Christian ensured the young lady he’d saved was delivered safely to her mother. The woman cried and both of them thanked him profusely.
“No thanks are necessary,” Christian said. “I’m only glad I was able to help.”
“Yes, yes,” came the marquess’s booming voice. “I certainly would have rescued her myself, but you’ve no idea how costly these boots are. Not to mention my coat.” He lovingly brushed a hand against the velvet blue.
Everyone looked at Christian’s obviously expensive and obviously ruined clothing.
“That was kind of you,” Sarah said quietly. She glanced at him and looked away. Christian looked down to see that his shirtfront was plastered against his wet chest. He plucked at it, trying to separate it from his body.
“Yes,” Branford said, oblivious to Sarah’s reaction at the sight of Christian’s muscled chest. “Kind indeed. Berkeley, you must come to my house tonight for a dinner party I’m hosting. God knows once the talk of your heroics here today reaches the rest of ton, you’ll be the most highly sought-after dinner guest in London, and I pride myself on having the most sought-after guests at my parties.”
Christian slicked back his wet hair with his fingers. “I don’t think—”
“Nonsense,” the marquess interrupted. “Of course you will. Bring that delightful Lady Claire with you. Ten o’clock. See you then.”
Sarah had apparently retrieved his hat and coat from the bank on the way over. He hadn’t noticed her holding them before. She took a step forward and pressed them into his hands.
“See you tonight,” she whispered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Did you hear that Lord Berkeley is coming tonight?”
Sarah smiled to herself. She must have heard that same question from every single woman milling around Lord Branford’s drawing room waiting to go in to dinner. All anyone could talk about was Lord Christian Berkeley. And it wasn’t because of his heroics in the park this afternoon. No. That act had merely added to his appeal. Viscount Berkeley, it seemed, had somehow been egregiously overlooked in years past, but now he was in London, sporting a new wardrobe, new boots, a new haircut, and a new curricle and looking quite fine. And did you see the expert tie of his cravat? Why, the viscount had always been rich and handsome, but now he was somehow looking even more rich and more handsome than ever before. Rumor had it that he was considered the catch of the Season.
They’d done it. The two of them. Christian was as popular as he could want to be. Sarah had fulfilled her end of the bargain and was inordinately pleased with herself.
But there was one highly unexpected side effect of their success. It had been excruciating watching Christian in the park today sitting in his curricle next to Lady Claire. Jealousy had clawed at Sarah. Unwelcome, unwanted jealousy. How could she make it go away? She hadn’t the faintest idea. It was so like Christian to leap into a lake to help a woman in need. It hadn’t helped anything to see him emerge from the water with his shirt plastered to the front of him. It reminded her of how very … muscled the man was. She’d seen his chest briefly in Scotland, but now it was all she could think about. That ninny Branford had said he hadn’t tried to rescue the poor young woman because of the price of his boots. Yes, heaven forfend he should risk a pair of expensive shoes to save someone’s life.
Sarah had dressed for the dinner party tonight with infinite care. A week ago, she hadn’t given a toss about Lord Branford’s party, but as soon as she knew Christian would be there she’d asked her maid to twine her hair around her head in an especially fetching fashion. She chose to wear her favorite gown, a sparkling silvery-white one with a wide red bow, and matching silver shoes. A ruby necklace finished the ensemble, and she’d felt quite smart standing in front of the looking glass before she’d left for the party.
Now she was standing next to the marquess, getting ready to be escorted in to dinner, when Christian entered the room. He was accompanied by Lady Claire and her mother. That lady was looking quite pleased with herself for her daughter’s arrival with the most talked-about bachelor of the Season. Not to mention that she was attending the dinner party of the former most popular bachelor. But why did it bother Sarah? She’d wanted this for him. For goodness’ sake, she’d recommended Lady Claire to him. Sarah should be nothing but pleased to see him making headway in his suit with the young woman.
Sarah barely had time to nod a greeting to Christian from across the room before they all were trotted in to dinner, but she soon realized that Branford had seen to it that Christian was seated directly across from them.
“Didn’t catch a cold from your adventure earlier, did you, Berkeley?” Branford said as soon as they’d sat and the wine was being poured.
“Not yet. However, I did ruin an excellent pair of boots.”
“Egad.” Branford shook his head sadly. “A pity.”
“I don’t know how you could have possibly been so brave, my lord,” Lady Claire offered from Christian’s right side. Her mother was sitting farther down the table. “It was quite harrowing to watch, I assure you.”
“Nothing brave about it at all,” Christian replied, taking a healthy sip of wine.
“I beg to differ, my lord,” Lady Claire replied, her eyes downcast. “You were terribly brave. Why, I nearly swooned.”
Christian glanced up to see Sarah unmistakably roll her eyes.
“Yes, well, I nearly saved someone once…,” Branford was saying, and Christian rolled his eyes at that. Sarah kicked him lightly under the table, and he kicked her back.
Lady Claire looked back and forth between Christian and Sarah and redoubled her efforts to engage Christian in conversation.
“Lord Berkeley, will you be attending the Rutherfords’ ball tomorrow evening?” Lady Claire asked.
“I will indeed,” Christian replied.
“Oh, wonderful, for I shall be there, too,” Lady Claire replied with a bright smile.
“Oh, goody,” Sarah drawled. She picked up her wineglass and took a deep draught.
“Will you be attending the Rutherfords’ ball as well, then, Lady Sarah?” Christian ventured.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“It’s too bad I cannot accompany you, my dear,” the marquess said. “I have been invited to Carlton House, and one simply does not turn down an invitation from the prince.” This was said in an overly loud voice to ensure that most of the occupants at the table heard it.
“I wouldn’t know,” Christian replied, tasting the watercress soup that a footman had placed in front of him. A memory flashed through his mind of Sarah’s stew and the laughter they’d shared in Scotland.
“Never been to Prinny’s?” the marquess asked, obviously pleased to have something to pontificate about.
“Never,” Christian replied.
“Yes, well, his dinner parties are legendary. I mustn’t eat too much tonight in preparation, I daresay.”
“Perhaps you should save your conversation for tomorrow evening as well,” Sarah said. When Lady Claire gave her a horrified look, Sarah hastened to add, “You wouldn’t want your voice to be hoarse for conversation with His Royal Highness.”
The marquess nodded. “Sage advice, my dear. Quite sage.” He promptly stopped talking, taking small spoonfuls of his soup.
Sarah took another large drink of wine, draining her glass. A footman rushed to refill it, and she thanked him prettily. Then she turned her attention to Lady Claire.
“How are you finding the events of the Season, Lady Claire?”
“Oh, I find I am quite enjoying myself so far,” Lady Claire replied, taking a dainty taste of her soup. Somehow Christian couldn’t imagine the delicate Lady Claire making stew and knitting a dog’s sweater in the middle of a snowstorm in Scotland.
“And the gentlemen, how are you finding them?” Sarah continued.
Lady Claire’s pale cheeks turned bright pink, and she glanced up hesitantly at Christian. “Everyone has been quite lovely and quite accommodatin
g so far. I’m quite in awe of the number of callers I’ve had.”
“Quite,” Sarah echoed, drinking more.
“Claire, do not brag. It is not seemly,” her mother said from a few seats away.
“Yes, Mother,” Lady Claire replied, her cheeks still pink.
Sarah lowered her voice. “You’ve had a great many suitors, have you?”
Claire glanced down the table nervously to ensure her mother wouldn’t hear. “A dozen today alone,” she whispered back. “Including Lord Berkeley here.”
Christian winced.
“Ah, you paid a call on Lady Claire today?” Sarah asked him.
“Yes, actually. That’s how we came to be riding in the park together.”
“He brought me the most lovely flowers,” Lady Claire gushed, beaming at Christian.
“Not roses, surely?” Sarah said, taking yet another drink of wine.
Lady Claire shook her head, her blond ringlets bouncing. “No. Violets. Quite the most lovely bouquet of violets.”
“A fine choice,” Sarah replied, sitting back in her chair and taking another long draught of wine.
The next several courses were served while an increasingly drunken Sarah peppered Lady Claire with a series of questions about her suitors and her marital prospects. Christian tried not to listen while he spoke with another gentleman across the table about the current crop of horseflesh at Tattersall’s. Meanwhile, Lord Branford spoke only a few words from time to time, obviously having taken to heart his intended’s advice about saving his voice for conversation with the Prince Regent on the morrow. He did, however, take every opportunity to paw at Sarah, touching her hand and shoulder with a frequency that made Christian’s gut clench. It was all quite ridiculous and was punctuated by Lady Claire’s incessant use of the word quite.
Finally, after an excruciatingly long dessert course had been completed, the marquess pushed back his chair, indicating that the meal had come to an end. “Don’t let’s be formal tonight,” Branford said. “I find I don’t want to be long separated from my betrothed. Let’s take our drinks in the drawing room with the ladies this time, gentlemen.”
Christian said a brief prayer of thanks to the heavens for being spared the marquess’s concentrated company.
The entire group stood and headed to one of the drawing rooms at the front of the town house, where Branford promptly situated himself upon the sofa in the middle of the room and pulled Sarah down to sit next to him. Lady Claire and her mother hovered nearby. Lady Claire’s mother seemed intent upon asking the marquess all about the Prince Regent.
Christian took a seat at the far end of the room and gladly accepted a glass of port from a footman who was serving them from a silver salver. He surveyed the group in front of him, wondering how long Lady Claire and her mother would want to remain. Dinner had been torturous. Watching Branford paw at Sarah and Sarah’s uncomfortable response. Listening to Lady Claire drone on in quite the most excessive fashion he’d ever heard. And watching Sarah slowly drink herself into oblivion. Was Branford more palatable to her when she was half-foxed? Christian couldn’t watch it any longer. He steadfastly kept his gaze off of her but couldn’t help but notice when Sarah’s mother called her over. The two ladies exchanged a few obviously terse words in the corner before Sarah returned to Branford’s side, a disgruntled look on her face.
Christian had been sipping his port and halfheartedly examining a book about ancient Rome that he’d found on the table next to his seat when he looked up to see that Sarah had slipped away from the marquess’s court and was slowly making her way over to him. Christian watched her approach. She swayed a bit on her feet, but her wineglass was still clutched firmly in her gloved hand.
She came to stand a few paces in front of him. “Interested in ancient Rome?” she asked, raising her glass to him in a silent salute.
“Immensely,” he said, sliding the book back into place on the table. He watched her carefully, hoping she didn’t tip over.
She took a seat on the bench near the window not far from his chair and swung her legs in front of her.
“Bored of your intended’s company so soon?” Christian nodded toward the group she’d just left. He glanced over to see Sarah’s mother staring at her with daggers in her eyes.
“I’m weary of counting the number of times Lady Claire said quite,” Sarah replied with a tight smile.
“More than a dozen?”
“More than two dozen.” She lifted her glass to her lips before pausing to say, “I’m pleased to see you aren’t suffering any ill effects from the lake today.”
He nodded toward his feet. “Other than my new boots?”
“Rescuing another damsel in distress?” she asked in a slightly slurred voice.
Christian shrugged. “It seems I have a knack for it.”
“Also seems as if you’ve found a young lady.” Sarah glanced back toward where Lady Claire sat listening attentively to Branford’s tales.
“Who? Lady Claire?” Christian asked, crossing his booted foot over his knee.
Sarah took another sip of wine. “Yes, Lady Claire. I seem to recall she was in your company at the Hollisters’ ball as well.”
“Was she?” Christian drawled. He didn’t know what to make of this Sarah, this slightly drunken, seemingly jealous Sarah.
Her eyes narrowed on him. “You know she was.”
“I suppose my new clothing and aspect have been good for something. You said yourself she’s considered the belle of the Season.”
“She is,” Sarah said curtly, turning her head to stare at Lady Claire.
“As I said the other night, I have you to thank for my success,” Christian offered.
Sarah didn’t seem pleased to hear it. Her mouth was tight, drawn. “You didn’t bring her roses.”
“No.”
Sarah glanced away. She twisted her wineglass around in her hand. “I adore violets.”
“No doubt Branford can afford a great many violets.” Christian didn’t know why he said it. Why couldn’t he let it go? Why did he always have to bring the conversation back to Branford?
Sarah half laughed, half snorted. “He brings roses when he remembers to bring anything.”
“Ah, so that’s where your dislike of roses comes from.”
She waved her empty gloved hand in the air. “Roses are so … unimaginative.”
Christian studied his port. “Yes, I believe you said that once before. How imaginative are violets?”
“Judging from Lady Claire’s reaction, I’d say they are quite imaginative and quite welcome.”
“Careful, Sarah. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to examine them. He nearly winced. He shouldn’t have said that, either.
She sputtered and coughed. “Me? Jealous?”
“You may want to lower your voice,” he warned. A few of the other guests had glanced over at them. Sarah’s mother looked ready to pounce upon them.
“Me? Jealous?” she hissed in a whisper, leaning toward him.
“Yes, perhaps.”
“Of Lady Claire?” she huffed, and took another sip of wine.
Christian stood. “I’m not certain you’re in a state where you should be having this conversation. I think you’re a bit worse for wine this evening. May I?” He gestured to her glass. She reluctantly handed it to him.
Christian delivered both the wineglass and his half-full glass of port to the nearest footman. “Bring Lady Sarah a glass of water, please,” he instructed the footman.
Sarah bowed her head and rubbed her temples. “Perhaps you’re right. A glass of water sounds like exactly what I need.”
“I must gather Lady Claire and her mother and go,” Christian said. “I fear I’ve worn out my welcome. Branford doesn’t seem to enjoy my speaking privately to his future marchioness.” He nodded to the marquess, who remained on the sofa. The man was definitely watching them now with a more than inte
rested look on his face. “You should get back to him,” Christian said.
Sarah stood and took a deep breath. She began to walk away but turned and asked over her shoulder, “Are you jealous of the marquess?”
Christian inclined his head toward her. But he whispered so she couldn’t hear, “More than you can know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Rutherfords’ ballroom was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles twinkling in the chandeliers that hung from the enormous frescoed ceiling. Sarah and Meg had been standing next to Lady Alexandra Hobbs for the last twenty minutes. Sarah was asking after the details of Lady Alex’s upcoming wedding.
“I simply cannot wait,” Alex said, beaming. She glanced across the ballroom toward where her bridegroom, Lord Owen Monroe, stood in a group of gentlemen. The look the two exchanged made Sarah feel as if she were intruding upon a private moment. A pang of regret twisted in her heart. She would never know such devotion. Such love.
“How did you know?” Sarah asked suddenly, the words flying past her lips.
Alex blinked at her. “How did I know what?”
Sarah cleared her throat. “How did you know that Lord Owen was the right man for you?”
Meg leaned closer to hear, too.
Alex smiled softly and a faraway look came into her eyes. “I’ve loved him since I was fifteen years old.”
“I know the feeling,” Meg mumbled.
Sarah tilted her head to the side. “Really? Fifteen?” she said to Alex.
“Yes,” Alex continued. “I saw him under my window at a party my parents had at their country house. He was defending a stable boy against a couple of older bucks who were making fun of the child. I fell in love instantly.”
“You just knew?” Sarah asked, leaning forward and biting her lip.
Alex nodded her dark head. “Yes, I just knew. Just like that.”
“Sometimes you just know.” Meg sighed again.
Sarah wrapped her arms around her middle. She’d always assumed that Meg was a special case, loving Hart so deeply for so long. But Lady Alex had confirmed it. Some people were lucky that way. Love just arrived under their window one night. But how exactly was one supposed to go about making such important decisions when one wasn’t absolutely certain?
The Legendary Lord Page 16