A spasm of pain crossed his face so swiftly that Sara almost missed it. Full of remorse, she spun around, wishing she could retract her words. "I'm so sorry, Ross— I should never have said that. It's been so long. I didn't know that you still felt so strongly..." She stopped, wretchedly sure that she was making matters worse.
The moment of self-revelation over, Ross's expression was impassive again, though she saw the tension in his lean body. "That's an understanding I wouldn't wish on anyone," he said dryly, "but if that is how you feel, I suppose there is nothing you can do but marry him. And unpredictable though Mikahl is, I think you are better off with him than with Weldon."
Sara frowned. "Ross, do you know why Mikahl is so set against Charles?"
"Didn't you ask him?" her cousin asked, surprised.
She colored and looked away. "I—never got around to it. There were so many other things to—discuss. He did admit that what happened last night was no accident. I assume that he misled you into helping him?''
Ross winced. "I'm afraid so. I'm sorry, Sara."
She absolved him with a wry smile. "If you hadn't cooperated, I imagine he would have thought of something else." With a pointed glance at the cut above her cousin's eye, she added, "What did he tell you after you two had your 'very physical' discussion last night?"
"He claims that Weldon owns a number of unsavory and illegal businesses," Ross said carefully. "If true, your former betrothed is a hypocrite of massive proportions, and you are better off without him."
Sara's brows drew together. "The only unsavory, illegal businesses I can think of are brothels. Surely Charles could not be involved in anything like that!"
"Apparently he is," Ross said. "In a way, I can see how it would be easy. You and I both had the same reaction—that it is unthinkable for a gentleman to soil his hands with such sordid matters. Which is why a gentleman who is so inclined might get away with almost anything."
Sara shook her head, sickened by the very idea. "Perhaps, but I just can't believe that of Charles, who is so proper. Look how horrified he was to find me kissing another man."
"That could be hypocrisy as easily as propriety." Ross's voice softened. "Don't torture yourself wondering if it is true. You have quite enough to worry about. When and if you decide you want to know more, ask Mikahl for the details. Devious though he sometimes is, I've found that he will usually answer direct questions."
It was very rare for Sara to refuse to face unpleasantness, but this time she seized her cousin's suggestion gratefully. Later she would be strong enough to evaluate what Ross had told her, and to wonder how Mikahl could have learned such things, if they were true. But not just yet.
She smiled ruefully. "Who was it that said we should be careful what we wish for, because we might get it? And I was foolish enough to wish for a little more excitement in my life!"
Ross grinned. "You'll certainly get excitement with Mikahl."
"If worse comes to worst and he abandons me in favor of an Oriental harem, I'll accept your invitation to move in here and keep house for you."
"With your cats and my Turkish poetry?"
"Exactly." They both laughed, but Sara took comfort from the knowledge that with her family behind her, she would never be wholly in her husband's power.
Less comforting was the knowledge that she had agreed to marry a man she did not fully trust.
* * *
Aunt Marguerite also proved to be supportive. The Duchess of Windermere was in the kitchens, ruthlessly using her charm to bully the kitchen staff into reorganizing the pantries. She looked up when Sara entered and waved a breezy hand. "Ross's housekeeper does a decent enough job, but a kitchen is never properly run in a gentleman's household. You would not have believed the state I found the stillroom in."
"Show me," Sara suggested, unable to suppress a smile. Of the Magnificent Montgomery twins, Marguerite had been the outgoing one, Sara's mother, Maria, the quiet one. Ross had told her once that his staff looked forward to his mother's visits, because it made them feel important to be the objects of a duchess's attention. And under her imposing manner, Marguerite had the warm heart and practical nature of a Scottish housewife.
When they reached the stillroom, Marguerite closed the door, then regarded her niece with bright-eyed anticipation. "Well, are you going to tell me what's going on around here?" she exclaimed. "Ross only gave me the barest outlines, There's no getting anything out of that lad when he's being discreet. Are you going to marry that glorious barbarian?"
"Yes," Sara said, thinking the description was a good one. "Do you think I'm mad?"
"Probably, but no more than any young woman in love," her aunt said cheerfully. "And if you must make a fool of yourself over a man, better a rich one than a poor one. If the truth be known, I like him much better than I do Charles Weldon."
Preferring to ignore the comment about love, Sara said, "He's coming for a quiet family dinner tonight. I imagine he and Father will talk of settlements and such things."
"If he can survive that, he's made of strong stuff." The duchess bit her lip. "You and I must sit down and make a list of everything that needs to be done, such as returning all the wedding gifts that were sent for you and Charles."
Sara groaned. "I hadn't thought that far. Why does high drama always end in tedious details? Think of all the gifts that were monogrammed with a W!"
"Don't feel too guilty about that. There are two other important weddings coming up this season where the initial is W, so the gifts will find a new home soon enough."
Sara laughed. "You're outrageous."
"Of course," her aunt said placidly. "That's why Windermere married me. Everyone said it wouldn't work, that we were too far apart in age and social position, and that I was a fortune-hunting baggage, but here we are, thirty-five years later." She sighed a little. "The only regret either of us has is that we won't get another thirty-five years together."
Sara went back to her room feeling considerably cheered. She's had ample opportunity to see that the improbable marriage of the Windermeres was a successful one. Perhaps Sara and her mad Kafir would do equally well.
Reality intruded in the shape of her maid, Hoskins. Sara was wearily letting her hair down, preparing to take a nap, when the maid burst into the room.
Hoskins was about the same age as Sara, but her acid disposition had carved premature lines around her mouth, and she looked much older. "Lady Sara," she said, her voice quivering with indignation. "They're saying belowstairs that you're going to marry that foreigner, but I can't believe it, not when you're betrothed to a real gentleman like Sir Charles."
Sara swiveled around to face the servant. "Rumor is correct in this case. Sir Charles and I ended our betrothal, and I am going to marry Prince Peregrine instead."
Hoskins gaped for a moment. Then she said viciously, "I would never have believed that a mistress of mine would disgrace herself and me by marrying a filthy heathen nigger."
"How dare you!" Sara gasped. For a moment her vision darkened with pure rage; she had not been so angry since she had learned how the governors of an orphanage were abusing the children in their care.
She rose to her feet, her hand tightening around her hairbrush like a weapon. "You won't have to worry about the disgrace because I am discharging you, effective this instant. I won't have an evil-minded bigot like you in my household."
"I wouldn't work for a slut like you!" Hoskins snapped back. "Fine clothes and a fancy name don't make a lady. That randy foreigner is only interested in one thing, and only a lustful bitch would want to give it to him. The very idea is disgusting to a decent female. But I'm not leaving till I get what's owed me— I know my rights."
The curse of a fair mind was that even fury couldn't make Sara forget simple justice. Wrapping herself in the icy dignity of generations of noble St. Jameses, Sara said, "You can collect your belongings at Haddonfield House the day after tomorrow. The butler will have the money owed you, plus an extra month's pay and a lett
er of reference attesting to your skills, though not your disposition. Now get out of my sight!"
"With pleasure. Plenty of real ladies have tried to hire me away from you before." An expression of malevolence crossed the maid's face. "They must figure that if I can make a plain little cripple like you look good, I can do anything." Satisfied that she had had the last word, she whisked out the door.
Sara sank onto the stool, shaking all over. There was a remarkable similarity between what Hoskins had just said and Charles's words of the night before. In a protected life, she had seldom been exposed to such virulence. It was not pleasant to know that soon others would be saying the same things. Better behind her back than to her face.
It was a salutary lesson on the dark currents that lay just beneath the surface of daily life. A man like Mikahl could be judged and condemned for the crime of being foreign, an English lady in the throes of passion could throw morality to the winds, and a respectable servant could have a mind that would shame a guttersnipe. Perhaps it was even possible that Charles Weldon was a whoremonger, though Sara did not really believe that.
As Sara's anger cooled, she realized with wry amusement that Hoskins's vituperation implied that the maid was female enough to notice Mikahl's potent masculinity, and prudish enough to be horrified by such interest.
Sara smiled a little as she resumed brushing her hair. By his mere existence, her betrothed sowed disruption in the minds of modest English womanhood. Certainly he had disrupted Sara's orderly life. But at least her sense of humor was still working; she would surely need it in the weeks to come.
* * *
The family dinner that evening went smoothly. Sara's father was somber, but Ross and Aunt Marguerite had enough aplomb to carry the conversation, and Mikahl, as promised, was on his best behavior. Sara found herself watching him with extra intensity, impressed at how well he blended in with her family, though there was a suggestion that he did not take aristocratic English customs quite seriously. Well, that was all right, neither did she, though such customs were undeniably part of her.
As expected, her betrothed and the duke disappeared after dinner for a time to discuss marriage settlements, and when they emerged, the duke's expression was a bit lighter than it had been. Sara hoped that meant that the men would deal comfortably with each other, even if they would never be friends.
After tea was served, Mikahl suggested to Sara that they take a turn on the patio. She agreed, feeling a need to talk to him privately.
Outside, the pale moonlight reminded her of the night on the balcony when he had coaxed her into dancing. It seemed a long time ago, though it had only been a few weeks. She was a different woman, but he was the same lithe and fascinating man. That night she had thought of him as a dangerous distraction. Now he was her future.
Putting her serious thoughts aside, she remarked, "Aunt Marguerite said earlier that if you could survive this evening, you were made of strong stuff. I gather that you and my father reached some kind of truce?"
He chuckled and tucked her hand under his elbow as they strolled the length of the flagstone patio. "He resents me deeply, but is too well-bred to be insulting. I believe that fathers always resent the men who take their daughters away.''
It was a tactful way of glossing over her father's lack of enthusiasm for the marriage. Deciding a change of subject was in order, Sara said, "I suppose that now I should call you Mikahl, like Ross does. Unless there is another name you prefer?''
"That's fine. I have acquired a number of names over the years, but Mikahl Khanauri has been with me the longest."
"Mi-kahl Khan-aur-i," she repeated, trying to duplicate the unfamiliar vowel sounds. "That's close to the Christian name 'Michael,' which I've always liked." She gave him a teasing smile. "Traditionally, Michael is the archangel who leads the legions of the Lord."
He laughed. "Obviously an inappropriate name, for no one would mistake me for any sort of angel."
As she studied his rugged face, she couldn't agree. "Don't be too sure. Michael is God's avenging arm, the patron saint of warriors. Surely warrior angels are a rowdier lot than the ones who do nothing but sing and pray and think good thoughts?"
He gave her an odd glance. "Perhaps it isn't such a bad name, if rowdiness and vengeance are allowed."
They had come to the far end of the patio, out of sight of the people in the house, and he stopped and turned to face her. "I like being betrothed, because now I can look at you as much as I like and be considered romantic rather than rude," he said, his gaze moving over her with leisurely enjoyment. "You look particularly delectable tonight, sweet Sara."
The warmth in his eyes made her feel shy, though undeniably flattered. "If so, it's a miracle. I discharged my maid this afternoon, and she left things in a rather chaotic state."
He raised his brows. "Dare I ask why you discharged her?"
She hesitated, realizing that the subject would have been better left unmentioned. "She was impertinent."
"Which means that she probably said something appalling about your choice of husbands. Doubtless it is better if I don't know just what it was."
"Doubtless." Sara's tone was repressive.
His brows drew together consideringly. "Do you have someone in mind for the position? If not, I know of a young woman who might be suitable. After a difficult start in life, she is now learning to be a lady's maid. While she has no formal experience, she is intelligent and willing."
"In what way was her life difficult?"
"It isn't a pretty story." Mikahl studied Sara's face as if wondering how she would react. "Her father sold her to a brothel when she was little more than a child, and she spent several years there."
"I see." Sara was silent for a moment, thinking that this had been the strangest day of her life. Yesterday at this time, she had still been respectably betrothed to Charles. In the twenty-four hours since, she had been disgraced, seduced, re-betrothed, and now she was being offered a prostitute for a lady's maid.
Her stomach knotted as she wondered how Mikahl had made the girl's acquaintance; could he possibly be trying to install a mistress in his wife's household? No, not that, she decided, but she would really rather not know any more. "Send the girl to see me. If she is better-natured than my previous maid, the position is hers."
His brows arched in question. "As simple as that? You don't feel that you will be contaminated by her past?"
"My former maid thought she would be contaminated by me," Sara said dryly, "so I think it will all even out."
"You, my lady, are living proof that a genteel upbringing doesn't have to ruin a woman's sense or heart."
As she smiled at the compliment, his fingers skimmed lightly over her cheek and his voice dropped, becoming husky and intimate. "Three weeks seems a very long time to wait."
He traced along the underside of her jaw to her throat, his touch doing strange, melting things to her insides, but this time Sara stepped away before the process could go too far. Memory of what they had done earlier hung in the air like smoke. But while he might want to repeat the experience, she had done some serious thinking during the day, and knew that she was not yet ready to do so. "That is what I want to do, Mikahl," she said haltingly. "Wait."
"I really did upset you this morning, didn't I?" he said quietly after a silence that stretched too long. "Don't worry, Sara, I can wait as long as necessary. Perhaps it is best if we not see each other between now and the wedding, except on formal occasions. That should prevent any more.. misadventures."
She swallowed hard, intensely grateful. "You are very good to be so understanding."
His smile widened, becoming genuine. "One thing I am not is 'very good.' But I am not usually a fool, especially not twice in the same day." He tilted her face up and gave her a quick, expert kiss that sent pleasant tingles throughout her body. Then he whispered in her ear, "Now let us go inside before I am tempted to make a liar of myself."
The intensity of her relief was almost dizzying. I
t amazed her that a man so forceful could also be so considerate.
At that moment she finally admitted the truth to herself. What she felt for Mikahl was more than passion, more than infatuation, more than need: it was love, soul-deep and irrevocable. The realization was a soaring joy, like racing across a meadow on horseback or whirling across a ballroom in the waltz, but a thousand times greater.
His arms were still loosely linked around her waist, as if he was reluctant to let her go, so it was easy to catch his head between her hands and draw it down. His dense black hair silken beneath her fingers, she kissed him, not with passion, but with gratitude. Sensing something of her mood, he returned the kiss with tenderness, his arms tightening around her waist.
Sara wanted to engrave the sweetness of the moment on her heart—his look and scent and feel, the warmth of his lips, the sheer, solid reality of him. Love was a greater terror than passion, for she knew that she was mad to fall in love with someone so improbable and unpredictable. Though he desired her, he did not love her; perhaps he was incapable of returning the kind of love she wanted.
But in spite of the risks and the certainty of future anguish, she also knew that never would she regret loving him.
* * *
As a gesture to decorum, Peregrine had had Kuram drive him to Chapelgate, but for the return to Sulgrave, he took the reins himself. The Pathan lounged back in the seat, quite content to be driven by his master. When they were clear of the grounds, Peregrine observed, "You look pleased with yourself. I gather that they took good care of you down in the kitchens?''
Kuram smiled, his teeth white in the night. "Most friendly, these English girls. And most curious about wicked foreigners."
Peregrine grinned. "I know. After all, I'm marrying one."
The Pathan snorted. "A mistake to let a woman in your life. They are nothing but trouble."
"Nonetheless, I am looking forward to marriage. Winter is coming, Kuram, and nights are cold in the north." Reaching a straight stretch of road, Peregrine urged the horses into an exuberant dash that matched his own mood. "And my woman is a treasure rarer than ancient amber or Cathay silk."
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