Don’t be an idiot, she scolded herself, swiping at a tear that had the temerity to produce itself unbidden. You neither asked for nor expected fidelity of him. How can you be foolish enough to hurt for it now?
Her heart had an answer, and she didn’t like it. Angrier still, she picked up a china shepherdess from the side table and hurled it toward the mantel.
The satisfying crash as it shattered brought her back to earth. Embarrassed, she hurried to gather up the pieces. Let this be a warning, she rebuked herself as she bundled the fragments.
True, her husband was kind and generous. Finding her closeted with Sinjin at that awful meeting a few days ago, he could have assumed the worst. Instead, he trusted her, comforted her, loved her so sweetly he brought more balm to her shattered heart than he would ever know.
But theirs was not a love match. In her need to distance herself from Sinjin, she must be wary of turning to Nicholas. She could never preserve the well-bred, unemotional facade Nicholas required of her if her affections became truly engaged.
Besides, she reminded herself, though he’d so far displayed only a milder form of the addiction, he was still a gambler and not to be trusted.
Could there be anything worse than losing her heart to one who not only didn’t want it, but who with a toss of the dice could lose everything she possessed as well?
Lord above, help me to be wise. She sent the silent prayer heavenward. Have I not known heartache enough?
Nicholas sat in the parlor sipping sherry. Hal was joining them for dinner, after which they’d go on to the rout at the Sheffingdons’.
Restless, he glanced at the mantel clock, but instead of Roman numerals on a silver ground, he saw a gold-haired man in royal-blue regimentals.
No doubt they’d encounter the resplendent captain tonight. Since that first morning call Sandiford had been attentive but not overly familiar with Sarah, cordial and straightforward to Nicholas. Had the captain not paid him that incredible visit, Nicholas might have come to view his wife’s neighbor as an admirable man, a valiant soldier who had rendered great service to his country.
But Sandiford had called, and Nicholas could never forget the look on his face when he said he would consider anything that would keep Sarah in his life.
’Twas better to be forewarned. Still, though Nicholas doubted the captain would attempt to fly with Sarah, and dismissed completely his absurd future plans, he could not shake a smoldering unease.
Damn, he didn’t wish to think of the man. He’d go fetch Sarah. In the hall, he came upon Sarah’s maid.
“Her ladyship’ll be that happy to see this,” Becky said as she took a letter from the butler. He got a glimpse of Sarah’s name written in an unmistakably masculine scrawl.
The maid glanced up. Looking startled—and guilty, he wondered?—she hastily tucked the missive in her sleeve.
“Mistress will be down directly, my lord,” Becky said, dipping a curtsy. “I had to match a thread on her shawl, but ’tis finished, and I’ll take it right up to her.”
Which, the shawl or the letter? Nicholas thought. A tremor of anger rippled through him. Was Sandiford sending Sarah letters, the blackguard? Did the note contain an avowal of undying love—or just the man’s reactions to a list of the potential brides Sarah was supposedly compiling?
He turned on his heel and went back to the parlor, poured himself a brandy, and stared moodily at the clock.
“Sorry to have taken so long, Nicholas,” Sarah said as she entered a few moments later. “I half expected to see Hal already arrived.”
Did you linger to read his letter? he wanted to ask. “Collect any oddities on your shopping trip, my dear?”
For a moment she looked startled. “Only the ordinary,” she replied at last. “Though it never ceases to amaze me the fripperies Clarissa finds she cannot live without.”
“I hope you’ve avoided her example and retained some blunt,” he said, forcing a smile. “Mama will be returning next week. You’ll want to commission something suitable.”
Sarah looked at him blankly. “Commission something?”
“Do you not recall?” He handed her a sherry. “Mama said since we’d had no engagement ball, and so small a reception, she must hostess a presentation ball—to properly introduce my wife to the ton.”
Sarah choked on the sherry. “Good gracious! I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Mama’s so delighted with her new daughter she’s happy to do this. You have only to select a gown splendid enough for a marchioness, and look lovely.”
His words didn’t seem to encourage her. “Nicholas, I, ah, I’ve ever so many gowns. Surely I don’t need another.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You’re a marchioness now, and must dress the part, especially on such an important occasion.” He patted her hand. “At the risk of putting you off completely, I must confess you should expect to greet most of England’s nobility, from Prinny and his advisers on down. Something in gold and diamonds should do the trick.”
“Diamonds?” she repeated, moistening her lips.
“Is something amiss? Not run off your legs already, I trust.” Nicholas grinned at her.
“I’m afraid that’s rather the case.” She gave him a nervous smile. “I was going to inform you, but I’d not yet had the…opportunity.”
“Well, I daresay dressmakers’ bills are more expensive than I remember,” he allowed.
“I didn’t spend the money on gowns, Nicholas. It was something quite different, something I doubt you’d guess.”
Whatever could she have purchased? Nicholas wondered. Articles so extravagant she suspected he’d disapprove them, if that troubled look was any indication.
A thought popped into his head, too outlandish to credit. Sandiford had as much as admitted he was short of funds. Had Sarah lent him money—Nicholas’s money? Was the letter he’d seen Sandiford’s note of thanks?
No, ’twas preposterous. Nonetheless, all his simmering anger reheated.
“Perhaps you’d better tell me the whole.”
“Hope I’m not late, Nicky.” With a genial smile, Hal Waterman walked in. “Famished. Shall we dine?”
Nicholas grimaced. There’d be no answers now.
“Evening, Hal. Certainly we’ll dine. Escort Sarah, won’t you?” He gave his wife a curt nod.
Nicholas watched Hal take Sarah’s arm. With a light remark, she set him laughing. Moodily he followed.
Oh, she was good at nurturing, his lovely bride. He thought of the letter, and set his teeth. Just who else did she think to nurture?
Nicholas stared at the window and tossed the coin up again. He’d wandered into the Sheffingdons’ gaming room to join in a hand of whist while awaiting his waltz with Sarah. But what tepid interest he’d managed to summon up for the game had already evaporated.
He simply hadn’t been able to stomach any longer watching the country dance into which the captain had led his wife. Wasn’t the man letting his hand linger on Sarah’s? And Nicholas wasn’t imagining the caressing look on the captain’s face as he followed Sarah’s movements, an expression far removed from brotherly regard. Had anyone else noted those all-too-fond glances?
Impelled by some sixth sense, he turned to see Sarah framed in the open doorway. The smile that automatically sprang to his lips died as he took in her appalled face. Before he could move or speak, she whirled around and fled.
Fear rocked him. Nearly running, he crossed the room, but by the time he reached the hallway she had disappeared.
He stood, perplexity and alarm coursing through him. If she were in trouble, why had she not waited for him?
Unless it were not he she’d been looking for. Unless she’d been rushing to rendezvous with another, and he was the last person she wanted to see.
Surely not. Had he not just left them in the ballroom?
He hesitated, then strode to the crowded dance floor. Neither the captain nor Sarah was among the revelers.
Acid burned in his bel
ly. Pasting a society smile on his face, he set out to hunt for his wife.
Twenty minutes later Nicholas paused, trying to curb a rising outrage. He’d checked the refreshment room, the card room and several antechambers. That he was forced to progress slowly, speaking to the friends he encountered and maneuvering glibly to evade the invitations they pressed upon him to eat, chat or dance, only exacerbated his ire.
There was no sign of either his wife—or the captain. Wherever had they vanished? The only rooms he’d not checked were the ladies’ withdrawing room—and the bedchambers.
Between the barely contained fury smoking in him and the sick churning in his gut, he had no taste for food or conversation. The waltz was long past, and by now he was too angry to face Sarah.
He’d go to his club, he decided. Perhaps after a bottle of brandy, he’d be calm enough to discuss this.
He went to the foyer and called for his greatcoat. He’d leave word for her to go home with a friend.
The image of Sandiford rose before him. Ah, yes, the captain would be only too willing to escort her home—and settle her in bed. A red mist of rage clouded his head.
Better make that two bottles of brandy, he told himself savagely as he awaited his coat.
Sarah sat in the ladies’ withdrawing room, mopping her cheeks as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.
She’d gone to find Nicholas after the dance with Sinjin. He’d signed her card for the waltz, but she’d decided to ask him to slip away and talk with her instead.
She’d been berating herself for her stupidity in forgetting the presentation ball and her poor judgment in not consulting Nicholas about the Wellingford purchases.
Though well deserved, his coldness during dinner struck her like a chill wind, destroying her comfort. She suddenly realized how, in just a short time, she had come to rely on his kind and steadfast support.
She would make a full disclosure, endure his scold and pray all would be right between them again.
Pausing on the threshold to survey the occupants, she spied Nicholas across the gaming room and was about to approach him when a small movement caught her eye.
Nicholas was staring toward the darkened window, a troubled look on his face, while with one hand he tossed up a gold guinea, caught it, threw it up again.
The breath stopped in her throat. She stood riveted, unable to tear her gaze from the tumbling dance of the bright coin winking in and out of his fingers.
The image before her blurred, and she saw a slighter man, gray at the temples, standing before a darkened window at Wellingford, tossing and retossing a single coin. “I’ve lost it all, Sarah,” her father said. “I’ve lost it all.”
Beyond rational reaction, she fled blindly down the hall. Even now, recalling the scene made her stomach heave.
She mopped her brow again. Calm down. She was an idiot, letting a ghost of the painful past spook her. ’Twas not the disheveled wreck of her father who stood there, not the vacant stare of a man who’d gamed away everything.
But Nicholas gambles! her frantic heart replied. Maybe ’twas not him tonight, but it could be. Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe next year.
She dipped the cloth again in cool water. Yes, Nicholas gambles. Mostly, he wins. Should he lose, he’s wealthy, much wealthier than Papa ever was. And even should he lose everything, there will be Wellingford.
Yes, Wellingford. A refuge for her—and her son. She put a protective hand over her stomach.
Should she tell him? No, right now she had a different confession to make. She’d best get hold of herself and find Nicholas.
She smoothed her braids and turned to leave.
Just then Clarissa tripped in. “Sarah darling, you simply must hear this! Oh, and could you help me with my lace? Wexley trod on it during our last waltz, the oaf!”
Resigning herself to the delay, Sarah pinned up the torn bit, half listening to Clarissa’s latest on-dit while in her mind reviewing her explanations to Nicholas.
Ten minutes later, arm linked with Clarissa’s, Sarah at last strolled down the hall to the refreshment room. She would escort Clarissa back to her courtiers and then seek out Nicholas.
The first couple they encountered stopped chatting as they neared. Sarah thought the lady, one of the Season’s Marriage Mart hopefuls, intended to speak, and smiled.
The girl turned aside and whispered to the young man. Both burst out laughing.
Sarah frowned and glanced at Clarissa. Her friend’s chatter continued unabated.
When they reached the crowd outside the ballroom, a hush fell. Half the people in the milling throng looked toward Sarah and, avoiding her eyes, quickly turned away. Titters behind fans and ill-concealed chuckles followed.
This time Clarissa noticed, stopping her recitation in midsentence. A deep foreboding engulfed Sarah.
Clarissa bristled. “What the devil is going on?”
A slight, narrow-faced young man in a puce jacket and bright saffron waistcoat sauntered toward them. Sarah recognized the sharp-tongued Lord John Weston.
“Well, if it isn’t the Farmer Bride. Did you leave the cows at home tonight, or do they await you in the street?”
Farmer. Cows. Alarm coursing through her, Sarah rapidly reviewed the passersby near the agricultural factor’s shop. Surely this fribble hadn’t seen her.
Lord John smiled, a thin curve of lip with no humor in it, and turned to several young fops by the wall. “We must watch our step after she passes, gentlemen. Something other than straw may still cling to her shoes.”
She heard Clarissa’s gasp, and several bystanders tittered. Sarah stiffened, anger replacing her chagrin.
“Lord John.” Sarah nodded, head high and voice imperious. “And—gentlemen?” She invested the word with every bit of scorn she could muster.
Lord John swept her a bow. “How kind to acknowledge those of us so far beneath you.” He gestured to the lounging men. “Alas, you think us a poor lot. All of London society, in fact. From the nouveau-riche hangers-on to the greatest hostesses, we are naught but a passel of idle gossips and mindless, pleasure-seeking dandies.”
For a second, she was tempted to agree, adding sweetly he was the worst of the bunch. Good breeding prevailed. “Certainly not. I’m vastly grieved you could have invested me with so uncharitable a thought.” Nodding her head once more, she gripped Clarissa’s arm and swept past them.
More titters, though fewer this time. Then, in the silence that followed, she heard Lord John’s voice. “Pawk, pawk, pawk, pawk.”
Anger sizzled through her—not at his goading, for she cared naught for his opinion. But it rankled her that this worthless man should mock the humble farms whose revenues made his dissolute London life possible.
She turned her head back. “Chickens don’t sound like that.” She gave him a condescending smile. “But then, you wouldn’t know. Being better acquainted with swine.”
Squeezing Clarissa’s arm, she resumed walking. By mutual, unspoken consent, they traversed the ballroom and proceeded out onto the terrace beyond.
Finding an unoccupied corner, Sarah let go Clarissa’s arm and leaned wearily on the balustrade.
Clarissa slashed her fan again a pillar. “‘The Farmer Bride’ indeed! What a detestable worm! Oh, were I a man, I’d run him through for that.”
Sarah laughed without humor. The Farmer Bride. Little as it meant to her, she knew Nicholas wouldn’t be as sanguine. What the ton said of her would matter to him.
Then she remembered his angry face in the card room. Shock sizzled through her. He must have already heard it.
“Someone must have seen me at the farm goods emporium,” she said with exasperation. “Damn and blast!”
“Perhaps, Sarah,” Clarissa said, tears glittering at the tips of her long lashes. “But I-I’m afraid I mentioned something to Wexley.”
“Oh, Clare.”
“He complained his factor was taxing him over some matter about his estate, and how dare the man
bother him while he was in agonies deciding whether to commission a waistcoat in daffodil or saffron? I scolded him, and told him some people not only listened to their agents, but sent them funds. When he swore it could not be so, I…” Tears slid down the porcelain cheeks.
Trying to stifle her annoyance, Sarah patted Clarissa’s hand. Wexley was one of the worst rattles in the ton. Nicholas was going to be livid.
Clarissa straightened. “You trusted me, and I failed you. I shall make it right, Sarah, I swear it.”
She took a few restless steps. “I shall cut Wexley completely. He swore he’d keep the news in strictest confidence, and surely realized what would happen if he whispered it.” She gave her titian curls an angry shake. “He cannot hold me in much esteem, to injure my dearest friend. And I shall give the cut direct to anyone who dares call you that dreadful name, or so much as giggles in your direction. Let the despicable Lord John deal with that.”
Sarah frowned. A public vendetta between Clarissa and Lord John would stir up just the sort of dust to fuel the gossips—and Nicholas’s ire—for the longest possible time.
“Cut Wexley if you will, Clare, but leave the rest to me. The best way to deal with this is to ignore it. I am a marchioness, am I not?” She straightened and gave an imperious look. “What care I for the chatter of inferiors?”
Clarissa sighed. “Very well, I shall do nothing. Except—” her eyes glittered with anger “—deal with Wexley.”
“What’s done is done,” Sarah said, trying to sound unconcerned. “We should get back.”
“Yes.” Clarissa unfurled her fan with a snap. “And if you’ll excuse me, there’s a gentleman I wish to see.”
Silently they reentered the ballroom and scanned the dancers, Clarissa stiffening as she identified Wexley. Giving Sarah a militant nod, she set off.
Nicholas was nowhere in sight. Her chest tight with apprehension, Sarah left the ballroom.
As she crossed the landing above the entry, she saw a familiar figure collecting his greatcoat and hat.
“Nicholas,” she called.
He looked up, his face hardening when he recognized her, and raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Madame.” Making an elaborate bow, he settled his hat and stepped to the door.
The Wedding Gamble Page 16