But Christian soon learned, to his chagrin, that while staying away from Sarah was easy enough, keeping her from his thoughts was much more difficult. For his thoughts were haunted by the memory of her in his bed in Surrey, her gorgeous naked body splayed in front of him. Her lips around him, driving him wild. Then, inevitably, his thoughts would turn to the talk they’d had after it was over. Do you love me, Christian? she’d asked in the most heartbreakingly vulnerable voice he’d ever heard. Can you say you love me? Those were the words that kept him awake at night. Made him toss and turn in bed. Those were the words that tortured him. And every time he thought of them, he cursed himself for not having answered them in the way she’d obviously wanted. Every time, he hated himself more for not being the man she clearly needed him to be.
While Christian’s thoughts were plagued with her, he spent his days studiously avoiding her, which proved to be somewhat simple. For Sarah was rarely in public. According to Lucy, she was busily preparing her trousseau while her mother saw to the wedding details. When he did attend ton parties, he rarely saw her. When she was there, he ensured that he spent his evening dancing with a never-ending slew of young, marriageable ladies. And he refused to look at her.
“I cannot imagine what she’s thinking,” Lucy declared one afternoon when she and Christian had gone for a walk in the park.
“I can. She’s thinking she’s about to marry Lord Branford,” Christian retorted, nudging up his hat with the tip of his finger.
“But we spoke in Surrey. I was certain she’d—”
He glanced at Lucy, who’d snapped her mouth shut. “She’d what?”
“We talked before the wedding. I was certain she’d leave him. What did you do to your hand, by the by?” She gestured to Christian’s right fist, which was wrapped firmly with a clean white rag.
“It’s nothing,” he murmured. He kept his mouth shut on the other score, too. He made a show of flexing his hand, in an attempt to prove it didn’t pain him.
He wasn’t about to tell Lucy what had transpired between him and Sarah in Surrey. Besides, if Sarah had ever had a moment of wanting to leave Branford and marry Christian, he’d bloody well put an end to it when he’d refused to tell her he loved her that night.
Damn it. Did he love her? Did he even know what love was? He couldn’t bring himself to say those words without being absolutely certain. It wouldn’t be fair to her. He couldn’t ask her to cause a scandal that might estrange her from her parents for the rest of her life without being entirely certain. She’d asked him. She’d put him on the spot. And he’d failed. He’d been unable to say it. He didn’t blame her for putting him on the spot. How could he? He was asking a lot of her, to toss over Lord Branford, anger her parents, and cast shame upon her family. Only he’d been convinced he was rescuing her … actually, stupidly believed she’d be grateful to him for offering for her. He’d been a bloody fool. And an utter arse.
To make matters worse, he’d nearly wished that Cade Cavendish had gone and told the household full of people what he’d seen. That, at least, would have forced the issue. Yes, there’d be an undeniable scandal, but in the end, no doubt, Christian would be with Sarah. The fact that he’d even thought about it, let alone wished it, made him an undeniable cad. The truth was, he wasn’t good enough for Sarah. He didn’t deserve her.
She’d told him to be honest. Told him he owed her that much. And it was true. Her tears had ripped him to pieces inside, but he did owe her his honesty. All this time, she’d said, I’ve wondered why you’ve remained a bachelor. Why you couldn’t find a wife. But I finally understand. You want to remain unmarried. You want to remain aloof, friendly.… And then you act as if you’re surprised that you haven’t found a wife.
Those words clawed at his mind each and every day. He couldn’t forget them, couldn’t banish them, couldn’t keep busy enough to drive them from his thoughts. It’s never been about your clothes or your boots or even your reputation, Sarah had said.
Was Sarah right? Had he wasted her time in Scotland, asking her to help him become a legend? He’d had the pick of the lot after him, Lady Sarah herself. But when it came to telling her the one thing she needed to hear, he’d bloody well ruined everything. He had no one to blame but himself. Perhaps despite all his protestations to the contrary, he didn’t want a wife and family after all. Perhaps he was incapable of love.
Do you want to know the real reason you aren’t married yet, Christian? Look in the mirror, Sarah had said.
And he had. He’d taken a good, long, hard look in the mirror. Stared at himself. Couldn’t look away. What he saw was a lonely bachelor staring back at him. One whose mother had left him when he was a child. She got sick one day and he never saw her again. It was a memory he rarely allowed himself to dwell upon, but he’d stared it down and let it torture him again for seconds, minutes, an hour. He’d taken that good, hard look in the mirror, and then he’d punched the bloody thing, shattering it into a hundred tiny pieces.
In the end, he’d realized why he wanted to be every lady’s friend. Friendships were easy. Love. Love was difficult. Love caused pain.
* * *
The three weeks before her wedding passed with both an alarming alacrity and an excruciating slowness that Sarah thought would drive her mad in turns. Lucy Hunt’s words echoed through her mind. You must not allow life to happen to you. Blast Lucy for putting a bunch of rebellious notions in her head. The duchess knew full well how the lives of ladies in their positions went. She knew full well what was expected of them. Sarah wanted to do what Lucy thought she should. She wanted to call off the wedding and choose Christian. If only Christian had given her a reason, a real reason … love. But Christian couldn’t have been more clear. She’d asked him if he loved her and he’d said … nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Obviously, he didn’t feel them. He’d mentioned passion and friendship, but nothing about love. She couldn’t defy her parents and damage her reputation for anything less than love. It just wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t help matters that Meg was firmly on Lucy’s side. “The duchess is right,” she’d said on more than one occasion.
“About which part?”
“You must decide whether you will marry for love or for duty.”
“I’ve decided,” Sarah had insisted. “I’m marrying for duty. I have a responsibility to.”
Meg had given her a sad look that reminded Sarah a bit too much of Fergus II when he was denied a treat, but in the end her friend had respected her decision and told her she would be there to support her on her wedding day, regardless of the groom’s identity.
But in her more quiet moments, when she wasn’t shopping for the final bits of her trousseau or being wished well by scores of callers and friends, Lucy’s other words haunted Sarah. Christian didn’t say that he loves you, which is quite different … he’s never experienced anything like this before. We’ve all had to overcome a bit of stupidity when falling in love.
Was Lucy right? Could she be? Did Christian truly love her but was incapable of telling her because he’d never been in love before? Didn’t recognize the feeling? Or was all of it just wishful thinking on her part? Idiotic, useless wishful thinking?
When she wasn’t plagued by such thoughts, Sarah’s days were spent with her mother making repeated visits to the dressmaker’s for the fittings for the wedding gown. Sarah couldn’t even look at herself in the thing. It was a gorgeous gown, everything she’d ever wanted, with a fitted silver bodice and a long trailing white satin skirt. It had tiny blue and silver beads threaded in swirling patterns along the hem and across the skirt, and she looked absolutely breathtaking in it (or so both the dressmaker and her mother assured her). But every time Sarah tried to look at herself in the mirror, guilt made her look away. She was a fraud.
Her nights were a different matter altogether. They were spent awake in bed, unable to forget about the night in Christian’s bedchamber when he’d made her feel things she couldn�
��t have imagined.
When she wasn’t thinking about Christian, she was fighting the fear that rose in her chest, the panic that threatened to bring the walls of her room crashing in on her, when she thought about spending the rest of her life with Lord Branford.
Sarah avoided Lucy and Meg the same way she avoided looking at herself in the wedding dress. And then one day she woke up, and it was the day before her wedding.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Brooks’s was the club of choice for Christian’s set. On any given day there, he might encounter Claringdon or Swifdon, Upton or Monroe. Perhaps all four of them. Even Rafe Cavendish and his twin were known to make an appearance once in a while, ever since Rafe had been made a viscount by the prince for his work bringing the former Earl of Swifdon’s murderers to justice.
Christian himself was a member of Brooks’s, but he rarely went to the club. Drinking wasn’t his pastime the way it was for, say, Monroe. He usually preferred the quiet solitude of his study or library to the busyness of the club. But today Upton had talked him into it, and today Christian had reason for going. Sarah was getting married tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. From the moment he’d got out of bed today, the word had played like a death knell in his brain over and over again. He’d spent the better part of the morning in his study going over the same row of figures in his ledger. It had been maddening, but his attention wandered again and again with one word in mind. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
By the time Upton had stopped by and asked him to accompany him to the club, Christian was more than ready to throw down his quill and leave with his friend. Perhaps a drink was in order today.
The two men had been ensconced in leather chairs in one of Brooks’s salons drinking brandy and talking about politics for no longer than half an hour when Owen Monroe came sauntering up. He was accompanied by Sarah’s brother, Hart.
“Monroe, what are you doing here? Your wedding is in days. Shouldn’t you be preparing or something?” Upton said, offering him a seat.
“I’m as prepared as I expect to be,” Monroe replied, taking a seat and ordering his own brandy from a passing footman.
The word wedding stabbed at Christian. He curled his lip and took another long draught of his brandy.
“Do you two chaps know Highgate here?” Owen gestured toward Hart.
“Of course, good to see you, Highgate,” Upton replied.
“Highgate,” Christian intoned, acknowledging the man. He could barely look at him, though. With his black hair and green eyes, Hart reminded Christian too much of Sarah.
Upton invited the two men to join them, and they accepted.
“What’s the matter with you today, Berkeley?” Monroe asked as soon as his drink arrived. “You look as if you could kill a man with your bare hands.”
“Eh, don’t let it be you, Monroe,” Upton replied. “The lad’s in a state today. Been downright surly since I first laid eyes on him.”
Christian merely grunted.
“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with Lady Sarah’s wedding tomorrow morning,” Monroe said, straightening his already perfectly straight cravat.
Highgate’s brows rose.
Christian narrowed his eyes on Monroe. Why did he have to bring it up in front of Sarah’s brother? “I’d keep such comments to yourself, Monroe, unless you want me to take your fancy cravat and shove it down your—”
“Whoa!” Monroe said, putting up a hand as if fending Christian off. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Are you going to the wedding?” Upton asked, obviously trying to create a more jovial atmosphere.
“No,” Christian shot back. Perfect. Even Upton seemed intent upon talking about Sarah.
“But you were invited, weren’t you?” Upton prodded.
Christian glowered at his friend in reply.
“Let’s ask Highgate here,” Owen continued. “I’m curious. What do you think of your future brother-in-law, the marquess?”
Highgate shrugged. “Can’t say I think much of him, but my parents seem delighted with the match.”
“And your sister?” Monroe prodded.
Christian wanted to murder Monroe with his bare hands.
“She doesn’t seem to be as delighted,” Highgate replied. “I never thought the wedding would happen, to be honest.”
“See there,” Monroe said to Christian. “Yet another person who doesn’t think it’s the best match.”
“But what do I know about matches?” Hart continued. “I’ve been studiously avoiding my own for years.” He chuckled.
Monroe’s eyes never left Christian. “Do you love her, Berkeley?” he asked simply, settling back in his chair and taking a sip of brandy.
That was it. Christian would murder Monroe with his bare hands. He began a reply, a scathing one. He’d even opened his mouth, ready to deliver it posthaste. But in that moment, the anger completely drained from him. He took a long, deep breath and answered the only way he could. Honestly. “I have no bloody idea.”
“That’s a start,” Upton said, a grin on his face, raising his glass in a salute.
Highgate took a sip of his own brandy.
“How am I supposed to know?” Christian groaned, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. “Lord knows I tried to court other women over the years. I liked them. I might have married them if they would have had me. How am I supposed to know if it’s different with Sarah?”
Monroe spent a silent minute lighting a cheroot and proceeded to blow his famous smoke rings into the air. “If you promise not to take a swing at me, I’ll tell you something I think you may desperately need to hear today, Berkeley.”
Christian snorted. “I promise no such thing.” He waved down a footman to refill his glass.
“What if I promise I’ll hold him back if he tries?” Upton asked with a devilish grin on his face. “Because I for one want to hear what you have to say.”
“I do, too,” Highgate added. “I’m bloody well fascinated by you men who fancy yourselves in love. It’s completely baffling to me. Especially you, Monroe.”
“Just wait, Highgate. When that emotion comes looking for you, you’ll find there’s very little you can do to escape it. God knows I tried,” Monroe said with a devilish wink.
Christian sighed. “Go ahead, Monroe. Something tells me you’re going to say whatever it is you want to say whether I agree to act reasonably afterward or not.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve come to blows,” Monroe said to Highgate. Monroe settled farther back into his chair. “Consider this, Berkeley. If you had truly loved one of the other ladies you say you’ve courted, neither hell nor high water would have kept you from her. That’s how I feel about Alexandra, and I presume to say that’s how Upton here feels about Jane.”
“It’s true.” Upton nodded. “If you’re truly in love, you’ll do crazy things. Things you’d never normally do. That’s one way to tell.”
Highgate merely rolled his eyes and took another sip of brandy.
Monroe inclined his head toward Upton. “Listen to him. He knows whereof he speaks.”
“Now that I think on it,” Highgate interjected, “my sister did ask me about you.”
Christian’s head snapped up to face him. “She did?”
Upton laughed. “I believe that answers it, chaps. Methinks our lad here was a bit too happy to hear that news.”
“She asked me what I thought of you,” Highgate continued. “I told her you were a good man.”
Christian took the brandy the footman had just presented him and tossed it back in one gulp. There was no use denying any of it any longer.
“By the by, Berkeley,” Monroe said, “what did you do to your hand?”
“This?” Christian asked, raising the bandaged hand in question. “It’s just something crazy I did for love.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Christian went to the wedding. Of course he went to the wedding. He might have been racked with guilt and torture
d by memories for the last three weeks, but he couldn’t stay away. And it was even harder today. Today he had to mentally fight against his friends’ words. Upton and Monroe had been right yesterday. Sarah was different to him. She’d always been different to him. But his own fear had kept him from admitting it to himself … and to her. Now it was too late. He was sitting in the audience at St. George’s Church to attend her wedding. It was far too late. He reminded himself repeatedly that it would be a selfish act to tell Sarah that he loved her. It would be greedy to declare himself and tell her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She had clearly made up her mind. Lucy had even spoken to her about it, and she’d made her decision. Calling off the wedding would be a scandal for any reason, even if Christian declared himself and she accepted him. Not to mention he couldn’t imagine her father agreeing to any of it. No. Christian would not, could not, ruin her life, but by God, he also hadn’t been able to keep himself from the church today.
She’d invited him. Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps because, as she had said so many times, he was such a good friend. He’d said it that night, too: We have passion, we have friendship. She’d asked him if he loved her, and he’d bloody well replied with, We have friendship. Idiot. He deserved to spend the rest of his life alone. Friendship. God, the word made bile rise in his throat. But like a dutiful friend, he was here and he would smile and wish her well and clap her new husband on the back. And he would pretend the entire time that he wasn’t being ripped to shreds inside.
A flurry of emerald-green skirts caught his eye as Lucy slid into the pew next to him, followed closely by her tall, broad duke of a husband. The two men greeted each other.
“How are you holding up?” Lucy asked, pity in both her eyes and her voice.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth without looking at her. Instead his eyes were trained on the altar, where the bishop stood, waiting.
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