“The two of you deserved it. And I only found them because I stuck my hands--my bare hands!--in my pockets, and proceeded to smash into the ickiest substance I’d ne’er felt in my living life!” Her face twisted at the memory. “Oh, and the smell!” She did a full body shiver that made the curls atop her head bounce. “Disgusting.”
“We’re not much different now, you know, Sebastian and I. Only older. And a bit larger.”
“And more mischievous,” she added, and Justin smiled knowingly, unable to argue.
TWELVE
Sara paused at an arch in the hall, just before the next arch that led into the parlor where the duchess’s guests had gathered.
She took a deep breath. Justin had just entered the room, the duchess, Caroline, tucked neatly on his arm, and they’d been laughing. House parties were supposed to be this way, she reminded herself. Happy, lighthearted gatherings in which one could let one’s self cleverly slip across the boundaries of propriety, if only for several days at a time.
Only Sara wasn’t feeling so lighthearted.
Happy wasn’t what she’d call herself at present, either.
She’d changed into one of her newer dresses; a pale pink muslin trimmed in tiny bows, two of which gathered the material at her shoulders, another gathering the low-cut neckline, while the rest were smartly placed all around the skirt. Lana, who had been aberrantly silent since their arrival in Worcester, had aided in re-pinning her hair, leaving a few strands to frame her face and neckline, even suggesting she add a few drops of lavender oil to her wrists and in between her bosom.
All that remained was the simple task of intermingling with the rest of the party.
The room had fallen silent when he and the duchess walked inside. Mesmerized, all of them, Sara imagined. Justin had that time suspending effect when he entered a room, and Caroline, whom Sara immediately liked upon their introduction upstairs, undoubtedly possessed the same attribute. Sara wondered if they, she and Justin, would have the same spellbinding aura as husband and wife.
She suspected they would.
Then again, any woman would appear all the more breathtaking on his arm.
Yes, her betrothed was a beautiful man, and that made her grin a little in spite of herself. She took a step forward, then another, until finally she was at the door of the parlor, and Anna was waving for her to come inside.
Though she didn’t move the room to total silence, as Justin and Caroline had, the guests quieted their chatter long enough to regard her presence. Cav stopped the slower rendition of the rondo he was playing on the pianoforte, favored her a wide grin, and proceeded to pick up on a familiar Irish jig.
Sara couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him.
A dream, it was, Cav being in England. And looking just the same as she remembered in his stylish ensemble of cream trousers and matching waistcoat, offset by a brilliant emerald green jacket. She’d missed him. Missed dancing with him, talking with him. Missed that feeling of a man expressing interest in what she had to say, no matter how great or small. No one had ever listened to her so attentively.
Well. Except for Justin. But that was neither here nor there considering he’d chosen to behave as a child and chide her for nearly accepting another man’s marriage proposal.
Which, to Sara’s mind, was utterly ridiculous.
Cav would have never made such an explosive display; hotheaded behavior wasn’t in his blood. He was the epitome of class. Always well-dressed, always polite, always smiling, always willing to strike up an intelligent conversation. And he was always--always--surrounded by women.
At present, he was flanked by two elderly matrons, and Anna, who stood in front of him, and one other.
Sara tapered her gaze.
Lady St. Clair. Justin’s mistress. No, former mistress, she acknowledged with a tiny sense of relief. She’d been invited, too? The insufferable trollop was smiling from ear to ear, positively marveling down at Cav, her white blond locks fastened tightly upon her head, a glass of lemonade in her gloved hand. But Cav didn’t pay her any mind.
He smiled, winked at Sara.
Sara, ninny she was when attention focused solely on her, blushed and looked away.
All to find Justin staring boldly at her.
He was still angry. His stance was guarded: arms folded over his chest, legs spread shoulder-width apart, and those eyes ... His eyes appeared black as marble.
Caroline and Sebastian stood on either side of him, laughing and smiling as if in mid-recollection of some past memoir, but Justin wasn’t listening. Hadn’t so much as flinched in the past several seconds.
The silent treatment would not do; she needed to speak to him. Needed to right this nonsense before they hated each other. Or worse, went into a marriage with nothing but enmity between them. She wouldn’t have it. Her mother and father had been in love, and while she couldn’t expect such a sentiment for herself, she could see to a cordial friendship with her husband.
Collecting thoughts, feelings and nerves in one fell swoop, Sara started for the other side of the room, and was more than a little surprised when Justin, murmuring an apology to his company, moved to meet her.
Only, before she could reach him, a familiar voice spoke her name, and her slippered feet came to an instinctive halt. She turned, Justin coming to stand directly before her. “Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
Cav grinned. “Favor us with a song, my lady?”
All at once, Sara felt the blood rush into her cheeks. Anna, who was still standing in front of the piano, nodded gleefully. While Lady St. Clair’s already thin lips formed an even thinner, disapproving line.
Sara swallowed convulsively. “I don’t know any songs which would please our esteemed hostess.”
“Nonsense. I am certain Her Grace’s guests would welcome a fresh voice to the room. Especially one as lovely as yours.”
Fiendish man. Sara did have an agreeable voice. Nothing so strong as to rival that of an opera singer, mind, but agreeable enough for close company. One could only find so much to do as an only child, and so she’d spent a fair amount of time learning traditional tunes, a few local pub songs (which Lana heatedly disapproved of), and a handful of Gaelic hymns.
Still.
A house party where she only knew a grand total of four people? Five, including her new friend Caroline, but not nearly enough.
“Indeed, Lady Ballivar!” Caroline brushed past an inert Justin, and touched Sara on the arm. “I wasn’t told you could sing well. Furthermore, I wasn’t aware that you and Mr. Cavanaugh were acquainted.”
Sara didn’t answer.
“Lady Ballivar and I are old friends,” Cav replied.
“Splendid!” said Caroline. “Oh, but Lady Ballivar, please do favor us a song. And do not worry your head about my unfamiliarity of the tune. We shall all enjoy hearing a new melody as opposed to the old tunes played at every single party in England.”
“Indeed, Lady Ballivar,” someone else chimed. “Do sing for us.”
“Yes, do,” came a second.
Sara couldn’t say no. She curtsied, and moved to stand beside Cav. “What shall we sing?”
His smile reached his eyes. “I’d rather you did the singing, love. I’ll accompany you.” He hit a perfect a-chord. “How about Siúil a Rúin? You remember that one?”
Of course she remembered. It was her mother’s favorite. One of the songs she sang over and over while carrying Sara in the womb, or so her father had confided. But she never dreamt of singing it in England, at the private house party of a duchess, in the presence of her fiancé, who had not moved from his stance since Cav had said her name.
This day could not get much worse.
Sara wiped her clammy palms across the skirt of her dress a couple of times. Cleared her throat for good measure.
Cav hit the chord again. “Siúil a Rúin, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. One of our favorites from back home.”
The room grew quiet as Sara began to sing--I wish I
were on yonder hill, ‘tis there I’d sit and cry my fill--and, thankfully, without cracking the first note.
*** *** ***
Justin had never heard a voice so beautiful, so angelic. In fact, he’d wager the angels themselves were watching from Heaven, their snow white faces gaped in envy. True, she wasn’t an opera singer, but Justin had never cared for an intense vibrato. The opera was something he attended to keep up with society. To save face, as Sebastian liked to call it. But none of those prima donna songbirds held a candle to this one.
Father had been right to send for her. Oh, the old man had given his dying state as a reason for honoring the contract so quickly, but Justin knew better. His father had been dying for ages.
No, he’d used his wavering health as a rationale. Justification in sending for Sara earlier than was mentioned in the agreement. Because the old man knew Justin had gotten himself in too deep with Milly.
When he was a lad of twelve, sitting on the riverbank beside his father, watching as the sun settled into the western horizon, the duke had said, “A man needs to know what he wants out of life at an early age, Justin, or he’ll never get there.” And then he’d looked at his hands, twisted them about. Justin could still see the dirt gathered beneath his fingernails, beneath both their fingernails, a prideful mark of a full day’s worth of fishing.
“Stay level headed,” he’d gone on to say. “Speak the truth, even if it kills you. The language of truth is unadorned and always simple. Remember that.” And Justin had nodded his understanding, though in truth, he didn’t understand.
He understood now.
Now, at twenty-two, nearly twenty-three, years of age, Justin realized with sound assurance the meaning in those words his father had spoken that dusky evening in late June. Truth not only meant speaking the truth to others but speaking it to one’s self. And he’d been lying to himself for months now.
He didn’t want Milly.
He wanted Sara. This angelic creature who sang as if every note rose from her very soul. Who sat with him, laughing in a coach about how one holds their reins, her small hand encased in his as if ... As if she was already his wife. And he, her husband. This enchanting young woman who spoke a language he, in all his intelligent, well-educated, scholarly existence, had never come to understand, only to find he wanted to understand.
Because she spoke it.
When she finished the piece, a lovely, harmonious combination of English and Gaelic, and everyone began clapping enthusiastically, he became certain of one thing. Something he would have never openly admitted, even to himself. Until now.
He had fallen desperately in love with her.
He was ruined, smitten, besotted. Every adjective imaginable for a man whose heart had been stolen by a woman.
An age-old sentiment, that. But true nonetheless.
Sara curtsied and smiled, patted Cavanaugh on the shoulder, which Justin didn’t care for, though he could see in her eyes, even as Cavanaugh looked up at her with that damnable infernal smile, that no passion lay there. The man may have asked for her hand, may have had it if she’d been free to give it, but she didn’t want him. And Justin knew enough about female gazes to know when a woman wanted a man, and when she didn’t.
Which meant Justin had been a complete and utter fool for chastising Sara over Cavanaugh. Which also meant he had to find some way to apologize. And apologies, while necessary at times, weren’t exactly his forte.
Sara and Cavanaugh exchanged a few words over the sound of delightful murmurs and clapping hands, while Justin watched and waited. The friendship between these two would be difficult to bear, but for her sake, for his own sake, he’d bear it. He loved her enough to give her that.
Sara moved with easy grace around the pianoforte, smiling over her shoulder as Cavanaugh began playing another rondo. She was almost immediately bombarded by several of Caroline’s guests, including Caroline herself.
Though his patience to speak to her, to be with her, wore thin, Justin smiled, and listened as they raved over her singing abilities. Some urged her to sing again, but in her innate modesty, she politely declined.
“I’ll take it you liked the song.”
Justin nodded toward the crowd surrounding Sara. “I believe everyone did, Sebastian. Your mother most of all. But, yes, I enjoyed the song.”
“Every man’s dream, that,” Sebastian said. “Having a wife who is both beautiful and blessed with amiable vocal chords. A rare combination, indeed. Believe me, I’ve looked.”
“You’ve made your way through every woman in the opera house?” Justin shook his head. “Yet, here you are, still unmarried.”
Sebastian shrugged. “None of them interested me in that fashion. Well, not enough to carry one to the altar. Speaking of which, when do you suppose you’ll be marrying our lovely Irish songbird?”
“That,” Justin said emphatically, “is something we have yet to discuss. Father said the honoring of the contract was but two months premature, which means …” He paused as Sara’s gaze, heavy with exasperation, turned to him. The ongoing praise had become tedious, and she was looking to him for help.
“Which means you have a little over a month.” Sebastian clapped a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Forgive me for being too forward, old chap, but I don’t believe you’ll be able to hold out that long. Correction, I don’t believe either of you will be able to hold out that long.”
Justin surveyed his betrothed. How lovely she was in her pastel pink gown. Every inch of her looked creamy, from the tips of her slippered feet to the coiffure of soft, dark curls piled atop her head. She reminded him of an exotic confection, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. The very modicum of innocence.
Though from the way she kissed, and the way her hands had roamed inside his collar, as if she were just as eager to touch him, he was beginning to think she was anything but.
“Perhaps not,” he finally said, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Sebastian smile elatedly. “And as much as I’d relish wiping that smug grin off your face, Lord Beaufort, I do believe my intended needs rescuing.”
Unfortunately it was Sebastian who had to do the rescuing. The call came for dinner, and Caroline had already arranged for Sebastian to sit next to Sara, while Justin and Anna were assigned on the other side, directly across from them. Worse, Cavanaugh was seated to Sara’s left, so if either he or Sebastian struck up a conversation they’d be forced to lean over her. Judging by the neckline of the dress she’d chosen, both men were in for quite a show.
Justin smothered a groan. He’d never understood the rules on seating arrangements; why shouldn’t he have the right to sit next to his own fiancée? Granted, Caroline only had two formal dinners at her house parties--one at the beginning, the other at the end--so he couldn’t justly complain. All other mealtimes were unceremoniously served sideboard-style, the general setup of the dining room consisting of several round tables where guests could serve and seat themselves.
This initial meal, and of course the last, were the only instances Caroline insisted on honoring decorum in her household. She was, after all, a reformed free spirit, and often referred to propriety as the dreaded p-word.
“Cavanaugh seems to be a fascinating person,” Anna whispered over a spoonful of cress soup.
“Fascinating,” Justin repeated, watching through hooded eyes as Cavanaugh made quiet conversation with Sara.
Sebastian, who--wonder of wonders--paid no attention to Cavanaugh and Sara, was speaking with the dowager to his right and had apparently just murmured some lewd comment. Her cheeks were turning redder by the second.
“He is thirty,” Anna continued, “the oldest of six, and his father is not only involved in the development of the steam engines but also in the preservation of the ancient constructs in Ireland. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Spectacular.”
“And although his father opposed the Act of Union or … what did Cav call it?”
“Acht an Aontais 1800.” Justin si
pped on a glass of watered-down wine, winced, and chased it quickly with a generous swill of milk.
“Yes!” Anna chirped, and then, leaning in to him, “Dear brother, why do you always drink the wine when we all know you’ve never liked it?”
“I attempt to drink,” he said, “thinking I might eventually acquire a taste for it. You were saying?”
“It will not offend the duchess if you don’t drink, Justin.”
“You were saying?” he pressed, and Anna gave him a cynical half-smile.
“Only that Cavanaugh and his father, along with the Duke of Kilkenny, have been amiable supporters of the House since then.”
“What is the point of this?”
Anna looked nonplussed. “I was only making conversation, which is more than I can say for you. Staring at Sara and Cav has been the highlight of dinner tonight, at least on this side of the table.”
Justin peered down the row of guests lining their side. Sure enough, and with the only exception being the Dowager Duchess of Clitheroe, who was on the brink of falling asleep in her soup bowl, all eyes were pointed in the general direction of Sara and Cavanaugh.
“Of course, they could be looking at Sebastian,” Anna suggested. “Shameless, that one.”
“He’s only being polite to an aging woman. You mustn’t think so ill of Sebastian, Anna. He’s not a bad man.”
Anna’s jaw tightened. “You know why I don’t like him.”
Justin set down his spoon and tilted his head toward his sister, keeping a covert eye on his intended. “It might interest you to know that upon Lady Alwin giving birth to Sebastian’s alleged child, the native origin of its father was immediately thrown into question.”
The small space between Anna’s blond brows snapped together. “What do you mean, native origin?”
“Did you know,” he continued, ignoring the icy glare he was receiving from Milly, who was seated on the other side and further down, “that prior to Sebastian asking for Lady Alwin’s hand, she had spent the past several weeks traveling across Brazil with her family? Apparently the marquess has a fascination with other cultures, and has spent the better part of his life studying those of, shall we say, less-fortunate, uncivilized lands? Not that Brazil is uncivilized, mind. I hear the emperor has been quite the advocate since his taking over in ’21.”
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