Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  BETROTHED

  ALYSSIA KIRKHART

  BETROTHED

  Copyright © 2012 by Alyssia Kirkhart

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For those who raised me, educated me, and believed when I didn’t. This one’s for you.

  ONE

  Dublin

  “Who do you suppose that is?”

  “Who?”

  “This rider,” Sara said, “charging up Father’s driveway. One would imagine a raging herd of jungle pygmies were on his heels.” She was standing at her bedroom window, trying not to swear every time she felt her ribs contract beneath her new pink silk corset.

  Sara Ballivar, only daughter to the last duke in Ireland, loathed corsets. Every proper lady wears one, her maid had declared, especially the ladies of the London beau monde.

  But Sara didn’t care about London ladies. She was an Irish. Every other poor soul in the world only wished they had been born so lucky.

  Mrs. Lana Brennan, housekeeper to His Grace the Duke of Kilkenny and, admittedly, the closest soul Sara had to a mother, pushed aside the white sheers. “I say, my lady.” Her eyes formed into mere slits. “That’s a soldier, that is.”

  Sara felt her brow pucker. “A soldier?”

  “Aye. Can’t very well miss that redcoat, now, can you?”

  “No,” Sara said dubiously. “I suppose not. But why would a British soldier be in Dublin this time of year? The festivals won’t begin for another four months.”

  “Business with your father, I presume.”

  Just then, the rider came to a skidding halt. Gravel flew in all directions, landing in the grass, the flowerbeds. He dismounted quickly and hurried up the short flight of stone steps, an envelope grasped tightly in his white gloved hand.

  Lana thrust a palm to her breast. “Bless my soul! Mr. Bell is sure to have an apoplexy when he sees rocks in his delphiniums! Why, it will take hours to pick them all out!” Fisting her grey woolen skirts, she made for the door. “We’ll just see about this. The duke will not be pleased.”

  The door slammed, and Sara sighed.

  The duke will not be pleased. Oh, she’d heard that one on more occasions than she cared to remember. Mostly in reference to her and the uncanny ability she possessed of falling short of the duke’s expectations.

  Well. She couldn’t stand about like a complete ninny.

  A brief stop in front of her cheval mirror and Sara picked up the hem of her new mauve muslin, heading for the stairs. Her mind raced. Had something happened? And if so, what? Since the end of the Napoleonic wars, she and her father had lived a quiet, peaceful life at Northwood, their palatial country manor in Dublin. Certainly, after all these years, he wasn’t being called back to England?

  Sara’s heart thundered in her ears, and as her feet hit the lower landing, her gaze falling upon her father and the British officer, a sickening bubble of nervousness claimed her insides.

  One of her father’s trembling hands held a letter, while the other lay clamped over his mouth. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Your Grace,” the officer intoned. “The Duke of Tethersal has asked I return, post-haste, with your response.” He fidgeted with his white gloves, while her father reread the letter.

  The hand he had covering his mouth fell, lifeless, at his side.

  “Father?” Sara whispered, and his blue eyes flashed up at her.

  “Sara.” He outstretched an open hand, which she took without hesitation.

  He bid the officer wait in the foyer, and proceeded to pull her past the watchful stares of guards and servants--the same people who had been her family since forever--and into his study.

  “Father, what’s happened?”

  “Sara, sit down.”

  Obediently, she chose the smaller of the two ornate chairs positioned in front of her father’s desk.

  He paced for an eternity, the letter clutched tightly in his hand. With every step he took, her eyes followed, and the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach grew stronger and stronger.

  “You are frightening me, Father,” she said, because eventually he had to stop. Either that or wear a hole in the already-threadbare Aubusson rug beneath their feet.

  The pacing ceased. “Forgive me, Sara.” He dragged a hand through his hair.

  “For what?”

  He took in a shuddering breath. “The Duke of Tethersal is ill.”

  Sara frowned. Her father and the Duke of Tethersal--Phillip, she dimly remembered--had a close friendship. But years of peace had all but severed the amiable bridge between them. Now they only spoke through letters, and even those had dwindled to one every several months or so.

  “I am sorry, Father,” she murmured, meaning it. “But why should His Grace’s ailments require my forgiveness?”

  Another lengthy sigh. “Do you remember when you were young, I told you of a contract the duke and I arranged? Directly after the war, it was.”

  “Aye, I do.” She didn’t want to remember. But how could she let something as consequential as being betrothed to fully escape her memory? She’d suppressed the truth for so long it no longer seemed real.

  “He has asked that I honor our arrangement, and send you directly to London. Apparently, he doesn’t believe he’ll survive to …” His throat worked with emotion.

  Sara couldn’t find the will to console him. No matter how much the news of Tethersal’s illness had stricken him to utter speechlessness.

  She was betrothed.

  Betrothed. The word sounded medieval and grim in a world where arranged marriages had been long since forgotten. The only person she knew who had been fixed with an arranged marriage had thrown herself from a bridge last winter. Ten days passed before her frozen body was found. And her estranged husband, who happened to be an English viscount, remarried within a fortnight, heedless to proper mourning customs.

  Now, Sara stood to share the same fate.

  Frozen. Forgotten. Unhappy. Unloved.

  She did the only thing she could think to do. Ignoring her father’s tears, she dashed for the stables, bridled her horse, and galloped bareback to the Dublin shoreline.

  Minutes passed.

  Hours.

  Centuries.

  Yet, she remained. Debating on whether to take her chances and keep running. To where, she hadn’t the slightest inclination. The fishermen were still out at sea, but not one of them would willingly gamble the life of Kilkenny’s daughter to aid in her escape. No matter how much she paid them.

  Sara wrapped her arms around her waist, hugged herself against the icy breeze wafting in from the Irish Sea.

  She loved Ireland. Neither could she imagine a place more exciting nor a finer land on which to settle. From one rolling hill and over to the next, from Dublin shore to the mighty cliffs of Moher, the land was beautiful and green, rich and prosperous.

  How could she possibly be expected to leave all this behind? And without knowing where she was going? What to expect once she got there?

  “M’lady?”

  Sara closed her eyes.

  “Are you well?”

  Never a moment’s peace.

  “M’lady?”

  “Yes, Lana,” Sara said wearily. “And I know-”

  “Saints preserve us, child, we’ve been looking all over for you, we have!�
�� Lana, whose naturally round hazel eyes had rounded even further as she stood there panting with fright, slapped a hand to her heaving breast. “You’ve put the entire household in a fright! And your father in such distress as he is. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Clearly! Your father is in pieces.” She shook a slim finger at Sara. “And don’t think for one minute you won’t apologize for your actions, young lady. His Grace has suffered and sacrificed on your account for far too long.”

  “Yes, yes. I know.” Irritated, Sara brushed past Lana to untie her mare. “And I’ll speak to my father.” In one swift jump, she was straddling her horse’s back, and Lana, old-fashioned woman she was, glared up at her in blatant disapproval.

  “Proper ladies ride side saddle,” she said, one hand resting on the generous curve of her hip. The other shook a rather commanding finger. “I know you are well learned in horseback techniques, m’lady – God bless His Grace’s soul – but your father still raised you to be a lady.”

  Sara smiled. Nodded curtly. “Side saddles hurt my arse.”

  Lana sputtered. “Such language! You’ll be quick to mind your manners once you’re in London,” she said, adding as Sara galloped away, “The wife of the heir of Tethersal will not be so eagerly received if obscenities are sprouting from her mouth!”

  *** *** ***

  For the next two days, Sara managed to steer clear of her father. She was too upset for conversation; more than ever after she’d watched Lana and two other servants pack nearly all her belongings.

  “You shall require party dresses as well,” said Lana.

  Sara glared at her, incredulous. “Whatever for? This is hardly an occasion for celebration.”

  “They are in the middle of the season in England, my dear.” Lana tilted her head a fraction as she folded each of Sara’s stockings into perfect little squares. “In fact, I hear the Duke of Tethersal hosts the finest parties of all. You’ll be wanting to look your best when presented as Lord Carrington’s intended.”

  Sara complied with a sigh and chose several of her best dresses, each of which had a matching set of slippers, gloves and even undergarments.

  They weren’t meant to be worn at English balls. She’d had them made for parties in her own country, where she and her friends, people she had known her whole life, laughed, shared in the latest gossip, and spent hours dancing in the arms of some of Ireland’s most handsome young men. She knew no one in England. Didn’t want to.

  And she definitely did not want an engagement to a complete stranger.

  What would he expect? As his betrothed, would he anticipate certain ... liberties? She’d been kissed before. Twice. And although neither of those instances could be considered exactly passionate, they belonged to her all the same.

  One had even earned her a marriage proposal, which her father had adamantly refused, forbidding her to engage in any further late night strolls with would-be suitors.

  “You are promised to another, Sara,” he’d explained after turning down the offer from Sir Dunmore’s eldest son.

  Patrick Cavanaugh--or Cav, as most called him--had left the manor that day red-faced in his embarrassment, surely never to speak to her again for the humiliation of being denied her hand.

  “At least until you are well past eighteen,” her father had gone on. “There will be no more false illusions on your part to these lads who can’t help but pour out all their attentions on you, Sara. You’re the most beautiful girl in Ireland. At least do right by allowing them to find another. Someone who is not already spoken for.”

  There had been no point in arguing.

  Even now, she knew there was no use in starting a quarrel. The duke had little tolerance for the desperate pleadings of a headstrong young woman. Even those of his own daughter.

  Her father’s word, calm and collected though he spoke it, was always final.

  Lana sent for several footmen to carry Sara’s belongings downstairs and to the awaiting coach, while Sara took one last look at the room she’d occupied since she was but a small child.

  Everything dear to her had been packed. The small cameo frame which held her mother’s photograph, the tattered doll that had been her favorite, and the musical ballerina trinket box containing her mother’s jewelry.

  All that remained of her previous life was a four-poster bed, matched draperies, and the paintings of the Irish countryside she’d cherished since childhood.

  And she’d never see it again.

  “Come, Sara,” Lana urged. “Your father awaits belowstairs.” She hesitated. “He’s sending me with you.”

  Sara snorted. “Doubtless to ensure I don’t run away.” She shouldered past Lana for the stairs.

  But the maid caught her by the arm. “My lady,” she murmured as Sara whirled around.

  Worry, and something which looked a bit like disappointment, tautened Lana’s features. “Please do not make this any harder on your father than it already is. No, listen to me, I beseech you.” She drew a languid breath. “His Grace doesn’t wish to send you away any more than you want to go, my lady, but this is irreversible. And if there is one thing His Grace stands by more than anything, it is his word. He will not dishonor the Duke of Tethersal by breaching a contract.”

  “Even if it means my unhappiness.” Sara jerked her arm free.

  The duke, her father, was chatting with the driver when Sara approached. He regarded her evenly for a moment, took inventory of her appearance, watched in mild amusement as she threaded her fingers into her new calfskin gloves.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  He mirrored it, and, evidently satisfied, continued with his conversation.

  Sara heaved a sigh and turned away, cursing herself for not fleeing two days ago when she had the chance. She could’ve surely made it to Galway by now, begged for Dunmore’s protection, and persuaded Cav to elope with her. Her father would have had no choice then but to decline Tethersal’s request. Even if it did cost him his pride.

  Contract or no contract, he wouldn’t dare take her away from her husband, regardless that he’d already denied the man her hand.

  He was handsome, Patrick Cavanaugh was. With his dark-gold hair, fine, slightly pointed features and eyes so green they appeared as shards of emerald glass, he stood the epitome of what any young woman would want in a husband.

  Sara was no different from the masses. She knew a marriage to Cav would be agreeable. Perhaps more than agreeable. Maybe she could’ve even fallen in love with him.

  Now this.

  Now she was being handed over to a stranger. A stranger who was doubtless arrogant, self-righteous, and prude. No one in their right mind could expect any less of a man bred into English aristocracy. Heartless, haughty prigs, all of them. Overfed, overzealous, and long overdue of a good chastising from a priest, too.

  Preferably an Irish one.

  This Englishman would be no different.

  He probably wasn’t even handsome.

  “Your thoughts are distant, a thaisce,” her father said, breaking through her reverie.

  “My thoughts are always distant,” she replied. Her lips began to quiver, eyes welled with tears. Without thought, she flung herself into her father’s arms. “Oh, Papa. Please don’t make me go. Please.”

  “Sara,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Do not fight me. You won’t win. Not this time.”

  “I don’t even know him.” Her tears threatened to ruin her father’s fine velvet coat, but she didn’t care. “How can you cast me away so easily? And to strangers?”

  “Hardly strangers. True, you’ve never met them, but very dear to me is the Tethersal family. And I’d trust the duke with my own life, as I trust him with yours. He’s raised an honorable son, one worthy of you. I wouldn’t honor the agreement otherwise.”

  “But why send me so quickly? Certainly we have plenty of time?”

  “Out of love for you.” He pulled back, looked at her directly. The pad of his thu
mb brushed across her cheek. “Tethersal and I are giving you and Justin, Lord Carrington, the opportunity to become better acquainted before the agreement is fully honored.”

  He molded both his hands to her face. “But mark my words,” he said, and the graveness in his tone was so acute she trembled. “I leave it in your hands to make the best of the situation. Because in the end, you will marry Lord Carrington.”

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. She wanted to turn and run, fast as she could. Only none of those options would change or remedy the situation.

  “Now, a thaisce, get into the coach,” he said, and Sara’s lips tightened.

  She would not scream. She would not beg. Run? No.

  “A ship waits at Dublin shore to ferry us to Liverpool.”

  Albeit reluctant, Sara nodded, and allowed her father to lead her to the coach. “How far to England?” she asked as Lana reached out a hand to aid her.

  “Not far. Less than a day.” Climbing inside, the duke took the seat next to Lana, murmuring, “Mrs. Brennan,” when she immediately shifted to make room for him. “As always, I’m obliged to your thoughtfulness.”

  Lana blushed furiously. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Grinning, he settled back against the crushed velvet squabs, folded his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes.

  Perfectly relaxed, as always, Sara thought, wishing she had the strength to do the same.

  She turned her head and gazed pensively out of the small window. Farewells had gone unsaid, as farewells often do. But if she’d had the chance, she would have done. She would’ve kissed the dressmaker, thanked the milliner, and tossed a shilling to the baker for all the sweetmeats he’d given her over the years, free of charge. Hugged all the servants and, of course, the footmen, stable hands and gardeners.

  She would’ve given Patrick Cavanaugh a right proper goodbye, too; kissed him as he’d never been kissed before, though she hadn’t a clue how one goes about so promiscuous a thing. Molly O’Shannon said it had something to do with touching tongues and exchanging saliva and bumping noses or some such, the details escaped her. But certainly she and Cav would’ve discovered an easier method, as he was quite intelligent and always thinking up new ways to improve upon this and that.