The Reluctant Heiress

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by Evelyn Richardson


  She was not to be alone for long, however. Wiggins appeared almost instantly with Alistair hard on his heels. “Lord Farringdon to see you, my lady.”

  “Yes, Wiggins. Thank you, Wiggins.” Sarah nodded regally to the butler. She was not at all certain she liked the way the earl was practically bursting in on her without giving her the chance to collect her wits. She never liked to be told what to do, and at the moment she was under the distinct impression that this man was about to try to make her do something even though she was not quite sure what it was.

  Sarah was correct. Already ill at ease as to how to broach the subject of marriage to an independent young woman who was terrifyingly capable of coping with any situation, Alistair had been entirely thrown off balance by the presence of the Reverend Mr. Witson.

  “What was he doing here?” Alistair blurted out before he could think how blatantly interfering that sounded and of how such a remark would have infuriated him if he had been the recipient.

  “How dare you!” Ill at ease herself, Sarah was goaded into a thoughtless retort. “He was asking me to marry him, not that it is any of your concern.”

  “What?” Alistair thundered.

  “What do you mean, what? I do not suppose that it is such an absurd notion, my lord. I may not be as fashionable or as beautiful as Rosalind, but I am not repulsive, after all. It is not unthinkable that he might wish to make me his wife.”

  Ordinarily, Alistair, a past master at soothing feminine hysterics, would have stopped right there and done his best to calm her with reassuring words, but he was shaken to his very depths by the thought of her with another man—so shaken that he could only shout at her. “You are not going to marry that... that... prig!”

  Sarah froze. No one, not since she had been eleven and Harold had tried to order her off his prize hunter, had addressed her in such a fashion. “And why, pray tell, am I not?” Her voice was dangerously quiet.

  Too late, Alistair realized what he had done. There was nothing for it now but to continue on in the same reckless fashion in which he had begun. “Because you are going to marry me,” he gasped, pulling her roughly into his arms.

  Too astonished to do anything, Sarah stood there, her brain in a whirl, as he brought his lips down on hers. It was incredible. Lord Farringdon, libertine of libertines, the man who had not even succumbed to Rosalind’s manifold charms, was asking her to marry him? No, he was not asking her, he was telling her, and that was something she was not going to stand for, no matter how heavenly it felt to be in his arms again. And it did feel heavenly. Her lips parted under his, and for a moment she longed to kiss him back, but with the greatest effort imaginable Sarah forced herself to pull away. “No!”

  Alistair had himself well in hand now. The kiss had done it. He knew it was meant to be. He had felt it. It had been just the slightest of tremors, but the response had been there, buried deep below the surface, but it had been there. The fear that had been fueling his anger evaporated, and he finally stopped to consider what she must think of him. “I beg your pardon, Sarah, I truly do. I had not meant it to be this way, but I saw the vicar and I feared the worst. I know what you think of my reputation. I know how much you admire the Reverend Mr. Wilson and, well, I was, er ... jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Sarah was incredulous. “You?” She did not know what to think. She wished desperately to believe him. In fact, she realized that there was nothing she wanted more than to spend the rest of her life with Alistair, but she was afraid— afraid to become yet another one of the women who believed his flattering words and fell victim to his legendary charm.

  Alistair saw the battle raging within her. “Please, Sarah. You know we belong together. No two people could have done what we have done and not be meant for one another.” He reached out and drew her close to him again, tilting up her chin to look deep into her eyes.

  “No. I can’t, I mean I won’t,” she whispered.

  “Won’t what, sweetheart?”

  “I won’t be another one of your women, Alistair.”

  He laughed out loud. “I am not asking you to be another one of my women, Sarah. I am asking you to be the woman in my life, just as you are the only woman I have ever said I loved.”

  That stopped her in her tracks, and she looked up at him in astonishment.

  “I may be a rake, but I am not a deceiver, Sarah. I never promised any woman my love—only admiration for her beauty or her charm. I would never promise anything but love to you, and I do love you so very much. Please, Sarah.”

  He kissed her, gently at first, exploring her lips with his until they opened underneath his, and she kissed him back shyly and then with increasing passion. At last it was Alistair’s turn to pull away. “Sarah, you have not answered me yet.”

  “I know. It’s just, you see, that I am not sure. I have never been in love before and I do not know ...”

  He pulled her against him. “Neither have I, and I am as unaccustomed to this as you are. Please do not leave me to suffer this alone. I need you, Sarah. I want you and I won’t stop trying to make you my wife no matter how long it takes me.”

  Recognizing that she was dealing with someone who knew his own mind as much as she did and who was equally determined, Sarah at last allowed herself to believe that what the earl was saying might actually be true. One look into his eyes convinced her of it. She had never seen such warmth and admiration—yes, it must be love—in anyone’s eyes as she now did in his. “Yes, Alistair,” she sighed as she allowed herself at last to relax in the magical strength and security of his embrace.

  To Ora Anderson

  with admiration.

  Copyright ©1996 by Evelyn Richardson

  Originally published by Signet (0451170881)

  Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

 

 

 


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