“Very well. I’ll go fetch my clothing. What little there is of it. And you may examine it at your leisure.”
He was back in the span of a few minutes, his arms loaded with garments. He dumped the pile on the sofa and turned back to Sarah, gesturing toward the mound of clothes. “I await your advice, my lady.” He bowed to her.
Sarah stood and dusted her hands on her dressing gown. She was entirely improper at the moment. Not only was she indecently dressed, she was about to go pawing through a man’s clothing. Positively unthinkable in London. Scotland was an odd place. It was as if none of the rules and strictures of Society mattered up here. It was a bit freeing, actually. She felt positively wicked.
She folded her arms across her chest, walked over to the pile of clothing, and stared down at it. It all seemed perfectly clean, if rumpled. Her father’s valet would faint if he saw such poor treatment of clothing. She picked up a dark blue woolen coat and shook it out. “This is … adequate.”
“Adequate?” Mr. Forester frowned.
“Yes, I mean, the cut seems fine, but—”
“What about this?” He pulled a shirt from the pile and held it in front of her in his fist.
“I’d have to see it on before I could properly judge.”
Before she had a chance to protest, Mr. Forester ripped off his flannel shirt and proceeded to put on the other. Sarah gasped. She was studying his chest in the firelight. Her throat worked as she swallowed. She quickly spun on her heel, facing the opposite direction.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Forester said. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s quite all right,” she called over her shoulder. “Just let me know when you’re decently … I mean properly … I mean—”
“I have a shirt on,” he announced, putting Sarah out of her misery.
Despite his assurance of being properly dressed, she decided to count to ten first, to be safe. The entire time she was counting, she remembered the look of his skin in the firelight. His flat abdomen. His rippled muscles. Her mouth went dry. The man obviously did something for sport.
When she finally did turn around, his shirt was on as promised and he had an untied cravat hanging over his neck. She examined the shirt. “It’s a bit wrinkled, but it’s a fine cut. Where do you have your shirts made?”
“Not at Martin’s,” he admitted with a guilty grin.
She nodded toward the cravat. “What is your favorite knot?”
“I’m supposed to have a favorite knot?”
She shook her head and tried to squelch her smile. “Show me how you tie it, then.”
He tied it quickly in a modest, imperfect knot.
“This is how you wear it, to a ball, in London?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“Yes, is there something wrong?”
“Well, it’s a bit … simple, isn’t it?”
“I like simple.”
“May I?” She nodded toward the cravat again.
“By all means,” he replied.
She moved closer to him. He smelled like freshly cut wood. When she reached his chest, she looked up into his blue eyes. They were twinkling with mirth. “Do you find this amusing?” she asked.
“A little. I’ve never worried much about my clothing before.”
“I’m trying to help you, as you requested.” She’d never noticed before how very good freshly cut wood smelled. It was positively distracting. She swallowed hard.
“Yes.” He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. “Of course. I’m willing to do whatever you recommend.”
She arched a brow at him and reached up to untie the knot he’d created. Why were her hands trembling ever so slightly? “I’ll show you one of my favorite knots.”
“You are an expert at tying cravats?” he asked.
“I’ve helped Hart more times than I can count.”
“Instead of his valet?”
This time she steadfastly tried to ignore Mr. Forester’s scent. She was certain she would never be able to smell freshly cut wood again without remembering him. Without remembering him shirtless, that is. Another swallow. She also tried to ignore the fact that her hand had brushed against his short beard, sending a trail of shock down her arm. She concentrated on keeping her fingers steady. “Hart’s valet drinks.” She shook her head. “Half the time the poor man is passed out in the silver closet.”
“What? Why doesn’t your brother sack the man?”
“Hart’s too kindhearted. Father threatens to sack him on nearly a daily basis, but Hart won’t hear of it. He’s extremely loyal, my brother. Perhaps to a fault at times.”
“Funny,” Mr. Forester said, his eyes fixed above her head. “My father used to say the same thing about me.”
“It’s not a bad trait.” She kept her eyes trained on the cravat she was tying.
“Try telling that to my father. Which is an impossible task for more than one reason,” Mr. Forester said. “Given that he’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“I’m not. He never approved of a thing I said or did my entire life.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Sarah sighed. “It’s the same with me and my mother.”
“But the difference is you seem to put a great deal of stock into what your mother says about you,” Mr. Forester added. “You’ve mentioned her more than once.”
“Did I?” Did she? “I can well imagine what she’s saying about me now.”
“If she had any heart, she would be wondering why her beloved child has fled and is worried sick that you’re missing.”
“I can assure you, neither of those things is likely.”
“Why not?”
“‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she mimicked in a stern, matronly voice. “That is my mother’s very favorite thing to say to me. I was supposed to be at half a dozen parties since I’ve been gone. No doubt Mother is lamenting the fact that I’ve been unavailable to Lord Branford and am ruining my reputation and putting my highly sought-after engagement at risk.”
He glanced down at Sarah briefly. “That’s why you feel guilty for running away? Because for the first time in your life, you didn’t do as you were told?”
She nodded. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You said your parents don’t know that you don’t love Branford?”
She snorted at that. Her hands nearly fell from the cravat. “Of course they know. I think they’d be surprised if I did.”
Mr. Forester’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
She concentrated on the knot, weaving the stiff fabric through itself and pulling tight. “My parents have raised me like a prize heifer since the day I was born. Status, power, position at court, reputation. Those are the things that matter to them most.”
“And not their daughter’s happiness?”
She tugged a bit too hard on the cravat. “It’s not—it’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it? You’re not a piece of chattel to me and I’ve only known you two days.”
She tugged hard again, trying to ignore those words. “I’ve always known what was expected of me. It’s my duty to make a good match.”
“But can’t you make a good match and one you actually might enjoy at the same time?”
“There is no better match than Lord Branford.”
“That’s your parents’ opinion, not yours.”
“‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she whispered. She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then tugged the cravat one last time. Mr. Forester was pulled off balance. He grabbed her shoulders to steady himself. His large hands cupped her shoulders and Sarah closed her eyes.
He righted himself and pulled his hands away.
“I obviously don’t know my own strength.” She laughed and reached up again to pat the cravat. “There, a mathematical knot.”
Mr. Forester’s jaw was rock hard and he was staring above her head. “I heard those are quite fashionable.”
“You heard right.”
She moved away from him and walked over to stoke the fire with the poker. She tried to banish the memory of his bare chest from her mind, the smell of him, like soap and firewood, and the look in his eye when he’d told her she wasn’t a piece of chattel to him. Then the feeling of his hands on her shoulders … Dear God. For the first time in her life, she’d wanted a man to kiss her.
She quickly shook her head, clearing it of such unhelpful thoughts. “‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she murmured. She wrapped her arms around her middle. She was engaged to another man, for heaven’s sake. “I hope the weather turns soon. I must leave as soon as possible. I need to get home.”
CHAPTER TEN
The wind had howled throughout the night and the endless snow piled up high around the little lodge. It was snuggled up to the windowsills, peeping inside. Poor Fergus II had a difficult time finding any space to go outside. Christian had gone out to see to the horse and pushed aside a mound of snow for the little dog. The storm worsened by the minute, but Christian managed to carve a path to the barn.
When he returned to the house, he stamped the snow from his boots and rubbed his freezing hands together. He surveyed the room. Sarah, in her maid’s dress, was running around the table chasing Fergus II, who had a small cloth toy in his mouth.
Christian pulled off his wool cap and nodded toward the toy. “Where did he get that?”
“I sewed it this morning out of a bit of cloth left over from the wool Mr. Fergus said I might use for his coat.” Sarah continued her standoff with Fergus II. When she darted to the right, the dog took off around the table legs to the left. “I made it for him,” she said breathlessly, looking at Christian over her shoulder. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile was enchanting. One dark curl had fallen against her cheek. She looked positively breathtaking, and Christian had to remind himself for the dozenth time that not only was she engaged to another man, but she wouldn’t look twice at him even if she weren’t. He concentrated on his reply to her admission about having made the dog’s toy.
“You surprise me again,” he said, pulling off his overcoat near the front door.
Sarah stopped for a moment. The dog stopped, too. “Surprise you? How do you mean?”
Christian hung his coat on the rack. “When you told me you were the belle of the London Season, I assumed you were … that you were…”
“Vain? Full of conceit?” She darted toward the dog again. He eluded her.
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Christian turned back from the coatrack.
“But you were going to say something like that, weren’t you?” This time she darted in the opposite direction. So did the dog.
“Aloof, perhaps?” Christian offered.
She turned to face him. “Which is a prettier word for being full of conceit.”
“I’m merely surprised that you cook and clean, seem perfectly happy wearing a maid’s gown, and are willing to spend your time making coats and toys for a dog.”
Fergus II took the toy into the corner and busily chewed on it with the side of his mouth.
Sarah smoothed her skirts and exhaled. “First of all, I’ve precious little else to do here than make a coat and a toy for a dog. But secondly, I’ve never seen the need to be high-handed because of my position in life. It’s not my fault that I was born the daughter of an earl any more than it’s Fergus’s fault that he was born a dog.”
Christian bowed to her. “A progressive stance, my lady.”
“You don’t agree?”
“On the contrary, I agree completely. I’m just a bit surprised that you feel that way. Though I admit, it’s my own prejudice. The belles of the Season haven’t been particularly kind to me in the past.”
“You seem to have preconceived notions about the peerage. Your friend Lucy wasn’t a belle?”
Christian snorted. “Never think it. Lucy was known for her barbs and sharp tongue. She frightened off more suitors than she attracted, I assure you.”
Sarah folded her arms across her chest. She watched him carefully. “What would you say if I told you that you surprise me, too?”
Christian had made his way across the room and was busy warming his hands in front of the fireplace. “I do? How?”
“To be blunt, I’ve never known a handsome man to be so ready to admit his faults.”
Christian threw back his head and laughed at that. “You’ve been associating with the wrong sorts, then. All of my friends and I live to point out each other’s faults. And more than one of them is good-looking.”
“I simply mean that most of the young, handsome gentlemen I’ve known are more concerned about their reputation. I can’t think of one who would be so honest about the trouble he is having finding a wife.”
Christian shook his head, still laughing slightly. “Oh, I’ve had plenty of trouble. And I’m not above admitting it. How else would I plan to remedy the situation? You can’t fix what you won’t admit to.”
She curtsied to him. “A progressive stance, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree.” He moved over to the table and held out a chair for her. “Now, speaking of my trouble. What else can you teach me?”
Sarah made her way toward him and took a seat. She folded her hands in front of her on the table. “Let’s see … We’ve discussed your clothing. Let’s talk about your speech.”
“My speech?” Christian moved around the table and sat across from her.
“Yes, what you say to a woman is as important as your eligibility and your aspect, I’m certain you’re aware.”
He cracked a grin. “You mean what I say to her when I’m not stuttering?”
She waved a hand at him. “I’m beginning to doubt you’ve stuttered a day in your life.”
“I assure you, I have.” He glanced away.
Unconsciously, she reached across the table and touched the top of his hand with hers. “Tell me … why?”
Christian drew a deep breath. He didn’t pull his hand away. It felt comforting, her sitting there, touching him. When was the last time a woman other than his friends had touched him? And she seemed to genuinely care.
It’s not that he didn’t know why he stuttered. He remembered the day it had started. Would never be able to forget. But telling someone else? A woman? A beautiful woman? That was a different matter altogether. But even as he had the thought, he knew he was going to tell her. Because somehow here with Sarah at his hunting lodge, he wasn’t the shy stutterer whom the ladies in London knew. He was … comfortable.
“Please tell me,” she repeated, still touching his hand, her eyes meeting his.
“I was always a shy boy. Didn’t like to speak to strangers. Hid behind my mother’s skirts.” He chuckled.
Sarah smiled encouragingly. “It sounds adorable to me.”
“It drove my father mad, I assure you. He used to grab me and pull me out from behind Mother, insisting that I talk to whoever was visiting.”
Sarah nodded. “That must have been awful for you.”
“Excruciating. He’d yell at me also, right there in front of whomever he wanted me to speak to. ‘Say something, lad, don’t just stand there like a deaf-mute!’”
Sarah winced. “How positively horrid of him.”
“One day, he was meeting with potential governesses for me. I must have been no more than four years old. My current governess planned to marry and they needed to replace her. He called me down to his study, and when I poked my head in the door, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen before was sitting there, across from my father. Mind you, at the ripe old age of four, I hadn’t seen many women, but she looked like a goddess as far as I was concerned.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“Don’t tell me. Your father yelled at you to speak.” Sarah shook her head sympathetically.
“I was frozen halfway in and halfway out of the door. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t say anything.
“‘There he is,’ my father sai
d. ‘The little half-wit. You’ll have your hands full getting that one to speak.’”
“No!” Sarah’s hand squeezed around two of Christian’s fingers.
“Yes,” Christian replied. “And of course that made it all the more awful. ‘Come in now, Christian!’ he demanded. And when I didn’t move, he stood, stalked over to me, and pulled me by the ear inside the room to stand in front of the beautiful governess.”
Sarah gasped. “Why, I’d like to slap him. How could he be so unkind to a child?”
“It’s funny you should say that, because that’s exactly what he did. Slap me.”
“No!” Sarah’s hands flew to her cheeks and her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes. And he continued to slap me over and over again until I said something.”
“Oh, Christian, no.” Tears dripped from her eyes.
“Yes.” His jaw was tight. It was a memory he didn’t often allow himself to dwell on. It was one that made him feel as if the walls were closing in on him. But somehow, here, telling it to Sarah, he felt safe.
“I finally spoke,” he said. “But whatever I said—and I swear, to this day, I have no idea what it was—came out with a horrible stutter. A stutter my father promptly mocked.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to be glad your father is dead, too. I can’t imagine meeting such an awful man.”
“And that’s it,” Christian said, pushing back on the legs of his chair. “I’ve stuttered ever since. At least in the presence of beautiful ladies. Sometimes in front of men, too. Especially powerful ones. As I said before, your arrival was quite different. Something about a sword being drawn on me must have knocked me out of my habit.”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Well, your father was an idiot. And I’m glad I pulled a sword on you if it kept you from being uncomfortable around me. I’m also sorry to have been improper and used your given name.”
Christian grinned at her. He desperately wanted to revive the lightheartedness they’d had earlier. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen you eat bacon in your dressing gown, and now you know a very humiliating secret about my past. I’m certain we can survive calling each other by our given names.”
The Legendary Lord Page 6