Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

“Indeed.” Justin tamped down the urge to haul Sara against him, tuck her hand back inside his arm. By force, if necessary. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cavanaugh. I trust you’ll enjoy your stay at Worcester Hall whilst discussing your mutual steam engine interests with the duke and Lord Beaufort.”

  He was a terrible liar. He knew it, and so did Sebastian.

  So, it wasn’t any surprise when Sebastian intruded tactfully with, “Why don’t we all go inside, eh? Mother will want to see we’ve safely arrived. She’s spoken of nothing but you, Lady Anna, and, of course, your betrothed since sending the invitation to Mayfair.”

  Justin inclined his head. “Then we must not detain the duchess.”

  “May I take your arm?” Anna cooed to Cavanaugh. “Thank you, kind sir. So, tell me all about Galway. I hear the cliffs are quite breathtaking.”

  “Indeed, madam,” Cavanaugh returned. “The countryside as well. Truly, you must visit some time.”

  “Oh my, what a fantastic idea,” Anna said, her words fading as she and Cavanaugh disappeared up the stairs and into the house.

  Sebastian eyed them narrowly, turned to Justin. “Dinner tonight, followed by readings in the parlor. Mother wants a quiet party. The last one was much too riotous, or so she says.”

  Justin raised an eyebrow. “And whose fault was that?”

  “Anna was screaming in the middle of the night,” Sebastian said, “while running down the stairs. In her nightgown, I might add.”

  “Because you put a rat in her room.”

  “Only because she put basil in my soup!” He shoved a hand through his blond curls. “Damnable spice makes me swell up like a stuck pig.”

  Justin shook his head. “Dinner. Readings. Anything else?”

  Sebastian turned his gaze toward Sara, who was undergoing what appeared to be chastisement from her maid. “You need to stay away from Cavanaugh.” Keeping his voice low, he looked back at Justin. “At least for tonight.”

  “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

  “Because you need to calm yourself. And you need to talk to her.” Sebastian nodded toward Sara, now standing cross-armed, staring past Mrs. Brennan, as if she were in a world of deep thought. “Find out how she knows him, I suppose. Not that it matters. He’s only here for two weeks.”

  It did matter. It mattered because of the way he looked at her, the way the Irishman’s features changed, softened when he gazed upon Sara. Justin knew that look as well as he knew his own name. He’d adopted it on enough occasions himself. Only Cavanaugh’s expression hadn’t appeared to be a put-on of artificial airs.

  He looked genuinely overcome by the sight of her.

  Justin flexed his hands. “Take Mrs. Brennan inside with you. I need to speak to Sara alone.”

  “I wish you would calm yourself first.”

  “I am calm, Sebastian. Now, go. Mrs. Brennan, God love her, will doubtless prove an imposition otherwise.”

  Sebastian sighed, gave a grand bow, and put on a charming grin. The man should have been an actor.

  “Until tonight.” Sebastian whisked himself away and to Mrs. Brennan, who (after a couple of initial refusals) tucked a hand inside his arm, and allowed him to escort her inside.

  “Who is he?” Justin said after several seconds of silence.

  Sara turned, started to respond. Closed her mouth again.

  “It’s not a difficult question.”

  “You’re angry.” Her eyes were round and bright as a harvest moon. She closed the distance to stand just before him. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I am not.” Justin pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed. “I’m not angry. I just want to know who he is to you.”

  “He’s Sir Dunmore’s eldest son,” she said, but that only vexed him more.

  He could feel the veins surfacing in his forehead, a sure reaction when he was angered to the brink of yelling.

  He would not yell. He had enough instilled discipline to maintain control. “Your acquaintance with him runs deeper than that, and you know it. I know it. So, please …” He pinched his nose again. “Spare me these evasive answers and tell the truth.”

  “Do you have a headache?” she asked, apprehensive.

  “A slight one.”

  “I can help, if you’ll permit me. Here. Take your hat off.” He did, and she reached up, touching the tips of her fingers to his temples. Gently, she began massaging in small circles.

  He wanted--needed to pull away. But he couldn’t. Her fingers were cool, and damned if what she was doing didn’t feel heavenly. The pain was already beginning to dull.

  His eyes slid shut.

  “We’ve known each other since childhood,” she said softly. “Well, since I was about four, I suppose, and he, sixteen. Our fathers are head of the C.P.I.A. in Ireland.”

  “C.P.I.A.?” He stifled a groan as her thumbs took the place of her fingers, and her fingers slid into his hair.

  “Commission for the Preservation of Irish Architecture. It’s an organization my father started to ensure our ancient castles don’t become ruins like those in Rome.”

  “You’ve been to Rome?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No. But I’d like to go someday.” He opened one eye. “We should go together.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Justin?”

  He opened his other eye. Seriousness had settled into her small features, where merriment had been no more than an hour before. And as her slender fingers glided down the length of his face, heating through skin and bone, he had the strongest urge to envelop her in his arms. To make right whatever had contorted those delicate features.

  If she needed comfort, he needed to be the one who gave it to her. Remarkable how his needs had increased tenfold since she’d entered his life.

  She blinked a few times. Then: “Mr. Cavanaugh asked my father for my hand in marriage.”

  Astounding. The marrow in his bones had turned to ice in less than a second. “When?”

  “Last year.”

  “And what did your father say?”

  “No, of course.”

  Of course. He knew he had to ask the obvious, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. And she might lie, though he hoped she wouldn’t. Or maybe he hoped she would. He would be none the--who was he fooling? Of course he would be the wiser! Sara was a worse liar than he, for pity’s sake.

  “And if he would’ve asked you instead?”

  “But he didn’t ask me. He asked my--”

  “If he would have asked you instead of your father.” He paused because she was blinking again, and God help him, he really wasn’t sure he wanted to proceed with this now. But he couldn’t go back. “What would your answer have been?”

  She blinked once, twice. Swallowed. “Yes.” Her lips trembled, eyes welled. “I would have said yes.”

  Just like that, his headache returned.

  And with a vengeance. He squeezed hard in between his eyes. Maybe if he broke the bridge of his nose, the headache would go away. Maybe he would even knock himself out. Anything to put his mind on something else besides this woman. This woman to whom he was betrothed but who had given her heart to another man.

  And God only knows what else. Probably slept with Cavanaugh, for all he knew. The man sure looked at her as if they were acquainted past bows and curtsies.

  “Justin, say something.” Tears soaked her long lashes. “Please.”

  Giving up the breaking the nose notion (he did have a rather nice nose, not one of those oddly shaped, crooked things painstakingly characteristic of a great deal of noblemen), Justin raked a trembling hand through his hair, returned his hat to his head. Exhaled slowly.

  “There’s no way Cav and I could have ever been together,” she said. “I was engaged.”

  “Engaged to me!” he barked, and she jumped back a step. “How could you have even entertained the idea of marrying another man, when you were promised to me?”

  “Because I didn’t know you! Did you
think I spent my days pining over you? I had friends in Ireland, Justin! I had a life, a home.” She swabbed a few stray tears with the backs of her fingers. “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”

  “Oh, can’t you?” he retorted with all the ducal arrogance he could muster. “What did you expect? That I would just welcome the idea you’d rather have him over me? Come now, Sara, you’re more intelligent than that.”

  She glared up at him. No tears, no sorrowful eyes. Enmity, he realized, and instantly wished he hadn’t let it go this far. “I can’t believe it,” she said, gritting her teeth, “because you’re the one who had the mistress.”

  Oh, he definitely shouldn’t have let it go this far. The ducal expression fell.

  Never had been very good at it, anyway.

  “And yet here you stand, berating me over Cav, as if you’ve spent the past ten years of your life pining over me.” A breathless laugh escaped her, though he could tell she wasn’t very far from crying again. “You arrogant wretch. You didn’t want this betrothal any more than I did, so what right have you to be angry over a marriage proposal I received almost a year ago? One that was doomed from the start, for how determined my father was to preserve me just for you.”

  “Did you give yourself to him?”

  Her brown eyes raged anew. “What! How? Why?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” But he knew, deep down, it wasn’t true. No woman who had given herself to a man could manage to put on such innocent airs. And why he felt compelled to say what he said, well, he couldn’t rightly say.

  But her reaction was not what he’d expected.

  She reared back her hand. Smacked him so hard his hand reactively flew to his face.

  “Ow!” His cheek stung beneath his palm. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “For insulting me! For thinking so low of me you’d accuse me of ruining myself before I was properly married! For--no, do you want to know the truth, Lord Carrington?” She paused, asserted herself, tipped her chin. Proceeded to give him a slow once-over. “I did sleep with him.”

  Justin felt his limbs stiffen, his insides flame with anger. “If you are joking, madam, ‘tis cruel,” he murmured, but she was already talking over him.

  “I slept with him and a dozen other men. Oh, I forget all their names.” She laughed carelessly, a sound he didn’t care for in the least. Particularly since it was at his expense. “You know how it is, don’t you? But of course you do! You’ve had many a conquest yourself, isn’t that right, Lord Carrington?”

  “That’s enough, Sara.” Everything inside of him burned. He wanted to punch something or someone. Or, better yet, wanted to tear Cavanaugh from limb to limb. Then take pleasure in watching the pieces burn.

  Good Lord, he’d never had so violent a thought. What was happening to him?

  “You’re right, my lord.” She stepped back. “It is enough.”

  In a whirl of heavy purple skirts, she left, marching up the stairs, tripping up on a couple along the way, and into the grand hall.

  Justin, sensible man that he was--and though what he really wanted to do was saddle a horse and ride until he was out of breath--followed her lead. She was already well into the foyer and moving onward at a fast pace, when he, stopping for a brief moment to compose himself at the doorway, finally stepped inside.

  Laughter filled the air, accompanied by the sound of someone playing Mozart on a pianoforte. Sebastian’s lively baritone boomed in the distance, most likely greeting the other guests, and for a second, Justin swore he heard Milly’s playful soprano in the midst of it all. Impossible. The duchess would have never invited Lady St. Clair to a private house party. She might’ve secluded herself from the ton, but her morals were still well intact.

  Remembering the duchess’s and Sara’s shared sentiment on the article being unbecoming of a gentleman, he removed his slouch hat and handed it to a footman.

  He loved this place; it reminded him of the accounts of English history he’d read as a child. When homes were built to glorify the country and its leaders, and its leaders were as much warriors as they were noblemen. The smell of it was old, a welcoming combination of earth and wood with hints of the duchess’s prized lilies, but the interior itself was new.

  “Saints preserve us, Lord Carrington. I do believe you become more and more handsome every time I see you.”

  Ah, the duchess.

  Justin turned his gaze upward. Caroline, the Duchess of Worcester, leaned over the railing of the staircase, and beamed down at him.

  “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing. “Certainly your decorator deserves a raise. The house looks remarkable.”

  “Believe me when I tell you,” she said, walking down the steps, “he is well compensated for his talents. How are your parents? Sebastian tells me your engagement party was splendid last evening.”

  Splendid was not the word that came to mind when recalling the chain of events at his and Sara’s soiree. “Mother was satisfied with the turnout,” he said. “She sends her love and condolences for being unable to attend this time.”

  “Dear Elizabeth.” Caroline inclined her head. “I do miss her so. Oh, but I’ve just had the great pleasure of meeting your fiancée, Justin. She and Anna have adjoining rooms.” Her eyes, crystal blue as Sebastian’s, grew wide. “She is very beautiful. Not at all what I expected, I must confess. Oh my, but what a dreadful thing to say! Do you see what happens when one secludes one’s self from society?”

  “Ah, my lady.” Justin dropped a kiss to the back of her hand. “Truly, no one can compare to your beauty.”

  The duchess--Caroline, as she preferred to be called in close conversation--beamed. “You warm me to my very core, sweet boy. But I would venture to say that I do pale in comparison to your young bride-to-be. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve seen a face quite so fair in at least twenty years, if not more. Kilkenny must have had his hands full, raising a daughter so beautiful.” She popped her gloved hands over her mouth. “You see? There I go again!”

  Justin laughed. “Caroline, my dear duchess.” He crooked his arm, and she tucked her hand inside. “I like it much better when propriety’s not getting the best of you. Indeed, it’s why your parties are, have been, and always will be my favorite.”

  As they walked toward the sound of chattering guests, Caroline leaned in and whispered, “I do throw the best house parties, don’t I? Even hired a group of Irish musicians for entertainment this time instead of the usual wind/string orchestra. A scandalous choice in all regards of decency, especially if one is apt to read that hosh-posh in the Tattler, but you know those gossip columns never did bother me.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I haven’t a care in the world for all that nonsense.”

  Justin almost laughed again. Caroline might not have cared for the gossip papers, but she did cause quite a stir when all the stories about Sebastian allegedly spurning Lady Alwin hit the columns. Kicked one editor in the shin so hard he was forced to use a cane for weeks and nearly broke the nose of another, both of whom retracted their stories the very next day.

  No paper had printed anything scandalous about Sebastian, Lord Beaufort, since then.

  And it was a good thing, too. Word spread within minutes of Caroline’s display that she had the left hook of a professional boxer, and no one in their right mind wanted to deal with an ill-tempered duchess who had a knack for throwing good punches.

  “Speaking of the Irish!” Caroline squeaked. Uncanny left hook or no, she was still as dainty as a field mouse. “You must tell me more about your fiancée, my dear. She truly is the most wonderful creature. Are you getting on well?”

  Not at the moment, he wanted to say. “We are becoming acquainted.”

  “That is good. I suppose a bit of awkwardness is to be expected. Tell me, have you met Sebastian’s guest yet? The one from Ireland who will be working with Sebastian and His Grace on the steam engine project?”

  “We’ve met.” Unfortunately.

  “Excellen
t. A modest man, he is. About thirty or so, I presume, and one of the most likeable Irishmen I’ve met. Great knowledge on the industry as well, though I must confess, I do not have as great an interest as the duke and Sebastian.”

  “I don’t think anyone has as great an interest as those two.”

  “True. Oh, Justin, I should tell you.” She stopped in front of the doorway to the parlor, where everyone had gathered to await dinner. “I invited the Countess of Camden. She’s been a delight in our Tuesday sewing circle, and I simply couldn’t leave her off the guest list.”

  “The countess is a kind woman.”

  Caroline put on a rather sheepish grin. “She brought her daughter,” she said between gritted teeth, and Justin felt his stomach turn. “Oh, and I can see you’re not happy about that. I’m not either, but I couldn’t turn them away. Mary said Millicent hasn’t been out in a while and--”

  “Well, that’s a lie. She was at Mayfair just last night at my engagement party.”

  “Oh, good Lord! Elizabeth invited her to Mayfair?”

  Justin risked a glance inside the parlor. He couldn’t see Milly, but he could damn well hear her. Laughing and talking as if she hadn’t a care in the world. When she knew he’d be here. And with Sara.

  “I broke off the affair last night,” he said.

  Caroline sounded somewhat hopeful. “Just steer clear of her. The hall is big enough. Besides, you’ll only see her at dinner and during the evening’s events. Your days will be too busy for female company as it is. Sebastian’s been dying to go fishing, and the duke’s been too busy to accompany him. And Lord knows I can’t fish to save my life.”

  “You’ve never fished with me.”

  “Have so! Don’t you remember when the duke was away up North? And you and Sebastian begged me to go with you?”

  Justin threw his head back and laughed. “How old were we then? Twelve?”

  “Thirteen! And the two of you thought it would be funny to put handfuls of worms in the pockets of my pelisse.”

  His side hurt, he was laughing so hard. “You found them, though,” he said in between breaths. “And gave us a good punishing too, if I remember correctly. Made us scrub every dish in the kitchen until our hands were raw. Even the ones which were already clean.”