An Improper Encounter (The Macalisters Book 3)

by Erica Taylor

  It was another hour before Sarah appeared before him, and when she did, she quite took his breath away. Gone were the stodgy greys, replaced by a soft cotton dress of cinnamon—not quite brown, red, or orange, but a happy combination of all. The color lit up Sarah’s face, brightening her eyes and the color in her cheeks, pulling out the red tones in her hair. The transformation was startling, even her dark chocolate hair had been woven into a looser coiffure, pinned atop her head, instead of the tightly wrapped knot at the base of her neck. She was lovely before, even drowned in her widow darks, but in such a warming color, Sarah was stunning.

  “I told you, you were well suited to wear color,” he said, knowing that probably wasn’t the perfect thing to say but his thoughts had been scattered to the winds.

  “Wait until you see me this evening in yellow,” she replied with a wink, her eyes glittering as they never had before. She looked more relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted, and he hoped she would never go back to wearing such depressing garments.

  “This looks all right?” Sarah asked him. “Truly?”

  “You are a vision,” he replied.

  “Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze, blue washing with blue. “Not just for the compliment and the dress, but . . . but for knowing what I needed. I am usually the one taking care of people and seeing to their needs, so I am particularly grateful when someone does it for me.”

  Stepping towards her, he pulled her into his arms, cocooning her in his embrace, and he felt her sigh against him, this strong woman who put everyone first but often forgot herself in the process.

  Pressing his lips onto her hair, the faint scent of her lemon soap still fragrant from the night before. “I am happy there was something I could do for you.”

  “Right,” she said, stepping out of his arms. Her face was bright, though awash with emotion. “Would you allow me to return the favor? Have you anything to wear this evening?”

  He offered her his arm and led her out of the shop.

  “Actually, I do have evening clothes with me, or something that will work,” he answered, side stepping a pair of boys playing tag down the sidewalk. “I will not allow you to reciprocate. I am afraid, my dear Sarah, that this is one gift you will just have to accept without repaying.”

  “Very well,” she replied reluctantly, but it didn’t seem to dampen her mood. There was music coming from the far end of street, at the very top of the hill. William’s eyebrow rose in question, and she nodded eagerly.

  The top of the street opened into a large square where a trio of violinists were amusing the crowds with lively music. Children moved about in quartets filling the space before the musicians, dancing and clapping to the popular choreography, much to the amusement of the adults, and those gathered sang along with the folk songs.

  A vendor approached, selling toasted chestnuts in a warm folded paper. Sarah’s eyes lit up, but she didn’t say anything. She did not need to. William handed a few coins over to the vendor who handed Sarah her treat.

  “Have you ever indulged in such a thing?” Sarah asked, nodding to the vendor for the sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar atop the chestnuts.

  “I admit, I’ve never had one,” William confessed.

  The handful of warmed chestnuts were slit through their paper-thin shells, and Sarah peeled one with ease, though not without covering her fingers in sugar and cinnamon.

  She held the chestnut out for him and he popped it in his mouth. Soft and spongy, nothing at all like a nut as he was expecting. The flavor reminded him of a sweet potato.

  Sarah laughed at his shocked expression.

  “You could have given me warning of what to expect,” he said, taking another chestnut and peeling it before offering it to her.

  “And deny myself the enjoyment of your reaction?” she asked with a raised brow, accepting the treat from him.

  “Where have you tried these before?” he asked as she chewed and swallowed. “Are there many roasted chestnut vendors on the streets of London?”

  “I grew up on an apple orchard,” she explained, peeling another chestnut. “We have a festival like this in the village near my brother’s estate. There are only so many things you can sell at such a fair.”

  “Indeed,” he said, taking another for himself. “What else do they do at these celebrations?”

  “Ours included all sorts of fun things with apples. Bobbing for apples in a large water basin, drinking fresh juice pressed from apples, the lovely pies and tarts made with apples, and even having an apple whittling contest.”

  “Tell me you’ve whittled an apple,” he pleaded, popping another nut into his mouth.

  She smiled sheepishly. “I tried, once, but it was dreadful, and I sliced my thumb open. See, here—” she showed him a faint silvery line on her thumb, and he nodded, impressed.

  “So you cut your thumb, and your father took away your knife and apple?”

  “Not exactly,” she replied. “I wrapped by thumb with a strip of my dress and tried again. My brother Andrew found me in my secret hiding spot at the back of the hothouses, surrounded by bits of apples. He actually won the contest that year, now that I think about it.”

  “Is this the brother that inherited a title?” he asked.

  Nodding, she replied, “Years after that.” She glanced up at him, waiting for him to ask more, but he held his curiosity in check.

  “What a shame you never learned how to whittle properly,” he said.

  “Oh, I can whittle just fine, thank you,” she replied with a laugh. “Just not apples.”

  “Your childhood sounds charming.” He turned her up the street, and they strode further into the festival.

  “It was a charming childhood,” she admitted. “I was surrounded by more siblings than I knew what to do with. They call me ‘Sister Sarah,’ because I am so pious and severe, like a nun, I suppose.”

  “Or so they think,” William uttered under his breath, but Sarah heard it.

  “Quite,” she agreed, smirking. “I had a mother and father who loved me. My father was not the most attentive parent, yet I still knew his affection for me. It is a shame all that charm is eclipsed by the tragedy that ended the carefree years of adolescence. It is sometimes difficult to remember the good memories when they are so often overshadowed by the bad.” She glanced at him. “Was your childhood not a happy one?”

  Crumbling the empty bag into a wad of paper, William dropped it in a nearby bin for rubbish. Turning to face her, a wave of panic flashed through him as he prepared to utter the truth, or at least part of it. “I was born to a duke who gave me his name but openly condemned me as a bastard and no child of his, so no, it was not a happy childhood.”

  Holding his breath, William watched her face, her eyes, waiting for a reaction, for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

  Sarah blinked blankly at him, no hint of emotion or surprise in her eyes but she nodded. “How very unfortunate for you.”

  “Do you want to know which one?” he asked.

  She studied him. “I am the daughter of a duke. Would you like to know which one?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Then, no,” she continued. “It does not matter to me which duke is your father.”

  “Does the illegitimate part bother you?”

  Shaking her head, she replied, “Should it? You had no control over the fidelity of your parents’ marriage at the time of your birth, so I won’t fault you for it.”

  “Most people don’t feel the same way.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Most people are fools.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken,” he laughed, tucking her close to his side.

  They meandered further into the crowded streets, sinking deeper into the festivities, the crowd closing around them, embracing them as their own.

  Five hours later, Sarah stood again before a reflecting glass, wondering if the image before her was truly her own. The golden yellow gow
n was just as beautiful as before, the color seeping its happiness into her soul. She truly hated the blacks and greys of her widowhood. Could she leave them behind? If William was with her, she could.

  Not wanting to make him wait longer for her, as the assembly would have started by now, she quit their room at the Swan and Hoof, making her way carefully down the stairs. William was waiting for her in the taproom, and she spotted him instantly. Even sitting, his height made him stand out from the crowd, amongst those wishing to avoid the festivities or to be drunk when their wives forced them to attend.

  Sarah was struck dumb as she took in the sight of him. His light blond hair had been combed through, the locks that constantly fell in his face were now brushed to the side. He was dressed in a navy evening jacket, beige striped waistcoat, and fawn pantaloons tucked into black boots, buffed to a shine. It was a finer ensemble than she expected him to own. He said he was the son of a duke, which was far higher born than she had originally assumed, though his estrangement from his father likely meant he had little access to his family’s resources. His clothing indicated he was more financially stable than she originally believed. He was a conundrum, but for now she didn’t care.

  She truly didn’t care he was illegitimate either. What sense was there in blaming a child for their parents’ indiscretion? If the man felt betrayed by his wife, then that was something to be settled between the two adults. The child was hardly to blame, and yet he was the one to carry the burden of the consequences. If anything, William was to be commended for making something of himself, despite what sounded like an emotionally abusive father. Escaping to Scotland was the best thing that he could have done.

  Looking up, he met her gaze, a lazy smile stretching slowly across his lips, as he inspected her, his eyes trailing up and down her length. William rose slowly to his feet and crossed the short distance of the taproom, oblivious to the patrons and barmaids watching the pair of them none too discreetly.

  Taking her gloved hand, he brushed his lips across the backs of her knuckles, his eyes refusing to look away from hers.

  This is madness, Sarah thought to herself, not wanting to trust what her heart was screaming at her. Rationally, everything about this was wrong—her feelings for him were too strong so early in their acquaintance, lending to her reckless behavior where he was concerned, and yet, everything she felt about him seemed so right.

  Wordlessly, William offered his arm and she tucked her hand just below his elbow.

  Stepping out into the clear night, the air was crisp, and stars glittered brightly overhead. Sarah took in a lungful of the fresh air, the cool autumn air freshening. There was a magic in the air, she could feel it in the cool breeze that waltzed past, rustling in the leaves, and in the crickets serenading as they strolled up the street, nodding to various passersby, like they were a part of the festivities. Like they belonged there, together.

  “You were right,” William admitted, glancing down, a glisten in his dark blue eyes.

  “I usually am,” Sarah replied with a smirk. “But about what specifically?”

  Glancing to her gown he said, “Yellow is better than cinnamon.”

  Sarah didn’t reply; she simply gazed up at the man at her side, wondering when their little happy bubble would pop and they would be thrown back to reality.

  Reality was not pretty. William at her side was simply . . . lovely.

  The assembly was held above the town hall just a few blocks away from the Swan and Hoof. The windows were practically glowing from the light inside, shadows of dancing couples stretching onto the street below, laughter and cheerful music floating out the open windows.

  Sarah blinked against the luminous entrance hall, the contrast from the inky blackness of the nighttime skies outside meant that it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Following the parade of townspeople up the stairs and into the assembly rooms, the sweet scent of beeswax and wood paneling was intoxicating, and the festive energy pulsing in the room was infectious.

  The assembly was like nothing Sarah had seen in a very long time. The dancing events she frequented were ton events, where your emotions were inhibited, energy repressed, and amusement trampled down into the outward appearance of indifference. Members of the ton were not excited; they did not laugh throughout the dancing or cheer for the musicians at the conclusion of the tune. The people here were as far from the refined drones of the haute ton as one could be, and Sarah loved every moment of it. A chance to be free, to breathe and relax and not worry every excruciating second that you were behaving exactly as was expected.

  After Geoffrey’s death, Sarah had decided to be formidable, a severe dragon within society, one who would pass unnecessary judgment down upon the lesser mortals of the ton, who could make or break a débutante′s season on her word alone. But the past few days, or rather past few months, her heart had not been invested as it once was; society had begun to leave a rather harsh sting in her ears, instead of being her one passion.

  But this! Sarah thought, her eyes brimming with glee, this sort of happiness was what she was missing in her life. These people cared not about the confines of high society or who danced with whom or who had the most fashionable gown or money—these people came together with the intention to celebrate the harvest, a symbol their lives would continue and their happiness would endure. They were content to be amongst friends and family, merely for the purpose of being together.

  A broad grin was spreading across Sarah′s face. Her eyes lit up with excitement as she realized she was itching to take part, looking up at William with probably too much emotion, her face definitely revealing more than she wanted him to know, but somehow none of it mattered. What a brilliant man for suggesting such an excellent idea. Somehow, he knew exactly what her soul needed to survive.

  “Would you like a glass of the lemonade?” William asked Sarah, leaning down to her ear so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music.

  She shook her head. “Not just yet,” she replied with a grin and an excited gleam in her blue eyes. “Look, they’ve announced a minuet. Let’s dance, William.”

  “Sarah, I haven’t danced the minuet since University,” he said to her in a hushed voice.

  “You’re not likely to have forgotten the steps,” she chided, grasping his hand and tugging him towards the row of assembled dancers.

  “It would be quite the spectacle should I misstep and the entire line fall with me,” he lamented. “If you’re willing to risk it . . .”

  “William,” she said, turning towards him, grasping the lapels of his coat jacket and pulling him towards her. “Stop talking, and just dance with me.”

  Trying not to stumble over his own feet, William realized he was irrevocably in love with this woman.

  Not surprising, he thought, reveling in his silent admission, watching Sarah turn in time with the music, floating elegantly through the steps as they interlaced in and out of the other dancers, their hands touching briefly as the steps brought them together and the chill of their separation as the dance moved them apart. It was a livelier minuet than he remembered ever dancing, but it didn’t bother him in the least. Whatever it took to create the look of pure enjoyment and wonderment on Sarah’s face, he would endure on repeat.

  How could he not have fallen in love with her? Beneath her thick veneer of widowhood was a vibrant beauty, her light peeping through the cracks of the darkness she had wrapped herself in. Something about her spoke to him, wanting to claim her. The thought of confronting his dying father was not as daunting as he had believed it to be before, knowing he had her to return to on the other side. For her to give him strength was frightening, but that in itself was empowering.

  Perhaps someone could love him for him, despite his sullied birth. His father had drilled into him that being a bastard meant he would be unloved. His mother’s parents had taken him in and eased such a burden from his young mind, but there had always been a nagging feeling that his father had been right
. His affections had been rebuffed before upon learning of his sullied status.

  But Sarah hadn’t cared. Shrugged it off as if his life’s greatest pain was nothing to worry about. Nothing to be ashamed of, though his own history had taught him something different. But perhaps it was Sarah who was different. Maybe she made him different.

  Grinning at the exuberance on her face, the life emanating from her, more than he had seen in three days, his heart ached with every ounce he was feeling for her. He was afraid to believe it could be true, that one could fall in love in two days, that such a thing could blast through the darkness he felt inside.

  They danced every dance together, intertwining through the crush of people as each dance brought new steps to follow and partners and quartets changed with each set. As each minute ticked off the evening, bringing them closer and closer to the end of the night, closer to London, to the end of their time together.

  This cannot be the end, William decided, almost pleadingly with himself, with time, with fate. Life wouldn’t be so cruel to bring her into his life, give him a glimpse of utter happiness and take it all away. It would not happen.

  Handing Sarah a glass of sweet lemonade, she blinked up at him, almost coyly, through her lashes. She took a sip of her drink, before setting her glass aside, her eyes dropping to his lips.

  A familiar tune penetrated his musings, and he glanced at Sarah.

  “Is that a waltz?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” she answered.

  She didn’t comment further, but watched the nearly empty dance floor as two brave couples stood up for the dance.

  “I know the steps to a waltz, Sarah.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You do?”

  Nodding, he slipped his hand into hers and gave her fingers a light squeeze.

  “Though,” he said, drawing her towards the dance floor, “if I step on your toes, you mustn’t laugh.”