d offered earlier. She just couldn’t bear to look at him, much less talk to him, which would have been inevitable had she accepted the food.

  “You should have eaten, my lady,” Lana said tentatively.

  Sara focused on the land outside. “Didn’t want to.”

  Acres upon acres of flowing orchards, some newly planted, some towering in maturity, led into a wide open space of rolling parkland. Ironic she’d thought Ireland to be the greenest land she’d ever seen. And it was; the grass surrounding Northwood was so green it appeared blue in the sunlight.

  But this was a close second.

  The coach lurched forward, circled round a grand stone fountain that stood in the midst of a well-kept courtyard. Sara’s heart raced with anticipation. As soon as the horses came to a halt, footmen rushed from all directions, one opening the door while another unfolded the steps. While yet three more began untying the luggage.

  “My lady.” Outside, an immaculately dressed servant proffered his hand. “Welcome to Mayfair House.”

  Sara smiled, nodded curtly, and slipped her gloved hand inside his. “Thank you,” she said, and stepped down. A soft breeze whirled around her, filled her senses with the aromatic combination of soil and spring flowers. She moved around the coach, and, looking up, beheld the vast structure that was to be her new home.

  Designed in the popular Palladian style, Mayfair House was an extraordinary work of architecture. A set of stone steps, surrounded on either side by neat yew hedges, swept into a wide white-columned portico. Towering Venetian windows crowned the upper floor, each with its own stone-railed balcony, and Sara immediately hoped one of them would be hers. She could easily picture herself perched outside, away from the noise and clamor that came with a house of this proportion, enjoying a good book or a cup of tea, perhaps both.

  “Lady Ballivar.” Eerie that his voice had already become familiar. “I trust your ride was satisfactory. No precarious bumps or anything?”

  She looked up at him, and automatically tucked her hand inside his crooked arm. “No,” she said, and apparently a little too quickly.

  “You were uncomfortable.” Concern laced his tone. “You should have told me. I could have gotten you a blanket or perhaps a pillow.”

  “Really, my lord.” She gave his bicep a gentle squeeze, amazed by the swell of muscle beneath. Their gazes held. Sara swallowed. “I am quite well.”

  He nodded, and led her toward the house, Lord Beaufort running ahead by several paces. She wondered what it must have been like for the two of them, these close companions, growing up together in the heart of British society. Clearly they had been friends since childhood, as there was no other explanation to Lord Carrington’s association with such an unrefined character as Lord Beaufort. She imagined they’d gotten themselves into all sorts of boyish mischief as children, and more than likely still did from time to time.

  If not all the time. Heavens. What if Carrington was as vulgar as his friend and was only pretending to be a well-mannered gentleman? He obviously had a bit of a lewd streak. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kissed her without first asking permission, as most gentlemen would have.

  Oh, for the love of--she was already thinking about the kiss again. All of a sudden, she became aware of his nearness, the skirts of her dress brushing against his leg as they ascended the steps, the bulge of his arm grazing the side of her breast. Surreal, it was, being with him like this.

  A tall, thin-faced butler greeted them at the entrance, bending over a lean waist as they approached. “My lord.” He took Lord Carrington’s hat and gloves. “We are most grateful for your safe return.” His small eyes turned to Sara, the corners of his non-existent lips upturning slightly. “And what a delight it is to have you here at Mayfair House, Lady Ballivar. May I take your bonnet?”

  Sara tugged at the satin ribbon tied beneath her chin and removed her bonnet, fully aware of Lord Carrington’s watchful gaze. Never had removing a simple head covering seemed so intimate a gesture. The warmth of his breath tickled her skin where the tiny hairs framed her temple. Like a fish out of water, her stomach flip-flopped under the weight of his stare.

  Insane. That’s what this was. Completely, flip-floppity insane.

  She handed her bonnet to the butler, and addressed her betrothed. “Your home is lovely, my lord.” And it really was. The ceilings in the foyer alone had to be at least thirty feet high, if not higher. Grecian tile, polished to a high shine, covered the floor.

  “It’s been in my family for generations.” He pointed to a statue of a robed woman, positioned upon a square pedestal in a corner at the end of the foyer. In one of her intricately detailed hands was a pitcher, and in the other, a cup. “Hebe,” he said, “Goddess of Youth. She was given to my father by an Italian general, after the war.”

 
“She’s beautiful,” Sara exclaimed.

  “Her husband, Hercules.” He pointed to the corner opposite the Greek statue, where a stalwart sculpture of a man stood, a knotted club gripped tightly in his white marble hand.

  Justin’s head lowered, his mouth mere millimeters from her cheek. “Hebe was a gift to him from the goddess Hera, a beacon to his immortality.”

  Reactively Sara turned her face toward him, the sudden closeness of their lips causing her breath to catch. Her eyes rolled upward, and Justin quirked a smile, as if knowing her inner thoughts--thoughts of kissing him again, of feeling the weight of his body pressed against hers.

  “You seem nervous,” he quietly observed. “Don’t be.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Justin!”

  Both their heads shot to attention, and Lord Carrington grinned, releasing Sara’s hand from his arm as two women, one running ahead of the other, approached, wide smiles spread across their faces.

  “Anna.” He embraced the younger of the two. “You look well.”

  “Brother,” she murmured as he smoothed a hand over her head of shiny blond curls. “I’m so pleased you’re back.” She lowered her voice; her deep blue eyes peered at Sara from over his shoulder. “Father’s been asking for you.”

  A frown creased his forehead. “Is he all right? He isn’t …?”

  “No.” She pulled back to look at him properly. “He just had a restless night. Night sweats, bad dreams. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least not for Father. He just wanted to see you, I think.”

  “And Lady Ballivar,” the elder woman added, turning her attention to Sara. She smiled.

  This had to be the duchess.

  Sara took her extended hand without hesitation, dropped into a respectful curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  “Forgive me, Mother,” said Lord Carrington, garnering a warm smile from the duchess. “May I present Lady Sara Ballivar of Dublin?” And as the duchess nodded: “Lady Ballivar, this is my mother, Elizabeth, Duchess of Tethersal.”