by Regina Scott
He frowned. “I could not agree less. Everyone has a dream. People of position and power often forget that and are content to let things stagnate. We need visionaries, Miss Compton, people who aren’t afraid to reach for their dreams, to make a difference.”
She met his gaze, and he could see swirls of silver in the blue of her eyes, like fairies dancing on a pond.
“One cannot make a difference,” she said, “unless the rest of the world concedes the difference.”
“To hell with the rest of the world,” he growled in return. “Sometimes the only person who sees the difference is the person who made it. We can ask for no more than that, Miss Compton -- to know in our hearts that the world is a better place because we passed through it.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she protested. “The world conspires against us. We are tiny people, insignificant in the scheme of things.”
“That you will never make me believe, my dear,” he replied. “The smallest ant can carry many times its weight. A single twig can stem a flood.”
“A single word can change a life?” she ventured.
“Precisely.” He beamed at her.
She gave him a reluctant smile in return. “You almost make me believe in miracles, my lord.”
“Almost?” He scratched his chin. “I’m slipping. I could have sworn that speech would sway the vote in my favor.”
Instead of laughing as he intended, her smile faded again. “Is it so imperative that you win?”
“Of course. That is how I make a difference, Miss Compton.”
“And what of your opponent, the ones who loses if you win?”
“Ah,” he replied, “but you look on it as if it were black and white, a winner and a loser. True politics is shades of gray. The challenge is finding the single most perfect solution in which everyone perceives himself a winner.”
She cocked her head. “Is such a thing possible?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “I wish it were always. It is my dream to make it so.”
“It is an honorable goal,” she acknowledged. “I can see why it inspires you.”
Suddenly he felt sheepish. He had come to court her and instead climbed into a pulpit to preach. He sighed. “I must beg your forgiveness again, Miss Compton. I can’t seem to stop giving speeches even when I leave the halls of Parliament. You must find me insufferable.”
At last her smile returned to its usual warmth. He felt himself basking in the glow of it. “Not insufferable, my lord. I find your passion inspiring. Indeed, you have given me a great deal to think about.”
He wanted to ask her if their talk had changed her mind about his proposal, but his statesman's instinct warned him that it wasn’t the right time. Instead, he smiled back at her. As he watched, the blue deepened in her eyes, drawing him in. Without realizing it, he leaned forward. She leaned toward him as well, faces closing the distance that hearts could not.
“Well, Cousin Sarah?” Persephone demanded beside him, hands on hips. “Lord Weston has asked us to join him at the theatre tonight. May we go?”
Sarah blinked, straightening, and Malcolm had a moment to collect himself. Good God, had he been about to kiss her? In full view of Persephone and her flock of devotees? What had he been thinking? In truth, he couldn’t remember thinking at all, only feeling. It was a singular experience, and while it shook him, he could not say he was adverse to it.
Sarah seemed similarly shaken. “Tonight? I believe we have something planned. Something, I think. Something important?”
Persephone frowned, hands dropping. “Cousin Sarah? Are you all right?”
Malcolm seized the opportunity. “Perhaps what you forgot, my dear, is that you agreed to accompany me to the opera tonight. Isn’t that right?”
Sarah’s gaze focused on him with obvious difficulty. The blue had cooled significantly, he could see. Her eyes appeared as chill as the sky in mid-winter. He waited for her to denounce him.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, looking back at Persephone. “We are going to the opera with Lord Breckonridge this evening. Perhaps Lord Weston could be persuaded to take you to the theatre tomorrow. I understand from Lady Wenworth that Keene has extended his run, and I know you so wanted to see him.”
Weston, a tall, gangly fellow newly ascended to his title, nodded eagerly. Persephone smiled sweetly. “What a lovely suggestion, Sarah. I’d be delighted Lord Breckonridge, Lord Weston.”
Her admirers led her off.
“Well done, Miss Compton,” Malcolm said. “You see, it is possible, a solution in which everyone wins.”
Sarah eyed him, face thoughtful. “I understand the concept, my lord. I’m just not certain of one thing. What exactly have I won?”
Chapter Thirteen
What had she won indeed? Sarah had to ask herself that many times over the next few weeks. To her amazement, Malcolm became a frequent caller at the house on Curzon Street. He appeared at least three times a week just to visit. In addition, he escorted her to the park, on walks about the neighborhood, on drives out to the country. He took her to the opera and plays. He even took her to see the menagerie at the Exeter ’Change. She was fascinated by the tigers, whose prowling grace reminded her not a little of the man beside her. But when the keepers brought in a hunk of raw meat for the animals, she had turned her head into Malcolm’s coat to blot out the sight of the sharp white teeth.
His arms came around her easily, his dark head bending so that he could whisper reassurances in her ear. This public display would have been scandalously delightful if she hadn’t caught herself wondering whether he’d known she’d be so affected.
One fellow in the crowd obviously thought so. “Feed ’em some more, Phil,” he called. “Maybe she’ll cozy up to me.”
“Why’d she do that when she’s got the biggest bloke in the room?” a woman had chided. “Here, deary, move over. I’m scared too. Perhaps I can get a hug out of it.”
“I regret madam,” Malcolm had replied, “that I have found the only woman for me.”
He had whisked her out of the building with her cheeks still blazing.
He had taken other liberties as well, though in truth she could not say he had ever been less than a gentleman. When the music trembled with emotion at the concert by the Philharmonic Society, she found her hands trembling under the gentle pressure of his. When she went to dismount from a ride in Hyde Park, she found her heart pounding louder than the sound of horses’ hooves as he lifted her down against his strong body. And when the fireworks exploded over Vauxhall, the sparks were nothing to the fire inside her as he pressed his lips to hers.
But even as each of his touches left her shaken, her mind was not so easily moved. She could not fail to notice that he never seemed affected by their proximity. Indeed, his goal with all these entertainments and embraces seemed merely to prove to her that they would make a marvelous pair. There were times when she knew by his smile that he thought he had made his point. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
As the days passed, she also refused to remain alone in his company for long. It was not that she didn’t trust him. Rather she did not trust the reaction of her traitor body. She insisted that either Norrie or Persephone accompany them on their outings, as her chaperone. She wasn’t certain how her cousin would take to such a responsibility. Certainly Persy generally preferred to keep all attention to herself. Yet she was a delightful companion, walking beside Lord Breckonridge and joining in their conversations, occasionally drawing off by herself so that they would have a few moments alone. Sarah wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she decided it was better not to question her cousin.
She did her best to ensure that Persephone was also spending time with her other suitors. When she could not go with the girl, she had Norrie accompany Persy instead. She had a duty to her aunt and uncle, after all. They had come to London to find Persy a suitable husband, even though the girl had yet to show a preference. She did not like to think what Aunt Belle and Un
cle Harold would say if they knew half the time was being devoted to Sarah’s needs. Not that they would begrudge her the chance. They simply wouldn’t have thought it possible.
At times she wasn’t entirely sure it was not some dream. Malcolm was unlike anyone she had ever met. His conversation was witty and well informed. His demeanor was generally polite and kind. He gave her all his attention. Even when they were in a crowd of people, his touch, his smile, would let her know she was foremost in his thoughts. It was just so easy to lose herself with him. One could not ask for a more devoted suitor.
And yet she did ask. The more she was in his company, the more she caught herself wishing she had more of him. Even when he kissed her, she sensed a distance, though truth be told, she wasn’t sure whether it came from him or her own heart. She could not say he was overly demonstrative. Indeed, he seemed to treat nearly everyone they met with the same friendliness. She supposed that was part of his position. A leader in Parliament must surely have to maintain an openness in communication with his fellow members. Certainly everyone she met seemed to hold him in high esteem. The one person who did not was Lord Rupert Wells, and she had been in his company for so short a time that she could not be certain she had really sensed the tension between them.
It had happened in Hyde Park. Malcolm had driven her and Persephone to the gathering place of the haut ton, where they disembarked to stroll among the grounds. Paths led through greenery and blooming flowers. Ladies in bright muslin held parasols to shade them from the heat of the summer sun. She walked on Malcolm’s side, arm through his, while Persephone walked on the other side. Malcolm had been pointing out a boy launching a small boat onto the wide green waters of the Serpentine when her cousin had sucked in a breath. Sarah had leaned forward to regard her cousin, only to meet the gaze of Lord Wells, who was passing them.
Dark eyes glittering, Wells tipped his top hat, offering them a bow.
Persephone looked quickly away, coloring. Malcolm paused immediately.
“Good afternoon, Wells,“ he remarked. “Do you know my lovely companions?“
“I believe we have met,“ Wells intoned. “I will not detain you. Enjoy your walk.“
Persephone’s lower lip trembled, but she put up head as if she didn’t care that he had been short with them. Malcolm frowned but continued walking. Glancing back, Sarah had seen that Wells had stopped to regard their passage. In his eyes was a look of simmering heat, quickly covered. She could not tell whether it was directed at Malcolm, or Persephone.
She did not feel comfortable asking Malcolm about it, but she did ask her cousin later when they were once more alone at home.
Persephone raised her brows, the picture of innocence. “Lord Wells?” she asked. “I cannot think who you mean.”
Now Sarah raised her brows. “Oh, come now, Persy. Do you have so many beaus that you no longer remember them all? Besides, wasn’t Lord Wells the gentleman who so intrigued you at Lady Prestwick’s ball?”
“Oh, I suppose,” she replied begrudgingly. “It’s just that when I’m with one gentleman, I try not to pay undue attention to others.”
Sarah refrained from commenting. Persephone had gladly spurned any number of gentlemen when a more eligible candidate had appeared at her side. If her cousin had decided to mend her ways, Sarah did not want to say anything to discourage her.
Nor could she find it in her heart to discourage Malcolm. She could not deny the joy in having a suitor of her own, to have a friend with whom she could carry on a conversation. She enjoyed catching his eye when Persephone or one of her beaus made a cake of themselves. She liked sharing his smile when Norrie brought her a rock from Kensington Gardens. She felt as contented in a spirited argument with him as in a deep philosophical debate. He seemed to enjoy her company just as much. Certainly he continually sought it. If only she could be certain these companionable feelings were growing into love. Then she might be willing to open her own heart.
As the Season neared its end in late July, she knew they were nearing a critical point in their courtship. Parliament would be in recess, and the eligibles would be leaving the city for their cooler country homes. Malcolm would surely press her for an answer. Worse, Persephone had yet to decide upon a winner in the contest for her hand, a contest that was also nearing a peak if the throngs of admirers in the sitting room were any indication. She had actually had to stop two arguments before they disintegrated into fisticuffs and had heard through Mr. Timmons that there had been a duel fought in Persephone’s honor. Thankfully, no one had been seriously hurt.
Even Persephone was showing the strain, however. More and more the girl begged for quiet times to herself, sitting alone in the garden behind the house or taking a constitutional about the neighborhood with only Lucy for company. Her creamy skin had become more pale, it seemed to Sarah, her eyes fatigued. Yet when Sarah had tried to cheer her with the reminder that they would surely be returning home soon, her cousin had merely glowered at her.
“You may smile about it,” Persephone complained. “You like rustication. I vow I will expire if I am forced into retirement so early in my career.”
“Your career?” Sarah couldn’t help but smile. “Pray tell do you intend to make a life’s work of this courting?”
Persephone tossed her head. “Certainly not! But I will continue in my quest until I have won the perfect man. That may take a few days or a few years, as fate decrees.”
Sarah felt her smile fading. Years? Was that her future if she refused to marry Malcolm, to be forced to trudge in her cousin’s wake through one Season after another? Even if Aunt Belle took over the task, would Sarah feel comfortable going to Wenworth with Norrie if her cousin was not well settled? The prospect of returning to the country looked more dismal every second.
Even Norrie was perplexed. “You must do as you see fit, of course,” she had said when Sarah had told her of Persephone’s intentions. “I admire your loyalty to the girl, especially when she does not appear very loyal to you.”
“Persy is young,” Sarah replied. “She doesn’t understand how she hurts people.”
“Will she learn if we keep shielding her?” Norrie asked with a frown. “Not that I would wish any ill on the girl, but sometimes I think a broken heart would do her good.”
Sarah shook her head. “I cannot wish for that either. Let us hope instead that she meets her true love soon, if such a person exists.”
“You sound like you doubt that,” Norrie chided. “Is it for Persephone or Sarah that you fear?”
Sarah sighed. “Both, I suspect. Tell me again, Norrie. When you fell in love with your Justinian, how did it feel?”
“Amazing, frightening?” Norrie cocked her head, gazing off into the distance, deep blue eyes unfocused. “Wanting to love, wanting to be loved, wanting to be certain.” She blinked and refocused on Sarah. “But don’t pattern your hopes on mine, love. You know Justinian and I very nearly didn’t make a match of it and wouldn’t have if not for the interference of a small black kitten and a determined dowager. What does your heart tell you?”
“I wish I knew,” Sarah returned with another sigh. “I fear it has been too long since I listened to it. I don’t know what it’s saying anymore.”
Norrie squeezed her hands where they were folded in the lap of her dress. “Keep trying, Sarah. I know you have the capacity for great love. You show it in your devotion to Persephone, in your loyalty to your aunt and uncle, in the very fact that you’ve answered my tedious letters all these years.”
“Hardly tedious,” Sarah protested with a smile.
“Not for the last three years anyway,” Norrie agreed, answering her smile with one of her own. “Now, try to cheer up. The Season is nearly over. With any luck, you will be coming home with me.”
The thought would once have been enough to cheer her. Now she could not look at the future without cringing. She was nearly as blue-deviled as Persephone when Lady Anne Prestwick came to call one afternoon near the first of August
. Still, she roused herself to welcome the young countess.
“Persephone will be so sorry to have missed you,” she told Anne as she sat beside her on the sofa in the sitting room.
“She’s out with one of her suitors, I suppose,” Lady Prestwick murmured with an indulgent smile. “Did she tell you we met the other day on New Bond Street?”
Sarah shook her head. “No. Was this Tuesday? She and her maid went shopping.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Anne replied. “You might ask her about the occasion. I was under the impression she was rather upset.”
Upset? What had Persephone been up to? Sarah couldn’t remember noticing anything out of the ordinary when the girl had returned. Indeed, she had seemed inordinately pleased with her purchases. “Perhaps she was tired,” Sarah ventured. “She does have a tendency to overdo it when shopping.”
“A singular habit,“ the countess remarked as if she did not share it. Eying the fine silk of her lavender-striped walking dress, Sarah somehow thought she was more familiar with the shops on New Bond Street than she intimated. “But I suppose common among the young ladies on their Season. And she is so very popular. Every time I see her she is on the arm of another beau. Has anyone risen above the others?”
“Not that I can notice,” Sarah admitted with a sigh.
Anne grimaced. “Ah, well, she is young. Time enough for her to find the right man for her. And you, Miss Compton? Have you made any decisions?”
Sarah regarded her, suddenly remembering the connection between this innocent-looking woman and Malcolm. Lady Prestwick had been the one to contrive the ball at which Sarah and Malcolm had met. Lady Prestwick was rumored to be his confidante. Did she know that Sarah had already refused him once?”
“Nothing definite,” Sarah hedged, picking at the folds of her spruce poplin gown. “But, as you say, there is time.”
“Less than you might think,” Lady Prestwick assured her. “I believe Lord Breckonridge is at that point in his life where he believes he must marry. You must know he is determined that you be that bride, Miss Compton.”