Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  “I can manage my rod just fine, thank you.” Mockery danced in his eyes.

  Sara blushed furiously.

  He took another step forward, coming so close she could smell him; that male outdoorsy goodness that made her toes curl inside her slippers.

  “And I caught plenty of fish today, though I will admit, my attention might have been more focused on fishing had my vision been unobstructed by you and Cavanaugh.”

  “Well, then, please accept my apologies for obstructing your view of the river,” she snapped. “I shall remember that next time I agree to accompany someone else to a fishing excavation where you’re sure to be in attendance.”

  His jaw set hard. “Let me assure you, my lady,” he said emphatically, “that you will not be attending any excavation, event, ball, party, soiree, or any public outing for that matter unless I am the one who is escorting you. I will not tolerate the gossip hounds nipping at our heels because my intended has an urge to evoke the worst sort of emotion out of me.”

  “And what sort of emotion is that?” she challenged.

  “Jealousy.”

  FOURTEEN

  Justin was not accustomed to antagonism when it came to the wooing of a female. Truth be known, and although his attentions over the past several months had been centered solely on his mistress, he was esteemed wholly capable of sweeping virtually any woman off her feet. Granted, his charms weren’t near as seductively eminent as those of Lord Beaufort, who needn’t more than flash a smile to get a woman into his bed, but he could damn well hold his own. What Sebastian possessed in good looks, Justin rivaled in charm and charisma, and they both stood to inherit a dukedom.

  Nothing could seduce a woman quicker than a man with a title.

  Hell, even his father’s prized mare preferred him over her own groomsman.

  Why, then, was the seduction of his own fiancée becoming harder than driving a nail through a steel wall?

  Justin stabbed a cut of ham with his fork and shoved it in his mouth, determined to quiet the hunger in his stomach. The sooner he ate, the sooner he could get out of the breakfast parlor, the sooner he could get out of this house. And, he thought broodingly, the sooner he could quit staring at Cavanaugh, who sat on the other side of the room, allowing Lady St. Clair to prattle in his ear.

  Unknowing fool, Justin thought with some sense of pleasure, though the pain in his right temple wouldn’t allow for too much self-satisfaction. He hadn’t slept well last night. What with his argument with Sara, or whatever it was that had happened between them yesterday, and the splitting headache he’d acquired afterwards, it was a wonder he hadn’t done the very thing he swore he’d never do.

  But, no. He hadn’t been that angry. Not enough to inebriate himself into a mediocre night’s sleep, grumpy as hell though he was this morning. Drink would never do that to him again.

  Pushing the thought from his mind, he bit off a piece of blueberry scone, and chased it down with hot chocolate. Cavanaugh and Milly were laughing and feeding each other grapes, with nary a care in the world for the other occupants of the parlor, who consisted of--Justin looked around--him and the footman by the sideboard. Enough to warrant their behavior inappropriate. Not enough for him to draw attention to himself by mentioning anything.

  Milly was off his hands; that’s all that mattered.

  Justin forked a bite of eggs. Added a cut of fish in crème sauce.

  How in God’s name, he wondered, had Sara managed to gain the upper-hand? Moreover, why had he allowed her to take over his emotions? From the moment she’d passed him yesterday without so much as a glance over her slim shoulder, he knew what she was about.

  And yet, he’d sat there like an ignorant schoolboy. Brewing with jealousy. Allowing her to carry on with Cavanaugh as if seeing her with another man, with the damned Irishman who wanted her for himself, wasn’t the least bit bothersome.

  Justin rubbed his temples between his thumb and middle finger, remembering fondly when Sara’s cool fingers had done the same. Only her touch had felt much, much better.

  Bothersome, she was. Outright maddening. He knew she didn’t want her would-be Irish suitor. Determined that the night before last while watching them together at the pianoforte. Still. Seeing them together, talking, laughing, well, it … it rankled.

  She doesn’t want Cavanaugh. She doesn’t. Does not.

  “Morning.” Sebastian slipped into the seat beside Justin, plate in hand. “May I join you?”

  Justin regarded his friend moodily. “Seeing as you’ve already sat down, I’d say yes.”

  “Oh, come off it,” Sebastian said as the footman, apparently well-accustomed to waiting on the resident marquess, added two sugar cubes and a generous amount of cream to Sebastian’s coffee.

  Sebastian took a sip, decided it was adequate, and waved the footman away. “So, what has you in such foul temper this morning? You’re not still stewing over that incident at the riverbank yesterday, are you?”

  Justin pretended he didn’t hear. “You and Anna seem to be getting on well. You were gone for at least half an hour before rejoining us for lemonade.”

  “Hmm.” Sebastian swallowed his coddled eggs. “She hasn’t come right out and said so but I think she may have let this Helene nonsense go.” He forked a piece of melon and added, “Finally,” before slipping it in his mouth.

  “Although,” Justin said, “I would prefer you didn’t take any more long, half hour, un-chaperoned walks with my sister. I do not want her reputation ruined before she finds a decent husband, and if someone sees her alone with a man like you ...” He paused, wondering how one puts something of this sort delicately.

  Sebastian knew he was a labeled rakehell. To be sure, his only claims to salvation were his title, his business dealings with the locomotive industry, and, of course, his close ties to the Tethersal family.

  But rakehell or no, he was still Justin’s best friend.

  “Then ...” Sebastian prompted, his fork hovering over his plate. His wintry eyes flashed with curiosity.

  “We both know your reputation is lacking, Sebastian,” said Justin. “We also know if someone were to see the two of you alone, even if it was the most innocent of situations …”

  “Like walking amongst the poppy field nestled by the river. Bird gazing,” Sebastian supplied. “An activity both refreshing and educational.” He sounded as convincing as any marquess. Sophisticated. Confident. Relaxed. “Is that what you mean by an ‘innocent situation,’ Lord Carrington?”

  “Exactly. If a situation such as yesterday’s bird-watching expedition should occur again, only someone ... say, one of your mother’s gossip-hungry dowagers ... were to see you, then I think we both know what that would mean for Anna. And you.”

  “What that would mean for Anna.” Sebastian hesitated. “You insinuate I would be forced to marry her?”

  “For all your thoughtlessness on decorum, Lord Beaufort,” Justin said, and allowed a footman to take his empty plate, “you do have an adequate understanding of the word.” He blotted his mouth with a starched linen napkin. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m insinuating.”

  “Rubbish,” Sebastian muttered.

  “To anyone who might have seen, it is not rubbish.”

  “It was just a walk,” Sebastian said after a few moments. “It’s not like I took advantage. Besides …” He stabbed a cut of honey-glazed pear and then twirled it about, watching as the syrupy liquid coated the delicate morsel on his fork. “Anna would never have me, compromised or no. Moreover,” he added, a smile playing along one corner of his mouth, “it was just a walk.”

  “It was a walk with you,” Justin said. “Reputation speaks louder than the rules we live by, Sebastian. You know that. If one of these batty old women were to see you, a renowned deflowerer of women, alone with my sister, word of it would spread like the pox.”

  Sebastian set his fork down. “I do not deflower women. These Holy Willy people do nothing but spout lies.” He lowered his voice discr
eetly, though Justin could tell he was at the brink of an outburst. “I’ve never even bedded a virgin, for pity’s sake.”

  “Too big a responsibility?”

  “Yes!”

  “Agreed.”

  Justin sipped his coffee, eyeing Cavanaugh and Milly over the rim of his cup. Milly was fussing over Cavanaugh’s injured fingers, poking out her lower lip and fluttering her lashes as if she were naught but a girl in braids.

  “I’ve never been with a virgin either,” he murmured, though he didn’t know why he felt the need to admit that bit of information. It could have been because his thoughts as of late had been curiously centered on when he’d bed his young, quite virginal bride for the first time.

  He had no experience with virgins. Too clingy, the lot of them. Furthermore, he had no desire to take what he felt in his heart he did not deserve, what wasn’t rightfully his. A woman’s virginity was meant for her husband, and that was something Justin had never been willing to compromise. Not for any woman.

  But Sara, he thought pensively. If Sara were free ... If they’d met under different circumstances, and she belonged to no man. If she, an innocent in the highest sense, had offered herself to him willfully, with no regard to propriety or the inevitable repercussions which would result from both their tactlessness ...

  He would take her.

  Without second thought, without care for the man she might marry. He’d lay her down, explore her body with his hands, his mouth. Cover her with kisses and erotic whispers until she was arching beneath him, begging for completion.

  And he’d make love to her. Slowly. Passionately. Until they were both exhausted, lying in a heap of sweaty sheets and tangled limbs. Until she knew how much he desired her. How much he adored her. How much he …

  Ah, but the thought of it, that he loved this woman, sent a flash of warmth through his body.

  Uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat. He had to find a way to make things right again. This ignoring each other nonsense was driving him mad.

  Sebastian was still recovering from nearly choking on his eggs. “What? You’ve never …?” He paused, swallowed. His gaze narrowed skeptically. “Well, Milly’s obvious. But wasn’t there Lady Ashford, Lady Wisley?” His eyes widened. “Oh, and that young beauty from Galena. What was her name?”

  “Eva.”

  “Evangeline Hartford! God, but she was a lovely creature. Hair the color of red spun gold.”

  “Yes,” Justin acknowledged. “But quite deflowered, I assure you. All of them were.”

  “Pity.” Sebastian frowned. “I should think it would have been quite a triumph to deflower such a fiery young miss. No doubt she was an absolute ginger in bed.”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Sebastian. Someone might have beaten her future husband to the finish line, but she was still a remarkably fine young woman.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sebastian conceded. “Speaking of remarkable young women, Where is our lovely lot of female company this morning?”

  “Shopping.” Justin gestured to the footman for more hot chocolate. “Your mother wanted to show Sara and Anna the Cathedral, and I believe they are paying a visit to the dressmaker’s.”

  “Ah, so you’ve spoken to your betrothed this morning, have you? No, no more coffee. Thank you.” With a flick of his hand, Sebastian shooed the footman back to the sideboard.

  “Your mother told me,” Justin clarified. “No, Sara is not speaking to me. Walked right past me without so much as a glance in my direction.”

  And he’d watched her walk away.

  That, he did not mention. She, a picture of infinite, young beauty, donned in a gown the color of wheat in early harvest, had strode past him as if he were a complete stranger. Just as she’d done the day before. And just like yesterday, he’d gazed after her with equal parts anger, possessiveness, and longing, until she’d disappeared into the coach with his sister and the duchess.

  He curled his hands into fists on the table. He’d wanted to reach for her, snatch her back against him, and kiss her. Kiss her for all he wanted to punish her for being so damned haughty. Right there. In the hall. In front of everyone. He didn’t care. It was Caroline’s house party, and she hated propriety.

  “Well, what happened?” Sebastian said. “The two of you were coming to good terms, or so I thought.”

  “Cavanaugh happened.” Justin glanced across the room at the aforementioned.

  “Cav? Oh, of course. By the way, you never told me to what extent he is acquainted with your Sara.”

  “He once asked the duke for her hand.” Justin nodded toward Milly and Cavanaugh. “It appears as though Milly has found my replacement. Thank God.”

  “More fool Cavanaugh, then,” Sebastian murmured. “And what did you say? Cavanaugh asked Kilkenny for Sara’s hand? In marriage?”

  “Of course in marriage, you fool. What other way is there?” Justin sighed and rubbed his brow. “They’ve known each other since she was very young, and I suppose she never told him about our betrothal. Needless to say, the duke turned him down.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Yes, naturally. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe Sara wants him. But Cavanaugh on the other hand ...”

  “You believe he still wants Sara?”

  Justin nodded, watched with amusement as Cavanaugh whispered something into Milly’s ear. She smiled and rose from the table; he, after her. Together, they left the room.

  “Damn fool,” Sebastian muttered. “Hope he remembers we’re going to the archery field this morning.”

  “We have another half hour or so.”

  Sebastian adopted an unpleasant expression. “Do you think they can be finished in that short a time? Half an hour seems quite quick for ... Well. You know.”

  “Good God, Sebastian,” said Justin, laughing. “Sometimes I believe you have no shame whatsoever.”

  “I have shame!” Sebastian objected. “Indeed, I think it is most shameful for a man to offer a lady he has just met only thirty minutes of his intimate time. She deserves at least an hour, if not three-quarters, do you not think?”

  “An hour, is it?” Justin said, grateful for the lighthearted conversation. “Is that your general standard for bedding women to whom you’ve just been introduced?”

  “Heavens, no!” Sebastian said, affronted. “Two hours at the least, and if she’s easy to look at, three. Strikingly beautiful? No less than half a day.”

  “Poor woman. Half a day in bed, and she’s surely complaining.”

  Sebastian smiled. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “Nor have I. So, what would you say to a morning ride before heading to the archery field?”

  “I say ...” Sebastian downed the last bit of coffee in his cup. He rose from the table and made a short bow, at which Justin shook his head, chuckled, and stood himself. “I say, it’s always a fine time for a morning ride.”

  As they walked together from the room, Justin retrieving his hat and gloves from the attendant, Sebastian leaned into him and added under his breath, “And apparently Lord Cavanaugh shares that particular sentiment.”

  At that, Justin laughed again. Heartily.

  *** *** ***

  Later that afternoon, on their way back to Worcester Hall, Sara found herself contemplating when she had laughed so heartily. Caroline turned out to be a delight. They’d visited the Cathedral, walked High Street, had a cup of tea at Periwinkle’s and lemon-flavored madeleines at Décadence, a French pastry shop that specialized in cakes. Caroline had relayed everything she knew about the local area: its history, its people, both so colorful Sara couldn’t help but think of Dublin.

  They’d also visited Marigold’s, the local dressmaker, and as the coach departed, the city fading quickly into stretches of untamed land, Caroline and Anna launched into a full discussion over colors and materials, which bonnet would match these slippers, and so on and so forth.

  Sara, comfortable in her silence, stared out the window as city faded into coun
tryside.

  “I believe the cerulean silk will make a glorious ball gown,” Caroline said to Anna. “But I cannot decide whether I want a full train in the back or the new corset style Mrs. Marigold mentioned.”

  “Why not both?” said Anna. “Although pearl buttons would look lovely beneath a full train. Particularly in contrast to the blue.”

  “Yes.” Caroline tapped a gloved finger to her chin. “Perhaps you’re right. Oh, and dearest, the red silk looked positively breathtaking on you! You must have a gown made of it. You simply must!”

  “Absolutely not!” Anna said on a gasp.

  Sara grinned to herself. Sitting amongst these two was like watching a comedy play from the front row.

  “Red would make me look like a trollop,” Anna continued to protest as Caroline giggled mercilessly. “A light-skirt. And you are laughing, Your Grace! Do you not agree with me?”

  “Oh, Anna,” Caroline said through her laughter. “You are trying to catch a husband, are you not?”

  “Not!”

  “A red dress,” Caroline continued, “cut into a low, but not too low, neckline would land you a husband the very night you wore it. I can promise you that.”

  Anna was still not convinced. “A bright red dress would most certainly not land me a decent husband. At least not one who gives a fig about propriety.”

  “Lud!” Caroline exclaimed in an un-duchess-like manner. “The dreaded p-word? Firstly, the dress would not be bright red, you silly goose.”

  “Goose!” Anna nudged Sara’s arm. “Did you hear that? The Duchess of Worcester called me a goose!”

  Sara laughed, as Caroline continued.

  “It would be a tasteful red. Like port wine, with an undertone of purple to compliment that young, milky skin of yours. A low, but not too low, neckline with only a small amount of lace. Off the shoulder, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Anna put in.

  “You cannot very well wear a red ball gown in any other fashion.”

  “And secondly?” Anna prompted.

  “Why on earth would you want a husband who limits himself by heeding all that p-word nonsense?” Caroline said. “I would think you of all women would want a husband with more wit about him than that.”