It was almost too much.
Shudder after shudder wracked her body, and when finally the thralls of ecstasy subsided, Sara opened her eyes to see Justin braced over her, his hands resting on either side of the seat. He was smiling, too, his head inclined slightly to the left as if contemplating her reaction.
Sara opened her mouth to speak, decided there were no possible words, and promptly pressed her lips back together.
“You disapprove?” His head lowered, bringing his lips in the barest brush over hers. “Or have I merely managed to render my Irish bride speechless?”
The sheer huskiness in his voice made Sara’s blood boiled anew, and she squirmed a little beneath him. “I do not disapprove,” she admitted, though her cheeks burned at the confession.
An airless chuckle huffed from his chest. “My innocent darling. We have much to embark upon, you and I.”
He kissed her then. Deeply. So deeply, in fact, Sara was still fisting the lapels of his coat when he eased himself onto the seat beside her.
“Come here, sweetheart.” Propping one leg up on the seat, he leaned back against the wall and brought her body up hard against his. “There, now. Better?”
“Very much.” She pressed her cheek to his chest. Tiny sparks of sensation continued to ripple beneath the surface of her skin.
“Are you tired?”
“Not at all.” And she was surprised to discover she really wasn’t. Too much anticipation. “You?”
“Mmm. No.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “But I’m content.”
“Very content,” she agreed, and his embrace tightened. “You didn’t tell me why you were late.”
“Didn’t I? I was detained by Sebastian.”
“Sebastian?” Sara turned her head, her eyes meeting the square line of his strong chin. “I am surprised he is awake at this hour.”
“We are not the only people who had little sleep last night.”
“Oh? What happened?”
With a sigh that caused Sara’s body to rise up, then down atop his, Justin began to relay the conversation he’d had with Sebastian less than an hour ago in the music room.
“Did he tell you her name?”
“Honestly, I did not give him the time,” he murmured, toying absently with a piece of the lace ruching on Sara’s sleeve. “I was too eager to meet you, and the servants were already stirring about the house. I could not risk divulging in lengthy conversation. But he did seem quite upset. Even poured himself a drink but couldn’t touch it.”
“It is early morning,” Sara pointed out.
Justin gave a short laugh. “You don’t know Sebastian. If he pours himself a drink, he damn well finishes it. No, he was too worked up. Never have I seen him act like this over a woman. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s smitten.”
“In love?” she asked hopefully.
“Let’s not go too far. It would take quite a woman to ensnare Sebastian into marriage, much less genuine affection.”
“Hmm.” Sara could say no more.
She knew. If she had to swear by the grave of St. Patrick himself, Sara would gladly march up to County Down and place her hand on the ancient headstone, daring anyone to contradict what she knew was fact.
Sebastian had compromised Anna. Or if not compromised, gotten the both of them into a situation deemed worthy of either asking for her hand or leaving her eternally ruined. Just being seen with Sebastian would likely ruin anyone, lady or no.
The most mind-boggling ignorance of it all was Justin’s. And Sara couldn’t very well tell him, could she? He’d probably order the coach to turn around so he could wring Sebastian’s neck. Then he’d lock Anna in her room until she was too old to remember who had put her there and why.
Gracious, no. She couldn’t tell him. He’d find out soon enough, and then they’d all have hell to pay.
“So,” he continued, “I told him we would discuss it when I returned.”
“I think that is best,” Sara agreed. “Although, privately, I do hope he figures this out on his own. Or, at least, with the lady he intends to marry. It is, after all, between them and them alone. No one else’s opinion matters.”
“Her parents might disagree.”
Sara hesitated. “I think in time they may grow accustomed to the idea. Sebastian is a good man, for all he puts on that devil-may-care façade. He has a good heart, and he is honest.”
“This coming from the woman who, upon our first meeting, thought us all incorrigible, untamable brutes?”
Raising her head, Sara looked dreamily into his dark eyes and gave him an impish grin. “I’ve discovered you corrigible, Your Grace. In fact, I find you almost charming.”
“Is that right?” His mouth kicked up in a sensuous smile, as she nodded and grazed her lips across his. “Tell me, my lady, do you believe you’ll find me tamable?”
At this, Sara couldn’t hide the rapturous emotion budding up in her heart.
Nudging her nose playfully against his, she said, “That remains to be seen, Your Grace. But I hope not.”
And after he’d kissed her again, so thoroughly the words exited through swollen lips and by bated breath: “I certainly hope not.”
EPILOGUE
The End of the London Season
“I pray they are not terribly upset with us.”
“Everything will be fine, kitten. Just relax.”
Coming to an abrupt halt on the last stone step, just before the landing, Sara gripped Justin’s arm and peered up at him. “Did you remember all the gifts?”
His lips parted in hesitation. “What gifts?”
One swift intake of breath sent Sara’s hand to her mouth and her heart to a rapid pounding. “You forgot the gifts! Those were our peace offerings, Justin! How--”
“Calm down, Sara. Calm down.” He was chuckling, the fiendish man.
Sara narrowed her eyes, waiting for his explanation.
When at last his laughter subsided, his beautiful dark eyes shimmering with tears, he said, “I did not forget the gifts.” He gestured to the carriage below, where a handful of footmen hurried about with luggage and gift boxes piled in their arms. “They are all accounted for, I assure you.”
She swiped a gloved hand across his upper arm. “A devil of a man, you are. Making me worry like that.”
His mouth quirked. Devilishly. “Yes, I know, Duchess,” he murmured, eyes twinkling so she felt a breadth of sensual heat coil inside her belly. “I’m a devil, and you’re a witch, if ever I did see one. But you’re my little witch,” he silkily added at her gasp of shock. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
He tilted her chin with two gloved fingers, dipped his head, and set his lips to hers. She curled her hands into his lapels, and the kiss deepened. Time suspended. Right there, on the outer steps of Mayfair House. Footmen rushed past with murmurs of, “Your Grace, Your Grace,” and arms stacked clear to their chins with presents for family and friends alike.
Presents Sara hoped would soften the blow of their elopement.
“Bless my soul.”
Jolted back into reality, half-heartedly though she wanted to be there at present, Sara pulled her lips from Justin’s.
“You’ve been gone for nearly two months,” Lana chided, hands on hips.
Her very well-dressed hips, Sara noted, taking in Lana’s muslin gown. Blue and white striped with a low, scalloped neckline and ruffled ruching around the hem. Highly fashionable. Very expensive.
“And you haven’t yet had enough kissing?”
It took a moment to register that Lana was still talking. Sara fumbled her response.
“What the duchess means to say, Mrs. Brennan,” Justin said on a gentlemanly bow, and Lana bobbed a curtsy, “is that kissing, I daresay, has become quite the memorable pastime for the two of us. If you’d like, we could take another couple of months to ourselves. Although I cannot promise the scene shall be any different upon our return.”
“You shall not!” The ch
estnut ringlets, spilling cleverly from Lana’s perfect coiffure, jounced with her objection. Tiny pearls glistened from her earlobes.
Sara had never seen the woman looking so ... well, radiant.
“There is too much going on in this house to merit yet another honeymoon. Come.” She motioned for them to follow. “Before the dowager tears down more wallpaper.”
“My mother is tearing down wallpaper?” Justin tucked Sara’s arm inside his elbow and followed Lana. “Why?”
“Nothing matches, she says,” Lana said, throwing her hands up in the air as she crossed the threshold. “Too dark, all of it. Too busy. Too this, too that.”
Sara lifted the skirts of her buttery-yellow day dress and stepped aside just before her feet got tangled in a pile of gauzy white material, piled in a heap by the door.
“Oh, mind those curtains,” Lana threw over her shoulder. “They’re to be returned to the draper’s.”
“Why?” Ah, now she could speak. Brilliant. Sara handed her bonnet and gloves to an awaiting footman.
“Wrong shade of white, the dowager says.” Lana waved down a young man carrying a pile of folded lace tablecloths. “Those are for the banquet room, lad. And they had better be ironed, mind. We cannot have wrinkles ridging up under the plates.”
Justin and Sara exchanged anxious glances.
“Madam.” The young man scurried off, nearly toppling into a large, black-coated figure as he rounded the nearest corner.
Lana breathed a deep sigh and smoothed her hands down her skirts as the Duke of Kilkenny approached.
Sara instinctively moved closer to Justin, her limbs relaxing as she felt his hand press against the small of her back.
“Let me,” he murmured, and she nodded.
The duke did not appear too upset, though his hands lay clenched at his sides. He came to a halt beside Lana, who cleared her throat and passed an uneasy glance to Sara.
Sara started, but her husband--ah, but he was an elegant man--stepped forward and swept a graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he said, as Sara’s father returned the polite gesture. “How fortunate we are to find you here upon our return. I hope you did not find our absence too upsetting.”
“Indeed.”
Sara gulped, audibly. “We only did what we thought best for--”
Her father raised a hand. “I am not angry about your elopement. Although I daresay giving my daughter away in the midst of my peers would have been a grand gesture on my part, it unfortunately does not signify now the deed is done.”
Silence ensued for decades until Lana, closing her hand over the duke’s balled fist, spoke into the thickened air. “What your father means to say is that we are overjoyed for the both of you.” At his short, yet compliant nod, she added, “And we wish you a life full of happiness as husband and wife.”
Justin bowed again. “We thank you for your well-wishes.”
“Your absence, however, has put this house in uproar,” Sara’s father went on to say. “The dowager is on the brink of madness.”
Justin frowned. “My father’s death--”
“--has nothing to do with it,” her father finished, and Justin’s expression went from grim to puzzled.
“What do you mean? Has something happened?”
“You could say that,” Lana supplied.
Just then, the dowager came rushing down the corridor, her heels clip-clopping furiously across the gleaming marble tile. Face red, lips thinned, she tossed orders over her shoulder to the man marching after her, who from this angle looked to be--
“Cav?” Sara peeked around her father and Lana and the dowager, who was nearing at ferocious speed.
Sure enough, Cav’s green gaze met Sara’s from over the dowager’s slim shoulder. Thrilled he had apparently stayed for the Season, Sara smiled and gave him a small wave, but Cav didn’t seem equally enthused.
He held up the pad of paper on which he had evidently been scribbling the dowager’s snippy requests, and drew his finger across his throat.
Sara slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling laughter, and Cav grinned. Apparently Lana wasn’t the only one who had been sucked into whatever had the dowager up in arms and tearing down wallpaper. And the Lord only knew what else. Sara looked around, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
“Mother. Please, for the love of God, tell me you have not bullied my guests into servant status during my absence.” Justin folded his arms over his chest, his stance set wide.
“Language, Tethersal.” She came to a stop in a furl of heavy black silk. “Mr. Cavanaugh offered to do this for me. Which is more than I can say for you, trotting off to God-only-knows where while this house--this house--” here, she threw her hands up in a grand gesture, nearly smacking Cav, who dodged at the last second “--lives in utter chaos.”
One of Justin’s dark brows shot up. “A bit of a dramatic term for redecorating.”
The dowager sucked in a deep breath. “Redecorating?”
Cav’s cheeks puffed out with a quiet whistle, and he moved closer, oddly enough, to Sara’s father, who had the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger.
Lana made an incoherent noise. Something of a gasp, or perhaps, more characteristically, a Gaelic curse.
“We are not redecorating!” the dowager gritted, and Sara shoved a hand to her throat. “We are having a wedding!”
“What?” Justin’s hands fell to his sides. “A wedding? What the--” He paused, clenched and unclenched his hands, and then, his tone a trifle more calm, said, “I don’t understand. The duchess and I eloped to Scotland, Mother. I left you a note. A wedding is not necessary.”
With a flit of her hand, the dowager brushed aside his explanation. “Not your wedding. Anna’s.” She turned to Cav. “Is that everything, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
Sara’s hand slid from her neck to her open mouth. It couldn’t be ... could it?
Cav was checking his list. “Six gowns, one white, five ... damask ginger.” He shook his head, sighed. “With bonnets, gloves and ribbons to match. Oh, and slippers.”
“Mmm hmm, yes.” The dowager clasped her hands together. “Make certain one pair of those slippers is large enough to fit an elephant. That distant cousin of Phillip’s, God bless her, has the feet of an Amazon.”
Cav scribbled the additional information.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Justin said, his face wrought with confusion. “Anna is getting married?”
The dowager blinked at him as though he’d gone mad. “Did I not just say so? Now, hurry up and get changed. Surely there is something I can find for the two of you to do.”
With that, she waltzed off, snapping her fingers to at least five servants, who immediately fell in step behind her.
Moving to Justin’s side, Sara gazed up into his perplexed features and laid a gentle hand to his arm. “Justin? Shall we go upstairs? You’re tired, and perhaps if we change and have a spot of tea before …”
“My sister is getting married,” he said. “My sister is--” In the blink of an eye, his expression altered from confusion to realization. His jaw slackened, eyes widened.
A chill chased down Sara’s spine. “Justin?”
“Where is he?” The anger stirring in his eyes was incalculable.
Lana took a cautious step forward. “Your Grace. Perhaps we should first--”
“Where is he!” he demanded, nostrils flaring. “I’ll tear this house down, Mrs. Brennan.”
Lana gasped.
“With respect to your understandable anger,” Sara’s father intoned, pushing Lana behind him, “I do not believe killing the groom, at this point, will solve anything.”
“He’s in the conservatory,” Cav supplied, and received a prompt glare of disapproval Lana. “What? He would have found him anyway. It’s his house,” he added with a flick of his wrist.
Squaring his shoulders, Justin took a few steps forward, turned to their present company, and swept a deceivingly humble bow. “Pardon,” he said. “It
appears as though I have a meeting with the groom in the conservatory. Do enjoy your afternoon, everyone. Your Grace, Mrs. Brennan, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
A wily smile curled his lips as his dark eyes met Sara’s. “Duchess.”
“My lord,” Sara muttered, followed by, “Dear God,” as her husband disappeared down the corridor, his strapping form swallowing the doorways and frightening the staff as he strode past.
Sending a silent prayer to the man waiting unawares in the conservatory, Sara turned about, clasped her hands together, and with a smile becoming a duchess said, “So, who wants to open their gifts first?”
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