“Very pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” Sara curtsied again for good measure. “Your home is beautiful.”
“How very kind,” the duchess replied. She made a small gesture to the blond beauty beside her. “My daughter, Lady Anna.”
“Pleased to finally meet you,” said Anna. “I was beginning to believe you were but a myth.”
“Honestly Anna,” the duchess tenderly chided. “Lady Ballivar has only just arrived, and already you are making her uncomfortable. You’ll have to forgive my daughter. Improper comments do tend to slip on occasion.”
Lord Beaufort gave a snort of laughter as he approached the circle. “Come now, Your Grace. On occasion, you say?” His eyes flickered to Anna, who did not appear the least bit amused by his banter. “I would venture to say Lady Anna slips at least one reprehensible comment into every conversation.”
“An accusation such as that coming from a renowned rake? Who would soon see a lady ruined rather than right his wrong?” Lord Beaufort’s smile faded, and Anna beamed her satisfaction. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Sara blinked, astonished. Where had that come from?
“Enough, Anna,” Lord Carrington bit off.
At that moment, if Anna’s eyes could have shot daggers, Sara guessed they would have.
The duchess grew silent, eyes weary. Perhaps she’d been through so much heartache for so long the will to maintain order in her own household had vanished. Apparently Lord Carrington had borne that chore for a while, or he wouldn’t have been so quick to correct Anna’s brashness.
Regardless of whether or not Lord Beaufort had started it, which he had.
“Justin, I can very well handle my own,” Lord Beaufort began, but Lord Carrington was apparently far from finished.
“Lately, your mouth has backed you into more corners than I care to admit,” he told Anna. “But it stops now. You have no business meddling in anyone else’s affairs but your own, and while I’ve been lenient on you in the past, I’ll not hesitate in denying you the right to attend the remainder of the Season if you cannot control your tongue.”
At this, Anna’s jaw set hard. Her eyes welled, and Sara thought she heard the soft, sharp catching of Lord Beaufort’s breath. He was stone faced, she noticed, his silvery-blue eyes glued to Anna, who quickly swabbed her tears with the pad of her thumb.
“Justin,” the duchess murmured. “Why don’t you show Lady Ballivar to her chambers? I’ll wager she’d fancy a change of clothes after such a long journey. Lord Beaufort, won’t you join us for dinner?”
Beaufort hesitated. “No, Your Grace.” Another pause. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters elsewhere. I will, however, see you all at the party this weekend.”
He bowed before the duchess, gave Lord Carrington, who muttered a low apology, a quick pat on the shoulder, and without looking back, took his leave.
Stunned by the odd display, Sara stole a surreptitious glance at Lady Anna, who had decisively turned her back to her brother and taken a sudden interest in a landscape painting.
“My apologies, Lady Ballivar,” said the duchess. “The air in this house has been rather tense as of late, what with the worsening of the duke’s health.” She tilted her head, her kind eyes wrinkling at the sides as she smiled.
She was a beautiful woman, the duchess. She must have been striking in her youth. “He very much wanted to greet you himself upon your arrival, but ...” Her words faded, her gaze drifted downward.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Sara assured. “I look forward to meeting His Grace, the duke, when he is able.”
Lord Carrington cleared his throat. “Shall we, then?” He offered his arm. “I believe my sister’s maid has already shown Mrs. Brennan to her room belowstairs. Yours is on the second floor.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Nodding respectfully to the duchess, Sara allowed him to lead her from the room.
The faint whispers of a mother to a daughter carried through the air as Sara ascended the stairs, one hand neatly tucked in her betrothed’s arm, while the other rested lightly on the white wood railing.
Several elaborately framed paintings, most of the past Dukes of Tethersal, adorned the walls leading to the upper living quarters. At the top of the staircase, a large gilt-framed portrait portrayed a younger Phillip, the sixth and current duke, in his Royal Navy uniform. Sara recognized it immediately. Her father had one of himself, almost identical, hanging above the mantle in the drawing room at Northwood.
“This was commissioned during the war,” she said as they reached the last curvature of the stairs.
“Yes,” he confirmed, stopping. “Lady Percy painted it in ‘15. A notable landscape artist, she is, but she made an exception for my father and the Duke of--well, your father. They’re very good friends, you see, my father and Lady Percy. She may even be at the party this weekend.”
“Speaking of which, my lord.”
“Justin.” His aside glance made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “Please, call me Justin. Formalities are most exasperating when one is in the comfort of one’s own home, in the company of family. Don’t you think?”
“But we are not family, my lord.”
“Justin.”
“Justin,” she said softly.
“Not yet,” he murmured, leading her along a hallway of rooms. “Now, you were saying?”
“I was?” What had she been saying? Somehow, in the midst of losing formalities, for which she was most grateful, she had forgotten her original question. “Oh, óinseach. I cannot seem to …”
He chuckled. “What was that?”
“I cannot recall what it was I meant to ask.”
“You said something in a different language.”
“Oh!” She bit her lower lip. “It’s embarrassing, really.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I called myself an idiot.”
He laughed gently. “Is that what that was? Well, then I shall endeavor to be cautious, Sara. I’m certain I shan’t care to be called a … what was it? Óinseach?”
Sara fought the urge to laugh at his brutal massacre of the word. “On the contrary, my lord--er, Justin, forgive me--you would be an amadán.” And then she did laugh.
He seemed rather amused himself. “I’m afraid my language skills are limited to common English and Latin. Spanish, and of course, French.”
Of course. “You have an advantage.” He showed her into a large room, decorated in matching linens of cream and dusty rose. “I do not know French.”
Against one wall stood an exquisite Louis XV vanity made of highly polished dark wood, with a large oval mirror and a cushioned, cream upholstered chair. Beside it, a full length mirror, framed in an etching of twining roses, reflected Sara’s awestruck expression. There was also wash basin, also in the popular French style, and a roll-top secretary with quill and stationery.
A smile worked its way across Sara’s lips as she noticed the window, framed in yards of rose-colored curtains with cream lace that pooled at the bottom. Through the Venetian arch, she observed she had, indeed, been given a room with a balcony.
Splendid.
“If there is anything you require, anything at all, you needn’t hesitate to ring for it.” He motioned to the bell pull by the door.
“Thank you.” She shifted her gaze to the huge four-poster bed, canopied in cream chiffon. It was luscious, covered in fluffy throw pillows and a thick, downy quilt that promised comfort. She’d almost forgotten how tired she truly was, how cluttered her thoughts had been for the duration of the journey to London.
“You are tired.”
Sara whirled about, faced him.
He was so very handsome, her intended. Truly, she’d never met a man who could put on such tranquil airs, when clearly an untamed vitality lay crouched beneath the hard exterior.
He smiled at her, and suddenly being tired no longer mattered. She was in a room. With him. Alone. Again. And not just any room. A bedchamber, with a bed clearly made for two, not one.
>
Complicated was one word that came to mind as she stood there, unable to speak.
His eyes shifted to the bed, and back to her. He took a moderate step forward. “We’ll share this room once we’re married.”
Sara thought her cheeks couldn’t flame any deeper. “Surely we shall have separate bed chambers, my lord?”
One dark brow winged upward.
“Proper gentlemen do not wish to share a room with their wives.”
“A proper husband would do no less than share a room with his wife,” he said, moving closer.
Sara stayed grounded. She’d already behaved like a frightened rabbit in his presence. She wasn’t about to let it happen again. “You suggest the execution of your husbandly rights as a frequent happening, my lord.”
“Justin.” His eyes were like deep pools of murky water, darkening by the second.
“Justin.”
“Not a suggestion, Sara, a promise. I plan to bed you whenever I desire, and, allow me to assure you, it will be frequent.”
Sara’s lips parted. Her face burned. Such lewd words, and spilt so easily! They’d known each other all of twenty-four hours and already he’d made clear where she stood as his betrothed, what his intentions were once they were married.
Right down to their marriage bed.
Sara wasn’t completely ignorant on matters of intimacy, or those acts which occurred between a husband and a wife behind closed doors. She’d read plenty and had overheard a few of the local Irish debutants discussing what it was like doing that with their husbands.
But not one of those noblewomen was married to a man like Justin. Their husbands were older, over-indulgent Irishmen who enjoyed their whisky and cigars, as well as the beds of their experienced mistresses, and spent more time gloating about property and politics than showing any sort of concern with their wives. Which was just as well when one had married a man merely for his title.
Lord, but this society was atrociously fickle.
In light of those truths of young women marrying older noblemen, Sara had concluded intercourse to be but a dutiful act one must endure in order to produce heirs and keep a content husband.
But Justin, Lord Carrington, was no older nobleman. And Sara wondered what it would be like to be--to welcome him in her bed. If he--if he made love to her. If that’s even what men like him did, how could she be certain? He was as gruff as a day laborer, yet refined and devilish as the Devil himself. How could one possibly distinguish between the two when considering such intimacies?
Justin crooked a finger beneath her chin. “I’ve shocked you.”
“A little,” she confessed.
“My parents have shared a bed their entire marriage,” he explained. “I intend to do the same. Granted, our circumstances are a trifle different.”
“We are not in love.”
The side of his mouth kicked up a little. “A maudlin sentiment, Kitten.”
Her lips formed a thin line at the pet name he’d given her.
“But that’s not what I meant. Their closeness has made for a fine dukedom, one that has made the tenants of this land prosperous and content. Their respective desires need but be whispered to either the duke or the duchess, and it is done. My parents work well together, you see. It is a companionship, a union I have every intention of carrying on once the seat is mine.”
A true marriage of convenience, Sara thought. Not at all what she had wanted for herself.
Not at all what she imagined a marriage to Patrick Cavanaugh would have been.
If Cav had desired to share her bed, it would have been out of love, not companionship, and most certainly not just because they worked well together. He would have taken care of her, loved her. Their eyes would have caught across crowded rooms. He would’ve held her hand on long walks, adjusted her shawl when the air turned cold, and neither of those maudlin sentiments would have been out of duty.
“I am tired, my lord.” Plus, thoughts of Cav and Lord Carrington did not mingle so well, one with the other. “I think I should like to lie down for a spell.”
He made a gravelly sound in his throat. “Yes, perhaps you should.”
As he turned for the door, Sara remembered her inquiry from earlier. “The party,” she said, and he came to a halt. “What is the occasion?”
He looked surprised. “Why, to announce our engagement, of course.”
SIX
The next morning, Sara found herself sitting quietly at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of eggs and cream, and listening intently as Anna and the duchess chattered about some of the latest fashions to arrive in London.
She had slept well, surprisingly, for all the gloriousness of the room she’d been given at Mayfair House, she’d only half expected to get a good night’s rest. But she’d awoken late (Liverpool had been a rare exception), allowed Lana to help her bathe, and together they’d pinned up the mass of long, dark hair that fell to her waist.
Back home, Sara might have picked an ordinary day dress for breakfast. One that could stand a stain or two should she decide to go for a ride or join the servants for a game of Rounders in the pasture.
But not today.
She was in England now, and to be married at that, and so she’d chosen a pale blue muslin gown with white lace trimming, to which she had a lovely matching pelisse. And though she’d rolled her eyes a few times at Lana, for her constant insistence on modesty, she’d allowed for a sheer white fichu to be tucked around the dress’s low scoop neckline.
Apparently Sara wasn’t the only one who had gotten a decent night’s sleep. Anna was in a much better mood this morning. Smiling, laughing. Her blue eyes, the bluest Sara had seen save for her father’s, danced as she leaned toward the duchess, absorbed in their latest subject of taffeta versus satin.
“Taffeta is much too stiff,” Anna suggested, taking a sip of hot chocolate. “Mmm, and”--she straightened her index finger as if making a vital point--“it makes for a sweaty night of dancing.”
“A constraining one as well,” the duchess put in, and Anna nodded vigorously. “Although satin does fray easily, should it be stitched incorrectly.”
“Ah, but mother, it is so very beautiful.” Anna batted her long, darkened lashes, and turned to Sara. “What do you think, Lady Ballivar? Taffeta or satin?”
Sara favored neither, though she did remember having tried on a taffeta gown at the dressmaker’s in Dublin.
“Indeed, taffeta is stiff,” she said, remembering the way the non-giving material had felt against her skin. Anna smiled. “I myself find muslin suits best.”
“Only because you’ve never worn silk,” said Anna. “Or have you?”
“Certainly not.” Sara recalled the wide selection of intimate nightgowns the dress shop had for sale, most of which were made of silk.
All of which were designed to enthrall a man’s desire.
Anna giggled. “My, Lady Ballivar. I do believe you are blushing. Daring negligees are not the only article of clothing made of silk, you know.”
The duchess set her fork down. “Anna,” she gently warned, even as Anna crinkled her nose with glee. “Not at the table, please. For that matter, not in civilized conversation altogether.”
Though certain the traitorous heat in her face did more than add a bit of color, Sara couldn’t help but find Anna positively intriguing. Her hair was the hue of sunshine, her creamy complexion smooth and unblemished, eyes an odd shade of deep, azure blue. And her smile dazzled, just like her mother’s.
Just like Justin’s.
Bewildering, it was, that a girl as beautiful as Lady Anna should still be unwed. In Ireland, she would have already been bombarded with marriage proposals, each one better than the last.
Anna traced a fingertip over the flowery designs on the tablecloth. “So, do we all know what we’re wearing to the party?”
“I think you should wear your light green gown, Anna.” The duchess laid a stilling hand atop her daughter’s wrist. “That color looks
heavenly on you.”
Anna’s eyes flickered to Sara. “And you, Lady Ballivar?”
“I’m not quite certain,” Sara answered truthfully. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to go through the dresses I brought with me.”
“Oh, you could wear one of mine!” Anna said. “I think we are about the same size, don’t you, Mother?”
“Hmm.” The duchess tilted her head a fraction. “Perhaps the pale blue or the pink one. Or maybe …”
“What kind of hen party is this?” a low voice demanded from the doorway.
The duchess beamed. Anna became preoccupied with the tablecloth once again.
Sara’s lips parted, unwillingly.
It was Lord Carrington. That is, Justin. Even in her head his name had a poetic palatability. He stood lopsided in the doorway, fingering the brim of his hat as though he were the resident crofter, waiting to give the duchess his daily report.
His gaze drifted toward her. “Lady Ballivar’s just arrived, and already the two of you have drawn her into some sort of female alliance.”
“Carrington,” the duchess said, standing. “Good morning.” Her gaze shifted over his attire: buff breeches, tall boots, tweed jacket with no waistcoat but a gleaming white shirt underneath. “I see you’ve been riding. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you.” He strode toward them, lanky strides that covered the distance from door to table in but a few steps. His gaze focused on Sara. “You slept well, I trust?” And, as she nodded her assent: “And the breakfast?” He gestured to the sidebar behind them, filled with a variety of ham, fish, cheeses, eggs and bread. “All good?”
“Delicious,” Sara whispered, and instantly clamped her eyes shut for the ridiculous, flippant way that word sounded when spoken in his presence. Really, could she sound any more breathless? “It was fine, my lord.” She opened her eyes, her heart screaming inside her chest. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps Lady Ballivar would enjoy a morning stroll,” the duchess suggested. “The air outside is agreeable, I gather, and if she enjoys horses as much as her father…” Her gaze slipped to Sara, who nodded vigorously. “Then, I think a showing of the stables might be an order.”
Betrothed Page 6
