“Shall we try it?” Her voice seemed oddly high. Was she nervous?
“By all means.” Christian grabbed his spoon, dunked it into the thick stew, and scooped up a large mouthful. He allowed it to cool for a moment before taking a bite.
Sarah bit her lip, watching him with the obvious apprehension of an anxious cook.
“It’s delicious!” he declared, and it was true. Rich, flavorful, thick, and hearty. By God, this little pampered daughter of an earl had managed to create a fine pot of stew. The girl was obviously talented.
A look of relief washed over her face and she took her own first tentative bite. She blinked. She blinked again. “It is good!” she agreed, incredulity dripping from her voice. “It’s quite good.”
“You’re surprised?” He took another healthy bite.
“Yes, I’m exceedingly surprised, actually.”
Christian pulled off a piece of one biscuit, dunked it into the stew, and ate it. Sarah watched him carefully, a slight frown marring her brow as if she’d never seen anyone eat in that manner before. But soon she, too, pulled off a piece of one of her biscuits, dunked it into her bowl, and ate it. A giant smile spread across her face after she swallowed, as if she’d just discovered the most delicious thing in the world.
“Why are you surprised it’s good?” Christian asked after swallowing his bite.
“Because I haven’t cooked in an age. I’ve been … well, I made my debut this past Season and Mother insisted that I spend my time doing … other things.”
Christian dunked another bit of biscuit in his bowl and arched a brow at her. “Other things?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
She took another bite. “Such as … find a husband.”
“And?” Christian countered. “Any luck?”
Lady Sarah began coughing uncontrollably. She beat her chest and her eyes watered. Then, just as Christian was contemplating circling around the table to slap her on the back, her breathing returned to normal. “My,” she said. “It must have slipped down my windpipe.”
He quickly handed her her wineglass. “Are you all right?”
“I think so, now.”
“Well, the stew is delicious. Thank you for making it for me. You’re obviously an accomplished cook,” Christian said.
“Mother always says I’m capable,” she replied, the smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Christian grimaced. Lady Sarah might just need to be capable indeed if she’d run off to give birth to a bastard. They ate in awkward silence for a few moments. The only sound was the clicking of the spoons on the bowls and the wine being sipped.
Finally, Sarah cleared her throat. “Don’t worry, Mr. Forester. As soon as Mr. Fergus returns, he shall escort us to Father’s lodge and we’ll no longer be a burden to you.”
Christian sipped his wine and stared out the window, where the snow was falling swiftly, piling up in big, fluffy flakes. He shook his head slowly. “On the contrary, given the severity of the storm, I doubt Fergus will be returning.”
Sarah blinked. She lowered her spoon back into her bowl as if in a trance. “Ever?”
Christian dunked another piece of biscuit into his stew. “No time soon, I’m afraid.”
“But that’s impossible. That means … Why, that means…”
He popped the biscuit into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “That you’re stranded here with me. Alone.”
Sarah gulped, braced an elbow on the table, and let her forehead fall onto her palm. “What am I to do?”
Christian took a sip of wine. Then he lifted the glass and stared into its dark depths. He’d forgotten he had this wine. Madeira. He’d collected some damn fine Portuguese wine during the wars. “Why don’t you tell me the reason you’re here? Perhaps I can help you.”
“I doubt it,” she groaned.
“Tell me,” he prompted. “I’ve helped many a fair maiden out of trouble. My friends, mostly. I’ve a great deal of experience.”
Sarah lifted her head and studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she believed such a claim. Finally, she sighed and rested her chin on her palm, her elbow still braced on the table. “The truth is I’ve made a series of very poor decisions in a very short amount of time, and the more I consider them in hindsight, the more I am convinced I have ruined my entire life. Mother always says I’m too impetuous. Apparently, she is right.”
“Capable but impetuous?” Christian said.
“Seems so,” Sarah replied, her face still scrunched in a grimace.
Christian set his wineglass next to his bowl. “I hate to be indelicate … but are you … do you happen to be…” He cleared his throat. “Enceinte?”
It took a moment for the word to register, and when it did, he could tell by the look of horror on her face that he’d been wrong. An unexpected wave of relief washed through him.
“Pregnant? No! Absolutely not!” she gasped.
He lifted his spoon to take another bite of stew. “Forgive me. But the usual course of action for a young lady who is in that sort of trouble would be to run to Scotland at the first opportunity, though admittedly she usually drags a potential bridegroom along with her.”
Sarah groaned. “It’s the exact opposite in my case, actually.”
That was intriguing, to be sure. “What do you mean?”
She raised her glass in a silent salute. “You’re looking at London’s most sought-after young lady of last Season.”
He arched his brows. “Am I?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t call myself that, of course. I think it’s horrid. But the papers, the scandal sheets, they all seem to agree—Lady Sarah Highgate, the belle of the Season.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “And you find that horrid?”
“Entirely.”
His eyes narrowed further. “May I ask why? Seeing as how I’ve managed to be the exact opposite of the bachelor of the Season for several Seasons past, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t relish popularity.”
“What do you mean, you’ve been the exact opposite of the bachelor of the Season?”
“I’ve been searching for a wife for years now with absolutely no luck whatsoever. Ladies barely seem to know I’m alive. The ones who do, quickly become my friends, with nary a word about marriage.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound pleasant. Not in the least.” She shook her head and gave him a sympathetic look.
Christian tapped his fingertips along the tabletop. “So, you’ll understand why I’m curious to know the reason you believe being the belle of the Season is horrid.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, it’s quite simple, really. It’s because being the belle of the Season drew the attention of the most eligible bachelor of the Season.”
“Who is?” Christian took another bite of stew.
“Lord Alistair Branford.”
Christian set down his spoon and scratched his chin. Damn beard was itchy. “Branford? I admit, the man can be a bore, but he’s good ton. What do you find so objectionable about him?”
“You know good ton?” She looked entirely skeptical. “Forgive me,” she rushed to say. “That was rude. I just … it’s just that you…”
“You’re wondering how a man dressed like me and living in the Scottish Highlands knows anything about the ways of the Quality in London?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, a guilty look etched on her fine features.
“You might say I’m loosely connected to the Quality. I’ve been to many a ball in London. Even made an appearance at Almack’s a time or two.”
“You have my sympathy,” Sarah said, making Christian realize that in addition to being able to cook, the young woman had a dry sense of humor. Another surprise from Lady Sarah Highgate.
“Are you of the gentry?” she asked.
“Something like that.” Christian grabbed his spoon again. “But you never said, what is the matter with Branford?”
Sarah uttered a labored sigh. �
��You’ve clearly never been a young lady suffering his attentions.”
“True.” Christian grinned at her.
“The man is a complete bore. No. He’s more than a complete bore. He’s constantly talking about himself. It’s his favorite subject: his looks, his clothing, his money, his estates. There’s nothing about himself that he doesn’t find endlessly fascinating.”
Christian took another bite of stew and swallowed. “I take it you don’t share his fascination.”
Sarah folded her hands in front of her on the tabletop. “I do not.”
“So you were forced to suffer the attentions of the Marquess of Branford and that made you run away?” Christian asked.
Sarah’s eyes widened and a look of disgust mixed with a bit of hopelessness crossed her face. “No. I ran away after my father informed me that I was betrothed to the awful man.”
CHAPTER SIX
Christian contemplated the young lady sitting across from him. He’d never considered such aspects of an arranged marriage before. Most of the ladies he knew, like his friends the Duchess of Claringdon, the Countess of Swifdon, and Mrs. Upton, had all chosen their husbands, fallen in love with them, actually. It had to be difficult to be a female forced to marry in accordance with her family’s wishes. It was done all the time, of course. This wasn’t an extraordinary circumstance, but Lady Sarah obviously had chosen to flee rather than obey. At great potential risk to her reputation. He could well imagine how her imperious father would react. The Earl of Highfield was a good man but could be pompous when the occasion arose.
“The worst part is,” she continued, “that everyone keeps informing me how fortunate I am. How lucky to have drawn the eye of the marquess, what a boon it is, et cetera.”
“You don’t feel fortunate?” Christian took another bite of stew.
“I’ve tried to feel fortunate. I have. I truly have. There must be something awfully wrong with me to not feel fortunate. But then, one night, I got a funny feeling in my chest. I can’t explain it other than to say that I couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to be closing about me. I felt frightened. I only knew I had to leave.”
“Leave?” Christian narrowed his eyes on her.
“Flee. Get out. Be anywhere but there.”
He watched her carefully. “And you decided to come here?”
“It was the only place I could think of.”
“Did you leave just before the wedding, then?”
“No.” She groaned again. “That’s what is even more mad. The wedding isn’t to be until spring. But I just had to go. Oh, I know I sound positively insane. It’s quite difficult to explain.” She shook her head sadly and pushed her stew around in her bowl with her spoon.
Christian had never heard of a lady who had the same sort of reaction to worry that he had. Tight chest? Fear? Walls closing in? He’d experienced the same sensations himself on more than one occasion. It was some sort of attack of the nerves that he dreaded. It didn’t sound positively mad to him in the least. “You plan to remain here till spring?”
Sarah’s hand paused on the spoon. “No. Of course not. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve always done everything I’ve been told. Never broken one rule. I cannot imagine Mother’s shock. I feel absolutely awful. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Christian rubbed his chin. “What did you think would happen if you ran away?”
She sighed. “I’m not a complete fool. I did have a plan. I took clothes and all the pin money I’d been saving for years. I decided to dress as a maid so I wouldn’t need help with my clothing.”
“Very astute of you.” He inclined his head. “But you brought a chaperone with you?”
“I never intended for Mrs. Goatsocks to come.”
Christian let that part go for the moment. “Why did you save your pin money?”
“No particular reason. I simply abhor shopping. The only things I ever bought were gifts for Mother and Father and Hart and Mrs. Goatsocks and my maid.”
“Hart?”
“My elder brother.”
“Ah, yes, Highfield’s heir. What was your plan once you got to your father’s hunting lodge?”
She took such a long draught of wine that she drained the glass. She stood to retrieve the bottle from the table near the hearth. “I hoped to create a scandal. Hopefully one that would be bad enough that Lord Branford would ask Father to destroy the marriage contract.”
Christian’s lips twitched with humor. “And if that didn’t work?”
“That was my entire plan. How could it not work? Who would want a wife who’d been missing and unchaperoned?”
Christian eyed her up and down. Clearly the young woman had little idea how appealing she was. He doubted Branford would let some idle gossip stop the wedding.
“And now I feel like an idiot,” Sarah continued, “and dear Mrs. Goatsocks has been injured and poor Mr. Fergus had to go out in the snow just before a storm and it’s all my fault.”
His bowl clean, Christian leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his middle. “Well, the stew you cooked is a sight better than anything Fergus has ever made, so I’m glad you’re here for the moment, at least.”
She tried to return his smile but couldn’t. “I’m sorry if I can’t quite see the humor in it. I’ve ruined my life.”
“You must have felt quite strongly to have taken such a risk.”
“I did. But now, now I feel as if I’ll never be able to fix it. Oh, why? Why did I run away so hastily?”
Christian rested his forearm atop his head. “It sounded to me as if you didn’t have a choice.”
“Father will never forgive me.”
“Do you forgive him? For betrothing you to Lord Branford?”
She blinked at Christian quizzically, as if she didn’t understand the question. “I’ve been expected to make a desirable match since I was young. If you’ve been to balls in London, you must know how these things go. And to marry a marquess? Well, it’s Father’s dream for me.”
Christian nodded. “I do know how these things go, but I also know that it isn’t unheard of for parents to take their children’s feelings into consideration when making such decisions.”
The look of confusion on her face deepened. “I never told them I didn’t want to marry Lord Branford.”
Christian’s arm fell away from his head and he sat up straight. “My dear girl, why ever not?”
“I was trying to be brave. Do the right thing. You know? Keep a stiff upper lip and all that.”
“And if you go back, will you tell them then?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” She grabbed the wine bottle and returned to her seat. She tipped the bottle into her glass, refilling it. “I’ve been awful and selfish, I know. It’s all I can think about. I must return home to face the scandal and the censure. Perhaps someday I will find a man willing to look past my tainted reputation.”
Christian settled back against his chair again and righted his shoulders. “What if Branford still wants you?”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Why would he want a wife steeped in scandal?”
Because you’re exceedingly beautiful. “Trust me, it’s more than possible.”
She sighed, holding her glass just beneath her red lips. “I hadn’t even considered that. I’ve been such a fool. I regret it. I do. I regret it horribly. I’ve been a hideously disobedient daughter.”
Christian narrowed his eyes on her. “You truly believe that?”
“Yes. I feel absolutely sick. Now that I’ve had a chance to calm down and think about everything, I’m certain. I’d do anything to get back to London with no one being any the wiser, but the longer I stay here, the less chance I have of that happening. I fear it’s too late for my reputation. And now I’m stuck here with…”
Christian plucked up his own wineglass and grinned at her again. “Me.”
She nodded miserably.
He lifted the glass and eyed her through the dar
k liquid. “Well, Lady Sarah Highgate, what if I told you that I can help?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah watched him carefully. Why had she never noticed this man before? If he had been to London, surely she’d have met him among the scores of men she’d encountered during her come-out. It would be rude to ask him if they’d met. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
He was quite handsome. True, his face bore the ill-kempt shadowing of many days’ growth of beard, his hair was a bit too long, and his clothes were a bit too coarse. But his smile was charming, and he was kind and witty. And he smelled a bit better ever since he’d gone to apparently wash up. Soap had definitely been involved. He was tall and lean, and those blue eyes were positively mesmerizing. The man had potential. That was certain. And now he was offering to help her.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. “How could you help me?”
Mr. Forester stood and stretched his long, lean frame. “I’ve found over the years that all hope is not lost until all hope is lost.”
Sarah tilted her head to the side. “What does that mean?”
“Precisely what I said,” Mr. Forester replied. He paced to the fireplace, where he tossed two more small logs onto the pile. “Let’s begin with the facts. I presume you left a note for your parents.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, for my mother.”
“What did the note say?” He grabbed a poker and jabbed at the logs.
“It simply said I was sorry but I had to leave.”
Mr. Forester turned to her. His white teeth flashed in a wide grin. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re quite certain? No more details?” he asked.
“That’s correct. Mother must know Mrs. Goatsocks is gone, too, of course, but that’s only because I tried to tell her good-bye and she insisted upon coming with me.”
“A fine chaperone,” Mr. Forester said. “And she just might well have saved your reputation.”
Sarah’s forehead burrowed into a frown. “How?”
“You’ve been quite properly in the company of a chaperone this entire time, so all hope is not lost.”
The Legendary Lord Page 3