Not that she believed he did, mind. But if he did--if he did, why now? Why when they had a dozen chances under the sanctity of Ireland, where elopement would have been easier, more feasible, than here, now, in England?
She should have never allowed matters to progress so far with Cav. Never should have allowed herself to think of him that way. And wasn’t that an oddity in and of itself? That she once, in the not so distant past, wanted to be his wife? When virtually all her life she’d been reared to be the Duchess of Tethersal, known she was to marry an Englishmen on whom she’d never laid eyes? Yet, her sole want had been to marry Mr. Patrick Cavanaugh.
But that was then.
Now, today, her every thought put those innocent, naive daydreams she’d once had of Cav into the same dusty old box with all other childhood fantasies. What had been insignificant, sweetly cherished ponderings were now prodigious, vividly intimate musings.
Raw.
Wonderful.
It all dwindled down to this: She wanted her betrothed. Justin. The man she should have loathed for all eternity for the restraint his very existence had put on her life, she wanted him. Body, heart, mind and soul. She wanted to give him all; all she knew, all she was, would be. They belonged to him. She belonged to him.
And she loved him.
Desperately so.
Instinctively her gaze turned to the man on horseback in front of her, the Englishman who would be her husband. The more she looked at him, the more appealing he became. As if under her stare, he somehow became more masculine. Thicker, broader. Ridiculously impractical though it was, to her mind it was true. But she supposed that was to be expected when a woman falls in love with a man.
Which, she dimly acknowledged, was yet something else she should have never allowed herself to do given he almost certainly didn’t feel the same. Oh, he wanted her. He couldn’t look at her, kiss her, the way he did without feeling some sort of desire to take what was rightfully his in the first place. But love?
Not likely.
He was being practical, taking her on a day outing like this, regardless he’d won their silly bet. Duty meant everything to a man like Justin. And that’s what she was to him. A duty. He was tending to what needed to be done, getting to know her as he’d been told to do (as she’d been told to do), and at the end of the day, he’d bow, kiss her hand, perhaps her lips (if she was lucky), and then he would go about his way. Perform ducal duties. Manly duties. Duties which didn’t include his heart falling into the hands of his soon-to-be wife.
It didn’t make him a bad person, certainly not, but it did mean he would never give her his whole self. She would be his wife. She would bear his children. She would be the duchess she’d been raised to be.
And she would love him in secret, regardless that he didn’t share the sentiment.
At the end of the day, their fathers would clap each other on the back, declare the union a success, while she ... oh, she would privately wonder how it had all come to this.
Sara let out an idle sigh. A lifetime of loving a man who didn’t love her. What would her mother have said?
Deciding that wasn’t a question worth pondering over, she sighed again.
“We’re almost there,” Justin said in the suspicious tone that he was merely responding to something she’d said.
Which was ridiculous because neither one of them had said a word in the past three-quarters of an hour.
“I did not say a word, my lord.”
“You sighed.” He looked over his shoulder, held up two fingers. “Twice.”
Intuitive man. So he had, however minutely, been paying attention.
Sara tipped her chin. “I was merely thinking.”
He turned back around. “About?”
“Life, I suppose.”
“Life, you suppose.” He paused. “As in yours in particular?”
“I suppose, yes.”
“Changed, has it?”
As if that wasn’t the understatement of the century.
“In more ways than one,” she answered honestly, because why lie? It wasn’t as if he knew all the ways, the thousand different ways, her life had changed because of him. For all he knew, she was speaking of the betrothal and the move to a new country.
Or, even more inconsequential, the fact she had never played rounders with orphans nor worn a seashell bracelet threaded with old velvet ribbon.
“I know exactly what you mean.” Confidence weighed heavy in his tone.
Did he? Truly? Of course he didn’t. Not his fault, naturally, but still.
“I’m quite certain, my lord,” she said carefully, for she did not want to insult him, “that our personal lives have been modified, each in their own respective fashions, over the course of the past two weeks. But that was to be expected, was it not? Certainly we realized prior to our first introductions that becoming acquainted with one another would bring about more changes than we might have anticipated. Do you not think so?”
Though he didn’t answer immediately, his shoulders stiffened. Whether from her question, or because he was leading them into what looked to be another clearing, she couldn’t say. But, as he stopped to move a low-lying branch, and allowed her to pass through the last bit of wood before the clearing, she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes when he looked at her. A dark, chilling passion that sent a delicious shudder racing down her spine.
There were no words for the way he was looking at her. Smoldering dark eyes paired with a rakish smile that spoke of naughty secrets. Secrets sure to put a permanent blush on her cheeks should she ever come to discover them.
“Certainly,” he replied laconically, holding her gaze, as if he knew exactly what his eyes, the cynical upturn of his lips, were doing to her. He swept his hand gracefully toward the small field. “After you, my lady.”
Giving Armon a gentle nudge, ignoring the strange little quake in her stomach, Sara moved past Justin and into the clearing.
And proceeded to forget why she’d felt so nervous.
Clusters of bell-shaped, bluish-purple flowers, hanging like maidens in full, frilly skirts, blanketed the entire clearing. Mesmerized, Sara dismounted, and continued to take in what couldn’t be described as anything less than the atmosphere in a fairy story. The area was no bigger than a paddock one might use to train a colt, but every inch was covered, from the sun-warmed ground beneath Armon’s feet to the shade beneath the canopy of surrounding beech trees.
“Bluebells.” The ground crunched beneath Justin’s booted feet as he came to stand beside her.
“They’re lovely. You knew about this place beforehand, I gather?”
“For some time, yes. Sebastian and I took long rides when were children. Drove his mother to near madness because we wouldn’t return until well after supper, sometimes later. But …” He bent and plucked a stalk donning six of the dainty flowers. “We came upon this one day, and if the time of year is agreeable, the ground blooms as you see it.”
“They only grow in April, then.”
“And May.”
“Ah.” She gazed up at him. “‘Where the bluebell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen.’”
“I took a long shot on that one. At least I told you where we were going.”
She gave him a gentle smack on the arm. “You most certainly did not! How could you possibly expect me to discern where you were taking me from a poem?”
“You’re an intelligent woman. I expected you to figure it out.”
“Well,” she said, flattered by the compliment. “I suppose, given you’ve brought me to a place this breathtaking, I can forgive you for the vague choice in poetry.”
He tipped his head in a short bow. “I would be much obliged. Poetry, I confess, is not my particular forte.”
“And what, pray tell, is your forte, Lord Carrington?”
Anything she might have said to recant the ridiculous question vanished once his lips curved into that infernal grin of his. The one that made her feel all warm inside. The
one that must have broken a hundred hearts when the ladies of the ton discovered he had been betrothed since youth.
He took her hand, raised it to his mouth, and her lips parted. “That, my dear lady, is something I intend on letting you discover for yourself. Once we are married, of course,” he added silkily, just in case she had any idea of him ravishing her in the middle of a bluebell patch, or so she assumed.
Sara knew her cheeks had turned at least ten different shades of red. Every nerve, every millimeter of skin, every spot of air in, on, around her body seemed to ignite. There was nothing arrogant in his tone. Confidence and arrogance, she had learned, were two completely different entities, and Justin possessed the former with as much vitality as life itself. He was merely assured in his ability to satisfy her, though to what extent ... ah, but that was the question, was it not?
She was still contemplating the idea when he, letting go of her hand, unbuckled one of his saddle bags and retrieved a light coverlet in a blue brocade pattern.
“I thought we might have a picnic.” He tossed the coverlet over his arm, opened another bag, and pulled out a small canvas satchel. “A nuncheon.”
“That would be lovely.” Armon gave her arm a gentle push with his nose. “But what will we do with the horses?”
“They’ll graze in the clearing. Not to worry, my lady, they’ll stay close. Here.” He handed her the coverlet. “Spread this beneath a tree. Preferably one that isn’t too knobby.”
She nodded, and within minutes, they were comfortably seated beneath the closely twined bows of three beech trees. She with her legs tucked underneath her; he lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. They ate, exchanged light conversation. Watched the horses nibble amongst the bluebells. There were slices of fresh bread, smoked cheese, boiled pheasant and figs, and a flask of sweet lemonade that reminded Sara of hot summer days as a child in Ireland.
She took a sip from the glass they shared--Miss Lucy, for all her kindness and generosity had, quite artfully, packed only one--and handed it to Justin.
“So,” she said as he was taking a drink, “I assume your absence from dinner and Shakespeare readings in the library last night were due to the planning of all this.”
“Mmm.” He set the glass down, used his thumb to swab away a droplet of lemonade from his mouth. “Only to ride into town and place the order with Monsieur. Miss Lucy hadn’t the slightest idea I--we would be visiting the orphanage.”
“You did not miss much,” she confessed. “Dinner was delicious, of course. Anna, Sebastian, Cav and I sat together.” She ignored the slight groan that came from his side of the blanket at the mention of Cav’s name. “Discussed what each would choose for our readings in the library.”
“And what did you choose?”
“The four of us did a small scene from Much Ado About Nothing.”
He looked surprised. “You acted out a scene? In the midst of the gossipmongers?”
“Caroline was very pleased, actually. Besides, it was only a small scene.”
“What scene?”
“An excerpt from Act II, Scene I--why do you seem upset? It was only a means of entertainment for Caroline’s guests. You realize we are the youngest set in attendance?”
His brow crinkled, and he turned his gaze to a blade of stray grass by his elbow. He picked it up, studied it. “It’s just that I would rather you saved your acting abilities, however encouraged by Caroline they are, for when I can be in attendance. Ladies in polite society do not tend to spontaneously act out scenes in plays. Particularly when, if they are fortunate enough to be engaged, their fiancés are not present.”
“Are you scolding me for my lack of propriety?” she said, and when he opened his mouth to answer: “Because it seems to me as if my acting out a scene in a Shakespeare comedy pales in comparison to you, taking me out for a full day of God-only-knows-what, while practically everyone in Worcester, or at least those in polite society, as you say, know we are, indeed, alone and un-chaperoned.”
He gazed up at her through hooded eyes. “I don’t require a chaperone to be with my own fiancée. Especially when everyone in polite society knows you’ve been mine for the entire span of a decade.”
For a moment she couldn’t find the will to answer. Her entire life she’d felt as if she wasn’t her own person, owned by some mystery man who lived in a gothic castle on the outskirts of England. And that she should thank her lucky stars because of it. Because he was to be a duke, and not only a duke, but an English duke.
Only, now he wasn’t a mystery man. He was every bit real. Here, in the flesh, lying precariously close beside her, twiddling a blade of grass between his fingers and looking ever the handsome cad one expected of a highwayman, not a marquess. And he still owned her.
But owned or no, she hadn’t been born and raised in Ireland for nothing. She was, first and foremost, always would be, she decided right then and there, an Irishman.
“That is irrelevant,” she finally said with all the Irish bristle she had inside her small body.
His retort was smooth and even. “It is quite relevant. Just because you didn’t tell your Irish gentleman about your betrothal doesn’t mean English society hasn’t known of it for some time now.”
Sara ground her teeth together. “He is not my Irish gentleman,” she said, “and it is vastly impolite of you to say so.”
That seemed to bring him down a peg. He may have been good at tossing witty retorts, her betrothed, but he’d been raised a gentleman. Politeness in the presence of a lady, no matter how angry one was with said lady, was an imperative rule in the gentlemen code.
“Forgive me.” His eyes softened. “You’ve explained your ties with Mr. Cavanaugh, and I should accept that. I meant no offense.”
“You do not offend me,” she said, “but you must understand that Mr. Cavanaugh has been a part of my life for a long time. He is more a childhood friend now. Someone who was there for me when I had no one.”
“Being raised without siblings must have been lonely at times.”
“I suppose. But when one doesn’t know what one is missing, how can they be certain?”
“You didn’t have a mother,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “That must have been difficult.”
“Not so much. When I was born, my father hired Mrs. Brennan, and then it wasn’t a week, two at the most, before he left again for England. So, I suppose you can say she’s been something of a mother to me ever since.”
“Hence her protectiveness.” At her nod, he said, “I should consider hiring her on for when we have our own children.”
“She’s rather devoted to my father, but yes. I suppose we could.”
A moment of silence ensued. The wind blew gently past them. The horses looked up at the sound of birds fluttering through the forest, then continued to graze. Sara took another sip of lemonade, and acknowledged this as the first time she’d shared a drink with another person.
It was oddly intimate.
Then again, so was this entire scene. Her pelisse lay folded beside her, his hat, her bonnet, his gloves, her gloves placed neatly atop it. His hair kept stirring in the wind, thick silken strands brushing carelessly across his forehead, over his ears. He flicked the blade of grass he’d been toying with for the past several minutes into the air, and narrowed his eyes as a breeze caught and carried it into the field.
She’d never forget this. Seeing him this relaxed, this at ease. It had to be a rare moment for a man with his responsibilities.
“You mentioned children earlier,” he said.
“Yes.”
He looked up at her, a hint of a smile lingering at one side of his mouth. “They require a lot of work, you know. But of course that is why people have wet nurses and children’s maids.”
“I intend to raise my own children.”
His brows rose.
“In every way,” she continued, “independent from the normal practice of handing them over to a wet nurse the moment they are born. I do no
t believe that parents, even in our society, should shirk the privilege of raising their own children.”
She watched with apprehension as he considered this, hoped against hope she hadn’t said too much or gone on like a blathering idiot. She did have a tendency of doing that every now and again.
But after blinking several times, and sifting through a number of facial expressions, the last of which left the faintest blush on the hills of his cheeks, he said, “Am I to understand that you intend on nursing the children yourself?”
Now she was blushing. Good gracious, how had they come about having such a conversation? She stiffened her spine.
“Yes,” she asserted. “That is my intention.”
“I see.”
“You object?” Because if he did, she would carry out the plan she immediately made after spilling her mouthful of child-rearing expectancies.
And that was to dig a hole, and then crawl into it and die.
“No,” he replied. “No, I do not object. I’m just ... surprised. Most women would find the very suggestion appalling.”
“I am not most women,” she said before she could stop herself.
“That was made very clear when first we met.”
“I behaved rudely that night,” she said. “Forgive me. Normally, I am not so cruel after first introductions.”
“Ah, I see. So, the cruelty you save for after you’ve become acquainted?”
“Oh!” She swung at him, aiming for his chest. “You know that’s not what I--”
His hand closed over hers.
“Meant.” It was a mere whisper.
“Sara.” He pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Yes?”
“If I were to call you my sweetheart.” He kissed her palm, her wrist, her palm again. “How would I say that”--his eyes, dark with passion, met hers--“in Gaelic?”
She swallowed. “A muirnín.”
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