“You don’t trust Lord Carrington to behave himself.”
Lana looked up. “He is a man, my lady. Not one of those lads in Dublin who doted over you with sugarplums and poetry on bended knee. A vast difference, there is, between lads and men.”
“How well I know it,” Sara said. “Lest you forget, Lana, I almost married Lord Cavanaugh.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Nor have I failed to notice the way he still looks upon you. He came to England expecting more than to discuss those blimmin’ steam engines. Of that, you can be certain.”
“Pish.” Sara smoothed her hands down her front. “You only say such nonsense because you don’t like Cav.”
“On the contrary, my lady, I find Mr. Cavanaugh very agreeable. But he thinks himself to be as much as well. Thinks he’s better suited for you than Lord Carrington.”
Sara passed her a skeptic glance. “How do you know this?”
Lana’s cheeks colored. “Overheard him speaking to his valet night before last.”
“Go on.”
“It was late, you see. I was on my way to bed when his valet caught me in the common area, just between the east and west wings, and asked if I could fetch his master some ointment for a puncture wound. So happened I still had a bit of drawing salve from when you cut your foot winter last, so I fetched it. Heard them talking between themselves just as I was approaching his room.”
Sara remembered that cut. In fact, Cav and his father were visiting Dublin when it happened. To prove she was no typical debutante, she had removed her slippers while she and Cav strolled through a field near the manor. She began to skip and twirl about, singing a cheerful pub tune she’d heard the weekend previous in Dublin square. And Cav was laughing, encouraging her whimsicalness by clapping the beat for her.
Just as she whirled around to her favorite verse--‘Down among the pigs I played some funny rigs, danced some hearty jigs’--a ground thorn the size of a hairpin cut her foot, directly on the insole.
“Well,” she said, “what did he say?”
“That he is better suited for you than Lord Carrington.”
Sara tilted her head to the side.
“And if fate would have him alone with you for long enough, he could persuade you to leave England and return to Ireland. With him,” she emphasized. “As his wife. He means to elope with you, my lady.”
“What?” Sara turned around. “Of all the--that is ridiculous. He wouldn’t.”
“Ireland is your home, a thaisce,” Lana said, and the tightly wound coil in Sara’s heart, the place where home had lain dormant for the past two weeks, twitched responsively.
“Mr. Cavanaugh is well aware of the love you have for your country. Why, then, would you think him incapable of resorting to extreme measures?”
Sara watched in fascination as her maid’s eyes danced with a conviction she’d not seen since she was fourteen and Lana told her she had to stop running about in her nightrail. ‘You’re bloomin’, my lady,’ she’d said, followed by, ‘Your father, God bless ‘is Grace’s heart, will have to fire the entire lot of the male staff for their wanderin’ eyes, quickly as ye’ve developed. And won’t no one be to blame but yourself.’
“To use your love for Ireland as an advantage to induce you into eloping with him,” Lana said. “He could give you back your home. He knows that, my lady. You know that.”
Sara choked down the rising lump in her throat.
They would’ve lived in County Clare. Where the Aillte an Mhothair, the mighty Cliffs of Moher, stand no more than a few hundred yards from Cav’s back terrace. Through a path nestled between two sloping, rocky hills, covered in a blanket of rich green grass, one could walk there with little effort. Barefoot even, if one was so inclined.
And there ...
Oh, there one could stand and listen to the sound of Atlantic waves crashing against ancient towering stone, breathe the salt-laden air, mingled with something indescribable. An aroma belonging solely to Ireland.
She closed her eyes, breathed deep.
Cav still wanted to marry her. It was almost unbelievable. And Lana was right: he could give her what she wanted more than anything in the world. Life and death in Ireland, the land she’d loved since she was old enough to run barefoot through emerald fields.
Her heart tightened again.
“Lana.”
“Yes, my lady?”
Sara opened her eyes. “I think I should like to wear my lilac bonnet with the wide, satin ribbon.” She couldn’t think about Ireland. Too much more and she’d climb on the first horse she could find, gallop all the way to Liverpool, and board the next ship home. “It will compliment nicely, don’t you think?”
“Indeed, it will, my lady. Indeed, it will.”
Two minutes later, Sara was rounding the last curvature to the stairs in the outer hall, with Lana following close behind. Male voices, mingled with male laughter, echoed through the hall.
Justin, Sebastian, and Cav.
Her stomach quaked a little. The three of them had been virtually inseperable since Monday, but she wished they could’ve spared at least a single moment to part company. Dealing with one male was plenty demanding.
Sure enough, all three men turned around as Sara, exquisitely dressed yet ineffably nervous, reached the landing of the staircase. She gazed at Justin, and could not suppress her smile. Pure reverence, gathering as quickly as storm clouds in a clear sky, filled his dark eyes.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, and descended the staircase.
Like toy soldiers, they swept into a collective bow, murmured respective greetings.
“I hope you are all having a good morning.”
Sebastian was first to speak. “Indeed, Lady Ballivar. We were just catching up a bit before your outing with--” he slapped Justin on the shoulder “--Ugly here.”
Justin forced a grin. “I appreciate the support, Sebastian.”
“Anytime.”
Justin took Sara’s hand in his, guided her down the last few steps. His eyes swept down. Then, up. For a moment, Sara swore she saw something there. Something other than appreciation. Perhaps even ... amusement?
Sara drew her brows together. “What is it?”
But Justin shook his head. “Nothing, nothing. You are ready, then?”
Sara brushed aside his peculiar behavior, nodded.
“Excellent.” Justin bowed to Sebastian and Cav. “Have a splendid day, gentlemen. We won’t be back for dinner.”
“We won’t?” Sara asked, surprised.
“No.” His dark brows lifted. “That doesn’t present an issue, does it?”
“I …” Did it present an issue? Did it? And if so, did she care? “I don’t foresee an issue, my lord.”
“Good. We’ll be on our way. I have a curricle parked just out front.”
Lana made a sound of clear disapproval.
Cav apparently didn’t care for the idea either. “Vastly improper. Taking a two person vehicle without even a footman to aid you should trouble arise. What if a wheel should become bogged down? Or what if a robber, seeing the crest of a nobleman emblazoned on the side, decides to attack?”
Justin was quick to retort. “As barbaric as you undoubtedly think me to be, Mr. Cavanaugh, I would never engage in any activity which would impose danger upon a lady. Especially the lady who is to be my wife.”
Sara blushed.
Cav’s face turned red, as well, though Sara suspected it wasn’t from embarrassment.
“Furthermore,” Justin said, “I am perfectly capable of freeing a carriage wheel from mud, and have even been known to repair one or two. As for robbers …” A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. “They’d be foolish to even try. I hold the title at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
“It’s true,” Sebastian confirmed.
Jaw set, Cav fixed Sara with a gaze of equal parts concern, disapproval, and vexation. Heavens. He was just as bad as, if not worse than, Lana. Worrying about her as if she were some idio
t who made a habit out of trotting off with random rakes. It was like having a couple of nipper dogs, biting at her heels.
“I’ll be fine.” She didn’t bother trying to hide the impatience in her tone. “We’re only going into the city, isn’t that right, my lord?”
“Correct,” said Justin. “Not that it would make any difference if we were traveling farther. We’d still take the curricle.”
“Humph!” Lana picked up the skirts of her dress and stomped back up the stairs.
Sebastian let out a snort of laughter. “Now there’s a dash of a woman, if ever I did see one. You’d think she had Swift blood running through those veins.”
“Jonathan Swift, God rest his soul, was a great man,” Cav bridled. “To make even the slightest funning comment about him is blasphemous to an Irishman.”
“Oh for the love of--” Justin began, but was cut off by a highly composed Sebastian.
“For your information, Mr. Cavanaugh, I hold Mr. Swift in the highest esteem,” he said. “So you needn’t toss your Irish idealism at me as if I were an ill-educated nitwit. I stand to inherit a ducal seat in the House of Lords. Trust me, I know to whom I should reserve respect.”
Sara bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. She was really beginning to like Lord Beaufort, for all he was one of the most dramatic men she’d ever met.
But Cav wasn’t amused in the least. Without sparing another glance in her direction, he turned on his heel and stormed down the hall, his boot heels clanking angrily on the tile floor.
“He has issues,” Sebastian mused.
“All Irishmen of noble decent have issues,” Sara said. “My father would have reacted just as defensively at the mention of Swift’s name.”
“How dreadfully boring,” he said. “Life wasn’t meant to be taken serious, else everyone would spend their days wasting away with worry instead of living.” He turned to Justin. “Speaking of which, you two should be going. Much to see in our quaint little city.”
“It is a lovely city,” said Sara.
“The loveliest,” Sebastian agreed. “You haven’t, however, taken the tour with Lord Carrington. Knows it better than his own home. By the by, do feel free to stop by my apartments, though I cannot attest to its condition. I had to fire my last housekeeper.”
“Whatever for?” Sara asked.
“Let’s see.” Sebastian rubbed his chin. “How shall I put this without coming across as vulgar?”
“She was engaging in sexual activities in Sebastian’s bedroom,” Justin supplied. “With his valet.”
“Dear me!” Sara gasped. “I assume you fired your valet, too?”
Sebastian looked outright offended. “Good God, woman! Why would I go and do a thing like that? He’s the only person who can deal with this.” He pulled a lock of hair straight and then let go, narrowing his eyes as it sprung back into place. “Do you realize how difficult it would be to find a valet even remotely equivalent in skill?”
Before Sara could relay her feelings on maids being equally as important as hair connoisseur valets, she felt her hand being tucked into the crook of Justin’s elbow.
“Fascinating as this conversation has proven,” Justin said, “I fear all this talk about nothing has put us at a late start.”
“Yes, yes.” Sebastian waved a hand. “Good day to both of you.”
Muttering a final comment about Irishmen and their flighty tempers, Sebastian bid them farewell, and Sara walked with Justin to the shiny black curricle waiting outside. Hitched with two stout geldings, the vehicle was detailed in red pinstripe, a highly fashionable new style of two-seated carriage, and bore the crest of Worcester.
“Beautiful,” said Sara
“Yes.” Justin pointed to the farthest horse. “That one there with the white blaze is Sebastian’s horse, Armon. The other is Archibald.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
Sara scratched Archie’s nose. “They’re magnificent.”
“Indeed.” But he wasn’t looking at the pair of chestnuts.
Warmth seeped down into her limbs, tickled the backs of her knees. Sara imagined kissing him again. Feeling those powerful lips moving over hers, plumbing the depths of her mouth. Chagrined, she pressed a hand to her cheek, looked away.
Justin drew nearer and tipped her chin, forced her eyes to meet his. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“Of course.”
“We may not return until late.”
“I am certain, my lord.”
“Good.” He bent his head, hesitated for half a second before brushing a reverent kiss to her lips.
Sara had to stop herself from leaning into him. Too long since he’d last kissed her. Too long and too many days in between. One of his fingers traced a line down her cheek, left a trail of heat in its wake. She blinked up at him, surprised to see the space between his dark brows puckered.
“Justin?”
Quickly, he summoned composure. “We should leave. Much to see.” He backed away just enough to offer his hand and help her onto the curricle.
Clean black leather sheathed the padded seat, and as Sara sat, it gave only slightly. She inhaled deeply, pulled the fresh air into her lungs. It was a glorious day.
Justin settled beside her, took up the reins and driving whip. His boots were polished to a high shine; tan breeches, in the new snug style, tucked neatly into them. She wanted to lay her hand on his thigh. Wanted to feel the strength of those horseman’s muscles beneath her fingers.
Not trusting herself, she folded her hands in her lap. “Where are we going first?”
With a single snap of Justin’s whip, the carriage launched forward. “Décadence.”
Sara was immediately excited. “We went there yesterday! The madeleines are divine.”
Justin chuckled. “Well, I suppose I can purchase some madeleines for you, kitten, but I hadn’t planned on staying.”
“Oh?” She tried not to sound too disappointed. After all, this day belonged to him. “More important places to go, I gather?”
“More important and interesting.” He glanced at her askance.
“And after the cake shop?” Giddy, she was. When was the last time she’d felt this thrilled? She couldn’t recall.
“I can’t very well let you in on all my plans, now can I? Leave a little room for surprise and excitement, if you please.” He paused. “Although ...” His gaze dipped down, lingered on her breasts, and Sara, sparks flickering everywhere inside her body, drew her pelisse tighter across her chest.
“Although?” she prompted.
“You’re a bit overdressed for what I had in mind.”
“Overdressed!” Why, she’d worn her best today. For him! “I am not overdressed, my lord. You are underdressed.”
He laughed at that. “Touché. And to think, I even left my hat off today.”
“I bet it’s under the seat!”
His lips twitched. “Haven’t you had enough betting? Your losses are what put us in this situation.”
“Loss.” She straightened. “I’ve only one loss to you, Lord Carrington.”
“So far.” He turned his gaze to the road ahead. They were nearing the city, its tightly nestled buildings becoming clearer in the distance. “I have yet to claim the other.”
For all she wanted to reprimand him for the bold implication, she couldn’t find the nerve.
Because she had thought about it. Hundreds of thousands of times. So much, in fact, mere musings had infiltrated into her dreams. And in dreams, why, one could imagine almost anything. Wasn’t as if it could be helped, either; those fantasies infiltrated into the mind during the hours of peaceful slumber.
Only slumber wasn’t so peaceful when Sara dreamed nightly that she was not alone in her bed. That he--that ... Justin was holding her. Close.
No. She couldn’t reprimand his ungentlemanly comments. In fact, she admired his brazenness; that defiance she prided in her own person.
And so she sat in silen
ce, hands tightly clamped together in her lap, and waited for him to help her down when they reached the French pastry shop on Friar Street.
“We’ll only be a few minutes,” he said, leading her inside, “but pick whatever you like. I assume you haven’t had breakfast?”
Sara shook her head.
“I didn’t think so. Ladies spend too much time dressing and not enough time eating.”
“I didn’t say I missed morning meal because I was busy dressing.” She had, though now she suddenly wished she hadn’t. It was all very peculiar, this want she had to look perfect for him. She’d never allowed Lana to spend this much time on her hair.
“You didn’t have to.” He leaned closer. His nose barely touched the rim of her ear. “And I didn’t say I didn’t like it, sweet. In fact, you’ve imposed a bit of a problem on me today.”
“I’m sure I do not understand your meaning.”
“I mean, my lady,” he said, “I’m having a devil of a time keeping my hands to myself.”
Luckily Sara didn’t have to respond, which turned out perfect because he’d rendered her speechless. The baker, a portly Frenchman with red, pudgy cheeks and a tall baker’s hat atop his balding head came to greet them. Upon seeing Justin, his entire face lit with glee.
“Marquis!” he exclaimed. “Bonjour! Bonjour! Comment allez-vous?”
“Je vais bien, merci,” Justin said. “Ah, anglais, s’il vous plaît monsieur. My affianced does not speak French.”
“Very little,” Sara confessed, but the baker smiled.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.” He made an awkward bow. “I’m accustomed to the marquis paying his visits alone, you see. It has been some time, indeed! And your fiancée, you say?” He bowed again.
His girth, spilling over the ties of his baker’s apron, reminded Sara of the political cartoons she’d seen of England’s more generously proportioned noblemen.
“Monsieur Le Fontaine,” Justin said, “Lady Sara Ballivar of Dublin, my intended.”
The baker bent forward again, this time with a bit more aplomb. “A pleasure to meet you, madame. A favorite patron of mine is the marquis. Been stopping by since he was ... what? Eleven? Twelve?”
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