“Perhaps it is for the best,” Sara said quietly. This was what she got for focusing solely on herself. Well, no more. Sara would keep an eye on both the comte and Delphi from now on.
After a strained second, Delphi took a deep breath, then shook her head, smiling slightly. “I am just excessively tired, that’s all. Dear me, look how late it is. You had best get to bed, dear.”
Sara hugged her aunt good night. “If there is anything I can do—”
“I’ll let you know.” Delphi smiled and gently tucked a stray strand of Sara’s hair behind her ear. “I’ve always admired the way you meet life, Sara. Nothing ever defeats you.”
An image of the Earl of Bridgeton still fresh in her mind, his kiss warm on her lips, Sara grimaced. “Oh, I am defeated often enough.”
“Disappointed, perhaps, but never defeated. I wish I had your courage.”
“Anthony wouldn’t call it courage. He thinks it naught but stubbornness.”
“Perhaps they are one and the same,” Delphi said. “Whatever you call it, I wish I had more of it. You’ve grown into an amazing woman, Sara. Exactly like your mother.”
Her aunt’s unexpected approval warmed Sara. She hugged Delphi again fiercely, and silently vowed to do what she could to keep the dashing Comte du Lac from her aunt. It was with a troubled step that she returned to her own room.
Unable to sleep, Sara found herself lying on her bed, arms crossed beneath her head, her thoughts drifting to the Earl of Bridgeton and his tempting threat.
It hadn’t really been a threat. More of a promise. Which was thrilling and challenging and wildly terrifying all at the same time. Sara hugged her pillow and stared up at the ceiling, where the candlelight cast intriguing shadows.
No matter how tantalizing the earl and his improper proposal might be, Sara could not give up her scheme. Now that Anthony was here, the urgency had increased tenfold. She forced herself to push away all thoughts of the fascinating Nick and instead think about the other men in Bath. Slowly she went through the men she’d seen this evening.
Just as she was about to give it up as a lost cause, her mind snapped to attention. Sir Francis Bawton.
Sara almost shuddered at the thought. Only twenty-two, His Lordship had an appallingly fixed eye and a sad tendency to wear lace. But he was available, possessed an incredibly thick skin which would protect him from her brother’s barbs, and he enjoyed social events to the exclusion of good sense, which guaranteed her a good deal of freedom after the ceremony.
After thirty minutes of consideration, Sara decided that he would suffice though he was far from perfect. There was only one perfect potential husband, and he had already removed himself from her list. Gritting her teeth, Sara rolled to her side and gathered her pillow to her, eventually falling asleep. She dreamed of a handsome prince of a man with a cold, cynical smile and heated blue eyes. A man who beckoned to her from the shadows while promising to teach her the forbidden arts of love.
Snuggling deeper into the covers, Sara smiled in her sleep and dreamed on.
Chapter 8
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Henri said, hunching his shoulders against the cold morning air.
Nick dropped the curtain over the carriage window and settled back in his seat. “Then do not come.”
“Bah. I will never have it said that I am not man enough to brave a sunrise. I only wish the sun did not rise so early.”
“It is ten o’clock, Henri. I would hardly call it sunrise.”
“That depends upon what time one went to bed, mon ami.” Henri cast him a stern glance. “And to rise so early to visit a sickroom…I cannot believe you wish to do this.”
“It isn’t a sickroom. It’s the Pump Room, and it is where many members of the ton gather to exchange news and to talk about the triumphs of the night before. Not to mention take the waters. You might want to try it yourself.”
“Why?”
“It is held to greatly improve the disposition of people who suffer from aging.”
The comte straightened in his seat. “Aging? Who is aging? I’m only forty years old.”
Nick raised his brows.
“Or so,” the comte amended, shrugging. After a long moment, he sighed. “Voyons, I am in a foul mood, no? I do not know what it is. Ever since the Kirkwood ball, I have been—” He broke off and muttered a curse. “Forgive me. I am not fit company this morning.”
Neither was Nick. For the past three days, he had thought of nothing but the taste of Sara Lawrence. The kiss in the garden had inflamed him, invading his dreams and interrupting his sleep. And Sara was even more of a challenge now that her huge, hulking brother had attached himself to her side. Nick smiled to himself. Even that was in his favor, for it deterred Lady Carrington’s search for an accommodating husband.
His one concern was that it was highly possible that her reckless search could be successful. She showed a lamentable tendency to ask whatever man she was with to marry her. It was only a matter of time before she ended up wed to a complete lummox.
Nick usually did not care whether or not his mistress was married. But this time…this time was different. Now that Nick was attempting to win his way into society, he didn’t want to deal with the possible jealousies of a husband. He wanted unfettered access to Sara, not to mention her complete attention. A husband could be…distracting.
Therefore, he had to show her the error of her strategy, not to mention the dangers of being found unchaperoned in a garden at a heavily attended ball. She could easily end up ruined herself. Few understood the price of being an outcast—the mortification of being cut, the pain of watching those you assumed were your friends turn away in disgust. Nick resolved to keep his future paramour from the clutches of scandal as much for her own sake as for his.
So, he was now cast in the unenviable position of protector. He knew her brother was doing the same, but the huge oaf had no concept of the lengths his sister was prepared to go to obtain her objectives. And that was what gave Nick the advantage. He knew exactly what Sara had planned, and he understood her desire to escape the confines of society far too well.
The carriage finally arrived at the Pump Room. As Nick and Henri strolled up the steps, Henri glanced at the inscription on the door. “Water is best. What fool wrote that?”
“The same fool who convinced all of England that drinking this foul, contaminated poison will cure them of all manner of ills.”
The comte snorted. “The world is populated with idiots. You cannot spit without hitting one.”
Nick wondered at the comte’s ill humor. Surely there was more to it than a sore head caused by a night of overindulgence—though it was rare that the comte drank to excess. Perhaps his pursuit of Lady Langtry was without success. Whatever it was, it was beginning to annoy Nick to no end.
When they entered the room, he forgot about the comte and his problems. Just as he had known she would be, Sara sat in an alcove with her aunt and her titian-haired friend, her brother standing guard nearby like a great golden bear.
Dressed in pale yellow muslin decorated with blue rosettes, her hair arranged in careless black curls over one ear, Sara looked as young and fresh as spring. Nick smiled to himself. Her air of fragility and innocence was deceptive, and no one knew it better than he. Unless, of course, one counted the bruised Viscount Hewlette.
Nick and Henri had not been in the Pump Room more than a moment before they were swarmed with acquaintances. Henri became deeply engaged in conversation with an imposing matron in sprigged India muslin, his low spirits melting away under her bright smiles. Ignoring the press of people, Nick found a chair and moved it so that he had a fine, open view of the fascinating Lady Carrington and her companions.
Sara knew the precise moment the Earl of Bridgeton made his entrance. It was more than the stirring of people who craned their necks to catch a glimpse of him, more than the wave of panting women who stared after him in slack-jawed wonder. No, it was a feeling, an awarenes
s of his presence that was more than physical. Sara told herself it was irritation, but she knew better. It was fear. Pure, unquestionable fear.
Though it took an extreme amount of will, Sara forced herself to keep her gaze steady. Damn the man. She’d never felt so self-conscious in her life.
Anna flipped open her fan, her wide, gray gaze fixed on Anthony. “Tell me, Sara. Is your brother always so severe?”
Sara sent a glance at Anthony, who stood leaning against the wall a few feet away, his arms crossed over his broad chest. To the casual observer he appeared relaxed and at his ease, his sleepy-lidded gaze concealing the bright glint of his eyes. But she knew him too well to be taken in.
She sniffed and turned her shoulder, saying loudly enough for the wretch to hear, “He is not usually so somber, but then, he doesn’t usually play the part of nursemaid. It must be wearing after so many days.”
He slanted her a smile. “It isn’t often I’m with anyone in such need of having a nursemaid.” His gaze flickered to Anna. “That includes you, Miss Thraxton.”
Anna colored hotly, but before she could answer, a commotion arose as a small party arrived and seated themselves in the empty chairs to the left. At the center of the activity was a very tall and elderly woman dressed in an astonishing fashion. Her bright orange-and-blue turban was adorned with a haphazard spray of jewelry, her thin shoulders covered with a heavily fringed shawl of swirling mustard and purple. Her gown, while the height of fashion, was a shocking shade of pink and clashed violently with her red slippers.
But even in this cacophony of color, Sara’s gaze was immediately drawn to the woman’s face. Narrow and pale, with a high forehead lined by age and a nose worthy of Caesar, there was something compelling about her.
“Bloody hell,” Anthony muttered, straightening when he saw the newcomers. “I thought she’d died.”
“Who?”
“Lady Birlington. She is the world’s rudest woman.”
“Who are the others?” Anna asked.
“The young man with her is her nephew, Edmund Valmont, while that fade-away mouse of a woman is her companion. A distant cousin, I believe.” Anthony grimaced. “They’re gabsters, every one. Except the cousin. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her say a word, but that may just be because she has so little opportunity between the other two. The last time I saw Edmund, it took me three hours to be rid of him.”
“Lady Birlington just saw you. I think she’s trying to get your attention,” Anna said.
Anthony turned to Sara. “I’m going to step outside a moment. Do you think you can behave yourself while I’m gone?”
“Please stay away as long as you like,” Sara said with some asperity. “I certainly won’t miss you.”
Anthony grinned and winked, then left.
Sara stole a glance at the new arrivals. The imposing woman was perched on a low settee, her back ramrod straight, her gnarled hands clutched about a gold-encrusted cane.
Lord Valmont, a harassed-looking young man sporting mussed golden curls and an unfortunately round face, deposited an extra shawl, a book, and a small red-velvet case on the table beside the woman. “Here you are, Aunt Maddie. All settled and right as rain. Stay here and I’ll fetch you some water.”
“I won’t drink it.”
The lady by her side fluttered uncomfortably. “Oh, please, Lady Birlington,” she said in a soft, anxious voice. “You must drink the water. Dr. Tumbolton said it would do you a world of good.”
“Dr. Tumbolton is a fool,” Lady Birlington replied.
“Dr. Tumbolton is one of the best physicians in London,” her nephew protested. “Not much he doesn’t know about. In fact, if I were a betting man, I’d say he knows more than just about anyone. Even the Prince.”
“That doesn’t say much.”
Her companion giggled nervously.
Lady Birlington glared. “For God’s sake, Althea. Must you titter? I’ve had to listen to that sound all day, and it’s beginning to make me bilious.” Satisfied she’d cowed her companion, she jabbed her cane toward Edmund’s feet. “Don’t just stand there. Get me a glass of wine.”
“It is ten o’clock in the morning and there’s none to be had,” her nephew said. “Furthermore, the doctor wouldn’t like it. Wants you to take the waters twice a day for two weeks and abstain from wine and red meat. And you agreed you’d try.”
“Humph. That was before I knew the water would taste like horse piss.”
“Aunt Maddie!” the young man said, his face as red as his horrendous waistcoat.
The old woman sighed. “Oh, very well! I’ll have a little of that blasted water. Only have them put some ice in it. It’s bad enough they serve it lukewarm, like some sort of tisane.”
Edmund appeared relieved and immediately hurried off to complete his errand, his portly figure disappearing in the crowd.
As soon as he left, the old harridan settled her brilliant shawl about her shoulders. “You see, Althea. Edmund can be handy to have around if you know how to deal with him.”
Aunt Delphi returned at that moment, her hand clutched about a small glass. She’d heard that taking the waters reduced wrinkles and sharpened the mind, which was why she came to the Pump Room each morning. Since she only managed to choke down one tiny sip before setting the glass on the nearest table, Sara didn’t expect to see any significant results.
As Delphi went to take her seat by Sara, she halted on seeing the new arrivals. “Why, Lady Birlington! How are you?”
“Demme, it’s Delphinea.” Bright blue eyes surveyed her up and down, then whipped past her to the room beyond. “Don’t tell me you convinced that dullard of a husband of yours to bring you to Bath for a kick up.”
“Langtry died several years ago,” Aunt Delphi said in a repressive tone.
“That’s right. Never seem to remember that, but it’s not surprising. I knew Langtry, and you were well rid of him—for a dowdier, more prosy bore of a man, I’ve never met.”
Edmund returned with a glass of water. “Here you are, Aunt Maddie.”
Maddie pointed with her cane. “Put it on that table. It makes me ill just to look at it.” She turned back to Delphi and gestured to the chair beside her. “Come and sit. I’m bored stiff.”
“Did you come for the waters?”
“So my doctor thinks, but I’m really here to find a wife for my idiot of a grandnephew.”
Edmund made a sound of pure frustration. “Don’t want a wife. Got plenty of my own worries as it is.”
Lady Birlington snorted. “Like what? You’ve no household to speak of, you’ve funds aplenty, and you’ve no ambition. What worries could you possibly have?”
“Well,” he said, looking a little desperate. “Been thinking of buying a horse. Maybe two.”
“I vow, Edmund, that’s exactly the reason you need a wife. Someone to govern these impulsive decisions of yours. That and for breeding. You owe it to the line to have a few sons. I’d hate to think of the title passing to your cousin Farley.” She turned to Delphi, ignoring the choking sounds coming from her nephew. “Do you know Lord Faulkherst? He’s my other grandnephew and the biggest jackanapes this side of Dover. Wouldn’t let him in my house without first counting the silver.”
Sara had to strangle a laugh, garnering the old lady’s attention. “Eh? Who is this?” Lady Birlington said, subjecting Sara to a piercing gaze.
Delphi instantly responded. “Oh! This is my niece—”
“Capital,” Lady Birlington said. “Very pretty gel.” She turned a gimlet stare on her nephew. “Well, Edmund. Don’t you think Miss St. John is a very pretty gel?”
“I’m not Miss St. John,” Sara corrected. “I’m Lady Carrington. My husband was Viscount Carrington.”
Lady Birlington frowned. “Carrington, eh? Tall, slender, something of a talker? Died not long ago. Something of a scandal if I recall; died with his pe—”
“That would be he,” Sara agreed hastily.
Aunt Delphi sent
her a sharp glance, but Lady Birlington gave a nod. “Not one to keep his business to himself, was he? Well, it is a good thing he died young. Most men don’t have the good sense to know when to quit this earth. At least your husband didn’t drag on and on like some do.”
“How true,” Sara said, refusing to flinch under Lady Birlington’s gimlet stare. “But it is not a subject I like to dwell on.”
Lady Birlington nodded her approval. “You may do. Edmund needs a woman who knows her way about life. No white-and pink-miss for him.”
Edmund cast a wild glance toward the door. “Aunt Maddie, please don’t say another word.”
“Nonsense! Lady Carrington is fascinated. You can see it in her eyes.” Lady Birlington glanced at Anna, who returned her stare with a calm one of her own. “And who are you, gel?”
“Anna Thraxton, my lady.”
Lady Birlington snorted. “Anna? What kind of a name is that? Sounds like something you’d name a milkmaid.”
“Fortunately for us both, it isn’t your name but mine, and therefore it isn’t your concern whatsoever,” Anna returned, a decided edge to her voice.
Sara expected Lady Birlington to bridle in anger, but instead a quiver of laughter lit the blue eyes. “Humph. You seem familiar, now that I look at you. Aren’t related to Phineas Thraxton, are you?”
“He’s my grandfather.”
“A good man, Thraxton. Not the best of blood, but good, hardy English stock.” She turned to Edmund. “You would do well with either Lady Carrington or Miss Thraxton. You have my permission to call on them both.”
“At the same time?” Edmund asked, tugging at his cravat and only succeeding in tightening the knot.
“If you wish.” His aunt cast a narrowed glance at Anna’s tall form and nodded her turbaned head. “Your best bet might be the tall one. She’s got spirit to her, and her hips look wide enough to bear any number of childr—”
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