The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  The two males watched for a moment more as the woman dug in her heels and seemed to be gaining the upper hand. But then the dog began to drag her forward, pulling her lower and closer to the ground until she collapsed with an audible expulsion of breath, facedown in the dirt.

  “Sarah?” the boy queried in a mischievous tone. “Have you rescued Lord Weston’s coat?”

  The woman froze. Then slowly she released the torn coat and pulled herself upright, brushing lightly at the front of her wet, mud-stained gown.

  “I beg your pardon, Nigel. Did you say ‘Lord Weston’?”

  The dog galloped to a stop beside her and dropped the coat at her feet.

  “Bad dog!” she whispered vehemently, bending to snatch up the torn garment.

  The boy elbowed Marcus in the ribs. “Why yes, Sarah,” he said, drawing her attention back to her question. “The coat belongs to Lord Weston.”

  The lady’s demeanor changed instantly. She leveled a cool glance at Marcus, her chin tilting slightly higher. Her diminutive shoulders squared and she attempted to unobtrusively peel the clingy gown from her fair skin.

  Marcus stifled a laugh. She was covered from head to toe in dirt and God only knew what else. Any woman in her right mind would have fainted from the embarrassment of the situation. And, he realized, any man would have politely excused himself by now.

  Yet, here he was.

  “I do apologize for my dog’s behavior, Lord Weston,” she said agreeably. The trailing bit of bracken at her hemline did little to aid her dignity as she walked toward him. “And I will, of course, pay for the damages to your coat.”

  She thrust the ruined article of clothing toward him, avoiding his gaze.

  “Mother is going to be apoplectic when she hears about this!” Nigel said with glee.

  She caught Nigel’s arm with some force, if the boy’s pained expression was any indication. “Nigel, make yourself useful and properly introduce us, please.”

  “She’ll be abed for days with this one—”

  “Nigel!” the woman remonstrated, maintaining a polite if strained smile.

  “Very well,” Nigel begrudgingly agreed. “Sarah Elizabeth Tisdale, may I present Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.”

  The bizarre quality of the moment was not lost on Marcus. Here he stood, clothing torn and mauled by what was clearly the result of a misguided romantic encounter between a canine and large bear. The female standing in front of him was in absolute and, not to put too fine a point on it, scandalous disarray. And a devilish sprite was performing polite introductions in the middle of the wood.

  It was of Shakespearean proportions. A farce, to be sure.

  He should be appalled. Any man of his standing would be.

  But he was delighted.

  And he couldn’t remember a time that he’d been so thankful for the ache in his leg and the need of a walk.

  “Miss Tisdale,” he said, offering her a respectful bow.

  She executed an awkward curtsy. “Lord Weston, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Marcus found it oddly amusing, their mutual adherence to the proprieties despite the clearly improper circumstances of this encounter. “And I yours.”

  She looked at him then, a blush settling on her ivory skin. “We were not aware you were in residence at the castle.”

  “Do you always make use of the lake in my absence?” he asked teasingly, his charm returning.

  “I can assure you, sir, that we do not make a habit of trespassing on your—”

  “We most certainly do,” Nigel interrupted indignantly. “It’s the best fishing in the county.”

  Miss Tisdale looked as if she might spontaneously combust. The flush of heat traveling from her neck upward would certainly erupt in flames among her fiery auburn curls.

  She took a deep breath, an impish grin coming to rest on her lips. “Oh, all right, then. We do. Now, Nigel,” she paused, looking about as if searching for something, and then whistling in a most unladylike fashion. “Do secure Titus’s leash.”

  The earth shook as the huge dog ran toward them. Marcus braced himself as Titus came to a sliding stop mere inches from his legs.

  Nigel retrieved a leather lead, coiled in a serpentine pile near the bank. “I don’t know why we bother with this. It would hardly keep him—”

  Miss Tisdale daintily cleared her throat and shot Nigel a murderous look. “The lead, Nigel.”

  No sooner had the boy obeyed when Titus lifted his massive head and caught the scent of something on the wind. He bounded off with Nigel in tow, leaving Marcus and Miss Tisdale quite alone.

  Miss Tisdale watched as Titus dragged her brother along, a small smile forming on her mouth. “Serves him right,” she said under her breath.

  Marcus pretended not to hear her, as it was the polite thing to do. Still, he smiled.

  He could not look away. The sun had begun to dry her auburn hair so that it gleamed. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to measure the weight of it in his hands.

  Her profile enthralled him. Her pert nose—sprinkled with freckles, no less—was the ideal accompaniment to her high cheekbones and that perfect mouth.

  “I apologize, Lord Weston,” she offered quietly, without looking at him.

  Marcus abruptly ended his cataloging of her features. “For trespassing or for Titus?” he quipped.

  “Both, actually,” she answered, turning to look at him, a charming smirk lighting up her face. “And the mud. I’m really quite sorry for the mud.”

  And just like that, she ran from the lake bank and disappeared into the shrubbery, her long hair swaying behind her as she went.

  “What in bloody hell just happened?” Marcus said aloud, not sure what to do next.

  “Ouch!” Nigel cried, rubbing at his head. A moment before, Sarah’s knuckles had come in all-too-enthusiastic contact with his scalp. “What was that for?”

  Sarah took Titus’s leather lead from Nigel and yanked the dog to a slower pace. “Do not play innocent with me, young man.”

  Nigel gave her a mystified look. “Honestly, Sarah, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Oh, wait,” he offered, “is this about me calling Lord Weston the Errant Earl?”

  “You did what?” Sarah shrieked.

  Nigel scurried ahead. “It’s not as if I lied to the man. I’ve heard Mother and her friends call him by that name plenty of times.”

  So had Sarah, but she wasn’t about to validate Nigel’s point. Besides, she’d always thought it rather presumptuous of the women to label him as such. If he’d spent so little time in the district, then it was surely impossible for anyone to know the man well enough to judge.

  “No, not that—though it was rather rude. I’m referring to the fact that you all but admitted that we trespass upon Lord Weston’s land on a regular basis.”

  “Actually, I did admit to that.”

  “Exactly!”

  Nigel kicked at a rock in his path. “Is not honesty the best policy?” he queried, using his sister’s words against her.

  “This is hardly the time to become virtuous, Nigel,” she answered, her words laced with amusement.

  Titus lunged for the rolling rock and grasped it within his powerful jaws.

  “Lord Weston seemed a reasonable man.” Nigel leaned over to pry the rock out of Titus’s mouth, with little success. “I hardly think he’ll alert the parish constable.”

  Sarah was loath to tell Nigel precisely what was needling her about the interlude with Lord Weston. Though any human being with a modicum of sense could have guessed that the entirety of their introduction was beyond acceptable.

  She was speaking to Nigel, though, she reminded herself. Twelve-year-old boys, in her experience, embraced a different view of the world and the niceties of society’s rules.

  Actually, more often than not, Sarah seemed to agree with Nigel on this very topic. But in the short amount of time she’d spent in Lord Weston’s company, Sarah had recognized that he w
as … Well, Lord Weston was different, though she could not put her finger on exactly why.

  “I do not fear our arrest,” she began, pulling upon the lead until Titus protested with a loud whine. “It’s simply that as introductions go—”

  Titus gagged loudly. The rock flew out of his mouth, landing in the grass just beyond the path.

  “Well,” she continued as if there had been no interruption, “it was hardly ideal.”

  Titus instantly recovered and pulled Sarah forward.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nigel replied, running to catch up. “I’d say that we made quite an impression.”

  Sarah shook her head. But Nigel’s smile had a way of warming her heart.

  And, in truth, she couldn’t tell him why she was so upset.

  Because she herself didn’t precisely know the cause.

  Making “quite an impression” was nothing new to Sarah Tisdale. Since leaving childhood behind, she’d suffered through countless introductions to eligible bachelors. Her physical clumsiness and alarming tendency to say whatever might be on her mind had resulted in a profound lack of interest on the part of said bachelors.

  At first, their reactions had upset and saddened her. And then, they angered her. And now? Well, now she simply did not care. Or did she?

  Sarah attempted to rein Titus in as they approached Tisdale Manor.

  Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, had, beyond a shadow of a doubt, met Sarah at her worst. She had to give him credit for exhibiting only mild horror at her appearance and disarray.

  Sarah released Titus from the lead and allowed him to run into the yard of Tisdale Manor, his enthusiastic barking alerting the entire household to their return.

  “No hiding from Mother now,” Nigel declared, nudging Sarah in the ribs before loping after Titus.

  Sarah squared her shoulders and sighed. Lord Weston was remarkably handsome, even when covered in mud. His golden hair brought to mind long, lazy summer days spent out-of-doors. Titus’s attack had helped to outline the man’s physique, his sodden shirt and breeches molding to an expansive set of shoulders that tapered to a trim waist and well-muscled legs.

  Yet, she reminded herself, despite his good looks, he was a man, and as such, could only be relied upon for one thing: disappointment.

  If trespassing on his grounds had not been enough to drive him off, surely her tripping over the tree root must have convinced him that the opinion held by the entirety of England’s male population had been correct: Sarah Tisdale was simply more than any man should—or could—take on.

  “Bollocks,” Sarah muttered.

  She delighted in swearing. Borrowing from Nigel’s supply of inappropriate terms secretly thrilled her.

  And putting Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, in his place, if only in her mind, was endlessly satisfying.

  He was handsome. And charming. And he’d failed to lose his temper and take a stick to Titus, even though most men in his position would have done so.

  And the heat of his gaze lingering on her damp skin had nearly done her in. Her toes had curled, she was sure of it.

  But curled toes or no, Sarah would not entertain any further thoughts of Lord Weston.

  “Sarah!” Her mother’s hysterical shriek carried from inside the house. Titus howled and ran to hide in an outbuilding.

  “Coward,” Sarah grumbled at the dog, walking reluctantly into the house. Nigel must have already shared the news of Lord Weston’s arrival with the family.

  “Sa-Rah!”

  She sighed with resignation.

  This would not end well.

  Sarah entered the sun-filled foyer and hesitated, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the midday heat.

  “Do not keep me waiting, child.”

  Sarah’s eyes popped open at the demand. One more moment of delay and she’d have to sacrifice Titus to appease her mother.

  Pulling a twig from her curls, Sarah walked down the hall, her ruined kid boots leaving mud in her wake.

  Think, Sarah, think.

  She’d bested her mother in less time before, though her current state of disrepair would prove an impediment.

  She turned into the parlor, her mother’s appalled gasp too loud to ignore.

  “Really, Sarah, do you wish to frighten me to death?” Lenora Tisdale exclaimed, gesturing for her daughter to come nearer.

  Sarah looked across the room. Nigel stood at the tall windows, fidgeting with the umber drapery sash. His guilt-ridden expression told her without words that their mother already knew of Lord Weston’s presence in the district.

  She gave Nigel a reassuring look and one quick wink before answering. “Come now, Mother, it would take far more than fright to fell the likes of you,” she answered, the sarcasm in her voice nearly hidden.

  Her mother eyed her with reproach, clearing her throat. “Sarah, am I to understand that you—”

  “Though, I am sorry to say,” Sarah continued over her mother’s words, “there is a bit of news that you, in all likelihood, will find most distressing.”

  Managing the direction of a conversation was a maneuver that usually worked well with Lenora Tisdale. The myriad disparate bits of information residing in her brain were easily toppled and confused by the lure of interesting news.

  “What are you telling me, girl?” her mother asked, her brows knitting together briefly as she smoothed the skirt of her primrose-patterned day dress.

  Sarah drew nearer, sinking to her knees and settling herself on the Aubusson carpet with her damp muslin skirts pooling about her. “Oh, yes, Mother. Quite distressing indeed,” she answered with a foreboding tone. “The Earl of Weston has returned to Lulworth Castle,” she proclaimed with dramatic effect.

  Lenora faltered, and then found her footing. “Am I to understand that Nigel speaks the truth? You have met the Errant Earl? In such a state?” she asked, her eyebrows rising to meet her hairline.

  “Can you imagine the impertinence of such a man?” Sarah answered, schooling her countenance into offended lines. “He has returned to Lulworth Castle unannounced—a social faux pas, if there ever was one. And as if that were not bad enough, he insisted on an introduction when I was clearly neither prepared nor inclined to acknowledge him! The presumptuousness of the man knows no bounds!”

  “Indeed. He is no gentleman—but we knew this already,” Lenora agreed quietly. Her eyes narrowed, her mind clearly working to rearrange the facts of the situation so as to suit her needs.

  Sarah held her breath as she watched the emotions play across her mother’s face. The truth was quite simple: Since being put on the shelf at the age of two-and-twenty, Sarah had enjoyed an uncomplicated life, relatively free from the machinations of her mother. The moment her last remaining prospect, Sir Reginald Busby, proposed to Lilith Mackam nearly three years before, it was as if she no longer existed, at least to Lenora.

  It had been, in a word, bliss.

  Lord Weston’s return could ruin everything. The gossip over the years had made it clear enough that the Errant Earl held no special place in the villagers’ hearts, including her mother’s. But Sarah suspected that his title and all that came with it would give Lenora cause to reconsider.

  Sarah believed with grim certainty that she was not meant to be the wife of an earl, as well the entire county knew. Men did not want a woman. They wanted a wife who would fawn over them. And a mother to bear their children. And a dressmaker’s dummy to look the loveliest at social events. But not a woman with a mind. Or spirit. Or independent tendencies. And especially not one who could hardly manage walking—never mind dancing—without maiming herself.

  In short, not her.

  Was it too much to hope that Lenora would agree?

  “Yes indeed. Not a gentleman,” Lenora repeated, though this time with markedly more enthusiasm and disdain. “Really, one should be able to expect more of a titled man, though Weston has proven himself in the past to be quite undeserving of his station, so I do not know why I
would hope for improvement.”

  Sarah wanted to point out that Lenora had not even met the earl, at least not since he’d been in short pants. But she curbed the desire to do so and instead nodded in solemn agreement, then rose from the carpet. “Yes, quite,” she offered, slowly backing toward the door.

  “Just let the man attempt to make amends. I will give him the cut direct.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if he thinks for one moment that we may be obliging,” Lenora continued, indignation rising. “Really, to force an introduction with you looking like that—”

  “Absurd!” Sarah nodded before exiting the room, breaking into a run the moment she was out of sight in the hall and dashing toward the stairs.

  Brava, Sarah, she commended herself with a satisfied smile, though she’d failed to include Nigel in her escape, she realized. Ah, well, serves him right. He is the one who wanted to go fishing.

  “Did you capture the smugglers all on your own, then?” Sully asked, regarding Marcus’s appearance with a raised eyebrow.

  Marcus tossed his ruined coat at the valet, hitting him squarely in the head. “I applaud your restraint, Sully. We’ve walked the length of Lulworth Castle to reach my rooms and you’ve kept your gob shut until now.”

  “Is the leg bothering you?” Sully inquired, pulling the coat from atop his head and dropping the sodden garment to the floor.

  Marcus eased himself into an armchair near a large window. “Don’t go changing the subject.” His leg throbbed and he winced, shifting to ease it.

  “Bloody martyr,” Sully said under his breath as he knelt and carefully pulled off Marcus’s boot. “The doctor ordered you to rest.”

  “This was hardly of my doing,” Marcus informed him.

  “Why do I find that hard to believe?” Sully asked, eyeing the muddy Hessians with disgust.

  “I’ve absolutely no idea,” Marcus replied.

  Sully turned to drop the pair of dirty boots by the door. “I was right to begin with, was I? The smugglers surrendered after a brief but doomed resistance?” He returned to stand by the window, eyeing Marcus with interest.