by Wendy Vella
Julia’s eyes widened. “But you’ll need to know at least four or five,” she countered.
Alistair tried to hide his disappointment at hearing her words, but Julia noticed and crossed her arms. “You promised,” she said defiantly.
Not having promised her he would learn every dance done at a ton ball, Alistair had to bite back his first response. “I did,” he acknowledged. “And, I will,” he assured her. “But in the interest of actually getting through a complete dance, perhaps we should go about this a bit ... differently,” he said carefully.
“Differently?” Julia repeated. “What are you suggesting?”
Alistair shrugged, glancing over to be sure the dance master was still asleep. How does he do that without falling down? he wondered. Horses do it, but they stand on four legs. “Is there someone who might be agreeable to actually play music during our lessons?” he asked quietly. “Your friend, perhaps?”
Julia seemed surprised by the idea, but she gave it some thought before shaking her head. “Lady Samantha doesn’t play the piano-forté, but my mother does,” she replied.
About to agree, Alistair then wondered if Lady Mayfield would recognize him. She knew his mother. She had been at Aimsley House on several occasions when he’d been there. She had seen him riding in Hyde Park, although it had been several years ago. Would she recognize him? They only see what they expect to see, he reminded himself. “Will you ask her if she might favor us with her skills then?” he wondered.
Julia lifted one shoulder as a blush seemed to creep up her face. “I will,” she agreed before she swallowed.
“What is it, my lady?” Alistair asked, noticing her sudden embarrassment.
She dared another glance at the dance master. “Monsieur Girard is about to fall over. He’s leaning a bit too far to the left.”
Alistair turned his attention to the dance master and had to agree that the man was, indeed, about to fall over. If the sense of falling didn’t awaken him before he got his legs back under him, he would crash to the ballroom floor, perhaps damaging himself—or the floor—and certainly bumping his head in the process. “I’ll see to it,” Alistair said as he made his way to where Monsieur Girard stood. Reaching around to the back of the dance master, Alistair gave him a firm pat on the back and said, “Well done, Monsieur, I do believe I’ve got it!”
The dance master pitched forward but managed to catch himself and straighten in a move that befitted a man who taught others how to dance. His expression was rather wild, though, his eyes wide and rolling about as if he didn’t quite know where he was. Finally, he seemed to gather his thoughts and gave Alistair a firm nod. “If that is the case, Mr. Comber, then you shall prove it by doing the entire dance from the top without making a mistake,” the Frenchman said in an accent so thick Alistair could barely understand him.
“Now?” Alistair replied, his eyebrows furrowing. The lesson had already gone on far too long.
The dance master glanced about the room as if he hadn’t heard Alistair’s protest. “Of course, now,” he said firmly. He reached over to the metronome and wound the instrument, setting the pendulum to swinging in the monotonous beat for the Cotillion. “Form up,” he called out.
Alistair hurried over to where Julia stood, her eyes blazing. “How could you?” she asked in hoarse whisper.
Giving her his most apologetic shrug, Alistair said, “I apologize, my lady,” and positioned himself for the second attempt at completing the dance. “I thought he would end the lesson.”
Instead, Monsieur Girard’s standing catnap only made him more awake—and more aware—for the remainder of the excruciating lesson. When he had stopped the couple no less than five times before they were even halfway through the dance, Alistair could tell Julia’s composure was wilting. At any moment, she would say words no lady should speak in mixed company. Alistair knew this because he had witnessed his older sister’s occasional eruptions of anger when she had been pushed too far. He even had a scar from one such eruption, from where her fist had made contact near his right eyebrow. He rather doubted Julia would haul off and punch him with a closed fist—she would probably slap him with an open palm— but he didn’t want to tempt fate.
In an attempt to stave off Julia’s impending eruption, he imagined himself on a ballroom floor in the middle of one of Lady Worthington’s balls, executing the perfect Cotillion with his favorite partner from the days before he’d joined the army. Each step was perfectly placed, each movement of his hand precise, all to the rhythm of the metronome. When the dance finally ended, he bowed to a rather startled Julia.
“You did it perfectly,” she breathed, awe in her voice.
“As did you,” Alistair countered, taking her hand to kiss the back of it.
Julia widened her eyes as she watched Mr. Comber kiss her hand. When he let go and stood up, he turned to the dance master, apparently to bow to him when he suddenly stopped and stared. Julia followed his line of sight and sighed rather loudly when she witnessed what he was seeing.
Although he was leaning against the dais and was still on his feet, Monsieur Girard was sound asleep.
“Damn him,” Julia stated as she stomped a foot.
Alistair turned his attention back to his dance partner, a stunned look on his face. “My thoughts exactly, my lady,” he whispered. After giving her another bow, he took his leave of the room. He was halfway to the back door of the mansion when he heard Julia’s eruption, a combination of a scream and a yell of frustration followed by a rather satisfying thump and a male’s yowl of pain.
Alistair couldn’t keep a grin from his face as he returned to the stables.
Chapter Thirteen
Parting is Not Such Sweet Sorrow
“I cannot stay in here any longer,” Sarah whispered, her lips caressing the side of Gabriel’s chest as she spoke. She had already been out of sight of the inn’s staff for more than two hours, a situation that might have someone sending out a search party. If she was found with the earl, who knew what would happen? She would probably lose her position. She would most definitely gain a reputation as a lightskirt, a reputation she had carefully and completely overcome since her last time with the Earl of Trenton. “I have probably already been missed,” she added, mostly to herself. She could only hope Margery was seeing to little Gabe.
Dozing and barely aware of where he was, Gabriel murmured something unintelligible and then used the arm her head was resting on to pull her closer. “Can you come back tonight?” he finally asked, kissing the top of her head. “I rather enjoy your lessons.”
Sarah allowed a grin before stretching her legs and her one free arm. She used the other to prop up her head as she regarded the earl. “I ... I suppose,” she replied, using her free hand to rake her fingernails through his blond curls. “I know you don’t like it when I do this, but I find I cannot help myself,” she whispered playfully.
Gabriel opened one eye, a smirk appearing on his face. “Now, there you are quite mistaken, my lady,” he replied. How many times in the past year had he imagined her raking her fingers through his hair, lightly scraping his scalp so that shivers of pleasure danced over his head? Seeing her like this, the heel of her hand held against her forehead, her hair in a tumble of golden blonde waves around her shoulders, a lock of hair nearly covering one of her eyes, made him wish he could wake up to the sight of her every morning.
Sarah frowned. “You like it?”
His grin broadening, Gabriel nodded. “I dream of you doing it,” he murmured happily, his eyes closing again.
Sarah stared at the man in whose bed she once again found herself, stunned by his words. He had been appreciative the last time, paying handsomely for her time and the tumble. Nothing had been said this time about compensation, and she found herself hoping he wouldn’t bring it up. After more than a year of celibacy, she didn’t want to be paid for what she enjoyed doing with the man. There could be no future for them, although she had at one time hoped he might ask her to t
ake on the role of his mistress, at least until he was married.
Would she do so now, should he ask? He was pleasant to be with, and seemed to enjoy their time together as much as she did. He’d been a quick study when it came to kissing; the man was much improved over their first evening together. And he was handsome—too handsome for his own good, she considered. But would she agree to be his mistress?
I would, she decided.
Gabriel, his eyes still closed, wondered how to bring up the topic of his future. He needed a wife, and although he should have been back in London searching for one, the idea of doing so was so abhorrent, he couldn’t abide thinking of it. Especially when he had a candidate in Sarah. True, she wasn’t a peer of the realm, but at this point, he didn’t want one. As to whether or not she could execute the duties of a countess, he considered she was already doing similar duties as the manager of the inn. Of course she would make the perfect hostess for dinner parties and their guests, she could manage his households much like she managed the inn, and best of all, she was the perfect bedmate. A countess, a mistress and a wife, all in one, he thought with a smile.
“I have sworn off mistresses,” he murmured quietly, his eyes still closed.
Sarah stared at the earl for several moments, wondering if he could read her thoughts. A sense of disappointment settled over her, as if he had dismissed her with his simple statement. “Oh,” she answered finally, suddenly fighting back tears. She chided herself for allowing an overwhelming sense of sadness to settle over her. “Well then,” she said, trying to control her breathing so she wouldn’t let out a sob. “On that note, I will take my leave of you,” she said in a whisper.
Sliding off the bed, she quickly donned her chemise. Pulling up her corset over her hips, she was thankful she’d worn the one that tied in the front. She had the round gown over her head and settled onto her shoulders and over her hips in one quick move. Stepping into her slippers, she took one last look at the sleeping form of Gabriel Wellingham before unlocking the door and taking her leave of his room.
Once she was in the hallway, Sarah found she couldn’t control the tears. She made her way to her own room, intent on holding her son and allowing her tears to flow freely.
How could I have been such a fool? she wondered, wiping her tears on one sleeve as she reached for the door knob.
“He’s sound asleep,” Margery whispered as she entered the room.
Sarah had to stifle a gasp. She hadn’t been expecting the barmaid to be in her bedchamber. And, for a moment, she thought the girl referred to the earl.
“Has been for over an hour,” the barmaid added as she put down a set of knitting needles. “It’s time I get dressed for the supper crowd. Angus McElliott’s birthday is tomorrow, and I have reason to believe the party will start a bit early,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh?” Sarah answered as she checked on Gabe. The babe was breathing softly, his halo of blond curls surrounding his cherubic face. “I hope our earl won’t mind the noise too much,” she commented as she turned to find Margery staring at her. “What ... What is it?” she asked, her brows furrowing.
“He fancies you,” Margery said with a grin.
Sarah stared back at the barmaid for perhaps a moment too long. “And what makes you say that?” She could feel her face flush with color. Damnation! Did any of the other inn’s employees know she had been with the earl?
“I won’t tell a soul,” Margery claimed with a shake of her head. “I don’t think anyone else knows, but ... I could just see it in his eyes ... the way that he looked at you. He’s ... he’s fond of you.”
Feigning embarrassment, which wasn’t difficult given the situation, Sarah waved a hand at the barmaid. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s an earl. I ... I run an inn. I used to be a barmaid ...”
“You’re sweet on him.”
Sarah froze, one hand pressed against her midriff. She knows, she thought, a bit panicked at the thought that the odd relationship she shared with Gabriel Wellingham was apparent to a barmaid. “He is a rather handsome man,” Sarah finally admitted. “Hard not to be ... attracted to him,” she added lamely.
“True,” Margery agreed as she made her way to the door. “Do give him some consideration, Miss Cumberbatch. If you remember, I occasionally read those gossip rags from London. The Earl of Trenton didn’t do so well with those blue bloods last Season. I hear the man is in desperate need of a wife, and there’s no reason it can’t be you.”
With that, Margery took her leave of Sarah’s room—and a rather stunned Sarah.
Chapter Fourteen
Clothes Make the Man
Wallings, Viscount Cheltenham’s valet since Julia’s brother was out of short pants, regarded Alistair with a raised brow. “I do believe I can find some suitable clothes,” he murmured, stepping back and regarding Alistair from the side. “And, if not, I can have Holdwalter pay a call. We can have something custom made in a day or two.”
Alistair cocked an eyebrow, certain the valet was baiting him. “Perhaps that would be best, seeing as how Lord Cheltenham is shorter than I am. I will, of course, pay for the clothes myself,” he stated as he regarded his reflection in the cheval mirror.
The two had been in Charles Mayfield’s bedchamber for the past half-hour, Wallings providing a steady stream of waistcoats and topcoats for Alistair to try on. The waistcoats, although a bit on the flamboyant side, fit well enough, but the topcoats proved a problem in that the shoulders were far too narrow and the sleeves were too short.
At the comment about paying for the tailor’s services, Wallings’ allowed an expression of surprise. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I rather doubt you can afford Mr. Holdwalter’s fees given your position,” he said, sotto voce.
Pulling on a pair of breeches, Alistair groaned as it became evident he would be unable to secure the buttons on the fly.
Although the superfine wool had some give, it didn’t give enough. Not only would every muscle in his thighs show in relief, so would everything in his nether regions. “I have a bit of blunt,” Alistair assured the valet, quickly divesting himself of the formal attire. And if it wasn’t enough, he might be able to ask Holdwalter’s son-in-law for a loan.
Edward Seward, apparently happily married for nearly two years now, had just returned to London from an extended Grand Tour with his bride, the former Anna Holdwalter. The two were currently on the hunt for an appropriate residence while staying with the Cunninghams in their terrace on Grosvenor Square.
“Very good, sir,” Wallings replied. He angled his head to one side and sighed. “That is all that Viscount Cheltenham has in his clothes press at the moment,” he said with a shrug.
Alistair turned to take in the neat pile of waistcoats and topcoats that lay on the bench at the end of the bed, a bit of panic settling over him. He’d have to pay a call on Seward just as soon as he had some free time, perhaps later that night, after the servants’ supper.
For the first time since he’d left Aimsley House, he found himself missing the services of a footman. “Holdwalter, it is, then,” Alistair murmured, wondering at the irony of borrowing money from the husband of the daughter of the tailor to pay the tailor. Like robbing Peter to pay Paul, he thought without feeling any humor at the irony. “Thank you for your help in all this,” he said as he waved his hand over the discarded clothing.
Wallings nodded. “Of course. May I ask, sir, why you are in need of formal clothes? Perhaps if I knew the ... event, I could better dress you for the occasion.”
Alistair had to suppress a grin. He wondered how long it would be before the valet could no longer hide his curiosity. “Lady Mayfield’s ball,” he replied in a whisper. “I am not at liberty to explain the details, but it is imperative that I present myself as a gentleman. No one in attendance can know that I am truly a groom,” he whispered, leaning in as if he was concerned they might be overheard.
Wallings’ eyebrows lifted to a new high. “Are you ... crashing ... t
he ball?” he wondered, obviously distressed by the news a mere groom would attempt to attend a ton ball.
“Oh, no!” Alistair replied quickly, his head shaking from side to side. “I have an invitation ... to be a guest,” he clarified when Wallings gave him another look of disbelief.
“Rather unusual circumstances then,” Wallings commented, his brows having descended to their normal location.
“Indeed,” Alistair agreed with a nod.
“I’ll see to the appointment, then,” Wallings said, moving to put away the discarded clothes.
“Thank you,” Alistair said. “Would you like me to help with those?” he wondered, suddenly embarrassed that he was the cause of a good deal of work for the valet.
“I can see to this,” Wallings said with a nod.
Feeling dismissed, Alistair made his way out of the room. He almost headed for the main hall staircase when he remembered his status in the household. Making a quick turn, he hurried to the servant stairs at the back of the house and made his way to the stables by way of the back garden.
Chapter Fifteen
An Earl Wakes Up to Reality
Gabriel Wellingham stretched and turned on his side, expecting to open his eyes to find Sarah staring back at him. Instead, he found himself staring at empty bedclothes and a goose feather that wiggled with his every breath. Lifting himself onto one elbow, he glanced around the room. Damnation! Where had she gone?
His sleep addled mind remembered her parting words. I have probably already been missed, she’d said. Indeed, you are missed, he thought lazily, enjoying the way his body felt after their afternoon lovemaking. He gave a thought to how he might entice her to return to his bed later that night. And stay in it so he could wake up next to her in the morning.
Finally rising, he realized the luncheon dishes had been cleared, but a pot of hot tea and a cup and saucer had been left in their place. Helping himself, he poured a cup and downed it one gulp. He dressed quickly and left the room, intent on taking a ride. At some point, he would have to find the inn’s manager before the supper crowd arrived. Once the locals started filling up the public room, there would be no chance to get Sarah by herself until late into the night.