by Karen Ranney
“I’m sure he is,” she said quickly, “but Mrs. Williams is not in the first flush of youth.”
He began to smile, understanding. “She’s not dead, either, Sarah. She has a right to love and lust along with younger people. So does Alano. Or do you think such feelings disappear after a certain age?”
She looked wide-eyed at him, as if she’d never given it any thought.
He left the shovel speared into the earth and walked slowly toward her.
“Lust doesn’t just disappear, Sarah. It might go to ground a bit, but it never truly goes away.”
“Really?”
How very proper she sounded. How very English. But her stormy gray eyes were now as soft as dandelion down, and her cheeks were colored pastel pink. She was biting her bottom lip, and he wanted to ask her to let him do that, instead.
“Truly,” he said, reaching her. “And lust has another enormously interesting component. It renews itself. Constantly.”
“Really?” She was evidently so lost in that thought that she didn’t seem to notice he was steering her toward the observatory.
“Most assuredly. I can guarantee it, as a matter of fact. Before seeing you, I was basking in the warmth of my thoughts of last night. Now that memory isn’t at all sufficient.”
“It isn’t?”
He knew that he would fall apart if he didn’t have her. Now. He would cease to live, and the man he’d known himself to be—resilient, intractable, focused—would simply falter. Or he would crumble to dust.
When they reached the doorway, she looked up at him, her features aware and alert, as if she were trembling on the edge of a great discovery.
“Oh, Douglas, it’s the same with me,” she said softly, almost unmanning him.
He hesitated, needing to be with her, but holding himself away at that last little bit of moment. His mind, forever urging caution and prudence, was not silent on this occasion, but his body overruled his sense, reacting silently and powerfully in a burst of heat that filled his cock and made it rock hard.
“Let me show you how it can be,” he said, and led her into the darkness of the observatory.
It was the sound like pebbles Sarah heard first, a clink, ping, clink against the tile sides of the observatory.
She pressed her palm against Douglas’s bare chest as he raised his head from their kiss.
They looked at each other.
“What is that?” she asked.
She could suddenly feel the silence, as if the absence of sound had created a hollow space around her. She looked toward the slightly open door. Suddenly, a whoosh of heated air flung them both against the curved wall.
The air was suddenly black. Chunks of bricks thudded against the side of the building as loud as if God Himself were hammering the observatory.
Douglas swore, and pulled her deeper into the building, but the explosion wasn’t the only danger. A fireball scorched through the grass and licked at the doorway. He reached up, tore the linen from the ceiling, then stood on one of the shelves and began opening the roof. The wheel had evidently been oiled, and it swung open easily.
He reached down for her. “Come on, Sarah.”
In a moment of sickening clarity, she understood. They were in grave danger and must escape the observatory.
However, she was never going to fit in the opening with her hoops. Reaching below her waistband, she tore the tapes of her hoops, pulling at them until they were free. She stepped out of her hoops, grabbed the material of her skirts, and scrambled up beside him.
He made a step out of his interlinked hands, and she put her right foot against his palms, holding on to his shoulders as he gave her a boost. The opening wasn’t large, but she could fit. Could he?
“I’m not leaving until you promise to be right behind me,” she said.
“Not only right behind you,” he said, “but right next to you.”
She peered out the top of the observatory. The fire was racing through the fields to the west, but they could still escape to the rear of the building.
A moment later, he boosted her up even farther. She pulled herself up with both arms, elbows striking the copper of the roof.
The tile was rough on the side of the building, abrading her fingers as she grappled for a handhold. The small iron ladder built into the curve of the roof was a godsend, however, and she managed to hold on to it, lower her legs, and fall into the grass, thankful that it had grown so high.
Douglas was right behind her, and she hugged him when he landed next to her. He stood and caught her up in his arms a second later.
She didn’t have a chance to protest, because he bent his head and kissed her, silencing her as he carried her from the flames.
Chapter 29
Douglas carried her through the crowd of servants as she pressed her face against his bare chest. Each of her separate breaths, heated and soft, seemed to burrow beneath his flesh, into where the essence of him lived, and brand him for all time as hers.
“She’s fine,” he murmured to Thomas, and pushed himself past Jeremy Beecher and Mrs. Williams. He nodded to Cook, and with an aside only a few heard, said, “Can you send a tray to the Duke’s Suite? A bit of fruit, perhaps. Maybe some tea?”
She nodded and turned, disappearing into the crowd so sleekly she might have been an eel.
He made it to the rear of Chavensworth, caring hands brushing against him like palm fronds. Sarah was not light, but neither was she a burden he had any intention of releasing.
Two young men stood beside the door, and when he gestured to it with a lift of his chin, they hurried to open it.
Once inside Chavensworth, he set Sarah down on her feet, gathering her into his arms and pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
“Are you certain you’re all right?”
One hand came up to rest against his bare chest.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I think so. I also think I shall never be able to face anyone again.”
He pulled back and tilted up her face with one hand. “Yes you will. You’re Lady Sarah Eston.”
“I’ve never appeared nearly undressed in front of my staff, however.”
“You’re only missing your hoops,” he said, smiling. “Not your corset. Brazen it through,” he said, bending to kiss her. He didn’t mention that her lips were swollen and pink, or that her cheeks were delightfully flushed. Anyone with any experience would be able to look into her beautiful gray eyes and know that she’d recently been kissed, and well.
They began walking up the stairs to their chamber, Sarah careful to keep her skirts, which trailed without their underlying hoops, from tripping her up.
The Duke of Herridge was not going to be happy about the explosion.
Douglas found it absurd that he slept in the man’s bed, all the while loathing the arrogant peer. Despite the poverty he’d been born to, and the privilege the duke enjoyed, Douglas would have easily chosen his life over His Grace’s. There was nothing about the duke that he would emulate, least of all the way he treated his daughter. Sarah was simply a commodity to him, and the Duke of Herridge had rid himself of the problem of his only child in exchange for the promise of diamonds.
As if Sarah were only worth a mere purse of diamonds.
If he’d been married for months, instead of only weeks, he’d have felt a little more secure in explaining to Sarah exactly what her father had planned. Not only was their marriage tenuous because of how it had occurred, but Sarah had been through enough in the past month. She didn’t need to know the extent of her father’s perfidy.
These past weeks had only accentuated what he’d felt for her from the beginning. He wanted to protect her and keep her safe. He wanted to give her pleasure more than he wanted it for himself. In the night, when he couldn’t sleep, when dreams beckoned yet couldn’t capture him, he wanted to speak to her in hushed tones in the shadows. He wanted to tell her what it was truly like being Douglas Eston from Perth, Scotland. He wanted to share wit
h her feelings he’d never shared with another living soul, not even Alano.
If he left now, he could make it to London in two hours, speak to his solicitor, and at least ease his mind about the duke’s ability to end his marriage. In addition, there must be some way to get out of his agreement with His Grace. No money had exchanged hands, only the very precious hand of the duke’s daughter.
The best view of the observatory and the western fields was from the Duchess’s Suite. Sarah stood on the terrace, watching the footmen douse the grass around the building and where the furnace had been. The fire had been extinguished, but Douglas had returned and was now directing people and equipment. Alano and a few of the other men dragged the diamond frames from the observatory, while still others removed the jars and jugs.
Could anything be salvaged?
The explosion could have killed them both.
If he hadn’t entered the observatory, Douglas would have been right there in the midst of the explosion.
She glanced down at the garden, her mother’s garden with the luckinbooth. Perhaps it was because she was standing at this angle, but the luckinbooth didn’t look like two hearts intertwined and topped with a crown. She walked to the other side of the terrace and looked at the hedges again.
A moment later, Sarah left the room, intent on her own chamber. Grabbing her journal and her pencil, she returned to the Duchess’s Suite, slowly sketching what she saw both from the doorway and from the far end of the terrace. Only when she was finished was she certain—the luckinbooth wasn’t two hearts, but two entwined initials. Two Ms—for Michael and Morna?
Douglas went to the stables and gave orders for the carriage to be readied.
“I’ll be happy to drive you, sir,” Tim said from behind him.
Douglas turned. “I’m going to London, Tim, and I’ve a mind to be back before nightfall.”
Tim nodded. “That suits me well enough, sir. Are you ready to leave now?”
Douglas looked over to where two boys stood laughing at the corner of one stall. He motioned one of them over, gave him an errand to perform, before turning to Tim.
“I’ll be ready in a quarter hour,” he said.
In actuality, it was less than that. Alano came walking through the stable doors ten minutes later, his valise in his hand and Douglas’s jacket slung over his arm.
“Time was,” Alano said, “I’d have to remind you to be proper dressed. It’s good I don’t have to train you anymore.” He handed Douglas his jacket with a smile. “If you’re going to London, I’ll follow you.”
Douglas glanced down at the valise in his friend’s hand.
“There’s no need for you to leave, Alano.”
“Yes, there is,” Alano said. “I’ll not howl at her door like a lovesick puppy.”
Douglas raised an eyebrow but didn’t make a comment. He’d never before seen his friend in such a mood over a woman. Perhaps it was something about Chavensworth, but he didn’t think so. The two of them had simply found the only two women in the world capable of twisting their guts into frenzied snakes.
“Then I’ll be glad of the company,” Douglas said.
Alano gave orders for the second carriage, the one he’d arrived at Chavensworth in, to follow them. The coachman looked ecstatic to be returning to London.
Douglas signaled to Tim, and he and Alano climbed inside the first carriage. They were on their way to London less than an hour after he had made his decision.
Sarah walked back into her mother’s room. The tall windows had heavy burgundy drapes shut against the bright summer day, but she didn’t open them.
Slowly, she walked toward the secretary her mother had used until she’d become too ill. Sitting on the high-backed chair in front of the desk, she pulled open the bottom right drawer. She could remember the first time her mother had shown her the secret compartment.
“What’s in there, Mama?”
“Mama’s jewels, dearling.”
Although she’d been a little girl, she’d known her mother kept her rings and brooches in the small casket in the bottom of the armoire, but she’d not argued. She’d been old enough to know that a good daughter never questioned.
The drawer held unremarkable items—a porcelain potpourri container that still managed to scent the drawer with roses after all this time, another small jar that had once held ink, now dry. A silver rocker blotter, and a selection of nibs. One by one, she removed all the items, placing them on the surface of the secretary. Once the drawer was empty, she reached toward the back and, using her nail, slid the false bottom toward her and lifted it.
Inside the secret compartment was a stack of letters, tightly tied in yellow ribbon.
She withdrew the letters, holding them in both hands. She had no right. Curiosity was not enough. Morna was a woman with secrets, some of them confusing, true, but they were her secrets.
Sarah studied the handwriting on the envelope. Large and sprawling, it seemed to be written in a masculine hand. If she opened this letter, she would read words that weren’t meant for her. Perhaps the words would be commonplace, the correspondence of acquaintances, friends. Or perhaps they were more, words of love, of devotion, and of sorrow.
God forgive her, but she couldn’t go for the rest of her life without knowing.
She replaced the false bottom and loaded the items back into the drawer before returning to her room. Once back in her chamber, she sat on the chair beside the window, resting for a moment with the letters on her lap as if to give herself another chance to do the proper thing.
She began with the oldest letter, one that seemed much read if the fragile folds were any indication. The letter was dated five years earlier.
Dearling,
Her eyes widened at the endearment, but she continued reading.
Forgive me for writing you, but your father has told me the truth he kept hidden all these years. Forgive me for once believing that you would love another.
I have no right to be in your life, now, but I want you to know that you have been forever in mine. I have never forgotten you, dearling, and every day that passes does so with my earnest prayers for your joy and health.
There was no name at the bottom of the letter. The second letter, however, was signed with a bold M. This time, there was no salutation.
You say that it’s wrong, that we cannot love each other. I say, how do we stop? By words? By actions? What more can be done to us, dearling, than to marry us to other people?
The third letter of the thirteen covered three pages, detailing his life, his children, his loneliness for the woman he called dearling. At the end of it, he signed his name, and she knew. Michael.
She skipped the remainder of the letters, hesitating over the last one. Finally, she opened it to find that it was dated only a few months earlier. Slowly, she began to read, thinking that her own heart would break.
I shall not write you again, dearling, nor shall I see you, I fear.
My heart is tired, and the beating of it has been of great concern to my family of late. My eldest son is posting this letter for me, and I hope it reaches you soon. Perhaps my soul will visit you at your English castle to say farewell before my letter arrives.
I shall love you into eternity. I shall wait for you there.
Tears blurred Sarah’s vision, stinging her eyes.
Morna Tulloch had found herself with child, just when her lover had been tricked into marriage. To protect her unborn child, she’d married an English duke desperate for an heiress. She’d managed to have a life away from Scotland.
Her memories of her mother, wrapped in the gauze of time, now saw a smile less happy than bittersweet and a faraway look less contemplative as simply longing.
Perhaps her mother had never told Michael that she’d borne his child, hiding that secret from everyone, everyone but Sarah, to whom she showed the false bottom of the secretary and whom she called dearling.
Had she wanted Sarah to know, in the end? For that matter,
had her mother simply willed herself to death? Could one die of a broken heart?
Sarah stood, walked to the fireplace and knelt, building a fire. Once it was caught, she fed the letters to the flames, hiding the secret of her mother’s love and sorrow.
Douglas left his solicitor’s office feeling a little more heartened. The Duke of Herridge could not dissolve his marriage without his consent. Even if Sarah wanted their marriage to end, she would have to prove he’d been an adulterer, as well as guilty of several other sins. As long as he drew breath, he would contest any such action.
There was still time to court his wife.
Unfortunately, there was one task still remaining to do first.
The carriage stopped, and he exited, striding up the steps to the Duke of Herridge’s house.
Simons opened the door.
“I’m surprised you’re not out doing your master’s bidding,” Douglas said.
“This is my master’s bidding, Mr. Eston.” There was a small smile playing around Simons’s lips, an expression so irritating that Douglas gave some thought to knocking it from his face.
“Is he here?” Douglas asked.
“What shall I tell His Grace is the purpose for this meeting?” Simons asked.
“His Grace’s impatience, Simons.”
“I doubt His Grace will want to discuss that, Mr. Eston. Instead, I believe that he will want to see the results of your labors. I trust you have diamonds with you, Mr. Eston.”
“Where is he?”
Simons bowed, then turned on his heel, leading the way to the duke’s library. At the door, Simons rapped lightly on the wood, waited one moment and turned the handle. Once the door was open, he stepped aside and announced Douglas.
The Duke of Herridge didn’t stand at his arrival. Nor did he even bother looking up from the papers he was signing. Instead, he waited until Douglas walked to the middle of the room and came to stand in front of his desk. Only then did he look up, replacing the quill in its stand.