Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  “You can say the word, Your Grace,” Anna teased. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I am grateful,” Caroline replied, placing a hand to her chest, “but no, I refuse to say it. In any case, it sounds to me as if you want an absolute prig for a husband. Why, the very idea that a man would not offer to marry a woman just because she wore a red dress to a ball is outright preposterous.”

  “Preposterous, Your Grace?” Anna giggled. “Really.”

  “Oh, do stop with the formalities, will you? That’s almost worse than using the dreaded p-word.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” said Anna, “you are every bit as capricious as Lord Beaufort. Always defiant of anything requiring the use of decorum.”

  “Sebastian is adherent to decorum more so than I ever was,” Caroline murmured, fanning herself. “I blame that on his father. Speaking of the duke, however, he is due to return today. He’ll be pleased to see you, Anna. And, of course, to meet the woman betrothed to our Justin.”

  Anna’s elbow gave Sara yet another nudge. “She’s speaking about you. Silly goose.”

  But Sara had ceased listening two or three sentences prior. Peering out the window, watching the countryside glisten beneath the afternoon sun, she observed a group of gentleman in the distance. Justin was with them, bow and arrow in hand. He drew back, steadied, focused, and released. Retrieved another arrow and did it again, his shoulders, thick with muscle, bunching as he pulled the bow string taut.

  “May we stop the coach, please?” Sara turned to Caroline. “Your Grace? Would you ask the coachman to stop?”

  “Whatever for, dear?”

  “I ...” Heavens. She’d already come up with too many excuses today. “I think I’d like to walk the rest of the way. Get a bit of fresh air, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, of course I don’t mind, child.” Caroline reached a hand out her open window and tapped the side of the coach twice. “Stop! Stop, I say!”

  “Sara,” Anna whispered, “what are you doing? It’s a long walk back to the hall.”

  The coach stopped, followed by the door opening and a footman poking his head inside. “Your Grace? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said primly. Once again the duchess effect was in check, just like that. “Lady Ballivar would like to exit the carriage. Please assist her.”

  Without hesitation, the footman proffered his hand, and Sara took it, allowing him to help her down.

  “Sara!” Anna whispered in earnest. “What are you doing?”

  “Walking,” Sara said from over her shoulder.

  She gazed across the field, covered in a blanket of yellow poppies. They were target practicing: Justin, Sebastian, Cav and a tall man who couldn’t have been anyone else but the Duke of Worcester, Sebastian’s father. The duke and Sebastian were involved in conversation; Justin was selecting another arrow from a footman holding a quiver; and Cav was sitting down in a chair, a gorgeous black and white English setter sprawled at his feet, while a footman with an open parasol hovered idly beside him.

  “I see,” Anna murmured. “Well, I cannot abide standing about watching men shoot at wooden targets. So, I shall decline to come with you, and return with the duchess.”

  “Of course.” Sara waved to the duchess. “My thanks for inviting me along, Caroline. Worcester is splendid, indeed. Particularly under your guidance.”

  “You are a dear, Lady Ballivar,” Caroline returned. “Do have a delightful walk. Ah, and I see the gentlemen are practicing their archery. You’ll have a delightful and entertaining afternoon, then. Justin is a marvelously accomplished archer.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Sara set a hand over her brow, looked out again at Justin. He was in his shirtsleeves, breeches, and Hessians. A marvelous combination, indeed, Sara mused, thinking how the man never seemed to be fully clothed.

  “Well,” said Caroline, “ta, darling.” She tapped the door twice and the coach lurched forward, Anna waving a goodbye, while the duchess called from the window, “Do watch for snakes, won’t you?”

  “Oh!” Anna put in with a giggle. “And toads too!”

  FIFTEEN

  “My God.” Bewildered and fascinated, Justin stared as Sara, walking through a field of wild yellow poppies, came into view. “What the devil is she doing here?”

  “My lord?” The footman holding Justin’s quiver stepped forward. “Did you say something?”

  Bemused, Justin blinked a few times. Stared again. Yes, it was her. He wasn’t losing his mind. The wind picked up, blew back her pelisse. Rippled her simple day dress, molded it to her body in all the right places. He could make out perfectly the line of her hips, the shape of her coltish thighs, the smallness of her waist.

  He had to get a hold of himself. She was still angry with him, wasn’t she?

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  He certainly wasn’t. Angry, that is. How could he be? Well, aside from the fact Cavanaugh had decided to join them, when Justin hoped Milly would occupy him for the rest of the morning, if not all day. But the man couldn’t even work his fingers well enough to pull back a bow string.

  A pity, that. Justin had the strongest desire to best the damned Irishman at something.

  He definitely hadn’t managed to best the man at garnering Sara’s attention. Without so much as a glance in his direction, she walked straight for Cavanaugh.

  Bloody perfect.

  Cavanaugh grinned up at her. “Good afternoon.” He closed the book he’d been reading, held his place with his forefinger. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand, won’t you? My feet seem to be occupied at present.”

  “Not at all.” Bending down, Sara gave the dog a good rub between his ears. “He’s beautiful.”

  She was beautiful, Justin acknowledged, unable to pry his eyes from her. Springing ringlets of ebon hair hung from under her bonnet, cascaded delicately down her back. She wasn’t wearing gloves either; he noticed a peak of a white fingertip in the outer pocket of her green pelisse.

  “A bit lazy,” Cavanaugh said. “But, yes, a beautiful breed of canine. Did you enjoy Worcester? I do hope you took the chance to see the Cathedral. A most magnificent structure, if I do say so myself.”

  So, the bloody idiot knew Sara had gone into town, did he? Wasn’t it enough to keep up with one woman, let alone two?

  “You’ve seen the Cathedral, have you?” Sara twiddled her fingers through the canine’s thick coat. She was kneeling now, heedless to the possibility of grass stains on her gown.

  The dog, Phin, didn’t seem to mind. With every stroke of her fingers, he groaned deeply, eyes shut in pure bliss.

  Lucky mongrel.

  “But, of course,” Cav said. “I’ve aided Father and the duke for some time now.”

  “Ah. I had forgotten.” A trace of remorse, but for what? For not knowing Cavanaugh as much as she thought she had? “I do not think I ever paid much heed to your business affairs.”

  “We never discussed my business affairs,” he said, and there was something in his eyes as he stared down at her that made Justin want to shake the life out of him.

  He chose to make his presence known instead. “Good afternoon,” he murmured. Sara’s whisky eyes flashed up at him. “Come.” He outstretched his hand. “Meet the Duke of Worcester.”

  Without hesitation, her cool hand slipped into his. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, and rose to her feet.

  Cavanaugh went back to his reading. The man had impeccable manners, for all he did a poor job of hiding his interest in Sara.

  Sliding a hand to the small of her back, Justin leaned down, close to Sara’s ear. “You look lovely.” He squeezed her hand, gently. “I wanted to tell you so this morning, only …”

  “Yes?” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

  Justin stifled a groan.

  “I wanted. That is, I wanted to tell you, as well ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I apologize for behaving so foolishly.”

 
“Shh.” He loved the shallowness in her breath, the huskiness it lent to her tone. “No need for apologies.”

  “Oh, but there is,” she insisted. A deep shade of crimson colored just the hills of her cheeks. “It was silly of me to ignore you as I did.”

  “So, you admit to intentionally ignoring me?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say it was intentional.”

  “That is, in fact, what you just said.” He tried not to smile, but it was useless. She was too delectable. “Did you not?”

  She tipped her chin. “I was eager to be in female company. The duchess is quite the expert on local history, not to mention fashion.”

  “Have a nice visit at the dressmakers, then, did you?”

  “It was perfectly amenable,” she said after a moment. “Mrs. Marigold has an exceptional collection of fabrics.”

  “That, she does,” Justin agreed.

  “Furthermore.” She attempted to pry her hand from his, but he wasn’t about to let go. She tossed him a reproving scowl. “Furthermore ...”

  “Yes, furthermore,” he murmured. “I believe we’re clear on that. Do go on.”

  “Perhaps I did ignore you purposely,” she said, gaining momentum. “So what if I did? You deserved it.”

  “Two weeks in England and you’re already punishing me? That seems a bit over reactive, don’t you think?”

  “Not when you behave in such ill-temper.”

  “I behave in ill-temper?” He jabbed a finger at his chest, just so they were clear on who she was accusing.

  “Yes! For all the world as if you were a tot in diapers. I didn’t come here to raise a child, Lord Carrington.”

  He drew her closer. “Then why did you?” he demanded, ignoring the fact that Cavanaugh was now glaring at them from over his book on England’s wildlife.

  “I thought that was made perfectly clear.” As petite as she was compared to his broad stature, she sized herself up to him well enough. Chin thrust outward. Eyes round and incredulous. As if she expected him to back down from her. “My father sent me. I had no choice in the matter.”

  That stung. The moment he thought they were making headway, that the idea of being forced into marriage wasn’t as disagreeable as they’d previously anticipated, back to the beginning they went.

  Above all, a single, panging thought came to mind. She may not have wanted Cavanaugh, but she damn well didn’t want him either. And that made him angrier than ever. Because, he realized, he wanted her to want him. Just as badly as he wanted her, as badly as he wished he didn’t want her. Especially now it was clear she’d jump on the first ship back to Ireland if she could.

  Cavanaugh stood, set his book in his chair. Cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like to continue with your target practice, my lord? I would be more than obliged to introduce Lady Ballivar to His Grace, the Duke of Worcester. Truly, I do not mind.”

  Justin regarded him evenly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, Mr. Cavanaugh, but I’m well capable of handling the introductions between my fiancée and the duke.”

  Evidently the Irishman wasn’t one to back down so easily. “I insist,” he said. His gaze slipped to Sara. “Lady Ballivar appears to be a touch peaky. Perhaps a glass of lemonade and a short walk would help to restore her color? After being introduced to His Grace, of course.”

  Justin opened his mouth in retort.

  “A walk does sound rather nice,” said his bride-to-be. “The poppies are in full bloom, and I do think I would very much like to gather a bouquet for the duchess.”

  Cavanaugh needed no further invitation. He offered a poised, open palm to her, a banner of triumph on his face. “Shall we, then?”

  “You have no chaperone,” Justin pointed out, as Sara, once again, tried to pull her hand free of his.

  He let her, albeit reluctantly.

  “Forgive me, Lord Carrington,” Cavanaugh replied, “but are you implying that I would attempt to take advantage of another man’s fiancée?”

  “I don’t know you from Adam, Cavanaugh.”

  “Permit me to assure you, my lord, that Lady Ballivar and I have known each other since childhood.”

  “I don’t give a hang how long you’ve known each other. You are not taking her anywhere without a chaperone.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Sebastian stepped into the heated circle, along with his father, and without a care in the world for who was escorting who where, took Sara’s ungloved hand and tucked it inside his arm. “Father, Lady Sara Ballivar, daughter of the Duke of Kilkenny, and Lord Carrington’s esteemed fiancée. My lady, my father, The Duke of Worcester.”

  Sara bobbed an awkward curtsy from Sebastian’s arm. “How do you do, Your Grace?”

  Justin raised an eyebrow.

  Cavanaugh’s proffered hand balled into a fist and fell at his side.

  “I do well, Lady Ballivar,” Worcester said in his gruff tone. The duke was as tall, broad, and burly as a grizzly bear. One would have never placed him and the marquess as father and son. “Enjoying your stay thus far?”

  All five of them -- even Phin, who was apparently in need of more feminine attention – blinked at Sara, as if they all half-expected her to confess to hating the place.

  But she replied in kind. “England has been quite welcoming to me, Your Grace. I find it extraordinarily beautiful.”

  From the corner of his vision, Justin saw Cavanaugh roll his eyes. So, he didn’t believe Sara either, and most likely with good reason. He’d known her longer, for one. Two, there was no knowing what she’d confided to him during their conversation by the river yesterday.

  Justin cleared his throat, stepped forward. “Perhaps we should all go for a walk.”

  “I insist,” Sebastian said as if making some grand announcement, “upon escorting the lady myself, without the rest of our company. Besides, you need to continue practicing your release. Don’t assume I missed those last two arrows hitting the ground instead of the target.”

  The duke clapped Justin on the shoulder. “On that note, I believe I shall practice a few myself.” He turned to Sara and bowed. “Lady Ballivar, your servant.”

  Sara bobbed another awkward curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  As the duke strode for the footman guarding the equipment, Justin turned to Sebastian. “Didn’t we discuss this earlier, Sebastian? Escorting young women about without a chaperone is inadvisable.”

  “We’ll take Phin.”

  “You’ll take--” Justin bit back an oath. “Fine. Go.”

  “Excellent.” Sebastian clucked to Phin, and gestured to his other side. “We shan’t be long.”

  “See that you are not,” Justin said as Sebastian, walking tall, escorted Sara away, Phin trotting happily beside them.

  “She’s a sensitive girl,” Cavanaugh murmured the moment they were out of earshot, “for all she does put on that impenetrable exterior.”

  Justin shot him a cautious glare. “She has spirit, yes, but I find that refreshing in a woman, don’t you?”

  “Aye.” Cavanaugh nudged a clod of dirt this way and that with the toe of his boot. “She’s an only child, you know. Motherless. And her father, while a good man, is heedless to her needs.” He gazed ahead, squinted after Sara and Sebastian. “Her wants.”

  “You speak of the duke declining your proposal to marry her,” Justin said rather than asked.

  Cavanaugh’s features hardened. “In a sense, perhaps. I was ... we were both ...”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Disappointed.” A hesitation, then: “Yes. I suppose we were.”

  “Yet Lady Ballivar, Sara, knew she had been betrothed since childhood. She knew yet refrained from mentioning anything. Did that not anger you?”

  “At first, yes, of course it did.” Cavanaugh gave him a stern look, brow drawn, eyes tapered. “I may have been sick with emotion for her at the time, but no man in his right mind would ask for a lady’s hand if he didn’t know, to some extent, what the answer would be.”

 
I would have said ‘yes.’

  Justin felt his insides turn cold. He could still see her trembling, tears threatening her eyes. Those perfect lips admitting she would have married Cavanaugh had she not been betrothed.

  It was irrelevant, really. Cavanaugh couldn’t have her. Never had the right to even look upon her, for pity’s sake. Yet, here he stood, confessing he was once sick with emotion for her. Could still be, for all Justin knew. And who used that sort of talk, anyway? Sick with emotion, honestly.

  Ah, but who was he kidding? Sickness, Justin mused, was precisely what he felt when he kissed Sara. When he held her, or so much as looked at her from across a room. Every part of him ached to bring her closer, to feel every inch of soft, pale skin beneath his hands.

  Unable to restrain himself, Justin gazed across the field, and felt a sense of relief settle into his bones. Sara was still well in sight, hand tucked in Sebastian’s arm, Phin trotting alongside her. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, Sebastian’s head inclined toward hers, her face turned slightly upward as if listening intently.

  “Her father had no reason to reject me,” said Cavanaugh. “I stand to inherit a title, and while it’s no dukedom, ‘tis one of the finest in Ireland. Not to mention my investment in the new high-powered steam engines has made me a very rich man.”

  Justin almost laughed at that. Sara wasn’t interested in money; he’d come to that conclusion from the moment he’d met her, standing by the dock in Liverpool. She was no more impressed with his title or his riches than an infant would be with a gold coin in hand.

  Shiny, yet decidedly unimpressive.

  So, he did allow a smile to linger on his face when he said, “Something tells me that riches hold very little bearing to Lady Ballivar. I suspect she’d be just as content living in a gardener’s hut, eating stew off a wooden table.”

  One of Cavanaugh’s brows rose in inquiry. “You suggest that riches mean nothing to a lady? Truly, Lord Carrington, I wouldn’t suspect a man of your caliber as unaccustomed to the needs and wants of ladies in our society. Title and security mean everything to them.”