Smiling, as if in thanks, he patted it. “We both know I shall ask very soon. How much time have you left before the note comes due—ten days? I shall ask, and when I do, we both know what your answer must be.”
Sarah glanced sideways at him, wondering not for the first time why she could not bring herself even to tolerate the undeniably handsome, elegantly dressed Sir James. Perhaps it was the coldness of that chiseled profile, which might serve as a sculptor’s model for a Greek hero, or the disturbing light she sometimes caught flashing in his clear blue eyes. Or his irritating arrogance.
“You are not my only suitor.”
“Sarah, surely you don’t mean to compare my faultless breeding with that spotty-faced youth’s. He’s unworthy of you, my dove. In any event, I understand he’s gone out of town—to Scotland, I believe. Inspecting a stallion.”
“Indeed? He mentioned no such trip yesterday.”
“Did he not?” Sir James shook his head. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I doubt it. ’Tis my stallion, you see.”
A chill rippled through her. Resolutely she stilled it. “My resources are not quite exhausted.”
“You refer to the corpulent baron?” Sir James smiled. “A sadly unreliable champion, my dove. Not only is he enamored of quite a different ladybird, he has a most unfortunate fondness for gambling.” Sir James sighed. “It seems in recent days his luck has changed for the worse. From what I hear, he’ll soon be barely able to afford that mistress, much less a new wife.”
“I suppose he told you that?”
Sir James chuckled and tapped her nose with one finger, like an indulgent parent. “We gentlemen hear such things, in the wicked fastness of our clubs. ’Tis true enough, I vow. You do much better to have me, my dear.”
Sarah pulled away. “I am not ‘your dear’ and certainly not ‘your dove.’ You will refrain from addressing me so.”
An odd flash in his pale blue eyes sent a frisson of alarm through her. Then he laughed, leaving her to wonder if she’d only imagined it.
“But you are a dove, my dear. A lovely, fluttering dove dragging her wing across the ground to lead predators away from her nestlings. I shall save the nest—that is the bargain, is it not? Save Wellingford Hall and your brother’s patrimony, and ensure your nestling sisters’ dowries.”
Before she could guess his intent, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. She jerked away, but he held on, his grip like iron. “My wealth I’ll gladly expend to lift those burdens from your shoulders.”
She tugged again and he released her, giving her wrist a quick, apologetic rub as if realizing he’d grasped it too tightly. “We shall deal well together. You will see.”
“Perhaps,” Sarah retorted, “but as you kindly remind me, I have ten days left. Mr. Beckwith may return from viewing your horse, or the baron’s luck improve.”
Sir James halted abruptly on the ballroom’s threshold and gave her a long, slow smile. “I don’t think so.”
Mercifully, the movements of the dance separated Sarah from Sir James, precluding the need for conversation. For weeks she had suspected Findlay of toying with her, advancing, then retreating as he studied her other suitors with an amused and calculating eye.
Unease formed a little knot in her stomach. Twelve hours ago Mr. Beckman told her he was looking forward to this ball. Had Sir James indeed sent him to Scotland? Could he be gambling against the baron as well? Her attentive suitor was well-known to be infallible with the bones and unbeatable at cards, so much so that knowledgeable gamblers avoided him.
The music ended. She sensed Findlay’s eyes on her. A sudden revulsion seized her, so strong she could barely prevent herself from bolting as he picked up her dance card.
“Baron Broughton’s tardy,” he announced after perusing it. “I shall claim his waltz.”
“Sorry, Sir James.” Lord Englemere materialized behind her. “You promised me this waltz in the supper room, remember, Miss Wellingford? You’ll not object, Findlay.”
He swept her away before Sir James could protest. She clung to him through the steps of the dance, as if the ballroom were a stormy sea and he the buoy keeping her afloat. Gradually, the lilting rhythm began to relax her.
“Much better, Miss Wellingford. Though I could not blame one suffering Findlay’s presence from stiffening up, it is rather difficult waltzing with a board.”
She laughed, if a bit shakily. “Thank you for the rescue, my lord. I have had a surfeit of his attention.”
“Ah, we are to have conversation, too. Excellent! Then I am well rewarded for my bravery.”
“In cutting out Sir James?”
“Findlay?” He dismissed the baronet in a voice laced with contempt. “No, ’twas my lady fair I feared. You left me with a look that would have melted stone. Though I was shaking in my slippers, I felt I must face your displeasure, if only long enough to apologize.”
“You said nothing for which you need apologize. I must marry for money.” She offered a smile that almost succeeded. “A fact no less true for being unpalatable.”
“Too often the innocent suffer for the sins of the guilty,” he said with an intensity that surprised her. “And I do owe an apology, to think even for a moment that you might marry for shallow or selfish reasons.”
“Don’t make me out a martyr,” she murmured, tears pricking her eyes. “My predicament is all too common.”
“One does what one must. But Sarah—not Findlay.”
“Let us abandon such a dismal subject. Come, this should be a joyful night! Thankful as I am for your intervention, should you not be waltzing with Clarissa?”
“I’m afraid I’m in her black books again. Wexley.” The marquess rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I objected to her marked partiality for that fop. Of course, she had to go off immediately and waltz with him.” At Sarah’s look of alarm, his expression lightened to ruefulness. “You didn’t expect her to behave for an entire evening?”
The music faded, and the marquess led her off the floor. “There now, remove that troubled look from your brow.” Englemere brushed a fingertip across her forehead as if to do just that. “Lady Beaumont is waving—she must require your assistance. I can handle Clarissa.”
“I have no doubt. Yes, madam,” she called, and turned back to him. “Thank you again for your assistance.”
He gave her fingers a lingering squeeze. “You’re most welcome. Good evening, Miss Wellingford.”
Sarah walked over to Lady Beaumont, her mind in tangles and her hand tingling.
Thoughtfully Englemere watched Sarah go. He must hunt up his betrothed and escort her in to supper. Things in that line were progressing nicely, and once he had his own affairs sorted out, perhaps he should devote some time to Miss Wellingford’s.
The idle conclusion startled him. He’d thought himself beyond becoming interested in a woman toward whom he harbored neither carnal nor marital intentions. But, he realized, Miss Wellingford intrigued him.
No, she wasn’t “Ice.” He noted her response to him in the supper room, the flare of mingled interest and confusion that revealed her innocence even as it hinted of a hidden passion. Not that he’d be the man to uncover it, of course.
He’d immediately regretted the casual offer to review her suitors, but before he could retract it, she’d piqued him by refusing. In his experience no woman, be she countess or courtesan, ever turned down a chance to further her own interests. Upon the spot he decided to pursue the game, fencing with her until she acquiesced.
He liked the way she spoke frankly to him, with a man’s directness rather than a woman’s wiles. Those changeable silver eyes that glowed when he amused her, that throaty little gurgle of a laugh, charmed him.
He remembered her frown at the fulsome compliment he’d paid her, and smiled. He’d give a monkey to know what she’d been thinking behind those expressive eyes, what she’d almost said before a lamentable caution stilled her tongue. Damn, but she’d be wasted on the provincial Beckman or the
pompous Broughton.
Then he recalled her shudder at Findlay’s approach, and his amusement faded. Perhaps more than anything else, he admired the courage and sense of duty that propelled her, for the sake of family, to even consider wedding such a one.
To allow her sweet loveliness into the keeping of that scoundrel would be a crime. But how to prevent it?
He must review the ranks of his friends, he decided as he set off to bring his recalcitrant fiancée to heel. Surely one of them was ripe for the parson’s mousetrap, and would prove a more fitting match for the quiet elegance of Sarah Wellingford.
Chapter Three
The warm parlor fire lulling her, Sarah let Lady Beaumont’s bright chatter and Englemere’s occasional polite replies wash around her like the babble of a country brook. The chiming of the mantel clock brought her up with a start.
Lady Beaumont cast a worried glance at the timepiece. “Clarissa wished to wear the charming new gown you commissioned. Emerald shows to such advantage on her, and I know she wants to look her loveliest—”
“I’m sure our patience will be well rewarded.” Draining the brandy from his glass, Englemere walked over to lean against the mantel. He displays well in evening dress, Sarah thought sleepily, taking in the elegant black coat and trousers, the pure white waistcoat and snowy cravat. Elegant and annoyed, with Clarissa forty minutes late.
She turned to find Lady Beaumont glaring at her. Her ladyship refashioned the glare into a smile and said pleasantly, “Sarah, dear, why don’t you go assist Clarissa?”
“With Harris and her maid both attending her, I’m likely to be more a hindrance than a help,” Sarah protested. For Clarissa to be this tardy must mean she’d find above stairs a minefield of frayed temper and wrought nerves that she would as lief not enter.
“I’m told Harris took to her bed with a nervous spasm.” Lady Beaumont’s voice conveyed her irritation at this blatant dereliction of duty. “Doubtless Lizette is having difficulty managing alone.”
“I’ll go at once, then.” Sarah suppressed a sigh.
Lady Beaumont patted Sarah’s hand and turned to the marquess. “Allow me to refill your glass, Englemere.”
Sarah plodded up the stairs, puzzled that Mrs. Harris would have allowed herself to succumb on such an important evening. Invitations to the Dowager Duchess of Avon’s occasional entertainments were jealously sought, and tonight’s ball would be one of the Season’s most glittering.
She hoped her erstwhile suitors would be there. In the four days since Clarissa’s ball, she had neither seen nor heard from Marshall Beckman. Worse, rumor whispered Baron Broughton was indeed gaming against Sir James—and losing.
The news worried her. She’d not survived a gamester father to pledge herself willingly to yet another. And should the baron propose, would he be able to provide the staggering sum she required to rescue Wellingford?
Her recent chat with the banker confirmed she’d not be able to beg additional time. While expressing sympathy for her unfortunate circumstances, he informed her the full sum due must be paid by the stated date, or the bank would be forced, regrettably but unavoidably, to foreclose.
Six days left. Three, really, for even with a special license—her cheeks reddened to think of conveying the news that there’d be no time for a proper calling of banns—her hapless bridegroom would probably require another two or three days to gather the necessary cash.
Sir James, however, knew exactly how much money she needed, and when. She’d detailed it early on, thinking to discourage him, but the knowledge had seemed rather to pique his interest. If only she’d not made that miscalculation.
The vision that greeted her when she entered Clarissa’s room drove all other thoughts from her brain. Draped in emerald satin, Clarissa regarded herself in the pier glass while her little French maid beamed up adoringly. “Ah, mam’selle, is she not magnifique?” Lizette breathed.
Magnificent wasn’t the first word that occurred to Sarah. She understood now what had caused Harris’s attack of the vapors and why Clarissa had so delayed what would undoubtedly be an unforgettable entrance.
The satin material reflected the glow of the candelabra and hugged every curve of Clarissa’s voluptuous body, outlining in a sensuous ripple of light the movement of her thigh as she tapped her foot. The merest suggestion of a bodice confined her full breasts, and Sarah could swear she saw the dark shadow of nipples below the gown’s edge.
Clarissa had seemed troubled, but at Sarah’s gape-mouthed shock, her chin rose. “Englemere chose the modiste and material. Harris has already scolded, wept and been sent to bed for her pains, so don’t start.”
Sarah knew she ought to do something to dissuade Clarissa, but she was too tired to summon the effort. Instead, she was struck by the total incongruity of such a gown being worn by a supposedly innocent young lady of quality.
Her lips twitched as she thought of the look on the stone face of Mrs. Drummond Burrell should Clarissa trip over the threshold of Almack’s wearing this. As for the reaction of Clarissa’s slavishly admiring courtiers—Wexley would probably walk straight into a post. A suppressed giggle escaped, and then she burst out laughing.
“Heavens, Clare.” She gasped. “Do you mean to make your rejected suitors expire of jealousy?”
After a surprised moment, Clarissa’s defensive face relaxed. “They should. Is it not wondrous sophisticated? ’Tis not the gown of some First Season mouse, and Englemere will see he cannot prose and criticize as if I were.”
Sarah thought the dress would incite the marquess to more violent reaction than speech, but refrained from saying so. “Clare, surely he didn’t approve this, did he?”
Clarissa fingered the gold and emerald choker that provided the only coverage for the otherwise bare skin extending to her cleavage. “We looked at fashion plates. But he grew ‘bored with feminine twaddle—’” her voice shaded with pique over this unchivalrous remark “—and left for his club before I found the design. Madame Thérèse argued ’twas not suitable for one of my ‘tender years,’ but I knew I must have it.” She patted the matching earbobs. “The bodice is a trifle…briefer than I expected.”
“Why not have Thérèse alter it for tomorrow night?”
“I ordered it expressly for the Duchess of Avon’s ball,” Clare objected, her tone turning petulant. “Besides, Englemere has been carping at me every evening. With me wearing this gown—” she stroked her hips with a satisfied smile “—he shall see that though he may only complain and chide, quite a number of other gentlemen find much to admire.”
The two friends looked at each other. Sarah could tell from the mulish set of her chin and her sparkling eyes that Clarissa had set her iron will upon this.
Dispensing with the useless, she rummaged in Clarissa’s drawer and pulled out a thin shawl of gossamer gold thread. “This would set off the gown nicely,” she coaxed.
Clarissa considered the shawl and, apparently satisfied with winning the rubber, conceded the point. “Yes, it will be pretty, do you not think, Lizette?”
The maid murmured approval and draped the shawl loosely about her mistress’s shoulders. Sarah motioned her aside, wrapped the gauzy gold twice around Clarissa and tucked the ends under her elbows. “Do you think you can dance in it?”
Clarissa twirled. “I like it. Quite understated.”
Sarah smothered a choke. Heaven help us if it falls off, she thought as she propelled Clarissa from the chamber.
The two friends entered the salon to silence, the desultory conversation Lady Beaumont had been maintaining having evidently expired in their absence.
Clarissa swept a deep curtsy. Relief lighting her face, her mother turned to them. Englemere walked over with no sign of impatience, though Sarah noted by the mantel clock they were now a full hour late.
“Mama, Englemere, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting! Truly we don’t value Harris as we ought. I had no idea it would take so long to dress without her.”
&nbs
p; “You look charming, dearest. Does she not, my lord?” Lady Beaumont darted a nervous glance at Englemere.
The marquess brought Clarissa’s hand to his lips. “Doubtless worth waiting for. Emerald and gold with your glorious hair are stunning. I’ll be accounted the luckiest man at the ball tonight.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Clarissa preened at his obvious admiration. “Ring for our cloaks, won’t you, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded and walked to the bellpull. Clarissa made to follow, but Englemere caught her shoulder.
“The gown is delectable, my sweet.” Englemere toyed with the trailing ends of the gold wrap. “Let me feast my eyes before I must share you with all the world.” His smile teasing, he began to unwind the diaphanous cloth.
“Englemere!” Clarissa squeaked, catching his hands.
“My dear?” He raised one eyebrow.
Clarissa must have realized she could summon no reasonable objection. To her credit, she made no attempt to wriggle away or explain, but released his fingers and stood proudly silent. Sarah’s hand clenched on the bellpull.
“Beauty unveiled!” With a flourish, the marquess pulled the drape free. Slowly his smile faded. The shawl slipped from his fingers and drifted to the floor.
“Cla-ris-sa!” Lady Beaumont wailed. Clutching her bosom, she toppled back against the sofa.
Galvanized by Lady Beaumont’s cry, Sarah let go the bell cord. For the briefest moment, she saw on Englemere’s face a look of profound weariness, succeeded by—regret?
“Stunning indeed,” he murmured.
Sarah fumbled through her reticule and pulled out smelling salts. While she patted Lady Beaumont’s hand and waved the vial under the moaning woman’s nose, she found her attention drawn irresistibly to the betrothed couple.
Clarissa, brave as Sarah had claimed, did not quail under her fiancé’s scrutiny. Drawing her breath in sharply, a movement Sarah feared might drop the skimpy bodice to a truly indecent level, she stared with haughty defiance straight ahead.
The Wedding Gamble Page 4