“The entire time until now,” Sarah pointed out.
“Yes, but the only people who know that are you, and me, and Mr. Fergus, and Mrs. Goatsocks herself.” He nodded toward Fergus II. “And this dog here, of course, but something tells me if you give him a biscuit, he’ll agree to keep your secret.”
Sarah grinned and tossed the dog another crust. “It’s true,” she said. “I didn’t leave any details in the note I wrote Mother. She has no idea where I’ve gone or why I left.”
“Excellent,” Christian replied. “When Mrs. Goatsocks returns, the two of you can go back to London and tell everyone you were merely visiting friends to the north.”
A kernel of hope slowly unfurled in Sarah’s chest. She sat up straight and leaned toward him over the table. “Do you truly think that would work?”
Mr. Forester propped the poker next to the fireplace. “I think there’s no reason whatsoever not to try. Your mother certainly wouldn’t want to contradict you, would she?”
“Absolutely not. Scandal is the last thing my parents would court. Why, they’re more concerned with their reputations than with the air they breathe.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Forester said. “I suggest you do just that. Much more outlandish things have been known to be believed by the good people of the ton. Fergus and I will never tell what we know. You may depend upon it.”
An enormous smile began to form on Sarah’s face. It started as a small quirking of the lips and soon spread into a wide grin that reached nearly from ear to ear. “Oh, Mr. Forester. Thank you for your hospitality. I’m certain I shall never be able to properly repay you for your kindness.”
He crossed back over to the table, braced his hands against the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, and met her gaze. “I’m not entirely certain about that.”
* * *
Christian watched as the smile slowly faded from Lady Sarah’s face, to be replaced with a look of confusion. Her brows were drawn together and her smile had turned into a frown.
“How could I ever be able to help you?” she asked.
Christian scooped up his wineglass from the table and made his way back over to the counter where Sarah stood with the wine bottle. He refilled his glass, emptying the bottle. “I find myself with the opposite problem from yours.”
“The opposite?” Her hands braced against the counter, she eyed him warily.
“Yes,” Christian replied, taking another long sip from his glass. “As I said, I am whatever the opposite of the most eligible bachelor of the Season is.”
“Why exactly is that?” she asked, still blinking innocently at him.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I normally have an unfortunate habit of stuttering whenever I am in the company of a beautiful female?”
“I haven’t heard you stutter once. Oh…” She trailed off, obviously wondering if he found her beautiful enough to stutter in front of.
“Present company withstanding,” he hurried to reply. “I daresay you shocked me by breaking into my house. It may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve never had a beautiful woman do that to me before.”
She laughed and clapped a hand over her mouth. Then she asked hesitantly, “I don’t scare you?”
He shrugged. “I suppose not.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“You seem perfectly nice to me so far,” she replied. “Well, aside from that bit when you threatened to toss me into the snow for wolves to eat. But I suppose that was understandable given the circumstances.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he replied, fighting another chuckle. “But my problem isn’t not being nice. My problem perhaps is being too nice.”
The look on her face told him she was certain he was half-mad. “Too nice? How could that possibly be a problem?”
“I told you I’ve rescued my fair share of damsels in distress.”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “I have the unfortunate problem of turning into the friend of all the young ladies I meet. Don’t misunderstand me. I value my friendships, but I would like to find a wife, sire an heir. Locate a female who is interested in being more than my friend.”
She blushed and after setting down her glass, she turned to walk over to the fireplace. “I’m not certain I follow, Mr. Forester. How do you think I might help you with that?” She swung around to face him again.
He met her gaze, a challenging glint in his eyes. “I want you to advise me. Help me become eligible. Teach me what a young lady such as yourself is looking for in a mate. I promise not to be a bore and talk about myself overly much.”
“Oh, but I—”
“Don’t play coy and be polite,” Christian demanded. “I know there is something wrong or I’d have been married long before now. I want you to tell me what it is. I want you to be honest with me, Lady Sarah. You’re the belle of the Season. You must know a great deal.”
“Well…” He could tell the moment she took his proposal seriously. The proper polite tone had left her voice and an interested sparkle lit her eyes. She stood and walked around him, taking in his face, his clothing, his stance. “Your clothes are a bit out of fashion,” she admitted. “I could tell you which tailor to go to.”
He looked down at his clothing. “These aren’t what I’d normally—”
She’d obviously warmed to her subject, for she interrupted him with nary a breath. “Your hair is a bit long, and that beard must go. Close-cropped hair on a gentleman is all the rage in London these days.”
He stroked his chin. “I’ve been traveling and—”
“I could tell you what to say, how to behave, and which venues to frequent to make you irresistible to women. To begin with, Almack’s is out of the question.”
This time he grinned. “That is precisely what I’m looking for. I’ve spent many a boring evening sipping tepid lemonade at Almack’s.”
“A pity,” she said, just before rubbing her hands together with obvious glee, the sparkle still firmly alive in her eyes. “It would be a challenge for me. The very thing at which I excel.” She paced back and forth in front of the fireplace and tapped her cheek with a finger. “Can I do it? Can I turn a young gentleman from the Scottish Highlands into the most eligible bachelor of the Season?” She turned in a sudden swirl to face him, a catlike grin on her face.
He eyed her over the rim of his wineglass. “I don’t know, Lady Sarah, can you?”
“Is that a challenge?” she asked.
“Indeed it is, my lady.” His gaze met hers in an obvious dare.
“Mother always says I cannot resist a challenge.” She lifted her skirts and curtsied to him. “Very well, Mr. Forester. I accept. I’m going to turn you into a legend.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So tell me, what have your efforts been to date?” Sarah asked. She stood, gathered up the plates and wineglasses, and located the wash bucket under the counter. She filled the bucket with water from another pitcher, pushed up the sleeves of her gray gown, and began scrubbing the dishes as if she’d been born to the role of scullery maid.
Christian watched her for a few moments in awe. If everything else she’d told him didn’t seem plausible, he’d wonder if she was indeed the daughter of an earl. For some reason, despite her cooking skills, he’d expected the belle of the London Season to perch on the sofa while he catered to her. But she did nothing of the sort.
He shook his head and refocused his attention on the question she’d just asked. “My efforts?”
“At courting young ladies.”
“Ah, that.” He pushed up his sleeves and grabbed a dish. Their fingers touched in the wash bucket and Christian swallowed. Sarah froze.
Sarah took a step away from him to the side.
Christian shook his head again. Focus. Focus. “My efforts have been positively abysmal. If I’m not stuttering, I’m saying something entirely wrong. However, it is how I made some of my closest friends. I cannot say it’s been entirely bad.”
&nb
sp; Her head snapped up to face him. “Friends?”
“Yes. Some of my closest friends are ladies who weren’t a bit interested in me.” He chuckled.
“And you were interested in them?” she ventured.
He shrugged. “Not all of them.”
“Who?”
He picked up a bit of linen to wipe the plate he’d just finished washing. “Let’s see. One is my friend Lucy.” He wasn’t about to admit that she was also known as the Duchess of Claringdon.
“Who else?”
“Cassandra and Jane.”
Sarah frowned, perhaps wondering why he was referring to his lady friends by their Christian names. But Cass was a countess and Jane a future countess. Sarah would wonder why he was acquainted with such highborn ladies. “Anyone else?” she asked.
“Most recently, I did a good turn for my friend Alexandra. Though I cannot say we were ever enamored of each other.”
Sarah scrubbed a bowl. “And these ladies live in … London?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot believe you and I didn’t meet in London.” She winced. “Did we?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I’m certain I would have remembered you.”
She expelled her breath. “I’m so relieved.”
“Difficult to keep track of everyone, eh?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t attend Almack’s?” he asked.
“I did. Once. It was hideous. As you said, tepid lemonade and even more tepid conversation.”
“Can’t that be said about most of the ton events?” he drawled.
“Not if you know whom to speak to and whom to avoid.”
Christian cracked a smile. “I see. Something tells me I’ve chosen exactly the right person to assist me in becoming fashionable.”
Sarah returned his smile. “Indeed you have. I have little to recommend me, Mr. Forester. I’m not particularly well learned. I was rubbish at maths. I’m not a fine horsewoman and am abysmal at the pianoforte. But if you’re in need of someone who knows the way of the ton and its young ladies, you’ve found the right person, I can assure you.”
They finished washing the dishes, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes.
“I must see to Oberon,” Christian announced.
“Oberon?” Sarah blinked.
“Yes. My horse.”
The hint of a smile touched Sarah’s lips.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you not an admirer of Shakespeare?”
“On the contrary. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is my favorite of his works.”
“Is it?” Christian arched a brow. “Mine too. And you just finished telling me you’re not particularly well learned. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Well, reading is different.”
“Tell me. Why were you smiling?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I was smiling because my horse is also named Oberon.”
Christian’s eyebrows shot up. Contemplating that interesting bit of information, he pulled on his boots and overcoat and braced the freezing wind and snow to go to the barn to see to the horse. When he returned, he found Lady Sarah in the yard next to the front door, wrapped in a wool coat, ushering little Fergus II to a spot she’d obviously cleared in the snow so the dog might relieve himself. Apparently, she wasn’t even above seeing to the unmentionable needs of an animal. Full of surprises was this Lady Sarah Highgate.
“Did you make Fergus Two that coat?” he asked, pausing next to her.
“Yes,” Sarah replied.
“Why?”
“Because I thought he might be cold, of course,” she said, giving Christian a look that told him she thought the question a bit daft. She sauntered ahead of him back into the house, and Christian tried to ignore the swing of her hips.
When they got inside, Christian closed the door behind them. They stamped the snow from their feet, hung up their cloaks, and removed their boots. Fergus II wiped his paws on the rug accordingly and trotted over to his little bed near the fire. He paced around in a circle a few times before curling up into a tight ball.
“Care for another drink?” Christian asked Sarah, moving back into the kitchen.
“What are you having?”
“Only tea. I’ve had enough wine for one evening.”
“As have I. Tea sounds lovely.”
Christian strode over to one of the cabinets, where he found two teacups. He pulled a bag of leaves out of the cupboard and put the kettle on to boil. Once the water had heated, he poured two cups over the leaves and left them to steep for a bit. Finally, he brought the mugs to where Sarah sat on the sofa in the great room. She’d discarded her slippers and her feet were curled under her.
“No cream or sugar?” she asked with a bit of a pout to her lips.
“My apologies.” Ah, here was the moment when she would no doubt indulge in daughter-of-earl-like histrionics.
“I’ll make do,” she said gamely.
Blinking back his surprise, Christian handed her one of the cups. “Are you certain?”
“What choice do I have?”
“What choice indeed.” He set his own cup on the side table and made his way toward the fireplace, where he added more logs to the crackling fire while Fergus II’s little snores filled the room.
After stoking the fire, Christian moved back toward the sofa and took a seat across from Sarah on one of the large leather chairs that rested near the fireplace. He picked up his cup again and took a sip.
“So, tell me, what do I need to know? To finally attract a wife?”
“First, I am curious … If you’re such good friends with Lucy, Cassandra, and Jane, why haven’t they helped you find a suitable wife already?”
Christian couldn’t help laughing. “Lucy? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Doesn’t she have the right connections?”
He nearly choked. “Oh, er, ah, she has the right … connections, but…”
“But what?”
“My friend Lucy has many talents, but choosing a wife for me hasn’t been one of them. She’s tried countless times to matchmake for me, to absolutely no avail. Every single one of the ladies she’s attempted to introduce me to is either already madly in love with some other chap or firmly disinterested in me altogether. Why, Lucy didn’t even realize her own match was directly under her nose for the better part of two months.”
Lady Sarah smiled at that. “She’s too close to you to know what’s good for you, is that it?”
“Partially,” Christian replied. “And it’s also that she doesn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t enjoy parties and balls and meeting strangers. She has no earthly idea why meeting some ladies makes me stutter, why dancing isn’t my forte, and why anyone on earth would want to retreat to Scotland for peace and quiet.”
Lady Sarah glanced at him from behind her cup. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I also quite enjoy parties and balls and meeting strangers. And dancing. But I understand why you don’t like it. My brother, Hart, doesn’t like any of it either. Neither does Meg. Hart calls it all nonsense. But he must find a wife because he’s an heir and a future earl and … well, just be glad you don’t have any of that title nonsense to deal with.”
Christian tugged at his collar and didn’t meet her eyes. “Who is Meg?”
A bright smile lit Lady Sarah’s face. “Oh, Meg is my dearest friend.”
“Another belle?”
“No…” Lady Sarah sighed. “Unfortunately not. Meg is the opposite of the belle of the Season, I’m afraid. She’s more the wallflower of the Season.”
“Why is that?”
Lady Sarah shook her head sadly. “Her father is a terrible gambler. He’s reduced their family to poverty, and Meg’s dowry is gone. Her gowns are hideously out of fashion and she’s attracted nary a suitor. It’s quite sad, really. I’ve tried to give her some of my gowns. I have far too many. But she’s proud. She refuses any charity. She’s gossiped about horribly by some of the other ladies, though not withi
n my earshot. I would not stand for it. Meg is perfectly pretty and sweet and funny. I adore her.”
Christian pushed back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. He took another sip of tea. “Meg sounds lovely. Is she still in the market for a husband? Say, someone tall and blond who lives in Scotland?” He cracked a grin.
Another smile crossed Sarah’s lip and she took a sip of tea. “I’m afraid not.”
Christian did a double take. “She’s looking for someone titled?”
“No. It’s just that Meg, much like the ladies Lucy has introduced you to, is already helplessly, hopelessly, in love with another man.”
“Ah.” Christian shook his head sadly. “A story I’ve heard all too often. Who is the lucky man?”
“That is a story for another time,” Lady Sarah replied. “For now, let’s get back to your predicament.” She took another tentative sip, the grimace on her face less noticeable this time at the lack of cream and sugar.
“By all means,” Christian replied, raising his cup in the air in salute.
Sarah smoothed her skirts with her free hand. “Let’s begin with the obvious. Pardon my forwardness, but I assume you are eligible?”
“Eligible?” Christian nearly choked on his tea. He drew his brows together.
“Yes. You know. Not already married? Have a steady income? That sort of thing.”
He laughed and settled back into his chair again. “No. I’m not already married.”
“No heavy debts?” Lady Sarah drew an elegant finger around the rim of her teacup.
“None.”
“And your income?” she prodded.
“Steady enough.” Why was the smell of lilies slowly driving him mad? The woman was helping him find a wife, for Hades’s sake. He shouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing her rose-red lips.
“No madness in the family?” she ventured.
Christian scratched the back of his ear. “None of which I am aware.”
“No scandal that’s marred your reputation?”
“Ironic, you asking me that.”
She pushed her nose in the air, but she smiled. “We’re talking about you now, not me.”
“Fine, no scandals,” Christian said. He still couldn’t shake the image of what it would be like to kiss her.
The Legendary Lord Page 4