by Brenda Hiatt
"That was amazing," she breathed. "I never thought —never realized—"
Peter kissed her, then shifted onto his side, smiling into her eyes. "Neither did I."
Sarah frowned, puzzled. "But surely you knew—? I mean, this can't have been—"
Tenderly, so tenderly her heart melted, he kissed her again. "I've lain with women before, yes, but never like this. You are something special, Sarah. This, what we shared, was something special."
She could not doubt the sincerity in his eyes. "I'm glad. As this is all I can offer you, I so wanted it to be . . . special for you."
Leaning away from her, he frowned. "Is that why—? I told you I did not want this out of gratitude or obligation, Sarah."
"No!" she said quickly, placing a finger against his lips before he could say anything they both might regret. "I'm grateful to you, yes, but I . . . I truly did want this. Though I'd have wanted it even more had I known how enjoyable it would be." She felt herself blushing again.
His frown dissolved and he kissed her finger, then her lips. "Never believe this is all you can give me, Sarah. As pleasurable as is the physical side of marriage, I find even more satisfaction in knowing you are safe under my protection. You delight me—in many, many ways."
Sarah tried to ignore the little bubble of disappointment produced by his words —or, rather, by the words he had not said. He had never claimed to love her, nor could she expect it, even after what they had just shared together. If peace of mind was what he most craved from her, then she would make certain she provided that —as well as anything else he might want.
Though she dared not speak of love, she nestled against him and said, "You are a good, kind man, Peter. I am the luckiest woman alive to have you as my husband."
* * *
Sarah awoke from the deepest, most comfortable sleep she could remember to see Peter, in a deep blue dressing gown, reentering the bedchamber with a tray from which emanated the mouth-watering fragrances of eggs, toast and coffee.
"Breakfast? In bed?" She scooted up into a sitting position against the headboard, blushingly covering her breasts with the bed linens. "I believe you mean to spoil me most dreadfully."
His grin made her heart do a funny little flip. "Alas, you have found out my dark purpose —and this is only the start." He set the tray on a low table and drew it close to the bed.
When Sarah hesitated, he plucked a parcel from the desk by the window and opened it to reveal a lacy lavender wrapper. "I took the liberty of buying this for you yesterday. I thought it might suit you."
"It's beautiful." Sarah took the delicate confection from him with awe, then slipped it on, reveling in the sumptuous feel of silk and lace against her bare skin. She had never owned anything one tenth so fine before. "Thank you again."
"My thanks is in seeing you in it. I believe I can claim that my taste is as flawless as ever," he said with a wink.
Blushing again, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed so that she could reach the breakfast tray. "Everything looks delicious," she said, picking up a fork as he seated himself next to her.
"I wish I could claim to have prepared it myself, but I fear cooking is not one of my skills. Mrs. MacKay anticipated our needs, however, and had this ready when I went down." He reached for the other fork.
They ate in companionable silence, punctuated by lingering glances that promised more delights in the hours, days, even years to come. Sarah had never felt more content, her few remaining problems dwindling almost to nothing.
Soon she would find a way to tell Peter the full story of her youth, and William's, and he would understand. Together, they would find a way to help William and some of the other unfortunates on the streets of London.
"I suppose I'd best go back downstairs and attend to our correspondence," Peter finally said with obvious reluctance, waking her from her rosy dreams. "I'll send up a maid to help you dress, and then you can join me in the library."
"Of course," she said, smiling up at him as he rose. He leaned down to kiss her lingeringly on the lips, then departed.
With a happy sigh, she picked up her wedding gown and underthings, pulled her lovely new wrapper tight around her, and slipped through the dressing room her chamber shared with Peter's. Entering her room, she stopped, startled, for a maid already awaited her.
"Morning, milady," said the red-haired girl she remembered was named Polly. "Millie will be up in a moment to help you dress, but Mrs. MacKay asked me to add coal to your fire and bring up fresh water."
Then, glancing at the closed door, she lowered her voice. "Also, there's this. A lad, a friend of Renny's, brought it not an hour since, but he didn't want Renny to see it. He said it was for her new ladyship." She held out a folded piece of paper.
Sarah took the note in suddenly nerveless fingers. It had to be from her brother. Renny must have given Paddy the note, who had turned around and sent it up to her. "Thank you, Polly," she said with forced calm.
What could William need from the Saint, so soon after his last note? Would it contain yet more names —some with such urgent needs that he might risk filling them if the Saint couldn't?
The moment Polly left, she broke the seal, only to discover the note was not from William at all. It was in fact two notes, one inside the other. The outer one was a mere scrawl, signed with a name that looked like "Stilt."
With shaking hands, she unsealed the inner letter. It was written in a slightly better hand, but its message sent her safe new fairy-tale world spinning.
To the so-called Saint of Seven Dials:
I have your little troublemaker, Flute. If you want him safe beyond Monday, send me five thousand pounds in coin or notes. If you don't, I'll turn him over to the Runners for the reward and what's left of Twitchell's lads can answer to me.
—Ickle
CHAPTER 15
Sarah dropped weakly onto her bed. Five thousand pounds! It was an impossible sum. Why, the dozen guineas she'd taken at the Wickburn ball comprised the most money she'd ever had in her possession at once. What on earth was she to do?
She reread the first note, the one signed "Stilt."
Flute left this for the Saint. Don't know where he went.
At least, that's what she thought it said, though the handwriting was difficult to decipher. She remembered her earlier contentment, now gone beyond recall. If Peter knew of her troubles, she had no doubt he would offer to assist in whatever way he could. She could ask him—
No! He had already done so much for her, more than she could ever repay. She was certain he could not afford to pay five thousand pounds. And even if he could —if he were caught paying off this Ickle, he might be arrested as the Saint himself, for this could easily be a trap. If there was a reward posted for William, that for the Saint would be far higher.
A tap came at the door, and Sarah quickly hid the note before Millie could enter.
"That gown will be fine," she told the maid, pointing out one at random, her thoughts already back on her problem.
Even if William's kidnapping was not a trap, she could never ask Peter to run afoul of the law for her sake. Her brother was still wanted for his previous association with the Saint. Peter was already shielding her, but it was too much to ask him to shield someone who had helped the real Saint —the traitor Peter despised —for years.
No, she must rely upon herself, just as she'd always done. This problem was hers alone to solve, and she knew only one way to go about it. She must do what she'd thought never to do again, what she'd promised Peter she would not. She must resort to theivery —and she must do it without arousing Peter's suspicions.
* * *
"Is everything all right?" Peter asked when Sarah joined him in the library half an hour later, again wearing one of her secondhand gowns.
"Yes, of course," she replied, though he noticed with concern that she did not meet his eyes.
"Sarah, if there is something I can help you with, you know you need only ask."
&n
bsp; Her eyes met his and for a moment he could almost see words trembling on her lips.
"I'm your husband," he reminded her gently. "It is now my job to solve any difficulties you might have. I've solved your biggest one already, have I not? You are safe now."
He knew instantly that he'd said the wrong thing. Her expression became shuttered, even secretive. "Yes, of course, and I've tried to convey my gratitude for that. Truly, there is nothing more I require."
Again, she spoke of gratitude! Was that all he was ever to have from her? He restrained his impatience, however, reminding himself that he'd essentially forced her into this marriage for her own good. Some lingering resentment was natural.
"Are you still concerned about those friends you mentioned to me?" he asked.
She looked startled. "No! That is, I believe what I have sent them already is enough. It will have to be."
"I should like to meet these friends of yours sometime," he said then, still hoping she might confide in him.
As he'd feared she would, she shook her head. "That would not be . . . wise. The less you know of them the better."
Gently, he cupped her chin, tilting her face up so that she had to look at him. "Sarah, just promise me that if you ever feel tempted to do anything that might put you in danger, you will tell me. Your safety matters more to me than anything."
"Of course," she whispered. "And thank you for . . . for caring."
Though it was clear she was hiding something, he let the matter drop —for the moment. "Perhaps you would look over these invitations with me? Then, once we've decided which entertainments to attend, I thought we might visit Bond Street. I don't want the world to think I can't afford to clothe my wife properly."
* * *
Sarah should have been having the time of her life, as Peter bade her select from an array of beautiful fabrics, ribbons and trinkets at one shop after another. But with every shilling Peter spent on her, the more wicked she felt —and the more determined to keep the truth from him.
"Here, Madame, hold this blue satin up to her—it should just match her eyes," he said to the modiste whose shop they were currently patronizing. "Yes, I thought so. Have that one made up into a ballgown —split over a white gauze underskirt, I think."
As she'd done several times before, Sarah remonstrated. "Surely the three ballgowns you've ordered already are enough, my lord? I can wear only one at a time, after all."
The modiste hesitated, but at her questioning look Peter waved her away with a smile. "Come, my dear," he said to Sarah. "You must trust me to know what you need. I daresay Robert's wife has three or four dozen ballgowns."
"But she is a countess, one day to be a duchess," Sarah pointed out. "And no doubt she is accustomed to such things. I have simple tastes, and can be more than happy with what you have purchased already. There is no need for anything more."
"Nonsense. I plan to show off my beautiful wife everywhere possible. Besides, I'm quite enjoying this, knowing how well lovely clothes will become you. You were made for this, Sarah."
Sarah was far from convinced. If she were made for this, surely she would not feel so ill at ease, so . . . degraded. Indeed, she felt as she imagined a courtesan must feel at being showered with gifts by her protector, with nothing but beauty and sex to offer in return. In vain she reminded herself that this was different, that she was Peter's wife.
"Would not a thin muslin do as well as silk gauze?" she could not help asking as the modiste unrolled a bolt of the latter, a confection in white.
"With the finest Florence satin?" Peter asked in mock horror. "Certainly not! You have no idea how much I've hated seeing you in castoffs, Sarah. From now on, you will wear only the best."
She glanced at the modiste, who was discreetly pretending not to hear. "But . . . the expense!"
Peter smiled indulgently, making her feel like an untutored child, a feeling she rather resented. "I'll worry about the expense. All you need to is enjoy yourself, which will make it worth every penny to me."
As it seemed true that buying her things made him happy, Sarah tried to mute her protests. She only hoped his zeal would not lead him into debt.
By the time they left the modiste, Peter had ordered six ballgowns of various hues, at least a dozen morning and day dresses, and an assortment of tippets, spencers and cloaks, as well as one fabulously expensive Court dress for Sarah's presentation next month. From there, they progressed to a nearby jeweler's shop.
"As the fourth son, I fear I don't merit any of the jewels that have been passed along in our family, so we will simply have to start from scratch," Peter explained. "We will begin, of course, with a proper set of rings, as there was no time to ask your preference before our wedding."
Sarah glanced down at the modest gold band and diamond he had placed on her finger yesterday, more extravagant than anything she'd have ever dared wish for. "I'm quite content with these," she told him truthfully.
"Pish! It's an old set, and borrowed in any case. You'll want something of your very own, I know."
"I suppose . . . if it's borrowed. But please, nothing large or ostentatious." Nothing I will be tempted to pawn for William, she added silently.
He only smiled, stepping to the counter where the jeweler eagerly awaited them. "Show us what you have, my good man. Only your best, mind you."
The man proceeded to remove trays from the glass cases, displaying an array of gems that made Sarah's mouth go dry. A mere two or three of these would pay William's ransom! Not that she could attempt to steal anything with Peter at her side and the jeweler watching them both like a hawk. With an effort, she turned her attention to nudging Peter away from the largest baubles.
In the end, she was able to convince him to buy her a diamond only slightly larger than the one she already wore, though she suspected the quality was such that the price would still make her gasp. As at the modiste's, Peter had been careful not to discuss cost in front of her— something she was beginning to find a bit irritating.
"I have managed my own affairs since I was nine years old," she reminded him as they left the shop, the earrings he had insisted on buying her already on her ears. "There is no need to shield me from the particulars, or the state of your finances, for that matter."
He cast her a sidelong glance. "What is the most money you've ever managed at once?"
"That is beside the point," she replied loftily.
"I think not. How much? If you wish me to tell you what I am worth, surely you should be willing to divulge the same information. What were you paid for teaching, your last two years at Miss Pritchard's?"
"Four pounds per annum, but that is not— How did you know the name of my school? I never mentioned it to you."
"Mrs. Hounslow told me." His answer seemed a bit too quick. "You do realize that four pounds per annum is a criminally low wage, do you not?" Indeed, he looked outraged on her behalf.
She gazed across the street, pretending to watch a street vendor polishing the glassware in his cart. "I knew it was low, yes, but my room and board were provided, and I was among people I knew. Nor did I have the means to go elsewhere, until I had saved up a bit."
"At which point you traveled to London to seek your fortune," he said. "Fair enough. But if that is all the money you ever had to manage—"
"Then you can see why I am uncomfortable with the vast amounts you are spending on me," she finished, knowing that was not at all what he'd been about to say.
He didn't seem disposed to argue that point, however. "And you must see why it affords me such satisfaction to buy you things you've never had before," he said. "I'm not sure you realize just how deprived you've been, Sarah, but I mean to see that you never again go without anything you need —or want."
How could she possibly tell him that all she really wanted was his love? And William's safety, of course. These earrings —what might they fetch if she pawned them? But no, she would then have to explain their absence —and it would be just as though she'd stol
en the money from Peter himself.
"You're very good to me," she finally said, feeling guiltier than ever.
* * *
Though he was careful not to show it, Peter was growing increasingly frustrated. He had been so sure that Sarah would delight in the silks, laces, furs and jewels he was buying her, but instead she seemed to grow more and more distant with each new purchase. Much as he longed to see her arrayed like a queen, it was far more important to him to see her happy.
"Come, let's go home," he finally said as they left a milliner's shop with an armload of bonnets.
"Oh, yes, please." Her smile held such relief that he suddenly felt like a brute for subjecting her to what most women would have regarded as the outing of their lives.
He helped her into the waiting carriage then settled himself on the seat next to her, the opposite seat piled with all of their purchases.
"I fear you did not enjoy yourself today, Sarah," he said as they started off. "I simply wished to demonstrate that I can take care of you— that you need never worry about the future again."
Her smile held a trace of mockery, though directed at herself rather than at him. "I am an odd sort of female, am I not? Though I have long dreamed of just such an afternoon as this, I found the reality more than a little disconcerting. I fear it will take me some time to adjust to my change in station. I hope you will be— patient with me."
"Of course." He wanted to say more, to say that he would do anything, wait as long as necessary, to win her love. But then she might feel obligated to express a love she did not yet feel, to please him, just as she had clearly tried all morning to pretend pleasure in his purchases, to the same end. That was not what he wanted from her.
"We'll take a light luncheon with our tea when we get home, before we dress for the Wittington ball," he said instead. "I had in mind for you to wear the shot lilac silk tonight." He'd agreed to an exorbitant sum to have Madame Fanchot pin up a half-finished gown or two for Sarah's immediate use.