“I’m only undressing!”
“That you’ll be there in just a moment.”
“I’ll be there in just a moment!” She paused, upturned her face, her mouth mere inches from his. “What about you? You cannot very well go out the main door.”
“I grew up here, Kitten.” He nodded to her window. “I’ll take the balcony.”
“The balcony!”
“Shh,” he said, and she caught her lip between her teeth. “You’ll defeat the purpose if you make too much noise.”
And then because he couldn’t help himself, she was so lovely, so wide-eyed standing there, wrapped in his arms, he bent his head and kissed her, before she could answer.
Or make too much noise.
Or start swearing at him in Gaelic, though he did like the pulse racing sentiment she’d panted earlier.
Oh, yes. He vowed to make her say that one again.
“My lady, your bath will be cold!”
And he’d thought catching her in a loosened gown had been the discovery of the century. Finding her in a bath might have--scratch that, would have put them in a far worse predicament. A man could only take so much, could only hold out for so long.
A week. It had been a week.
Where were his senses?
He broke the kiss.
And bent his head again.
She received him easily. Her hands speared into his hair, her breasts crushed against his chest. Everything he’d imagined kissing to be was nothing compared to this.
“Pardon, my lady, but will you not hurry?” Mrs. Brennan persisted. “I do feel a bit ridiculous standing about like some sort of article.”
Sara made in inarticulate murmur. “You should go,” she whispered. “Though I do not know how you plan to cascade from my window, when Her Grace’s guests are walking the grounds below.”
“I’ll manage.” He took her face in his hands. She was young, his intended. Fair, small features, wondrous eyes framed in long, dark lashes. Looking at her nearly took his breath away every time.
He let her go, and she took hold of her dress. “I shall see you in the morning?”
He nodded, looked to the window, which was open, thank goodness. If he remembered correctly, this one did tend to stick, and, when opened, generally alarmed the entire house. Not such a good thing when one is attempting to leave a lady’s chamber without drawing a magnanimous amount of attention to one’s self.
Her hand touched his arm. “Do be careful, Justin.”
He leaned forward, brushed a kiss to her lips. “Goodnight, Sara.”
“Goodnight.”
Quickly he slipped through the window, taking a moment to glance left, then right. Garden trellises, wound with tiny roses, framed four of the twelve windows at the front of the house, and Sara’s room happened to be one of them. Sliding over the balcony with deft grace, he made quick work out of shimmying to the ground, taking care not to smash any of the duchess’s roses. She’d be furious otherwise.
A few gasps elicited from the general area as he collected himself, brushed his hands down his front, pulled a pinprick thorn from his jacket sleeve.
“My lord?” A footman carrying a tray of champagne flutes blinked at him curiously. “Are you well?”
Justin grabbed a glass of champagne, downed it, winced at its bitterness--ah yes, this is why he didn’t drink--and returned it to the tray. “Quite,” he said. “Just found myself locked in from the inside, that’s all.”
The man looked up at the balcony from whence his master had just descended. “Forgive me, my lord, but isn’t that--”
“That’s all,” Justin repeated, and the man nodded curtly. Loyalty among his family’s servants would never require questioning. “You may go about your business.”
“Very good, my lord.” He turned to leave, paused. Glanced over his shoulder. “She is a beauty, my lord. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Justin shifted his gaze to Sara’s open window, lit by the amber glow of the candelabra on her nightstand. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, she is.”
TEN
Sara didn’t see Justin until they were ready for departure, the morning was so hectic. She and Anna had made the decision to share a maid, to which Tippy gladly handed the honorable duties to the newcomer. That being Lana, who considered it just as well since she had taken it upon herself to shadow Sara’s every move since last night.
Justin had evidently made it unscathed from her balcony. She had heard the commotion below within seconds of him exiting her room. After taking a few more fleeting moments to collect herself--the mirror revealed a tell-tale combination of flushed cheeks, swollen lips and glassy eyes--she opened the door to a fuming maid.
One who knew all too well that flushed cheeks and swollen lips didn’t come from merely undressing.
Which, by the way, she had forgotten to do.
And so Mrs. Brennan had spent the entire evening and next morning ensuring her charge never left her sight. She helped Sara bathe, and stole glances at the door in between hair washing and toe scrubbing as if someone, particularly Sara’s intended, would enter unannounced at any given moment.
Sara wrote to her father as Lana stood over her, braiding her hair. And when she had finished, post scripting that she hoped His Grace would come to visit her soon, Lana rang for a footman to fetch the letter instead of taking it downstairs herself.
She’d even followed Sara into the privy, upon which Sara insisted she leave at once. Steering her clear of her fiancé’s kisses was one thing; watching her while she took care of her personal feminine needs was quite another.
Having a maid had never been this interminable.
“My lady, slow down please.” Walking past the front door of Mayfair House and onto the stone terrace, Lana marched directly on top of Sara’s heels. “Ooomph!”
“Lana, really! You must cease shadowing me like this. I cannot even turn around without you there underfoot.”
She did it, just to prove a point. And, of course, nearly toppled into Lana.
“See!”
Lana’s face turned red. “You know I only mean to look after you, my lady. Just as His Grace ordered.”
Sara sighed, as Lana went on in a lowered voice.
“And I do not think he would be too happy knowing you’ve been allowing gentlemen into your room at late hours, and behind locked doors.”
“He is my fiancé, Lana. Besides, you’re the one who wanted me to talk to him.”
“Not alone!” Lana sputtered. “Not half-dressed!”
“A minor mishap,” Sara insisted. A delicious one, too. His hands had felt positively divine on her bare back. Those rough, workman’s fingers searched restlessly along and underneath the straps of her chemise. Leaving trails of heat wherever they roamed.
“A mishap that will not happen again if I have anything to do with it,” Lana announced.
Ignoring her, Sara proceeded down the stairs, and offered Justin a pleasant smile as he extended his hand.
“My lady.” He raked a kiss across her knuckles. “Enchanting of you to join us. I trust you slept well? My sister didn’t give you any trouble this morning, now, did she?”
“Prudence, Brother,” Anna said, coming up to stand beside them. “Do you know the word? I daresay not.” Her eyes flickered to Sebastian, who stood beside one of the two high polished, black-lacquered coaches, tapping a riding crop impatiently against his high leather boots.
He looked on at her for a moment, his brow puckered as though in deep thought, then averted his gaze.
“Yes,” Sara said, deciding they were all in for a long two weeks where these two were concerned, the tension between them was so thick. “I did rest well. Thank you, my lord. And Lady Anna has been most kind and helpful.”
Justin smiled. “She has her moments.”
“I have many moments.” Taking a footman’s proffered hand, Anna climbed into the foremost coach, Lana climbing in after her. Then, poking her head out with a tight
smile: “I’m just selective with their occurrences.”
Sebastian shot Justin an exasperated look. “You coming?”
Justin dipped his head in a curt nod. “We’ll stop in a couple hours for rest and luncheon,” he said, his eyes flickering warmly down at Sara. “In the meantime, take my advice and fake sleep, else Anna bombard you with her tales of every ball she’s ever attended.”
“I heard that!”
As promised, they stopped about two hours or so after departing Mayfair. The coaches came to a halt alongside an open field, dotted with patches of wildflowers and several towering oaks. The sky was clear, painted a shade of pale blue inherent to this pleasant time of year. Lana unfolded a large blanket beneath one of the trees and laid out the sandwiches, fruit and teacakes Cook had prepared for their journey.
“Sara and I had a most fascinating conversation on the way here.” Anna touched her napkin to the corner of her mouth. “With the exception of my dear brother, I’ve never heard someone speak with such an astute knowledge of horses.”
“I must attribute my knowledge of the equine species to my father,” said Sara. “He is quite the expert, you see. Attends most, if not all, of the races around Ireland, several of which he enters his own horses. Breeders are constantly asking his advice, and he faithfully attends the Dublin auction every month.”
“Ah.” Anna popped a grape in her mouth. “I think I should like to meet this duke. He does sound fascinating. Definitely more so than our own boorish English dukes and earls, viscounts.” She cut a sly glance at Sebastian. “Marquises.”
Sara couldn’t help but notice Lord Beaufort’s reaction to the rash statement. His handsome face pulled into a frown, his icy eyes regarding Anna with equal parts annoyance and longing. As though he wanted to shake her and, perhaps, kiss her at the same time.
“Vulgarity will not be tolerated, Anna,” Justin said darkly.
Anna only cocked an eyebrow, as Justin went on.
“And I will not have you speak ill of our country’s noblemen, however less learned they are on matters more suited to Ireland’s noblemen, who are a tradition-oriented lot. It is true enough that the Irish have a knack for breeding horses. Our father’s finest stallion was shipped from Dublin.”
“This, I know,” said Anna.
Justin set down his plate, regarded his sister with an almost paternal eye. “You are mistaken, however,” he continued gently, “if you believe them to have any sort of uncanny ability which would render them superior over our lot.”
“Not to mention,” Sebastian said, “that titles would be non-existent in Ireland if not for the good graces of the King. Our King.” He pointed a finger at Anna, his eyes lit with anger. “Your king.”
Sara couldn’t believe her ears. It was true, all of it. But the truth, that it was only from the King’s desire to maintain order in Ireland that noble Irishmen, including her father, were given titles, didn’t make it sound any less ugly. Especially coming from Lord Beaufort, who may as well have been the most offensive man she’d ever met.
Anna stood abruptly, her plate spilling from her lap to the ground. “I don’t think I care to listen to this rubbish,” she announced, as Lana worked quickly to pick up the discarded food. “A bit of fresh air seems to be in order.”
“You are in fresh air,” Justin ventured to point out, but she was already walking away.
Sebastian, exchanging a rather incensed glare with Justin, said, “I’m going for a walk. Care to join me?”
Justin shook his head. “Go ahead. But be quick about it, mind. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
Sebastian hesitated, favored Sara with a smile that, if she didn’t know better, appeared almost apologetic, then nodded and stalked away, cane in hand.
“My apologies on behalf of my friend,” Justin said.
“You needn’t apologize to me.” Sara stood, as Lana, evident in her endeavor of pretending not to listen, began to pack the remaining food. “I know how Englishmen feel about the Irish having titles of nobility. I’m compelled to point out, however, our right to them.”
Justin stood, brushed his hands down his front. “I do not deny that.”
“Which part?”
“Both.”
“Ah.” Figures he would be among the English elite who regarded the Irish as nothing more than mud beneath their polished boots. The title he stood to inherit was one of the highest in England, so why should he have felt any different?
The elitist crouched beside Lana and, through her protests, helped her gather up the rest of the food.
Sara swallowed.
Muscled thighs strained against the light tan material of his snug breeches. Every inch of him bulged--arms, chest, thighs, all covertly hidden beneath layers of fine clothing. But even his clothing couldn’t hide what Sara knew was there. She’d felt it, keened her own body against his. There was no denying the awareness she felt when he so much as glanced in her direction.
And then it hit her.
She could care for this man. Could see herself loving him.
Insane. She didn’t even like Englishmen. Well, there was a time in the not-so-distant past she didn’t.
Like last Monday, or thereabout.
Justin must have seen something in her eyes, for no sooner had she imagined herself capable of falling in love with him than she’d heard him bid Lana to accompany his sister and Sebastian in one carriage. That he and Sara would ride, alone, in the other.
Naturally, Lana argued like a Dubliner thrown out of a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, but Justin was adamant. And in the end, she gave Sara a quick, assessing scowl, gathered the basket and blanket close to her chest and marched for the coaches, skirts rustling madly in the tall grass.
“She’s a feisty one, your Mrs. Brennan,” Justin said once he had settled into the seat facing away from the horses.
Sara was grateful. Riding backwards always made her queasy. “She can be,” she acknowledged, eyeing him cautiously from her side. “But she means well.”
“Of course.”
“She only means to perform the duties requested of her by my father, which unfortunately consists of keeping me under a tight rein. Though really there’s no need to--why do you not believe we have a right to title in our own homeland?”
His shoulders shook with laughter. “My goodness, Sara. All that in one breath? I’m impressed.”
“Do not make light of it! I want to know why you believe such nonsense. Why you think English blood to be any better than mine.”
He leaned back, mirth continuing to dance in his dark eyes. Stretched his arm over the back of the seat. “I don’t think that. But I must admit, I wondered when this would be coming.”
*** *** ***
The small space between Sara’s dark brows puckered.
She was beautiful today. Not that she hadn’t been beautiful every day, mind, but today she was absolutely riveting. Her purple traveling dress, though it covered every inch of her glorious body, all the way up to her neck where it was trimmed in a tiny frill, did nothing to halt the desire stirring in his loins.
Her eyes were the color of rich mahogany, flecked with shards of green. Her hair, a springing lock of which fell carelessly over her left breast, possessed the richness of the finest silk. His hands itched to touch it. To rub those satiny strands between his fingertips, press them against his cheek.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He couldn’t remember what they were talking about.
“You said you wondered when this would be coming,” she clarified. “The sentiments of the English on the Irish having titles of nobility. Apparently you share Lord Beaufort’s view on the matter.”
“Sebastian doesn’t share his own view on the matter. He was only reacting to my sister. And no, I don’t believe that either. I think the Irish have every right to a title in their homeland. They fought for the same cause, on the same soil, shed as much blood as we did.”
“Oh.”
; “However, I have just as much pride in my heritage as you do in yours, my lady,” he said gently, and the corner of her mouth lifted a fraction. “And just as you will not stand for having your noblemen degraded, neither will I stand for the open degradation of mine. My father has been a tremendous asset to the Lords for years now, as was his father before him, and his father before him. Though I believe I can accurately say none of them had the finesse of handling a horse the way your father can.”
That last bit of flattery earned him a wide grin. “You know of my father’s interest in horses?”
“Of course I do. He taught me.”
Sara cocked her head to the side. “Truly? I had no idea that you knew my father. Previously, I mean.”
“Before I met you? Yes, when I was much younger, eleven or so, and your father was commissioned with mine during the war, he spent a fair amount of time in Mayfair.” He smiled reflectively. “Used to stay on me about keeping my heels down, gripping with my inner thigh.”
“Not your knee,” she put in. “Maintaining perfect rein hands at all times.” She did a little gesture with her hands, one he recognized so well he found himself doing it too. “Small and ring--”
“--fore and thumb,” he said, wiggling the same, and Sara burst into a fit of giggles.
Justin laughed as well, startled by how easily laughter came with this woman. His mother was like this, laughing about spur of the moment, ridiculous things such as puppies chasing their own tails, or the duke curling his lip when broccoli was on the menu--His Grace tended to scowl at her for making sport of that one--or an ordinary, offhand gesture such as the way one grips one’s reins.
Truth be told, there hadn’t been any room for humor over the past several months. Even his mother didn’t laugh as much, which wasn’t any wonder with the duke’s illness.
Justin had been forced out of youth because of it. Tasks once performed by his father, he had taken on himself, slipping into a role he’d thought more fitting of an old man.
Once.
These days he wondered how some of the older noblemen did it. How they kept up with tenants and land and repairs and bills, maintained balance among them all, and still had time to take a seat in the Lords, where the peers hacked out laws, proposals for laws, issues on land and taxes ... It was enough to give anyone a headache. Add a wife and family to all those extensive obligations, and there you have it. A man at the brink of insanity.
Betrothed Page 12