As usual, the brand on his arm itched, an incessant reminder of the day the red-hot iron had burned not just his flesh, but something else inside of him.
Like the other slaves on the small plantation where he’d been born, Martín had been tattooed around his forearm when he was still young. He’d tattooed over that mark at the first opportunity, but, if you looked closely, you could still see the word “Bannock” beneath the newer ink. Bannock: the name of the man who’d owned him. His father, by all accounts.
Martín had run away when he’d learned he was soon to be sold. He’d been twelve or so, terrified at the thought of leaving the only home he’d ever known. He’d run without thinking and been caught before he’d even crossed the boundary of the plantation.
The beating that had followed had left him with a cracked rib and some bruises, but he soon learned that was nothing.
The second time he’d run, there had been no beating. Instead, his own people, the people who had raised him and cared for him, had been forced to restrain him as the Scottish overseer, a man named Clark, had lifted the large red iron from the fire. His arm had been too small a canvas for the brand, and part of the R was missing.
Martín turned away from both the memory of burning flesh and the sight of the ruined garden. He slammed the door behind him, as if he could shut his past in the ancient garden with the rest of the wreckage.
He drifted toward the big desk and absently opened the drawers. He found nothing but old papers, broken quills, and the odds and ends of someone else’s life. He closed the drawer and dropped into the chair, lacing his hands over his stomach. Ramsay had been correct. Martín wanted Sarah, and the only way to have her was marriage. Her wealthy uncles would most likely fight it, and he couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want himself as a husband for a daughter or niece if he had one. Nobody’s reputation had ever benefited by association with him.
Dread weaved its way from his stomach to his chest at the thought of approaching the two old bankers with his suit. Over and over he’d imagined simply carrying Sarah to his ship and sailing away. He could do it before anyone was the wiser. He pictured her sleek, long body and warm brown eyes, the drowsy, satisfied way she looked when he brought her to climax. Her petal-soft skin and how she responded to his intimate touches.
His groin ached at the memory of their few moments together. He tried to shift his pounding cock to a more comfortable position, but it proved impossible given his tight buckskins.
“Merde.” He drummed his fingers on the scarred surface of the desk. He was tired of relieving his needs with his fist like some green boy. His health—his very sanity—required she accept his suit.
Martín would take Ramsay’s advice and leave his past behind. He would begin his life anew, and he would court her. While he did so, he would have Oak Park restored to some semblance of its former beauty so he would have something to offer her besides himself.
And if that wasn’t enough to tempt her? His fingers stopped in mid drum.
Well, that didn’t bear thinking about.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was no exaggeration to say Olivia and Octavia Manton saved Sarah’s life—or at least her sanity. Other than Daphne and Lady Exley, the two spinsters seemed to be the only women in ton circles who had interests other than gossip.
Sarah had not realized how much she missed her old life until a dinner party her uncles gave shortly before her birthday ball. She’d been seated between two handsome young men, one of whom had been uttering some rubbish about British policy in Africa. When he confused Cape Town with Freetown, Sarah had opened her mouth to correct him and then stopped. Not only would he not attend to anything she told him, but he would most likely feel insulted by the correction.
So, she’d bitten her tongue and let him continue.
That was the moment she realized that spending time in London—as enjoyable as parts of it had been—was not something she would want to do again.
That was the moment she realized that she missed Africa. Terribly.
It was not the grinding hardship or poverty she missed, of course, but the sense of purpose and, oddly, the sense of belonging. She’d always believed she was an outsider in N’goe. Not until coming to London did she realize what being an outsider truly meant.
She now understood that what she’d yearned for all those years was a sense of who she was—where she came from.
What a shame she’d had to go halfway around the world to find out she never should have left. Still, the journey had not been without its benefits. She’d made many new friends and also learned about herself. Not only had she learned that she belonged in Africa, but she’d also learned what it was like to be in love. Of course she’d also learned what it was like to have her heart broken.
She told herself—over and over—that it was better Bouchard didn’t love her. What would she have done if he’d asked her to marry him?—not that she’d really believed such a thing possible. Could she have stayed in England? Would she have been satisfied in her life as mistress of Oak Park?
No, she couldn’t live the life of an English gentlewoman even if she was married to the man she loved.
Again, not that it mattered. The arrogant captain had shown no more interest in marrying her than he did in dancing naked in the streets of Mayfair.
She shoved the painful, unprofitable topic of Martín Bouchard from her mind.
No matter how little she enjoyed the social whirl, she’d determined to last through the remainder of the Season before telling her uncles she wanted to return to Africa.
So she’d continued to go to parties, wear lovely gowns, and make pleasant conversation. But she spent all her free time making plans and helping the Manton sisters at their Home for Displaced Women.
The Mantons had also introduced her to the network of people working for those who had no voice of their own in Parliament: slaves. Men like Paul Cuffe, a wealthy, mixed-race Quaker businessman who was organizing a journey to the coast of West Africa and joining the party as its captain.
Cuffe was primarily concerned with settling freed slaves in Freetown, but he’d been supportive of Sarah’s plan to return to Africa and reestablish her parents’ school. In fact, it had been Cuffe who’d given her the idea of the orphanage.
“A school is necessary, but many children will need someplace to live while they learn. Thousands have been orphaned during the slave raids, Miss Fisher,” Mr. Cuffe had said one night at a dinner at the Mantons’. “They are, without a doubt, the most powerless and victimized group in Africa.”
Cuffe’s ship was set to sail only a few days after Sarah met him, so joining the Quaker’s mission was not an option. But Sarah had donated her largely unspent quarterly allowance to his cause.
Sarah was ashamed to admit it, but she’d not been entirely disappointed that she wasn’t leaving on the Quaker’s ship. Not because she would miss the last part of the Season, but because of Martín. The handsome captain had emerged from wherever he’d been keeping himself and had begun to attend more and more functions.
A week after they’d ridden in the park, he’d shown up at a lively soiree at the Mantons’ home. It had been fortunate that Mies, who’d become intolerably proprietary—offering for her hand not once, but twice—had not been invited. Martín, who’d been frustratingly scarce, had been seated beside her.
“I understand the upcoming ball your uncles are hosting is in honor of your birthday, mademoiselle?” Martín asked, ignoring the heated argument that raged across the table regarding a piece of labor legislation.
“Yes, it is, although my birthday is actually a day earlier.”
“And what will be your age?”
“That is a rude question, Captain Bouchard.”
“Only when the lady is older, or so I understand.”
“But I am older. At four and twenty I am on the shelf.”
“Shelf?” A line formed between his beautiful eyes. “What shelf?”
Sarah
laughed. He spoke English so well that she often forgot it was not his first language.
“It is an idiom, a style of speaking that does not always mean what the words say. For example, down at the heels means to be experiencing hard luck. I am sure there are many idioms in French, but I cannot think of one right now.”
Martín closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them and smiled. “I have one. Avoir du chien. It says ‘to have the dog,’ but really it means to be a very attractive woman.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “I believe you just made that up.”
“No, no, it is true. I have heard it many times.”
“But it is ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Tell me, what is ‘on the shelf’?”
“It means to be past one’s prime.”
He gave her a look that seemed to burn the clothing from her body, and Sarah’s heart pounded as if it would burst through her bodice.
“Now that, mademoiselle, is what I would call ridiculous. You are in your prime.”
“Women in England are generally married before they are twenty,” she explained, her voice oddly scratchy. She cleared her throat. “I am considered a spinster.”
“You are young and fresh, like a flower whose petals are only now opening.” His eyes settled on her bosom, which expanded and froze under his inspection. A slight smile flickered across his lips before he lifted his eyes. “And what of men? What is the age when they are put on a shelf?”
“Men are considered to be much like wines; they only improve with age.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
Pride spiked in her fluttering chest; she’d finally made him laugh.
“But not all wines, eh, Sarah? Some go bad, I think?”
Her face heated, as it usually did when she was in his company. Whatever did he mean? She decided not to find out. “Tell me more about your house, about Oak Park. What do you do when you go there?”
“Mostly I authorize bank draughts. I am in the process of completing new stables, which is apparently more costly than building a cathedral.” He gave her a dry look. “I feel as if I am single-handedly lifting England from its economic doldrums.”
“All work and no play?”
“I did explore the house and grounds when it became freakishly warm one afternoon, warm enough that I could take a swim in the small pond.”
Unbidden images of water sluicing over the hard, powerful contours of his body filled her head. Her breasts, which she usually did not notice, became heavy and full, making her bodice unbearably tight.
He leaned closer, his forehead creased with concern. “You are flushed, mademoiselle. Are you unwell?”
“No, no, I am fine,” she said hoarsely. “I just find it rather warm suddenly.”
Martín glanced around the table at the other guests. “They are certainly raising the temperature with their discussions.”
“Yes, the Mantons enjoy a lively atmosphere,” she agreed, glad he’d shifted his disturbing attention elsewhere.
Olivia Manton was scolding the Marquess of Exley on some point or other, and it was the first time Sarah had ever seen the haughty-looking man smile. Even his wife did not abuse him with the same enthusiasm as the two sisters. He appeared to blossom under their teasing and mockery.
“He looks almost human, does he not?” Martín observed, following her gaze.
“I believe this is the first time I’ve seen him smile.”
“His wife makes him smile often enough.” The not-so-subtle innuendo sent a pulse of heat straight to her clenched thighs. She realized Martín was staring at her with an odd, almost questioning look. She swallowed several times before she could speak.
“You know them quite well?”
“We spent quite a bit of time together on my ship several years back. It was a very tense time for Exley and his wife. I daresay all of us probably know too much about one another after such a close journey,” he admitted, a strange twist to his lips. “But enough of that. I want to make sure I secure a dance with you for the night of your ball before they are all taken.”
Sarah was nonplussed by this unprecedented show of interest.
“Perhaps another waltz?” he asked, as the silence stretched.
“Why ye—yes, if you wish.”
A slow smile took possession of his sensuous lips. “A waltz would please me very much. For a start.”
* * *
“I believe you enjoyed yourself this evening?” Ramsay asked, as they rode the short distance from the Manton party to Davenport House in Ramsay’s luxurious carriage.
Martín hoped Ramsay was not going to start badgering him again about approaching Sarah’s uncles. Luckily he was spared from answering by Lady Ramsay.
“Sir Cedric has expressed an interest in my last paper, Hugh. He wants to read it at the next meeting of the Philosophical Society.”
“You have put my mind at ease, my dear. I had suspected Sir Cedric of making untoward offers to you. He was almost in your lap at dinner. He also had his elbow in your syllabub at one point.” The man in question was an octogenarian with spectacles so thick they obscured his eyes.
Lady Ramsay appeared not to hear her husband. “I will have to change the portion of the paper that deals with Hume. I believe I was premature in my conclusions.”
“Did Sir Cedric have the audacity to say that to you, my love? The brute! Shall I call him out?”
Lady Ramsay’s eyes settled on her husband and came slowly into focus. “Perhaps I shall open the door to the carriage, and Captain Bouchard can shove you out?”
“Shall I tell the coachman to pick up speed first, my lady?” Martín offered.
Ramsay laughed.
His wife turned her disconcerting gaze on Martín. “I hope you are going to attend Miss Fisher’s ball next week, Captain.” It was not a question.
Martín looked from Lady Ramsay’s face to her husband’s. The baron gave a slight shrug of his massive shoulders, as if to say he had no hand in this. Martín never knew what the man told his wife. Probably everything, as besotted as he was.
“Yes. I have already claimed a waltz with Mademoiselle Fisher. Perhaps you will honor me by reserving a set, Lady Ramsay?”
“I shall be delighted, Captain Bouchard. You are a very accomplished dancer.”
Martín reckoned she thought dancing his only accomplishment. He wondered if she, like her husband, felt he was worthy of Sarah. It was hard to tell what Lady Ramsay thought, unless the subject was some long-dead philosopher.
Thankfully the topic of Sarah Fisher was dropped, and the remainder of the short journey was spent discussing Martín’s work at Oak Park.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
To Sarah’s relief, her Aunt Anna took charge of organizing her birthday ball. Fortunately, Anna viewed the opportunity to organize a large party with pleasure. All Sarah had to do was decide on a dress and give Anna a list of guests.
Anna almost fainted when she saw the list contained a baron, a viscount, and a marquess. She was also thrilled to see Mies on the list. Every member of her family was hoping for a connection with Mies. Not only was he of the best blood and a relative to kings, but he was Dutch.
Anna was far less enthusiastic, however, about the inclusion of Martín Bouchard on the list.
“But my dear, who is he, really?”
“He is a friend. He brought me back to England without any expectation of remuneration or reward. And he freed me and the people of my village from Mies Graaf. Whom you must know was engaged in the illegal—not to mention revolting—business of slavery.”
Anna waved this information aside as if it were a mere bagatelle. “Sarah, darling, I understand this captain was very kind and brought you home to us, but can we not simply pay him for his services? That is what one does with tradesmen.” She saw Sarah’s expression and stopped. “Oh, very well,” she said, her natural inclination to avoid strife overriding considerations of status.
By the time Anna
was finished with the list, the ball guests numbered no fewer than five hundred names. The dinner before the ball would also be enormous. There were to be two tables, each seating thirty. As much as she wished to sit next to Martín, Sarah could not bring herself to interfere with her aunt’s seating arrangements.
Luckily, thanks to matters of precedence, she could count on being seated beside at least one person with whom she was acquainted.
* * *
Martín looked across the vast expanse of crystal, candelabra, and floral centerpieces to the table where Sarah sat with Exley on one side and some patrician fop on the other. He scowled at the sight and then sat back as the next course arrived.
Jellied trout.
God save him from English cuisine.
“Tell me, Captain Bouchard, is this your first visit to London?”
Martín turned to the attractive brunette on his left. It was no hardship; her exposed cleavage alone was worth the effort. She was married to a corpulent, older man who sat at the far end of the table. Her thigh was pressed against Martín’s.
“No, Madam Redman, I have been here several times before.”
“La, to think I have only just met you now.” Her hand settled high on his leg. This was not the first time Martín had been the target of an unsatisfied wife—nor even the tenth. If there was one thing he knew about marriage, it was that unhappy wives were as sexually predatory as their spouses.
“I understand you are great friends with Baron Ramsay?”
“I am pleased to claim his acquaintance.” Martín stifled a yawn and moved his leg.
For the fiftieth time, he cursed his decision to attend this wretched dinner. He’d known the ridiculous rules of precedence would mean he’d be as far from Sarah as possible, but Ramsay had threatened him.
“You are behaving like a fool,” the older man had accused, catching Martín at breakfast one morning and commencing to nag when he’d learned Martín had not yet responded to the dinner invitation.
“And you are behaving like a nagging old woman. What concern is it of yours where I go or when?” he’d demanded, not caring how ungracious he sounded.
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