Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  So finding room for gaiety? Not likely.

  But gaiety came as natural as breathing when he was with Sara. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a spontaneous burst of joy.

  “What an odd coincidence,” she said, “that my father spent a great deal of time teaching another his most prized riding skills, just as he spent so many countless hours teaching me. And in an entirely different country no less.” Her eyes rounded. “You, of all persons.”

  “I put very little stock in coincidence, Sara.”

  “Are you saying my father had a set agenda, then? That he knew your father might have made such an offer after the war?”

  “I think your father, knowing you were his only child, wanted to make a good match for you. A duke’s philosophies are rather straightforward. So, yes, I do believe he knew what he was doing.”

  “But I was only eight years old,” she said, and in her eyes he saw what must have been years of hurt from this arrangement. From her life being decided for her, not being able to choose her own husband.

  Though Justin couldn’t very well see her married to anyone but himself now. Didn’t want to.

  “Eight years old,” she enunciated.

  “And I was twelve,” he said tentatively. “Nearly thirteen. But it’s not as if matches like these are uncommon. At first, I was rebellious to the idea. Even ran away the next day, though I didn’t get very far.”

  “Where did you run to?”

  “The confectioner’s in London. Same day I met Sebastian. He was running for his life, as was I, or so I thought. Coincidence, I suppose.”

  Her mouth ticked a notch. “You don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Fate, then.”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  “No,” he said. “Fate is destiny, destiny is future. And my future, my lady, has been entwined with yours for as long as I can remember.”

  She swallowed, blinked a few times, which made him smile. He did find that little speechless quirk of hers quite endearing. But then everything about her was endearing.

  She was charismatic and charming. Virtuously bewitching, as if that wasn’t the oxymoron of the century.

  She was a mesmerizing kind of attractive, a gem among a world full of dull, boorish aristocrats.

  As for him?

  Besotted. Smitten. By all of it: her beauty, her smile, her laughter, her wit. All the qualities he’d found subpar in every other woman, Sara possessed with salient passion.

  “I almost find it hard to believe,” she said, “a practical man such as yourself would believe in fate, you’re so skeptical of coincidence. Even though, as you pointed out, they clearly aren’t the same thing.”

  Deciding it was better not to lead her on under false pretenses, he said, “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Then why did you say you did?”

  “I didn’t. I was merely offering an alternative to coincidence.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I have no idea who you are, Lord Carrington. You say one thing, yet mean another. It is very irritating.”

  He grinned, thinking he’d never had as much fun. “Forgive me, then,” he said, and her scowl faded a little. “I, by no means, meant to irritate you.”

  *** *** ***

  Surprisingly, she wasn’t that irritated. Fate wasn’t a word men used in civilized conversation, unless attempting to woo an absentminded woman who knew nothing beyond making tedious comments about the weather.

  Which was irritating in and of itself, a woman with no mind of her own.

  Then again, that’s what most men desired: a woman with no thought process but to please her husband and, of course, to give him heirs.

  “I have been meaning, however,” he said, sliding stealthily to her side of the coach, “to speak to you about what occurred at our little soiree last night.”

  Sara felt her throat tighten. “Haven’t we already discussed the details of last night, my lord? Surely you don’t wish to rehash it.”

  “I’m speaking of what happened afterward, my lady,” he said with equal composure, “when we reentered the party inside.”

  The bet, Sara dolefully acknowledged. How silly of her to think he might have forgotten. “You speak of Lord Beaufort and Lady Anna, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. They didn’t appear too terribly happy with one another, did they?”

  “Not happy at all, no.”

  She tried not to dwell on how close they were. He reached for her hand and, stripping off her glove, threaded his fingers with hers. Sara’s eyes slid shut.

  “You’re so warm.” Her eyes shot open. Had she really just said something so tactless?

  His free hand came to his face. “Am I?” He sounded surprised by the notion. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  The tiny scrape he’d gotten from the thorn bush still marred his hand. It was healing, thank goodness.

  He leaned in, cupped that same hand around her face. Palmed her cheek. “So are you.” Wonder hung in his tone.

  “I think,” she said, “that is merely your own hand. I myself am rather cold natured.”

  “I don’t think so. Your hands, however …” He took her hand, dwarfing it inside his. “Quite cool.”

  He pressed that cool appendage to his cheek, confined it between his shaven skin and his warm fingers.

  Sara’s heart pounded, the only explanation for the second thoughtless thing that suddenly exited her mouth. “Your hands.” She caught her breath as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “They’re calloused.”

  “Riding spirited horses.” His dark eyes met hers. “With the correct rein hands of course.”

  “Oh.” Her attempts at speech were futile. All she could do was stare as his wide-set mouth, a feature she’d not taken too much notice of on a man until now, as it brushed yet another kiss to her wrist.

  “You lost our bet, my lady.” His breath fanned like licks of fire against her sensitive skin.

  “Yes.”

  He was looking down now, seemingly intrigued with the lines in her hand. He pressed a kiss to her palm. “What do you suppose we should do about that?”

  “Do?”

  “About you losing our bet.”

  “Ah.”

  His eyes met hers. “I’m open for suggestions.”

  She hesitated. “I do believe we’re spending time together now, my lord. That was part of our agreement.”

  “Indeed.” Another kiss to her palm. “But that’s not what I meant by spending a day and a night with you, Sara.”

  Good Lord, the way he said her name. For the rest of her days, she would never forget that sound, or the way it made her feel inside.

  “When I’m ready to collect my winnings,” he continued, matching his hand to hers, “we’ll start early.”

  “It is early yet.”

  His mouth curved into that wicked grin of his. “Not nearly early enough.”

  Before Sara could question what he meant, Justin turned his attention to the window. “Look.” He pointed to the scenery outside. “Worcester Hall.”

  Sara followed his gaze through the transparent glass and inhaled sharply. It was every bit as splendid as she had imagined. A lawn so perfect every blade of grass might have been hand-trimmed, meticulously cut yew hedges, and a grand stone fountain in the midst of it all.

  And Worcester Hall itself? The French might have called it magnifique. The Italians, magnifico. But to an Irish girl like Sara Ballivar, who had never been one to openly gape over the stateliness in which noblemen build their homes (as if a massive house could make a noble man even nobler), it was indescribable. Because as the coach lurched up the driveway, approaching the grandest edifice she’d ever seen, Sara discovered she was, indeed, gaping.

  “The hall sits upon forty acres,” said Justin. “But that’s just the house. The duke owns thousands of acres of forest, gardens an
d lakes, as well as several cottages, four churches and--well, to sum up, he’s loaded.”

  The coach stopped. A footman opened the door and made haste in unfolding the steps, while another reached a hand in for Sara, aiding her from the vehicle. Justin stepped down behind her, settled a hand at the small of her back.

  “Welcome to Worcester Hall, my lady.”

  Sara’s eyes lifted, followed the scale of one tower to its heavenward aim. “Beautiful.”

  Justin murmured his agreement, his thumb making idle circles at the base of her spine. “I spent a great deal of time here as a child. Sebastian and I drove the duchess near mad running through the vestibules with our toy swords, en guarding her Roman statues.”

  Sara laughed. “Incorrigible, the both of you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Mmm. Should I be worried?”

  He raised an inquisitive brow. “Worried?”

  She nodded toward the stately house. “The two of you running the halls with toy swords. I don’t know that I can abide fearing for my safety through strange corridors, if my betrothed is running about with ...” Her words trailed, eyes locked on the set of wide, stone steps up which the footmen were carrying their luggage.

  The smile fell from her face.

  It couldn’t be.

  Her feet transformed into lead weights. Her thoughts raced, searched around every corner, sifted through every memory. Suddenly, time suspended, trapped her inside. Even the air and its accompanying sounds and smells came to a dramatic pause. She could hear nothing, smell nothing.

  But she could see. Only what her eyes witnessed, standing there, clear as day, at the top of the stairs was, had to be, an illusion.

  Somewhere from behind, she heard Lana whisper, “Dear God,” in Gaelic, which wasn’t good, Lana speaking of a member of the Holy Trinity in the old language. It always meant one of two things. She was either angry or shocked close to fainting.

  Sara suspected it was the latter.

  Justin muttered something close to her ear, a hint of concern floating in his thick, honey drawl, but Sara couldn’t respond. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t …

  “Dia duit ar maidin, bhean luí Ballivar,” the illusion spoke, and a smile as warm as Irish sunshine spread over his handsome face.

  Sara could only murmur one word. “Cav.”

  ELEVEN

  “Mr. Cavanaugh, I presume?” Sebastian stepped forward, and the man in question bowed. “Pleased to finally meet you. I’m sure my father has filled your ears with his plans for Middlesbrough, as he has spoken of little else for the past several weeks. My apologies on his behalf.”

  The gentleman, Mr. Cavanaugh, chuckled. “Indeed, he has, though I cannot very well put blame on him for it. My father’s expressed quite an interest as well. In fact, it’s been the general topic at every dinner party in Galway for the past two weeks.”

  Cavanaugh’s eyes, greener than the surrounding lawn, flickered down to Sara, who was latched onto Justin’s arm as if she were roped to it.

  She knew this man. In what capacity, however, Justin couldn’t place. Her body was ridged against his, her fingers dug into his upper arm, and he could have sworn he just heard her mutter some sort of plea underneath her breath.

  “Are you all right?” he murmured, and she dipped her chin. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know him.”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  He didn’t know why, but her reply caused the slightest pang in his chest. Maybe it was because of her reaction. The man had spoken in Gaelic; his voice, like hers, a musical mixture of English and Brogue. And she had responded with a gasp and a set of stiffened limbs.

  Maybe it was because, instead of looking at him while he was addressing her, she stared at Cavanaugh, eyes full, lips parted. As if everyone else, including him--Justin, her intended, her fiancé, the man whose arm she was presently clinging to--had disappeared with the exception of this man.

  This man who appeared more an intruder than one of Sebastian’s business colleagues. His mere presence had stopped time, for goodness’ sake.

  The intruder began making his way down the steps, his gaze focused solely on Sara, and Justin, who would rather give a man the benefit of the doubt before passing judgment, felt an instant flash of dislike for him.

  He was diabolically handsome, for one. And, at the same time, polished. Dark blond, closely shorn hair, crisp jacket and inexpressibles. The chain of his pocket watch winked in the full sunlight. He smiled, a mischievous thing, much like Sebastian’s. Only Sebastian’s was less irritating. Less directed at Sara.

  Sara.

  He looked down at her, surprised her features had softened by a margin. Her grip on his arm had also loosened considerably, regrettably. He shifted his gaze to Cavanaugh, who was coming to stand before them, and found the urge to scowl near impossible to suppress.

  He’d never been so inordinately annoyed.

  “My lady.” The Irishman bowed with impeccable aplomb. “How good it is to see you again.”

  Sara loosened her clutch on Justin’s arm even more, bobbed an equally flawless curtsy. “Mr. Cavanaugh. I trust your father is in good health, your mother as well?”

  “Quite well, my lady, thank you.”

  “And your new sister? I hear she is the very image of her mother.”

  His teeth flashed white in the sun. “Aye, she is. A beautiful babe, indeed. Da is quite happy. And Mags just had her first litter, you know”--here, Sara let out a little gasp--“so the house is overrun with infantry. Ah, no pun intended, of course.”

  “Goodness!” Sara let go altogether, stepped forward.

  Justin folded his arms. He wanted to reach for her, snatch her back. She was his, for God’s sake. Appallingly, he didn’t much like her giving attentions to another man.

  “I can’t believe Magaidh is old enough to have children,” Sara said, her tone lit with cheer. “It seems as though she is still a child herself.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Anna said, before Cavanaugh could answer. “And shame on you, my dear soon-to-be-sister-in-law, for not introducing me to your friend.”

  Justin didn’t miss the way the smile fell from Cavanaugh’s face when his sister mentioned Sara’s impending marital status.

  “Ah, pardon me,” said Sara. “Lady Anna, may I present Mr. Patrick Cavanaugh? Cav, Lady Anna, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Tethersal.”

  Anna curtsied.

  Cavanaugh bowed in a swoop-ish manor again, murmuring a well-rehearsed greeting.

  It was all irritating. Sara, Anna, Cavanaugh. The whole lot of them.

  “Magaidh is Cav’s dog--”

  “Mags, for short,” Cavanaugh inserted.

  “Yes, Mags,” Sara said, and Anna smiled broadly. “She’s a very beautiful Madra rua--that is Gaelic for red dog.”

  “A very ornery Madra rua,” Cavanaugh obviously felt compelled to clarify. “In England, I believe they’re referred to as Red Setters.”

  “We have those here, do we not, Justin?” Justin heard his sister ask, though he was surprised she’d felt the need to include him.

  He was, after all, practically being ignored.

  “We use them for hunting,” he replied tersely.

  “As do we,” Cavanaugh murmured. “Though Mags is more of a family pet than a hunting dog. Ma spoiled her, you see.”

  “You mean, you spoiled her,” Sara twittered.

  Cavanaugh clapped a hand to his chest. “Me? Surely you jest.”

  “Surely, I don’t,” Sara countered with equal gaiety.

  Justin winced. This teasing banter between them was sickening in the worst sense. He either wanted to punch the man in the face, or knee him where he was sure to be grounded for several minutes, perhaps impairing his ability to sire children.

  “Justin.” Sebastian had, at some point, joined him. “They know each other.”

  “Obviously,” Justin said through his muddled thoughts.


  “In what capacity, do you suppose?”

  His fingertips, tucked snugly beneath his arms, dug into the palms of his hands. “I don’t exactly want to think about that right now, if it is all the same to you, Sebastian.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Justin, you aren’t jealous, are you? Truly, I had no idea they knew each other. Father’s had a long distance work relationship with Sir Dunmore for months, but Dunmore himself wasn’t able to make the trip to England. Tending to the wife, I suppose. So he sent his son instead, though I hear Cavanaugh is just as learned in steam engines as his father. Should be interesting to hear his take on the Middlesbrough project.”

  “Sebastian, stop talking,” Justin said. He could feel the peaked signs of a headache coming on. “Please.”

  “Fine. But you need to buck up, and get out of this ridiculous mood. I can’t deal with you like this for two solid weeks. I’m liable to send you packing right now.”

  Justin started to tell Sebastian where he could send himself packing, but his attention was stolen by the sound of his own name hitting his ears.

  His gaze tangled with Sara’s, and his chest tightened. She was undoing him, this woman, and given the present situation, he didn’t like it.

  “My lord?” She outstretched her hand to him. “May I introduce you?”

  Maintaining composure, anger, whatever it was he was trying to do, he stepped forward. “By all means,” he said. “Introduce us.”

  “Lord Carrington, this is Mr. Patrick Cavanaugh of Galway.”

  Cavanaugh bowed.

  Again.

  Nauseating, all these bows and curtsies.

  Justin removed his hat and bowed too, because his mother would be horrified if she heard he hadn’t. “Cav, may I present Justin, Marquess Carrington, heir to the Tethersal dukedom.”

  “And Lady Ballivar’s intended since youth,” Cavanaugh included as Justin came up from his bow. “Not that she still isn’t very much young.”