“Hardly, though I suspect a boatload of smugglers would be far easier to catch than Miss Tisdale.”
“Miss Tisdale? A woman did that to you?” Sully asked, not bothering to smother a laugh.
“Not precisely,” Marcus began, but the discomfort caused by his wet breeches urged him upright. “No, it was her mongrel.”
Sully laughed out loud. “A lady’s lapdog did that—to you!”
“Hardly a lapdog. The thing was a mass of fur and claws. And the slobber. Oh God, the slobber. I assure you,” Marcus answered, unbuttoning his linen shirt, “the size of a full-grown man and just as strong.”
“Of course, my lord,” Sully replied, attempting to rein in his mirth. “And his name? Precious? Or Lord Knickerbottom, perhaps?”
Marcus balled up the shirt, tossed it, and hit Sully in the chest. “Titus.” He walked to the chest of drawers, where a porcelain bowl and a pitcher of warm water sat. Sluicing his fingers first, he cupped both hands and lowered his head, dousing his face and hair.
“And the woman? Was she a mass of muscles and claws as well?”
Marcus almost answered in the affirmative. Sarah Tisdale certainly possessed canine qualities, though one would not know it to look at her.
The epitome of an English rose, Miss Tisdale sprang to Marcus’s mind immediately, despite the fact that he’d never before been intrigued with such countryside offerings. Her fresh complexion perfectly complemented her mass of auburn hair. That hair had swung seductively back and forth as she walked, the length of it nearly reaching her rounded backside.
And those green eyes. The color of the lush banks of Loch Ness. They spoke of wildness. Of passion as yet unrealized.
Marcus splashed himself again and let the water drip down his neck and bare chest.
His tastes had always run toward the polished. He supposed that had everything to do with Lulworth and, to a lesser extent, Inverness. The local girls in both towns had feigned interest only when their mamas had thought of his titles and financial worth, leaving Marcus with the feeling that he fit neither in their world nor his.
London, with its capricious rules of polite society that were easily bent with the right amount of money or charm, had given Marcus the opportunity for advancement after his time at Oxbridge. So had his affiliation with the titled men of the Young Corinthians. Carmichael had recruited the solitary youth after witnessing his skills in a fencing match, though Marcus learned later that the man had been following his progress for some time.
The secret arm of England’s royal forces, the Corinthians counted among their numbers many of the ton’s most prominent members. Associating with powerful men who were stars in the ton’s firmament had done wonders for Marcus’s reputation.
“Did she slobber then?”
His mind still absorbed in the past, Sully’s question surprised him. “I’m sorry?”
The valet handed Marcus a linen towel. “Miss Tisdale. Was she as terrifying as her hound from hell?”
Marcus wiped his face and neck with the length of linen. “Oddly enough, she was.”
“Missing teeth and as round as a carriage wheel, then?”
Marcus chuckled. “No, not at all. Quite attractive, actually.” He dropped the damp towel on the bureau and crossed to the armoire. “No, I’m referring to her demeanor. Not that she was rude. There’s just … something.”
Something good. She’d been flustered by the situation, that much had been clear. But despite this, the woman had treated him as though he were any other male of her acquaintance—English, Scottish, canine, or otherwise.
Sully followed at a leisurely pace. “Lust, my lord. The girl’s a mere country bumpkin. When a woman such as she is presented with a dashing London gentleman, well, what else was she to do?”
Marcus did not have to turn and look at Sully to know he was smiling. “No, it was most decidedly not lust, though I’ll have you know,” he paused, flexing his well-honed arms for effect, “I am, indeed, a fine specimen, even with the limp.”
“That you are, my lord, that you are,” Sully answered with amusement. “Which ought to be helpful at your dance tomorrow night.”
Marcus ceased perusing the linen shirts and turned to look at his valet. “My dance?” he asked, a hint of irritation lacing his question.
“Oh, yes, my lord,” Sully answered firmly, moving past Marcus to choose a shirt. “We’ve discussed this. You’ll need to do the pretty with the locals if there’s any hope of gathering information on the smugglers.”
Marcus ground his teeth together at the mention of the investigation. “You’re assuming that there’s a shred of truth to Carmichael’s suspicions?”
“I’m assuming we might as well get on about our business,” Sully answered succinctly. “Carmichael’s not about to forget why he sent you here.”
Marcus knew Sully was right. Though the likelihood of any real nefarious goings-on was slim, he had a job to do. “What makes you think the local gentry will bother to come?” Marcus pressed, “especially with such short notice?”
Sully reached for one of the dozen folded shirts and handed it to Marcus. “Come now, my lord. You know as well as I that they’ll overcome any misgivings they may have for the opportunity to step foot in the castle. Especially with you here—you’re a curiosity. Only half an Englishman you may be, but your titles are complete enough and there’s no arguing on that point.”
Sully spoke the truth, and it only made him loathe the locals more. He could almost admire them for holding a grudge against his family for so long, such an undertaking surely requiring single-minded strength and dedication. But to put aside their convictions for quality claret and a view of the brutish Scot? That was deplorable, plain and simple.
He dropped one arm into the shirtsleeve and then the other, moving on to the buttons. “Fair enough.”
“Really, quite beyond the pale,” Lenora exclaimed, her statement nearly lost under the methodical rattle of the carriage wheels. “Really. Quite.”
Sarah’s father, Sir Arthur Tisdale, pretended to doze in the corner, though his breathing pattern told otherwise.
“If it is beyond the pale—which I most certainly do agree with—then why do we find ourselves in a carriage bound for a dance at Lulworth Castle?” Sarah asked pointedly, in no mood to encourage her mother. She’d started out strong in her quest to throw Lenora off the earl’s scent, yet here they were. Not good. Not good at all.
Lenora rolled her eyes and huffed as if she’d never heard a more ridiculous question in her life. “Sarah, the earl’s hastily planned party shows arrogance and the assumption that the village will simply jump to his bidding, I’ll give you that,” she began, pausing to pick a piece of lint from Sarah’s pomona green gown. “But what are we to do? Nearly everyone of our acquaintance will be there. Would you have us not attend?”
“And would you have me ask the earl exactly how high I should jump?” Sarah replied, perfectly aware of how dangerous this game could be, yet unable to stop herself. “I do wonder if I’ll be able to perform to his standards in these slippers. I should have worn my more serviceable boots. Far easier to jump—”
“Sarah Elizabeth Tisdale!” Lenora twisted her fingers together in her lap, apparently to restrain herself lest she reach out and throttle her offspring. “You are impertinent and—”
“Did I nod off?” Sarah’s father interrupted, his large, strong hand covering his wife’s.
Lenora visibly calmed at his touch. “Of course you did, Arthur. You always do.”
“Pity, that,” he replied, looking out the carriage window. “Well, if my descent into slumber was ill-timed, it looks as if my awakening could not have been more timely.”
Sarah and her mother followed Sir Arthur’s gaze out the carriage window. The walls of Lulworth Castle loomed nearer, the stone exterior softened and made more welcoming by the gathering of the county’s polite society as the coaches delivered them to the front door.
The Tisdale carriag
e rolled to a slow stop and Sir Arthur released Lenora’s hand. “The earl awaits,” he urged, alighting from the carriage and reaching for his wife.
Her mother gave Sarah the look, adjusted the silk shawl about her shoulders, and then stepped gracefully from the coach on her husband’s arm. Her clear voice called a greeting to Mrs. Rathbone as she joined a number of acquaintances chatting together on the castle steps.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Sarah’s father began, looking after Lenora as she walked away, “that was your mother’s ‘Please do behave or I’ll be forced to lecture you into an early grave’ look. Am I correct?”
Sarah laughed lightly at the statement. “I would be careful if I were you, Father. She’s not above delivering such discipline to you,” she warned, rising to step down from the coach and into the warm night air.
Sarah took her father’s offered arm, allowing him to escort her to the castle steps.
“No need to remind me,” he answered, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.
The two entered the castle and mounted the stairs, the soft sound of stringed instruments just audible above the jovial din of the gathering.
“Is this why we’re here, then?” Sarah asked her father, taking in the impressive surroundings. “To get a look at the castle and the Errant Earl?”
Arthur lovingly tucked Sarah closer to his side and patted her hand with his own. “Well, the way I see it, the man needs at least one ally. And with both of us here, he has two. A good start, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You are a dear man, you know that, don’t you?” Sarah said warmly, her father’s sensibilities calming her jangled nerves.
Sir Arthur emitted a low grumble of approval. “Or extraordinarily lazy and loath to apply myself to the business of forming opinions about one I’ve yet to meet. But I do prefer your reasoning to mine.”
The two paused to look behind them, searching the faces in the line that reached all the way to the entry. Lenora appeared suddenly, walking toward them as quickly as was seemly.
“There you are,” Sir Arthur said as his wife neared. “You nearly missed our announcement.”
Her look of complete and utter horror at violating the strict rules governing the introduction of guests had Sarah stifling a laugh.
“Really, Arthur,” Lenora protested.
He patted her arm and steered her toward the entry to the room.
The trio stepped in front of the majordomo, who held a tall black lacquered stick topped with a gold lion’s head in his right hand.
“Sir Arthur Tisdale, Lady Tisdale, and Miss Tisdale,” Sir Arthur told the man in his authoritative but kind tone.
The majordomo bowed his head, then turned, striking the Axminster carpet with the stick three times before announcing their names.
As Sarah looked out over the crowd, she noticed her dear friend Lady Bennington waving to catch her attention, smiling brightly at her. Sarah smiled and offered an enthusiastic wave in return.
“I’m going to say hello to Claire and the marquess,” she told her parents, avoiding her mother’s second admonishing look of the evening.
Her father kissed her on the cheek. “Do give them our best, dear.”
“Of course, Father.” Sarah nodded before turning to thread her way across the crowded room to reach her friend.
“My dear,” Claire said, pulling Sarah to her in a warm embrace. “I’m so pleased to see you. But I must say I’m somewhat surprised to find you here.”
“No more surprised than I,” Sarah answered, smiling at Claire’s husband, Gregory Crawford, the Marquess of Bennington, over her friend’s shoulder. “And you, my lord, are you surprised?”
Bennington gave Sarah a wry smile. “Miss Tisdale, if I’ve learned anything about my wife’s dearest friend, it is that surprise over your actions is a waste of time.”
“Not a day goes by that I do not thank the heavens you married such a perceptive man,” Sarah whispered in Claire’s ear before releasing her. “Let us pray that your child inherits the trait,” she added, patting Claire’s growing midsection affectionately.
“Now, can you, for even one fleeting moment, fathom the audacity of Lord Weston?” Sarah asked, her eyes widening with disbelief.
“Am I to assume that a certain woman is—or shall be soon—in search of an earl?” Claire asked, her expression solemn.
“As if she could help herself!”
Claire nodded.
Bennington broke in.
“Ladies, I’m afraid my curiosity has gotten the best of me. What are you talking about?”
Claire looped her arm through his and leaned in. “It is the sad tale of a life most assuredly about to be ruined—” she began in a murmur.
“My life, Claire,” Sarah added. “Do not forget what is assuredly a key point in this most heart-wrenching of tales.”
Claire reached out and squeezed Sarah’s shoulder in mock sympathy. “Of course. Now, where was I?”
“A life in ruins,” Bennington put in.
“Thank you, dear.” Claire’s smile was brilliant and adoring as she met her husband’s gaze. “A life soon to be ruined by the most uncharitable treatment of Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.”
“What could Weston have done to ruin Sarah’s life? He’s only just arrived in the district,” Bennington queried, looking confused. “We were at Oxbridge together. A bit of a solitary chap to be sure, but a good enough man.”
“Oh, he’s not ruined my life yet. After all,” Sarah paused, leaning in conspiratorially, “he has yet to meet my mother.”
Bennington’s face lit with dawning understanding. “Ah, I see. Had I known of Lady Tisdale’s involvement in this particular ruination, I would have had a far easier time following the conversation.”
“Oh, quite. She’s full of contempt for the man one moment, and the other? Here we are, in his home, awaiting an introduction. I’d bet a year’s worth of pin money that she’ll soon set about making a match. And that is where my simple life will end,” Sarah lamented.
“Is that so?” Bennington asked. His gaze moved past the two women to the entryway. “And am I to understand that we would prefer to avoid Weston this evening?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, though I hardly think the earl will seek me out after our last meeting.”
“Sarah?” Claire asked, clearly curious.
“It’s hardly worth mentioning. And it involved mud, so really—”
“Is that so?” Bennington interrupted.
Sarah tilted her head. “My lord, you repeat yourself.”
“Yes,” he answered distractedly, his gaze still fixed. “Well, it’s just that Lord Weston is coming this way—despite your assurances that he would do no such thing.”
Sarah whipped around, nearly knocking into the pianoforte. “Dammit,” she whispered as the earl strode confidently toward her.
“Oh, my,” Claire whispered in her ear, slipping her arm about Sarah’s waist.
“Remember, you’re a married woman, Claire,” Sarah hissed. “And with child!” she added, though she could not help but agree. Lord Weston looked even more handsome than he had at the lake, his black coat perfectly complemented by his white neckcloth tied trône d’amour. Sarah could not bring herself to examine anything below the man’s waist, for fear of where her mind might wander.
Claire gave her a squeeze before releasing her. “Married and with child, Sarah, but not dead. Perhaps we should not forget the earl so hastily,” she answered with a laugh.
Sarah straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. This was not good at all. She was a guest in the earl’s home and thus was required to behave in a polite manner despite the fact that the man had … Well, he’d …
Well, he’d chastised her for setting foot on his land. And he’d had the audacity to see her when she was most assuredly not presentable. It was good material, to be sure, but Sarah could not quite bring herself to believe it. Nevertheless, she just knew the man was exceedingly dislikable.
>
Sarah wondered if anyone would notice if she suddenly dropped to the floor and crawled out of sight. There were a fair number of people in the room, after all. Though she’d have to avoid—
“Miss Tisdale. A pleasure to see you again.”
Sarah blinked once, then twice, realizing with a start that the earl was standing right in front of her. And addressing her. “Drat.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Delightful,” Sarah spat out, “to see you as well, my lord,” Sarah continued, recovering. The earl looked at her with an intensity that Sarah found alarming. “Is something amiss, my lord?”
“No,” he said unconvincingly, pausing for a moment, then turning to look at Claire and Bennington. “Bennington, it’s been quite some time.”
He offered his hand to Claire’s husband, a friendly smile breaking across his face.
Bennington gripped Weston’s hand enthusiastically, and then turned to his wife. “Claire, may I present Lord Weston.”
Weston bowed before Claire, brushing a kiss against her fingers.
Claire’s eyes danced with amusement. “It is truly a pleasure, Lord Weston.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Really?”
The three turned at once to stare at her.
“Um … that is,” Sarah began, looking frantically about the room for an acceptable excuse. Lady Farnsworth and her niece Constance Shaw, who was visiting from Norwich, hovered nearby conversing with a small set of women. Sarah had met Constance only a few weeks before. The girl was agreeable enough. Lady Farnsworth, on the other hand, was absolutely dreadful. But there was little that could be done about it now.
“Lady Farnsworth, Miss Shaw, how extraordinary to see you,” Sarah blurted out at the two women.
They turned at the sound of their names. “Miss Tisdale, it is indeed,” Constance beamed, genuinely delighted to see her. Lady Farnsworth took in their small group, smiling approvingly at Claire and Gregory, nodding politely at Sarah, and freezing at the sight of Lord Weston.
Oddly enough, the awkward silence that fell over the six was worse than if Sarah had simply stood her ground and conversed with Lord Weston to begin with. Bugger.
The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 3