Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  “If she hasn’t already,” Sebastian put in, but Justin was already making his way across the room.

  *** *** ***

  “Sara!”

  Sara turned and smiled as Justin’s sister approached. “Lady Anna.” She leaned forward as Anna took her hands and pressed a fleeting kiss to her cheek. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

  “Costume complications. Apparently the duchess believes I should be dressing to catch a husband,” she said, looking around. “As if I could find anything worthwhile amongst these snooty aristocrats.”

  Sara looked around, too. “Oh, I don’t know. There seems to be plenty of handsome, available-looking men present. Surely not all of them are snooty aristocrats?”

  “Trust me.” Anna’s eyes stopped on a particular spot across the room. “They all are.”

  Sara followed her gaze, swallowed a gasp.

  She was looking at Sebastian.

  “Lord Beaufort?” she said, but Anna did not answer. “Your family seems to think rather highly of him. In fact, I believe the duchess received an invitation from his mother just this morning.”

  “The Duchess of Worcester’s annual house party.” Anna sighed. “She throws but one party every year. One highly private, highly indulgent gathering, as she likes to call it, and invites only her closest friends.” She shrugged, still carefully eyeing Sebastian, who appeared to be in deep conversation with Anna’s father. “Mother won’t go, but it is expected of me and Justin.”

  Remembering what Justin had said about Anna’s and Sebastian’s inability to maintain decorum when forced into close proximity, Sara said, “Will that not put a strain on the duchess’s party? Having her son and yourself in such ... tight quarters?”

  Anna let out a peal of laughter. “Quite the opposite, Lady Ballivar. Worcester Hall is grand, you see. Lord Beaufort and I will have no trouble in avoiding each other’s company. Besides …” She shifted her gaze again to Sebastian. “The men engage in manly things during the day--hunting, fishing, sporting--while we women sit around talking and having tea.”

  Boring and even more boring. By the look on Anna’s face, she didn’t seem too enthused either.

  “Lord Carrington,” Sara said, “what sport does he fancy?”

  “My brother is one of those men who excels at everything. Cricket, fencing, fox hunting, fly-fishing. But archery is his forte. There’s not a gentleman in England who can out-shoot him.”

  “Ah.” So he was a master of sporting, her betrothed. Not that she would’ve thought differently, well built as he was. “Archery takes a strong arm and a steady hand.”

  Anna’s brow shot upward. “Noticed my brother’s arms and hands, have you?”

  “No, that’s not it at all, I …”

  “Oh, come now, Lady Ballivar. My brother vexes me to no-end at times, but even I can admit he is adequately handsome.”

  Sara couldn’t respond. In truth, she had noticed his hands and his arms and his thighs and really more parts than she was willing to admit to herself, much less out loud. Modesty said she shouldn’t look upon her future husband in this manner, but then how could she help it?

  “In any case,” Anna continued as Sara scanned the room, “our two week stay at Her Grace’s humble abode will begin tomorrow. Tippy and your Mrs. Brennan are almost certainly packing our things as we speak.” She paused. “Lady Ballivar? Who are you--ah, have you not encountered the other guest of honor this evening? Let’s see.”

  Face after face, Sara searched through the duchess’s guests, some of whom were socializing, some of whom were dancing to the current quadrille being played by the orchestra. The Duchess of Tethersal acknowledged her with a nod from across the room, as did the duke, with a raise of his champagne glass.

  “Ah. There.” Anna pointed to a pair of French doors. “But it appears as though he is currently detained.”

  Sara narrowed her eyes. “Who is that to whom he speaks?”

  The blond woman before him tossed her head back in laughter, one of her gloved hands resting lightly on Justin’s chest while the other clung to a glass of champagne. Her breasts, plump, voluptuous things, strained against the tight bodice of her white gown.

  Anna inhaled dramatically. “That is Lady St. Clair, the Dowager Countess of Middleton.”

  “He appears to know her,” Sara murmured, attempting to get a closer look. The blond tilted her head to the side, her sumptuous mouth forming a childish pout. “Is she a friend of the family?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “An enemy?”

  “To me, she is. To everyone who isn’t Justin or Sebastian, she is.”

  Sara wanted to ask why she’d been invited if no one liked her, save Justin and Sebastian, the latter being no surprise. But then something strange happened. Justin grabbed the lady by the arm, opened one of the doors, and proceeded to usher her from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “Oh dear,” Anna muttered. “Detainment turned sour, I daresay.”

  “What do you suppose?” Sara stood tiptoe in effort to see over a particularly large man’s head.

  “Hopefully ushering her off the property.” Anna pointed across the crowd. “Those doors lead to a small courtyard which houses the duchess’s bird bath, and beyond that is an exit. I would not put it past Justin to--Sara where are you going?”

  “I shan’t be long,” Sara said from over her shoulder, headed for the French doors.

  “Not a good idea!” she heard Anna call, but she was already weaving her way through the crowd.

  *** *** ***

  “I’ll ask you one more time to leave,” Justin said. The ferocity in his voice surprised him. He’d never spoken harshly to Milly. Never had to. But she wasn’t exactly being cooperative either.

  Milly thrust out her small chin. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you’ll leave me no choice but to escort you off this property. By force, if necessary.”

  She laughed. “My lord, why do you not find this as funny as I? You’re engaged, not imprisoned. Yet you act as if the whole world had turned to fodder because your father suddenly decided to honor your betrothal. To, I might add, a scant of a girl whose only solid attribute is that she is the daughter of Ireland’s last decent noblemen.”

  “This is no act, Milly. I meant what I said.”

  “You intend on ending our affair,” she said, repeating what he’d told her inside. After he’d informed her that she was in attendance of his engagement party, not another one of his mother’s soirees.

  She hadn’t responded immediately, though he could see in her eyes she was shocked. Shocked, appalled, a bit angry perhaps. All of which she’d replaced with a few giggles and waves of her hand, as was her way when backed into a corner. He’d mentioned his betrothal only once during their affair, and she’d shrugged it off as if he’d told her the circus had come to town.

  Why he expected this time to be any different, he couldn’t say.

  He traced a finger along the rim of the bird bath, centered in the midst of the small courtyard. “I will not be unfaithful,” he said. “So, yes, the affair must come to an end.”

  “And what if I don’t want it to end?”

  Unbelievable, the nerve of this woman. “I don’t see how you have a choice in the matter.” He added just enough mockery in his tone to make her eyes widen. “You knew this couldn’t last forever, yet you fight for it. Even as I’ve informed you of my engagement and no longer require your services.”

  Her lips pinched, nostrils flared. She drew closer, coming to stand just before him. “You expect that girl in there”--she stabbed a finger toward the closed French doors--“to replace what only I can give you? Are you so dense, my lord, you would think a mere child could attend to a man’s needs--and God only knows how very demanding yours are--as well as a woman of experience?”

  “My needs,” he said, “will be satisfied by my wife, or no one.” He favored her an amused half-smile. “Why is that so incomprehensibl
e for you?”

  “Because no man does that. Not any normal man, anyway. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous, unheard of. It’s …”

  “The choice I have made,” he said. “And it is not as if you cannot find another protector, Milly. There are a dozen or more innocent souls just inside who would give their right hand to make you a kept woman.”

  “Spare me your charity.”

  “I do not offer charity. On the contrary, I am attempting to paint a bigger picture here, for all you seem hell-bent on looking past it.”

  “I’m not looking past anything, Carrington. I see what this is.”

  He paused. “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Quite.” She splayed a hand on his chest, just over his heart. A devious smile lurked around one corner of her mouth. “’Tis all right, really. You do know I love playing these sorts of games. Especially with you.”

  “Milly,” Justin warned. “Don’t.”

  “Oh, what shall we call this one?” She tapped a finger to her mouth, turned her painted green eyes up toward the night sky. “Something clever.”

  “How about, ‘I’m engaged, our affair is over, and you shall to take your leave with dignity?’”

  “How about,” she said, ignoring him, “‘you’re a nobleman, trapped in an unsightly marriage, and I’m the toast of the ton, desired by all men, but most of all by you, who find the urge to bed me most irresistible because you hate your wife.’”

  “Enough, Milly.”

  “‘On a whim of sheer--oh, what shall we call it? Ah yes! Animalistic instinct! You approach me, grab my arm, haul me to your bedroom …”

  “I said, enough, Milly!” He grabbed her by both arms, just below where her short sleeves ended and her long, white gloves began.

  What happened next was a blur.

  Defiantly, Milly had tiptoed and pushed her lips against his. Adding to that defiance, he’d allowed her to do it. His hands were still curled around her upper arms, but they weren’t trying to thwart her. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to hold her. She felt foreign, yet all too familiar.

  Old habits die hard.

  Suddenly, a sharp gasp pierced through the darkness, followed by a small cry coming from the direction of the doors, which led back to the party in honor of him and his …

  Betrothed.

  Sara.

  She stood just outside the door, eyes wide in her pretty face, hand resting on her heaving breast, looking ever the innocent, as he stood there motionless. Motionless with his ex-mistress beneath him, his hands on her arms, lips wet with her kisses.

  Bloody hell.

  “Sara.” Her name caught in his throat, followed by an exhale that if spoken might’ve said, It’s not what it looks like. But for whatever reason he couldn’t get past saying her name.

  Guilt washed over him, and he shoved Milly backward, causing her to bump into the bird bath with a shriek. He stalked toward Sara, but she shook her head, backing away with every step he took. Her lips trembled, the hand she had at her breast shook, and she was beautiful.

  Hell and damnation. How could he have let this happen?

  “Sara, don’t.” He quickened his steps as she quickened hers. “Sara!”

  She jerked open a French door, and rushed inside.

  And, damn him, he followed. A cacophony of strings, wind instruments, laughter and raised voices assaulted his ears. He looked left and right. Left again. Scanned the room to no avail, because she was nowhere in sight.

  She might’ve left entirely, he reasoned. Ran straight for her room where she could lock the door and fling herself on her bed. Cry until exhaustion sank in. Because that’s what innocent young girls do in situations such as these, right?

  But not Sara.

  She was standing on one side of the dancing area, looking onto the other side. Sheer terror spread across her soft features.

  Instinctively, Justin followed her gaze, all to find the reasons for her apparent state of shock.

  Sebastian and Anna. Fighting like a couple of Tories over nonconformists or divine rights or some such nonsense. Sebastian with his hands balled into fists at his sides, Anna with hers flailing about. As if she couldn’t possibly express herself without the use of her hands, at least not where Sebastian was concerned. Thank goodness, no one could hear them above the frivolity.

  Sara turned, and her fiery gaze held Justin’s for but a second before she picked up her skirts and stormed from the party, leaving nearly the entire lot of his mother’s guests staring after her.

  “Christ,” he muttered. He’d made a fowl mess out of things and in record time. She’d been in England for all of a week and already she hated him. Could he blame her? Hell, he half hated himself right now.

  To crown the whole, she’d lost their bet.

  He frowned at the sight of his sister and Sebastian. No one was making any effort to stop them, naturally, as no one ever did. Their bickering at social events had become more of an interlude now than a shock factor, it was so common.

  Forcing himself to suppress the ordeal with Sara, Justin made for the side opposite, murmuring his apologies when he bumped into several guests engaged in the current contra.

  He hadn’t danced with Sara tonight, which was neither here nor there, considering he’d managed to win her hatred within seconds. But he would’ve liked to have tried a contra. Perhaps even a waltz, if she favored being that close to him. Closeness hadn’t seemed disagreeable a few days ago, when they’d kissed in the rose garden.

  When she’d molded into him like clay on a pottery wheel.

  But, alas, that was before he’d allowed Milly to kiss him.

  He was such an idiot.

  “Brother!” Anna said, as Justin approached. “I am so pleased you’re here. Would you be so kind as to inform your friend--” here, she cut her eyes at Sebastian, lip curled with disgust “--or whatever he is, that he has no right to tell me what I can and cannot wear in my own home?”

  Sebastian’s pale blue eyes narrowed into mere slits. “I shall tell you whatever I damn well please.” He gestured to her bodice. “That neckline is too low for a girl your age.”

  “I am no girl!”

  “Enough!” Justin said, and Anna’s mouth clamped shut. “Out of here, into the rose parlor.” He pointed in that direction. “Now.”

  Sebastian didn’t waste a moment’s time. Muttering beneath his breath, he pushed his way through the crowd, not bothering with so much as a sideways glance when the Justin’s father attempted to get his attention.

  The duke cast an exasperated scowl in Justin’s direction. Beside him, the duchess fanned herself briskly, as though at any moment she might faint.

  Anna’s face was red. “I will not stand here and be humiliated like I’m naught but a--”

  “Now,” Justin reiterated.

  “Fine.” Anna spun around, wended her way through the crowd, pink satin rustling with every step she took.

  Exhausted, Justin dragged in a deep breath, and started after her, finding it dejectedly fascinating how he’d acquired the hatred of three women all in one night.

  Surely, this had to be a record.

  NINE

  Sara stared out the window of her bedroom for all of thirty seconds before she decided to go onto the balcony. The night was cool. The reflection of the full moonlight bounced off the water in the fountain below, tinting the flowers in the surrounding area blue.

  Several of the duchess’s guests meandered through the grounds, champagne flutes in hand, talking of how splendid the party was, how agreeable the music and hors d’oeuvres were, and how marvelous it was for the future Duke of Tethersal to have found a wife.

  Sara cringed. All of it was a lie. The future Duke of Tethersal hadn’t found a wife. He’d found a broodmare to bear his children. Nay, she’d been given to him. Freely. A polished present, wrapped in bows and fine paper, she’d been sent to England, and handed over to a man who would rather be with his mistress than her. And it meant nothing to him.


  She meant nothing to him.

  If she’d been thinking rationally at the time, she never would’ve allowed him to kiss her. Never would have permitted him to hold her hand, for what good it had done.

  Now he was kissing someone else, whoever she was. Big breasted blond trollop, that’s who. Probably had the wit of a dung beetle, silly as she looked, fawning over him with all the squalidness of a ... of a ...

  Well. Something really disgusting.

  Become acquainted with one another, honestly. If he intended on kissing other women while he was ... whatever it was he was doing. Courting her, or so it seemed. If he’d already planned on having indulgences with other women, why bother with all that drivel of a united dukedom, or companionship, or however he’d put it?

  A load of humbuggery, the lot of it, and so was he, the wretched man.

  “My lady?” Ah, Lana. She couldn’t have kept to herself for long. “Oh, a ghrá mo chroí, there you are!”

  If Lana knew Sara had been imagining dung beetles and noblewomen within the same chain of thought, and in reference one to the other, her endearments might have been replaced with one or two choice curse words.

  “Yes, Lana.” Sara turned around. “I am here.”

  “Why are you not downstairs?”

  How could one put something like this without sounding entirely insane? Having a mistress was an understood practice among English gentlemen, was it not? Of course it was. That didn’t change the fact that he’d lied.

  “It’s complicated,” Sara finally said, though really it wasn’t. He’d kissed someone else. And after he’d kissed ... Well, Sara had kissed him, but that was irrelevant.

  Wasn’t it?

  And why she should care seemed to be the greatest question. Why should she? Wasn’t as if she was in love with him. Far be it for her to keep him from his masculine indulgences, or whatever men called those particular urges.

  “Well, my lady, your complication awaits at the bottom of the stairs,” said Lana. “It was all I could do to stop him from coming up here himself.”

  “I don’t want to see him.” Sara brushed past Lana, and into her room. “I’m going to bed. If we are to leave for Worcester in the morning, I shall need rest.” Reaching back, she lifted the curls Lana had left from her coiffure. “Help me, please.”