Steeplechase

by Bancroft, Blair

  “I do not like it when you shout at me.” The daughter of the Marquess of Rotherwick to the lowly Viscount Davenham. There was also what sounded suspiciously like a sniff.

  “Blast it, Sal, how could you be so stupid?” Harlan continued in milder tones. “You knew better. We agreed you were not ready for Hyde Park.”

  “But my portrait sittings have interfered with my driving lessons, and the Season will soon be over, and we will go to Chesterton and I will never have driven my beautiful curricle in Hyde Park,” Sarah wailed.

  Harlan sighed. “Never is a long time, Sal. I daresay you will practice all summer at Chesterton and be driving in the park by fall—or at least by next Season.”

  Into the silence Sarah said at last, “I must thank you, Davenham, for coming to my rescue. I believe you came home rather late.”

  Harlan gave his wife a sharp look. She looked rather drawn for a girl of eighteen whose perfect bud of youth was being recorded for posterity. Had she gone out driving so early because she was awake, waiting for him to come home? Did she, perhaps, wait up for him each night? Hell and the devil confound it! “Do you pose for Wendell today?”

  “I fear so.” His wife sighed. “Not that I am not pleased to have my portrait done, of course, but now Mr. Wendell tells me he wishes to do a second portrait that he will enter for possible display in the National Gallery. He does not expect a fee, he assures me, but, truly, I grow a bit weary of posing and of having every morning occupied. He . . .” Sarah pressed her lips together and said no more.

  “He what?” Harlan demanded.

  “Nothing—it is nothing. Three more sittings, I am told, that is all. I merely grow restless. I suppose”—Sarah flashed him a smile that held a hint of the mischievous Sally Ainsworth—“I suppose that may be why I was driving through Hyde Park this morning. Believe me, it is not easy to sit still for hour after hour!”

  Harlan nodded his understanding, even as he ruefully acknowledged to himself that his supposedly invisible wife was rapidly winding him around her little thumb. “Today, I imagine you will wish to rest between your portrait session and going out for the evening, but will you drive with me in the park tomorrow, Lady Davenham, at the fashionable hour of five?”

  He was rewarded by a wide-eyed blaze of aquamarine in a face as shining as her strawberry-blonde curls. Yes, there it was again. Little Sally Ainsworth, instead of the wife struggling so hard to be a sophisticated matron of the ton. Truthfully, he had missed the seventeen-year-old who had dared duel with him when he approached her with his outrageous offer of a mariage blanc. The courageous girl who had swum out to sea in Brighton and nearly lost her life. The sparkling girl who had nearly disappeared after he had attempted to crush her efforts to befriend a vulgar Cit.

  He had caught occasional glimpses of young Sally during their driving lessons—at odd moments when she stopped frowning in concentration and simply bowled down a back lane, enjoying the moment. When she snuggled into his firm grip and turned up her face, chortling with satisfaction when she did something right.

  Lately, since the portrait, he saw her only in formal settings and seldom for more than an hour a day. It was good to know that somewhere beneath all the garments more suitable for a naughty widow than a chit of eighteen was the daring little minx he had married. He found he rather liked his ci-devant wife, the one Dickon had called a “good sort.” Unfortunately, neither wives nor mistresses thrived on neglect, and it was rapidly becoming apparent that wives required more cultivation than mistresses. They could not be bought off quite as easily. They could not be given their congé.

  As if he would want to. She would do rather well as a wife, his Sal. Simply not yet. He was not ready.

  Harlan stood and offered his arm. “Shall we have breakfast, my dear, before you must dress for your appointment with Wendell?” Her grateful smile as she took his arm was all that was needed to silence his qualms about not playing the stern husband. How could he scold when so much of the fault was his?

  No, it was not! He would not shoulder that burden. His Aunt Portia was the cause of it all. Aunt Portia and her blasted two hundred fifty thousand pounds. A home for stray cats and dogs—the old Tartar was fit for Bedlam!

  Not his fault, not his fault at all.

  After all the breakfast his stomach could tolerate, Lord Davenham retired to his room, where he fell on his bed—fully clothed, to Morgan’s dismay—and did not stir ’til well after five. After which, he donned his evening clothes and set out to dine with Adrian and Dickon before sitting down to recoup the losses he had been forced to endure when he left the table early on Wednesday night to keep an eye on his wife at Almack’s.

  For Lady Davenham’s formal portrait, the white wrought-iron garden bench had quickly been discarded when, after the first half hour, Mr. Wendell had declared in dramatic accents that a seated position simply did not do justice to his subject’s fine figure. The bench had been swept away, and Sarah found herself being posed with one hand on the artfully broken plaster column, the other clutching a wicker basket of flowers and trailing vines, and gazing into the distance, as if fixated on some glorious phenomenon of nature. To Sarah’s annoyance, the artist had insisted the portrait needed her most insipid white muslin gown to complete the vision he had in mind. It had not, therefore, required much coaxing for Edmund Wendell to convince her that his second portrait, the one for the National Gallery, needed Lady Davenham arrayed in her sophisticated blue and green draped chiffon.

  It was only later, when Sarah and Finella arrived at the artist’s studio to find a voluptuous divan-style sofa, covered in ivory silk shot with gold, had replaced the supposedly antique column, and dark blue velvet draperies now hung in place of the painted backdrop that Sarah began to wonder just what kind of pose Mr. Wendell had in mind. And well she might, she quickly discovered. It seemed it was necessary for the artist to arrange her first one way, then another on the soft divan. Her head going this way . . . no, no, it must be the other way. With a white silk scarf . . . without the white silk scarf. A paisley shawl. No shawl. Sitting . . . sliding down, down to the wave of the artist’s hand . . . Merciful heavens, now she was nearly prone!

  Sarah struggled upright, glaring at Edmund Wendell. She wasn’t that much of an innocent. She recognized a shocking pose when she was in it.

  “No, no!” the artist cried, dashing forward. “My lady at leisure, with her feet up after a long evening of dancing. Exactly the look I want. It is completely charming, I assure you.” He hovered over the divan, scowling. “I do believe the white scarf was right, after all. A symbol of purity. Perfect for one so young.” Mr. Wendell waggled his fingers and, dutifully, Finella rushed forward, placing the long narrow strip of soft white chiffon in his hands.

  “Lean back,” the artist instructed. “Ah—just so. One arm along the top of the cushion. Excellent, my dear. Now . . .” Wendell draped one end of the scarf over the top of the plump cushions, allowing it to fall over Sarah’s bodice, with the other end trailing down her blue-green skirts and onto the floor. He stood back, studied the effect. Frowned. “Just a tuck,” he murmured. “Here.” His fingers brushed her bare breast as he tucked a bit of the white chiffon into her décolletage, tugging her bodice lower at the same time.

  Sarah gasped. Finella charged forward so quickly she nearly upset the artist’s easel.

  “My apologies, my lady,” Wendell murmured, “but I am a professional, you know. You must think of me as you would your doctor. I am dedicated to doing what I must to achieve the best effect.”

  But Sarah could see the laughter in the back of his eyes, his mockery of a girl too young to know how the game was played.

  “I believe this pose must do,” she told him coldly. “You may proceed.”

  But all the time she lay still as a mouse on the divan, Sarah thought of the picture she must present. Of the finished result that would possibly be selected for public presentation at the National Gallery. She had wished so desperately to be sophisti
cated, to have the “town bronze” that distinguished the experienced ladies of the ton. This portrait was more likely to catapult her into the notoriety of Caroline Lamb, whose conduct was held up by mamas of the haut monde as the classic example of how not to behave.

  Long before she arrived home, Sarah had decided what she must do. And somewhere, late in the day’s portrait session, she had also realized that the situation was an unexpected windfall. She had the perfect excuse for private conversation with her husband. Not that she needed an excuse, of course—their agreement had not gone that far—but Sarah was feeling rather sorry for herself. And angry with herself as well. She should have jumped up and left the studio immediately . . . a dramatic exit in high dudgeon. Instead, she had meekly sat there and contemplated what she should do. She had played the sophisticated lady even after Wendell’s dark eyes had clearly revealed their mirth. That was the reason for her overt cowardice, she supposed. She would not allow Wendell to see how frightened she was, how revolted by his touch. She would not run.

  But tonight Harlan Dawnay, Lord Davenham—no matter how late he might come home—was going to receive a visitor to his bedchamber. A visitor desperate enough to swallow her pride and creep down the dark narrow staircase, clutching a candle and demanding to be saved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The house on Margaret Street was not large. Through the crack Sarah left open in her bedchamber door each night, she had no difficulty hearing the rasp of the key in the lock or the sound of the heavy front door opening, letting in distant sounds of a city that never slept. For by the time the nobles, gamblers, roisterers, footpads, and cracksmen were finding their way to bed, vendors of every description were coming awake, ready to supply London’s needs for yet another day.

  Sarah’s candle had burned down to a nub, but there was enough light to see her pendant watch, left lying on her bedtable. Twenty minutes past three o’clock.

  Earlier that evening, Harlan had appeared at the Nettington’s long enough to partner her in a merry Roger de Coverly before he had dashed off, with only the most casual farewell, to the next event on his list of engagements. Amaryllis LeFay, White’s, a gaming hell, a cockfight—who knew? From below came the sound of a heavy bolt snicking into place. Well, he was home now, was he not? All she had to do was . . .

  Sarah shivered. The fingers that returned her crystal watch to the table next to her candle were suddenly stiff, as if frozen by winter ice. It had all seemed so logical earlier in the day. She must talk to Harlan in private. Therefore, she would wait up for him. But now that the moment had come . . .

  He was tired and possibly irritable. It was unlikely he was sober.

  Tomorrow at breakfast would be better.

  Her appointment with Mr. Wendell was at eleven, when it was quite possible Harlan would still be closeted in his rooms. And more irritable at being woken up than now, when he might be mellowed by drink and . . . and pleasure.

  Although Sarah did not care to think on what might have pleasured her husband, she sincerely hoped he had had a good evening. Though why she was suddenly so faint-hearted she could not say. Yes, on occasion he roared at her, but for the most part Harlan had been more tolerant than many husbands. Indeed, some of the stories she had heard since joining the ranks of married ladies were enough to curdle fresh milk. Truly, Harlan was a pattern card of generosity and indulgence compared to many gentlemen of the ton.

  So why was she terrified of descending the staircase? The staircase on which no one had set foot since the Davenhams moved into the house on Margaret Street.

  She was eighteen. A married lady. This was her home. Below was her husband, who was the only person who could help her out of the difficulty in which she found herself. She had no choice.

  Her lips thinned in resolution, Sarah replaced the sputtering nub with a fresh candle, then lay down on her bed to wait. With the door at the top of the staircase open, as was her custom, she listened intently for the slightest sound from Harlan’s bedchamber. Finally, when she was quite, quite sure Morgan had retired for the night, Sarah got up, adjusted the ties on the embroidered dressing gown that matched her eyes, the one she had worn in Brighton when dining in their suite after the near disaster at the beach. Would he remember?

  Her hand shook as she picked up the candle. Her knees went weak, her feet refused to move. What was more frightening—bearding her husband in his bedchamber or going back to Edmund Wendell’s studio?

  She would never go back! Therefore . . .

  The staircase was more narrow and uninviting than the servants’ stairs. Sarah wrinkled her nose at the musty odor and began her descent on tip-toe, clutching the candle with one hand, the banister with the other. Alas, the stairs ended all too soon on a stark landing, with a door on the left. Sarah shut her eyes, took a shuddering breath. What was she doing here? How could she be so bold? Surely she must be violating their agreement to lead g`separate lives.

  Softly, she scratched upon the door.

  No response.

  Oh, no! Asleep already? He couldn’t be, horrid man. She needed him!

  Eyes shut, her piquant face screwed into a grimace, Sarah tried the door handle. It turned smoothly to her touch. The door creaked open.

  The bedchamber was enveloped in darkness. With shaking hands, she lifted the candle. Ah! Oh . . . my! Evidently finding the night warm, Harlan had not pulled the bedcurtains but was lying in full view on the broad tester bed, his bare arm hanging over the top of the coverlet . . .

  Bare arm. Sarah took a step forward, peered more closely. A bare shoulder. Merciful heavens, he was naked! And sound asleep. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. But talk with him she must. She crept forward, never taking her eyes off her husband’s sleeping form. How young he looked—and delightfully tousled. If theirs were a real marriage, she would not be standing here quivering—tingling from head to toe—afraid to wake him, terrified of what might happen if she didn’t.

  Of what might happen if she did.

  Sarah forced herself to the very edge of the bed, waved the candle before her husband’s eyes. “Harlan? Harlan?”

  His deep blue eyes snapped open, widened. “Sarah? Good God, what has happened? Is something wrong?”

  Thanks be, he sounded quite sober, if more than a little startled. “I am so very sorry,” Sarah burbled, “but I must speak with you, and a Roger de Coverly was simply not the place to do it. For the matter is private, quite private, so I had to wait until you came home and then wait for Morgan to leave, and I am most abjectly contrite about waking you up, but I simply had to, you see.”

  He did not see at all, of course. In fact, he saw nothing but his bride haloed in candlelight, wearing the enticingly transparent ensemble she had worn in Brighton, the one the sun had shone through, revealing all. No matter that tonight it was opaque, his first sight of her in that ruffled confection of a dressing gown would live in his mind forever. “Put the candle on the dresser, Sal,” he told her, “then come sit by me.” Invitingly, he patted the coverlet.

  She did as she was bid, seating herself as gingerly as if he might turn into a fire-breathing dragon at any moment. “Now tell me what is troubling you. It must be dire indeed to bring you down those stairs at this hour.”

  “Or any hour,” he thought he heard her mutter.

  “Just say it, Sal. I don’t doubt you have good reason,” he said as gently as he might to a child of eight instead of a young lady of eighteen.

  “Please, please do not be angry that I have not kept to our bargain,” Sarah burst out, “but I am expected for another sitting in the morning, and I simply cannot go. Marchmont and your mama have been so generous. I am mortified to be such an ingrate, but go back to Mr. Wendell’s studio I will not.”

  Harlan sat up abruptly, the covers dropping to his waist as the weight of Sarah’s body kept the sheet and coverlet from moving with him. Sarah gasped. He swore and slid back down, pulling the covers to his chin. “Explain!” he snapped.

  “Mr. Wendell i
s very talented, truly he is,” Sarah told him, “but always, from the very beginning, he made me uncomfortable, as if he were forever looking beneath my clothing. I did not care to sit for the second portrait, but I did not wish to appear ungrateful to your papa and mama, and of course I thought it might be quite grand to have one’s portrait displayed in the National Gallery, so the fault, I fear, was mine—”

  “Sarah! What happened?”

  “He touched me,” she breathed.

  “Touched you?” Harlan examined his wife’s anxious eyes, her quivering lower lip, and felt himself go cold. “How did he touch you?” he inquired ominously.

  “He was arranging a scarf and—and he decided to tuck it into my—my décolletage.” His wife was looking down, fingering the folds of the coverlet. “I am being quite foolish, am I not? A child, in fact, making mountains out of molehills—”

  “Continue!” Silence. “Sarah?” Harlan demanded.

  “When he tucked in the scarf,” she said in a very small voice, “he brushed my—my flesh. I do not believe it was an accident. Every day,” she added on a determined rush, “when he looked at me, I could feel him undressing me. It was horrid! So I will not go back. You must not make me. You must explain—”

  “Make you?” Harlan exclaimed. “Are you mad? Of course you will not go back. You should have spoken to me immediately.”

  “But your mama and your papa were so anxious to have the portrait done, and I did not wish to break our agreement by troubling you with something I should be able to manage on my own. Except, of course”—Sarah’s voice diminished to a thread—“except that I could not. I was . . . afraid. So here I am in the middle of the night.”

  “So you are.” Harlan reached out and put his hand over hers, watching closely as her eyes peeped up, taking in his well-muscled arm, perhaps the first bare male arm she had glimpsed since nursery days. “Listen to me, Sarah. Listen closely. You will never go back to that man’s studio again. I, personally, will inform Wendell of our decision in this matter, and I will make any necessary explanations to Marchmont and my mother. Have no fear, Sarah. It is over.”