An Improper Encounter (The Macalisters Book 3)

by Erica Taylor

  Sarah’s eyebrows rose, and he fought for breath. His memories of her had not done her justice, and he still couldn’t believe she was here before him, that fate had led him back to her in the most disastrous way. She was here, and he could not have her.

  Her gaze turned hard, anger coursing through their blue depths, and he knew she had every right to be furious with him. Any other lady would have reacted with fury upon being reunited with the man who had abandoned her. Yelling, tears, he had expected it all, and yet his darling Sarah betrayed nothing of what she felt, wouldn’t dare react in such a vulgar way. She was epitome of decorum, a proper marchioness.

  Her attempted indifference to him was endearing, but now was not the time to explain himself, not in the middle of her family and the merriments of the season. He knew her face as well as his own, noted the beauty and gentleness had not been a lie his mind had created. On his darker days he had thought he’d imagined her, his life taking such a drastic turn he wasn’t sure what was true and what was not.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she dipped into a quick curtsy, fleeing the room, her head held high but shoulders shaking in suppressed something—anger, perhaps, though he hoped it wasn’t tears. Strong Sarah he could handle; cheeky and silly Sarah was a delight, seductive and passionate Sarah was his favorite, but a tearful Sarah, knowing he was the cause of her pain, he never wanted to witness.

  No one noticed his departure, he hoped, though no one had seemed to notice Sarah’s either. Was there truly no one who saw how much pain she was in?

  He caught up to her in the hall, desperate for even a moment alone with her, more than the few words exchanged in the sitting room.

  “Sarah!” William called to her as she set her foot gingerly on the first step, seeking an escape to the floors above. Pausing, she did not meet his eyes, tilting her head towards the heavens and taking a deep breath. Alone in the hall, her composure was gone, the pleasant facade she had managed before was no more.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she snapped at him in a harsh whisper, turning to glare at him. Fury flooded her features.

  “I have a great deal to say to you,” he replied.

  Her glare intensified as she narrowed her eyes. “Then you should have said it two months ago, your grace.”

  His courtesy address on her voice bit into him, its poison spreading down his limbs.

  “Probably,” he admitted quietly. “But I wish to do so now.”

  “Really?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her. “You have a good explanation for how you disappeared for two months, leading me to believe you were dead, or a scoundrel, and now you appear on my brother’s doorstep, with a pregnant wife no less, and expect me to give you the time of day?” Shaking her head, she continued up the stairs. “I’d rather you’d have been dead these past months, your grace, rather than a scoundrel. Good day.”

  William didn’t contradict her, or chase after her. Anger coursed through him, boiling his blood until he felt he would hit something. Again, his father had managed to tip life against him, had managed to destroy the last thing giving him hope. While he knew any life he had with Sarah was not to be, a tiny bit of him had hoped she would still care for him, would welcome him with open arms, if ever he was given the opportunity to return to her. As innocent of a fantasy that was, he had kept her locked tightly in his box of happiness, hoping that one day he could open the box and somehow find her again. But now he doubted any of that was possible. His father had deemed him unworthy since the day he was born, and now Sarah seemed to agree.

  With a weary sigh, William ran a hand over his face, pulling himself together, and turned back to the drawing room. He would hate to offend his host, especially because his host was related to the woman he loved.

  Sarah had not expected company in her rooms that afternoon and stopped short when she saw the creature who was sprawled across her thick duvet.

  “Abe!” she exclaimed, and the pup lifted his head to regard her, wagging his tail.

  “Get down from there,” she commanded, but the dog didn’t move. He glanced at her again, his round eyes dark and filled with a typical doggish adoration.

  The dog’s sweet disposition took the angry winds from her sails, and she sat down beside him on the golden duvet, running her hand down the soft fur of his neck. He closed his eyes in contentment, his tail flicking in satisfaction.

  “What a mess this is, Abe,” she said to the dog, stroking his fur. “What on earth was William thinking?”

  Truth be told, she wanted to know what had happened, why he had not contacted her in two months and how he ended up here with a wife who had clearly been pregnant long before Will and Sarah even met. She wanted to think the best of him; couldn’t see him as the villain no matter what the evidence against him suggested. It was all circumstantial with no context. She should hear him out before making a snap judgment.

  Sarah lay back against the duvet alongside Abe, who was watching her. “He seemed perfect,” she whispered to the room. “I should have known better.”

  Abe licked her face and nudged her hand with his nose.

  “There really isn’t a point in being angry, is there?” she asked the dog, rolling on her side. “I am so very tired, Abe. Keeping up the appearance of elegant perfection when everything is far from it is exhausting.” She scratched the dog’s ear, and he leaned his head into her hand, enjoying the sensation. “I cannot handle being angry anymore, Abe. But how can one just decide not to be angry? For years I’ve held onto my frustrations with my life, used them as fuel to make things better. They’ve festered such a deep weariness in my soul—I don’t want to hold onto them any longer.”

  Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t push them back or switch off the feelings. She embraced the pain—her parents and brother dying, her husband’s death, the hurt she had felt when William stepped into the sitting room with his wife on his arm. The sadness overtook her, and she rolled away from the dog, burying her head in the pillow as great sobs shot through her frame.

  Her heart had never felt more broken; never had she felt more lost and floundering than she did at that moment. How was she to handle this? Hadn’t she already dealt with enough?

  Abe stood on the bed and shook out his coat before turning around and plopping down alongside her, resting his head on her hip. The warmth the dog provided was comforting, and she rubbed her hand down his head.

  Eventually the tears subsided, and a new calmness settled over her limbs. The light in her room had shifted, the shadows stretching long across the wooden floors as the day dragged on without her, the sun dipping into the horizon.

  For years she had felt like an outsider in her own family. The oldest sister. The widow. Bradstone Park was not her home, and she didn’t belong at Bradstone House in London either. Her family also no longer provided the comfort she sought. Her siblings were not a reassuring presence, but a reminder of the things she did not have, of all the things they had lost.

  “I am being ungrateful, aren’t I Abe?” Sarah whispered to him. “But I cannot wholeheartedly embrace their happiness when I have been robbed of my own.”

  She took a steadying breath, holding for a few heartbeats before expelling.

  She needed space from her siblings, she realized. She needed to find her own happiness again, something of her own that she made for herself. She could not rely on other people to provide it for her.

  A thought broke through the fog of her gloomy, lonesome thoughts, and she smiled, slowly at first and then a bright, happy grin.

  “I think I’m done, Abe,” Sarah said to the dog, sitting up. “Why am I still here? The love of one’s siblings isn’t enough to sustain one through life, so what am I doing here that is for me, for my happiness?” She looked down at the dog who had moved his head to her lap.

  “William once asked me if I was a different person, what I would do with my life. And I
knew the answer then as I know it now.”

  Rolling onto his back, Abe wiggled eagerly, exposing his belly that he clearly wanted scratched. Sarah complied.

  “Abe, I think I’m going to be done with society,” she professed, swearing him to secrecy, a buoyancy in her voice and mood she hadn’t felt for a while. Hope. Optimism. The idea of finding something fulfilling to do with her life.

  “After Twelfth Night,” she said to the dog. “That should be enough time to make some plans and arrange some things. Besides,” she said, glancing towards the window at the large snowflakes drifting down to the ground below blanketed in white, “this storm isn’t letting up just yet. I couldn’t very well leave in a blizzard. I’d get stuck in a coaching inn somewhere, and that’s what got me into this mess.”

  Sarah paused in her attentions to the dog’s belly and kissed the side of his nose.

  “I do wish him well, you know,” Sarah told him. “You’re a good listener, Aberdeen Gordon,” she said and paused again. “Would Gordon even be your surname? Or would you be a Hastings? Do dogs even have surnames?”

  She scooted off the bed, and the setter followed, bouncing around her feet. Pausing in front of the looking glass, Sarah dabbed at her wet eyes and adjusted her slightly messy hair. She looked as though she’d had a nap, though she didn’t feel any more rested. What she did feel was a lightness, a clear path of where she needed to go—a sliver of hope, something to hold onto, a lifeline to sustain her through the trails of the next fortnight. She doubted her siblings would agree with her plans, but they wouldn’t deny her their support. They might not understand, but they would still love her, of that she was sure. They all tended to love and support blindly. It probably wasn’t the healthiest course for nine people to deal with each other but so far, they had avoided anything drastic. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was asking to put a giant dead evergreen tree in the sitting room.

  “Shall we go down and have some tea?” Sarah asked Abe and his reply came as a sharp yap.

  “A splendid idea,” she replied opening the door. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  It was not a surprise when William found her secret hiding place, since she had told him exactly where it was. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a secret. She was certain her siblings always knew she was there. The hothouses were always warmer than the main house, the moisture in the air comforting, wrapping around her like a soft blanket. She had fond memories of her father chasing her down the meticulous rows. The sweet smell of earth and apples in the air reminded Sarah of him. Being here was like having him with her. Father had never been overly affectionate towards any of them, but he always made time, made each child feel special, loved. With ten children, that meant something.

  Christmas morning had turned the dreary grey storm of the day before into a luminescent white blanket of fresh snow, borne overnight by Father Christmas. With her siblings’ merriment over the holiday and William’s appearance with his wife, Sarah did not feel up for celebrating. For a few moments, she needed to drop the pretense of picture perfect holiday jollity and just breathe, without anyone watching her every move.

  William found her in the hothouses at the back of the main house, curled up with a thick knit wrap around her shoulders, engrossed in a book. She didn’t look up when he approached, but addressed him all the same.

  “I suppose it should not be a surprise that you found me,” Sarah said, distantly.

  “This house is a labyrinth, so I’m a little surprised,” William admitted, glancing around curiously at the rows of potted trees. “It should come as a surprise when anyone finds anything.”

  Sarah shrugged. “It grows on you. Eventually the maze of hallways are just hallways, and the labyrinth of orchards are just trees.”

  “Why is there an orchard inside a hothouse in the middle of winter?”

  Sarah glanced around at the trees planted into square bases and not into the ground. “They are experiments.”

  “Why is your brother experimenting with trees?”

  “Oh, Andrew isn’t the one doing the experimenting,” Sarah replied. “His botanist is.”

  “Why does your brother employ a botanist?” William asked, grinding his jaw in irritation at the way she was avoiding his question. She giggled to herself at his displeasure.

  “The Bradstone fortune has been built upon apples,” she explained. “Most lords are glorified farmers and businessmen, after all. My brother employs a botanist who is keen on creating new variations of apples. My younger brother, Charlie, plans to train as a botanist when he enters university next year, so he can work for Andrew eventually.”

  “That explains the abundance of apple themed porcelain figurines through the house.”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes, it has become a sort of family obsession turned into a joke. For centuries, our family has bought anything apple related, and it gets displayed here. At last count there were three thousand and twenty-four pieces of apple related memorabilia in this house.”

  “How does your brother stand it?”

  “He doesn’t live here primarily,” she replied, setting her book aside, the page corner folded inward. “So, what shall I call you? William? Palmer? Foxton? It seems you have many names, though I hardly know which one is true.”

  “William, if you please,” he replied with a sigh. “Has your anger towards me dissipated?”

  She looked down at her hands, not truly seeing them, her eyes sore from crying herself to sleep, her body weary from the shaking sobs that had taken hours to subside. “My anger towards everything has dissipated,” she admitted. “Towards my father and brother for attempting to fight off a band of highway men with two measly pistols, towards my mother for dying in childbirth not six months later, leaving me alone to care for my siblings. Towards Radcliff for his treatment of me, and for his death, permanently condemning me to this uniform of continual grief.” She met his eyes then, glistening with unshed tears. “I admit, I was angry at you as well, but anger is such an ugly emotion. It only leads to resentment and hostility, and I cannot sustain that enduring unpleasantness. So, no, I am no longer angry with you.”

  “Sarah, I want you to understand what has happened since we last saw each other.”

  Sarah shook her head. “You don’t need to explain, your grace. It is none of my business.”

  “Please don’t ‘your grace’ me,” he pleaded. “Or I will start in with the ‘your ladyship’ just to vex you.”

  A small smile crept onto Sarah’s face and she sighed. “Oh, all right.”

  “I want to explain this to you. I want you to know I did not deceive you those days we spent together.” With another sigh he turned to pace the length of the space between the windows. Sarah watched him and waited.

  “I was born Lord Palmer William Nathaniel Gordon Hastings, second son of the Duke of Foxton,” William began. “As I told you before, I am not truly his son. He was married to my mother at the time of my conception and birth, so he agreed to claim me as his own, despite my mother’s affair. But he never let her, or me, forget it. When she passed ten years later, birthing a baby sister I was not fortunate enough to meet, he said horrible things about my mother, and I went to live with her family in Scotland. The rest you know.”

  “You’re leaving out the part where you didn’t even tell me your real name,” she added.

  “William Gordon is my real name,” he countered. “It is who I chose to be when the father who hated me so much he could not even stand to be in the same house as me tossed me out and I escaped to Scotland. Even if he had been my father in truth rather than just in name, he never would have had my respect. He dealt in all things unpleasant, as long as it turned a profit. His main revenues were found from a lucrative shipping enterprise, smuggling in men, women, and children to work in brothels he secretly owned—the ones that gentlemen with unique preferences frequent. He dabbled in the slave trade, owning four slaver ships. He also used his ships to import opium and h
ad a manager who distributed it around the docks. He was a bad man, a blackguard through and through. I wanted nothing to do with him, and took my mother’s name as my own. It’s the name on my university certificates, it’s the name with which I commissioned in the army. It was the name I intended to use until I died. Until I was summoned to London and thrust into this dukedom I wanted nothing to do with.”

  “It was rather curious to have you appear on my brother’s doorstep—a duke with a pregnant duchess on your arm,” she admitted.

  “Sarah, I swear, I was not married when we met,” he said quickly, kneeling before her, and taking her hands. “After I exited your carriage, I went straight to my father’s house, Hastings House, and I met with my father. It was then I met Anna. She was my brother’s fiancée, carrying his child, and he died before they could marry. It was my father’s dying wish I marry her and right that wrong.”

  “If it was so important for your brother’s child to be born legitimate, why didn’t your father just marry her himself ?”

  “Believe it or not, the old bugger had remarried in the spring, in an effort to gain another son I believe, as the two he had were not to his taste.”

  “Your . . . step-mother didn’t accompany you on your journey?” Sarah inquired. “But your cousin did?”

  “No,” William replied with a smirk, and rose to his feet, resuming his pacing. “It seemed once his grace was cold in the ground his new bride wanted nothing more to do with anything Foxton. I agreed to a hefty widow settlement and she was on her way back to Cornwall before there was even grass on his grave. I was, unfortunately, quite stuck. Tobias is some distant cousin; he explained the connection, but it was quite confusing, though I’m sure you would understand the links between the names and marriages. He is also a solicitor and acting as my steward, my aide-de-camp, as I have no idea about any of this duke business.”