Justin offered his open palm to Sara. “Would you enjoy that, my lady?”
“Yes, of course.” Gracefully as possible given her knees had peculiarly weakened, Sara stood from her chair. “Your Grace. Lady Anna. Have a pleasant morning. And thank you for the intriguing conversation. I found it immensely enjoyable.”
“The pleasure was all ours, Lady Ballivar,” the duchess responded in kind.
*** *** ***
As the duchess had guessed, the air outside was more than agreeable. Paradise, really. Warm, calm, breezy. The sporadic twitters of songbirds floated like prose through the air, mingled with the smell of wildflowers and something even more welcoming: the good earth.
“Are you cold?” Justin said as Sara buttoned her pelisse.
“Not at all.” She reached up to her head. “Oh.” Not only had she forgotten gloves, but: “My bonnet. I left it inside.”
He reached for her hand, encased it in the warmth of his much larger one. “Leave it.” He grinned down at her. “I rather like your hair. Bonnetless, I mean.”
He placed her hand on his arm, covering it with his own. “So, tell me, Lady Ballivar…” They began a slow walk down the steps and into the courtyard. “What do you think of our side of Mayfair?”
“I fear I haven’t seen enough to make an accurate assumption.”
“An easy enough problem to remedy. There are plenty of amiable activities in the city, if you can withstand the fog. There is the opera, of course, and the theater. Plenty of shops, dressmakers and the like, but I am afraid my sister would be the better companion should you choose to indulge in a shopping expedition.”
Sara laughed.
“I’m a bit of a lousy cohort when it comes to picking out dresses for a lady,” he confessed. “The last time, and final one I might add, that I accompanied my sister and the duchess to the dressmaker ended in Anna throwing a shoe at me, hitting me directly in the head, and screaming for me to leave.”
“Goodness!” Sara said on a gasp. “How old were you?”
“Hmm. Thirteen or so, I believe. Old enough to know that if I intended on keeping clear of flying shoes, it would be wise of me to forego any further shopping trips with my mother and sister. Indeed, the whelp it left for a week afterwards solidified that decision.” He rubbed his forehead, grinned down at her with that boyish smile of his. The one he must have reserved especially for times like these, walking alone with a lady, enjoying fine air and light conversation.
Sara mirrored the gesture in spite of herself; she’d spent the first half of her bath this morning contemplating an escape plan. Only every idea she’d entertained ended in Father sending her packing right back to England.
She wasn’t the greatest escape artist.
“When you smile,” he said, “you have a little dimple.” He touched a fingertip to her left cheek. “Just there. Ah, and now you are blushing. Forgive me.”
Unable to hold back a retort, Sara reached up and thumped the brim of his hat. “Why do you wear this?”
His eyes rolled upward. “My hat?”
Sara nodded.
“It is just a hat.”
“It’s a silly hat.”
He took off the silly hat. “It’s just a hat.”
“It makes you look like ... like one of our horsemen from the South.”
His hair rippled in the gentle breeze, thick locks of dark brown with faint strips of gold here and there. Apparently he spent a vast amount of time in the sun.
He put the hat back on, and instead of doing the proper thing of returning her hand to his arm, threaded his fingers with hers and held her hand, palm to palm, skin to skin.
Oh, most improper! She could hear Lana’s chiding little voice as clearly as though she were directly behind her. No bonnet, no gloves! Your father will not be pleased!
But she couldn’t let go. This felt too good, too wonderful to let go now.
“South Ireland is quite lovely, I hear,” he said. “The hat shades my eyes when it’s sunny and my head when it’s raining. I only wear it while riding. Well, mostly.”
“You ride in the rain?”
“You don’t?”
“Well, I ...” This was her chance to act offended by the insinuation that she, the properly raised daughter of the Duke of Kilkenny, would even entertain the idea of riding in the rain. Let alone ride in any other manner but side saddle, and only for very short periods of time at that.
Proper young ladies rode in carriages, not on the backs of sweaty beasts.
But she had this ridiculous notion that anything short of honesty with him would make her feel worse than having the most terrible of physical ailments.
And so, with a little tip-tilt of her chin, she said, “Yes, I do. In fact, I like taking long rides, even in the rain, and not side-saddle either. I despise riding side-saddle. A terrible invention, that uncomfortable piece of equipment.”
“Terrible.” The corners of his mouth twitched.
“Why, on one such occasion, when I was much younger, I set off before dawn and did not return until well past supper.”
“Positively scandalous.”
“And Lana--that is, Mrs. Brennan--made the excuse that I’d spent the entire day with nuns from the convent, handing out food to the poor. I do not think my father very much believed it, though.”
“A little hellion, aren’t you?”
Sara stared up at him through narrowed eyes. “Are you making fun of me, Lord Carrington?”
“Not at all.” Humor lit his eyes. “On the contrary, my dear, I find you to be a breath of fresh air in contrast to our stuffy English ladies.”
“Your sister doesn’t seem stuffy.”
His smile wavered. “My sister is a woman in a league all her own. One moment I am convinced she is the very modicum of decorum, a marvel to all who would seek to find a lady who is both elegant and poised. Other moments, I could wring her neck for being so ... so ...” He couldn’t seem to find the right word.
“She doesn’t much like Lord Beaufort,” Sara suggested.
Justin shook his head.
“Do you mind my asking why?”
“Long story. The shortened version is that Sebastian was courting the daughter of an earl, who so happened to be one of Anna’s dearest friends. He had just asked for her hand in marriage, which she had readily accepted, when she became with child. She confided this information to my sister, my sister told Sebastian, and Sebastian broke off the engagement. We never saw the girl again. Last I hear, she left for the Continent.”
“Why, that is awful! No wonder your sister is upset.”
“Yes, but Sebastian claims the babe wasn’t his. And Anna swears her friend would have never lied to her. As you witnessed yesterday, Sebastian can’t so much as toss a friendly jeer at Anna without her blowing the situation out of proportion. If anyone can find a way to get under my sister’s skin, it is Lord Beaufort. In fact, the ongoing joke amongst the ton is that where Anna and Sebastian are, there is sure to be a fight before the evening concludes.”
“That cannot be true.” Not from the way Sebastian had concernedly looked on at Anna while Justin chastised her. “There must be some occasions where they are civil to each other.”
He scooped up a small rock, joggled it in his palm. Threw it into one of the paddocks. “I’d give them an hour, two at the most, before one or the other finds something to argue about at our engagement party.”
They were nearing the stables, a great structure made of wood and stone with gigantic double-doors. Sara could already smell it; that gentle, earthy aroma of horses and hay and fine leather.
“An hour or two, you say?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Possibly less.”
“With due respect, my lord, I think you are wrong.”
Clearly he hadn’t expected that. “Oh, you do, do you?”
He led her inside the doorway, into the freshly raked hall, where red painted stall doors lined either side. A few pairs of large, expressi
ve eyes peeked through the iron bars. “I am surprised you make that assumption so readily, given you know neither very well.”
“Yes, but given the magnitude of the occasion, which, I might add, is completely unnecessary since I am certain everyone already knows of our marriage contract, that Lady Anna and Lord Beaufort will put propriety ahead of personal squabbles, and play nicely.”
He mulled that over for a few seconds. “I think I should like to make a wager on your presumption,” he said, coming to halt in the middle of the hallway.
“A what?”
“A bet, Lady Ballivar. You have made a bet before, have you not?”
Sara stared up at him for a moment. “Well, yes, but ...” Propriety, assertiveness. Where was Lana when she needed her? Sara had little to no sense of either without Lana’s constant reminders of who she was, and why she couldn’t act like a simpleton. At least not when it mattered. “A lady does not engage in making wagers with gentlemen, my lord.”
Lana would be proud.
But that wasn’t good enough. “Do not tell me you have gone soft, Lady Ballivar. Your father said you play Rounders with the servants. You expect me to believe you’ve never made a wager with one or two of the young men in the duke’s service?”
She gasped. “You go too far, Lord Carrington.”
“Have I?” he said, adding with a smile, “And it’s Justin.”
“I am not making a bet with you. Especially over something so trifling and silly.”
“My dear, when Sebastian and my sister engage in a tiff, it is none-too-trifling. And anything but silly. In fact, the last time it happened, my sister left a permanent hand print on Sebastian’s face.” At her shocked reaction, he said, “You needn’t act surprised. My sister’s a spitfire, if ever I did see one.”
“Your sister is a respectable lady.”
“She’s a respectable spitfire.”
“Lady,” Sara insisted.
“Yes, lady,” he conceded. “So, are you certain about the bet? It might prove for a very fascinating evening as opposed to the anticipated awkwardness of all this…” He waved his hand about nimbly. “Betrothal twaddle.”
“Twaddle?” she repeated. “I am not too familiar with that word, but if you do mean nonsense or perhaps inconvenience, then I shall be quick to agree with you. This is all, indeed, twaddle-ish.”
His sun-kissed brow pulled into a frown. “You really do disagree with our engagement.”
“I would not call it an engagement, my lord. That term implies I was properly asked to marry you, proposed to by all accounts, which I was not. I do believe the correct word is indeed betrothed, lest we forget why I am truly here.”
*** *** ***
For all his intelligence and ability to throw witticism wherever needed, Justin found himself at a complete loss for words.
She was right. They weren’t engaged. And if he could bet on whether she’d agree if he did properly ask for her hand, he’d place it all on a decisive no coming from that prim little mouth of hers. She felt as if she didn’t belong here, he knew, and it amazed him how much that realization rankled.
She was walking along the stalls now, tiptoeing at each one to look inside, and Justin, mistress-less man he soon would be, found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her. Though a few years shy of filling out into the lushness of a woman’s body, her delicate curves were more than enough to stir his desire. Every rise to her tiptoes required a little bend-over to peer into the stall, and when she did, ah, but her simple gown clung in all the right places.
He wanted to smooth his hands over those curves, spin her in his arms. Crush his mouth upon hers as he’d done before. When she’d innocently told him, “Don’t.”
The most wonderful idea came to mind.
“What if, my lady,” he said, and almost caught his breath as she wheeled around. God, she was beautiful. “What if we were to make our little bet? What would you ask of me were you to win?”
She blinked at him, all long lashes and striking brown eyes. “I would ask for you to petition His Majesty for a breach of our marriage contract. And that I be returned to Ireland, to my home.”
So, she had been thinking about it, although he hadn’t expected such a bold request. She had spirit, his betrothed. “That is impossible.”
Her lips tightened. What had she expected him to say? Had she thought he’d agree to something so preposterous?
“I knew you wouldn’t agree.” She whipped her head back around. “There is nothing else I want from you. Nothing you could give me could make up for …” But she broke off, stared silently into the stall.
Slowly he approached her, though he dared not lay a hand on her. He wasn’t in the mood to be slapped. “May I make a suggestion, then? And of course, it would only be to your agreement.”
She turned around, glared up at him. “Why is this so important?”
“I’m just trying to lighten the situation.”
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job.”
He curled his fingers around an iron bar beside her head. “You’re not making this very easy on me, Sara. I’m trying my best to bridge this gap between us, this vague knowledge we have of each other for which neither of us can be blamed. But I cannot work alone. You must be more cooperative.”
She pursed her lips, and his eyes immediately fell to them.
Ah, bloody hell. He wanted to kiss her again.
“What did you have in mind?”
“If you win,” he began, willing himself to look back into her eyes, which wasn’t any better considering he wanted to kiss those, too. “If you win, then I won’t lay another hand on you until we are married.”
“You were going to do that anyway,” she accused.
“I never said that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I distinctly said the next time I kissed you, you wouldn’t tell me to stop.” And just like that, his eyes were on her lips again.
Why, oh why had he made her such an offer? He had surely condemned himself, unable to touch her for the next several months before they were properly wed. Having to see her every single day, while his hands itched and his body ached? Torment.
“All right,” she said, and he couldn’t rightly say whether that was a good thing. “And if you win? If Lord Beaufort and Lady Anna stick to their normal behavior and have an argument in front of everyone, what then?”
“Then I want a night with you--nay, a full day and night with you.”
The slap should’ve been coming at any moment, followed by an outrage of colorful words, telling him what an outlandish rakehell he was. That he should have never even entertained the idea of her agreeing to so vulgar a proposition.
But she didn’t do either of those things.
She raised her chin a little, and said, “You would take my virtue before we were properly wed?”
“I did not say anything about taking your virtue,” he murmured. “Think more of me than that, please. I merely want you all to myself for a day.”
“And a night.”
He nodded, surprised by how nervous he’d become.
She looked down, her dark lashes caressing the hills of rosy cheeks. “If I win, you shall not lay a hand on me,” she said, and as he said ‘yes,’ she added, “unless I choose it.”
It was his turn to be shocked.
There were two things he saw as she gazed up at him, neither of which exactly helped his current situation of trying to keep his hands off her. One: She was as innocent as a newborn foul. She’d never been aroused, nor had she felt the warmth of a man’s hands or the bliss of being cradled against a male body, intimately. Two: She didn’t seem the least bit repulsed by him.
And those two things, together, made one perfect number Three: He’d be the only one ever to touch her. Hold her. Make love to her until she cried his name. His body would be imprinted on hers for the rest of her life. And his.
The thought made him want to claim her now, take what was ri
ghtfully owed him. But she would never trust him, and that he couldn’t live with.
Bloody hell.
He stood to be in quite the pickle if she won this little bet he’d concocted. Unless...
He could seduce her. If she was willing to add that bit about being allowed to make the first move, then she was not entirely impervious to being seduced.
“All right, Lady Ballivar,” he said. “Shall we shake on it? After all, that is what men would do.”
“By all means, if that is what men would do.” She stuck out her hand, and he took it, gave it a gentle squeeze that promised more than the confirmation of a mere bet. “We have a deal, Lord Carrington.”
“Justin.”
She smiled a little wider. “Justin.”
SEVEN
Sebastian, Lord Beaufort, wasn’t the most comely of English gentlemen. By all accounts, he was the epitome of what society had deemed a bona fide rake, had been since the blooms of adolescence, maybe earlier. He’d earned himself a hell of a reputation, consisting mostly of the seduction of women (young, old, middle-aged, made no difference) and the occasional scandal that traveled faster than a streak of lightning through the inner circle.
That is, the gossip channels of the ton. Last he heard he’d been spotted with a Russian heiress, who he’d managed to ruin within a fortnight of their introduction. He almost hated that tittle-tattle wasn’t true.
The heiress had sounded rather intriguing.
If not for the good graces of his mother, and of course, the Tethersal family who, with the exception of Anna, treated him as if he were one of their own, he would have long since been banned from the social events of the peerage. His scruples, or lack thereof, had gotten him into more trouble than a penniless kid in a candy store.
He was a gentleman with no principles, a scoundrel with impeccable manners, and every woman to whom he’d ever been introduced, and more than likely some he hadn’t, had wanted him in some way or fashion, whether she admitted it or not.
Unprincipled scoundrel that he was, however, Sebastian found himself taken completely by surprise when his dearest companion, his complice dans le crime as he’d labeled him, stopped by for a social call with a bit of interesting news.
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