Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  “And Sara has both,” Justin pointed out. “Without my illimitable assets. Or yours, for that matter.”

  “She needs a husband who can offer love and devotion.” Cavanaugh’s face glowed red. “I don’t believe you, a man who knows nothing about her, nothing of her likes, dislikes--”

  “I know enough to presume she wouldn’t have gone through with a marriage to you,” Justin bit off. “You, Mr. Cavanaugh, most certainly would not have made a woman of Sara’s temperament happy.”

  “My God,” Cavanaugh muttered. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Justin blinked, confused. “Pardon?” He tilted his head a fraction. “What’s it, exactly?”

  “If Sara were given the right to choose between us, you’re not certain it would be you.” Cavanaugh mirrored Justin’s gesture, inclined his head just enough for the sunlight to catch the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Are you? In fact, I’ll wager that imperious conscience of yours knows she’d choose me.”

  The outright audacity of this man needled Justin’s restraint. “And what, pray, makes you so sure? You haven’t the slightest inclination as to what intimacies have transpired between us. For all you know, Sara could be a ruined woman.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence,” Cavanaugh said tersely. “I’m not one of those impudent Irish lords Pitt whipped into submission. Sara’s innocence is intact; else she wouldn’t be walking with Lord Beaufort, she’d be with you.”

  “I have no intention of insulting your intelligence, or lack thereof, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  Cavanaugh’s expression contorted into a bona fide scowl.

  “Be that as it may,” said Justin, “permit me to ensure that you make no mistake. That you grasp my meaning, and are in full understanding.”

  Cavanaugh kept his silence, though by the flare of his nostrils, the raw anger in his eyes, Justin knew he had his attention.

  “Sara belongs to me.” Justin allowed a moment to pass, the air between them to thicken. “And you will cease to pursue her, or I’ll make it my personal agenda to see that you never set foot on this island again. My family may have little dealings with your beloved steam engines, but we damn well have a magnanimous amount of pull with their English patrons. Are we clear?”

  “Quite,” Cavanaugh said through gritted teeth. “Anything else?”

  Justin couldn’t explain the sudden need he had to validate himself. Lord knew he didn’t have to. But he also couldn’t allow Cavanaugh to think he’d make Sara a bad husband.

  Leashing his anger, because the good Lord also knew he had enough right now to commit murder, Justin said, “We lack history, Sara and I. But I cannot validate driving a life, a marriage, and a dukedom into disaster just because we weren’t able to choose one another. I’ll be good to her,” he added, looking Cavanaugh square in the eye. Not because he had to. Not even because he wanted to. But because, for reasons he could not explain, he felt it necessary.

  “And I’ll be faithful,” he said. “I’ve always known that. Even before I met Sara.”

  Though minutely, Cavanaugh’s frown softened.

  Justin suspected that despite the attachment the Irishman had for Sara, her contentment meant more to him than his own wants.

  Even if her contentment meant marriage to another man.

  “She’ll make a fine duchess,” Cavanaugh murmured after some time.

  “Yes,” Justin respectfully agreed. “That, she will.”

  *** *** ***

  Cav and Justin weren’t the only people who felt Sara was on her way to becoming a Class-A duchess.

  “You must cease baiting Justin with Mr. Cavanaugh,” Sebastian said as they walked toward a meadow shaded by towering oaks. Moss, like streams of old ribbon, sheathed every limb, swayed back and forth in the breeze. “Courting games are entertaining to some extent, but not for a man who may soon inherit a dukedom, and one who needs a duchess who will prove both supportive and upstanding in society. Petty competitions between suitors are too time consuming, particularly when Justin feels he is one of them.”

  Sara twirled the yellow poppy Sebastian had picked for her between her fingertips. “I have no intention of baiting my fiancé with Mr. Cavanaugh, Lord Beaufort.”

  “Please do not call me by my title. Sebastian shall suffice.” He cast an earnest, aside glance at her. “Enlighten me, will you? Did you truly believe that first encounter would go smoothly? Between Justin and Cavanaugh, I mean.”

  “I never really gave it much thought.” She had, of course, and drawn the conclusion that thoughts of Cav and thoughts of Justin didn’t intermingle so well.

  In addition, these budding feelings and wanton fantasies she had for her fiancé were so much more intense than anything she’d ever felt for Cav. Traitorous, she felt, betraying the tender feelings she’d had for the man she’d once wanted above all others. And all to have them violently replaced with carnal thoughts of the man she truly wanted.

  Her very handsome--very English--intended.

  They walked for some time before Sebastian, scooping up a small hand of poppies and sliding them into the lapel of his light grey jacket, said, “Did Justin ever tell you about the day we met?”

  “It must have been a day for the history books, I suspect. But, no. He didn’t tell me.”

  Sebastian grinned, and Sara could honestly see why women found him so irresistible. Though the golden glint of a beard shadowed his face, his skin was smooth, flawless. Perfect teeth, too. Lips she imagined had kissed so many it was a wonder they were as full as they were, and not shriveled like a couple of prunes. Hair the color of wheat basking in those first rays of dawn. Eyes so brilliant, so icy blue, they were almost transparent, and as wicked as a pirate sailing the high seas.

  “We were both eleven. Well,” he said, “I was nearly twelve. He’d just turned eleven. But it was in London, and I was running from the blacksmith’s son, scooting down Bond Street with all the fret of a criminal fleeing a Bow Runner. He wielded a hammer, you see, and I had naught but a handkerchief in my pocket.”

  “What on earth had you done? Stolen a horseshoe?”

  “Oh good Lord no,” he said, chuckling. “He caught me kissing his sister in a haystack.”

  “When you were eleven!”

  “Almost twelve.”

  Sara shook her head, amazed. “Then what?”

  Sebastian went on to tell her the entire story of his and Justin’s implausible first meeting.

  “Good heavens!” she said. “Did the young man come to?”

  “We didn’t stay around long enough.”

  “Tsk, tsk. That wasn’t very kind of you. He might have been seriously injured.”

  “Oh, believe me. His nose was permanently crooked, but we couldn’t linger. Not with our fathers’ reputations at stake. Mischievous lads though we were.”

  Sara suspected they still were.

  “We were, are, first and foremost, the sons of dukes,” he said, adding ruefully, “I shouldn’t have dallied with a commoner’s daughter in the first place. But--” he shrugged, placed a hand over his heart “--I was in love.”

  “Fancy that,” she murmured.

  “Ludicrous, is it not? Needless to say, Justin and I have been inseparable ever since.”

  “A friendship made in heaven.”

  “I suppose one could call it that.” Releasing her arm, Sebastian stopped, sank to his haunches. “Come Phin!”

  The dog, trotting ahead for some time now, turned and rushed to his side. Nuzzled his nose against Sebastian’s thigh, and Sebastian answered those silent pleas with scratches behind Phin’s ears and beneath his chin.

  “Justin is the best person I know,” he said without looking up. “You’ll not encounter a more honest, more devoted soul. He assesses what is expected, and does it. No second thoughts, no false pretenses. If he gives you his word, consider it golden.”

  “He is a good man.”

  “The finest. God knows I don’t deserve such unconditional friendship.�
�� He stood, proffered his arm, and she slipped her hand inside. “Do you know what he told me the first time he saw you? The night we met you and your father at the docks in Liverpool?”

  Sara blinked.

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling. “He was too stunned. Literally breathless. In fact, I was shaking with laughter because he was completely speechless.”

  “That’s why you were laughing?” She searched her memory, recollecting every moment of that night. “I had no idea.”

  “Yes, well. He was nervous. When finally he mustered the courage to speak, I believe he said you were striking. Took him by surprise, you did.”

  “Well. I daresay I found him quite agreeable, as well.”

  “Agreeable? Trust me, my lady, there are plenty of young ladies who find him more than agreeable.”

  Speaking of which. “Tell me how he met Lady St. Clair.”

  Sebastian gave an arched look. “Not going there. If you must know about his past conquests, you’ll have to ask him. I’ve never involved myself in his personal affairs or intimacies, and I’m not about to start.”

  “He is to be my husband,” Sara protested.

  “He is my best friend,” Sebastian retorted, and Sara tightened her lips. “Do not be angry with me, Sara, I cannot bear female animosity. Now, shall I tell you another story from our childhood? This one happens to be about all the nights we sneaked out to go swimming in the river. My mother would faint if she knew the half of what we did during her annual house parties.”

  Sara nodded acquiescently, and proceeded to listen to tales of boyish mischief that very well might have made a good book if either devilish boy had the mind to write them down. When they arrived at the archery range, the duke was napping in a chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, hands folded atop his belly; Cav’s nose was buried in his book; and Justin, quiver-wielding footman at his side, was steadily shooting arrow after arrow at a distant target.

  “Ah, there now, you see?” Sebastian gestured toward Justin. “He’s calm. Truly, my lady, I’ve never seen him behave so passionately toward another person.” He inclined his head closer to hers. “What will you do to get his attention? He is completely focused on that target. Ah, and of course. A bull’s eye.”

  “Bull’s eye?” She’d never heard such a word. Sounded rather vulgar, actually.

  “The center of the target,” he said. “Really, Lady Ballivar, we must get you into London as soon as possible. The local language changes daily.”

  “So it seems.” A sudden thought came to mind. “Sebastian?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You seem to be a bit of a good actor.”

  “A most improper comment to make to a marquess,” he said, “but you have my attention.”

  “Play along, will you?”

  “As long as my playing along does not include running about as if I were some sort of farm animal, I shall be happy to oblige.”

  Sara raised an eyebrow.

  Sebastian mirrored it. “Don’t ask.”

  “Wasn’t thinking to,” she replied, imagining another one of his tales of boyish devilry. “Just follow my lead. This should be short, and virtually painless.”

  His chin dipped in a single nod.

  Sara cleared her throat a little. God forgive me. “Do you know, Lord Beaufort,” she said, projecting her voice, “that I have never acquainted myself with the art of archery? It does appear rather fascinating.”

  Cav’s book closed behind her.

  The duke was still sleeping, thankfully.

  Justin had paused for only a brief moment before setting his next arrow and turning it loose.

  Sara gave Sebastian’s arm a nudge.

  “Is that so, Lady Ballivar?” His voice rang out like an announcer at the horse races. “It happens to be called the sport of kings, you know. A most excellent way of displaying one’s strength and precision.”

  “Won’t you demonstrate, Lord Beaufort?” She bit back a smile as Justin hesitated. And released.

  “I dare not, my lady,” Sebastian went on. “My experience at the sport is regrettably lacking.”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh, then?” Sara turned to Cav.

  He held up his middle and forefinger, glared at her through hooded eyes. “I fear my source of pulling back a bow string is injured, my lady. But of course, you probably already knew that, now, didn’t you?”

  Sara was speechless.

  Lucky for her, Sebastian was right on cue. “Forgive me, Lady Ballivar, for I am sure Mr. Cavanaugh, when he has full use of his fingers, is an extraordinary shot. However, if it is archery you would endeavor to learn, I daresay Lord Carrington would be the better instructor.”

  Sara knew if she ever expected to gain Justin’s attention with this spur-of-the-moment, ridiculous charade, now would be the time.

  And gain his attention, she had.

  He was staring at her, all towering, six foot two--maybe three, he was so much taller than average--of strapping, powerful male. His hair was wild, rustling with every gust of wind.

  He stretched out his hand, beckoned her closer.

  The thought to refuse him didn’t even cross her mind.

  Sara left Sebastian’s side and crossed the small distance on unsteady feet, wondering if it was humanly possible for a person to melt into the ground.

  “I can demonstrate this to you,” he said, “but you’ll not be able to pull back the bow string on your own.”

  Sara nodded absently because his hand was resting at the small of her back, and every nerve surrounding that one, small area was dancing beneath her skin.

  “The fistmele on my bow is too …” He broke off, likely because she was staring up at him, dumbfounded.

  In truth, she did know a bit about archery. Her father was quite accomplished at it. But being this close to him conveniently caused everything she knew about the prestigious sport to slip her mind.

  “Never mind.” He pulled her round to his front, brought her body back against his. “Bow and arrow, please, Mr. Fox.”

  The footman handed him a longbow and feather-tipped arrow, and stepped back.

  Sara’s heart picked up a rapid rhythm as Justin’s arms came around her, his hand covering hers as she gripped the bow shaft. Instinctively, she leaned into him, flattened her backside against the hard plane of his body.

  Justin muttered an incoherent curse, and bent his head beside her ear. “No more moving, sweetheart. Now, put these two fingers here. This is your nocking point.” He positioned the fore and middle fingers of her right hand on the bowstring, around the arrow, and wedged his fingers in between them. “I’ll pull back. You feel the movement.”

  “All right.” The motion caused their arms to brush, and his chest muscles to contract. Sara drew in a trembling breath.

  “Do you feel it?”

  She hoped he couldn’t see the color burning in her cheeks. “Yes.” Standing statuesque beneath him, he held her in perfect stance to release the arrow. He seemed to have stopped breathing; she could barely feel the rise and fall of his chest at her back.

  “Justin?”

  “Yes?”

  It’s now or never, Sara. “Perhaps we could spend our day together tomorrow.” She shut her eyes, held her breath, wished with all she had that she could take it back.

  But, “It would be my pleasure, my lady,” he murmured. “Now. Release.”

  Sara let the arrow and her breath go in one, sharp movement, and felt her stomach quake with excitement as he whispered praises into her ear.

  SIXTEEN

  Insistent though Lana was that not only should proper young ladies refrain from accompanying their fiancés--alone--on expeditions in the out of doors (and apparently in the in-of-doors, by all that was moral) but they should also refrain from wearing enticing garments, Sara dressed very carefully the next morning for her outing with Justin.

  She’d purchased the dress only a week prior to leaving Dublin for Liverpool, though at the time, she certainly hadn
’t planned on wearing it in England. Heavens, no. It was for the upcoming soiree in Galway, hosted at the home of Sir Dunmore himself, where Sara had every intention of persuading Cav into eloping with her.

  Shocking, how matters had changed so quickly.

  Here she was, a mere month later, at a house party in Worcester, in a country she thought she’d loathe for all eternity, allowing Lana to fasten the small row of pearl buttons on the back of the dress meant to win her an Irish husband, and she was happy. Happy the dress wouldn’t make its debut at a party she’d attended a dozen times over. Happy she wasn’t trying to win an Irish husband because she was completely smitten with her English fiancé, and she wanted to look her best for him.

  After all, he’d won the bet.

  The least she could do was make his winnings worthwhile.

  “You’d be mindful to watch your posture,” Lana said, brushing several wrinkles from Sara’s skirts. “You’re liable to fall right out of that bodice if you so much as bend too far forward.”

  Standing straighter, Sara inclined her head and studied her appearance in the looking glass. The dress was of lilac muslin with a crisscross neckline, typical of the ancient Greeks, with a modern flair of capped sleeves and a lowered waist. A chemise was out of the question; the low bodice wouldn’t allow for it.

  “I won’t need to reach for anything.” Sara ran the tip of her finger along the delicate lace framing her neckline. “Lord Carrington will be there to assist me.”

  Lana had fixed her hair into a rather complicated coiffure, with curls here and sprigs of tiny lilac blooms there. She tugged a springing lock Lana had left to compliment her bosom (although Sara suspected it was more to hide any visible trace of décolletage), and released, smiling as it curled again.

  “Despite your insistence that my dress is inappropriate to be worn anywhere but inside the confines of my own room,” Sara said, and her eyes met Lana’s in the looking glass, “I must say you’ve done wonderfully.”

  “You do look beautiful,” Lana admitted. “And it’s not that I think you shouldn’t wear the dress, my lady. It’s just that, well, you’ll be alone, and I don’t--it’s just that I ...” She shook her head, sighed.