With a breath, she nodded and settled herself into a more comfortable position—the last one she feared, before she returned home.
…
No amount of late afternoon sunlight pouring through the Marchioness of Vincent’s golden, and otherwise inviting, sitting room could warm the frigid stares of contempt given upon Sarah’s arrival. These, of course, after the initial shocked expressions of raised eyebrows and unhinged jaws that they’d arrived after traveling for twelve hours.
Sarah had been gifted a short respite before the battle, the extra week of caring for Olivia in Gravesend providing just enough of a distraction to allow her nerves to settle before their arrival at Barrington. Their stay at the Rose and Thorn was naught compared to the anxiety and gut-wrenching nausea that plagued her as she stared headlong into the sitting room, Olivia at her side.
But if she were feeling the effects of an arctic welcome, Olivia and her brother were as unaffected as the extravagant arrangements of hothouse roses mindfully placed throughout the gilded space. Their saturated and unblemished petals spoke of their haleness existing in a room where the air was more akin to winter than mid-autumn, despite the fire roaring in the white-marbled hearth.
Sarah gripped her scarlet cape close around her, wishing it would ward off the icy glares as well as it did the October frost. Jonathon, with his crooked grin, bowed low before the marquess and his imposing wife. “My lord.”
“Mr. Annesley. Miss Annesley.” The aging marquess glared down the length of his nose. “Lady Sarah.”
Sarah dipped into a well-practiced curtsy. “Lord Vincent. Lady Vincent.”
“Your presence is unexpected.”
Always direct and to the point. Sarah hadn’t expected otherwise. She was well versed in the ways of Lord and Lady Vincent. They had been long time acquaintances of her father, though they had not been particularly welcoming of her mother or her mother’s eccentric sister, who had chosen a traitorous colonial over a loyal Englishmen as a husband. Nor were they particularly fond of the new Earl of Amhurst and his less than idyllic past. The ton had their purists, and the Vincents were among them.
Which is why she should have refused Jonathon’s invitation and returned to her mother at Rosehearst instead of agreeing to accompany them to Barrington. Jonathon’s insistence and Olivia’s silent pleas had forced her to swallow her objections and accept the inevitable fate she knew to be hers—the haughty, often forced, and always awkward motions of politeness.
“She came at my request.” Jonathon came up beside her. His piercing green gaze was one of reassurance—and friendship. Her heart, which had been pounding, slowed, her grip on the shawl relaxing ever so slightly. “I did write we had a female guest accompanying us. My sister has been without female companionship since our mother’s passing, and Lady Sarah has brought her, as well as all of us, great comfort in our time of healing. She has been staying with us at Covenan Court, and I thought to extend her visitation here.”
Lady Vincent offered a weak smile. “Of course. How fortunate she should join us.”
Along with the direct and succinct speech common to the Vincents and their ilk were falsehoods so easily spoken. Sarah did not doubt for one moment the marchioness felt any measure of fortune at her appearance.
But, however awkward and uncomfortable the moment and ugly and unfair their perceptions, this stay was an opportunity to return into the good graces of Society. It was in her best interest to shed her unconventional interests, her unsavory opinions, and her less than spotless past, for the betterment of her future.
This stay was her second chance. An opportunity for redemption. And she intended on making the most of it. After all, she could not fail with Jonathon at the helm of their scheme. “I am grateful for your generosity,” Sarah said with all the sincerity she could muster.
“Any guest of Mr. Annesley’s is a guest of ours.”
Her gaze slipped to Jonathon. With a wink, he returned his attention to their hosts. “My father sends his regrets. He is not able to join the festivities, as his health has not been at its best. With a bit more rest, he is assured full recovery.” He placed a hand at her elbow.
The action was a simple one, a familiar intimacy born from years spent in each other’s company. His grasp was undoubtedly a subconscious effort to set her nerves, and quite possibly, his, at ease.
Yet her blood stirred at his touch, her skin warming beneath the muslin of her sleeve and the thick wool of her shawl. With his fingers resting beneath her elbow, he continued, “My brothers are, of course, serving in their respective fields and are unable to tear away from their duties.”
“I would assume no less.”
“Have the other guests arrived?” asked Jonathon. He glanced around the empty room void of occupants, save for them.
“They have. Though the Marquess of Satterfield is set to come later this evening.”
Olivia peered at Sarah, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Lord Satterfield?” Sarah squeaked.
Lady Vincent arched her dark brow. “His name has not changed. Not since he has taken the title.”
Of course it hadn’t. The Marquess of Satterfield was an old friend of the current Earl of Amhurst, his presence at the family’s estate at Plumburn Castle a frequent one.
Or at least, it had been, before he had been rejected by not one daughter of Amhurst, but two, his offers of marriage refused in favor of more suitable matches. Despite being a powerful, influential man of great wealth and title, he was not able to capture either of her sister’s hearts as a scarred earl and former head groom had managed to do. To say the marquess was a bit wounded at their refusals was an understatement. She was quite certain he would rather jump off the nearest moor than be forced into conversation with the last unmarried daughter of Amhurst.
She stiffened as her heart hammered. Her nerves were strung tight enough from Jonathon’s endeavor to help her regain favor amongst the beau monde. The anxiety of their pending judgment, the weight of her guilt as she desperately sought their approval, had her stomach in knots. To add Lord Satterfield to the strain, to fear he may indulge the party with his eye-witness account of literally catching her red-handed as she had mixed a toxic salve, near sent her into hysterics. She placed a calming hand to her chest as she snuck a glance at Olivia’s still stunned expression.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
Jonathon’s grip tightened on her elbow. He reached his opposite hand across his body and settled it onto her forearm with a solid, firm pat. “We look forward to acquainting ourselves with the other guests at dinner.”
Lady Viscount nodded. “You will want some time in your rooms to dress for the occasion. Shaw will show you to your chambers.”
He gave their hostess one of his winsome smiles. “As always, your kindness is exceptionally generous.” He bowed as she lowered into a curtsy, Olivia doing the same beside her. With another deep breath, Sarah awaited the Vincents’ butler, who then appeared and led them out of the room.
Her friend came up alongside her, eying the butler’s back. Leaning in, she whispered, “The Marquess of Satterfield?”
“Is there a problem?” Jonathon asked, as though he were suddenly impervious to her discomfort. He remained at her side, his hand still at her elbow, guiding her down Barrington Park’s eloquent corridors. Her gaze on the impressive collection of paintings and busts lining the endless stretches of passageways slid to his serene and collected expression.
“Of course there is a problem,” Olivia said. “You did not mention Lord Satterfield as a possible guest when you suggested this visit.”
“I was unaware he had been extended an invitation,” he said with a shrug. “Though it only makes sense. The Vincents are in good standing with the marquess.”
“Yes, but Sarah is not.” Olivia eyed the butler who had, with his long gait, put a fair distance between them.
“She has done nothing to earn his disfavor.”
“No, I daresay sh
e did not,” Olivia said, “but as she is aligned with her sisters, who, may I remind you, both disinclined to accept his suit—”
“Lord Satterfield is here to watch the dogs run, same as I. He is a gentleman and will act as such.”
“Are you to dictate his actions?” Olivia asked, her voice rising.
Jonathon gave a quelling stare. “I have no need to dictate anything when the rules of decorum do so for me. Lord Satterfield will not treat her any differently than the other ladies present. Not unless he wishes to bring undue attention to himself.”
“What if he should recall my past?” Sarah asked, her voice low.
He patted her arm. “To recount your past recalls his. I can assure you there is nothing he wishes to speak of less than the embarrassment wrought by your sisters’ refusals.”
Relief settled into her limbs, and he must have felt her arms relaxing, for he smiled.
“Know that you are among friends, Sarah. Whatever anyone may say or do, Olivia and I stand behind you with our eternal support. Do not let them see your fear. Confidence is a great strength and can be as equally terrifying.”
Sarah lifted a brow. “And here I thought my intelligence and my way with herbs was what they feared.”
He paused, the sudden action bringing her up short. Her slippers caught on her dress and lurched her forward. Two strong arms wrapped around her, preventing a fall.
Her heart raced as embarrassment coursed through her. As if her clumsiness, a trait usually associated with her sister Henrietta rather than with her was not enough, her body’s placement against Jonathon had her wishing for a void in the floor to swallow her whole. Somehow her face had become flush with his broad chest, the stiff linen of his cravat vying for a position up her nose. Her skin tingled where it met his, her heart racing as she leaned against him in an intimate fashion. But of all the poses illustrated in The Kama Sutra, her nose shoved against him was not one of them. Not that she should compare her close contact with Jonathon to the poses of desire, but she had hoped to appear more poised in his presence than her clumsiness allotted. Her skin warmed as her blood raced hard and fast in her ears. Had anyone else noticed her reaction? Or was she the only one privy to the sharp visceral response to his nearness? Humiliation did not begin to describe the flood of horror sending her stomach plummeting.
Though his familiar scent of peppermint relieved her nerves ever so slightly.
All had gone silent in the hall, the sound of their heels no longer plodding over the carpets. Olivia cleared her throat. Realizing she was in Jonathon’s arms with her nose deep in his cravat, in what may be viewed as a horribly questionable position, Sarah leaned away from his chest and righted herself.
He brought a hand beneath her chin, his gaze sweeping over her face. “Are you all right?”
“She tripped on her hem,” Olivia said, somewhat perturbed. “The only thing likely wounded is her pride.”
Turning her face, Sarah cleared her throat. “Quite so.”
“Sarah.” He reached for her arm. His hand settled on her wrist, his fingers resting on her pulse.
If she were not mortified before, she most certainly was now. Her blood raced beneath his touch. He’d have to be a fool not to notice her physical reaction to his nearness.
“They fear what they do not know,” he whispered. “Their ignorance prevents them from seeing the flowers hiding among the thorns.” His gaze lingered on her wrist, before he lifted his face. Something swirled in his eyes’ green depths.
Uncertainty perhaps? He was always decisive in his speech. She had never seen him falter in any of his endeavors, which would make uncertainty an oddity in his gaze.
Unless, of course, he had realized the rapid beating of her heart thrumming beneath his fingers and he wasn’t quite certain what to make of her queer behavior.
Same as she.
Unless…unless he saw her in a different light as she was beginning to see him. Was it possible his questions about wanting more kisses were sincere? Or was his heroic chivalry to help her gain respectability nothing more than a desire to help a family friend?
Or…or did it mean something deeper? She wanted to believe there was more behind his kind gestures and words of friendship and encouragement than simple duty. He had, after all, seen for himself how she had become a pariah in the eyes of their peers, yet it hadn’t changed his apparent determination to assist her and stand by her side. Could it mean he held her in esteem?
Though, if he had developed a tendre for her, did she want him to act on it, especially if doing so promised only anguish to him and his family? She’d damaged her family’s reputation and could only do the same to his.
Biting her lip, Sarah pulled her gaze away from Jonathon, to Olivia. Her friend’s brows were raised, but she said nothing, her opinion for once as silent as the hallway surrounding them.
Sarah lifted her arm out of Jonathon’s grasp and offered him a small smile. “I shall endeavor to remember your advice throughout our stay.”
“Especially when Lord Satterfield joins us for dinner,” Olivia said flatly. She nodded toward the butler who had come to a halt, waiting at the end of the hall. “I believe this is the area where we part ways, Jonathon.”
“Of course.” He took a step backward and bowed.
She wasn’t entirely certain if it was a play of light over his features, but with a quick glance backward, Sarah could have sworn he winked.
…
Jonathon always delivered on his promises. His reputation was built on his ability to keep his word. If Jonathon Annesley, the future Viscount Annesley, said he would restore the luster to Lady Sarah Beauchamp’s tarnished reputation, he would do so, and no disgruntled Marquess of Satterfield would stand in his way.
Though, he wasn’t quite sure “disgruntled” was a strong enough word to describe the somber, sullen, and melancholic lord who sat at the head of the table, stirring his white truffle soup and staring deep into its creamy depths. While Satterfield had not been overly verbose before the ladies had come down to dinner, he had at least maintained decorum by exchanging a few pleasantries with the other guests. Upon Sarah’s entrance into the dining room, he had pursed his lips together and gone mute. No more than two words had since passed his lips, though were Jonathon to suspect, more than two had crossed the man’s mind. And they were not the “thank you” he had politely voiced to Lord and Lady Vincent.
Whatever Sarah’s and Olivia’s fears, the only threat the Marquess of Satterfield posed was to the poor foxes outed by the dogs. And likely, Lord Vincent’s stores of brandy. The man would be a fool to dredge up the events responsible for his dark mood. Sarah’s sisters’ public refusals of his suit was a definite dent in his pride and one Jonathon had no doubt the man did not wish to relive. If the rest of the party valued their lives, they would not mention the events, either.
Lord Satterfield would not hinder Sarah’s return to grace, although Jonathon was not as certain about the rest of the guests. In fact, his optimism had dimmed substantially since his arrival.
What Lord Vincent had advertised as a small, informal gathering to test out his newly acquired hounds was not quite accurate. If it had maintained its size, the purposed event was the perfect opportunity to build Sarah’s confidence while righting everyone’s misconceptions.
He had not prepared for Lord and Lady Vincent to define the word “small” as a party comprised of at least twenty. His challenge was more substantial than first assumed, especially with Lady Vincent’s cool reception. He expected a bit of resistance, not a chilly welcome.
A few well-played card games and strategically spoken compliments could easily remedy the situation. Jonathon had swayed more than one lady to his way of thinking; he could do so again.
Persistence was key. As was focus, a trait he was finding hard to possess. In a room full of powerful men, he had no problems securing both votes and favor. His goal was always clear, and his mind intent on securing what he had promised.
/> In Barrington’s elaborate dining room, with its tapestry-lined walls and two blazing fires burning in oversize hearths, he was surrounded by powerful men, but also in the company of the distractingly beautiful Lady Sarah Beauchamp.
He lifted his gaze from his spoon to the lace trim of her light pink gown. Her alabaster skin was perfectly outlined by the modiste’s careful stitches, delighting the beholder’s eyes and teasing them with a glimpse of two pale mounds protruding from the shallow neckline.
Over the years he’d seen a countless number of Sarah’s gowns and had given each one of them nothing more than a causal perusal. Tonight’s gown was different. It commanded the viewer’s attention and provided more than ample distraction. Were the dress not enough to capture and hold one’s gaze, she herself was a sight to behold, her dark hair curled and pinned into a simple yet elegant style showcasing her long neck to its best advantage. Were she trying to capture everyone’s attention, she was doing a damn fine job of it. But she could no more blend in than she could be ignored. Which was a detriment, as he had work to do and could not afford to have his eyes turned by a lady whose intelligence could actually hinder his case for the education of fallen women.
Irony at its worst.
Bringing his spoon to his lips, he sipped the delicate soup and retrained his focus to Lady Vincent and the words she had spoken. Words he had been impervious of because he had been too damn distracted by Sarah and her pink gown. The words must have been directed to her, for her fingers gripped the silver spoon in her hand so tight he swore the handle bent.
To her credit, her voice was free of any tremor as every head turned in her direction. “My sister expects her first child at the end of December, my lady.”
“With the groom?” Lady Vincent asked.
Sarah licked her lips. “I believe Lord Bonham is a viscount, madam.”
Jonathon flexed his jaw. The latest brush of scandal to taint the Amhurst name had involved Sarah’s twin, Lady Albina, now the round with child Lady Bonham. Her preference for the former head groom turned viscount, thanks to a generous great-uncle and his bequeathing of a title, had, of course, caused tongues to wag and click with disapproval, especially since she had chosen a rags-to-riches viscount over the very wealthy, established Marquess of Satterfield.
The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst) Page 7