Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  “Dear God,” she said, realizing that this was the first time she’d prayed since her mother had died. She’d not solicited God in any way. Would He fault her for that?

  “Dear God,” she began again. “Please bless my mother and keep her safe beside you. I would like to think that she’s an angel. Perhaps if I need her from time to time, You would not mind sparing her.”

  She expected only silence in reply, but instead heard the sound of the chapel door opening and closing. Sarah turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered shadow walking toward her.

  Douglas stopped at the other side of the catafalque and regarded her with that piercing blue-green gaze of his. His perusal took in the top of her hair to the veil she held clutched in her left hand, then returned to her face. Did he think to check for tears? She had no more tears left.

  She stood, took the two steps down from the altar, and slowly approached him, stopping only when her mother’s coffin was between them.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything you’ve done, and all the arrangements you’ve made. Thank you for everything.”

  She, more than any other person, knew what was required to keep Chavensworth running smoothly, not to mention arrangements for a funeral of this magnitude.

  “Mrs. Williams helped me with the notices,” he said. “I trust that we’ve invited everyone you would have liked to attend.”

  She nodded. “My mother kept to herself in the last few years,” she said. “Granted, there were one or two friends she had in the neighborhood, but for the most part, she remained at Chavensworth.”

  Her gaze veered away from him and focused on one of the statues mounted in the corner between the windows. Her great-grandfather had been a great believer in life-size statues. In addition to furnishing the Greek Garden, he’d peopled the chapel with five of them. These, unlike the ones in the Greek Garden, were at least garbed, but in robes reminding her of Roman togas.

  “I’m glad to see you recovered.”

  “I don’t feel recovered,” she said.

  “I don’t mean your grieving is over,” he said, walking around her mother’s coffin to stand only a foot or two away. He reached out and placed his hand on her arm, and she could feel the warmth of his touch through the cloth of her dress. “But that you’ve begun to grieve. It’s a journey, Sarah, and unfortunately, a solitary one.”

  She nodded.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “Have I eaten?” she asked, feeling foolish for repeating the question. The change of subject was so jarring that it took her a moment to realize that no, she hadn’t eaten anything. When she said as much, he shook his head.

  “The services are not due to begin right away. Shall we go and find something in the pantry? We needn’t disturb Cook or her helpers, but I’ll wager we can find a plate of scones and some jam.”

  He crooked his arm, and she placed her hand on it before realizing she had to replace her veil.

  Douglas moved to help her, settling the veil atop her hair and smoothing it down in the back while Sarah fitted it over her shoulders.

  “What perfume are you wearing?” he asked, so softly that the sound was barely a whisper.

  “A scent made for me here at Chavensworth,” she said. “Mostly lavender with some roses.”

  He was very close, so close, in fact, that if she stepped forward just an inch, she would collide with his chest. His arms were raised to reach the back of the veil, and it was almost an embrace. But they’d shared more than one embrace in the last week, hadn’t they?

  She’d awakened from sleep to find her head on his shoulder, or her hand pressed flat against his chest. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and held her when she wept. He had always been there, a companion in the midst of misery.

  “You held me,” she said. “While I slept, you held me.”

  “You needed comfort.”

  She nodded, grateful for the veil and its obscuring lace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Of all things you should thank me for, Sarah, that is not one of them.”

  She could feel her cheeks warm.

  He crooked his arm again, and she placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her from the chapel.

  Chapter 15

  The funeral was a restrained ceremony, befitting the Duchess of Herridge.

  Her father didn’t attend. Nor had he sent any word of explanation for his absence unless it was by way of Simons, whom she’d noticed in the congregation. She nodded to him, and he nodded back, his face creased into wrinkles she interpreted as compassionate.

  Following the funeral, Sarah was directed to the crypt, to oversee the Duchess of Herridge’s interment. Since her father had not deigned to attend his wife’s funeral, Sarah was the only representative of the family present. When the time came for the mason to seal up the heavy stone slab, however, Douglas stepped forward and gave the order.

  After the minister said the blessing and left the crypt, Douglas gently escorted Sarah back up to the chapel, now empty since the guests had been escorted to the funeral supper. As they left the chapel, instead of turning toward the east wing, Douglas took her arm and headed in the opposite direction, toward the family quarters.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re going to rest,” he said, his tone implacable.

  “I’ve been resting, Douglas. I’ve had nearly a week of rest.”

  “You don’t need to attend the supper. Everyone would excuse you.”

  Slowly, she raised her veil, then pulled it free, uncaring if her hair was mussed. She had to convince him.

  “It’s expected,” she said. “My mother would expect it,” she added softly.

  “Your mother would want the best for you.”

  “My mother would want me to represent the family, especially since my father is not here. Chavensworth has guests and needs a hostess.”

  They reached the stairs. Only the family used this staircase, it not being as grand as the one leading from Chavensworth’s main entrance but larger than the servants’ stairs originating in the kitchen.

  He stopped at the base of the steps, his gaze searching her face.

  “I’m worried about you. Your fingers are shaking.”

  She made her hands into fists, so he couldn’t tell whether they trembled or not.

  “I must do this, Douglas. You’ve taken care of everything else, but I must do this.” She forced a smile to her face. “Besides, the scones you found for us were not nearly enough.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  How strange that he looked happy about that.

  Before she could answer, his glance swept to a spot behind her. He stepped forward and would have placed himself in front of her had she not recognized the person in the shadows. She put her hand on his arm.

  “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Lady Sarah,” Simons said.

  “What do you want, Simons?” Douglas asked.

  She shook her head at Douglas. Her really shouldn’t be so protective of her.

  “Simons, what is it?” she said, turning to her father’s majordomo.

  “Your father…”

  “Was not in attendance at my mother’s funeral,” she said flatly.

  Simons looked down at the floor, then up at the expanse of steps. “No, Lady Sarah, he wasn’t.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Lady Sarah, your father sent me for the jewel case. Your mother’s jewelry.”

  “My father sent you for my mother’s jewelry,” she repeated, very calmly.

  Douglas moved to stand behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body.

  “Yes,” Simons said.

  To his credit, the man looked uncomfortable.

  “By all means,” she said, and turned to walk up the staircase. Halfway up the steps, she turned and looked back at Simons.

  “I shan’t wait on you, Simons. If you want my mother’s jewelry, you’ll have to come and get it.”

  Simons mo
unted the steps slowly, followed by Douglas. Sarah led the way down the corridor to the Duchess’s Suite, and without waiting for either man, opened the door and swept inside. She’d not entered the room since her mother’s death, and she was instantly assailed by dozens of memories, all of them of a happier time.

  Deliberately, she pushed the memories away. She didn’t have time for grief right at the moment. She walked to the armoire where her mother kept the small casket of jewelry, opened the door, and retrieved a small wooden box. The casket, with its rounded lid and ornate iron banding, was never kept locked. There was no reason to fear thievery at Chavensworth—unless it was from the duke himself.

  As Sarah opened the rounded lid, she was prepared for the onslaught of memory and numbed herself to it. She withdrew a rectangular piece of vellum and slowly opened it, showing it to Simons. Inside was a chain of daisies, now desiccated and brown. Her mother had told her once that she’d considered it one of her prized jewels.

  “I made this for my mother when I was six,” she said. “It has no worth to my father, and I’d like to keep it.”

  Simons only nodded. She tucked the vellum packet into the pocket of her dress and handed the open casket to Simons.

  “There,” she said. “Take them all. Couldn’t he at least wait until my mother was buried for a day?”

  Simons looked as if he would like to say something, but then he merely shook his head. What could he say? His loyalty was reserved for the Duke of Herridge, not for her, and, regretfully, not for her mother.

  He bowed, lower than was necessary. “Lady Sarah,” he murmured.

  “You mustn’t look like you want to pummel the man, Douglas,” she said after he’d gone. “It is not his fault. He is simply following the orders my father gave him.”

  Douglas, who had been silent during the exchange, moved to close the armoire doors behind her.

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to rest, Sarah?”

  Her fingers traced the small vellum package in her pocket. “Perhaps I shall,” she said. She didn’t like confessing her own weakness, but perhaps it wasn’t a failing to love someone, and to feel only a horrible sense of loss when they were gone.

  “You needn’t escort me,” she said. “One of us must make an appearance for our guests.”

  He looked hesitant for a moment.

  “Please, Douglas.”

  He finally nodded. They parted in the corridor, and he startled her by leaning down and placing a kiss on her cheek, near her temple.

  “Promise me you’ll rest,” he said, almost as if he were a solicitous husband and truly cared for her.

  Sarah closed her eyes, and in that next second, she pretended. “I will,” she said. She felt the brush of his cheek against hers. He turned and was gone, striding down the corridor.

  She walked slowly to her own chamber, entered, and closed the door behind her. Withdrawing the packet of flowers from her pocket, she placed it in her secretary.

  Only then did she ring for a maid, and when one of the upstairs maids responded, Sarah said, “Don’t bother Florie, you can do the job just as well. I need to be unlaced, please. And my hoops removed.”

  The girl was not as practiced as Florie, but Sarah didn’t want to take her maid and her husband away from the funeral supper. The occasion might have been a somber one, and at the beginning there would be prayers and a great deal of conversation about Morna Herridge, as people remembered her. But as the hours wore on, less thought would be given to death and more to life, and the supper might well become an enjoyable social gathering.

  Let people laugh. Let them enjoy the company of others. Let something come out of this, even if it was an evening filled with conviviality. She was tired of darkness, of despair, and this sickening feeling of emptiness.

  Once the maid was gone and her clothing put away, Sarah lay on her bed in her chemise. She would rest for an hour, no more, then she would decide what to do. Right now she was incapable of any other decision.

  Her hour must have stretched far longer, because it was dark when she awoke. There was no light coming in from the windows at all, only from the small lamp Douglas had lit. She would probably not have wakened at all if he hadn’t bodily picked her up and was carrying her to the Duke’s Suite.

  “I am too sleepy to argue with you,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “But you must set aside some time for me tomorrow.”

  “I can spare an hour in the morning. Is that enough time to fuss at me?”

  She thought about nodding but decided that the gesture was too strenuous. “Yes,” she said, and wished her voice sounded more commanding. But it was difficult when he was holding her so close, and he was so warm and smelled of such luscious things like wine and tobacco, fresh air, and the bay rum he used. She turned her face so that it rubbed against his jacket and sniffed appreciatively.

  All in all, it was rather comforting sleeping with another person. She knew that at any time she could reach out her hand to touch him, just to feel his warmth or his presence. She needn’t fear for anything because he was a very tall, very strong, very able man. Yet for all that, he hadn’t bothered her. Not once has he insisted upon his marital rights. Granted, it had been a time of sadness for her, but she doubted all men were as driven by honor or compassion.

  Who was Douglas Eston? An explorer, she knew that from his comments. A scientist, a fact she discovered after he told her about his discovery. It would take a man well versed in science to create diamonds, wouldn’t it? A man who obviously still missed his family.

  More than that, she didn’t know, but she wanted to discover more.

  When he laid her beneath the counterpane, she curled toward him, tucked her hands beneath her pillow, and fell asleep again.

  She awoke in the morning to find that her husband had gone once again. Did he wake at dawn? Was he at the observatory? She would much rather concentrate on what Douglas was doing rather than think about the dreaded chore in front of her. Today, she must send replies to calling cards and notes from those who’d not been able to attend her mother’s funeral. Good manners dictated that she respond as quickly as possible.

  Once seated at the desk in the library, resigned to her duty, she bent and opened the lower drawer. After retrieving her personal stationery, she took out her crystal pen and pulled the inkwell closer.

  She sighed as she stared at the stack of correspondence and black-bordered calling cards. Each and every one of them would be a sincere expression of emotion, and each and every one of them would be difficult to read. Someone—Douglas?—had tied the stack tightly with string. She’d have to find a knife or a pair of scissors. Her hand rested on the stack, but she didn’t move from her chair to locate either tool. She didn’t want to read them. She drew her hand back, leaned her head against the chair, and closed her eyes.

  On the way to the library, she’d caught herself walking to her mother’s room to sit with her for a few minutes until she realized what she was doing. Morna Herridge would never require her presence again. Sarah should give orders to have the room transformed back into the Summer Parlor again, but she doubted if she’d ever sit there in the evening working on her needlework.

  She found her scissors and cut the string, beginning to read each letter. By the third, she was weeping again, but she didn’t allow her grief to interfere with her duty. Toward the bottom of the stack, she realized that she’d stopped crying, intent on finishing her chore.

  When she finished, she stared at a new sheet of stationery, knowing that she should begin to work on the most important letter, the one she’d not written, the one that hung over her head like the Sword of Damocles.

  Suddenly, she knew that she couldn’t write that letter because that letter should not be written.

  She stood and made her way to the butler’s pantry, where Thomas was polishing the silver in his work apron. At the sight of her, he stepped back and reached for his jacket.

  Sarah raised one hand to fo
restall him. “Have you seen Mr. Eston?”

  “Not this morning, Lady Sarah.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” she said, leaving him.

  Douglas must be making his diamonds. She left Chavensworth, beginning to walk toward the observatory. The day was a breezy one, but the air felt heavy, as if rain was imminent. Sarah hadn’t been back to the observatory since the day her mother had died, and she was shocked at the changes.

  Empty crates were scattered about on the grass outside the observatory, and a huge hole had been gouged out of the knoll. Four stacks of bricks were placed on the side of the lane.

  What on earth was Douglas building?

  She knocked on the closed door of the observatory and, for a moment, wondered if he were inside. Finally, the door opened, so quickly that she was startled by it. Sarah pressed her hand her throat and subdued her gasp only by force of will.

  “I don’t need anything, thank you,” he said, his tone sharp.

  He wasn’t even looking at her when he spoke, but at the doorframe. When his gaze finally did settle on her, his look of annoyance faded to surprise.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked, curious.

  “Your staff,” he said, once again annoyed. “You have a very diligent staff, Sarah. They call upon me three or four times a day to ensure I don’t need anything. Cook sends luncheon and tea, and once a tankard of ale. I think they’re afraid I’ll waste away out here.”

  “But I do hope that you don’t scare the poor things with that tone of voice. It isn’t the least bit friendly.”

  “I didn’t know that one was supposed to be friendly to the staff.”

  “Well,” she said, amending her comment, “if not friendly, then at least civil. You weren’t at all civil, Douglas.”

  “My apologies,” he said.

  “I haven’t come with any offerings,” she said. “Does that mean I cannot come inside?”

  She peered around his arm to see a selection of beakers and vials and curious round glass objects sitting on the work surface.

  “It isn’t safe,” he said, placing his arm across the door like a barrier. “Or I would invite you inside.”