“It is your pride that endears you to many, Lady Sarah Beauchamp. I can think of no one who is as self-assured in her virtues as you.”
“One must know their strengths.”
“And their weaknesses.” He stepped toward her, setting the candlestick on the side table. “And I fear I have been somewhat vocal in my opinions of your future.”
She widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Careful, Jonathon. I may require smelling salts should I dare believe you offer reparation.”
Chuckling, he edged closer still, his shoulder coming to rest on the corner of the wall intersecting the staircase and the entry. “I have no desire to pick a quarrel with you. I want only to see you happy.”
“Come, then.” She nodded her head toward the darkness behind her. “Allow me to administer you some chamomile, for you look a fright.”
“I thought I looked rather dashing.”
Squinting, she gave him an appraising glance. “No, definitely frightful. The late hour is not your friend,” she said in a teasing tone. Though were she to be forthright and give an honest description of his features, she would be hard pressed to find any fault with them. His square jaw with the slight indention in the center of a wide chin made for a very handsome overall appearance. Even the beginnings of a beard added to his appeal. On any other man the scruff of whiskers would make for an unkempt effect. On Jonathon, it looked roguish, hinting at a playful countenance, which was perfect, as he usually had some sort of twinkle of mischief in his eye.
Which, incidentally, faded as his lips pursed together. “As much as I appreciate your attempt at flattery, I find I am in need of something stronger than tea.”
Was it possible he was afflicted with something more severe than a simple case of aching limbs? While she had been uncomplimentary in her assessment of his appearance, he favored a playful lord more than a pained one. A bit of weariness was evident in his gaze, but his face bore none of the lines usually synonymous with suppressed agony. Whatever aches he harbored, she believed them more mental than physical.
“Would a glass of black elderberry wine suffice?”
Jonathon lifted a dark brow. “I suppose it would, though I daresay the Rose and Thorn is not the sort of establishment to offer a drink as refined as elderberry wine.”
Sarah lifted her candle. The soft glow cast enough light to illuminate the worn furnishings and weathered decor of the old inn. Empty glasses sat on the sideboard, but nothing else. The liquor she had seen sitting on the scuffed sideboard during dinner was no doubt locked away from curious guests hoping to imbibe in a late night glass, free of any charge. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But then it is not the Rose and Thorn’s stores I’ve offered, but my own. I always insist upon traveling with a bottle of the best wine of the Sambucus nigra plant.” A dark bottle of the curative liquid was one of the first things her maid placed in Sarah’s traveling case—or at least since Sarah had started studying oenology.
“To what purpose?”
“It is wine. I didn’t think a purpose was required.”
“Sarah,” he said with a bit of reproach. “You never do anything without intent, and I have never heard of a lady traveling with a bottle of elderberry wine at her disposal. I had not thought you predisposed toward drink.”
“Because I have never been so. Nor shall I be. I travel with elderberry wine because the medicinal properties of black elderberries are legendary. A daily dose is quite remedial, I assure you. Sambucus is a tonic—of sorts.”
“Some would say the same for brandy.”
“Would you like a glass or not?” she asked with a sigh. While she usually enjoyed bantering with him, the hour was late and her nerves strung taut. Not only did Olivia and Jonathon ail, but the end of their journey meant time spent in the public eye—along with their judgments.
He stepped on the bottom stair, his height coming level to hers. “As I doubt I’ll find any brandy about, I am left without another alternative.”
“You will find it quite restorative.” At his look of hesitation, she added, “I promise.” She turned and began up the stairs, the creaking of the wooden floorboards sure indications he was following close behind her, along with the slight scent of peppermint soap synonymous with his person.
His voice nigh above a whisper, he spoke into the quiet, “I didn’t know you were a proponent of the elder tree. I thought the berries poisonous.”
“They are.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. His brows were lifted, as though urging her to continue her explanation. “But not if the berry is cooked first, before I make it into a wine.”
“You are a vintner?” he asked.
“Yes. I am. And a rather good one, too, at least according to your sister and mine.” She reached the landing of the second floor and skirted to the side so he might use her light to find the latch on his door.
The cheery notes of his peppermint soap following in his wake, he made his way past her. He lifted the latch, opening the door with a sharp creak. Hovering in the doorway, he turned a thoughtful gaze toward her. “When did you start making wine?”
“When I discovered I wasn’t very good at tea,” she said with a shrug.
Jonathon let out a low deep chuckle. “You’ve been studying oenology for two years?”
Uncertain if he was mocking her skill or laughing at his own ignorance of her habits, she straightened her shoulders. “I still have much to learn, but I am rather proud of my efforts. Henrietta says my wine is some of the best she’s ever tasted.”
He stared at her unabashed, his expression flitting between surprise and amazement. Should anyone discover her talents were for oenology, specifically with a tree known for its raw toxic fruit, she’d never recover from her societal banishment. Not to mention oenology was not a science pursued by her sex.
“I look forward to sampling your efforts.”
“As you should. A good drink and you’ll have a restful night along with your sister, once she settles down for the evening.”
“I leave her to you.”
He smiled, the teasing expression stirring something warm and unfamiliar deep in her stomach. Perhaps she was suffering from the same malady afflicting Jonathon. Or she was as affected by his smiles as the greenest debutante.
…
He had slept like the very dead.
Jonathon couldn’t remember an evening when he couldn’t…well…remember an evening. No wisps of dreams were retained, nor movement recalled. After his head had nestled against the feather-stuffed pillow, all mental faculty had fled, his next memory the overcast gloom of midday illuminating his starkly furnished room.
Were he given to nonsense and prone to fantasy, he would declare himself the victim of some sort of sorcery. As it were, he was well acquainted with the efforts of Sarah’s mind and the magic wrought from her research.
He stood by the room’s lone window and glanced over his shoulder at the bed. The fresh outline of his body, perfectly molded onto the bed linens, along with the absence of any throbbing in his head, only served to confirm what he had suspected to be truth.
Lady Sarah Beauchamp was a gifted vintner.
The girl continually amazed him. Her interest in the social reforms of the penitents, the very platform he and his father personally lobbied for reasons far more personal than he ever hoped to admit, had captured his attention. Her knowledge of grapes and the chemistry it took to transform them into wine, held it.
He was intrigued.
But if he was captivated by her unique qualities, the majority of the ton would be repelled by them. It was preferred she be like every other woman paraded through the drawing room: naive, compliant, and as bland as blancmange. Should Sarah yield to those commonalities after he dismissed any lingering whispers or doubts tainting her name, she would have no trouble securing the husband she desired.
And yet…women did not read The Times. Nor did they know the properties of basil leaves and how they would soothe the aches wrought by the onse
t of a woman’s monthly courses.
And they sure as hell didn’t make wine.
Those pursuits were best left to men.
Though he had yet to know a man who could produce a wine from a formula of their own calculations with the same effects Sarah’s blend had yielded. She was a bloody chemist. He had only to lift the glass formerly filled with her concoction and smell the floral notes to know she was gifted at her craft.
Jonathon set down his glass and stilled. A spot of red blurred in the outer corner of his window, the very same shade of scarlet as Sarah’s frock.
He narrowed his eyes. A bit of brown accompanied her, which meant she wasn’t without her maid. But what could possibly draw her out of doors on a gloomy gray day such as this?
Whatever it was, he was determined to find out. With Olivia’s confinement detaining them days, if not a week, at the inn, he had nothing with which to engage his mind, other than the pursuit of intrigue and the slight provocation of one unsuspecting woman. His lips lifting into a smile, he adjusted his jacket and headed out of his room to investigate.
Bounding down the inn’s stairs, he passed the small landing and lifted the latch to the back door.
A brisk wind ruffled the hair about his ears as he made his way toward the bright spot of red bobbing in and out of the trees edging the outer courtyard. Had an animal caught her attention? Or did something more sinister draw her away from the public areas?
She wove between the trees, her head bent as her maid trailed dutifully behind her. The maid’s brown pelisse near blended into the muted sepia color of the tree trunks, which only served to set Sarah apart as a bright target of his attention.
“You may continue to stare and loiter, Mr. Annesley, or you could offer your services and join us in our hunt for some peppermint plants. I was told I could find some in this general location.”
He cocked his head to the side, his lips twitching. If Sarah was anything, she was purposeful—and quite becoming in her red pelisse.
“Peppermint? I thought you had need of basil.”
She lifted her head to give him a look of utter impatience. “Their qualities complement each other.”
“Ah. I see.” He gave a sympathetic nod. “Olivia is her usual cantankerous self, then.”
The left corner of her full lip lifted. “The basil is helping, but the addition of some peppermint would not go amiss.”
“And what precisely will you do with this peppermint? Add it to her tea?” He closed the distance between them and took up the space beside her, his head bent to better view the spots of green foliage peeking through a layer of freshly fallen leaves.
“Yes. A mint-and-basil-flavored tea. Sounds delicious, does it not?”
“I suppose. If one’s tastes were given to more savory blends. My tongue favors the light saccharine notes of your elderberry wine.”
Sarah lifted her head to peer at him. “You liked my wine?”
Like was an understatement. Were he to have unrestricted access to the drink, he might find himself deep in his cups more often than not.
“I enjoyed it immensely.”
Her eyes narrowed. “The flavor or its effects?”
He chuckled. “Both.”
A smug smile settled on her face. “Since you are in such good humor, due in part to my wine, I would ask a favor.”
“Other than my assistance in searching for peppermint?” he asked.
Her smile deepened. “I wondered if you might consider delaying our departure to Barrington.”
“I had assumed Olivia’s…condition was excuse enough for our delay. Are you requesting additional time beyond that required for her recovery?”
“Is it an option?”
Jonathon dug his foot into the leaves, uncovering a spot of green bearing a resemblance to the elusive mint. “It depends on whether you wish to prolong the inevitable or—”
“Or?” Sarah asked, her voice hopeful.
“Or you sincerely believe the additional time is necessary for my sister’s health.”
“Would it be terribly awful if my motives were selfish?” She bent down to peer at the plant.
His mouth lifting in humor, he shook his head. “You will eventually have to leave. And face the Vincents. I cannot repair your reputation without your attendance or your assistance. But there is no reason we cannot enjoy the time Olivia’s condition has afforded us here.”
She glanced at him, her round eyes lit with something akin to gratitude. “Did you know peppermint is not only for assisting in abdominal discomfitures, but when mixed with elder flowers, has the curative qualities to quiet a cough?”
“I did not.” Jonathon knelt to more thoroughly examine the plant he had unearthed with his toe. He took off his glove and reached for the smooth, fine-toothed leaf. “I imagine you know quite a bit about Mentha piperita.”
Her eyes widened. “You know your herbs.”
“I know my Latin.”
She knelt beside him and lifted his fingers, placing them just beneath her nose. The action was unexpectedly intimate, his blood warming as her velveteen flesh brushed against his. “And I know more than some and not as much as others. But I do believe you’ve found the last of the season’s harvest.”
He acknowledged her sentiment as truth, both in his discovery of the coveted herb, but also in her admission of humility. He scanned her face for any signs of awareness of her sensual effects on his person.
His blood not only heated, but also sped through his body at an alarming rate, quickening his pulse and causing a shortness of breath.
She was so close. He had only to lean forward to capture her lips with his own— And come to the realization he was fantasizing over Lady Sarah Beauchamp. Perhaps the peppermint plant held not only curative qualities but aphrodisiac properties as well.
That would never do. His political goals meant he could help restore her reputation with society, but there could be nothing more between them.
Her dark brows furrowed together as she studied him. “Are you well? You seem piqued. My teachings have been known to induce slumber, but rarely have they had the opposite effect.”
Sarah always had been quite astute. He slipped his fingers from her grasp and shoved them into the leather casing of his glove, willing his body to accept what his mind so readily understood. “I sincerely doubt you could put anyone to sleep with your teachings.”
“I profess to not knowing anyone, at least outside of Henrietta, who would share your enthusiasm on the matter.”
“Oh, come now,” he said. He offered his arm for her to hold, which she did without hesitation. “I know of at least one man—”
“Who would not balk at having an intellectual conversation with a woman? I did not know you had taken to telling falsehoods, Jonathon.”
He cleared his throat. No man in his acquaintance would welcome any sort of teaching from a woman.
But there were women who would be open to the idea. Women who needed guidance in their reformed state…though if Sarah’s reputation had suffered at the hands of a simple tea, equipping fallen women, despite how reformed or penitent they claimed to be, would bury her name so deep, not even he could restore it.
No matter how promising the idea, it was best left unspoken. He’d already failed one woman. He would not, in his overenthusiasm, fail another.
He took a step out of the wood and toward the stable, not yet ready to depart her company. “There is your cousin’s son. I am certain he would be quite interested in learning a thing or two about peppermint.”
Sarah’s face brightened. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. A bit of peppermint tea is far preferred over a tablespoon of cod liver oil.”
Jonathon scrunched his face. “By God, yes. My stomach has soured at the mere mention of the vile liquid.”
“I don’t remember it being so awful.”
“No? Shall we recall the putrid flavor with a sampling?”
Sarah paused in her stride, a single dark brow lifted
over her right eye. “Are you challenging me? The same girl who was forced to swallow the concoction every morning of her childhood and early adolescence?”
“You mean the same girl who boasted of avoiding said doses through trickery and intellect?” He let out a hearty laugh and rubbed his hand over his chin. “I daresay I recall an instance where you did your sums faster and without error to prove to your governess you were not in need of the oil’s virtues.”
“I cannot believe you would remember such childish bravado. If I were to own to such antics.”
“You would, because you earned it. And your sisters did not.”
Sarah bit her lip, as though to prevent the smile tugging at her mouth. The slight hint of her teeth against the dark rose of her bottom lip set fire to his veins. She was sensual without even trying. Or he was suffering from the long-term effects of self-inflicted abstinence.
Likely a combination of the two. He needed to return to his room, to clear his mind and relieve himself of her unconscious provocations, but he was equally compelled to stay in her presence and enjoy the laughter of her good humor.
He had only to decide which was less painful: remaining in her company or sitting alone in his room without it.
One week at most. He had but a few days before the pressing distractions of Barrington dampened the fires of his ardor. Until then, he needed something to divert his attentions. “Shall we make a game of it?” he asked.
Chapter Four
Sarah stared at Jonathon, his green eyes gleaming with mischief, the impish indention on his left cheek deepening as his smile widened.
She reacted as any woman would to such a display of boyish charm. The Indian book confirmed as much. Her body was no different than any other of her sex. Ten chapters were devoted to amorous advances and the stimulation of desire. Not that there was any intent on his part to provoke such emotions…but a warm, endearing smile, well, it was no surprise her heart fluttered…while she prepared to tell him in no uncertain terms why they could not and would not proceed with his preposterous idea.
The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst) Page 4