Gayle Wilson

by Lady Sarah's Son

  Sarah hesitated, knowing she couldn’t. He had proof. And the courts would be forced to consider it.

  “You don’t really want to be saddled with a little boy,” she said instead. “Why don’t you tell me what you do want? The sooner you do, the sooner we can put an end to this farce.”

  He laughed, the sound ringing in the thin air, grating on her nerves, which were already stretched to the screaming point. Suddenly, he straightened away from the tree and took a couple of long strides, which brought them face-to-face.

  “You can’t afford to make me angry, Sarah,” he said. “This time I hold all the cards. And there is no one who can stop me from doing whatever I want to do with them. Not your insane father. Not your so nobly crippled husband.”

  Sarah’s mouth tightened over the words she wanted to fling at him. She managed to hold her tongue, but she held his eyes as well, forcing hers not to reflect her fear.

  “Tell me what you want,” she demanded again.

  “Something I wanted more than five years ago.”

  Since she had been thinking only of money, his movement caught her off guard. He took a step forward, his right arm snaking around her back. He pulled her roughly against him. With his left hand, he grasped the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her.

  At first she was too shocked to struggle. By the time she realized what he intended, it was too late for her efforts to have much effect. Her arms were pinned between their bodies, imprisoned by his hard chest and the folds of her own cloak. As his head lowered, she saw he was still smiling.

  His lips ground into hers. Her hands, palms flattened against his chest, tried to push him away. Her strength was not enough, and he simply increased the pressure of his mouth, forcing her head back until her hood fell away.

  The rush of cold air had the same effect as if someone had poured water over her. It galvanized her into a more frantic resistance. She finally managed to force her hands up from where they had been imprisoned, fighting free of the restraint of her cloak. She battered at his head and face with her fists, determined to make him turn her loose.

  Eventually he did, raising his arm to ward off her blows. His eyes were alight with amusement, but he had been forced to take a step backward. “You haven’t changed a bit, Sarah,” he said, laughing at her indianation. “Still the innocent.”

  Blushing, hand at her throat, she watched his eyes change. But then no one had ever accused Osborne of not being shrewd. Or of not knowing women.

  “Good God,” he said. “You are, aren’t you? Still the innocent.”

  She wanted to hit him again. To drive that knowing smile from his face. To destroy the words that seemed to hang, frozen in the air, between them.

  “And I wonder why,” he said, his voice musing. He almost sounded as if he cared. As if he really wanted to know.

  “How much do you want?” she said. She was breathing as if she had been running, almost panting in her fury.

  “Why doesn’t your husband kiss you, Sarah? Exactly what kind of marriage do you have with our gallant earl, my dear?”

  Sarah could think of nothing to say. She would know later what a mistake that had been, but unnerved, she couldn’t think of any way to explain the kind of marriage she and Justin had. And when she didn’t answer, David came up with his own conclusions.

  “That’s why you were willing to meet me out here. You’re the kind of woman who needs to be kissed, well and often. The passionate kind of woman that poor, bloodless Amelia, try as she might, could never be.”

  “Don’t you talk about my sister,” she warned him.

  “You’re right,” he said agreeably. “You’re a much more interesting subject. You always were. But you were so bloody enamored of your soldier....”

  He stopped, his eyes studying her face, which felt stiff, not only from the cold and her anger, but from trying not to reveal anything of what she was feeling. David would use any weapon she gave him.

  “And you still are,” he said, his voice almost hushed with surprise and speculation. “And yet for some reason...” Suddenly, the perplexity that had been in the handsome face cleared, and he laughed again, the sound mocking. “You haven’t told him,” he said, reveling in his conclusion. “Like everyone else, he thinks Drew is your own darling little bastard. And you haven’t told him any differently because you won’t besmirch precious Amelia’s name. My God, do you know how funny that is?”

  “Stop it,” Sarah said, her voice hard and cold.

  “And in his self-righteous nobility, Wynfield won’t touch you because he thinks you’re spoiled goods. The pair of you deserve each other. Both of you too damned virtuous for your own good,” he accused, laughing again. “And that’s why you’re so hungry for a man’s touch.”

  “Not yours,” she said, not even bothering to deny the rest.

  “Because your beloved thinks you’re a whore,” he continued, ignoring her insult.

  At this moment she hated Osborne almost as much as she had hated him when he’d walked out on Andrew in Ireland. Almost as much as when Amelia had died, all alone except for her sister.

  “My whore,” he added softly.

  Something was happening, some idea obviously forming, but Sarah didn’t know what he was thinking. All she knew was that her instincts had been correct. She should never have come out here to meet David Osborne. She had been a fool to put herself this much into his power.

  “So why did he marry you, I wonder?” he asked, his voice full of speculation. “Simply for your money?” he suggested. “And for what it could do for him, of course.”

  Lips tight, Sarah continued to look at his handsome, hateful face, determined to tell him nothing.

  “Then he’s not nearly as noble as I thought,” David said. “No more noble than I am. So I was right before. You really did buy yourself a husband. But you didn’t get what you’d bargained for, did you, Sarah? You must be very disappointed.”

  Again his voice was genuinely amused.

  “This is the last time I’ll ask you,” Sarah said. “How much will it take to make you go away?”

  “And it seems a shame for all of this to go to waste.”

  His hand lifted, and with one long finger, gloved in thin, supple calfskin, he traced a line down her cheek, from her eye to the corner of her lips, and then slowly across the bottom one. She reached up and grabbed his hand, intending to push it away, but he was too strong for her. His fingers closed around hers instead, carrying them to his lips. He pressed a kiss onto the back of them, and then, smiling, released her.

  “I’ll be in touch, sweet Sarah,” he promised softly. “I will definitely be in touch.”

  David turned and walked across the clearing, disappearing into the same darkness under the trees from which he had materialized. Behind him, Sarah drew a shuddering breath. She was so angry she was trembling. He had again bested her. Despite her demands and ultimatum, she was no closer to getting rid of David Osborne than she had been before.

  He had been back almost two weeks, Justin realized, as he guided Star at twilight through the woods that joined the two estates. And in that entire time, he had barely seen Sarah.

  He had kept to the terms of their agreement, returning each evening to Longford. During the short daylight of the midwinter days, however, he had buried himself in the ongoing renovations at his own estate. While he was supervising the work there, he didn’t have to think about his marriage. Or about Sarah.

  He still didn’t understand what had happened that night in London. He would have staked his life on what he had seen in Sarah’s eyes just before he kissed her. He would have gambled his immortal soul that she had wanted him to kiss her.

  He had gambled it, he acknowledged grimly. And from the moment his lips had closed over hers, from the moment she had melted against his body, it had been lost.

  He had once before fallen in love with Sarah Spenser, and she had betrayed him. So he had gone into this marriage with his eyes open, assuming s
he wanted from him exactly what she had bargained for—his guidance of Andrew and acceptance for her son in society. Nothing more.

  Then, when she had shown up in London, he had let himself begin to believe Sarah wanted something else as well. Something that had to do with the emotions that had once flared so strongly between them. Even knowing that she had once before chosen another man over him, Justin had fallen into the same trap. The trap of letting himself think Sarah Spenser could care for him. And apparently he had again been a fool.

  Suddenly, he became aware of distant voices, the words indistinct, but the sound of them loud enough to carry through the thin, cold air. He slowed Star, wondering if the boys from the village had ventured into his woods again.

  At least Drew wouldn’t be anywhere around, he thought gratefully. Then he realized with a deep sense of surprise that he had also seen less and less of Andrew. They had been together almost constantly in London. Now that they had returned to Longford, Drew seemed to have found other occupations.

  He had not even asked about the riding lessons he had been so eager to begin when they left London. And he no longer waited at the stables each evening for Justin’s return. Lost in his own perplexities over his and Sarah’s relationship, Justin had not thought until now to question the little boy’s absence.

  He had ridden close enough to see part of the clearing, revealed through gaps between the tall, straight trucks of the winter-stripped oaks. He pulled Star up, eyes straining in the fading light to identify whoever he had heard.

  A woman, and not the village boys, he realized, carefully guiding Star closer, although they were still hidden by the trees. She was wearing a cloak that served to disguise her build, but the hood had fallen back. Even in the dimness, he could see that her hair was fair. And the shape of her classic profile familiar.

  His first thought was that Sarah and Drew might have come out to wait for him. And then, catching a glimpse of the other figure through a break in the thicket that separated him from the clearing, he realized the person with Sarah wasn’t Drew.

  Justin dismounted, his movements furtive, more by instinct than by design. Leaving Star behind, he moved closer to the pair, who seemed deeply engaged in conversation. Their voices were much lower than they had been before, the sound no longer carrying through the twilight stillness.

  Justin didn’t recognize Sarah’s companion, not even when he was near enough to distinguish the man’s features. As he watched, the stranger touched Sarah’s face, running one finger slowly down her cheek and then across her lips, the gesture obviously tender.

  She caught his fingers in her own, and the man carried their joined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of Sarah’s. Then he turned and disappeared into the shadowed woods.

  Sarah stood perfectly still for a long moment, her eyes fastened on the place where her companion had vanished. Justin didn’t move, either—scarcely breathed as a cold sickness stirred in the pit of his stomach.

  Finally unable to look at her any longer, he closed his eyes, fighting a wave of desolation and despair far stronger, despite the blows of the last six months, than any he had ever known.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Sarah got back to the house, she was still trembling. She was not certain whether that was from the dregs of her anger or from the cold. Either would have been excuse enough.

  She sent word to Mrs. Simkins that she had returned, and then she retreated to the sanctuary of her rooms to deal with what had happened. She had sorely overrated her ability to maneuver Osborne. To employ the analogy he himself had used, she had badly misplayed her hand. As a result, he understood more about her marriage than she would have wished anyone to know. And she had no doubt he would use that knowledge in any way he thought could benefit him. David Osborne wouldn’t care who he hurt, as long as he got what he wanted.

  She had been so sure that she knew what that was, and then he had seemed to imply that money wasn’t all he was interested in. To imply that he was still interested in her, which was ridiculous, of course. He was simply prolonging the agony. I’ll be in touch, he had said, and again the sense of threat hovered over everything she loved.

  She jumped when a knock sounded at her door. Maybe it was Drew, wanting to tell her all about his day’s adventures, she thought. But he hadn’t done that in a long time, she realized. He was obviously making those revelations to Justin now. She was delighted, of course, that they had grown so close while Drew had been in London, but she missed him. Missed the closeness they had always shared.

  When she opened the door, Mrs. Simkins looked past her, eyes skimming the room, before they returned to Sarah’s face. “The boy’s not with you then, my lady,” she said.

  “Drew?” Sarah questioned. Her pulse quickened, anxiety growing as she considered her housekeeper’s expression.

  “He’s not come in for his supper,” Mrs. Simkins said. “And he’s not in the nursery. I thought he might be here.” Again the housekeeper checked Sarah’s room, as if hoping she had been mistaken in her first survey.

  “He must be with the earl,” Sarah suggested. Drew always waited for Wynfield, and although it was now later than Justin usually returned—

  “The earl hasn’t come in, either.” The housekeeper destroyed that comforting possibility. “I checked with his man before I came to speak to you.”

  Sarah glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was only half past six, but it had been fully dark for more than an hour. And she knew Justin’s habits as well as Mrs. Simkins did.

  “Have you sent to the stables? Perhaps the earl has been detained, and Drew is still waiting for him there.”

  “I thought I should check with you first. I can send one of the footinen.”

  Sarah took her cloak off the back of the chair where she had laid it when she came in. “I’ll go myself. I’ll probably meet them coming up the path,” she said reassuringly, although her own heart rate had not slowed since the housekeeper’s first inquiry. “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Simkins. And I promise I shall speak to Drew about being late for supper.”

  “Don’t you go scolding the child on my account, my lady. His supper can wait. It’s just such a bitter night....” The housekeeper’s voice faded, the worry clear in her dark eyes.

  Sarah was worried as well, but not about Andrew. She was sure she would find him safely ensconced by the tack room fire. She was now far more anxious about why the earl was late. Drew was simply waiting for his hero. The question of why he was having to wait loomed in her mind, far more important right now than Andrew’s being a little late for supper.

  “They haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, my lady,” the head groom told her regretfully after he had put the question to his lads. “Neither of them have been here this afternoon. Neither the boy nor the earl.”

  “Then I shall need the coach to go to Wynfield,” she said. “Don’t worry, Riley. I’m sure Andrew is with his lordship.”

  Again she found herself reassuring others, when her own inclination was to panic. She remembered, however, the number of times Drew had gone across the boundary stream and to the Park without permission. Obviously, he had done it again. Probably because Justin was so late and Andrew, too, had been worried.

  “I’m sure he’s there, my lady,” the groom said comfortingly. “You know lads when they get a notion in their heads. He’ll be at the Park, as sure as anything.” In his eyes, however, was the same unspoken concern that had been in the housekeeper’s.

  “Have them search the grounds, Riley,” Sarah ordered softly. “Just to be sure. And send word to Wynfield if you find him.”

  That he had been a fool was something for which he could hardly blame Sarah, the earl of Wynfield had finally decided. It had taken him two hours of steady drinking to arrive at the conclusion, but he was satisfied that it was not only accurate, but eminently reasonable. After all, he had known full well what Sarah Spenser was. What she had done five years ago had given him no room for doubt ab
out that.

  And from the beginning she had told him exactly what she wanted from this marriage. There had been no equivocation on her part. Hers had been a straightforward business proposition, made through her banker. Make my son acceptable to society, make him a gentleman, and I’ll pay your debts.

  That should have been clear enough for anyone’s understanding, Justin thought, as he poured another splash of his father’s very excellent French brandy into his glass. Clear even for someone so besotted with a woman that he was ready to forgive all her past indiscretions. Ready to make her bastard son his own. Ready to bare his soul—and his body, Justin thought bitterly—for her amusement.

  And she would surely have been amused at how completely she had taken him in. He was. He had been pining for Sarah like a lovesick schoolboy, while she had already selected her next lover.

  He lowered his empty glass to place it carefully on the table beside him. Carefully because neither his hand nor the table seemed particularly steady. For a man who had indulged in drink only twice in the last six months, it hadn’t taken him long to remember how to get drunk. Foxed, to use Sarah’s word. Except this time he really was.

  He hadn’t quite accomplished what he had set out to do, however. He hadn’t yet managed to destroy his capacity to think. Or to remember. The images from the clearing—as vivid and as painful as they had been this evening—were still in his head. Along with those very different ones from Christmas Eve.

  Sarah, glancing up at him over Drew’s curls and smiling that small, secret smite. The two of them, standing together in the open doorway, laughing at the mummers’ antics and at Drew’s delight in them. The outline of her slender body, revealed by the candlelight. And her lips, moist and softly parted, opening under the demand of his.

  He deliberately destroyed those memories, replacing them with the more recent one, which seemed burned into his mind’s eye as if it had been branded there. The man in the clearing brushing Sarah’s hand with his lips. Touching her face with one long, gloved finger. Touching Sarah as if he had the right. His Sarah.