Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  “Twelve, I believe, Monsieur.” Justin rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with being remembered as anything but the towering man he was today.

  “Well, I shan’t detain you any longer.” Monsieur clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “I know you have much to do. Much to do.”

  He waddled behind the counter and withdrew two rather large white boxes, both wrapped in blue ribbon. “I believe this is what you asked for, my lord. Shall I take it outside for you?”

  “I can manage,” Justin said. “I do, however, require an assortment of the madeleines for the lady.”

  “But of course!” And then he was waddling about again, filling a smaller box with a few of the cakes Sara had tasted the day before, and a few she’d wanted to but for the sake of her figure, decided against.

  “I failed to ask.” Monsieur wiped his sweaty brow. “How are the Graces?”

  Sara laid her hand on Justin’s arm. “The Graces?”

  “My parents.” To Monsieur, he said, “They do well, thank you.”

  “A fine man, the duke is.” Balancing the boxes on his shoulder, Monsieur opened the door wide. The sun shone vividly around the polished curricle and surrounding old buildings. “Well,” he said, slipping the boxes beneath the seat, “I am so pleased you came to visit. And you, my lady!” He turned to Sara, swept a bow, and upon standing straight again, began dabbing a kerchief to his forehead. “A pleasure to meet you, it was. The marquis has done himself well, choosing an Irish bride. In all my years, I’ve ne’er seen a woman to match the beauty of an Irish lady.”

  Sara dipped into a modest curtsy. “You are too kind, Monsieur. On behalf of all Irish ladies, we are most honored.”

  Monsieur took her hand, pressed it between his pudgy ones. “Lord Carrington should consider himself fortunate to have found you before I did, then, mademoiselle.” Funning though he was, Sara had to give him credit for putting on so grave an expression. “I cannot imagine a finer life than one spent making madeleines for a lady such as you.”

  A throat cleared abruptly at Sara’s shoulder. “All right, all right. We’ve tarried long enough.” Justin retrieved Sara’s hand from Monsieur’s and slipped it firmly inside his elbow.

  Sara bit her lip. He was protective of her. Maybe even a little jealous.

  Her heart swelled at the thought.

  “À tout à l’heure, my lord,” Monsieur said as Justin helped Sara into the seat. “Do send my hellos to Miss Lucy. Tell her I added a little extra to the cakes this time.”

  “Miss Lucy?” Sara said as Justin sat beside her and took up the reins.

  “You’ll see.”

  *** *** ***

  For the next several minutes, which could have been hours, excruciating as it was sitting next to Justin in silence, Sara watched the buildings go by. Watched the rays of sun shoot in and out among them like beams of pure gold. She toyed with the single curl hanging down over her shoulder, wove the soft strands between her fingers.

  “You’re quiet,” Justin observed after some time. They’d passed the last building in the city at least ten minutes ago. “Is something the matter?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere special.”

  Sara looked around. They were traveling a cobblestone road, grassy, stretching hills on either side, far as the eye could see. Oak trees, their enormous limbs in perfect proportion to their thick trunks, towered here and there, standing as regal gentlemen engaging in light conversation.

  He pointed ahead. “There, just beyond that cluster of oak trees.”

  Through the old oaks, past a scattering of colorful, ornamental glass bulbs hanging like ancient pagan globes from the overlapping limbs, stood a white house. It wasn’t until they drew closer, when the globes of blue and red, green, yellow and purple hung just above their heads, Sara heard the wind chimes, light and magical, like fairies dancing on dandelions.

  Sara thought of all the fairytales her father had read to her as a child. Of fairies and dragons. Knights in shining armor. A prince boldly sweeping his princess off her feet.

  Intrigued, Sara said, “It’s beautiful, but ... what exactly is it?”

  “This,” he said, coming to halt under the Palladian-style portico extending from the front double doors, “is an orphanage.”

  Unsure she’d heard correctly, Sara asked what she felt was a perfectly valid question. “What on earth are we doing at an orphanage?” Then, “Not that there is anything wrong with orphanages, mind. Of course not. They are wonderful organizations, absolutely. Why, my father sees that the one in Dublin has all--”

  Justin’s husky chuckle interrupted her. “Sara, Sara,” he said, allowing a young lad of no more than eight or so years to take hold of the horses. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m well aware you find my choice in outing more than a little strange.”

  He paused and took both her hands, encased them inside his. “Especially when I’m certain you expected a day of under-exertion.” Warmth, frivolity danced in his eyes. “Walks in the park. Tea.”

  She opened her mouth in reply, but couldn’t find one. What could she say? She had expected all that. Of course she was surprised. More than surprised.

  “M’lady?” a voice just on the verge of manhood said somewhere off to her right, breaking her chain of thought. “May I ‘elp ye down?”

  Sara took the proffered hand of a boy, whose Scots accent was so thick he might’ve fit right in with the pub owners in Dublin, and allowed him to help her down from the curricle. “My thanks,” she said, and looked on to the house again.

  One by one, children began trickling through the white painted doors.

  Justin sank to his haunches. Laughing, they ran to him, looped their small arms around his neck; tugged at his coat, his hands. Played with the tassels on his boots.

  He leaned into peppered kisses to his cheeks, mussed the smaller boys’ hair. Chuckled when they hurried to put it back into place.

  Sara blinked, mesmerized. Overjoyed, she was, they weren’t having tea and conversation in Worcester. And they weren’t walking through a park while she twirled a rose stem between her fingers.

  His eyes met hers through the crowd of children, and Sara swore her heart stopped and started again.

  God help her.

  She was in love with him.

  “Ladies, lads,” he said, and Sara was fascinated by how quickly they all quieted to listen to him. “This is my fiancée, Lady Ballivar.”

  “Sara,” she said, because suddenly she didn’t feel like the daughter of a duke anymore. She removed her gloves, tucked them into the pocket of her pelisse. Stepped forward. “And what a pleasure it is to meet you all.”

  She was rewarded with the brilliant beam of a dozen smiles, and even a few curtsies and bows. They took her hands, greeted her with reverence, as if she were Queen Elizabeth reborn. And all the while, she found it nearly impossible not to look at Justin.

  Because he was certainly looking at her.

  A kind-faced woman with dark golden hair piled into messy bun atop her head appeared at the door. “Ah, Lord Carrington.” She wiped her hands on the apron covering her worn day dress. Bobbed a quick curtsy. “So glad you came. Do come inside, won’t you? The children were about to have …” She paused. “Oh, but did you bring ...?”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  She clapped her hands elatedly. “Come along, children. Lord Carrington has brought us a treat.”

  Squealing with excitement, the children forgot all about Sara--and Justin, for that matter--and ran inside. The lady, who might have been no more than thirty if she was a day, fussed with a few straggling strands of hair around her face as she turned to Justin. Clearly she hadn’t been expecting company.

  But Justin didn’t seem to mind. As though he spent every day doing charitable work, or having children assail him with hugs and kisses, he was decidedly tranquil.

  “I have the quarterly reports ready for you,” the lady
told him, and he nodded curtly.

  “Thank you, Lucy.” He motioned to Sara. “My intended, Lady Ballivar of Dublin.”

  “A pleasure, my lady,” said Lucy. “Won’t you come inside? I’ll send Tom out for the parcels. Under the seat, I presume?”

  “Indeed,” Justin said. “Monsieur says he added a little something extra this time.”

  “Splendid. The children will be most grateful. Come. Bella has a new pet she’d like to show you.” She frowned a little, though her eyes remained cheerful. “A rat, my lord. Ugliest sight you’ve ne’er seen in your life, but she’s got him trained, she has.”

  Turning on her heel and mumbling on about children who fancy rodents over normal animals, Lucy disappeared inside.

  Justin took Sara by the hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Surprised?”

  “Very.” His skin against hers was sublime. Truly, she could swear off gloves and be forever content just to hold his hand.

  “I hoped you would be.” He brought her hand to his arm. “Shall we?”

  “Justin,” she said as he led her through the doors and into a well-lit foyer with wooden floors. “Why should Miss Lucy show you the reports for the orphanage? A patron does not usually bother himself with reports reflecting supplies and doctor visits and the like. His monetary generosities are normally the extent of his charitable involvement.”

  “Because I am no ordinary patron.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  He was still smiling. “Because I own the orphanage.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “You... own the orphanage?”

  Sara blinked. Blinked again. My, but she did have the prettiest lashes. An elegant sweep of dark, demure fringe. Noble women paid exorbitantly to have their eyelashes darkened, whereas Sara’s were natural. Naturally that dark. Naturally that long.

  Naturally that seductive.

  Justin grinned.

  Rendering his fiancée to near speechlessness had to be one of his new favorite pastimes. Although, he thought wickedly, it was certain to be replaced when he was finally able to ...

  When they were finally able to ...

  Deuce take it. With each passing day, his control wore thinner and thinner. But it was damn hard to take when she insisted upon wearing dresses such as this: yards of sheer light purple material, cut so low he had a wild suspicion she wasn’t wearing a stitch of undergarments. All of which did a poor a job of hiding the goods underneath.

  And that, the underneath, he had a fine portrait of in his mind. Call it two weeks straight of sleepless nights, envisioning what her young, undeniably soft, well-rounded body would feel like beneath his hands. Beneath his body.

  “How did you come about that?” she said, untying her bonnet strings.

  Had he said something?

  “Justin?” She removed her bonnet, followed by her pelisse, and allowed one of the orphans to take them away.

  “Pardon?” The ridiculousness of that complicated coiffure atop her head brought him back to his senses. He narrowed his eyes. Were those ... lilac buds? Why women felt the need to put their heads through such torment he would never know. Curls and pins and flowers, more pins. He much preferred it down.

  “The orphanage.” She pushed a wisp of dark curls away from her forehead. “How did you come to own it?”

  “Ah.” Yes, of course she would wonder how he came to be so charitable. Dukes, or elder sons who stood to inherit a dukedom as it were, were only expected to extend their charities in moderation. They did have lives to lead, reputations to protect. Sullying one’s hands, so to speak, wasn’t precisely smiled upon.

  Why should she expect him to be any different?

  “It was once owned by Lord Vincent St. Clair,” he finally said, “the late Earl of Middleton.”

  “Once,” she echoed. “So, he sold it to you?”

  “Not exactly. When St. Clair died, he had no heir. The earldom went to his cousin, a viscount of a small parish near Durham. Lord Byron Winthrop.”

  “I know him,” she said perceptively. “He’s visited my father on a few occasions.”

  “Regarding horse breeding, I’ll wager.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, that is largely the extent of Winthrop’s interest. He owns the largest stable of race horses in the country. When he inherited the Middleton earldom, however, he and the dowager countess went over St. Clair’s assets, made cuts where needed, some good, some rather foolish.”

  “And this was one of them.” She looked around, brow crinkled adorably. “St. Clair. Why do I know that name?”

  “Because,” he said, and winced a little when Sara’s assessing gaze turned back to him. “St. Clair was Milly’s husband.” There was no need for formal names. She knew who he meant.

  “Oh.”

  “It was her idea, actually,” he said, “to tear it down. To be honest, most of the charitable funding St. Clair provided came to an end when he died. And Winthrop was more worried about his gelding winning the upcoming derby than the fate of a small orphanage.”

  She still didn’t bristle. Not one bit.

  “The orphanage meant a lot to the former earl, I gather?”

  “Earl St. Clair was a very good man. He purchased the orphanage for the same reason I did. He couldn’t bear to see it demolished.”

  “I see.” She stopped to digest that information. “Seems as though St. Clair married below himself.”

  “Milly’s the daughter of an earl, but she claims she was forced into the match with St. Clair. Although I cannot imagine a woman being forced into a better marriage than to the former Earl of Middleton. He wanted nothing for himself and everything for everyone else. Including his wife.”

  “Who apparently despised him.”

  “Yes.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “She’s not a very nice person, Justin, your dowager countess,” she said tentatively. “Not a very nice person at all.”

  “No.” And it was like realizing it for the first time. Milly wasn’t nice. Wasn’t even kind, for all she put on such benevolent airs. “No, she’s not. And she’s not my dowager countess,” he added.

  “What kind of a person would deliberately put a dozen children out of a home?”

  “Milly doesn’t care much for children.”

  “Why not?”

  Justin shrugged. “She was an only child.”

  “I am an only child,” said Sara. “And I think children are one of the most wonderful gifts God could give a person.”

  Inside his chest, his heart gave a profound thud. He took her hand. Pressed a kiss to her palm. Had to hold back a grin because she was blushing again. He did enjoy watching that wondrous shade of pinkish-crimson coloring her cheeks.

  “A most marvelous trait in a woman.” He brushed his lips across the heel of her hand, onto her wrist. “Nothing could please a man more than to know his wife will be a good mother to his children.”

  Her lips parted, only slightly. She was embarrassed, he realized, and how odd that was. That in so short a time, he’d come to know her this way. To know what emotion stemmed from a flutter of her lashes, the rise of a blush in her cheeks, or a falter in the normal, methodical lilt of her breathing.

  He liked that, when her breath tapered. It made him feel as though this desire, this ... longing, wasn’t one-sided.

  “Justin.” She pressed her lips together, only for a moment, to swallow, before whispering, “Don’t. Someone will see.”

  She was right. He was a gentleman, after all. And although he did own the orphanage, could do whatever he liked with it, in it, around it, with whomever he chose, he could not forget himself.

  Couldn’t make an exhibition by mauling his fiancée in public places, speculating on all these inane ticks of hers that made him want to kiss her senseless, like a lovesick fool. Fool though he may have already been.

  Probably was.

  But fool that he was, apparently, or so he w
as beginning to think himself to be, being with her made him feel more alive than a boy stealing his father’s best stallion and galloping through the front lawn. As if he could lose title, fortune, everything, if only to keep her and amuse himself with those adorable inane ticks until he was too old to see them properly. If that were possible. An heir to a dukedom willing to throw it all away for the sake of affection? Love?

  Probably wasn’t.

  Possible, that is.

  Good God. What an utterly female thing to do, pondering over feelings and emotions. Lord save him.

  Asserting himself, because he wasn’t a lovesick fool, and he most certainly was no female, Justin placed Sara’s hand on his arm in the most unaffectionate fashion he could muster, and led her farther into the room.

  “Tommy there,” he said, pointing to the newest addition, “is from Limerick. His parents caught the fever on the way to Liverpool and passed away before the boat had even docked.”

  “How did he end up all the way here?” She watched closely as Tommy, palette of watercolors in hand, put the finishing touches on a pair of snow-capped mountains.

  “Gypsies on their way eastward. They apparently intended on keeping him until he mentioned he’d once eaten owl when his family would have starved otherwise.”

  “Owl?” she repeated. “As in the avian?”

  He nodded.

  “Ew.”

  “You might be surprised what you’d eat if you were starving, kitten. Nonetheless, since gypsies believe owls to be bad luck, they dropped him off in town. Been here ever since.”

  “Poor dear.”

  “Not poor. He is well cared for, I assure you. They have a closeness here which cannot be obtained in the larger orphanages in, say, London or Bath. There are only twelve of them, you see.”

  “They’re a family.” She smiled as Bess, a small girl with a head short red curls, came trotting toward her, a string of what looked to be beads gripped tightly in her little fist.

  Sara kneeled down, motioned for Bess to come closer. “What have you got there, young lady?”

  Gnawing on the tip of her tiny index finger, her gaze shyly sheathed beneath long lashes, Bess said, “A present.”