Sarah paced to and fro in front of the door, Fergus II on her heels. Christian had told her a bit about the letter he’d written. In it, apparently he’d asked his friends to meet him at an undisclosed location in Northumbria. Sarah had little idea of what or who was in Northumbria, but she’d already thrown herself on the mercy of this kind man and his lady friends and she had few other options. Christian was so confident that his friends would heed his request that he informed Sarah they should begin their journey south as soon as possible. Lucy and Cass would meet them at their destination.
Sarah had spent the better part of her morning—when she wasn’t pacing or looking out the window for him—writing a letter of her own to Mrs. Goatsocks. She’d needed more time to write it, so she hadn’t attempted to send it with Christian that morning. In the letter, she’d informed her chaperone that she was fine and was with Mr. Christian Forester and going to Northumbria to meet his friends, who just might have a solution to her troubles, and she’d write again as soon as she was able. She regretted that she must leave the poor woman in Scotland, and she sent along enough money to ensure Mrs. Goatsocks had enough with which to travel back to London.
Christian returned in the midafternoon, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She rushed to the door and pulled it open. Christian was standing there with a bundle under his arm, looking rugged and handsome in his wool coat and boots and hat.
“How was she?” Sarah blurted.
“First things first.” Christian stepped into the house, shut the door behind him, and handed her the bundle. He removed his coat while she took the bundle to the table and opened it.
“Why, it’s … it’s cream … and sugar!” she exclaimed happily, holding up the small bottle of cream in one hand and the little bag of sugar lumps in the other.
“I thought you would enjoy some proper tea,” he said with a laugh.
“Oh, I certainly would.” She spun in a happy circle, Fergus II barking and nipping at her heels. “Thank you so much!”
Christian shucked his books and went over to the fire to warm his hands while Sarah made tea. He proceeded to tell her about his visit with Mrs. Goatsocks while she drank the most delicious cup of tea she’d had in days.
“She approves?” Sarah finally asked when he’d come to the end of the story.
“I don’t know if I’d say that, but she did give her blessing. She wants the best for you.”
Sarah fought the tears that stung the backs of her eyes. “I know she does. I only wish I was worthy of her friendship.”
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. Sarah felt the heat of it spread up her arm.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re going to be all right, Lady Sarah Highgate.”
Sarah returned his gaze and managed a smile. “I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”
* * *
Fortunately, by the next morning the snow was melting. And while the drifts were still high on the hilltop, Christian said they would get down to town and hire a coach to take them to England. Before they left, Sarah went to the barn to deliver her letter to Mr. Fergus. The old man took it with a questioning look on his face.
“Will you please give this to Mrs. Goatsocks?” Sarah asked. “The next time you go to town, I mean. Please don’t make a special trip.”
Mr. Fergus opened his coat and slid the letter into his pocket. “Aye, milady. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Sarah closed her eyes and expelled a breath. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Fergus. I’m sure I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t taken us in that night.”
“Ye’ve nothing ta thank me for, lass.”
“Of course I do. You could have refused us shelter that first night. You could have tossed us into the snow for wolves to eat.”
“Och, now, I wouldn’t do such a thing ta the wolves. That Mrs. Goatsocks looks none too tasty.”
Sarah had to laugh at that. “I hope she didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
“She’s shrill and a bit mad, I say. But nothing I couldn’t handle. She is certainly loyal ta ye, lass, if ye don’t mind me saying.”
“I know, Mr. Fergus. She is a dear friend.”
“I’ll miss ye around here, lass. And I daresay Fergus will, too.” He stared down at the dog who sat at his feet.
Fergus II, wearing his little red coat, pawed the ground next to Sarah and whined.
“I’m certain you’ll make do without me,” Sarah said to the dog. “You’re properly outfitted now and have your toy.”
“Aye,” Mr. Fergus replied. “Thanks ta ye, I have the bonniest dog in Scotland. All the other dogs are certain ta admire his coats.”
Sarah leaned down and scratched the dog’s chin. “I should hope so.”
“Ye’re off ta Northumbria, eh?” Mr. Fergus asked.
“Yes. That’s where we’re going according to Mr. Forester. I’m not entirely certain why.”
Mr. Fergus turned back to the pile of wood he’d been chopping. “Master Christian’s estate is there. I’ve no doubt that’s where he’s headed,” he said over his shoulder.
Sarah froze. “Estate?”
“Aye, Berkeley Hall.”
“Berkeley Hall?” All she could do was blink.
The old man propped up the next bit of wood to split. “’Tis been in the family for generations. A fine place ’tis, though I’ve only been there once meself.”
A dozen thoughts scattered through Sarah’s brain. She couldn’t focus on one in particular. Finally, she muttered, “Berkeley Hall? As in Viscount Berkeley?”
“Aye,” Mr. Fergus said, raising the ax above his head to strike the wood. “Of course. After all, Master Christian is the viscount.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was two days’ journey to Northumbria, and the coach Christian rented for Sarah’s benefit was none too comfortable. He knew she was being bounced about unmercifully inside. Not to mention it smelled a bit of must and of something else Christian didn’t want to examine too closely. But Sarah never complained once.
“My apologies, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances,” Christian said, gesturing toward the ramshackle conveyance that rested outside an inn where they had stopped for lunch. The driver didn’t look much better than his vehicle. He was a half-drunken man who slurred his speech and was wrapped in an understandably copious number of blankets that smelled a great deal of horse.
“It could be a good thing,” Christian explained when Sarah first saw the slovenly coachman. “Perhaps he won’t remember us.”
The story was that they were a newly married couple traveling together. Christian rode his own horse next to the coach most of the time, but when they stopped for a meal halfway through the day, they had their first chance to talk.
Sarah dunked a flaky crust of bread into the beef soup the innkeeper had given her. “When were you going to tell me you’re a viscount?” she asked sweetly.
Christian choked on the piece of carrot he’d been ingesting. He pounded his chest with his fist to clear his throat. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me.”
“Fergus told you?”
“Yes, Mr. Fergus told me. He told me that we’re going to your estate in Northumbria. I assumed we were meeting at some place one of your friends lived.”
Christian didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s just a house and a bit of land.”
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me such a thing.”
Christian shrugged. “It didn’t seem important.”
“We were discussing your eligibility at length.” She glanced over her shoulder as she whispered this, obviously so the drunken driver (who was even at present drinking in the corner of the inn) wouldn’t overhear. The man seemed to be more interested in his ale and his lunch than anything Christian and Sarah were discussing, however.
“What does my being a viscount have to do with my eligibility?” Christian asked.
Sarah dunked another bit
of bread into her soup. “You cannot possibly be serious.”
“I don’t want a wife who wants me for my title,” Christian whispered.
“Of course not, but I daresay you’ll have more ladies to choose from given that you do happen to have a title.”
Christian took another bite of his soup and swallowed. “Mrs. Goatsocks told me you weren’t preoccupied by titles. Is she wrong?” He couldn’t help feeling a bit of a sting from her words. It was obvious that even now that she realized just how eligible he was, he was still her friend. But he mentally chided himself for even having that thought. Sarah was engaged. Engaged to a marquess. And a marquess trumped a viscount.
Sarah’s eyes widened and she looked positively affronted. “Preoccupied by them, no. But we do live in a Society where they make a difference.”
Another bite of soup. “I wanted you to help me whether I was a viscount or not.”
She arched a brow. “You were testing me?”
He lowered his voice even further. “When you were brandishing a broadsword at me, you seemed to be quite proud of the fact that you were an earl’s daughter. I think you might understand why I wasn’t interested in rushing to bandy about my title.”
Sarah actually raised her voice a little, clearly perturbed. “That is understandable, I suppose. But afterward, when I was teaching you, helping you, you never saw fit to mention it?”
“By then it just seemed … indelicate.” He braced an elbow on the table.
“So, what? We were just going to pull up to your estate and I’d find out as soon as all the servants began calling you ‘my lord’?”
Christian rubbed the back of his neck. It did seem a bit silly now that she pointed it out. “Something like that.”
“And you say women are incomprehensible.” Sarah eyed him over the rim of her own glass of ale.
Christian had to smile at that. “I believe we’re even.”
She shook her head at him and returned her attention to her bread and soup. “Anything else you’re not telling me, my lord?”
* * *
The next morning, Sarah got her first glimpse of the “house and bit of land” that was Berkeley Hall. They drove through giant gates that led past a sweeping expanse of land that was covered with a light snow. The trees had lost all their leaves, but Sarah could imagine how glorious it must look in the summer. The ride up to the main house from the gates took twenty minutes, and they passed a frozen lake, more barren trees, and a sprinkling of outbuildings before they came to the estate.
The house was set back, nestled among even more trees, with two large wings on either side of a huge main portion with great Gothic windows and pillars and a wide, curving drive.
The coach came to a stop in front of the massive home, and when Christian opened the door and took her hand for her to alight, she grinned at him. “Just a house and a bit of land, eh?”
He shrugged. “Come meet Mrs. Hamilton.”
Mrs. Hamilton, Sarah soon learned, was the housekeeper. A short, plump woman in her middle years, she had a huge smile on her face the moment her master escorted Sarah across the threshold.
“Oh, Master Christian! Master Christian, you’ve done it at last. You’ve brought home a wife, and I must say she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! Though I daresay we should be able to outfit a viscountess in better clothing than what she’s got on.”
Sarah blushed from her roots to her toes while Christian shushed the woman. “Mrs. Hamilton, please come into the drawing room, and I’ll explain.”
The butler, Mr. Oswald, a tall, imposing, middle-aged man with streaks of gray at his temples, followed them.
“This is Lady Sarah Highgate,” Christian explained quickly. “And I must ask both of you for your discretion. Lady Sarah became lost on her way through Scotland and I’m simply escorting her back to England. My friends are coming to see her back to London, but we are not married. Now, I know I can count on both of you to keep this to yourselves and to ensure the rest of the staff doesn’t gossip about our guest.”
Both servants nodded solemnly, though Mrs. Hamilton looked so disappointed that Sarah thought she might cry.
“Don’t worry,” Christian said. “Lady Sarah here has been giving me advice on how I might go about finding my future bride. She was the belle of the Season last year.”
Mrs. Hamilton tried to smile at that, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it.
“You can count on me, my lord,” Mr. Oswald said, giving a formal bow.
“Good. I’d like to keep Lady Sarah’s presence here as unobtrusive as possible. Please assign the most discreet housemaid to attend to her.”
“I’ll attend to her myself, my lord,” Mrs. Hamilton said, tucking her set of keys into the sash around her waist.
“Thank you. Perhaps that’s best,” Christian replied.
Sarah smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Hamilton.”
Christian gave the housekeeper a warning glance. “Absolutely no one else can know she’s here.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Would you care to see my house?” Christian said after Sarah had joined him in the upstairs drawing room that afternoon. She’d taken a nap and put on fresh clothing that Mrs. Hamilton had provided for her, a gown that had been borrowed from one of the maids at the hall. It was soft and clean and white, and Sarah felt refreshed after her long, bumpy ride in the coach.
“I’ve given most of the servants the afternoon off,” Christian explained. “So we should have some privacy while I give you a tour.”
Sarah smiled at him brightly. “I would love to see your house.” She stood and took his hand and he led her into the corridor.
“We might as well begin with this floor since we’re already here. There are twenty-seven bedrooms altogether, but most of the ones for guests are on this floor.”
Twenty-seven bedrooms? A house and a bit of land indeed.
“I hope you’re enjoying the room I chose for you.”
“You chose it? For me?” Her voice nearly broke. She was remembering the kiss they’d never shared. The thought made her throat tight.
“Yes,” he said softly.
“And the lilies that were sitting on my bedside table?”
“I thought you would like them because of your perfume.”
The man had noticed the scent of her perfume? The lump in her throat grew larger.
He led her down the grand staircase across the wide expanse of the marble-floored foyer and into another corridor lined with scores of Berkeley family portraits.
“You know, I feel completely foolish remembering how you asked me if I recognized the name Viscount Berkeley.”
“What would you say if I told you Mrs. Goatsocks recognized my name immediately?”
“I would say I’m not a bit surprised. Mrs. Goatsocks has Debrett’s memorized. I just don’t know how you and I never met before.”
“I was probably at Almack’s and you were somewhere much more fashionable,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Why did Sarah wish they had met? Why was it so important to her? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have become engaged to Lord Branford regardless. No. It was useless thinking about the what-ifs. If they’d met in London, Christian probably wouldn’t have ever spoken to her for fear of stuttering, and … Oh, it didn’t matter now, did it?
“What’s next?” she asked him, gesturing to the next room and fighting the tears that unexpectedly stung her eyes.
Christian was a marvelous tour guide. He spent the afternoon showing her his house. He led her into not one but two ballrooms, the expansive library, and rooms and rooms full of additional Berkeley family portraits.
When they reached the exquisite conservatory, Sarah sucked in her breath. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful place,” she said, turning around and around in the lush, flower-filled room. “Your house is beautiful, Lord Berkeley.”
He walked up next to where she stood sniffing a lil
ac. “Thank you, my lady. But I do hope you’ll continue to call me Christian. In private.” He winked at her.
“Of course.” She stood and turned abruptly, nearly knocking into him.
He grabbed her elbow to steady her. He didn’t let go when she found her footing again. She stared up into his eyes. It was wrong for a score of reasons, but she was willing him to kiss her. Here in the heady-scented, humid conservatory.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
He leaned down and brushed her ear with his lips. He slid a violet that he’d plucked nearby behind her ear. “I want to kiss you. You don’t know how much I want to kiss you. But…” He straightened to his full height and stepped back. “You’re engaged to another man.”
“I know.” She nearly sobbed. “I know.” She clutched her skirts and ran from the room.
* * *
That night, Sarah sat in the glorious bedchamber that Mrs. Hamilton had escorted her to soon after her arrival. The room that Christian had apparently chosen for her personally. It was decorated in soft blues and silver. The fresh lilies (no doubt from the viscount’s conservatory) sat in crystal vases on the delicate white writing desk and the bedside table. The bed itself was a beautiful cherry four-poster, and the linens spread over it were soft and fresh and clean. Sarah hadn’t realized how much she’d missed such luxury while she’d been hidden away in Scotland. Not that patchwork quilts didn’t hold a certain appeal, but this bedchamber was positively glorious. Now she was hidden away in Northumbria, she thought with a wry smile, but the furnishings were a sight better.
She sat on a tufted stool in front of the dressing table, slowly pulling the pins from her dark hair and thinking about all the things that had happened in the last several days. Why in the world had Christian decided to keep his title a secret from her for all this time? Did he truly think she was preoccupied with such things? She wasn’t the one who had decided to marry Lord Branford for his title. That had been her parents’ doing. She had, however, seemed pompous when she’d informed Christian regally that she was the daughter of an earl. But at the time, she’d been certain that rape or murder might have been his intention. No. She didn’t blame him for not telling her at first, but later … later, when they’d talked together, laughed together, waltzed together, played chess. Why hadn’t he told her any of those times? She sighed. She supposed it didn’t matter. She knew now, and it certainly did nothing but add to his appeal on the marriage mart, which was her part of their bargain, wasn’t it? Helping him find a wife. Though she couldn’t help wondering for the hundredth time why he was still unmarried if he was as handsome and well connected and kind and witty as he was and a viscount to boot. Not that her parents would accept a title as lowly as viscount. No. No. Their daughter must marry up. But many a young lady on the marriage mart would be happy to have him. So why was he still unmarried? Was it truly because he became every lady’s friend? She felt anything but friendly feelings toward him. Well, that wasn’t true, exactly. He was her friend. But did one want to madly kiss one’s friend? She sincerely doubted it.
The Legendary Lord Page 10