by Brenda Hiatt
"Never thought you the impulsive sort, Pete, but you generally know what you're doing," said Harry, the first to come forward. "I suppose congratulations are in order, though I trust you'll shoot me if I ever show signs of the same madness."
Peter had to laugh. "It's a sublime madness, Harry. You'll enjoy it well enough when your turn comes."
Harry recoiled in mock horror. "No need to speak of it as a certainty, old chap! Unlucky, that, I'm sure of it."
He then made way for others to offer their congratulations, with varying degrees of sincerity. As there had not been time before the ceremony, Peter now introduced Sarah to his brother Edward and his wife, as well as to his mother and Robert's wife, Lady Bagstead. Sarah, he noticed, was looking rather dazed.
"You've now met most of my family," Peter told her, drawing her a little apart. "I was unable to get word to two of my brothers in time for the ceremony, however. Marcus is visiting an estate he just purchased with his wife, Quinn, and Anthony is in the Shires, hunting, as he generally is at this time of year."
"I see," she said vaguely, clearly overwhelmed —not that he blamed her. His family did tend to be a bit overwhelming, he supposed.
"Marcus married only last August. You'll like him, and Quinn, I think. She is American and quite personable."
"I, ah, look forward to meeting her." She still seemed ill at ease.
"If it is any comfort to you, their wedding was nearly as hurried as ours, and under somewhat similar circumstances."
She raised startled brows.
"A threat of scandal," he clarified. "Threatened, ironically, by your own Lady Mountheath. She is becoming quite the family matchmaker."
Sarah gave a small snort of what might have been laughter and glanced over at the Mountheaths, who looked as though they felt nearly as out of place as Sarah did.
"Anthony —well, Anthony can be quite the charmer," Peter continued, trying to keep her mind from her fears. "Perhaps I'm as glad you haven't had a chance to meet him yet. At any rate, he's not at all stuffy —not like Robert there." He nodded toward his eldest brother.
Mrs. Hounslow came up to them just then. "Lady Peter Northrup!" she exclaimed. "How fine it sounds! I knew you were destined for a better life than that of a governess, my dear."
Sarah smiled, her first genuine smile since entering the chapel, though she blushed a deep and charming pink and glanced at Peter in obvious embarrassment. "I, er, thank you, Mrs. Hounslow."
"You will take good care of her, won't you, my lord?" The diminutive woman pinned him with a steely look at odds with her affable appearance.
"You may depend upon it, madam," Peter replied with a deep bow. Apparently satisfied, she nodded and moved away.
"What . . . what will I be expected to do next?" Sarah asked then, clearly not completely reassured by the exchange.
Peter placed a hand on her shoulder, startled to discover she was trembling. "Nothing you do not wish to," he assured her. "Come, now, Sarah, surely this can not be as terrifying as other things you've done since coming to London?"
He dared not speak plainer in company, but her glance showed quick comprehension.
"One might think that. However, the past week seems to have been an ever-escalating series of trials, each more fearsome than the last." Her look implied that the next might be worse yet.
He smiled down at her, determined to calm her fears, trying to infuse more confidence than he felt into his expression. "Your trials are at an end now, Sarah. You may trust me to make certain of that."
"I hope so," she said, but her smile was doubtful.
* * *
By the time she and Peter returned to the house on Grosvenor Street, Sarah was exhausted, even though it was barely noon. The duchess —her mother-in-law! —had insisted on serving an elaborate wedding breakfast, though few seemed inclined to partake. Only Mr. Thatcher and Mrs. Hounslow had evinced much appetite.
The Mountheaths had outstayed their welcome, in Sarah's estimation, for it was clear that none of the duke's household held them in much regard. That, at least, spoke well of the discernment of her new family. It had been a profound relief to see Lord and Lady Mountheath depart, along with their daughters, and to realize she would never be answerable to any of them again.
Now, however, she had new fears to face.
"Here we are," Peter announced cheerfully as the front door swung open at their approach. To Sarah's amazement, a double row of servants was ranged along the hall within to receive them.
Peter grinned at her surprise, then turned to the staff. "Everyone, please welcome Lady Peter Northrup, your mistress until Lord and Lady Marcus return."
Each male bowed and each female curtsied. As Sarah induced her feet to move again, each one stepped forward.
"Congratulations and welcome, my lady," said the first woman on the right, who boasted a large ring of keys at her waist. "I'm Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper, and I'm completely at your service. Just you let me know what I can do to make you comfortable here."
Totally unused to such deference, Sarah could only smile and murmur her thanks.
"George, head footman, my lady," said the young man opposite the housekeeper. "I serve here in the stead of a butler."
So it went along the line, until she'd met every member of the staff, down to the redheaded scullery maid, Polly. Only Mrs. MacKay, the cook, was familiar to her. She wondered if she would ever learn all of their names —or if she would be here long enough for it to be necessary.
"This house is your brother's?" she asked as Peter finally led her into the parlor, a more formal room than the library they'd occupied the night before last.
He gave orders for tea to be brought, then sat at one end of a small, elegant sofa, indicating that she should join him.
"My father's, technically —it's been in the family for generations," he said as she tentatively seated herself at the opposite end. "Until Marcus's marriage, Anthony and I shared it with him, but we cleared out so that he and Quinn could use it as their home. I hadn't arranged for permanent lodgings yet, so Marcus offered me the use of it while he's away."
Sarah nodded, then tried again to frame her true question. He answered it before she could.
"You're wondering, I imagine, where we will live once Marcus returns —which he may do at any time."
"Well . . . yes. Do not feel that I require anything grand, however," she added in a rush. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Never having been accustomed to luxury, I would doubtless find it difficult to get used to."
To her surprise, he was grinning. "Afraid you might pauper me? I'm wounded. Next you'll be offering to take in mending to help make ends meet."
In fact, she had considered just that, but had feared to offend his pride. "I don't wish to be a burden, that is all."
His expression grew serious and he held her gaze with his own. "Sarah, you are no burden. Please believe that. You can never be a burden to me. I married you because I wanted to, and for no other reason."
She regarded him uncertainly. "I thought you did it to protect me— from my own folly."
"Well, yes." He was grinning again. "But only because I wanted to. Your folly simply gave me the perfect excuse to do something I already wished to do— almost since meeting you, in fact."
"Oh, come. You'll not convince me you had marriage in mind when you helped poor Maggie on the street. Nor when you saw me again at the Driscolls' rout, wearing Fanny Mountheath's castoffs. As I recall, you tried to push me off on Mr. Thatcher."
He shrugged. "Yes, well, I'd convinced myself that his need was greater than mine. But by the end of the evening, I assure you that I found myself resenting every word he spoke to you."
"I appreciate what you are trying to do, but it is not necessary. I am truly grateful for your—" She almost said "sacrifice," but knew that he would protest the word. "—your generosity in rescuing me from an unpleasant situation. You needn't try to convince me that your reasons were romantic rather than chivalrous."
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"Then you are content to find yourself in a marriage of convenience?" he asked, his expression suddenly guarded. "To make no demands of affection upon me, and to expect none in return?"
It wasn't what she preferred at all, but she could hardly say so. "Yes."
"I see. But suppose I want something more?"
Her breath caught. He'd made it clear he desired her when she was last here, and she'd known marriage would likely entail a sating of that desire. Indeed, anticipation of exactly that had dominated her thoughts for the past few hours.
"I was willing to give myself to you without marriage," she reminded him shyly. "You must know I will not deny you now."
"Now that you owe me an even greater debt, you mean?"
She nodded, though she meant much more than that. Now that he'd brought the physical aspect of marriage into the open, she could not deny the stirrings of desire that had so startled her before. Would he—?
"Consider your debt cancelled. You owe me nothing."
"But—"
His smile now seemed almost sad. "Don't you see? I could never take you that way, with you under an obligation to me. What sort of hero would that make me? No, when you come to me of your own volition, because you desire me as much as I you, then —and only then —will we pursue that aspect of marriage."
Sarah bit her lip, wondering how to convey to him that she did indeed desire him, did indeed wish to explore what he mentioned so obliquely, to discover what delights the marriage bed might hold. Her eyes caressed the firm line of his jaw, the endearing curl at his temple, her pulse quickening at the thought.
Abruptly, he stood. "I will have Mrs. Walsh show you to your chamber, so that you can settle yourself. Meanwhile, I will make inquiries about a more permanent residence, against my brother's return."
He bent over her hand with perfect courtesy, his smile holding nothing but goodwill, though he did not meet her eyes. Then he was gone, the very picture of politeness. Sarah felt like throwing something.
Frustrated desire was a new sensation and she found she didn't care for it at all. Surely there was some way to tell him that she did indeed want him as he wanted her . . . assuming he really did want her. Could he have said that simply to flatter her rather bruised vanity?
Before she could pursue that unpalatable idea, Mrs. Walsh bustled into the parlor.
"Lord Peter says I'm to show you your chamber, where you can make yourself comfortable," the housekeeper said. Her expression held a trace of disapproval, but whether for Peter's order or Sarah's presence, Sarah couldn't tell.
"I'd . . . like to see my room, yes," she said, rising.
Motioning to a hovering maid to remove the untouched tea tray, Mrs. Walsh conducted Sarah out of the parlor and up the stairs to the next floor, where she opened a door on the right.
"This will be your chamber, my lady." Sarah couldn't suppress a small start each time she heard her new title. "I hope you will find it to your liking."
Sarah paused in the doorway, blinking at the feminine pink and yellow decor. Crisp primrose curtains hung at the windows and about the four-poster bed, complementing the rose-pink counterpane and upholstery. Her own small trunk stood at the foot of the bed. Had this been managed in only a day, or had this room belonged to another woman before her?
"Whose are the other rooms?" she asked, oddly reluctant to commit herself to this luxurious new abode.
"The next one along is Lord Peter's, the same one he's used for years," said the housekeeper, pointing. "Lord and Lady Marcus have the rooms across the hall. Your chamber has sat empty for some time, used for storage and such, but we've done our best to clear it out and refurbish it. You've only to let me know if anything is not to your liking, of course, my lady."
"It's lovely," Sarah told her, finally entering the room. This had been done just for her? What a lot of work it must have been for the staff —and no small expense for Peter, she thought guiltily.
The maid followed her inside, setting the tea tray on a low table near a comfortable-looking armchair by the window. A cheerful fire crackled in the grate, and not a trace of dust could be seen anywhere. Despite her uncertainty, Sarah felt her spirits rising in such warm, bright surroundings.
"Lord Peter says you've no lady's maid as yet, but if you'll just ring, I'll send up one of the girls to help you with anything you need. I've already sent word to one of the employment agencies to fill the position as quickly as possible."
Sarah blinked at the housekeeper, unable to wrap her mind around the thought of having her very own lady's maid. "Thank you," she said inadequately, gratitude again welling up at her dramatic change in circumstances.
"We'll leave you to settle in, then." With another kind smile, Mrs. Walsh left her, the maidservant in tow, and closed the door behind them.
Sarah moved slowly around the room, delighting in every detail from the charming clock on the polished mantelpiece to the dainty lamp on the bedside table. All hers, at least for the moment. The sense of unreality that had held her in its grip all day intensified in the face of such luxury and comfort.
Suddenly, she remembered the fantasy she had entertained her first day in London, of some handsome gentleman —it had been Lord Peter in her thoughts even then— falling in love with her, marrying her, and solving all of her problems.
It appeared her dreams had come true— except for one or two little details.
She had yet to tell Peter about William, or William about her marriage. And though she had fallen quite thoroughly in love with Peter, not once, in all of his protestations about truly wanting to marry her, had he said a word about loving her.
Kneeling by the bed to give thanks for every material thing she had ever wished for and more, Sarah began to cry.
CHAPTER 14
"No, I want something grander than this," Peter said, gazing about the entry hall of yet another town house. "It needn't be over-large, but I require more in the way of elegant touches —marble floors, generous windows, a broader staircase. What else have you to show me?"
The agent bowed, though his irritation was evident. "If your lordship could give me a clearer idea of the amount you are willing—"
"I told you not to worry about that." Peter was growing irritated himself at the agent's obsession with money. Clearly the man had his own idea of what Peter could afford. "If you can show me what I want, I'll pay for it."
"Right, then. Perhaps you'll like this next house." From the agent's smug expression, it was clear he meant to show Peter something much more expensive, and was looking forward to seeing him back down. Peter only hoped it would finally be what he was looking for.
It was.
Situated on Curzon Street, the house was double-fronted with one of the most beautiful staircases Peter had seen, its golden oak perfectly complementing the amber-veined marble of the entry hall. Along with four nicely-sized bedrooms upstairs, the ground floor boasted a parlor and dining room of perfect proportions, each sporting an Adams fireplace. The floor between included a respectably sized ballroom and a welcoming room that could be used as both library and study.
"This building was originally built for the Prince and Princess of Tirol, with an eye to a setting worthy of royalty," the agent told him. "Given its prime location and exquisite styling, the owners are of course asking more than one might—"
"How much?" Peter asked, already envisioning Sarah in the house, looking like a queen amid its elegance.
The agent named a sum he clearly expected would shock his client.
"I'll take it," Peter said firmly. "Have the contracts drawn up at once."
The man stared for a moment, then began to bow and scrape, suddenly far more obsequious than he'd been thus far. "Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. If there's anything I can—"
"In fact, there is. I'd prefer to keep the details between myself and the owners. Hold your tongue and there'll be a bonus in it for you."
While the agent babbled his assent, Peter decided that his next
task must be Sarah's wardrobe. But much as he would have liked to surprise her with an array of new gowns, that project would need her input, as her measurements would need to be taken. Some things, however, he could purchase on his own.
If he must reveal the secret of his wealth, he wanted to do so by wrapping Sarah in the riches she'd been denied all her life. He was quite looking forward to it, for she seemed to believe he had only enough to scrape by. He would disabuse her of that idea with a flourish— tomorrow.
Then he would bring her to their beautiful new home and surround her with jewels, furs, carriages —all the trappings of the wealth she'd never had. That should finally convince her that she was indeed worthy of the best that life could offer.
In time, she might even develop some fraction of the feeling toward him that he already felt toward her.
* * *
Sarah's tears were short-lived but not without benefit. After a ten minute cry, no doubt the product of wedding-day nerves, she felt calmer and more able to properly count her blessings.
So what if Peter did not love her? She could hardly expect it after a mere week's acquaintance. Love at first sight was romantic enough in novels, but she rather doubted it occurred with any sort of regularity in the real world. Two days since she'd had no prospects, no future, and now—
In truth, she wasn't quite sure what she had now, but it was far better than anything she'd had before. She owed Peter so much. And while she had no dowry, indeed nothing material to contribute to this marriage, she could do everything in her power to make him happy— beginning the moment he returned.
Smiling, she opened her trunk, but quickly realized that nothing within was as pretty as the dress she now wore. She therefore turned her attention to the looking glass, pinning up a stray curl and dabbing all traces of tears from her cheeks. Satisfied that she again looked her best, she headed downstairs, determined to somehow make herself useful until Peter returned.
"No, my lady," replied a puzzled Mrs. Walsh a few minutes later. "There's no mending to be done. What I don't have time to do myself, Millie manages. She's quite good with a needle. Is there something you need mended then?"