Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  And apparently she had captured the Duke of Dublin’s eye. Maybe even his heart. The thought, even in her presently rushed circumstances, made Sara smile.

  “Lana?” She stepped tentatively forward.

  Intending to halt Sara’s advancement, Lana put up a shaking hand and continued to sob into her other. But Sara wouldn’t have it. She grasped Lana’s hand in her own and knelt down beside her.

  “Lana, listen to me. I am not upset.”

  “I am s-s-sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I sh-sh-shouldn’t have b-been …” Hard sobs overtook her.

  Sara looked around and found a linen handkerchief lying on the vanity beside a jar of lavender hand cream. “Here.” She handed the slip of cloth to Lana. “Dry your eyes. Please, Lana. I am not angry. Or upset.” She shook her head, trying to gather the right words, finding there really were none. “Or whatever it is you believe should have been my reaction to finding you ... well ...”

  “Leaving your father’s bedchamber?” At Sara’s slow nod, Lana said, “I should not have stayed, but ...” She closed her eyes, balled her hands into fists on her lap. “I have no self-control when it comes to him.”

  Sara placed her hands over Lana’s. “Because you love him,” she insisted knowingly. Because she did know. She knew now what it meant to have no self-control. To have no resolve when wrapped in the arms of the man you love. When his words and his kisses and the very touch of his fingers on your skin cause all sense of propriety, dignity and inhibition to vanish into nothingness.

  “Lana, I need you to help me.”

  Lana’s brow pulled. “At this hour? But you just ...” Her eyes widened. “You spoke to him, you--where have you been?”

  “There is no time. I need you to pack my carryall and my reticule and”--she glanced down at her thin, ruined night rail--“help me get cleaned up.”

  “What happened?” Lana took one of the blue satin ribbons tying the front of Sara’s gown and studied it. “This was your favorite night rail.”

  Sara lifted one shoulder insouciantly. “A small sacrifice,” she said, rising to her feet. “But I have less than half an hour to bathe, pack and meet Justin downstairs, and if we work together--”

  “What!”

  Sara pushed a finger to her lips. “For pity’s sake!” She undressed quickly, tossed the pile of gown and thin undergarments into a corner, and headed for the bathtub. “I cannot very well elope--ooh!” Shivers crawled all over her body, her skin instantly dappling into gooseflesh, as she eased herself into the cold water. “If you alert the whole of England.”

  “Elope!” Lana squeaked. “Oh, no! No, no, no! Oh, my lady, why you …”

  Lana’s sentence muffled into unintelligible murmurs as Sara allowed her entire head to slump back into the frigid water. Her long hair sloshed around her, and for a moment she wished she could stay there. At least for a few solid minutes. Enough to convince herself that she and Justin weren’t losing their minds by curtailing the expectations of their parents in running away together.

  Sara let out a slow exhale through her nose, quivering as the bubbles tickled her face and ruffled her eyelashes. Yes, they had made the right choice. She was in love with him. And he, with her.

  A real love match, she thought, and came up for air, finally, slicked her hair back, wiped her eyes

  Ah, but she loved the sound of that.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Justin stepped into the hallway beyond his office and checked his pocket watch. “Ten minutes,” he muttered, and privately wondered when ten minutes had become equivalent to an eternity.

  He’d bathed, shaved, and dressed. Packed a bag befitting an overnight trip, though he didn’t know how long they’d be gone. Much time had passed since he’d last visited Scotland. A tour, maybe even a brief holiday, might be in order. There were several medieval castles with amiable lodgings, all of which boasted bedchambers so lavishly adorned one might find little to no reason to venture outside.

  Justin could think of several reasons to keep his new wife occupied well enough to forgo leaving the bedroom.

  He breathed deeply and ambled forward, forcing licentious thoughts of Sara, naked and beckoning to him from a bed of rich red satin, to the back of his mind. For now. They had to get out of this house first. Unnoticed. Easier said than done when the estate commanded a small army of servants, sworn to silence on the instructions of his valet.

  Though refusing to apologize for the impending elopement, he’d written his mother a brief letter of explanation and left it, too, with his valet along with a letter patent to Parliament, establishing his legitimacy. Everything was in order save for making Sara his wife, and that would be remedied soon enough. Stopping just outside the music room, Justin checked his watch again.

  Eight and a half minutes.

  What on earth was he supposed to do for eight and half minutes?

  Turning his gaze to the open door of the music room, Justin returned the watch to his pocket and walked inside. The smell of fresh polish, mingled with hints of lemon and starch, filled the air.

  He scanned the room, taking in the gleam of the highly polished grand piano, the majestic sweep of the starched blue curtains, the bundle of fresh flowers, plunked in a glass vase full of lemons, perched happily on a side table, and Sebastian.

  Sebastian?

  Clear on the other side of the room, at the end of the blue baroque settee the dowager had purchased specifically to compliment her arrangement of stringed instruments, sat his best friend.

  Or, rather, sank his best friend--his posture left a lot to be desired.

  “Sebastian?” Justin walked over to the cluster of matched furniture, which consisted of the settee, two complimenting chairs, and an Italian cello displayed on a wooden stand.

  Sebastian’s head was turned, resting in the palm of one hand. Held precariously between the fingertips of the other and, Justin noted warily, dangling over the intricately detailed rug that matched the blue baroque sofa that matched the entire corner of this room his mother had shrewdly commissioned, was a full glass of amber liquid.

  Swallowing anxiously, Justin moved to take the glass from Sebastian’s hand, but Sebastian shifted, and Justin immediately withdrew. Better to catch the glass should it slip rather than wrestle it from a man who appeared three sheets in the wind.

  Then again, the glass was full.

  Perplexed, Justin settled into one of the chairs opposite Sebastian and leaned forward, forearms on knees. “What is the matter?”

  Slowly, Sebastian peeled his palm from his forehead and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Complicated,” he murmured. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now. What do you mean, complicated?”

  Sebastian massaged his forehead. “You do not want to know.”

  “Try me.”

  Again, Sebastian shifted uneasily. “I do not think it--”

  “Hand that over, will you?” Justin reached for the glass of liquor, and just in time before it sloshed onto the rug. “Appears as though you’ve not touched it, anyway.” Placing the glass on a side table, Justin licked a droplet of the liquid from his thumb. Ugh. Brandy. How anyone managed to down that stuff was a mystery to him.

  “Poured it,” Sebastian said. “Couldn’t drink it.”

  “I see.” Reflexively, Justin consulted his pocket watch. Six minutes. “Look, Sebastian. I’m in a bit of a rush, and you are clearly implacable--”

  “There’s been talk.”

  “Talk?”

  Sebastian nodded, leaned forward, hands clasped. “I am surprised you haven’t heard by now, fast as news travels in this town. Then again, you’ve been reclusive for the past few days.”

  “With good reason,” Justin murmured, and Sebastian nodded obsequiously. “So, then, inform me.”

  Raking both hands through his hair, Sebastian closed his eyes and blew a heavy sigh. He looked exhausted.

  Justin resisted the urge to check his watch again
. “Sebastian?”

  “I was caught in a questionable position with a young woman.”

  Justin had to tamp down the laugh rising in his throat.

  This was nothing new.

  “This is what has you so upset?” Then, realizing how incredulous that sounded: “I mean to say, you’ve had that particular tattle stirred amongst the gossipmongers before, Sebastian.”

  “She is a lady.” And the way he said it, accompanied by that piercing stare for which Sebastian was so ineffably famous, made Justin’s skin crawl.

  He couldn’t remember ever seeing Sebastian this serious.

  “A lady,” Justin repeated slowly.

  “Yes.” Sebastian rested his forearms on his knees, head in his hands. “And I care about her.” A brief pause, then, “About her reputation, that is. She’ll be ruined if I don’t ... if I don’t--”

  “Marry her?” Justin tried to wrap his brain around Sebastian getting himself into any sort of trouble with a respectable lady. Oftentimes, more than often, Sebastian stayed away from the marriage market misses, preferring experienced women over the innocent.

  This lady, whoever she was, must have been a sight to behold if she’d managed to garner Sebastian’s attention. And then to coax him into a compromising position, witnessed by tongue-wagging matrons? Sebastian? Never. For all his rakish history, he wasn’t that thick.

  Threading his fingers together, Sebastian gazed unseeingly past Justin’s shoulder and gave a short, awkward nod. “It appears so.”

  “And ... you do not want to marry her?”

  Sebastian looked at Justin then, his brow drawing taut. “I would make a terrible husband, Justin, you know this.”

  “I’ve always known if the right woman came along, you would step up, do right by her. Honor your marriage vows. Do not act as though it isn’t true,” Justin added at Sebastian’s snort of disbelief. “You would. I know you would.”

  Sebastian seemed to think about this for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I would.” He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. “I’m in a pickle.”

  “Have you spoken to her family?”

  Sebastian’s shoulders stiffened; his jaw set. “I am working on it,” he answered after a few seconds of hesitation. “A long time, it’s been, since I’ve had to speak to a lady’s family regarding ... well.”

  “Asking for her hand.” Thumbing open his watch, Justin heaved a regretful sigh. There was no way to discuss a matter of this caliber in three minutes. And if he tarried any longer--Justin looked to the door, the distant sound of servants’ conversations garnering his attention.

  No. He couldn’t.

  “Sebastian, I--” He felt like an arse. In any other circumstance, he would stay. Try to aid Sebastian any way he could, make suggestions, offer to go with him to speak to the girl’s family. Whoever they were. “I cannot stay and discuss this with you right now, Sebastian. Forgive me, but I ... well, I’ve made a commitment I cannot forgo.”

  Justin rose to his feet, as did Sebastian. “We shall speak when I return, all right?” He clapped a firm hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and squeezed. “I promise. We’ll put our heads together and figure this out.”

  “I fear it may be too late by then.”

  Consumed with the need to check his pocket watch once more, Justin missed Sebastian’s worried expression as well as the anxious swallow that gripped his throat. “It is never too late, Sebastian.”

  *** *** ***

  Patience, Sara thought as she sat waiting in Justin’s black lacquered coach, could sometimes be maddening. She’d made it downstairs in record time, she imagined, for a lady on the way to her own wedding. With five minutes to spare, she had halfway expected Justin to already be out front waiting for her. But he was nowhere in sight, and so Sara reckoned he was wrapping up a few last ducal details before their departure to Scotland.

  Handing over her bag and parasol, she’d allowed a footman to help her into the enclosing shell of the coach. Darkness surrounded her, the lanterns having been left unlit. In the distance, the nascent dawn grayed the black sky, granting visibility to the encompassing grounds. Birds flew like small shadows across the haze. The towering oaks revealed themselves one by one, standing as silhouetted portraits against an achromatic sky. A slow smile spread across Sara’s face.

  This was her home now.

  She drew a ragged breath, raised her chin a little. The warmth of fresh tears pressed behind her eyes. Oh, how she’d longed for Ireland since she’d arrived. To some extent, she still did.

  But now England lay just as dear to her heart. Hope emanated from this land, from this country. Hope entwined with a love she never dreamed possible. It surrounded her like summer, warm and impossibly vibrant; sweet and cheerfully fragrant.

  The door opened, and Sara breathed deeply, continuing to stare into the expanse of lawn with her head leaned back and a smile upon her face. Absently, she traced the tip of her finger over the row of jagged seashells encircling her wrist, drawing from memory all the precious children from the orphanage in Worcester.

  Her children would play here someday. Here, on this vast expanse of green lawn, with sticks in their hands and frogs in their pockets, while laughter--theirs, hers, Justin’s--consumed the air.

  “Your thoughts are distant, my love.”

  Sara rolled her head to the side and favored him a contented smile. “My thoughts are always distant.”

  “Not too distant, I hope.” Justin shut the door and eased his large body onto the empty space beside her. A sensuous waft of sandalwood and clean male skin stirred the air. “Or if so, I do hope I can be there with you.”

  She reached up, touched her ungloved fingers to his shaven cheek. “You are always with me.”

  Smiling lopsidedly, he tilted his head and lowered his lips to hers. Sara sighed with pleasure, leaning into him as he urged her lips to part, then tenderly swept his tongue inside.

  Thus for the next few minutes this arduous interlude went on. The coach lurched forward, jolting their bodies closer, but Justin didn’t stop. His arms came around her, firmly, his mouth crushing hers with feverish urgency.

  Sara wrapped her arms around his neck and without forethought, gave into him completely. She kissed him harder. And when his fingers began fumbling with the row of cloth-covered buttons at the back of her dress, she did not protest. Only twined her slim fingers through his hair and surrendered fully to the pleasure he gave.

  Pleasure she now realized would never cease.

  Yes, it would always be this way. And with that intense realization, she began pulling at his cravat, eager to touch his warm skin. To feel him.

  “Justin. Justin,” she moaned as his lips trailed her throat, his hands tugging her bodice down over her shoulders.

  A groan rumbled deep in his throat. “No chemise,” he murmured as his hand closed over her bared breast. His breath burned against her neck. “Am I to have no relief?”

  Sara smiled wryly. “I think that is a question you shall have to answer for yourself, Your Grace. Are you willing to take me in a carriage?”

  His head rose, his eyes flashing in their dark ardor. “God, yes.” He captured her mouth in a heated kiss.

  Before Sara knew it, she was in his lap, her bent knees clamped on either side of his lean waist, straddling him. His dark head sank down, and Sara gasped, cried out, as his mouth closed hotly over the top of her breast.

  “Oh, Justin. I love you,” she breathed as his mouth moved lower, leaving no inch of skin un-kissed, until, taking her fully into his mouth, she cried out yet again.

  “And I love you, Sara.”

  The words poured like sugar water into her heart.

  Desperately she clung to him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other clasping the back of his neck. While his hands skimmed her thighs, hiking her skirts up to her hips. He cupped her bottom, brought her forward as he slid further off the seat.

  Sara moaned, the intimate contact shooting through her body like a jolt of
electricity. She urged her hips forward, pressed herself against his hardness, wantonly. It didn’t matter anymore. Duchess though she stood to be, she couldn’t deny the inflaming desire that was Justin’s hands on her skin.

  His fingers traced the seam of her drawers then tugged, pulled, until the soft fabric gave with a decisive rip. He raised his head. Gazed at her through dilated eyes as one finger slid through slick folds.

  Sara gasped.

  “Does it hurt?” His voice was thick, masculine. “I don’t want to hurt you. Tell me.”

  Sara chewed at her lower lip. “A little.”

  “Here.” Lifting her from his lap, he settled her onto the cushioned seat, and went to his knees on the carriage floor. “Sit still.”

  “What are you doing?”

  His lips curled wickedly. “Loving you.” He pushed her skirts up to her waist, hooked his hands under her knees, and brought her forward with a hard tug. “Is that not what you want?”

  “Yes, but I--”

  “Shh.” His dark head bent. “No protests, kitten.” He kissed her inner thigh. “No telling me ‘no.’” Higher his lips roamed, his hands setting along her thighs, parting them. “Or ‘don’t.’”

  At this she felt a drift of hot breath at her center, then the draw of the tip of his tongue, and if there was ever a time she blushed harder, Sara couldn’t name it. The intimacy was almost unbearable. Shocking. Yet to deny him seemed completely irrational.

  Pointless, really.

  Especially since he was now so into it, his tongue flicking and teasing, then delving and stroking, that Sara felt to stop him would be downright criminal. She arched into him, thread her fingers through his hair, wanting more. Needing more.

  Desperate for breath, she moaned his name.

  He groaned, and the sensation permeated through her. Created an inexplicable sensation as infernal as it was heavenly. The interior bubble of the coach appeared to darken, then brighten into a plethora of dazzling colors. She fisted his hair, rising almost completely off the plush, green velvet seat, as waves of euphoric bliss claimed every fiber of her being.