The evenings had settled into a pattern. Lady Claremont — Aunt Agatha, she mentally corrected, as the lady had instructed Sarah to address her henceforth — always retired early, so only Harry and Lord Linton moved about in this part of the house at night. Harry imbibed freely with the gentlemen, and his presence in the hall typically was accompanied by loud whistling or humming that woke Sarah from a sound sleep. A decisive slamming of his door customarily marked his return to his sleeping alcove.
Lord Linton, on the other hand, moved with the stealth of a cat. She never heard his footsteps — even though his room was across from hers — or the closing of the heavy door to his chamber. He seemed to walk in ghostly silence, like some restless soul seeking surcease from ancient burdens. She wondered where he had learned such furtive habits.
A crashing noise startled Sarah from this disquieting reverie.
There was nothing ghostly or silent about the accompanying loud oath and the heavy thud against her door. With some trepidation, she rose from her bed and moved to the door. She opened it a slit and peeked into the hall.
Harry, obviously very much in his cups, was leaning against the wall, scarcely able to hold himself upright. His face brightened as he saw her.
“Ah, m’blushing bride,” he mumbled in a slurred voice. He turned and spoke to someone over his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you, Justin? Sarah always waits up. Devoted to me, she is.”
Sarah had not noticed Lord Linton’s presence in the hall. Her gaze met his, and she flushed. Her sedate flannel nightrail revealed far less of her than the gown she had worn to dinner, but his obvious awareness of the fact that she was in her bed clothing made her blush right down to the roots of her hair.
There was no drunken leer on his face, however, no intimate caress in his eyes — only a wary narrowing of his gaze. He looked very much the sober gentleman, in stark contrast to her thoroughly foxed “husband.”
Sarah doubted very much that Harry would be able to find his bed without assistance. Lord Linton appeared to come to the same conclusion.
“Come, Harry. I will summon Sidney. In your condition, you will not manage to undress yourself.” He put one arm under Harry’s and helped him toward the door.
“Not so fast, Justin. If I need help with my clothes, Sarah is here.” Harry cast her a leering smile. “What is a wife for, anyway, if not to see to one’s needs?”
Lord Linton shrugged and removed his arm, evidently content to leave Harry at her door.
“No!”
Both men looked at her in surprise. “That is,” Sarah amended quickly, “’tis late, Harry. I was sound asleep and can scarcely keep my eyes open. Can you not go around to the dressing room door while I go back to bed?”
Lord Linton eyed her curiously. Harry’s mouth pursed in a childish pout. “Now, Sarah. What will Justin think if you refuse to take me into your room like a proper wife?” He gave her what was clearly intended to be a meaningful look; to her eye it was merely a drunken smirk. Sarah’s temper flared. She would not be intimidated by an inebriated lout.
“You will get no consoling from me in your state. If Lord Linton will not assist you, you can very well sleep there in the hall.” She turned her back in what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of wifely outrage. She had every intention of slamming the door in his face when a clumsy hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“See here, Sarah. You ought not talk to me like that. I have a right to claim what is mine.”
Harry might be out of his senses, but that did not mean he was harmless. His hand felt heavy on her shoulder, and his other arm snaked about her waist. Sarah bit back a sharp rebuke and forced herself to remember how much she needed this job. She could not make a scene and risk raising Lord Linton’s suspicions about the true nature of their relationship, but neither did she intend to allow Harry to manhandle her. Paralyzed with indecision, she stood motionless at her door. Harry took her stillness as assent.
“There. I told you she would come around, Justin.” He took her hand and made to pull her further into her room. That act finally snapped Sarah’s temper.
“Stop it, you odious man!” she cried. She jerked her hand free, but Harry simply fumbled for the other one.
“Your bride does not appear to hold you in particular regard at the moment, Harry,” Lord Linton drawled. Something in his tone made Sarah eye him sharply.
Harry glowered at his cousin. “This is between a man and his wife, Justin,” he grumbled belligerently.
“Perhaps.” Steel glinted in the grey gaze. “And perhaps not.”
For a moment Harry watched his cousin uncertainly. Then he scoffed. “That is rich! The infamous Linton playing a lady’s defender. I suppose if I live long enough, I may even see you take the parson’s noose!”
“I should not count on it,” came the sharp reply. “At the moment, your life expectancy is exceedingly short.”
With that, Lord Linton grabbed Harry by his neckcloth and propelled him down the hall. At the door of Harry’s dressing room, he thrust his hapless charge inside. Sarah heard a resounding thump as Harry landed on the floor. Then came the sound of the door between the alcove and her room being firmly shut.
In the next instant Lord Linton stood before her in the hall. “Your husband finds himself in more need of sleep than he realized at first,” he said gravely. “He has informed me that he is not to be disturbed further tonight. You will comply with his wishes in this?”
“Y-yes, of course,” Sarah stammered.
The viscount bowed politely and turned to leave.
“Wait!” she cried. He halted, arching a brow. “That is, I — thank you, Lord Linton.” Sarah flushed, feeling supremely awkward and greatly aware of her dishabille.
Irritation crossed his harsh features. “I am in no mood for thanks, Mrs. Trent. You have just caused me to break two of my rules.”
Sarah eyed him in confusion. “Rules? What rules, sir?”
“One of them is never to interfere in a dispute between a man and his wife. Unless I happen to be the cause of that dispute, of course.”
“I see. And the other?”
His gaze swept over her, and this time there was nothing veiled in his raw appreciation of her state of undress. As she watched, mesmerized, he reached out and straightened the shoulder of her gown, which had slipped during her skirmish with Harry.
“The other,” he growled as his fingers withdrew abruptly, “does not bear discussing.”
***
Breakfast was an informal arrangement. Guests accustomed to country hours could be found doing justice to a plate of kidneys and ham long before the others even thought of bestirring themselves. Since Lord Linton was used to town ways, Sarah decided there was little chance of encountering him at this early hour. She had no wish to see him so soon after last night’s mortifying episode.
When she stepped into the dining room, however, he and Horace Throckmorton were sitting at the table. Mr. Throckmorton rose politely, nodded a cordial greeting, then sat down and resumed his attack on his food. Lord Linton did not rise.
Sarah felt his speculative gaze as she helped herself from the covered dishes on the sideboard; he was still watching her as she slipped into a chair at the far end of the table. Though he nodded and made agreeable sounds throughout Mr. Throckmorton’s monologue on new farming methods, his eyes returned to her several times.
Thoroughly unnerved by his silent scrutiny, Sarah brought the coffee cup shakily to her lips, only to have some of the liquid spill on the white damask cloth.
Her cheeks grew warm as the small brown stain spread steadily outward. She was not usually so clumsy, nor so easily embarrassed. Surely she was making too much of things. Lord Linton had probably forgotten last night’s incident. He could have no suspicion of the fraud she was perpetrating. If his gaze lingered on her this morning, it was merely his insolent way. By now, he had undoubtedly found something else to interest him.
Sarah took a deep breath, keeping her eyes
on the stain. Slowly, she felt her composure return and with it a calmer state of mind. Reason told her that Lord Linton was not the sort of man to occupy himself with thoughts of his cousin’s marriage or, indeed, of her. He would see nothing remarkable or suspicious in the fact that she and Harry had quarreled. Many couples did, she was certain. She was also quite certain that Lord Linton saw women in their nightrails rather often.
Yes, all in all, last night must barely have registered with him. There was no reason to feel this strange and fearful excitement in his presence. Her mother had always told her — correctly, as it happened — that her imagination was entirely too fanciful.
Sarah looked up, confident that his attention was now elsewhere.
Lord Linton’s gaze had not wavered. Lazy speculation — and something else besides — filled those enigmatic eyes. That something else made her pulse throb mercilessly.
The ham felt dry and tasteless in her mouth. Sarah gulped her coffee, trying to ward off panic. Her imagination had not led her astray. Her initial instincts had been right. There was danger here, and it was gazing at her from depths as murky as a storm-tossed lake.
Some of the burning liquid went down the wrong way. A coughing fit seized her, and Mr. Throckmorton halted his meal to look at her, then rose from his chair, apparently intending to come to her aid. Sarah managed a weak, reassuring smile, which halted his rescue mid-stride. Mr. Throckmorton frowned, not altogether certain of her condition, but Sarah took a drink of water and he returned to his seat and his plate of kidneys. Lord Linton did not.
“You seem disturbed this morning,” he observed quietly when she had herself under control. “I trust everything is well?”
Sarah flushed. He was obviously asking if she had slept unmolested by her husband.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He frowned, as if unsatisfied by the brief reply. For a moment he looked as if he would pursue the matter, but in the end he did not.
In fact, he did not say another word for the rest of the meal.
CHAPTER THREE
Glumly Sarah fingered the daisy chain she had fashioned from the pale yellow flowers in a meadow near Aunt Agatha stables. She was glad to be alone, but neither the daisies nor her walk through the woods had lifted her troubled spirits.
Many of the guests — and Aunt Agatha herself — had joined a hunt organized by one of the neighbors. A demanding chase over hill and dale was not the act of a feeble woman with one foot in the grave. The more time she spent with Aunt Agatha, the more Sarah became convinced that the woman was not only fit but awake on every suit. This knowledge made her realize just how foolish was Harry’s plan. She did not think Aunt Agatha suspected anything yet, but it would take all her skill to carry off this masquerade for the balance of the visit.
Unfortunately, her acting abilities seemed utterly useless when Lord Linton was around.
Sarah had been intensely aware of him from the beginning, but since the night he rescued her from Harry’s boorish behavior, he had never been out of her mind. Her thinking was muddled in his presence; she responded to him on some visceral level that her will could not entirely control. Still, she might have fared well enough had not he suddenly become inordinately attentive. And while it might appear to others that Lord Linton was merely making his new relative feel welcome, Sarah doubted that the viscount had ever acted out of altruism.
There was no need for him to volunteer to partner her in whist when Mr. Throckmorton was perfectly happy to do so. They won every rubber, of course; Lord Linton had a way with cards. Nor was there any need for him to escort her into dinner. Lady Dressmire, wife of the Earl of Dressmire, who had business elsewhere and was not among their party, was the highest-ranking lady at dinner last night and by rights should have had his arm. Such was Lord Linton’s charm that the countess merely beamed at him when he left her to the sallow Sir Peregrine, a relative of Lady Dressmire’s. Lady Claremont did not seem to notice her nephew’s lapse, occupied as she was with listening to Mr. Throckmorton’s homily on the Corn Laws.
Nothing in Sarah’s experience had prepared her for the effect Lord Linton had on her senses. She could see why his reputation as a rake was well-deserved. He had a way of looking at a woman that made her blush to think of the thoughts behind those intense grey eyes. And yet, it was difficult to turn away.
What made her especially uneasy was the fact that he was something of a conjurer. One night he entertained the group with dazzling card tricks. He took a card from the top of the deck and, as they watched, inserted it into the middle of the deck — but when he asked Sarah to draw the top card, it was the same one he had inserted into the middle only moments before. In another trick, he showed them two cards, placed each face-down on the table, then turned them over to reveal that they had switched places. Sarah could not discern his secrets no matter how hard she tried.
Moreover, Lord Linton seemed to be familiar with all manner of mysterious arts. When Mr. Throckmorton had complained of the toothache, the viscount handed him a powder he said would relieve the pain. For Lady Dressmire’s gout, he recommended a potion from wolfsbane, a purplish flower which, he warned, could be poisonous if taken in excess.
The man was too shrewd by half. His eyes were too knowing, too changeable — hard as stone one moment, beguilingly soft as lambswool the next. Sarah had no idea there could be so many shades of grey. Watching Lord Linton converse with one of the young debutantes and then turn to greet her was to witness true alchemy as his gaze transformed from the dull gunmetal of boredom into a luminous silver that made Sarah shiver.
His dinner clothes needed no artifice of padding — his black tailcoat had been cut to perfection, and the buttons were no ostentatious gold or brass, but muted pewter. His waistcoat was a fine silk brocade, but understated in a way that put Harry’s wild stripes to shame. His shirt looked to be a simple and unadorned cotton, whereas a profusion of ruffles sprouted from Harry’s sleeve. Lord Linton’s simple buff trousers were quite appropriate for the country, whereas Harry’s exceedingly snug pantaloons were a rather nauseating shade of puce.
Although there had been nothing unseemly in Lord Linton’s gaze, it drew her time and again. She prayed that the viscount was not a reader of minds, as some of the charlatans she had encountered on the circuit had claimed to be, for her thoughts were occupied with him, and in ways not entirely proper.
Had her gaze lingered on him at dinner last night? Had she blushed when his eyes held hers over his wineglass? Had Lady Claremont noticed these things? Sarah vowed to be more careful. An actress ought to be able to put aside such distractions.
Lord Linton knew precisely what he was doing, of that she was certain. His mastery of the cards was nothing to his skill with ladies. Did he suspect that she was not Harry’s wife? Was there something in that hallway scene that had alerted him? Was he trying to expose her, to draw her into making a mistake that would spell disaster? Or had he simply formed the intention of seducing his cousin’s bride? Sarah had encountered men like that in the theater, men with no morals and no concern for the effect of their actions on others. Was Lord Linton such a man?
“You look exceedingly troubled, Mrs. Trent. Has Harry abandoned you for the charms of the fox?”
Sarah jumped. The viscount was propped against a tree not ten paces before her. Oddly, she had not sensed his presence. It was as if he had suddenly materialized from the air around her.
“You do have a way of sneaking up on people, Lord Linton,” she said irritably.
He bowed. “I apologize, madam. Since I know precisely where I am at any particular moment, it never occurs to me to impart the information to others.”
Sarah shot him a dubious glare, hoping he did not sense how his sudden appearance had unsettled her. “Harry has indeed gone off with the hunt,” she said stiffly, “but I assure you, I am not bereft. I was just enjoying my solitary walk.” She looked him a challenge, making certain he understood the point.
“And I have interru
pted it. I apologize.” A smile hovered about his lips. “That is the second time I have been forced to make my apologies in as many minutes. What do you make of that?”
“I make nothing of it, my lord.” Sarah made to pass him by. Without warning, his hand snaked out and caught her arm. His touch was gentle, but so unexpected she eyed him in alarm. An involuntary shudder shot through her.
“You are cold,” he observed. His hand moved almost imperceptibly to her waist.
Her sense of danger was almost palpable. Strangely, it was not fear for her safety that troubled her but something else, something unknown and wickedly tantalizing that held her rooted to the spot like a frightened rabbit.
Not for nothing was she an actress, however. Defiantly, she lifted her chin. “Cold?” she echoed in a frosty tone. “Not in the least. But I must ask you to remove your hand from my person. Lord Linton. I cannot think your constant handling at all appropriate.”
“Handling?” His brows shot skyward. “My dear Mrs. Trent, whatever are you talking about?”
Sarah’s patience snapped. “I understand what you are all about, my lord. I have seen men such as you. I know your type quite well.”
His mouth twitched. “And that would be from your vast experience? Pray enlighten me, Mrs. Trent.”
Aghast, Sarah realized she had revealed too much. “I only mean to say that you are far too attentive,” she said, flushing. “I find your manner unsettling. Since that night when Harry was...indisposed, you have singled me out. I do not think it fitting that you look at me quite that way, nor escort me into dinner instead of Lady Dressmire, nor suddenly appear when I am very much alone. I am your cousin’s wife, and there is nothing amiss with my marriage, no matter what you may think you saw that night.”
“You are plainspoken indeed, madam.” His gaze was unreadable.
“I value the truth,” Sarah retorted, hoping lightning would not suddenly descend from the clouds and strike her dead. “And the truth is that I welcome your friendship, but nothing more. Harry has his foibles, but he is everything I could want in a husband.”
A Passionate Performance Page 3