Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

She handed Sara a white beaded bracelet, though it may not have been beads as he’d originally thought. Not rounded, but rather course and rough around the edges.

  “’Tis made of seashells,” Bess proudly told her.

  That had been his second guess.

  “From the coast in Suffolk.”

  Ah, yes. He remembered the seashells scattered about the beach of the North Sea like some sort of pirate treasure. Well. To an eleven year old boy with dreams of swashbuckling and pirating, they were treasure. His parents had taken him there while visiting the earl, Lord Howard, and he’d returned to Mayfair with a sack full of shells in all shapes and sizes, handpicked by him and his mother and Anna.

  It was one of his best memories.

  Sara was examining the little trinket, while Bess watched, waiting for a response, a word of praise. “It is lovely, just lovely,” Sara said after she’d studied every shell carefully, ran her finger over it.

  Bess smiled elatedly.

  “Do you think you might, er …” Sara paused a moment. “Forgive me. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Bess, mum.”

  “Bess. Do you think perhaps you might tie it on me? I believe this ribbon matches my dress to perfection.”

  It didn’t. The raggedy, crushed velvet ribbon stringing the seashells together was the color of a soldier’s jacket, or perhaps the waistcoats of the Bow Street Horse Patrol: bright, bright red. And unless he was no longer in the know regarding women’s fashions, which he seriously doubted as the brother of Lady Anna Carrington, red didn’t blend so well with lilac.

  But as Bess happily looped the bracelet around Sara’s wrist, and tied the red velvet ribbon into a perfect bow, Justin imagined the most expensive bracelet couldn’t have looked lovelier.

  “Oh, I do believe this is my new favorite piece of jewelry.” Sara didn’t appear to care that Bess’s dirty little hand, which Justin regrettably noticed also showed traces of yellow finger-paint, rested on her lilac muslin covered knee.

  “The children and I are about to disperse to the back lawn, my lord,” Miss Lucy said, having come to stand beside him. “Would you and Lady Ballivar care to join us?”

  “Of course,” he said. “My lady?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Sara stood, waved as Bess, skipping happily, followed all the other children from the room.

  “Excellent!” Miss Lucy chimed. “The children have chosen rounders for our afternoon activity.”

  “Rounders!” Sara squealed as soon as Miss Lucy was well out of earshot. She squeezed his arm. “Oh, Justin. Do you think it would be terribly inappropriate if I played, too?”

  He gazed down at her. How could he say no when her eyes were this bright? Not that he would have said, mind. He imagined no would prove to be a hard word to tell this woman in the long run.

  “Not at all, sweet. Although ...” He allowed his gaze to slip from her face to the swell of her bosom.

  She’d worn this dress for a reason. He’d already concluded that. And her reason was working quite well, as he was sure he’d envisioned sliding those delicate sleeves down her arms, revealing what he ached to cover in kisses, at least fifty times since seeing her walk down the stairs this morning. But it wasn’t exactly what one would choose to wear had one known they would be engaging in sports with small children.

  “The particular cut of your neckline,” he said, “might prove a bit of a distraction when you’re up to bat.”

  Sara looked down at herself. “It’s a bit low, isn’t it? I didn’t think to bring a scarf.”

  Of course she hadn’t. How else was he supposed to slip into the bouts of insanity today?

  He did the only thing he could think to do. “Here.” He untied his cravat. “You can use this.”

  “Oh, see here, my lord. I couldn’t possibly. Why, what will you use for a neck covering?”

  “My neck shall survive.” He handed her the white silk strip of material. “Take it.”

  She looped it around her neck. And began tucking and stuffing.

  Justin forced himself to turn around. What kind of man was he? Watching her as she dressed. And of all places, in the middle of an orphanage. Might as well have been a church.

  How do you do, Reverend? No, no, just fine. My fiancée’s merely covering her breasts. Can’t have those things popping out unexpectedly, now, can we?

  “Justin.”

  He turned. Grinned. He’d never look at that particular neck cloth the same way, maybe the entire lot of his neck cloths.

  She waved a hand at her nape. “Could you?”

  “Of course.” He brushed her hands aside when she tried to help him. “Good girl.”

  He should’ve worked fast--how hard was it to tuck a scarf around the neckline of a woman’s dress? But his hands moved slowly, deliberately, he realized, because he couldn’t take his eyes off that smooth patch of peachy skin at her nape.

  It was lovely.

  It was soft.

  He’d barely registered his breathing had picked up tempo until the small tendril curls hanging down her neck rustled slightly. And that lovely, soft skin prickled into gooseflesh.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He leaned down, tucked the last bit of his cravat into her neckline.

  And kissed her.

  And God help him, she moaned.

  He slid his hands over her shoulders, opened his mouth. Tasted her. Lavender and salt and something altogether delectably pleasing. A flavor all her own, warm and feminine.

  “We should go,” he said, because if he didn’t, they’d end up on the floor, against the wall or, preferably, in the nearest bed.

  He backed up a step, proffered his arm. Kept his features taut as she took it. Without a word, on either of their parts, Justin led the way outside, wondering all the while if he’d ever, in all his life, practiced this much self-control. And then quickly concluded he hadn’t.

  Whoever said restraint was overrated deserved to be bound and flogged.

  *** *** ***

  As was expected given the general rules of time when one is having a splendid amount of fun, the remainder of the morning went by too quickly.

  Sara played two games of rounders with the children, and only insisted upon pitching when it was Justin’s turn to bat. Her accuracy took him by surprise; he completely missed the first pitch, his bat coming full circle in a swift, graceful arc. The second pitch was faster and had the slightest curve at the end, but it was well-executed, and he missed yet again.

  Frustrated and determined, because he most assuredly could not miss a third time (especially with a female pitching), he gripped the bat, set his jaw. Narrowed his eyes in her direction.

  This time, bat and ball connected.

  Justin took off, ran to the sounds of whooping and hollering children and Sara’s kind, yet commanding screams for someone, anyone, to strike him out.

  “He’s rounding to second post, he is!” Her normal rolling Brogue sounded like the thick drawl of a dairy maid. “Throw it to Tommy!”

  From the corner of his eye, Justin saw Tommy drop the ball, a muffled curse spilling from his mouth as Justin ran past him. A slight pang of guilt hit his conscience: he was certain to make it all the way now. Tommy had retrieved the ball outside the Castle and was looking around, panicked, for someone to throw it to. And Justin, wanting the children to feel some sort of accomplishment, almost slowed his speed.

  But he was also determined, twelve year old boy that he was, to get the tally.

  Sending a silent apology to the goddess of children (Artemis, he vaguely remembered), Justin ran, fast as his long legs could carry him, fighting a chuckle because Sara had begun to scream frantically in Gaelic, toward Castle Rock.

  “Throw it to me, Tommy!” The next second, she was in his eye line, running straight for him, one hand gripping the ball, the other hitching up her skirts.

  Castle Rock might have been displaying the biggest slice of pie in the world, the both of them were pummeling so hungrily for it. The childr
en were gape-mouthed. Miss Lucy was--well, he didn’t know what she was doing. Probably slack jawed, too. Surely she’d never expected to see the owner of the orphanage, the sole provider of her and a dozen would-be deprived children, running like a madman across her back lawn.

  He did not care.

  From the look of sheer fortitude on Sara’s red-splotched face, she didn’t either. In fact, when she reared back her hand--the one gripping the ball--he was certain she meant to hit him with it. However, at the last moment, right before either of their foremost foot hit sanctuary, Sara lost the grip she had on her dress and stumbled forward, slamming full-length into him.

  Staggering backward, Justin caught her in his arms just in time to keep the both of them from tumbling to the ground.

  “He’s out!” The sound of Tommy’s voice was barely audible from the beat of Justin’s own heart, thrumming madly in his ears.

  “Is not!” Bess, bless her. At least someone was championing for him. “He’s in!”

  “Are you all right?” Justin looked down at the tangled mess that was his fiancée.

  Slowly, slowly, her face upturned. If she’d hoped to keep that pile of complicated curls and twirls and pins and flowers atop her head, she would be sorely disappointed once she caught a glimpse of herself in a looking glass. Sprigs of curls were everywhere, stuck to her forehead, her cheeks and neck. One was caught in the corner of her mouth.

  She blinked, presumably unable to answer for her state of shock. Or maybe it was because her breath was coming so hard Justin could feel her heartbeat pounding against his chest, which was remarkable considering his own heart was beating just as fast, if not faster.

  “I’m fine.” She pushed away, brushed her skirts off. Removed the lock of hair wedged in the corner of her mouth. Squared her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “Never better.”

  Tommy and Bess were still arguing.

  “He’s in!” Bess reiterated, all three-foot-five of her dainty self marching across the lawn toward Tommy.

  “Ah, Bess.” Tommy threw his hands up in the air. “Ye’d ‘ave to be bloody well blind to of seen ‘im not as out. The lady’s ‘and touched ‘im first. The ball ‘it ‘im square in the chest, it did. He’s out,” he added with all the firm conviction of a duke taking the podium in the Lords.

  Sara looked down at the large, flattened rock beneath her right foot, Justin’s left. “I believe,” she said slowly, “that you were in.”

  He knew he was. He’d been playing this game since he was old enough to grip a bat properly. At Oxford, he and Sebastian, along with a handful of other gentlemen, spent almost every afternoon playing either cricket or rounders. Back then competition was everything, and winning was vital. They bet on every game, and whoever lost had to foot the bill at the local pub afterwards.

  If the truth be told, when he hadn’t been studying or engaging in bat-and-ball team sports, he spent most of his time either pickled in Scottish whisky or tupping the local girls. After class, before class, in between. Whatever it took to temporarily forget the one fixation that had weighed on his shoulders since boyhood.

  Drowning oneself in Scotland’s finest did wonders for unrelenting fixations.

  Ironic how that single, unrelenting problem he’d been trying to forget then, he wanted more than anything now. As if that didn’t add even more shame to the pile. He hated he had been that foolish. That he had allowed himself to stay that inebriated, around the clock, because of an inane piece of parchment.

  But that inane piece of parchment, which, he’d been told, was signed by his father, the Duke of Kilkenny, and King George himself, had brought her--this remarkably beautiful creature standing before him in a dirt-smudged, yellow finger-paint splotched, lilac gown, with a rounders ball gripped firmly in her hand--to England.

  It had brought her to him.

  He shook his head, amazed he remembered through his reverie what they were talking about. He had made the tally. But: “You hit me with the ball before my foot hit the sanctuary,” he announced coolly.

  Somewhere from left field, he heard Tommy let out a gleeful, “Woo! Yes!”

  Sara arched an eyebrow.

  He loved it when she did that.

  “So, that makes me out.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  He loved that, too.

  “Are you certain, my lord? I could have sworn …”

  “Please,” he said, “do not swear on my account. Tommy is correct. The ball hit my chest before I reached sanctuary.”

  She stared at him skeptically, even as Tommy ran past her laughing, a giggling Bess chasing several feet behind, swearing she’d sock him a good one once she caught up with him. Soon all the children were chasing after Tommy. If Miss Lucy allowed it, which Justin suspected she certainly wouldn’t (she was already bringing up the rear, yelling for Tommy to stop lest she give his cake to the dog, which was rather amusing as Justin was sure they didn’t have a dog), they’d run after him all afternoon until the lawn was covered in collapsed children.

  Justin leaned close to Sara’s ear. “I pray our morning has proved amiable enough.”

  She didn’t look at him, but continued to watch the small army of motherless children. “Amiable? Oh, it was more, my lord.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  “I love to hear them laugh.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Makes me wish I’d had siblings.”

  Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispered into her hair, and she shivered.

  “Just that ... well, I think I might like to ...”

  “Yes?”

  *** *** ***

  Speaking on matters of this nature was more difficult than Sara had anticipated. Especially with him.

  She felt his hands first tighten around her shoulders, then begin a slow slide down her upper arms. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured. “I’ll give you anything within my power to give, Sara, you know that, don’t you?”

  She did know. Only, how he’d become so familiar, particularly when they’d only known each other for all of a fortnight, she wasn’t at all sure.

  Yet, she knew all the same.

  “I think I might like to have more than one child,” she said quietly. “Perhaps more than two. Several, even.”

  His hands stopped.

  “That is, if time permits.” If time permits? What was she thinking? “That is, I mean, if we have time to ... if you’re not too busy with …”

  “You suggest, once married, we will not see each other often.”

  Partly, yes. Dukes were busy men. Marquesses were busy men. Men in general were, by nature, busy. In Dublin, she once heard the butcher’s wife complain she hadn’t seen her husband in a month because of a sudden influx in lamb chops. And Lana had once mentioned that up until her husband’s demise, she might have seen him once, perhaps twice, a month for the increasing demand in gentlemen wanting their horses shod with lighter-weight shoes.

  To this day, Lana despised horse racing.

  So how much more would a man who held a seat in the House of Lords find himself absent, maybe months at a time, from home?

  “Am I correct in thinking so?” he asked.

  “You’ll be busy, I am certain.”

  “That is true.” Somehow his agreeing with her only made matters worse.

  She wanted a husband who would be there, as her father had been there for her mother before she died. She wanted a family, one that included the man she married.

  She wanted the impossible.

  “When you want me, Sara, I shall never be too busy. That, I can promise you. However …” He stepped to the side. “I have feeling we have matters to discuss.” He kept his gaze straightforward, hands folded securely behind his back. “I’ve arranged for an afternoon ride, if that suits you.”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled, though he didn’t look at her.

  “On the curricle, you mean?
” For perhaps the first time, she noticed the smooth yet distinct chiseled lines that made up his profile.

  “No.” Gentle humor danced in his dark eyes. “On horseback.”

  “Oh.” She really had set the record for lame responses today. “Astride?”

  Just as lame.

  But he flashed a wicked half-smile, the one he’d apparently reserved for a situation such as this: conversing with quirky, green fiancée, who must have looked utterly ridiculous given she’d been running about with all the ardor of a five-year-old.

  Thank goodness Lana was still tucked safely at Worcester Hall.

  “Forgive me, my dear,” he murmured, “but my ability to ride side-saddle is terribly lacking. So, yes, we--the both of us--shall sit astride. I hope you don’t mind.”

  For fear of making yet another farcical comment, Sara kept silent and nodded her concurrence.

  Five minutes later, after they’d said their goodbyes to the orphans and Miss Lucy, Sara and Justin mounted up.

  “Ready?” Justin tossed a glance at her from under the brim of his Bushman’s hat. As Sara suspected, it had been stowed neatly beneath the seat. “It’s about half an hour’s ride from here.”

  “Yes, but--whoa, Armon.” Struggling to control Sebastian’s massive gelding, Sara tightened her reins. “Where are we going?”

  Justin grasped the brim of his hat in salute. “‘Where the bluebell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen.”

  “Burns,” she said automatically.

  He dipped his chin in a short nod.

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Where are we going?”

  There was that half-smile again. Persephone followed Hades straight into the Underworld with nothing less than that same devilish grin. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  EIGHTEEN

  She did trust him, actually.

  Even after they had ridden for a solid quarter hour before Justin so much as said one word (and then only to inform her they were turning into a particular path with low-lying beech limbs, and she should watch her head), she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was safe with him.

  Sara relaxed to the methodic sway of Armon’s elegant stride. She thought of Ireland. And of her father, praying he made it home to Dublin safely. She thought of Cav, what Lana had said about overhearing his conversation with his valet; his intentions to induce an elopement out of her. How absurd it was, if it were even true, that now--now, when her father had already shipped her to England--Cav wanted to elope.