Sarah stared at it numbly. “’Tis not the ruby.”
Nicholas laughed. “Did you think to have Clarissa’s cast-off? No, I wanted something special for you—for my ‘pearl of great price.’”
Sarah’s eyes brightened, but she stemmed the tears. “’Tis beautiful, my lord. And how fitting. I only hope you didn’t have to sell all your possessions to afford it.”
“I’ve sufficient remaining. But when I arrived, you called me ‘Nicholas.’” He pulled her back against him.
“Thank you…Nicholas.”
As she whispered his name, he lowered his mouth. This time, she leaned up, parting her lips and winding her fingers into his hair. He deepened the kiss and she met him willingly in the sensuous dance of tongue with tongue, all the while caressing his neck with satin fingertips.
Completely absorbed in demonstrating his approval of her efforts, Nicholas was startled when she suddenly pulled away. Muttering a protest, he tried to draw her back and noticed her eyes were fixed on the doorway.
He turned to see Lady Beaumont standing stock-still on the threshold, jaw dropped, shock and horror on her face. “Sarah—Ann—Wellingford!” she gasped.
Nicholas looked back at Sarah. “You didn’t tell her.”
Sarah gave him a guilty smile. Moving apart from him, she reached up to smooth her tousled braids.
Sunlight flashed on the diamonds in her ring, and Lady Beaumont’s gaze riveted on Sarah’s hand. Her eyes widened farther, then rolled back in her head, and she fainted.
Clarissa helped Sarah revive and reconcile her prostrate mama. Though professing herself incredulous that Sarah actually wished to marry such a dull old stick as Englemere, she pledged eternal friendship and support.
After soothing Lady Beaumont, Sarah went to await Nicholas. To her mind, the worst was yet to come.
She recalled the unsmiling face of another highborn lady who had found Sarah Wellingford too poor and entirely unfit for the honor of wedding her son. Sarah struggled to banish Lady Sandiford’s image and a sudden, searing longing for the tranquillity of her youth, her home—and Sinjin.
Nicholas’s voice in her ear made her jump.
“I b-beg your pardon?”
“Calm yourself, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Don’t be imagining my mother an ogre. To be sure, she’s quite astute.” He chuckled reminiscently. “She’ll see in a minute all your loveliness of character, and heartily approve my choice.”
Sarah sighed. “And if she doesn’t?”
“She will.” He tipped her chin up so their eyes met. “But even should she not, I approve—and that’s all that matters.” Taking her arm, he led her into the hall.
Sarah rested her hand on his, marveling that it felt so natural to rely on one who a few short weeks ago had been a virtual stranger. Gradually in that time Nicholas had progressed in her regard from an amiable gentleman, to an admirable one, to the kindest of friends.
Yes, friends, she thought, the ache easing. Sinjin had grown up her dearest friend, the love she had always thought to marry. Then had come the debts of both their fathers, and the urgent duty to repair the respective family fortunes. Though she still wore on a chain around her neck the signet ring he’d pressed in her hand before leaving to join his regiment, she’d long known their union to be an impossible dream.
Reality was the enigmatic man beside her, whose thoughtful concern and careless kindness had saved her home, whose closeness even now soothed the ragged edge of worry.
She knew Nicholas didn’t want words of gratitude, paltry payment in any event. In this moment she pledged instead to put away her doubts and give him unwavering loyalty, steadfast support—and the speedy birth of a son. God keep you safe, Sinjin, love of my heart…goodbye.
Waving aside the footman, Nicholas handed her into the carriage himself, a small courtesy that warmed her. Careful, Sarah, she cautioned herself. Nicholas will never grow, as Sinjin did, from friend to lover. Accept his mistress, his preference for London life, and school yourself to be the “calm, dignified wife” he desires.
Nicholas settled the carriage robe over her legs. “Now, when shall we tell Mama we wish to be wed?”
“Perhaps Friday evening would be convenient for her.”
“’Tis not her convenience you need accommodate. Though I remain heartily in favor of the briefest of engagements—” he placed a lingering kiss on her palm “—there’s no need to rush. ’Tis your day, sweeting. I know ladies put great store by weddings, and if you’ve always dreamed of a grand to-do at St. George’s, with the usual crush of a reception after, I shall bow to your wishes.”
“But—the mortgage!”
“Oh, that. I saw no reason to wait until after our vows to take care of it.”
Nonchalantly he extracted a paper from his pocket and unfolded it: the mortgage on Wellingford, paid in full written in flourishing script across the top.
Sarah stared at that incredibly beautiful phrase, “paid in full,” and then up at Nicholas. He gazed back, smiling faintly, tenderness in his eyes.
A swirl of strong emotion tightened her chest and forced her to blink rapidly. How compassionate he had been, teasing her out of her shame and pretending she was worth to him the considerable time, expense and trouble he’d gone to on her behalf. How compassionate now, to blithely hand back Wellingford and allow her to turn what she’d feared would be a hasty wedding into an event of taste and dignity.
“You could kiss me,” he suggested, a glint coming into his eyes. “I know you wish to thank me, and I’m becoming quite fond of your kisses.”
Carefully Sarah folded the precious paper and put it in her reticule. Placing her fingers on his cheeks, she caressed his face as she leaned up to him. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath, then a muffled groan when she nibbled his lower lip and traced it with her tongue. He relaxed his jaw, inviting entry, and she slowly explored his mouth, until at last she claimed his tongue and stroked it.
With a deeper groan he bent her back against the cushioned seat. Once more the master, he devoured her lips and moved his hand lower, tracing her waist and the outline of her hip to her derriere. She pressed herself closer, letting desire flame beyond control.
As before, he pulled away first. For a moment, he simply held her, their hearts beating a staccato to the ragged whistle of their breath.
“Ah, sweet Sarah, that was the best yet. I’ve got the special license in my pocket. Do you think my coachman could marry us? No?” He sighed. “Call the banns, then, if you must, but I beg you, sweeting, let the wedding be soon.”
Glendenning, a majestic silver-haired personage, announced them to the dowager marchioness and stood regally aside. Giving Sarah’s hand a quick squeeze, Nicholas led her over to a slender brunette lady attired in black.
The dowager inclined her cheek for Nicholas’s kiss, keeping her large green eyes, so like her son’s, fixed on Sarah. She was much smaller than he, with a smooth skin and elegant bones that must have made her the reigning beauty of her day, and left her beautiful still. Her face showed no emotion beyond gracious courtesy. Sarah swallowed hard.
“Mama, may I present to you Miss Wellingford.” He sent Sarah a warm glance. “My sweet Sarah.”
“I’m honored to meet you, Lady Englemere.”
“I’m quite anxious to meet you as well, Miss Well—Sarah,” the dowager corrected at Nicholas’s sharp look. “So, Nicky tells me you’re to be married?”
“Yes, we thought to have the ceremony in a week, and the reception afterward at the home of her aunt, Lady Sophrina Harrington,” Nicholas answered for them.
“I see,” came the neutral reply.
With a quick glance at Nicholas, Sarah continued, “We envision a rather small gathering. Naturally, we should like to invite those of your friends or kinsmen whom you would wish to have present, if you would make me a list.”
“Indeed.”
A tense silence followed that monosyllabic utterance, deepening Sarah’s unease. Th
en the dowager shivered.
“There’s a chill in the air. Do you feel it, Nicky? Would you be a dear and fetch my shawl? I left it in the library, I believe.”
She looked up at Nicholas with such bright entreaty he could hardly refuse, despite the blatant obviousness of her request. “Of course, Mama. I’ll get it straightaway.” Throwing Sarah an apologetic glance, he walked out.
“Now we can have a comfortable coze,” the dowager said, with an edge to her voice that belied that warm prediction. “You’ve not known my son very long, have you?”
“Only a few weeks, ma’am.”
“You’ve made quite a catch for yourself, young lady.”
“Your son would be quite a catch for any girl.”
The dowager inclined her head to that, and nerves already strained taut, Sarah lost patience with the subtle baiting. Better to just settle this for good and all.
“Your ladyship, let us speak plainly. ’Tis quite obvious your son could have done much better for himself than penniless Miss Sarah Wellingford.”
The dowager showed no reaction. Taking a deep breath, Sarah continued. “I mean to make him the best possible wife. I don’t wish to pull caps with you, but I can’t change what I am. For your son’s sake, I hope you will give us your blessing, regardless of any reservations you may have.”
Head high, Sarah subsided into silence.
“Ah, there’s Nicky,” the countess murmured, after a long and rather uncomfortable pause. Indeed, Nicholas nearly flew into the room.
“Well, have you two finished shredding my character?” Though he smiled, his eyes looked anxious.
“Not quite yet,” Sarah said dryly.
“Nicky, is Michael outside? Good.” She turned to Sarah. “My dear, you must wish to freshen up before tea. Michael will show you to the blue bedchamber.”
That stratagem was no more subtle than the shawl, but Sarah rose with graceful resignation. Will she try to talk him out of it once I’m gone, or merely bewail his fate? she wondered. As she started past Nicholas, he caught her hand.
“Though you look lovely to me, I suppose Mama must know best.” Before the watching dowager, he gave her hand a lingering kiss. “Hurry back, sweeting.”
A lump rose in her throat at his deliberate show of support. With a curtsy to the dowager, she left the room.
Nicholas’s glance followed Sarah as she walked out. Though he could detect no distress in her composed face, he knew somehow the interview hadn’t gone well.
“Are you sure you wish to be married so soon?”
He turned to his mama. “I should think after all the times you’ve urged me back to the altar, you’d be delighted at the prospect of seeing me riveted in a week.”
“I don’t think I ever precisely urged you,” she replied. “When you broke the news last night, I was too shocked to respond, but it has since occurred to me there’s no need for the unseemly haste of a special license. Why not have the banns read, and stage a proper wedding?”
“It will be a ‘proper’ wedding.” Controlling his irritation, he tried for a lighter tone. “Given my broken engagement, any subsequent match is bound to set off the gossips. Neither of us wants the circus of a large ton wedding. Besides, I don’t wish to wait.” He gave her a wink. “Surely you can understand that.”
She didn’t smile, as he had hoped. Instead she continued in a thoughtful tone, “Miss Wellingford gains access to a great deal of wealth by this match.”
Nicholas stiffened, as close to affronted as he’d ever been by his mother. “True, Sarah’s family is in straitened circumstances, and I suppose mean-spirited folk might call her a fortune hunter. But having met her, surely you don’t suspect her of that.”
He was shocked to see cautious skepticism on her face. “For goodness’ sake, Mama, she’s not some social-climbing cit’s daughter, like the insufferable Amelia!”
“I can’t fault her breeding,” the dowager admitted. “But you’ve always preferred the most dashing beauties, and she is rather plain.” The dowager hesitated, as if sensing his growing anger. “Are you sure, once the pleasant glow of knight-errantry has faded, you won’t regret this marriage?”
For a moment, he was too outraged to reply. “Sarah, plain?” he choked out. “I happen to think her lovely.”
He looked at his beautiful mother in disbelief, feeling for the first time in his life that he didn’t know her at all. “I’m astounded after what we’ve been through that you, of all people, would consider important the surface glitter of appearance. Or that having met Sarah, you could fail to discern the sterling character beneath her plain facade.”
He broke off, fuming still, as Glendenning brought in a tea tray. When the butler departed, Nicholas strode to the fireplace, turning his back on his mother.
“I’ll forgo tea. As soon as Sarah is ready, we’ll proceed to Lady Sophrina’s.” Over his shoulder he sent his mother a bitter glance. “I trust her aunt will accord me a warmer welcome than you have offered my chosen bride.”
In an instant the dowager flew to the mantel. “Oh, Nicky, do stay and let me apologize!”
He nearly shook off her hand before the words penetrated. “Apologize?” he repeated stiffly.
“Yes, I’ve been a tartar, and though the ploy succeeded beyond my wildest hopes, you put me in an absolute quake!”
He stared at her in total incomprehension. “Ploy?”
The countess gave a musical laugh and tugged at his hand. “Come drink your tea, darling, and let me explain.”
Confused but still angry, he followed her to the sofa.
“First, I shall tell you straightaway your Sarah seems to be all you claim, and I couldn’t be more pleased! But I needed to discover for myself whether you both were entering this engagement—so scandalously soon after the termination of the old—for the right reasons.”
At his incredulous glance, she added defensively, “Well, after Clarissa Beaumont, you must admit it was reasonable I entertain some doubts! Naturally, were I to just ask about your feelings for Sarah, you would give me the proper answers. I wished to see for myself.”
Relief coursed through him, and in spite of himself, his lips began to twitch. “I take it I passed your test?”
“Oh, famously,” she affirmed with a reminiscent shudder. “I hope I shall never again see you direct me such a look.”
He laughed outright, and she frowned at him. “You may say I deserved it, but I had to be sure. When you told me you meant to wed a lady I knew to be in rather desperate financial straits, I did fear that, in your haste, you might have been taken in by a fortune hunter. It required but a moment to alleviate that concern.”
Nicholas grinned. “If you subjected my plain darling to anything like the grilling you gave me, I expect you to offer her a most eloquent apology.”
“I daresay you shall never forgive me that ‘plain.’” The dowager sighed. “I was cool, but you would be proud of her response. She neither toadied nor explained. Nor, might I add, did she wilt under my supposed displeasure.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’d wager my stalwart Sarah calmly informed you that, though fully aware of the disparity of our union, she intended to make me a laudable wife.”
“So she did.” Hesitantly she took his hands. “From your spirited defense, I can dare hope she has truly engaged your interest. I’m so glad, Nicky! You’re far too warmhearted to tolerate a mere marriage of convenience.”
Nicholas stiffened. “Sarah is a dear and valued friend, ’tis all. We both need to marry. You may cease imagining some fairy-tale romance.”
His mother remained silent a long moment. “Nicky dearest,” she said at last, “don’t let bitter memories poison your heart forever.”
“Enough, Mama!” He pulled at his hand.
She caught his fingers and held on. “Call me foolish, with you a man grown, but to me you’ll always be the darling son whose happiness I feel compelled to protect.” The dowager smiled wistfully. “Perhaps now I ca
n relinquish that role to your Sarah. She…she’s nothing like Lydia.”
“Thanks be to God,” he said grimly. For an instant, the image of his late wife seized him—beautiful, vivacious, the undisputed center of attention as he looked on fondly.
Acid burning in his belly, he shook his thoughts free and kissed his mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mama. I should marry her in spite of your disapproval, but I much prefer your blessing. You know, she reminds me of you.”
“Rogue.” The dowager made a face at him as she pulled back her hand. “What can I possibly do after such a tribute, than pronounce her perfect?”
When Sarah returned, Nicholas and his mother were tête-à-tête on the sofa. Suddenly she couldn’t face any more sweetly barbed scrutiny.
She nodded to them and remained standing. “I don’t wish to be discourteous, but I am rather tired, Nicholas. I should prefer to return to my aunt’s now.”
In a graceful swirl of black crepe, the dowager swept to her. “Sarah, you must not go until I apologize, as I already have to Nicky. I wished to discover for myself the true feelings each of you held about your union, and so I adopted that disapproving air. Do say you can find it in your heart to forgive a mother’s concern.”
Startled, Sarah looked at the dowager’s hand clasping hers. As fatigued as she claimed, she found it difficult to grasp her words. “Of course,” she murmured disjointedly.
“Thank you, my dear. Having raised only grubby boys—” she wrinkled her nose at her son “—I have always wished for a daughter to befriend. Now, thanks to my clever Nicholas, I have one.” She caught Sarah in a scented embrace.
Over his mother’s shoulder, Nicholas gave her a wink. Relaxing, she winked back. Perhaps becoming his marchioness wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Chapter Seven
Nicholas peered in the glass, straightened the white rose at his lapel and gave his cravat a quick tug.
“Nicky, if you fiddle with that cravat one more time, you’ll ruin it.” Ned’s amused voice came over his shoulder.
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