by Regina Scott
So do I, thought Wells as he put her hand on his arm. So do I.
* * * *
While Persephone poured her heart out to Rupert Wells, Sarah turned her attention to the correspondence. Having dispensed her cousin shopping, with the girl’s maid Lucy (who Mr. Timmons said had been properly schooled in her role) and Jerym the under-footman, Sarah sat at the Sheridan writing desk in the corner of the library. She first sorted and paid the bills, noting with disapproval that the price of coal had risen again. Good thing Uncle Harold was well off. Another few guineas would never be missed. How did the poor fare? Perhaps this problem would be solved by one of the acts Malcolm was supporting.
She snatched up the next batch of correspondence and focused her wayward thoughts. She had put off writing to her aunt and uncle again last night. Today she noted the fact that Persy had several new suitors, carefully avoiding any mention of the Duke of Reddington. She still held out hope that her cousin would be persuaded to reconcile with the fellow, especially now that the girl knew Lord Breckonridge wasn’t interested in her. Malcolm, Lord Breckonridge, was clearly not interested in anyone but himself. It was a decided shame, really, for with his sharp wit and handsome countenance he had much to offer a lady. She could easily imagine herself on his arm, strolling through an august set of personages, exchanging pleasantries, offering smiles of encouragement. She realized her pen had stopped moving and hastily dipped it in the ink again, scolding herself.
“These just came, Miss Sarah,” Timmons said from the doorway, bringing her a pile of parcels and cards. Persy’s admirers had been busier than usual. Sarah was getting quite familiar with the white boxes from the famous London confectioners of Gunter’s. There were three of them today, along with several dozen assorted calling cards and envelopes. She sorted through them, passing those for Persephone alone into one pile and those that included her into another. Her pile, as always, was decidedly smaller. That is, until she reached the boxes.
She was surprised to find that the two largest boxes were addressed to her. Her surprise melted into anger as she recognized the bold hand on the envelope affixed to the largest box. Did he think he could buy what she refused to give? Worse, did he think her price was so low that roses and boxes of candy would serve to do the trick? She should throw them out unopened.
But curiosity got the better of her. He could not know how savagely she had dealt with his earlier gifts. Why send more? Could it be that he really did mean to apologize for his insulting offer? With hands that trembled, and thoroughly disgusted with herself, she broke open the envelope.
“My dear Miss Compton,” he had written. “I realized belatedly that roses might not have been an appropriate way to apologize. I’m not certain these sweets are any better. I believe I am coming to understand your position. Surely we both need to know each other better before making any decisions on a future. I was simply so gratified to find a woman of such rare intelligence, sense, good nature, and beauty that I rushed forward to seize her before some other fellow recognized her as a treasure. I promise to be more sensitive in the future, only say that you are willing to forgive me and give me another chance. Your servant always, Malcolm, Lord Breckonridge.”
Sarah stared at the paper. What gammon. Intelligence, sense, good nature, and beauty indeed. She liked to think she had the first two in good measure, but the third had been sadly lacking of late and only a fool would consider her beautiful next to Persephone. A fool, or a man in love, a voice inside her said. She shivered. There it was again -- that chance to risk her heart. He wanted another chance. Another chance to trample her tender feelings? Another chance to make a mockery of her dreams?
Another chance to fall in love?
For what if that was what happened? What if they both fell in love? What if she had a chance for a husband, a family, a home of her own? Shouldn’t she take it? Shouldn’t she try as she had never tried before? Was it such a very great risk?
“Oh, Sarah, you are mad to consider it,” she told herself aloud. She dropped the note to knuckle her eyes. “What if nothing comes of it? What if he never gives you his heart? What if he cannot love anything beyond Parliament?”
What if you never find out? her heart protested. What if you never see him again?
She dropped her head to her arms and sighed. So many ifs. She wasn’t sure how to deal with them. It had been so very long since she’d taken a chance. Perhaps that was all the more reason to take one now. Would it hurt so much if she failed to bring him up to scratch?
The answer, of course, was yes. He had the power to love her and the power to hurt her. If she opened herself to one, she opened herself to the other as well. She didn’t know whether she had it in her.
As she lay on the desk, thinking, a warm sugary smell filled her nose. She straightened, inhaling. Chocolate. The very best kind, if she had to guess. She’d shared boxes with her cousin years ago. When Persephone was twelve, it had given her pimples and Sarah had had to eat the three boxes her cousin had received for her birthday. She hadn’t had more than a mouthful since at late-night suppers when she was chaperoning. Aunt Belle had reasoned that if her dear Persephone couldn’t have it, no one in the household could. Feeling wicked and wondrous at the same time, Sarah pulled off the lid from the first box. Her eyes widened at the dainty squares nestled in the tissue paper. Selecting a deep, dark one, she dared to take a bite, letting the heady flavor glide across her tongue. Sarah groaned in ecstasy.
She must be a very shallow creature indeed, she reflected as she tried a piece from the second box. It had a rum center, the taste tangy with the fine liquor. She licked the remainder from her fingers and lips, closing her eyes in delight. Then she shook her head. It seemed she was so easily bought after all.
Malcolm, Lord Breckonridge, was forgiven.
God help her.
Chapter Twelve
Malcolm returned home that night with a spring in his step. Castlereagh the Foreign Secretary and Sidmouth the Home Secretary had been quarreling for days, but, thanks to him, they were once more on speaking terms. Liverpool had pronounced the new version of the Widows and Orphans Act to be nothing short of brilliant. Wells had loosened up enough to gripe at him as he left the debate, which boded well for getting the young baron to show his passions. Life had returned to as normal a condition as possible for a leader in Parliament. He was actually whistling as he opened the door to his bedchamber. He stopped when he met Appleby’s eager smile.
“What now?” he growled.
“I am saddened to report,” his valet replied, the light in his bleary blue eyes belying his words, “that the boxes of chocolate met with the same fate as the roses.”
Malcolm sighed. So much for an easy peace. “I suppose it’s too much to hope she actually spoke to anyone on the matter. Did no one hear her complain of my treatment? Did she not berate the staff for her abuse?”
Appleby’s face fell. “I did not think to ask, my lord.”
“Never mind,” Malcolm replied, moving into the room. “You said earlier her servants adore her. Somehow I doubt she’s the type to take her feelings out on them.”
“How refreshing,” Appleby muttered.
Malcolm ignored him, sitting on the bed to tug off his boots. He had a sudden thought and paused. “Did anyone notice whether the boxes were empty or full?”
“I regret to say I didn’t ask that question either, my lord,” his valet replied.
His tone was so downcast that Malcolm could not help grinning at him. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Appleby. You’ve been rather good at coming up with information, even with the restrictions I’ve put on you to avoid encouraging betrayal. Simply try in the future to remember that it is Miss Compton’s feelings that interest me. What she throws in her trash is merely an indicator. Now, have you anything else to report?”
“Not regarding Miss Compton,” Appleby admitted with a sigh. “Although I could regale you with tales of Miss Persephone.”
Malcolm started to w
ave him off, then paused again. He had no interest in which suitors thronged the young beauty’s sitting room or which dress she had deigned to wear that day. However, if his valet had information that would affect Sarah in any way, Malcolm should hear it. He needed all the help he could get in finding ways to present himself in a positive light to the lady.
“What have you heard?” he asked carefully.
Appleby stepped forward eagerly. “She has cut off His Grace the Duke of Reddington without so much as a backward glance.”
“Pity.” Malcolm shook his head. “Reddington was hooked, if you ask me. The girl should have reeled him in.”
“No doubt she thought him too small,” Appleby said darkly.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Will you tell me she’s caught the attention of someone bigger? Not many can boast of fortune or family greater than Reddington.”
“It is rumored,” Appleby said, pausing to lick his lips, “that she has set her sights on someone more powerful. Carlton, the duke’s man, gave me very good odds.”
“Indeed.” Malcolm eyed him. “Most of the gentlemen in power are married, I know to my sorrow. Don’t tell me she has eyes for Wells, that misanthrope. He’d eat her for breakfast and spit out the crumbs.”
“No, my lord, not Lord Wells, although I believe she has been seen walking with him,” Appleby assured him. “I regret to say, my lord, that she appears to favor you.”
Malcolm started. “I hope you had the good sense to bet against that notion.”
Appleby fidgeted. “Well, my lord, the young lady is quite lovely, and as I said, the odds were very good.”
“You’ve wasted your blunt,” Malcolm informed him. “I’ve already told you I prefer her older cousin. I hope this Carlton fellow didn’t take it as proof against me that you accepted the wager.”
Appleby licked his lips again, avoiding Malcolm’s gaze. “I . . .I could not say, my lord. Would you like some assistance with your boots?”
“Yes,” Malcolm replied, holding out a foot. His valet obligingly straddled his leg to yank off first one and then the other Hessian. As soon as he was done, however, Malcolm dismissed him. He had had quite enough gossip for one night.
As his valet slunk out, Malcolm shook his head. Could nothing go right with this courtship? He hardly needed half of London speculating about his matrimonial pursuits. Of course, it was possible that Sarah had the good sense to hire servants who did not gossip, and so she would not hear the rumors. On the other hand, someone in that house gossiped all too well, or Appleby would not be able to relate his stories. Hadn’t he mentioned this Timmons fellow? Malcolm seemed to remember that was the butler’s name. All he could hope for was that the fellow and the rest of her servants would realize that someone like Malcolm could not possibly be interested in Persephone Compton.
He shuddered at the very thought of aligning himself with the mercenary little charmer. Of course, he could hardly go around telling people that. Nor could he tell Sarah how unattractive he found her cousin. He would have to hope she recognized how attractive he found her and that that would suffice.
To ensure Sarah had no doubts, he made time the following day to call. As usual, a half-dozen fellows kept a rotating vigil at Persephone’s shrine. The girl was gowned in a demure sprigged muslin with simple lines and only a single ribbon under the high waist, but the coquettish glances she bestowed from under lowered lashes belied her innocence. Sarah, on the other hand, wore a long-sleeved gray poplin gown that was understated and elegant and drew attention to her changeable eyes. He turned to her immediately, raising her hand to his lips.
“Miss Compton, your eternal servant,” he greeted her. When Persephone paused in her conversation, clearly expecting a similar salute, he merely nodded. The girl’s sunny countenance immediately darkened. Was it true then? Had the girl set her cap for him? He purposely turned his back to her to lead Sarah to a more private seat. He could feel the girl’s eyes drilling into him. He ignored her.
Sitting beside Sarah on the sofa, he saw she was regarding him with a raised brow.
“And what has Persephone done to so earn your enmity, my lord?” she asked, smile teasing.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “Nor do I care. Be assured I came here only to see you.”
“I am flattered,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.
He chuckled at the maidenly posture. “You’re been taking lessons from your cousin, I see. I warn you, I am immune to the fluttering of eyelashes.”
“For which we should all be grateful,” she quipped, looking up again. “Imagine what laws we would have if you succumbed so easily.”
“I shudder to think,” he replied, pleased that he could see her eyes again. Green as light as fine jade shone among the blue. “I have more than once been encouraged to proclaim a national holiday on Brummell’s birthday, even after he insulted the prince by calling him fat.”
“Well, his Highness has grown large,” she remarked with a grin that showed her dimples to advantage. “Of course, I am not the best judge, not being a noted leader of fashion like Mr. Brummell.”
“No, I rather think you set your own fashion,” he replied approvingly. “In fact, did not your cousin tell me that you collect rocks?”
She sighed. “Oh, I hoped you’d forget that.”
He raised a brow, intrigued. “Why? Is there is some scandalous story behind the pastime?”
“Nothing scandalous. Merely silly.”
“I find it hard to believe you would do anything foolish, Miss Compton.”
He watched as the color grew in her cheeks. She did not like talking about herself, particularly anything close to her heart. While he admired her humility, he felt a driving desire to know everything about her. The desire surprised him, but he told himself the interest was surely expected since he intended to make her his wife.
“Then perhaps I should tell you the tale merely to prove you wrong,” she threatened. “I suspect it might be a novel experience for the great Viscount Breckonridge.”
“Not as novel as I’d like,” he admitted. “But pray do not let that stop you.”
“Very well,” she conceded grudgingly. “It started when I was in school. I studied at a private school near Wells, the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. I was from one of the less exalted families, and by far one of the oldest to start. Many of the girls had been there since they were six. They were a rather close-knit group, slow to accept newcomers. I found it expedient to keep my eyes on the ground and my mouth closed.”
He could imagine how difficult it must have been for her. The same bewilderment he heard in her voice he’d seen in the eyes of some of those newly elected to Parliament. “Did no one offer you help?” he asked.
She nodded. “Several, most of whom are my friends to this day, though we keep in touch only through correspondence. But before they stepped forward, one of the other girls demanded to know why I kept my head bowed. I think she thought to shame me into confessing myself less than she was. I told her the first thing that came to my mind. ‘I collect rocks, and I am never certain when I’m going to find an unusual specimen.’”
“Very original,” he commended.
“Very ridiculous,” she countered, wrinkling her nose. “I kept my head down even while we were inside, and I certainly couldn’t have expected to find many rocks on Miss Martingale’s clean floors. But I must have told the story with sufficient conviction, for she believed me. After that, they all took great pains to point out likely specimens on our daily constitutionals about the grounds.”
“You found a way to appear interesting in their eyes,” he surmised. “They were only looking for an excuse to like you.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But I didn’t see that as a child. I became rather cavalier about the whole thing, refusing this rock as too common, that rock as too dull, another as too shiny. I’m ashamed to say they only doubled their efforts. It became something of a prize to find a rock I would accept. After I left th
e school, I’d still receive rocks in the mail from classmates. My aunt and uncle never knew what would arrive in the post. Even Persephone thinks I collect the things, as you know. I suspect it was merely a way to get attention.”
“So, you do share a few traits with your cousin,” he joked.
She smiled ruefully. “I suppose so. Thankfully, I grew out of it. Besides, Persephone appears to collect gentlemen. I only collected rocks, with no feelings at risk.”
He glanced to where a half dozen gentlemen were vying for the girl’s attention. Persephone caught his gaze on her in mid-yawn and turned the movement into a simpering smile. He shook his head, returning his attention to Sarah. “I cannot imagine how so many gentlemen find themselves so hopelessly enthralled with your cousin.”
“Of course,” she replied, and he noted that all merriment had faded from her smile. “The great Lord Breckonridge would never be so taken with any lady.”
He had stepped into a trap of his own making. His comment had obviously reminded her of their earlier discussion, something he had hoped to make her forget. He knew he could spout off any number of pretty phrases to assure her of his devotion, but he found he could not lie to her. His conscience forbade it, and she wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
“I see I am not forgiven after all,” he murmured instead.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I have no right to withhold forgiveness, not when you’ve tried so hard to make amends. Besides, you are merely being yourself.”
Somehow that still sounded like he was less than he should be. “And what would you have me be, if you could change me?”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “That is a very large if, my lord. I prefer to deal with reality.”
“What, do you never dream of what could be?” he challenged.
“That is a foolish pastime for one in my position,” she replied so primly that he knew he had touched on something. “Dreams are surely for people with position and power.”