The Wedding Gamble

by Julia Justiss

  “Next week?” Nicholas couldn’t stem an upsurge of gladness. He struggled to come up with some sincere expression of regret, and failed. “I’m sure his unit needs him,” he offered finally. “He’s a fine officer.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s a fine man as well, Nicholas. I had hoped you two might be friends.”

  When pigs fly, thought Nicholas. “Here’s the carriage. I feared going out tonight would be too much for you.”

  Sarah was quiet on the ride home, from fatigue—or distress—Nicholas could not tell. Was it the thought of her lover’s departure that made her shoulders sag and brought that numb misery to her eyes? His anger revived.

  He handed her out of the carriage and marched her upstairs. “I’m sure you’ll wish to retire immediately.”

  Sarah looked at him wearily. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. I should have better control. People will comment about—about it. I can’t be dissolving into tears every time someone offers me condolences, no matter how sweetly false.”

  Becky bustled in, clucking and fussing over Sarah, and Nicholas withdrew. She had not, he noted, apologized for the indiscretion of slipping off with Sandiford. His brow puckered, he walked moodily back to his own chamber.

  He poured himself a brandy and flung into his chair. Then a phrase echoed: “and offered his own condolences.”

  The implications of the remark hit him like a blow. Sandiford hadn’t visited her at Stoneacres. Relief and a savage joy flooded him.

  Shame stemmed the flood of gladness as he recalled Sarah’s wan, strained face. After swearing to himself upon her return that he would not—he would not—ever again let his jealous imagination fly away with him, at the very first test he once again succumbed. How could he be idiotic enough to doubt Sarah’s distress when someone mentioned her lost child? Had he not himself witnessed over and over the depth of her grief?

  Instead of jumping to inane conclusions regarding the captain, he should have offered her comfort, a warm shoulder and a sympathetic ear.

  Regret stabbed at him. He would apologize at once, before she fell asleep.

  Sarah reclined against the pillows, her braided hair under a frilly nightcap. The depth of the curtsy Becky gave him as she exited indicated the maid held him responsible for his wife’s pale weariness.

  Nicholas handed her a glass of wine. “’Twill help you sleep. I hoped an apology might help as well. I’m sorry for my brusqueness tonight.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize. Even though upset, I should have realized I must not allow Sinjin to assist me alone.” She gave him a small smile. “He’s been a friend so long, ’tis sometimes hard to remember the meaning—others might attach to his attentions. I shall do better, I promise. Now, is that not a familiar theme?”

  “We shall both do better. But you look exhausted, sweeting. Perhaps we should remain at home a few days. I don’t think you’re recovered enough for the late nights one keeps in London.”

  “I’m not tired, really. ’Twas the incident that upset me, and the sooner I learn to deal with it, the better. I cannot spend the rest of my life hiding in Stanhope House.”

  Nicholas drained his glass and went over to the bed. “You mustn’t push yourself. You do that, you know. Give yourself time, Sarah.” He picked up the end of the long plait and stroked his fingers along its satiny length.

  The slippery softness recalled the feel of her bare skin. During their marriage he’d become delightfully accustomed to sharing her bed nightly. He’d not done so in nearly five weeks, and at the thought of her silken body under the thin veiling of nightrail his heartbeat quickened and a tremor spiraled in his gut. Reach out his arm, and the little buttons could be undone, the fabric pushed back—

  He realized he’d been reaching out in truth. Clenching the hand into a fist, he jammed it at his side. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If he meant to leave her untouched, he’d best remove himself with all speed.

  Instead of her lips, he leaned to kiss the tip of her braid. “Sleep well, sweet Sarah,” he said through a tight throat. He forced his reluctant legs toward the door.

  “Nicholas.”

  He halted to look back at her.

  “Are you still angry with me?”

  “No, sweeting. I thought I’d told you that.”

  “Then, can you not—stay?”

  Heat, like the blast from an opened oven, suffused him. He stilled, his pulse frantic, his ears roaring, and tried to keep his eyes from lingering on her lips, her breasts.

  “I don’t want to injure you, sweeting.”

  “I’m fully recovered, Nicholas. Stay, please?”

  So much for good intentions. Before the plea left her lips, he reached the bed.

  Smiling, Sarah put the last pin in her coil of braids. What a fool she’d been, hiding away at Stoneacres. Nicholas had been particularly tender, especially passionate last night, and she had no doubt as he loved her that his mind had room for no one else. If she could lure him to her nightly, when would he have time for Chloe?

  And as he had at Stoneacres, he’d not left her after their joining, but gathered her close and slept in her bed. Surely there could be no more wonderful feeling under heaven than waking in the arms of the man you love.

  Her euphoria dimmed as she headed for the breakfast room. Her attempt to dissuade the Buxleys had failed totally. Though she hated to risk breaking their lingering contentment, she must talk to Nicholas about Findlay.

  His eyes lit when she entered and he rose to kiss her. “Fill your plate, sweeting. If you’re like me, you must be famished.” He gave her a naughty grin.

  She couldn’t help grinning back. She allowed herself to delay the discussion until they finished their meal and were pouring a last dish of tea. In what she hoped was a casual voice, she asked, “Did you see the notice of Sir James Findlay’s engagement?”

  Nicholas grimaced. “I did. And wondered about the taste—or intelligence—of his affianced bride.”

  “I doubt she had much choice about it. Do you not recall her, Nicholas—Miss Angela Buxley? Shy, slender, blue-eyed with golden curls? She’s scarcely more than a child. And her father is a debt-ridden gamester.”

  Nicholas raised his eyes to hers, suddenly grave. “Appears to be a pattern, does there not?”

  “Except the intended victim this time is much younger and more vulnerable than I. Oh, Nicholas, she’s a delicate little thing, and she’s terrified of him! I tried to talk with her, and then her parents last evening, tried to make them see what he is, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “You spoke frankly to the Buxleys?”

  “Yes, and you may spare me the lecture that ’twas not my place to do so. I know Sir James as perhaps no other woman—still living, that is,” she inserted grimly. “How can I let some poor innocent be delivered into his hands?”

  “Sarah, I admire your courage and concern, but this truly isn’t your problem. The girl does have a father. ’Tis his task to protect her.”

  “Not when the glitter of gambling money beckons,” Sarah said bitterly. “I tried to reason with him, warn him—I even showed him my scar. But Findlay has him charmed—and well paid. Baron Buxley would hear nothing against him.”

  “Then you’ve done all you could. And proceeded much further than most would have been willing to go.”

  “But it isn’t enough, Nicholas. I suddenly realized last night that, even had I succeeded in dissuading the Buxleys, Findlay would only seek another victim, until he found one gullible or unprotected enough.”

  She looked away from Nicholas’s disapproving face. “Should I manage to blacken his reputation among the ton so thoroughly that none would countenance a union with him, it would still not be enough. He would merely target one poorer and more vulnerable still. Does not a maidservant or a shopkeeper’s girl have just as much right to protection from such as he as the daughter of a baron?”

  “I concede the point.” Nicholas frowned. “But I fail to see what you can do about it.”

&nb
sp; Sarah took a deep breath. “Is not assault a crime punishable by law? And is this—” she pointed to the scar at her wrist “—not evidence of assault?”

  Nicholas stared at her in horror. “You cannot mean to bring him to the dock upon assault charges!”

  Nicholas took her hand and kissed the scar fervently. “My darling Sarah, I applaud your spirit and good intentions, but I could not permit you to expose yourself in a public courtroom in such a manner.”

  “’Tis only my wrist, Nicholas.” She smiled.

  He wasn’t amused. “’Tis a great deal more, and you know it,” he snapped back. “The mere thought of the vulgar display a trial would occasion—cartoons in the press shop windows, crowds in the courtroom—makes me shudder. The family would clamor for me to divorce you. No, you must not consider it.”

  The urgency of the task and her desire to please him battled within her. Could she not convince him to help?

  “When I spoke with Miss Buxley, she told me Sir James said I owed him a debt that she would repay. She had no idea what Findlay meant, but I do. Do you not see? As inconvenient, as scandalous as it may be, I am responsible. I cannot just turn away and forget.”

  Nicholas looked grimmer than she’d ever seen him. “How could you think to prove assault? The scar is old now, and there were no witnesses to the attack. Sarah, as your husband I absolutely forbid you to proceed in this matter.”

  So searing had the experience been, she hadn’t considered her scar might be worthless as evidence. Before she could ponder the implications, Nicholas pinned her with a gimlet glare. “Don’t even think of approaching Findlay himself, Miss Save-the-World! I swear, if you so much as look in his direction, I’ll—I’ll lock you in your room.”

  Sarah stared. “On bread and water?” she asked dryly.

  His severity softened into a grin. “Bread and tea, perhaps. And—” he winked at her “—I would visit often.”

  Then his face sobered. “This worries me, sweeting. If Sir James does harbor a grievance, we must be careful. I’ll not underestimate his menace, for I should never forgive myself were something to happen to you. The other maidens of this world will have to find another champion. I will not bend on this, Sarah.”

  He grasped her scarred wrist and rubbed it gently, frowning. “We should take precautions. I’ll escort you to any functions we attend, and if you wish to go out shopping, you must take the carriage and two extra footmen.”

  She agreed without argument. Then, pleading the need to prepare for just such an expedition with Clarissa, she put down her cup and slipped from the room.

  In the refuge of her chamber, Sarah mulled over Nicholas’s words. She yearned to believe him, to abandon her dangerous enterprise. The warmth with which he’d treated her since her return, the ecstasy of their loving last night, made every fiber of her being protest proceeding in a mission that might forever destroy any hope of happiness together.

  She could pursue this only over Nicholas’s most adamant disapproval. Should she press a court action, ’twould likely mean all the vulgar scandal he’d predicted, and more. I should have to divorce you, he’d said.

  Would he go that far? Dare she find out?

  What other choice did she have? In her heart she knew her treatment of Sir James had, however unwittingly, added fuel to the fire of the demon that drove him. Because of her, did she not succeed in stopping him, innocent girls would suffer, and perhaps die.

  If she had a duty to Nicholas, she owed her conscience an even greater one. She could not live with herself knowing she had allowed the maiming or death of blameless fellow creatures. She must go forward.

  Then she recalled Nicholas’s other objection. She carefully inspected her wrist.

  The scar, thin, white and puckered, ran for scarcely an inch. As Nicholas had said, ’twould be difficult to judge its age. Findlay might well claim her charge was spite, that she carried the scar from some earlier mishap.

  The implications of that realization frightened her to her bones. If she intended to stop Sir James, she would have to present fresh evidence.

  She thought a long time before the plan came to her. Her turmoil settled into a cold, firm resolve. Forgive me, Nicholas, she said silently. I love you, and I’m sorry. But I must do this.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That night they attended Lady Cunningham’s rout. As the Cunningham daughter was a friend of Miss Buxley and the party honored both girls, Sarah was certain Sir James would be present. How she would manage to slip away from Nicholas long enough to have a private word with Findlay concerned her, but it proved easier than she expected.

  Nicholas’s Aunt Amelia and the Odious Archibald chanced to be attending. When Archibald, ostensibly a suitor to the hand of Miss Cunningham, left his mama, Lady Stanhope latched on to Nicholas’s arm and declared he must escort her to the refreshment room.

  Sarah realized this was her best chance. As soon as Lady Stanhope steered Nicholas out of the ballroom, Sarah scanned the crowd.

  She saw Sir James at the far side. It seemed he was watching her, for his eyes met hers and he nodded.

  Findlay pulled Miss Buxley forward. From the pained look on the girl’s face, he was holding her hand in a merciless grip. As he bent and kissed her fingertips, the girl’s eyes widened. She tugged at her hand. When Sir James released her, she cradled her hand to her bosom and fled from the room.

  Sir James watched her go. Then he raised his fingertips, touched them to his lips and waved to Sarah.

  A rage greater than her loathing filled her. He’d staged that incident just for her, she was certain of it.

  He was still gazing at her—doubtless awaiting her reaction. Clenching her teeth, she inclined her head toward the terrace. He smiled and shook his head.

  Would he refuse to meet her? Somehow she must goad him to it. She looked toward the refreshment room where, had he truly been watching her, he would know Nicholas had gone. She turned back to stare at Findlay, and when he did nothing, raised an eyebrow scornfully. Then she made her way deliberately to the terrace.

  Would he take the challenge? He had only to ignore her, and she could truly do nothing. Her heart pounded in double time as she waited on the darkened terrace, and despite the warmth of the evening, she shivered. Almost, she hoped he would not come, and she could return with a light heart to Nicholas—

  “So, little dove, you seek a meeting. Tired already of your new husband? Or is it that he neglects you too often for one of—how shall I put it—superior charms?”

  Sarah gathered her courage. “’Tis not of Nicholas I wished to speak, but of your betrothed. She’s a child, Sir James. Hardly worthy of you.”

  “True. She has none of your spirit, and taming her will be a paltry business.” He stepped closer. She forced herself to stand firm. “That slender little body is lovely, though, so frail and—delicate. And I do have a man’s…appetites.”

  A door slammed, and Sir James looked back sharply. “Charming as this interlude is, I mustn’t linger. So unreasonable of Englemere to restrict your movements, little dove, whilst feeling himself free to entertain Chloe. But alas, I have learned to respect his displeasure.”

  He bent his head until the light from the ballroom windows illumined his face. The Grecian perfection of his nose, she saw with a shock, was marred by a crooked bump.

  “Yes, your lord husband is rather close with his possessions. He counts even a dance an effrontery.”

  He ran a finger along the fracture, and suppressed rage roughened his voice. “I shall collect for this, never doubt.” Falling back into his languid pose, he smiled at her. “From someone.” He turned to walk away.

  “I’ve not yet said what I wished,” she called after him. “Perhaps if I call on you tomorrow?”

  The baronet halted. With slow deliberation he turned back to her. “You would visit my home?”

  She took a deep breath. “The proposition I wish to deliver is rather—private.”

  He stared at her,
and she could almost see him weighing the risk of retribution from Nicholas against the prospect of having her once again in his power.

  “But—if you fear Nicholas…” She shrugged. “’Tis nothing for it, then. Good evening, Sir—”

  “I fear no man,” he barked. He smoothed his cravat, frowning. She held her breath and waited. Just when she thought she must scream from suspense and frustration, his lips curved and that hot glow she had always found so disturbing began shimmering in his eyes.

  “I don’t suppose I could be held responsible for your visit,” he said, half to himself. “Come if you wish, my lady. I shall be at home.” He raked her body with a hot glance. “Perhaps you’re deciding you made a mistake.”

  She watched him walk away. “Someone has,” she whispered.

  Too late now to question the wisdom or necessity of her plan. He’d taken the bait. Tomorrow she must spring an airtight trap.

  Before that, though, she had one last night with Nicholas. Casting aside every restraint but love and need, she intended to make the most of it.

  Sarah heard Nicholas approach her chamber door, and a shiver of anticipation tingled along her spine. He had come to her eagerly last night, and their loving had been joyous and passionate. Even so, ever mindful of her pledge, she had held back, responding rather than seeking a response.

  This time there would be no holding back. If, after this night, she were fated to leave Nicholas, she would bear what she must. At least this once, though, she intended to touch and taste and love him with full abandon.

  He closed the door and stepped into the candle-bright room. She would have preferred daylight, to see him more clearly, but the massed candelabra on the mantel and the bedside table would have to do.

  Nicholas looked around in bemusement at the extravagant array of wax tapers. Then his glance reached her. His eyes widened, his breath caught and he stopped short.