Hardly a Husband

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  "Believe it," Colin said. "It's there in plain English." He stood up, then walked to the bell and summoned a footman to bring the current betting book.

  The footman returned moments later with the book in hand. Colin handed it to Jarrod.

  The entry page was dated with the day's date, time, and year. Several gentlemen had scrawled their names beneath the wager, recording wagers of their own on the outcome, including the three gentlemen Colin mentioned, all of whom were betting on Jarrod.

  Jarrod read the recorded wager aloud. "I, Reginald Blanchard, fourth Viscount Dunbridge, do record this wager of one thousand pounds with Jarrod, fifth Marquess of Shepherdston: I wager that Miss Sarah Eckersley and I shall be married by His Grace, the archbishop of Canterbury, at Westminster Abbey at season's end. Lord Shepherdston wagers that I shan't marry Miss Eckersley at season's end or at any other time. The cash to be paid at the outcome." Jarrod finished reading the entry and raked his fingers through his hair. "Bloody hell!"

  "What on earth possessed you to wager a thousand pounds on Lord Dunbridge's proposed nuptials?" Griff was astonished by the amount and by Jarrod's uncharacteristic behavior.

  "I'm acquainted with the young lady he hopes to marry."

  "And?" Griff prompted.

  "Eckersley." Colin snapped his fingers. "Wasn't that the name of the young woman you danced with at Esme Harralson's ball last season? The night I met Gillian?"

  Jarrod didn't answer.

  Colin frowned. "Jarrod?"

  "Yes," Jarrod ground out. "And I can guarantee Dunbridge won't win his wager, because I won't allow it."

  "Is the young lady a relative or ward?" Courtland asked.

  "No," Jarrod answered, "but she may as well be, for her aunt has asked me to keep Dunbridge at bay."

  "How do you intend to do that?" Jonathan inquired.

  "I'm escorting her and her aunt to Lady Garrison's tonight," Jarrod said.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

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  His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.

  — Oliver Goldsmith, 1728-1774

  "He's here." Sarah stepped back from the window overlooking the front door entrance and breathed a prayer of thanks that their bedchamber faced the street. She bent to gather her tiny reticule, fan, invitation, and dance card from where she'd left them on the bed.

  The engraved invitations and the dance card had been delivered to their room shortly after lunch. Sarah and Lady Dunbridge had been thrilled to receive them and the personal note from their hostess commending them for their courage and determination to fulfill Reverend Eckersley's dying request.

  Sarah hadn't understood the significance of the note until Aunt Etta had calmly explained that by informing Lady Garrison that Sarah's participation in the season was at the behest of her dying father, Lord Shepherdston had opened the doors of the ton that had been previously closed to them because they were in mourning. They had only had a few hours in which to prepare for the ball, but that had been proven to be a mixed blessing because there had been no time to worry about what to wear or how they would be received.

  "Hurry, Aunt Etta," Sarah urged. "Jays is a great believer in punctuality."

  "Is that so?" Lady Dunbridge arched an eyebrow.

  Sarah thrust her aunt's fan and invitation into Lady Dunbridge's hands and nodded.

  "Couldn't prove it by me," Lady Dunbridge declared. "He kept me waiting ten minutes at breakfast and I believe it's only fair that I return the favor."

  "Aunt Etta…"

  "Let him wait, Sarah," Lady Dunbridge said. "It does a man good. They're always rushing about. Hurrying here and there. Chomping at the bit." She waved her arms. "I've never known a man who knew how and when to take his time."

  "But —"

  "Let him wait. It will remind him that he isn't quite the master of all he surveys and it will give him something to which to look forward." Lady Dunbridge reached out and smoothed a stray lock of Sarah's hair into place. "And it will keep you from seeming overly eager for his company."

  Sarah frowned. "We'll be late to Lady Garrison's."

  Lady Dunbridge shook her head. "We aren't going to be late. But it wouldn't matter if we were, as long as you are worth waiting for." She smiled at her niece, then turned Sarah around so that she could see her reflection in the mirror. "And we've made certain that you are worth waiting for."

  Jarrod arrived at Ibbetson's Hotel at half past seven o'clock of the evening. When they appeared in the hotel lobby, the ladies from Helford Green had kept him waiting a full ten minutes.

  "Good evening, Lord Shepherdston."

  Jarrod halted his impatient pacing and turned to greet them. "Good evening, Miss Eckersley, Lady Dunbridge."

  He noticed Sarah's hair first. Her thick, curly red hair was piled into a loose bun on the top of her head and held into place by a black velvet-covered clasp. A dozen or so long tendrils had been allowed to escape the bun and curled artfully around her face and neck. Her hairstyle was simple and elegant and it suited her completely.

  Jarrod's brown eyes darkened. He would have liked to have seen more of her, but she was enveloped from shoulders to shoes in black. Black gloves. Black stockings. Black shoes. Black velvet evening cape. The same black velvet cape she'd worn to his house the night before.

  "We'd better hurry if we want to avoid arriving late," Sarah reminded him, lifting her skirts in her hand and moving toward the doorway.

  "You're beautiful." Jarrod said the first thing that came to mind and realized it was the absolute truth.

  "How can you tell?" Sarah asked. "When you haven't seen my gown yet?"

  Jarrod suddenly found himself hard-pressed to keep from imagining what she was or was not wearing beneath her cloak.

  "I don't have to see your gown to know that it's a most becoming garment and that you look beautiful in it," he replied in a husky tone of voice that bore little resemblance to his usual speaking voice.

  Jarrod's voice sent shivers up and down Sarah's spine. "You're too kind, Lord Shepherdston." She looked up at him from beneath the cover of her lashes, then gave him another brilliant smile.

  "I'm not the least bit kind," Jarrod said. "I'm speaking the truth."

  "Then I appreciate your honesty," Sarah said. "And you needn't worry, for I'm wearing a very proper evening gown beneath my cloak."

  She had read his mind. "I'm relieved to hear it," he answered.

  "I thought you might be." Sarah chuckled. "And may I say that you look very handsome in your evening clothes?"

  There was no denying that a powerful attraction was suddenly at work, for the very air they breathed was charged with electricity.

  "You may indeed." He leaned close enough to catch a tantalizing whiff of the fragrance Sarah had used to rinse her hair. Lemons and roses, with a hint of vanilla.

  "I prefer what you were wearing last night," Sarah said in a lowered voice. "But you're almost as handsome fully dressed."

  Jarrod swallowed hard. "The clothes I wore last night are only appropriate for quiet evenings at home, but I thank you for the compliment just the same."

  "You're welcome, Jays," Sarah said. "What a coincidence! Because the clothes I wore last night are only appropriate for quiet evenings at home, so I hope I shall have the opportunity to spend another quiet evening at home with you. And that I shall have the pleasure of seeing you dressed that way again soon."

  Damned if she wasn't trying to seduce him again with her husky voice and that expression in her eyes. Jarrod's body tightened in response and his imagination ran rampant as he began to speculate on Sarah's definition of a very proper evening gown.

  Lady Dunbridge cleared her throat. "I apologize for interrupting, my dears, but you did arrange for us to receive invitations to Lady Garrison's ball, Lord Shepherdston, and I would be remiss in my duty as a chaperone if I didn't suggest that we at least make an appearance." She patted Jarrod's arm. "Richmond is a distance and I, for one, would
like to avoid the worst of the traffic."

  Jarrod blinked in bemusement, then flinched as if she'd scalded him. "Lady Dunbridge."

  "Very good, Lord Shepherdston," Lady Dunbridge drawled in a patronizing tone. "You remembered my name. Did you also remember that I am supposed to accompany you to Lady Garrison's?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Jarrod nodded.

  "Then I suggest we exit the hotel and climb into your handsome coach in order that we may begin the journey," Lady Dunbridge replied, taking up her evening shawl and fan and leading the way through the front entrance of the hotel and down the gravel walkway to Shepherdston's coach.

  "Shall we?" Jarrod asked, offering Sarah his arm.

  Sarah tucked her gloved hand into the crook of Jarrod's elbow as they followed her aunt out the door.

  Jarrod handed the ladies into the comfortable coach, then climbed in and sat down. Etiquette demanded that when riding with ladies, a gentleman should ride with his back to the driver on the seat facing the back of the coach. That seating arrangement was meant to keep ladies, especially unmarried ladies, from being pressed against a gentleman's body and prevent their suffering mal de mer from the swaying of the coach, but it did nothing to prevent a gentleman from looking his fill at the ladies seated across from him or prevent him from enjoying the view.

  Jarrod focused his gaze on a spot above Sarah's head and pretended he was unaffected by her closeness. But his sole concern was keeping his body under control while the enticing scent of lemon and roses conjured up erotic visions of bathtubs and soft, wet, slippery skin.

  "We neglected to thank you for securing our invitation this evening," Lady Dunbridge spoke at last, hoping to diffuse some of the tension in the coach.

  "Lady Garrison was happy to extend the invitation," Jarrod said. "She'd only excluded you because she knows you're in mourning for Reverend Eckersley. Once I explained that Reverend Eckersley's dying request was that Sarah attend the season, Lady Garrison was delighted to have you as her guests."

  "Thank you for making it possible all the same," Lady Dunbridge said. "For we want Sarah to have as many opportunities as possible in order to catch the eye of a young suitor."

  Jarrod looked at Sarah. "I don't see how she could fail to catch the eye of a young suitor."

  "I agree completely," Lady Dunbridge told him. "The trick isn't so much in catching the eyes of potential suitors as it is in winnowing out the unsuitable ones." She smiled at Jarrod. "I don't come to town as often as I once did and I haven't kept current on the list of fortune hunters, gamblers, imbibers, womanizers, and general ne'er-do-wells we wish to avoid. I do hope that we may depend on you to help us in that regard and to keep Reggie Blanchard at bay."

  "You may depend upon it," he replied. "I won't let you down."

  "Thank heavens," Lady Dunbridge breathed. "For I must admit I was dreading the heavy responsibility of choosing a suitable husband for my niece. Try as I might, I cannot seem to judge character on a moment's acquaintance…"

  Sarah looked up and met Jarrod's gaze. "I suppose it's a result of years of listening to Papa's sermons on Matthew 7:1." She paused, waiting for Jarrod to repeat the verse, and when he didn't, she added, "Come now, Lord Shepherdston, I know Papa taught you scripture."

  "For God's sake, Sarah, it's been over twenty years. I don't remember every line of scripture."

  "For God's sake, you should, Jays." She gave him a smug smile at her play on words. "I do."

  "Matthew 7:1." Jarrod fumbled for a Bible verse that fit the topic. "'By their fruits ye shall know them.'"

  "That's Matthew 7:20," she said. "Matthew 7:1 is 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.'" She spread her hands, palms up. "Like Aunt Etta, I appear to be no judge of character at all."

  Jarrod waited for Sarah to congratulate him on dredging one bit of scripture from the depths of his childhood memories and was strangely disappointed when she didn't. "I wouldn't say that you're no judge of character," he said, resuming the threads of their conversation. "You know enough not to want Reggie Blanchard, despite his wealth and breeding."

  "That's true," Sarah answered. "But only because I've had occasion to be around Lord Dunbridge enough to discern his character." She looked at him from beneath the cover of her lashes. "Matthew 7:20."

  He puffed up with pride like a peacock, but his pride was short-lived.

  "I've no experience with any other men. Except you."

  Jarrod squirmed on his seat. "That's as it should be, Miss Eckersley," he said. "You are an unmarried lady. You're supposed to be inexperienced."

  "Yes," Sarah said, rather morosely, "unless the magistrate and Lord Dunbridge have their way, then my lack of experience is going to ensure that I find myself the unwilling participant in Lord Dunbridge's wedding."

  "No one is going to force you to marry Dunbridge," Jarrod told her.

  "Really?" Sarah leaned forward.

  Jarrod nodded. "I'll see to it."

  "How?" Sarah held her breath.

  "By finding someone else to marry you."

  Sarah released the breath she'd been holding and did her best to hide her disappointment as she looked over at Jarrod. "I suppose that's as it should be, Lord Shepherdston," she said softly, tossing his phrase back at him. "I've done everything I know to do… "

  Jarrod frowned.

  "The rest is up to you."

  "Sarah…" Why had he been so eager to promise something over which he had no real control? He wasn't her legal guardian. He wasn't a relative. He couldn't force her to marry the man of his choosing or keep her from marrying one not of his choosing. The only thing Jarrod could legally do was marry her himself and he wasn't prepared to do that. Jarrod clamped his lips together and focused on the small window at the rear of the coach.

  Sarah bit her bottom Up and quickly turned to look out the side window, fighting the sting of tears, and her growing frustration with Jarrod for being so eager to give her away.

  * * * * *

  It was only a few miles as the crow flies from Ibbetson's Hotel to the Garrisons' magnificent estate in Richmond, but the crush of vehicles heading out of Mayfair for Lady Garrison's ball and the crush of vehicles heading into Mayfair and into town for the opera or to Vauxhall Gardens made for slow going.

  The atmosphere in the coach had turned decidedly chilly and Jarrod concluded that it would have been much faster, and a great deal less torturous, to walk. He was just about to call a halt to the driver in order to get out and do just that when the journey came to a merciful end. Jarrod breathed a sigh of relief as he alighted from the coach before it rolled to a stop. He wasn't sure he could have managed an additional block in such close quarters. Jarrod had thought Sarah's attempts at seduction were torture, but he soon learned that her silence was worse. He preferred the daringly outrageous Sarah to the one who bit her bottom lip and blinked back tears. He didn't like seeing her suffer, especially when he realized that he'd been the one to cause it.

  Jarrod waited as the coachman pulled down the steps, then watched as he extended a hand to assist Sarah from the coach to the pavement, then did the same for Lady Dunbridge.

  "Shall we?" Jarrod offered Lady Dunbridge his arm. She shook her head. "See to Sarah. I'll follow." Jarrod did as she asked, reluctantly offering Sarah his arm.

  She placed her gloved hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her up the steps and into the house. Lady Dunbridge followed.

  The Garrisons' butler met them at the door.

  Jarrod placed his engraved invitation in the butler's hand, then leaned close enough to give the butler their names.

  Lord Shepherdston, Lady Dunbridge, and Miss Eckersley," the man announced. They stepped forward.

  Sarah turned her back to Jarrod and untied the cords on her cape. She shrugged the garment off her shoulders and handed it to the waiting maid while Jarrod deposited his hat and coat with a footman.

  He turned back to Sarah and froze when she turned to face him.

  Her very proper evening gown was made of
a bronze silk and bordered in black velvet. It shimmered when she moved and fit her like a second skin, molding itself to the curves of her body and thrusting her breasts into prominence. The design of the dress was elegant and simple. And as Jarrod attempted to focus his gaze on something other than her velvet-edged decolletage, he realized that the design suited the purpose. It was designed as a simple and elegant means of torturing the human male.

  The wide neckline was modest compared to some of the others he'd seen. It covered the essentials, but it wasn't nearly modest enough for Jarrod's peace of mind. The black velvet ribbon bordering it screamed to be noticed, framing Sarah's decolletage for all to admire. And the fact that she wore no jewelry other than a pair of tiny square black onyx earrings meant there was nothing to distract from the creamy expanse of flesh.

  It was almost impossible for Jarrod to look down at her and not feast on the enticing display of cleavage. Any man his height or taller would profit from a unique vantage point where it was possible to see everything except the very tips of her breasts. Fortunately, there were only a handful of men in the ton who could equal or better the Marquess of Shepherdston's stature. Jarrod stared at the offering and sucked in a breath as he remembered the way her breasts had felt in the palm of his hand, the weight and softness of them, and the way the tips had hardened beneath his thumb.

  "Do you like it?" Sarah asked.

  He scowled at her. "I thought you said you were wearing a very proper evening gown." Blister it! But he hated feeling this way! What had happened to him? And what had happened to her? And when had it happened?

  This was Sarah. Sarah of the knobby knees, bright orange hair, freckles, and flat chest. Sweet, innocent Sarah who had never tempted him before. Or presented him with such a moral dilemma.

  "It is proper," she protested.

  He gave a derisive snort. "It might be proper if it came with a shawl or scarf or a fichu attached." He looked down at her again, marveling at the way her bodice clung to the tips of her breasts and continued to keep her covered, despite the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. "But it isn't proper like that."