“No former wives dead under unusual circumstances?” she asked.
This time his head snapped up to face her. “Good God, no.”
She laughed. “I didn’t think so, but I felt it necessary to ask. Anything else to declare that might make a lady in any way reticent to accept your suit?”
Christian quirked a brow. “Other than the stutter and the fact that my home is far from London?”
She contemplated that for a moment. “Scotland isn’t so bad.”
Christian didn’t correct her. She obviously believed this was his only home. He didn’t know why he hadn’t told her the truth yet. “Some young ladies don’t like the idea of being so far from the amusements of London, and…”
“And?”
“I’m not overly fond of town, so my lady might well find herself living in the north for a good part of the year.”
“I don’t see why that would be so bad. London can be tedious after a bit.”
“You may not see why, but I assure you, some do. Lavinia Hobbs said I was the least eligible man in London because of it.” She’d actually said he was the least eligible lord in London, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.
Sarah wrinkled up her nose. “Lavinia Hobbs is a shrew. How she has such a dear of a sister, I’ll never know.”
Christian took another sip of tea. “You know Lady Alexandra?”
“Yes. She would be a good catch for you, though I hear her parents are set on Lavinia marrying first. And of course, without a title, you’d be hard-pressed to gain the favor of her father, the duke.”
Christian grinned. “No matter. I have it on good authority that Lady Alexandra already has her sights set on Lord Owen Monroe.”
One of Sarah’s fine eyebrows arched. “Lord Owen? Really? That is an unlikely pair, but I suppose he’s somewhat eligible.”
Christian grinned again. “More eligible than I am?”
“Well, he’s set to inherit an earldom one day. However, given his scandalous reputation, I daresay you’d still be a fine catch compared to him, even without a title.”
“Ah, yes. A title is important, isn’t it?”
“Quite. But don’t worry. You said you’re gentry, correct? We’ll find someone perfect for you.”
He hid his smile. “There’s a viscount in my lineage.”
“A viscount? Why didn’t you tell me? What was he? An uncle? Twice removed?”
“Something like that.” Christian lifted his cup as if to dismiss the question.
“What’s the title?”
“Berkeley.” He studied her face for any sign of recognition. There was none. “Have you heard it before?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “I haven’t.”
“Not at all?”
“I’m certain I read the name at school when I studied Debrett’s. Unfortunately, my memory for such things is rubbish.”
“That’s my entire problem. It seems no young ladies remember me. Obviously, aside from my stutter, I have left absolutely no impression at all. I am the man to whom all the ladies lament about the men they do remember.”
A touch of a smile graced Sarah’s lips. “It can’t be all that bad. As I said, I’ve yet to hear you stutter even once.”
“I assure you it’s quite real and it’s quite humiliating, but that’s precisely why I need you. I need you to tell me what I must do to become memorable. I’m not greedy. I don’t require a flock of ladies vying for my attention. I am only in need of one. One kind, thoughtful, happy one who won’t mind spending quiet days and nights in the country. One who is in want of a faithful, healthy, equally kind husband.”
Sarah leaned back and rested her head against the sofa. “It sounds quite lovely,” she said wistfully. “So much more lovely than anything Lord Branford has ever said.”
“Branford that awful, eh?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “The sacrifices one must make for family and lineage and all of that. As I said, you’re fortunate to not have to deal with such nonsense.”
He glanced at her, his throat tight. “Yes, of course. You and I, we could not possibly be—”
“No. No! I mean … that is to say … my father would never consider a man without a title. Without an estate. A healthy income. All utter nonsense, I assure you.”
“Ah, yes. A pity.” He took another sip of tea. That’s why he hadn’t told her he was a viscount. And his income was quite healthy. It didn’t matter. She could give him all sorts of advice and the belle of the Season still wouldn’t be interested in him. No. This wasn’t about Sarah. It was about his future wife.
“Don’t worry,” she hastened to add. “By the time I’m through with you, you will have a flock of ladies vying for your attention.”
Christian rubbed his beard. “It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. So, tell me, what do you think it will take to make me memorable?”
“Well, it’s certainly not a problem with your looks,” she blurted out, then blushed and pressed her lips together tightly. “I mean, you seem quite easy to look at.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, at least,” he replied with a chuckle.
“And your physique is also pleasing.”
Yours is, too.
He opened his mouth wide, spreading his lips back, and turned his head from side to side. “Care to examine my teeth?”
She snorted but proceeded to lean forward to examine them. “Your teeth are bright, white, and perfectly aligned. Quite a fit set, actually. I see no problem.”
He tried not to look at the décolletage she displayed when leaning forward. He cleared his throat and glanced toward the front door. “I have no limps or injuries. And the only scar I’ve managed to earn is one from putting out a fire that was consuming my cousin Harriet’s dollhouse when I was ten years old.”
“Oh, dear. However did your cousin’s dollhouse manage to catch fire?”
“She tried to light the tiny fireplace with a candle. It was a near ruin. I spent most of my summer holiday rebuilding it for her.”
Sarah glanced down into her teacup. “That was kind of you.”
Leaning forward, he showed her the small scar that spanned between his thumb and forefinger. She touched it and immediately pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Forester. We might be quite alone together in this hunting lodge, but that doesn’t give me leave to behave like a hoyden.”
“You’re far from a hoyden, Lady Sarah.” The scent of lilies filled his senses.
“You don’t think people will speak ill of me? If they don’t believe my story, I mean.” Her frightened eyes searched his face. “You don’t think Lord Branford will cry off?”
Christian leaned forward and touched her shoulder. “I wouldn’t think ill of you even if I knew the truth. And if you were my betrothed, I would never cry off.”
She gave him a tentative smile. But there was something in her eyes he couldn’t read. “You do know the truth,” she murmured.
“Precisely.” He moved away from her and settled back into his seat. “You care far too much what others think of you.”
She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Perhaps you haven’t cared enough, Mr. Forester.”
He inclined his head toward her. The lady was astute. He’d give her that.
She glanced away, shook her head, and cleared her throat. “My apologies for changing the subject. Tell me, what, in your expert opinion, is the reason you’ve been relegated to a friend of every young lady you’ve fancied?”
His grin was unrepentant. “Why, my lady, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me. For I cannot for the life of me discern the reason myself.”
“You’re handsome, eligible, connected to the Quality, have a steady income, seem nice enough, and have good teeth. There is no reason I can think of why you haven’t made a good match yet.”
“Precisely what my cousin tells me.” He rested his wrist atop his head.
Sarah was busily tapping her cheek in thought. “Perhaps it’s the
ladies you’re choosing to court. It sounds as if they all had other gentlemen in mind before they met you. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
Christian narrowed his eyes. “It’s true. I suppose I never thought of that.”
Sarah took another small sip of tea. “Is there anyone else? Anyone you fancy?”
He swallowed and looked away into the fireplace. He slowly shook his head.
“That may also be part of the problem,” Sarah said. “Ladies like to feel special, singled out, as if the man who is courting them is interested in absolutely no one else.”
Christian set aside his cup. He stood and picked up the poker and nudged the burning logs in the fireplace again. “Ah, I see. Does Lord Branford show interest in anyone else?”
“Indeed.” Sarah laughed. “Himself, and I’m afraid there’s no competing with the strength of that particular affection.”
Again, Christian admired her sense of humor.
A singularly loud snore from Fergus II tore through the room. Sarah glanced over at the little dog. “I suppose it’s past time to retire. I’ll take Fergus to bed with me if it’s all right with you. I’ve got quite used to sleeping with him since I came here.”
Christian jabbed at one of the logs. The bloody dog’s making more headway with a woman than I ever have. “Perfectly all right with me.”
She nodded toward the bedchambers. “The room I’m in … it’s all right for me to remain?”
“Yes. You’re perfectly welcome to stay there. I’ll be in the other bedchamber.” He wasn’t about to tell her she’d been sleeping in his bed. “With the door firmly shut and perhaps locked so that I won’t have to defend myself against a sword-wielding woman in the middle of the night.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him up and down. “You shouldn’t have a thing to worry about as long as you don’t do anything that would make me grab my sword.”
She was playful, this Lady Sarah. She made him feel younger, lighter. He’d smiled and laughed more tonight than he could remember having done in the last six months.
She stood, stretched, and moved over to the kitchen, where she set her teacup on the countertop. “Tomorrow we’ll begin by examining your clothing.”
“My clothing?” Christian glanced down at his attire. Not particularly his finest hour, he acknowledged.
“Let’s go, Fergus.” Lady Sarah clapped her hands and the little dog’s brown eyes popped open. He scrambled up from his spot and hurried over to her.
Christian watched as an English earl’s daughter went to bed with a Scottish dog wearing a red coat in his hunting lodge. A piece of wood snapped and crackled in the fireplace. Christian rubbed the back of his neck and cursed silently to himself. It was the first time in his life he was jealous of a dog.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, Sarah woke to the smell of bacon. Bacon and … coffee? Yes, coffee. Mrs. Goatsocks must have returned! Sarah pushed herself out from under the pile of quilts, pulled on a dressing gown, and hurried toward the kitchen. Fergus II scampered at her heels. Awaiting her in the kitchen was a delightful sight: a platter of crackling bacon, a pot each of coffee and tea, and a plate of golden-brown biscuits, with syrup and honey set out beside them. But where was Mrs. Goatsocks? And Mr. Fergus? Sarah turned in a circle. She was quite alone. Who had made this? Surely not …
“Good morning,” Mr. Forester said in a cheerful voice as he came through the door with a pile of wood braced against his shoulder. Fergus II took the opportunity to trot through the open door to see to his morning needs.
Sarah gasped, from both the rush of cold air that found her bare skin and the fact that a man was seeing her in her dressing gown. She pulled the gown tighter around her neck and held it together with one hand. What in heaven’s name was Mr. Forester about? First of all, the man looked far too good for this hour of the morning. He’d clearly cleaned himself up a bit, and even though his hair was still longish and his beard hadn’t been shaved, he looked even better in daylight. His broad shoulders were outlined in a rough plaid shirt and the coarse linen breeches he wore outlined his backside in a way that made Sarah swallow unintentionally. He’d surprised her in another way as well. A gentleman, even one of the gentry, wasn’t normally up at this hour. Why, her father and brother slept till well past noon. And cooking breakfast? She couldn’t imagine her father preparing any sort of meal. Perhaps the gentry were more different than she realized.
“Would you like some tea? You don’t strike me as the coffee-drinking sort.” He dropped the stack of wood into a pile near the fireplace and brushed the dust from his shirt, his hands moving against his flat abdomen. Forcing her eyes away from the sight, Sarah struggled to breathe evenly.
“Don’t you have any servants?” The words left her mouth before she had a chance to examine them. “Oh dear. Forgive me. That was terribly rude.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m certain it’s more rustic here than you are used to, but Mr. Fergus is the only one in my employ up here, and as you’ve informed me, he is unavailable at the moment.”
“I’ve just never known anyone like, er, you to cook and—” She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she’d just assumed a maid or someone else would arrive in the morning to see to such things.
“You cooked last night, didn’t you?” he asked. “Besides, I’ve not only been cooking. I’ve seen to Oberon and cut this wood for the fireplace.” He gestured toward the stack near his feet. “If I don’t miss my guess, this storm is only going to worsen. We’ll be quite snowed in before nightfall.”
“Snowed in!” She froze. Her hand tightened at her throat till it ached.
“Yes. Don’t look so alarmed. We’ve plenty of food and wood for the fire. I always ensure the lodge is well stocked before coming for the winter.”
Sarah’s heart raced. “It’s not that. It’s…”
“Don’t much like the idea of being snowed in with me?”
“It’s not proper—” Her voice cracked.
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you took off into the Highlands alone.”
She gave him an unamused look. “I had Mrs. Goatsocks.”
“By accident.” He pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window at the rapidly falling snow. “At any rate, by the looks of things, Mrs. Goatsocks won’t be journeying back here today or anytime soon. You’ll just have to make do with me.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Yes, yes, of course. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful and I’m…” She glanced down at her dressing gown. “I’m sorry for my … my … lack of proper attire.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
She couldn’t squelch her smile.
He winked at her. “And Fergus Two only speaks Gaelic.”
“Is that right?” Releasing the garment at her throat, she put her hands on her hips and stared through the snowy window at the little dog outside. “No wonder he hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Would you care for some breakfast?” Mr. Forester asked.
Sarah’s stomach growled fiercely and she gave him a sheepish grin. Seemed sheepish grins were quickly becoming her specialty around this man. “Yes, please.” She frowned. “But I should dress first.”
“There is no one here to report it if you don’t.” He crouched down and added two more small logs to the fire. Yes, his backside was definitely noteworthy. “And I certainly won’t tell.” He stood again and dusted off his hands. Sarah shook her head and willed herself to stop thinking about his backside.
She gave him a half grin. Eating breakfast with a bachelor in her dressing gown? This was positively scandalous, but it was so tempting to just sit at the table and gobble down bacon in her dressing gown the same way she would at home if she were served a tray in bed.
“Very well,” she said, warming to the idea.
Fergus II came back in the front door and Mr. Forester shut it behind him. Then he walked over to the kitchen and
served them each a plate of biscuits and bacon.
The snow fell steadily outside the window, and the wind whipped along the eaves. The sky turned progressively more gray, and soon wind and snow were battering the small house—so much snow that they could see only pure white out the windows.
“What did you say you were going to teach me today?” Mr. Forester asked with a wide grin when Sarah finished clearing away the breakfast dishes.
“I want to take a look at your clothing,” she announced.
“Ah, that’s right. But I’m hardly dressed for a London ball while rusticating in Scotland. What would be the point?”
“I understand completely, but as you know, in London, clothing is quite important. All the best-outfitted gentlemen buy their hats at Yardley’s, their coats at Weston’s, their shirts at Martin’s, and their boots at Hoby’s. And yes, I do see the irony in the fact that I’m lecturing you about clothing while I myself am in my dressing gown.”
He returned her smile. “By all means, lecture away. I’m quite fond of you in your dressing gown already.”
Sarah’s face heated while Mr. Forester took another drink of his coffee, obviously unrepentant over his remark.
“As for Yardley’s and Weston’s,” he continued, “I believe I’ve heard Owen Monroe mention those places a time or two.”
“You’re acquainted with Lord Owen?”
Mr. Forester nodded.
“Well, Lord Owen would certainly know. The man rivals Brummel himself for well dressed.”
“You remember Monroe?”
“Yes, of course, he…” She trailed off, realizing how rude it sounded that she remembered the earl’s son and not Mr. Forester himself. “The point is that Lord Owen knows how to dress.”
“I’ve always thought the simpler the better,” Mr. Forester said.
“Simple, yes. But quality counts, and there is nothing more attractive than a man outfitted well in fine black evening attire and a perfectly tied white cravat.”
“And here I thought ladies liked wit and charm.”
“We like those things, too.” She grinned at him.
The Legendary Lord Page 5