The Legendary Lord

by Valerie Bowman

  She picked up her light blue skirts and pushed her way into the crowd, scanning the faces for Christian. Lucy Hunt was standing at one of his elbows, Lady Claire at the other. The girl had blond hair and blue eyes and an excessively pretty, round, pale face. A stab of something that felt far too much like jealousy ripped through Sarah’s middle entirely unexpectedly. But she also felt pride. Pride for Christian.

  He was doing it. Exactly as she’d taught him. He’d somehow managed to speak to Lady Claire, the new belle of the Season, and immediately be seen with her. The man was obviously a quick study.

  Sarah desperately wanted to talk to him. She had no idea what she would say once she got there, but she found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  She stood on the outskirts of his little group and watched while what seemed like scores of young women competed for an introduction to him. Lady Claire hovered next to his arm like a timid little bird.

  Finally, Lady Alexandra saw Sarah and pulled her closer to Christian. “Lady Sarah, there you are. It’s so good to see you.”

  Was it Sarah’s imagination or did Christian’s back stiffen when he heard her name? He was standing at right angles to her, speaking to one of the many ladies fluttering around him like so many pretty butterflies. She detected no stutter. She smiled.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Lady Alexandra. Best wishes on your upcoming wedding. I was just speaking to your sister about it,” Sarah replied.

  Lady Alexandra’s pretty brown eyes clouded. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear you’ve had to endure Lavinia’s company.” She soon brightened, however. “But thank you for the kind words. The same to you on your own impending nuptials.”

  Sarah stiffened this time. She tried to smile, but her lips were tight. “Thank you.”

  Christian turned then and his smile dazzled her. This close to her, he was even more handsome than he’d been far away. He didn’t smell like firewood. Instead, he was wearing some sort of spicy cologne that made her senses reel.

  “Lady Sarah, have you met my friend Lord Berkeley?” Alexandra asked in a sweet voice.

  Sarah shook her head. Lucy had told her that she and Christian had agreed they should pretend not to have met if they saw each other in London this Season. When Lucy had explained the reason for it, Sarah had merely nodded and jerked her head away. She’d been plagued with thoughts of Christian all these months. Why? Why?

  She told herself again and again that if only she were engaged to a man she admired and respected, she wouldn’t spend her time thinking about someone else. It was shameful to do so. Shameful and wrong. God knew she’d spent enough nights tossing and turning in bed, trying to think of ways to banish Christian Forester from her mind, but nothing seemed to work. Lately, she’d been so preoccupied with the fear of having to pick a wedding date that the thoughts of Christian weren’t as vivid as they had been when he’d first left her in Bath. But the sight of him here, now, sent them all rushing back to her in excruciating detail.

  “A pleasure, Lady Sarah,” Christian said, taking her hand and bowing over it. He’d saved her from having to say the lie outright herself. Oh, his gloves were fine, too. He must have stopped at the glovemakers as well.

  “M-m-my lord,” she intoned instead, curtsying to him as soon as he righted himself. Then she blushed scarlet for having stuttered the first word.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked smoothly, surprising her with the question.

  “Thank you.” She offered him her hand and noticed a small pout form on Lady Claire’s face as she watched him take Sarah’s arm and lead her to the dance floor.

  A waltz began to play and Christian spun her into his arms.

  “Did I hear you stutter when you greeted me?” he said with a teasing smile.

  “Guilty,” she admitted. “I must say, you look quite … quite … different from the last time I saw you.”

  His grin widened. “I should hope so. If I remember correctly, the last time you saw me, I was sporting several days’ growth of beard and wearing coarse woolen trousers.”

  She eyed him up and down. “You went to Martin’s, didn’t you?”

  “And Hoby’s and Weston’s and Yardley’s.”

  “I could tell.”

  “What do you think?” They continued to spin around the dance floor. The man was an extremely graceful dancer. Just as she’d known he would be.

  “I told you I could make you into a legend.” The old lump was back in her throat.

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far yet.”

  “You seem quite popular, however. I saw the line of young ladies hoping for introductions to you tonight. Including Lady Claire.”

  “Yes, Meg delivered your message about Lady Claire being the belle of the Season.”

  “Well, she’s expected to be the belle of the Season. She certainly appears popular. As do you.”

  “If I am popular, it’s due to my proximity to you. And I have you to thank, of course.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied. “I was only jesting.”

  “I suppose I have the rumors you’ve started to thank for my increased and sudden popularity?”

  “It’s nothing at all. Just a few well-placed comments in the right ears.”

  “I’ve never had so much attention before.”

  “I didn’t hear you stutter once.”

  “I have you to thank for that as well,” Christian replied. “Remembering our dance together in Scotland has proven exceedingly helpful.”

  Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m only glad I could be of help. You helped me so much last winter.”

  “How is Mrs. Goatsocks?” he asked.

  Sarah lowered her voice, glancing around. “Her ankle is completely healed, the dear, but we told Mother that she’d left to visit her sister in Scotland. She’s stayed up there all winter. Her letters have hinted that she’s paid more than one visit to Mr. Fergus.”

  Christian whistled. “Is that so? Fergus’s letters to me haven’t mentioned anything about it.”

  “No doubt he’s embarrassed. I have a feeling Mrs. Goatsocks has taken a fancy to the man.”

  “I daresay Mr. Fergus can handle himself.” Christian spun Sarah around again. “How are you faring without a chaperone?”

  “Well, Mrs. Bunbury had to stay in Bath, of course,” she said with a sly smile. “So Mother has taken on the task for the time being. She says she never should have relinquished the role to begin with.”

  “Keeping a strict eye on you, is she?”

  Sarah nodded, staring blankly into his cravat. Why did he have to smell so very good?

  “How are you, Sarah?” he asked in a tender voice that made her throat ache.

  Tears burned her eyes. “I’m … f-fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  She shook her head and lifted her chin, forcing herself to paste a smile on her face. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  He squeezed her hands. “Your engagement?”

  “Is proceeding as planned.” Bother. She could hear the unmistakable note of melancholy in her own voice.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. For your sake,” he hastened to add.

  “I must do what they say. I’ve little choice. What am I to do, run away again?” She gave a halfhearted laugh.

  “I’m certain Fergus Two misses you,” he said.

  The tears stung harder. Bother. Bother. Bother. “I was given a chance that few young ladies are. A second chance. A clean slate. A restored reputation. I know how valuable that is.”

  “That’s quite a string of reasons you’ve come up with. But are you happy?”

  She couldn’t look at him. She forced the words through her dry lips. “I’m content.”

  “Fine.” He glanced away over her head, looking off into the crowd as if he could tell their conversation was no longer honest.

  The dance soon came to an end and Christian escorted her back to the group of people they’d been standing in. Lady Claire moved clo
ser to him, obviously hoping for the next dance.

  “I’ll just leave you to your new friends,” Sarah said, picking up her skirts and turning.

  His hand was still on her arm. His voice was a whisper at her ear so the others wouldn’t hear. “I could always use friends,” he murmured. “That’s what we are, Sarah, aren’t we? Friends?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “We’re friends, Christian. Just friends.”

  * * *

  That night, when she climbed into her bed, Sarah could feel the walls closing in around her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The next afternoon, Christian arrived at the town house of the Earl of Marchland wearing an entire set of his new clothing, including his fine boots, his hair freshly cropped again, a smile pasted on his face, and holding a bouquet of flowers for Lady Claire. The girl seemed lovely and sweet enough, but she tended to giggle too much and he was beginning to think she might be a bit silly. What did he expect from an eighteen-year-old? But then he thought of Sarah and how she was only nineteen now. She’d had a birthday this spring, according to Lucy. But she’d never seemed silly to him.

  Sarah.

  Seeing her last night had been both better and worse than he’d expected. Better because he’d clearly done something right to have the belle of the Season somewhat interested in him. He was proud to show Sarah that he’d readily employed everything she’d been so generous to teach him. He’d even managed to ask for a favor. Though it had been deuced uncomfortable doing so. He’d asked Lady Alexandra to help. Alex had readily agreed and quickly was yet another voice whispering it about that Christian was considered the catch of the Season.

  Lucy was right. Society was strange and fickle. The right well-timed rumor whispered by the right well-heeled person could be quite convincing. However, seeing Sarah again—even in his own much more popular state—had been a bit like looking directly at the sun too long. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, her dark hair piled high atop her head, a few tendrils left to brush her shoulders. She’d been wearing a light blue gown with a fitted bodice, and she still smelled like lilies. It made his mouth water. Worst of all, she was still steadfastly engaged to Branford. Christian had watched her after their dance—not when she was looking, of course, but he’d been unable to help himself—and he’d noticed she hadn’t danced so much as once with her estimable future husband. Branford had been holding court at the far end of the room, a group of ladies and gentlemen hanging upon his every word. No doubt exactly the way the marquess liked it.

  Sarah had spent the better part of her evening laughing and talking with Meg Timmons near the refreshment table. It was good to see Sarah laugh. She’d seemed upset when he’d asked her how she was during their dance. But she clearly enjoyed Society and parties and was quickly back in her element, dancing with several young men and laughing with her friend. Christian had asked Lady Claire to dance a second time, just as Sarah had advised him. Lady Claire had been only too willing to do so, and his apparent success in that quarter led to his arrival upon her doorstep today with a handful of violets.

  Lady Claire seemed happy to see him and had surprised him by ignoring the half score of other suitors who had arrived before him—most with roses, he noted with some irony—and asking Christian to take her riding in the park. Christian had considered the request for a moment and then decided that the only thing more ill-mannered than taking the focus of so much attention away to ride in the park would be to refuse to do so, especially when the young woman had requested it so prettily. Besides, this was exactly what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? The attention of a perfectly suitable, unattached lady who was looking for a husband? What the devil was he waiting for?

  They’d barely made it onto Rotten Row in his sleek new curricle before Christian sorely regretted his decision, however. It seemed Lord Branford and Sarah had also decided to go riding in the park.

  Christian noticed the chaise first, flashy, overly ornate, the crest of the marquess boldly outlined in gold leaf upon the side. Then Christian’s gaze shot to the two occupants who sat perched on the high seat. The marquess looked like a peacock basking in the glow of the imagined admiration of everyone in the park. Sarah, however, looked … bored. Her face was tight, her eyes were blank, and she didn’t appear to be listening to a word the marquess said.

  As Christian’s curricle approached theirs, Lady Claire squealed, “Oh, there’s the Marquess of Branford and Lady Sarah Highgate. They were quite the last Season’s most celebrated couple, you know.”

  “You don’t say?” Christian drawled just as the marquess’s chaise pulled to a stop beside his.

  “Eh there, Berkeley, seems it’s been an age since I last saw you,” Branford announced. He pulled a pinch of snuff from out of his embroidered sleeve and sniffed it.

  Christian let his gaze travel over the marquess. He’d never really considered the man before, but now he tried to see him as a woman might. A woman who was engaged to him. The man had a quickly thinning patch of blond hair atop his head. A rather decided nose. Thin lips and a puffed-out chest, though whether by anatomy or by intention, Christian couldn’t be certain. The marquess wore a heavily embroidered waistcoat, an overly fussy cravat, and a bright blue velvet coat. It was peacock blue. Fitting.

  He also managed to carry an excessive number of accessories, including a top hat, a brass-tipped cane, an eyeglass, and of course his oft used snuffbox. In a word, the man was a dandy, something Monroe had explained to Christian one day while they’d been picking out shirts at Martin’s. Branford’s boots, however, did indeed look as if they were the work of Hoby, the master boot maker.

  “I’ve been in the country all winter,” Christian replied, forcing himself to stop his inventory of the marquess.

  Christian’s gaze met Sarah’s and he saw a flicker of something in her eye. Humor? Interest? Both?

  “Eh, what fun is that? Hiding in the countryside,” Branford replied. “London’s full of the amusements, don’t you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Christian replied.

  “I quite agree,” Lady Claire surprisingly piped up from beside him.

  Christian turned to look at her, then back at the marquess. “Do you know Lady Claire Marchfield?” He drew a hand toward his companion.

  “I don’t know. Have we met?” Branford demanded of a flustered Lady Claire.

  The young woman immediately began to stammer. “I … oh, well, n-no, my lord. I don’t quite believe we have met.”

  Branford waggled his eyebrows at her. “Then we have not,” he insisted. “For I daresay you’d recall if we had.”

  “Y-yes, of course,” Lady Claire replied. “Quite.”

  Christian could have sworn Sarah rolled her eyes at that. He gave her a knowing look. She hid her smile behind her gloved hand.

  “Do you know each other?” he asked Sarah, gesturing to Lady Claire again.

  “Oh, yes, we’ve met. Quite. Lady Sarah attended the come-out ceremony and was such a dear to give some of us advice this year.”

  “That was kind of you, my dear,” Branford said. “A good reflection on the Branford name, I daresay.”

  “We’re not married yet,” Sarah murmured.

  Branford looked disgruntled, but he quickly changed the subject. “Have you met the future marchioness?” he asked Christian.

  “Yes, we … Lady Alexandra Hobbs introduced us last night.”

  Sarah shot him a knowing look this time. He ignored it.

  “And as she’s to be your marchioness, I believe congratulations are in order,” Christian said, turning his attention back toward the marquess. “For your wedding.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Claire squealed, clapping her hands. “Quite. You are to be married soon, aren’t you?”

  “Not soon enough,” the marquess said, his tone disgruntled as well.

  Sarah promptly blushed.

  “Lady Sarah has yet to set a date,
” the marquess continued.

  “Surely there’s no rush,” Sarah replied. She kept her eyes trained on her hands, which were now folded tidily in her lap.

  “I’d like to marry before the snow flies again.” The marquess laughed heartily at his own jest.

  “Oh, quite. Certainly you’ll be married before then,” Lady Claire exclaimed, blinking in confusion at Sarah.

  “There is much to be considered,” Sarah replied noncommittally, glancing back over toward them while the marquess frowned.

  “I, for one, quite cannot wait until my wedding day.” Lady Claire blushed prettily, gazing up at Christian from beneath long lashes.

  Christian’s eye caught Sarah’s, and this time she waggled her eyebrows at him.

  Christian was spared from replying to Lady Claire’s loaded statement, however, by a scream that rang out across the park. The four of them swiveled their heads to see what had happened. The scream was promptly followed by a loud splash. A young lady’s horse had thrown her into the Serpentine.

  Springing into action, Christian tossed the reins to Lady Claire and leaped from his coach, sprinting over to the luckless young woman, who was sputtering helplessly in the water, her yellow flowered skirts obviously dragging her down. Christian ripped off his hat and coat and tossed them to the bank but dove in with the rest of his clothing in place. With long strokes, he swam out to the middle of the lake and firmly grabbed the sobbing young woman.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he demanded.

  Thankfully, the woman complied and he swam back to the bank with her clinging to him, her nose pressed to his shoulder. By the time they reached the shore, a sizable crowd had formed and in it stood Lady Sarah and the marquess. A quick glance told Christian that Lady Claire was still sitting in his curricle, though she was craning her neck to see what had happened.