Sarah glanced at the comtesse to see if she noticed the exchange, but the woman was fascinated by the stage rather than the gossipmongers seated in the audience. Perched on the edge of her chair, her gloved hands clasped tightly together, Juliette was lost in the drama.
If only Sarah could be so lucky.
The curtain rustled behind her and she turned her head to see who had entered the small box.
A man.
Tall, and dressed in evening clothes, he appeared uncomfortable with his attire, rolling one broad shoulder under his black coat and pulling at the simple cravat about his neck. The warm brown of his hair glimmered under the bright glow of the candles.
He appeared as surprised by her presence as she was by his, and when he shook his head in a quiet apology, the golden candlelight caught his eyes for one still moment.
Oh, my.Sarah wilted in her seat.Sherry. The same rusty claret that marked the color of her dreams.
He stepped back behind the curtain, the material falling back into place.
A deafening roar began in her ears and a smithy pounded where her heart had once beaten. A sharp barb of regret shot through her. Couldn’t he have stayed a moment longer?
Had he only been a dream? A wish? She glanced at the crowds nearby. All were transfixed by the play before them. No one else had noticed. For so many years she had hoped and dreamed and prayed, and there he had stood. Alive. Real.
The velvet curtain was still now, as if he had never existed.
Gone.
Fortune had smiled on her tonight, and she could not ignore the lure. Was he real? She murmured a silly excuse to the comtesse and embarrassed herself by nearly running through the thick velvet curtain that enclosed the theater box.
She embarrassed herself even further by entering the narrow hallway and colliding with a man’s chest—broad and firm. It was an awkward moment, producing a heated flush that had nothing to do with her own clumsiness. No, it was the hard muscles that burned beneath her hand that caused her exquisite discomfort. The stranger showed no indication that her nearness was unwelcome. In fact, his hand moved to cover hers, which was still nestled quite indulgently against his chest.
“Please forgive me.” Her voice was husky to her own ears and she stared, trapped by his gaze. “Dear heavens.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Anything that resembled intelligent, witty conversation was completely out of the question. The man was breath-taking.
“I did not mean to intrude,” he continued.
Sherry.She had been right. His eyeswere the color of sherry. Warm, liquid pools that caused her to sway forward alarmingly.
“I owe you an apology. I was supposed to meet someone here this evening. I believe there must have been some mistake.”
His deep voice sent shivers down her spine and she stared, fascinated by the rigid line of his jaw and scandalously tempted by the intriguing curve of his mouth. This had been no mistake. Only an unseen hand guiding her toward him. “Of course.”
The sound of nearby voices broke the spell, and he turned his head. She waited, holding her breath. Now that she had finally found him, this man who had haunted her thoughts, she did not want to see him go. With more piety than she’d ever felt, she prayed, willing him to stay.
After an eternity, he looked down at her, and she found herself drowning in the depths of his fine sherry eyes. He tugged at her hand, moving them toward the shadows and the dark shelter of the heavy curtains.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, and she noticed with pleasure he still held her hand. His fingers were hard and roughened. Strong.
Sarah searched for something to say, her thoughts still caught by the feel of his touch. “The hallway is the only way to escape. Fresh air.” She nearly winced at the trite excuse, but it sounded much more proper than “Pardon me, but I’m sure you’re the man I’ve been dreaming of.”
“Your reputation will suffer.”
Obviously he didn’t know who she was. “Are you trying to protect me?” His attempts were misguided, but so gallant that she liked the real man even better than the one in her dreams. “Who are you?”
He shook his head, his eyes so very compelling. “A man you don’t want to know.”
She nearly laughed at the irony, and her whole being shook with nervousness. She wanted to know everything about him, wanted to laugh with joy.She had finally found him. “Are you a rake, then? Or perhaps a rogue?” He turned away, his face shadowed, and she stared, trying to ascertain if he were toying with her. Finally satisfied, she shook her head. “I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Nor would I.” He gave a bark of laughter, the sound dying awkwardly. Still he stood so close she could feel his warmth. “You make me forget what I am. You should return to your seat.”
She stood firm, wondering if he knew who she were after all. She could not move, did not want to leave his presence. Nothing else mattered. Tonight she would plead her case, wager a part of her that she’d never dared gamble with before. Her pride. “For just a moment, is it so wrong to pretend?” With the blanket of darkness and the hushed murmurs that seemed far away, it was so easy to pretend—to pretend she was just an ordinary girl who had lived an ordinary life. Pretense was all she had. If he knew who she was, there was no doubt that he would already be gone.
“I should go . . .” He said the words with what sounded to be disappointment.
Her heart fell. “To meet your friend,” she finished for him. His friend was no doubt eminently respectable, a diamond of the first water. She let go of his hand and kneaded the soft folds of her skirt, cursing the Fates that had put temptation in her grasp but then cruelly swiped it away. Her father had taught her how to cozen fate; surely if he just stayed a little longer she could think of something. But with her dream so close, so near, her mind could think of naught but him.
She heard his muttered oath, felt his hand brush her cheek, so marvelously gentle. “He’s most likely gone by now anyway.”
“I’m sure he is.” Dizzy with relief, she smiled. He was going to stay.He was going to stay.
“It is rather late.” His voice was husky and low, much stronger than the voice in her dreams. Much more alive.
“The weather is frightfully cold,” she sighed, moving closer, needing his warmth. Heat washed over her, and she felt the slow burn of her blood as it coursed through her veins.
“I wouldn’t know,” he whispered. He bent his head, so very close. So very real. She could see him, his skin darkened and rough. Closer. He smelled of soap and leather and something else, mysterious, dangerous, alluring. Daring the Fates, she moved even closer still, lest he slip out of her grasp. She could hear the painful throbbing of her own heart—or was it his? She no longer knew where she ended and he began.
Staring up into his eyes, she saw warmth, pain, and longing. For her.For the notorious Sarah Banks. There was no cold calculation or soiled leering, none at all. If she were a coward, or a proper young lady, she would have run. She should run. However, Sarah was never one to argue with fate and he was hers. Her lips parted, inviting.
Waiting.
Just when she thought she could feel the promise of his lips, just when she heard the hushed whisper of his breath, he raised his head and stepped back, putting a cursed distance between them.
The noises of the rest of the world intervened. A distant round of applause, the tuning of the orchestra, the buzz of nearby voices that slowly faded away.
She held her breath, hoping to see a welcoming smile, a kind word, any sign at all that he understood. Her fingers clutched the skirt of her gown, bunching, twisting, and all the while she watched his shadowed face, hoping and praying that he would.
Yet when he gazed at her again, his eyes were cold, aloof. A stranger stood in front of her and her flimsy dreams drifted apart, tenuous as the morning mist.
She’d risked so much for him; Sarah Banks threw herself at no man. Except this one time when she had actually hoped, had actu
ally dared to believe that her dream did exist. Her eyes began to burn with unshed tears, and she lowered her head, ashamed.
Needing to salvage the remains of her pride, she moved away from him. He wasn’t who she thought he was. It was time for her to grow up. The man of her dreams didn’t exist.
“You should leave now. Go back to your seat,” he stated firmly, as if she were a disobedient child.
The cold words and his chilled tone caused the ice around her heart to freeze once more. So he knew who she was after all. Once again she wasn’t worthy. Not of a kiss, not of a smile. Nothing. Why had she thought he was any different from the others? She’d been a fool, and for that, she could blame him completely. Her smile was tight and forced, patently fraudulent. “Forgive me, sir. I seem to be quite clay-headed this evening. I believe I’ve made a mistake.” She turned before he could see her tears, and quickly walked away.
Chapter Two
An entry in the London newspapers never boded well for the Banks name. Sarah avoided the papers at all costs, and Iris was quite familiar with Sarah’s predilections. So when Iris bustled into the breakfast room and presented Sarah with a tray of tea, eggs, cold ham, and the morning newspaper, Sarah, whose spirits were already quite low to begin with, felt an ominous wellspring of fresh doom bubbling up inside her. Iris placed the tray on the table, directly in front of Sarah, and sank to the floor in a deep curtsy before Sarah could utter nary a word.
Sarah stared at the offending paper, fearing the worst, yet not wanting to imagine quite what the worst could be. “Iris!”
Iris clambered to her feet and dusted her hands, her plump cheeks dimpled in a cheeky grin. Surely, Sarah told herself, such good cheer meant that her earlier fears were unfounded.
“Morning, mum.”
Sarah was dying to know what news the paper held, yet feared actually touching and reading it, as if it carried some vile poison. She chose to point instead. “What is in the newspaper?”
“According to the delivery boy, there’s trouble afoot with Napoleon at Elba, the pig lady’s been spotted in Chelsea, and they say it will rain.”
Sarah glanced over the words on the front of the paper, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. The topics seemed innocuous enough. “Dear heavens, the poor woman, bandying her exploits in the press. A pig? Surely they’re exaggerating.” She looked up at Iris, noticing her knowing glance. The woman was positively gleeful—and smug. The cold fear returned. “What else?”
“There’s mention of Lord Something-wood stealing your fortune on the second page.”
“I won’t read it, the vultures.” Daring to touch the offending item, she inched the paper a safe distance away.
“There’s talk of a Lord Haverwood.”
“Who?”
Iris rolled her eyes. “Haverwood, mum. The seventeenth Earl of Haverwood.” At Sarah’s confused look, Iris sighed. “Something-wood. Haverwood. Your story to Lord Willoughby. It’s in the papers.”
Sarah began to laugh at all the gossips who actually believed her Banbury tale. It was so very rare, so liberating to know that she held the upper hand over society, even for only a moment. She did feel a twinge of pity for the real Haverwood, if indeed there was one, whose only misfortune in life was to be named after a product of her imagination, but Lord Haverwood would probably never feel the hurt that she had experienced. He was a noble—an aristocrat, and Sarah knew from past encounters that nobles had no feelings at all. “The poor man. However, the gossip will die a quick death when they realize the story is a sham.”
Iris cleared her throat. “Mum, there’s talk of whispering, in the theater, between you and this Lord Haverwood.”
“Whispering? Where did that come from? I didn’t—” Sarah clapped her hands over her face, as she recalled her impetuous conduct of last evening. A mistake she’d tried so desperately to forget, but she never would. Haverwood. Of all the nameshe could have been born with, why that particular one? She sank lower in her chair. “Oh, no.”
“Mum, if I may speak frankly, if you want the gossips to believe your innocence in this business, you need to practice a less telling expression, don’t you think?”
Could it really be the same man? She looked up at Iris, twirling her spoon in fingers that were not nearly as steady as they should be. “Iris, what do you know about this Lord Haverwood?”
“He appeared in town recently—he’s an earl, you know—and has a mountainous fortune, boodles and boodles of gold. He fought against the French for years, and Bess says that her cousin’s brother, who owns the bakery in Brompton, says the sister of the kitchen maid who works for the earl thinks that he looks right handsome.”
Handsome. Surely many of the men in London could be described as handsome. Surely it was a coincidence. “Whatdoes he look like?” Sarah was anxious to hear how the sister of the earl’s kitchen maid would describe him.
Iris leaned closer, beaming all the while. “Here’s the kicker, mum. He’s got the strangest colored eyes. First thing I asked, I did. Not amber, not brown. One might even, if one were so inclined, call themsherry colored. ” Iris lifted her brows and nodded in a conspiratorial manner.
Completely at a loss for words, Sarah lowered her head and stared at her foolish reflection in the silver tray. Why did he have to be the one? It was a cruel joke, and she was so tired of it all. The cuts, the fops, and now this. All at Sarah’s expense.
“It’s fate, mum. Fortune is smiling on you today. You need to get dressed. Right away! The yellow walking dress shows up your hair so nicely.”
“Why do I need to get dressed, Iris?” Sarah asked, fearing the woman’s answer.
“Why, Lord Haverwood, of course. The man’s bound to come and call today. The account of last evening is in four papers. Four! He’s honor-bound to, at the very least, apologize. Why, mum, he’s ruined you!” Iris said the words as if ruination were some great feat that every young girl should aspire to.
Sarah considered the possibility of Lord Haverwood calling on her to offer an apology for last evening. Would he really? Probably not. But still she considered the possibility. She relished the thought and imagined her moment of victory when she could toss her head, and stare in those cursed sherry-colored eyes, and say with the greatest ennui, “La, sir. You overstate your consequence.”
A very pretty thought.And not very likely to occur at all. The man who coldly told her to leave last evening was not a man to spend his time bestowing apologies on a foolish ninny who breathlessly waited for his kiss.
She poured herself a cup of tea and took a long sip, savoring its sweetened taste. She wished the callous man the sorriest sort of retribution. He had killed her dreams, and that hurt far worse than the silly gossip in the paper. For so long she had dreamed of a man to protect her, and without her dreams, quite simply she had nothing left.
“Sir, the morning post has arrived.” Giles appeared, carrying a passel of newspapers and an assortment of letters.
Colin put aside his notes on the Carthaginian serpent and looked up at Giles. “News from St. George, I hope?” The new administrator was late in sending the monthly report, and Colin was becoming rather anxious. If he didn’t hear anything by the end of the month, he would visit the orphanage himself just to make sure everything was as it should be.
“No news but I assure you that all is well, sir. I contacted Mr. Twizzlerot several days ago and he expressed his apology for being late. You will have his report this week. He also sent his fervent wishes that you would forgive him. You should visit, sir. See the good you are doing with your own eyes.”
The wars had kept him away for almost ten years, but he had no excuses anymore. “Perhaps when I return to Rosemont.” He shook his head; he would never feel comfortable around children.
“You’ve become quite celebrated, sir.”
Colin sat perfectly still. It had finally happened. Someone had seen him for what he was, discovered who his father was. He looked at Giles, noted the man’s cheerful expression
, and dismissed his own fears. Giles had many shortcomings, but a lack of loyalty to Colin was not one of them. “What do you mean?”
“Shall I read, sir?” After Colin’s quick nod of assent, Giles cleared his throat, donned his spectacles, and held theLondon Post in front of him.
Lord Something-w__d, Lord Something-w__d,
wherefore art thou, H_v_rw__d?
Deny her name, demand her lot,
A wager’s lien should ne’er be forgot.
The whispering behind dark curtains
Bespeaks your ruin, a fate most certain.
A man in your esteemed position,
Demands respect, not supposition.
And so we close, with one word of advice,
You play with the devil, you pay a high price.
Giles folded the paper away, removed his spectacles, and simply stared.
Colin closed his eyes for a moment, ran his hand through his hair, and swore.
“Well said, sir. May I enquire about the identity of your companion?”
He didn’t know her name and didn’t want to learn who she was—even though he could remember everything about her. The way her skin felt beneath his fingers, the way she smiled at him as if he were worthy. “No.”
“Very well. Since you appear unwilling to discuss this incident, I suppose I shall go away and forget all the legendary tales of Miss Sarah Banks and the roguish Lord Something-wood.” The man turned and marched toward the door.
Sarah. Her name was Sarah.He sighed, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to resist. “Giles!”
Giles stopped, turned, and quirked one brow. “Yes, sir.”
“Come back.”
Giles nodded respectfully. “As you wish, sir.”
The man stood in front of Colin’s desk, his hands clasped behind him, the very picture of quiet, reserved servitude. Colin glared. “What?”
“Sir?”
Colin stalked to the decanter in the corner and poured a deep glass of brandy. He swallowed, wiped his mouth, and then poured another glass. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t need to hear this, but all the while every bit of his body proclaimed him a liar. “Get on with it.”
Touched by Fire Page 3