“Granted, the holiday is more for the farm folk,” she said. “Oh, but it is delightfully fun watching the locals dance in the square, the geese prepared using only the most delicious, traditional recipes, all of which are given to the poor for dinner that eve.”
“Delicious, I’ll wager.”
“Oh, it is.”
She touched his arm, leaned closer. They were close enough as it was. He could put his arm around her, and she’d fit perfectly snug up against his chest. But then he’d probably lose all conviction and stop the coach, ravish her right there on the seat. He’d have to turn around and head for Gretna Green, which was sounding more and more like the best idea he’d had all day.
A secret wedding, just over the border in Scotland at the old blacksmith’s. No family, no friends, just the two of them.
“We really need to go some time.”
“What?” Had he mentioned that out loud? Surely not.
“To Ireland,” she said. “Attend the festivals.”
“Oh,” he muttered, relieved.
Only, he wasn’t relieved. His body was still in knots, not to mention his heart felt as if it had swollen to melon size inside his chest. Saints above, if this is what love felt like, then how in the hell did people live without going mad?
Maybe he should mention it to her, eloping to Scotland. The deed would be done, just as planned since their childhood, and his mother would learn to live with it eventually--very well, maybe never. But she liked Sara, and that was saying something.
“You need to go some time,” Sara said again. Her hand was still resting carelessly on his arm. “We need to. Together.”
What he really needed was a bath and a good sleep. In the morning he’d write a letter to his mother, inform her that upon his return to Mayfair, he wished to be married straightaway. No extensive wedding planning. No sending out mountains of invitations. Just a small ceremony in close company. He supposed they’d have to write to Sara’s father, but there was no law saying he couldn’t do that himself, was there?
Yes, of course. He’d write his mother. He’d write Sara’s father. And by the time the latter arrived in Mayfair, the former would have had ample time to do that motherly bit of planning a slightly-less-than-proper wedding.
It was the perfect plan.
“Yes,” he finally said, and impossible though it seemed, when she responsively squeezed his arm, his heart swelled even more. He placed his hand over hers. “When we are married, I shall take you anywhere you wish. Anywhere in the world.”
From the corner of his eye (he was, in all reality, trying to keep a steady watch on the road) he could see her beaming a smile that would’ve melted the heart of Hades himself.
“We did have a wonderful time today,” she said. “Didn’t we?”
Justin wondered if an adjective existed to describe what he felt in his heart, throughout his entire body, all the way down to the marrow in his bones.
Miraculous, it was. To have fallen this far, this unfathomably deep, into an emotion he’d accepted as something he’d never have the privilege of experiencing.
Love was, Justin realized, an indescribable feeling.
“Wonderful, indeed,” he agreed.
Without another word, she laid her head on his shoulder.
And that’s exactly how she remained for the rest of the journey to Worcester Hall, whereupon their arrival, a rather hysterical looking Sebastian--wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere with Cavanaugh?--came running down the stone steps at a surprisingly frenetic speed.
“Justin! Good God, man, where have you been?”
Upon their reaching the curricle, Justin allowed the pair of footmen, running along behind Sebastian, to take the reins. Mind-boggling, it was, Sebastian’s ability to ruin a perfect moment. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time his best friend had appeared so panicked.
Something was amiss.
Something, judging by Sebastian’s disheveled appearance, was terribly wrong.
“Out,” Justin murmured once he and Sara were on the ground, the footman having taken the curricle away. “Or did you forget? I told you we wouldn’t be back until late, and yet, here we are. Early, by my calculations.”
Sebastian raked a hand through his hair. “We received word,” he said, “about two hours ago. From Mayfair.”
Justin heart began that slow, sickening slide into his stomach. Some might have called it a sixth sense of sorts, but Justin, practical man that he was, knew it as pure instinct.
“My family,” he said. “Are they …?”
But he was cut short by the sight of Anna bolting down the stairs, the skirts of her dress hiked high over her knees as she took the steps two at a time.
“Justin! Thank goodness you’re back!”
“What the devil is going on?” he said, ignoring the fact that Cavanaugh was right behind her.
“We’ve been searching all over for you!” Her cheeks were inflamed, her blue eyes red around the irises. “Sebastian only just returned from searching all the way into town. Where have you been?”
This was really too much. He’d told them, all of them, that he and Sara would be returning late. “This is the last time I’m going to ask,” he said. “What is amiss?”
“Your father.” Fear blazed in Sebastian’s eyes. “He’s taken ill.”
Anna immediately began to sob, and Sebastian was quick to offer his handkerchief, even going so far as to wrap his arm around her shoulders, allowing her to cry against his expensive jacket.
“Ill?” came Sara’s soft reply, and Justin turned sharply, startled.
She looked just as panicked as he felt, eyes rounded, face paled.
“What do you mean?” she said. “He’s been ill, has he not?”
“Yes.” Sebastian’s face was almost green against his snowy white cravat. “However, the duchess’s message clearly stated that he ...” But he couldn’t continue.
Justin didn’t have to ask.
“Your father is dying, my lord.” Cavanaugh’s green eyes shifted to Sara. “And your father,” he murmured, “is in Mayfair. Waiting for us. It seems he never left England.”
TWENTY
Doubtless this had become one of the most frightening days of Sara’s life. Frightening and unequivocally passionate, she allowed, since the day had actually been delightful up until the moment they learned the duke was possibly drawing his last breaths.
After that … well. Everything started happening so fast, nothing, not even the single task of finding a clean dress to wear, seemed real. She settled on a cornflower blue, since Lana was so hell-bent on having everything packed posthaste, and her gray half boots as opposed to slippers, since (surprise, surprise) Lana had already packed all those too. No one was apt to pay attention to her footwear anyway, eager as they all were to leave for Mayfair.
Not that she wasn’t eager; she was. She hadn’t realized her father had never left England, hadn’t given it much thought, really. After all, he’d wanted her to do this on her own, to get to know the stranger who was to be her husband.
Although, she mused, glancing one last time into the looking glass, Justin wasn’t a stranger anymore, now, was he? Any man she’d allowed to touch her so intimately could not rightfully be considered a stranger. He’d laid her down on a bed of bluebells, exposed her to near nakedness, and kissed her body as if she were a pagan goddess.
It had been heavenly.
Beautiful.
Incredible.
He was more than just a name on a piece of parchment.
He was the man who would be her husband. And soon, she hoped, for she didn’t know how much longer she could wait to have him. To be with him as a wife longs to be with her husband.
“Stop thinking about it, Sara,” she murmured five minutes later as she entered one of Caroline’s many side parlors. Bookshelves lined one wall, while Egyptian paintings and framed hieroglyphics on papyrus adorned the other three. The tables in the room-- one by the window, on
e beside each chair, and a large one in the center--were glass-top, given a modern flair with bases resembling pyramids.
Sara sat on a black velvet chaise that, with its feline stretch, intricate gold detailing and legs cleverly shaped as falcon wings, reminded her of a piece one might have found in Cleopatra’s bedchamber.
And then, for the thirty-second time since they’d arrived at Worcester Hall, she thought about the kiss she and Justin had shared beneath the bows of ancient beech trees. On a blue brocade coverlet. Surrounded by a copse of softly fragrant bluebells.
Truly, the most prolific of poets couldn’t have laid out a finer setting.
Of course it was more than just an ordinary kiss. Donne himself might have turned over in his grave had she lied and said it was. Though in retrospect, Sara believed that even Mr. Donne would’ve found Justin’s kisses extraordinarily prose-worthy.
Some details simply could not be overlooked.
And yet, heart-stopping kisses aside ...
He’d touched her. Caressed her.
There.
All while his mouth had been doing wicked things, things she never dreamed possible, to her body.
An infinite wonder, it was, that she’d been able to function amply enough to undress, bathe, and redress. Seemed like an awful lot to do when all she wanted was to lie down for a while. And daydream about secret, hidden meadows and cool breezes, sweetly scented by flowers.
Justin touching and kissing her in forbidden places.
Determined to have at least one coherent thought past intimacies with Justin (the duke was supposedly on his death bed, for goodness’ sake; she should be ashamed of herself), Sara straightened and peered through the doorway.
Outside everything was bustling. Sebastian’s valet walked by, two bags in his gloved hands, nose stuck straight up in the air as if acting on such short notice was entirely too much to ask. Right behind him went Caroline and a fleet of footmen, Caroline giving precise orders in a high-pitched tone Sara was sure she only used when pushed to the point of hysterics.
Justin’s valet, a lanky, dark haired man, strolled past the doorway, his lordship’s famous hat in one hand, a garment bag in the other. And then, as if not expecting someone to be seated while everyone else was in motion, he backed up a step and looked in at her.
She stood because she didn’t know what else to do. Was he addressing her? He hadn’t said anything. Maybe they were preparing to leave?
Silently he looked in the direction from whence he came. Dipped his chin in a single nod.
Taking one last impassive glance at her, he left.
Confused, Sara opened her mouth to call after him, but found herself contrarily speechless when, in the very next instant, Justin’s tall, male form swallowed the doorway. He was, as always when he wasn’t in the out of doors, impeccably dressed. His breeches were dark, clean, his shirt gleaming white over a stunning brocade waistcoat of deep red.
He was dark, and he was large, and he was incredibly handsome.
Sara bobbed a curtsy.
“Good afternoon,” he said, stepping inside.
“My lord,” she murmured. “Are we leaving?”
“Soon.” He was looking around the room, hands folded behind his back.
“It is a lovely parlor,” she said because really, what did one say to a man whose father was dying? What words of comfort could she offer to improve the grave situation?
None, she decided, and she hated that.
She wanted to comfort him, wanted to make this all go away.
She wanted this man to need her.
“This was, is, my favorite room in Worcester Hall,” he said. “When I was younger, I used to read here for hours. This”--he pointed to one of the many sheets of papyrus hanging on the wall--“is a blessing from Aten, the sun disc, to Queen Nefertiti upon the birth of her first child. She and the pharaoh, Akhenaten, worshipped only this god, and considered it blasphemous for anyone to do otherwise.”
“Intriguing,” she murmured, genuinely impressed.
“I should tell you,” he said, still focusing on the papyrus, “that in the event my father passes, we may be forced to marry sooner than anticipated. That is, of course, after the family solicitor has read and interpreted our marriage contract.”
“Why would it need to be interpreted?”
“Father said it would be necessary if this happened.”
“If what happened, exactly?”
“If he were to die before the tenth year of the contract’s signing.”
“Oh.”
Only once, when she’d been snooping around her father’s office in search of stationery, had she caught a glimpse of the scrolled parchment. For fifteen minutes she’d stared at it, imagining what it said, amazed this single inanimate object held her life’s fate.
And after, she’d dared to touch it.
But only after she’d made sure she was alone.
And then only with one finger, as if she’d half expected it to burst into flames right there inside the top drawer of her father’s grand oak desk.
Which it didn’t.
Obviously.
However, by the time she’d summoned the courage to pluck it from the drawer, the approaching sound of her father’s footsteps caused her to lose all nerve.
She slammed the door shut, skirted from her father’s office as fast as she could, and vowed never to let her curiosity get the best of her again.
As a result, she’d never read the contract. But apparently ...“You’ve read it,” she said.
He turned around. “No. Have you?”
She shook her head. “I suppose we’ll both be hearing it for the first time.”
“Indeed.”
The grimness in his voice made her want to crumple onto the floor or, in the very least, sulk in a corner somewhere. Somewhere she could think, contemplate the situation.
Not that it needed contemplating.
By the sound of his mother’s letter, Justin was about to take over the dukedom. Which meant, in the eyes of upper society, he needed to marry. Just so happened he was already betrothed. Which meant, perhaps in a few days, Sara would become a duchess.
Put like that, it sounded ridiculously simple.
But it wasn’t.
She loved him. She wanted to marry him. Wanted, more than anything in the world, to give him children, to watch them laugh and grow. To be there when their son fell and scraped his knee, only to feel her heart swell when his papa knelt down to comfort him. Or to see Justin’s eyes light up at the very sight of their daughter, who, Sara knew, would look just like him.
But when he spoke of their marriage contract like that ... in that grave tone that made her throat work to fight back tears ... she just ... she just wanted to ...
No. She would not cry. Besides, the graveness might merely be grief for his father. Perhaps nervousness for the position he was sliding into. The Lord knew she would be nervous if she were him.
Because she couldn’t very well go into the corner, curl into a ball and cry, she returned to the chaise and folded her hands in her lap.
“May I?” He motioned to the empty space beside her.
“Of course.”
Apparently he’d bathed, as well. His hair was damp, and he smelled clean, masculine. Soap, sandalwood, and Justin. The most magnificent aromatic combination in the world.
“I apologize for the suddenness of all this,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she replied softly. “It is not your fault.”
“Yes, I know. But I should not have left Mayfair knowing he was sick.” He rubbed his hands together, spanned the length of one with the other in a slow gesture.
“Then again,” he went on, “he has always been sick. Long as I can remember.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said carefully, “what ails him? My father never spoke of it.”
“Some form of wasting disease, or so the physicians tell us. Who knows? He appears fine, walks about, takes shor
t strolls outside. But then he sleeps for days, and only after he has spent the past few writhing in bed with fever and night sweats.
“When finally he wakes, he coughs the worst substances imaginable. Sometimes there is blood; sometimes nothing at all.”
He stopped, shook his head. Looked down.
Seeing him as thus was hard to bear. From the moment they’d met, he’d always appeared in control. Even when he kissed her, and by all that was logical, she had no idea how he was able to keep his emotions so in check, he maintained a certain balance. A level of equilibrium that spoke of years in constant restraint.
He was to be a duke. Naturally he was expected to curb any undisciplined tendencies. Crying (and he looked on the verge of doing just that) being one of them.
“Justin?” she whispered because it seemed right to say his name. “You can cry, if you want. I promise, I shan’t tell anyone.”
That made him chuckle. “I don’t want to cry, Sara.” His eyes found hers from the side. “Hit something, maybe. But not cry. Too late for that now.”
“No.” On sheer impulse, she laced her fingers with his. “It is never too late.”
He gazed down at their adjoined hands. “That’s something my father would say.”
“He is a wise man.”
“That, he is.”
Looking down, she noticed for the first time the light dusting of hair on the back of his hands. She traced it with the tip of one finger, followed the line from wrist bone to the knuckle of his pinky.
Even this, a feature most would find too simple to spare a moment’s thought, sent her pulse to racing.
“You have small hands, did you know that?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought, actually.” She flipped his hand over, pressed her palm to his palm. Aligned her fingers to his fingers. The tips barely reached his second set of knuckles. “You are right,” she mused, tilting her head in observation.
An effortless bend and his fingers engulfed hers. “Very small,” he said.
“I do not think my mother was very tall. In fact, Papa says she was no taller than a forest sprite, balancing atop another forest sprite’s shoulders.”
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