Sarah’s throat tightened. “Lily, I—”
“And whatever you do,” her friend continued cheerfully, as if she did not notice that all of the blood had drained from Sarah’s face and she was beginning to tremble, “do not step on his feet. Best of luck to you, dear!” she called over her shoulder before she hurried off in a swirl of emerald green skirts, leaving Sarah with nothing more than her worried thoughts as she waited for Devlin to reach her.
She studied him under her lashes as he approached with all the stealthy grace of a panther. There truly was something dangerous about him. Something dark. Something that struck a chord deep inside of Sarah, a chord that reverberated through her entire body, thrumming like a finely tuned bow.
When he finally halted directly in front of her they stared at each other for several long, drawn out moments. She noted his chin and jawline boasted a shadow of hair, as if he had not had time to shave before attending the ball. He looked dashing in black and the sapphire pin stuck through his snowy white cravat brought out the color in his eyes.
“Hello,” he said simply.
“Hello,” she echoed.
“I had hoped you would be here,” he admitted, throwing Sarah completely off guard. She gaped speechlessly at him, unable to think of a single coherent thing to say. He had come to Almack’s with the express purpose of finding her? No, surely not. “Since you never told me your name,” he continued, his blue eyes glinting with amusement, “I had no way to find you.”
“Sarah!” Her tongue darted out to swipe unconsciously at her lower lip and Devlin’s gaze lowered, drawn to her lips as a moth to the flame. Hungry desire swept across his face, and her knees wobbled. “My name is Sarah,” she finished weakly.
His mouth curved. “Is that what I should call you?” he asked in a husky voice that had her swallowing back a moan. “Sarah? That does not seem very… appropriate. Are you, Sarah?”
“Am I… Am I what?”
“Appropriate,” he whispered. He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch, and touch he did. One arm wound around her waist, his fingertips settling lightly on her hip while the other hand braced on the pillar behind her head, effectively closing her in.
To any curious onlooker his body was angled so it seemed there were yards of space between them, but Sarah felt every one of his breaths as if it were her own, and a thousand horses could not have dragged her eyes from the mole she had just discovered high on his right cheek. It should have been a mar against perfection, but if anything it only served to increase his rugged handsomeness to a level her body was having quite a difficult time adjusting to.
The man, she decided then and there, was the devil himself.
“You may call me L-lady Dawson.”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” she said, even though it had sounded very much like one. “That is my name. Lady Sarah Emily Dawson.”
Devlin repeated it in full, lingering on the Sarah until she felt her cheeks suffuse with color and she shifted anxiously from side to side. No more than a few minutes in his company and she was already forgetting herself. A lady did not allow a gentleman to call her by her first name. Why, even her mother was always referred to as Lady Dawson, even by her own husband. She had always thought the trait a peculiar one, but now she knew why it existed.
First names were much too intimate. They should be spoken in a private place, like a bedroom… In the bed… Beneath the sheets… Oh dear. Now was not the time for her colorful imagination to rear its head. In fact, it was probably the worst time imaginable for her to think of what it would be like to have Devlin stretched out across her naked body, his hands and mouth doing all kinds of naughty things to her damp skin while he moaned her name…
“You may call me Devlin if you wish,” the viscount said with a wicked smile, as if he could read her thoughts and was vastly entertained by them. “In fact, I insist on it.”
Fairly certain her face was the approximate shade of a tomato in mid-August, Sarah pressed both hands to her warm cheeks in an effort to cool them and shook her head vigorously from side to side. “Oh no,” she breathed. “I simply… That would be… No,” she said firmly as she struggled to rein in her emotions. She could not afford to lose her head, especially considering she had already lost her heart. “That would simply not do, Lord Heathcliff. Why, we hardly know each other at all and you would do well to remember your manner—”
“Would you care to dance?” he interrupted, holding out his hand. “Once you dance with someone I find you know them much more… intimately than you did before. Surely then it would be reasonable for us to be on a first name basis.”
Sarah still stared longingly at his offered hand and almost took it, but her own good manners, instilled to the bone after years of tutoring, stopped her. “My next dance is spoken for,” she said regretfully.
Devlin slowly lowered his arm, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth as though he did not believe her. “Oh really? By whom?”
“Lord…” What was his name? Oh, yes. Now she remembered. “Lord Gibson.”
Devlin’s eyes flashed unexpectedly, stormy blue and full of temper. “Lord Gibson, the Marquess of Faraday?”
Confused by the sudden change in Devlin’s tone and the rigid set of his jaw, Sarah nodded hesitantly. “Do you… Do you know him?” He looked so angry she thought he must, and feared their connection was not a pleasant one.
“Only that his father is ill and by years end he should be a duke.”
Sarah had never lost a parent, but she imagined the pain to be quite keen, and she felt instant sympathy for Gibson even though she knew him not at all. “That is quite sad.”
“Is it?” Devlin shrugged. “Not for him or his future wife, who will be a duchess.” He studied her intently, as if he could see straight through to her very soul, and Sarah, now flustered beyond all bearing, tittered nervously.
“I… I suppose that is true,” she said.
Devlin stepped closer, crowding her back against the ivory pillar. She looked down towards his feet, but he cupped her chin and forced her head to lift. “Is that what you want?” he growled. “To be a wealthy duchess, lording over a household full of servants? To have your peers look upon you with envy as you pass? To love a man for what he can give you instead of loving him for who he is?”
“I d-do not know,” Sarah gasped. She did not understand what had caused Devlin’s unprecedented fury, nor had she a clue how to subdue it. Tension spread like wildfire from a knot in the middle of her back and trickled up to her shoulders and neck. She fought the urge to jerk away, but like a fox that had its leg caught in a trap she instinctively knew Devlin’s grip would only tighten if she tried to pull back. “I could save the fifth dance for you,” she offered hesitantly, even though she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to dance with him at all anymore given his current mood.
He studied her a moment longer, those piercing eyes filled with an anger she was helpless to comprehend, before he abruptly released her and spun around. “Go,” he said in a short, clipped tone, as if he were dismissing a maid, “and do not bother saving anything for me. I am leaving. There is nothing worthy of my interest here.”
Sarah’s skin went clammy. Her breath caught in her chest. As she digested the implication behind his cruel remark her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. There was nothing to say. Except…
“You… You… You…”
“Yes?” Devlin asked calmly, pivoting on one heel and glancing at her sideways with bored resignation, as if he had already forgotten she existed and was annoyed she was wasting more of his time.
“You are horrible!” she burst out in a shrill voice that turned half a dozen heads. “Absolutely horrible!” Immediately she clapped her hand to her lips and gasped, her eyes widening in shock as she realized what she had just said. Amazingly, however, Devlin did not berate her further. If anything, he looked amused.
“Horrible, am I?” One dark eyebrow arched.
“Would I be as horrible if I were an earl? What about a marquess or a duke?”
Trembling from head to toe, Sarah shook her head. “I do not know what you talking about,” she cried, flinging her arms wide. “You speak in riddles that I do not understand.”
“But you do not deny it,” he said harshly.
“Deny what?”
Devlin’s mouth opened. Emotions flickered across his face, emotions that she was helpless to understand. Anger. Need. Hope. Regret. She waited for him to say something, to say anything, but with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders he turned and walked away.
CHAPTER SIX
“It tastes a-a-awful,” Sarah cried, making a face even as she leaned forward to accept the second glass of brandy Lily was holding out. She drank the amber liquid in one hard swallow, sputtered, fought the urge to retch, and lifted the glass again. “Another, please.”
Lily crossed her father’s study to fetch the entire bottle of fifty year old scotch he kept tucked away in the bottom drawer of his desk and poured them both a liberal shot. Solemn faced, the two women clinked their glasses together and drank.
“That really is awful stuff,” Lily gasped as her eyes filled with tears. “But I can certainly see why men drink it. Perhaps we had best let it settle, though, before we have another.”
Sarah nodded in silent agreement. After three glasses she was feeling more than a little light headed. Kicking off her dancing slippers, she tucked her legs up and turned in her large, comfortable leather chair to face the fire that was crackling merrily in the hearth. She had only been in Lord Kincaid’s study once before, when she and Lily had been caught sneaking out her bedroom window after dark. They had received quite a stern lecture then and she imagined they would get the same treatment now if anyone came home to discover them half drunk and hiding away where they were most definitely not supposed to be.
“Are you certain your parents will not be back tonight?” she asked for the second – or was it the third? – time.
“Positive,” Lily said confidently. “The last time they attended a dinner at Lord and Lady Bane’s home they did not straggle in until the wee hours of the morning, looking quite worse for wear I might add.”
“And Elsa?” Sarah asked, referring to Lily’s twelve year old sister and renowned tattle tale. She did not bother wasting breath asking about Aunt Ingrid, who had fallen asleep on the carriage ride home and had to be carried inside by a footman.
Lily rolled her eyes. “It is like you do not know me at all. Elsa is fast asleep, and I gave her nanny two extra shillings to make sure she stays that way. You worry too much, Sarah. Just relax, dear, and let the brandy do its work. You have had quite a trying night.”
If by ‘trying’ Lily meant Sarah had been openly humiliated by the man she loved then yes, her night had been very trying.
Lowering her head to the armrest, she tucked her hands into the soft folds of the nightgown she was borrowing, closed her eyes, and sighed. The fire played warmly across her face, drying the tears that had continued to fall intermittently from her lashes since Lily had whisked her away from Almack’s in a rush following Devlin’s direct cut.
“I do not understand what I did wrong,” she murmured, opening her eyes in time to see Lily cross in front of the hearth and settle into an adjoining chair.
“You did absolutely nothing wrong,” her friend said loyally. Absently combing her long dark hair over one shoulder, she continued, “The fault lies entirely with Lord Heathcliff. Why, the nerve of him, giving you the cut like that! He is a beast, Sarah, and you need to forget about him. We shall find you a nice quiet man to marry. One who enjoys reading as much as you do and long walks in the park. Would that not be lovely?”
It sounded wretchedly boring to Sarah, but she did not dare voice her opinion out loud. How could she explain that one of the things that drew her most to Devlin was the fact that he was so different from her? She did not want to be with someone who was exactly the same as she was. She wanted someone who was adventurous, and spoke their mind, and did not care a whit for what Society thought of them; all things that Devlin was, and she was not.
“Sarah?”
“Hmmm?”
Lily sat up in her chair. “You are thinking about him even now!” she accused.
Sarah flinched. “No,” she lied unconvincingly. “I am not.”
With a snort of thinly veiled disgust Lily sprang to her feet and began to pace across the length of the study, her long shadow rippling along the bookshelves that lined the walls. She muttered under her breath as she walked, and even though Sarah could not make out complete sentences, she heard the occasional word. “Ridiculous” seemed quite popular, as did “foolish”, “asinine”, and “hopeless”. When Lily finally stopped and turned to face her, arms crossed and face set into a rather formidable expression, Sarah waited for the lecture to begin and nearly fell out of her chair when Lily said:
“There is only one thing left to do, I suppose. You have to marry him.”
Certain the brandy was affecting her hearing, Sarah sat bolt upright and hugged her knees to her chest. “Marry… Marry who, Lily?” she asked cautiously.
The brunette rolled her eyes. “Lord Heathcliff, of course.”
“And how… how would I accomplish this?”
“The same way a woman always catches a man. You put yourself in a compromising position and force him to offer for your hand.”
“A c-compromising position?” she squeaked.
“Although,” Lily continued in a thoughtful tone, as if Sarah had not spoken a word, “if he does not agree to marry you then you will, of course, be shunned from society and ruined indefinitely. But that is the risk you must be willing to take!”
Sarah was beginning to feel quite queasy. “It is?”
Lily clapped her hands together. “It is.”
“Oh, well, I do not really think—”
“Do you love him or not?” Lily said sternly.
“I think I love him, but I—”
“Do you want to be with him or not?”
“I do want to be with him, however—”
Sighing, Lily perched on the edge of Sarah’s chair and squeezed her hand. “Look at me. Very good. Now, listen closely. It is no secret that you do not have a single gentleman interested in you and, while I personally do not believe twenty and three is that old, the Ton has you gathering cobwebs on a shelf. You want a family, do you not?”
When Lily put it that way, Sarah was forced to agree. Slowly, hesitantly, she nodded her head.
“And someone to support you?”
At this Sarah frowned. She rather thought the idea of needing a husband to live was an old fashioned one, but she knew she was in the minority. As far as society was concerned a woman’s goal in life was simple: find a man with a title and wealth, marry him, and raise a brood of squalling children so their house in the country would pass on to someone other than the crazy uncle.
It was not the most romantic of notions, but Sarah knew her options were limited. Her parents would not be able to support her forever, especially when they had three other daughters between the ages of fourteen and twenty. Her father was a baron, and while he never discussed financial matters with the rest of the family and they lived quite comfortably, Sarah was not oblivious. She knew her mother had stopped buying new gowns for herself last spring and Julia – the youngest of the four sisters – had a wardrobe contrived of nothing save hand-me-downs from her older siblings.
“Sarah?” Lily prompted, her lips pursing as she waited for an answer.
“Oh very well, I do need someone to support me. Although if I had my way it would not be so,” she grumbled under her breath.
Lily held up her hand and began to fold down her fingers one by one. “You desire a family, you require financial security, and you must wed before you are a withered up old maid. Have I missed anything?”
“No,” Sarah said glumly.
“And you are positively certain y
ou want Lord Heathcliff?”
“I… Well, that is to say yes, I do, although I would need to know why he acted so poor—”
“Do you desire Lord Heathcliff?”
In an instant Sarah’s cheeks went from pale ivory to burning red. “Lily,” she gasped, pulling her hand free and scooting to the edge of the chair. “That is a most inappropriate thing to—”
“I will take that as a yes,” the brunette said with satisfaction. “And if that is the case then it has been decided.”
As a recipient of Lily’s wayward scheming on more than one occasion, Sarah did not share her friend’s enthusiasm. “Lily,” she said cautiously, wishing she had not drunk quite so much for surely everything would be making much more sense if she were sober, “exactly what has been decided?”
Jumping to her feet, Lily spread her arms wide and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed the proverbial canary. “Why, your marriage to Lord Heathcliff, of course!”
“My m-m-marriage?” Sarah sputtered.
“Granted we can get you two in a compromising situation, of course. And he agrees to offer for your hand. And he actually goes through with the wedding. And you do not end up with your heart broken, shunned by your family and all of society, forced to flee to the coast of France to escape your ruined reputation and take up work as a dockside tart.” Lily blinked. “This is one of the best ideas I have ever come up with, I think. Truly, what could go wrong?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As it turned out, compromising oneself was not as easy as it seemed. For one, it had taken Lily nearly seven days to convince Sarah to go along with her scheming. Eventually she gave in simply to shut Lily up and (although she was loathe to admit it) a small part of her secretly thrilled at the idea of being Devlin’s wife, whether it be by fair means or foul.
Once Sarah finally agreed to the plan, they had sought to set it in motion. That was where they ran into their second problem: Devlin could not be found.
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