A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Sarah shook her head as the other gentlemen echoed the young baronet. “I know he was only curious to see what all the noise was about, same as anyone. Of course, I wasn't frightened. Why would I be?”

  They paid no attention. Lord Dudley Tarle proposed a toast in her honor and Smithers went for glasses and wine. They drank and laughed, while Sarah replied only absently to their pleasantries. Her attention was fixed on the other group of excited young people.

  Her friends gathered close to Lord Reyne and pressed him to show them exactly what he would have done with the tablecloth if Petey had proven hostile. In a few moments, they gave a collective sigh. Looking over at the cluster, between the heads of the gentlemen that surrounded her, Sarah saw that Lord Reyne had gone from their midst. The disappointed girls looked toward the lake. Had he walked down to the water?

  Try as she would, to follow him at once was impossible. But then Smithers, bringing more wine, accidentally dropped Lady Phelps’ largest silver tray. It fell to the ground, ringing like an alarm bell. The thick green bottles which had been upon it dropped with thuds onto the grass, shaking beyond aid the fine wine inside. As her admirers spun to see this latest disaster, and the butler scrambled to collect the bottles, Sarah stole away to the lakeside.

  Parting overhanging branches, Sarah stepped as carefully as a deer coming down to drink. The ground was not too boggy except by the very edge of the water. Sarah went as near as she could without getting her feet wet. The ornamental lake kept company with the sky, adding touches of silver-blue to the thickening clouds. The sun's glow had dimmed and little waves had begun to rise from the still water. Sarah suddenly felt lonely. Lord Reyne was not to be seen.

  “There you are. Watcher doin’ down here all by yourself? Come back to the picnic.” Lord Dudley stumbled over the slight lip between the grass and the lakeside, yet contrived not to spill any of the pale red liquid in his glass.

  He'd been so pleasant this last week that Sarah spoke politely. “I was just about to go back, Lord Dudley. Please excuse me.” His small eyes seemed very red. And surely his smile had never been so broad before, except for the night of the party.

  With an apologetic smile, Sarah attempted to go around him. He grinned as if her movement were a joke and spread out his arms as though to trap her. His smile widened still further, until it seemed to Sarah that she could see nothing else. “Please, excuse me, Lord Dudley,” she repeated, raising her voice a modicum. Aunt Whitsun had told her a lady never shouts, but perhaps in exceptional circumstances she could.

  Advancing, Lord Dudley nearly tripped again and the wine in his glass slopped back and forth. He seemed to regard this with considerable apprehension. Hastily, he drained the glass, doubtless for safety in case of accident. While he was thus distracted, Sarah tried once more to edge around the nobleman.

  “Don't go so soon. Have a little kiss first.” He dropped his emptied glass onto the hummocky ground. “Pretty girl, pretty girl.” He reached out as though to pat her cheek. Remembering that he'd fallen down and gone to sleep after performing this action before, Sarah stood still. But instead of patting, Lord Dudley grabbed for her arm. His hand was hot. “Little kiss first,” he repeated.

  Lord Dudley had an uncommonly strong grip. Before she quite knew what to do, his arm had snaked about her waist and he pulled her against him. Sarah attempted to twist free. No one had ever tried to force a kiss from her before. Disgusted, for his breath stank, she fought to keep her face turned away, pushing at his chest with her free hand. Feeling his lips against her neck, she shoved harder. All at once, her striving fingers found another set on Lord Dudley's shoulder.

  For a moment, Sarah ceased to struggle as she prayed. Oh, Lord, let it be Harcourt or Harold. Let it even be vain Sir Francis. But please ... please don't let it be Lord Reyne.

  In this case, her prayers were not answered. Alaric jerked hard on the tipsy fellow's shoulders, peeling him away from Sarah by main force. He stepped between them, a laughing glint in his eye as he looked at Lord Dudley and then at Sarah. “What a way to behave at a picnic.”

  The second son made another grab for the girl. Sarah stumbled back towards the water's edge and watched as Lord Reyne restrained Lord Dudley's flailing arms. “Just a moment, old man,” Alaric began in a tone of amused reason. “You're a trifle elevated, you know.”

  “I demand satisfaction for that insult!” Jerking free. Lord Dudley struck the other man across the face with his open hand.

  Red marks came up in vivid relief on Alaric's cheek. His spine stiffened as he drew back, glancing briefly at Sarah. The laughter had died in eyes that now seemed all pupil, save for a flicker of fire in their depths. Sternly, he said, “You're drunk, man. And you've embarrassed a lady.”

  “I'm not!” Lord Dudley attacked again, his eyes closed. As he was not paying the slightest attention to where his blows fell, one smacked Sarah quite hard in the shoulder.

  She stepped backwards to maintain her balance, stepping squarely into the mud at the very edge of the lake. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed.

  While Alaric tried to stop the other man without hurting him, Sarah pried one foot out of the mud, wondering how storks managed. Therefore, she was in no position to recover when Lord Dudley reeled into her. She fell back at full length into the water, sending a splashing wave high into the air.

  As she sank, the bubbles singing in her ears and the wash swirling over her mouth, Sarah wished she might never emerge. But the lake wasn't deep, at most reaching her knees. Sadly, she found her footing and stood up, water streaming from her falling hair as she coughed and spluttered. Pawing the seaweed-like strands from her face, she dared to look around.

  “I'll save you!” Lord Dudley shouted. Breaking free from Lord Reyne's hold, he plunged in toward her, swimming wildly as though the lake were a storm-tossed ocean. Cold water on top of the wine proved too much. The shock laid him out.

  As the breeze struck her skin, making the mild autumn afternoon feel like a frigid winter's night, Sarah's first thought was that Molly had been right as usual. White nainsook muslin was not perhaps the best choice for a garden party.

  Her second thought was that she ought to remove Lord Dudley from the lake before he swallowed it. She floundered over to the now semi-conscious second son to prop him up. “Pretty girl,” he muttered as his eyelids fluttered. “Mermaid ... ?”

  “I'm coming in. Miss East,” Alaric called.

  “No, don't. There's no reason for you to get all wet. I can probably manage him. He's not very heavy, and the water is not deep, as you can see.”

  But when she looked in his direction. Lord Reyne already had removed his blue coat and cream-colored waistcoat. She repeated her reasons for his staying dry as he waded toward her, though she was glad he disregarded them. Shivering, she waited for him to help. True, Lord Dudley wasn't heavy, but neither was he exactly seaworthy. Though she'd managed to keep his head above water by putting her arm under his neck, she daren't tow him to shore. He was too drunk to keep himself afloat.

  For some reason, when he reached her. Lord Reyne looked only at Lord Dudley. “What a priceless ass,” he said.

  “That's what Harcourt said. No, that was about Mr. Atwood.”

  “It seems I have a great deal in common with young Harcourt.” He almost glanced at her then, but hastily averted his gaze. As he reached for Lord Dudley's collar, a stone must have shifted under his boot, for suddenly he was no longer standing. “Damnation,” he said, rising. Then he begged her pardon, as he wiped the water out of his eyes.

  Sarah was not attending. His shirt, as fine a muslin as her own gown, had suddenly become quite transparent. Wet, it molded itself against every sinew of his masculine form. She felt like Eve looking for the first time at Adam, after the incident with the Tree of Knowledge.

  Until this moment, she'd thought all men were like statues. That he had dark golden hair on his body, growing in circles across his firmly built torso and leading down, surprised her. However,
her gaze soon fell on the red, star-shaped scar above the brown areola.

  “Oh,'’ she said, putting out her hand as if to cover the mark. She did not make contact with his body, though a longing to do so surged through her. It was foolish to believe that her touch might heal him, yet the certainty that it would pounded in her mind and heart.

  Alaric clasped the hand she held out to him. “You're cold,” he said. “This wind—”

  “Yes,” she said, knowing it was not the sharp breeze causing her trembling. Lord Dudley stirred, and she was forced to look at him. He was not a pleasant sight. “I don't suppose throwing water over him will do much good this time,” she said wistfully.

  “We'll see what good dry land will do. Why in the name of heaven anyone wants a lake on their property ... Remind me to have mine filled in. I never knew water could be so very wet. I've been drier in my bath.”

  Alaric brought the dead wood ashore. Sarah followed, her eyes fixed on Lord Reyne's back. Another scar, puckered and long, ran down from his triangular shoulder blade to almost the last rib. She no longer wondered at the occasional stiffness of his movements, but felt ashamed that she'd ever asked him to do anything for her. “Is he too heavy?”

  “Of course not,'’ Alaric replied, heaving the fellow out of the lake. The sloppy embrace of the mud seemed to rouse Lord Dudley as nothing else had been able to. All the fight had gone out of him, as though it had never existed at all. He pulled himself upright and fluttered small, sheepish eyes at Lord Reyne while he murmured an apology. Tarle began to offer one to Sarah when his jaw dropped.

  Hastily, Alaric picked up his coat and draped it over Sarah's shoulders. She thanked him, adding, “I am rather cold.” The wind blew harder now, and the sun could no longer be seen even as a bright glow through the clouds.

  Alaric was astounded that Sarah had not, even as yet, realized the appearance she presented. The memory of Miss East in her nightclothes was enough to keep a man smiling well into old age. The vision she made with soaking transparent muslin adhering to every curve was enough to send him mad. Alaric grabbed at the fast-disappearing reins of his sanity.

  “You'd better hurry to the house. Miss East,” he said, catching and holding Lord Dudley's eyes. “Before anyone who heard our splashes comes to investigate.”

  “Quite, quite,” said Lord Dudley, his rubicund face abnormally pale. “Hurry along, Miss East. And pray forgive me. I don't know what came over me.” Any temptation he felt to steal a last glance at her exquisitely revealed figure was dampened by the suppressed rage in Reyne's expression.

  “Yes, I suppose I had better. But neither of you should stay here in those wet things. You'll catch your deaths.” She turned away, and began squelching across the shore.

  Alaric muttered, “Any word of this gets out, and I'll see to it you're unable ever to drink again. Is that entirely clear?” Perhaps the way Alaric twisted his waistcoat between his hands contributed to the enthusiasm of Dudley's nod.

  Sarah called back, “Did you hear that? It sounded like thunder.”

  Alaric wasn't sure it hadn't been the grinding of his teeth. “I don't think ...” Then there was a second, nearer rumble. Moving away from Lord Dudley to Sarah's side, he saw that the sky had darkened appreciably in the last few moments. “We'd better hurry or we'll—” He chuckled. “I was about to say we'll be drenched, but it's a trifle late for that kind of caution.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, but the sobered nobleman had bolted. Sarah presented a finer picture, anyway. Her hair, darkened by the water, puddled on his coat in soaking tendrils. Her lashes starred into spikes about her large grey eyes, nearly black in the swiftly failing light. Impulsively, he touched her livid cheek. “You're chilled to the bone, child!”

  “If we run ... I mean ...”

  “Yes, if we run ... ?”

  “That might warm us up. But I forgot about your—”

  “Miss East, I give odds of seven to one that I best you in reaching the house. We begin at the next lightning flash.”

  With a smile that would have dazzled Zeus, Sarah swiftly bent and removed her shoes. What would Molly say about two ruined pairs in a week? Wet stockings clung irritatingly to her legs, but she knew better than to take them off before him. She tensed as she waited for the lightning. She knew it would be a deadly insult if he won by any but his own best efforts.

  All at once, the skies delivered a downpour. Sarah and Alaric stood close enough to the trees to miss the full power of the water, yet the rain stung as it struck. Sarah turned instinctively toward the only shelter provided.

  Alaric found his arms wrapped tightly about a shivering girl. A girl whose body was as lush and full as a Roman emperor's favorite statue. When she lifted a perfect face to his, Alaric discovered the limits of temptation. It would be easy to kiss away the water droplets, to press his lips to hers, to feel the marble grow warm and real beneath his breath.

  He thanked every immortal that he'd been so cold a moment ago. That accident of temperature was all that enabled him to stand so close to her and merely pat her shoulder comfortingly, sternly ignoring the beauty of the limb beneath his hand.

  “Now then, my dear. Were you frightened? Let's hurry along to the house. We'll be warm and dry in the shake of a lamb's tail.” He sounded, he thought, like a maiden aunt, which was just as well under the circumstances.

  Sarah did not want to let go. Had it been but two hours ago that she had wished she were lucky enough to be in his arms? Now her hands were flat against his back and her head rested on his collarbone. His hard ribs expanded and fell beneath her elbows, while the warmth of his hands spread throughout her body. For all this, however, Sarah suddenly felt something was wrong. Perhaps it was the voice of Aunt Whitsun, like a distant whine, or that Lord Reyne's hand on her shoulder never ceased patting.

  Sarah pushed away from him. “Yes, of course. We must hurry.” She could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

  They found the main hall crowded with dripping, complaining men and women. No one had noticed the storm until it was upon them, and even if they'd sensed it, who could have guessed it would drop so much water so quickly? At least four others, who had wandered beyond the lawn, were as wet as Sarah and Alaric.

  Sarah went at once to Harmonia's room. Though her friend was not there, a maid had a huge fire aglow. As soon as Sarah saw the flames, her teeth began to chatter. She'd not realized how thoroughly chilled she was until she felt an overwhelming hunger to stand nearer the blaze.

  “What you want,” said the maid, after a searching glance, “is a mustard bath for your feet. Oh, never you mind. There's more than one being stirred in the kitchen at this minute. Strip off them wet things, and I'll see if I can dry ‘em for you.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  “My Aunt Molly'd skin me if I didn't do my best by you, Miss Sarah.”

  In a few minutes, Sarah was not the only girl with her hands held out to the licking flames. Harmonia hadn't enough dressing gowns to go around, so they wrapped themselves in rugs, blankets or whatever else they could find, and shared mustard baths. After a whispered apology for her earlier rudeness, Jessica plunged her feet in with Sarah's. Smithers had created a hot punch. Sarah sipped the golden liquid from a silver cup and soon felt not only warm but dizzy.

  Trading her blanket for Jessica's robe de chambre, Sarah went into the hall. Now that she was reasonably dry, she wanted to find Lady Phelps to offer aid. A door slammed at the end of the corridor and Harmonia came striding past. Sarah had actually to put out a hand to stop her. The sleeve she touched was clammy with damp. “Harmonia, you should put oh dry clothes.”

  “That's what Mother said, but I haven't time now. Harlow's unwell. I'm going to send for Doctor Reeves.”

  “Is he that sick?” Sarah matched her friend's swift steps.

  “He's complained of a headache all week, and I think the wetting he took has brought on a fever. But he wouldn't hear of sending for the doctor. He's so unselfish!”
<
br />   At the head of the stairs, they met Miss Dealford. “Miss Phelps,” she said, “I wonder if you might send for your local physician. I'm afraid Mama has caught a cold.” From the door behind her came a mighty sneeze, followed by a cough that sounded like Petey with corn in his throat.

  “I was about to send for Doctor Reeves,” Harmonia said. “I'm sorry your mother is ill. She's not the only one.”

  From the bottom of the steps came another sneeze. “I beg your pardon, Miss Harmonia,” the butler said, looking up at them. “Sir Francis Coulterwood asks if you were thinking of sending for the doctor. He seems to have discovered—I beg your pardon, ladies—he seems to have discovered dots.”

  “Dots?” Harmonia asked.

  “Oh, dear,” Sarah added.

  “I must tell Mama.” Emma Dealford went again into her mother's room. Just before closing the door, however, she turned upon the other two girls a speaking glance of friendlessness.

  From within, her mother snapped, “Don't stand with the door open. There's a draft!”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Sarah asked. Emma only shook her head and closed the door.

  “Smithers,” Harmonia said, “send Robert Groom for the doctor at once. And you'd better ask at every door who wishes to see him. Sarah, I'll find you something to wear and you can help Mother and me.” As they returned to her room, Harmonia said, “You know, I almost feel sorry for that girl.”

  The doctor came in due time. Sarah greeted him as he entered, shaking water off his hat onto the clean hall floor. He seemed irritated to be called out in the middle of the storm. However, by the time he went away, he beamed. “Lady Phelps,” he said, “you have four guests and three servants with head colds. For this group, I have prescribed bed rest, hot baths, and a mixture which receipt I shall give you.”