Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  He laughed softly. Then, “Do you miss her?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  “She died when I was born.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “And,” she continued with a shrug, “how can one miss someone whom they have never even met?”

  He held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. His eyes were so dark, the lashes framing them so long and thick, she imagined there were many women in London green with envy. Why were men always blessed with long lashes? And dreamy eyes? And lopsided, heart-melting smiles?

  Women needed those things too, thank you very much.

  “Sara?” His thumb grazed her chin, slid slowly across her lower lip. “I am so glad you’re here.” His voice was husky. “Your presence has made this easier than it might have been otherwise.”

  “But we’ve not yet left for Mayfair.” Because really, they had only known of the duke’s potentially fatal state for an hour, maybe two.

  “Even so.” His fingers fell from her face, only to toy with one of the curls Lana had left loose from her coiffure. “I cannot accredit my calmness to anything but the fact that you are here, and before you were here, I wasn’t ... that is, I wasn’t nearly as ...”

  “Calm?”

  “I’m different now.” His gaze slipped from hers to the spiral of hair he had twirled around two fingers.

  If only he knew how that guileless confession made her long to throw everything she’d been taught out the window and kiss him. Right here. On Caroline’s Egyptian chaise with the door wide open for anyone who cared to see.

  “I’m different, too,” she confessed, and just like that, his eyes met hers again.

  Years from now, decades perhaps, she would look back on this moment and remember the way the air charged between them. Something was different.

  And it was beautiful.

  Real.

  She would never be the same. Her love for this man had turned everything topsy-turvy. From her regard of Englishmen to the very rhythm of her heart, which sped up like a racehorse every time Justin entered a room – no, when he so much as entered her thoughts.

  “I believe you are blushing, my lady.”

  She brought her fingertips to her cheek.

  “I also believe,” he murmured, “that I must kiss you right here, right now.”

  And so he did.

  Tenderly his lips brushed hers, and Sara reasoned that this had to be the sweetest, most reverent kiss in the history of the world. That maybe if she thought hard enough, the world would simply vanish.

  And maybe, just maybe, they could do this forever.

  *** *** ***

  Anna was snoring softly when Sara entered their shared coach, and she continued to snore throughout the entire journey to Mayfair. Sara didn’t mind. If the roles were reversed, she reckoned a slice of solitude would be most welcome. Not to mention they were nearing the early morning hours of the next day, which explained the dull ache settling in her limbs.

  Tired but unable to sleep, Sara leaned her head back. Watched the rain through the small window of what she’d determined by the exquisite painting on the ceiling as the same coach that originally brought her to Mayfair.

  To Justin.

  A fortnight ago this very coach was a prison, carrying her to be sold into a loveless marriage. Forcing her to live in a country she’d despised all her life, giving children to a man she would despise ten times more because it was his fault she was no longer in Ireland.

  Ireland, where she knew the land, the people.

  Ireland, where she felt safe, protected. Loved.

  Only, this was her home now. England, whose people she’d come to love and respect. She even liked Sebastian, for pity’s sake, and suspected a great many of Britain’s most admirable would strongly disagree with her assessment that Sebastian, wonder of wonders, was actually a nice person. She’d even venture to guess that someday--granted, it would likely be in the distant, distant future--he’d make someone a fine husband.

  And you are safe, she told herself, as they made the scenic drive through the immaculate lawn leading to the Tethersal residence. You are protected. Loved. And if love isn’t the sentiment Justin feels for you, why, it is most assuredly something close.

  As their coach eased to a halt, the cries of the butler resounded from somewhere up ahead. Carried over the pit-pat-pit-pat footsteps of footmen running across the cobblestone driveway.

  Horrid thoughts seeped somewhere into the vicinity of Sara’s quaking stomach. Everyone--the butler, footmen, Justin’s valet as he met the butler in the courtyard--looked dreadful. Faces blanched, eyes flared. As if they’d just witnessed a massacre, or perhaps (and a little less morbid) an exceptionally bad panoramic show.

  “Are we already here?” Anna yawned, waking. She stretched her arms, blinked several times. “Sara, are you well?”

  “Fine,” she replied as the door swung open. “Only tired.”

  Anna yawned again. Her eyes, bloodshot and weary, were glazed over from hours up on hours of ceaseless crying.

  “My lady.” A footman offered his hand to Sara. “Please, if you will, make haste.”

  “What is the matter?” she asked, stepping down.

  In the distance, Justin, Sebastian, and Cav were already speaking with the butler, Sebastian with his hand clapped over his mouth, Cav looking aghast. And Justin, well, she’d seen him expressionless, but this ...

  This was something else entirely.

  He looked stricken, yet chillingly pokerfaced.

  The footman, who had just retrieved Anna from the coach, was in mid-sentence. “-been that way for days, and he just ... just could not bear the illness any longer.”

  Sara felt her entire body go numb. “What? What did you say?” The panic in her own voice surprised her.

  His Adam’s apple bobbled like a cork in shallow water. “The duke, my lady,” he said, lips trembling. “He’s dead.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  For the hundredth time since arriving in England, Sara was at a loss for words. To crown the whole, it began to rain. Hard. What started as a minor downpour during their trip to Mayfair became, in the five seconds it took for a loud clasp of thunder to shake the ground with an accompaniment of several streaks of lightning to illuminate the night sky, a full blown thunderstorm.

  “Let’s get you inside, little one,” someone said from behind.

  Sebastian, Sara recognized.

  Moments later, there he was, one arm wrapped firmly around Anna’s shoulders, the other holding his own blue silk jacket above their heads. He turned briefly to Sara.

  “Can you make it inside, my lady?” His voice amplified over the storm. “You shall catch death should you tarry.”

  Sara opened her mouth in response, but--

  “I have her,” came a male voice from somewhere above her head, followed by, “you two go on inside,” which in turn was followed by the warmth of broadcloth enveloping her head and shoulders.

  A firm hand came around her, gripped her shoulder. “You’ll not die today, a muirnín.”

  Blinking back remnants of rain from her eyes, Sara glanced up and swore if her heart was previously in her feet, it now oozed out her toes.

  Cav urged her forward. “You don’t have to look so disappointed it is me and not him, you know. We’ve walked in the rain before. On two occasions, if memory serves.”

  “Three.” Sara eyed Anna and Sebastian as they ran for the entrance.

  “Ah, of course. After the debutante’s ball in--watch your step there.”

  Sara lifted her soaked skirts above her ankles as they ascended the stairs. She needed to find Justin. Needed to comfort him, to be there no matter where he chose to go or what he chose to do: his father’s bedside, a parlor where he could drown himself in whisky, it didn’t matter.

  “I should like to discuss something with you.”

  Sara felt her body go rigid.

  “After having changed into some
thing more befitting, naturally, as I wouldn’t ask you to remain in wet clothes.”

  How kind, she almost replied, but cleared her throat instead.

  “Would that be all right?”

  “What do we have to discuss, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “Ah, and we’re back to formalities, are we?” He chuckled ruefully. “And I thought we had moved past that point, you and I.”

  “If you wish to speak to me,” she said, patience thinning, “now is your chance.”

  He paused, nodded to the footman holding the door open, and handed his overcoat to another waiting across the threshold.

  Darkness enveloped the entrance hall, save for a soft wash of orange light which bathed the tile floor and the Grecian statues, Hebe and Hercules. Sara looked up. Sconces lined the walls, and the orange light: candles flickering through amber glass. Funny, she hadn’t noticed those before.

  Then again, the last time she stood as thus, she was on Justin’s arm.

  Not Cav’s.

  And noticing anything other than the color of Justin’s breeches, or perhaps the coat he’d chosen for that day, and over what color waistcoat, and in what pattern, and how it all looked on his gloriously muscled body, and how standing next to that gloriously muscled body made her feel all warm and fluttery inside was ... well, it was rather difficult. Impossible, really.

  Sara let out a flustered sigh, made haste out of removing her bonnet and pelisse and handed--very well, shoved--them into the arms of an awaiting footman.

  Where in heaven’s name was Justin? He couldn’t have gone far; Mayfair House was massive, but it didn’t have wings in India like Worcester Hall. There were only a few parlors to which he could’ve retreated, unless he had retreated to his father’s room. And if that was so, she’d have no choice but to wait.

  She hated waiting.

  Warm fingers slipped beneath her elbow. “I am not at liberty to discuss what I need to discuss with you in an entryway, Sara.”

  She wanted to slap him.

  Instead, she jerked her arm from his grip. “Considering the circumstances, Mr. Cavanaugh, I find it more than appalling that you would wish to discuss anything. The Duke of Tethersal is dead, for pity’s sake.”

  “No need for blasphemy. And cease the dramatics, if you please. I am well aware of the gravity of the situation. You do not have to remind me of why we are here.”

  “Why are you here, Cav? I know why I am here, but you ...” She stopped, bit her lip. She didn’t want to discuss this. Didn’t want to know why he was here, especially if it had nothing to do with steam engines.

  “Never mind.” She turned on her heel, determined to find Justin.

  But Cav was quicker, and he had her by the elbow before she could take one step. “What? What were you about to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not true. Tell me.”

  “I am in no mood, Cav.” And she wasn’t. She wasn’t in the mood for anything but locating Justin, and for the love of God, if Cav didn’t let go of her, she swore she’d scream.

  Or slap him.

  Scream and slap him.

  Maybe at the same time: The scream propelling the slap hard enough to leave a hand print on his face.

  She quelled the impulse. Barely. And only because before she could open her mouth or rear back her hand to do either, a familiar voice, one she’d nearly forgotten over the course of being in a new country, in the midst of new people, said her name.

  Wrenching her gaze from Cav’s, Sara turned, looked.

  Within reaching distance stood the Duke of Kilkenny. Her father, startling blue eyes mixed with equal parts happiness and despair, broad arms outstretched.

  He smiled, whispered her name, and for Sara, it was like coming home.

  “Papa?” At his nod, she ran to him. “Oh, Papa!”

  His arms swept around her. He smelled of tobacco and cinnamon and horses, and Sara couldn’t stop herself from burying her face in his shoulder. She felt like a little girl again.

  “Oh, Papa.” Emotion rose in her throat. “I am so glad you’re here!”

  “Ah, a thaisce.” He patted her back. “I’ve missed you so. Elizabeth tells me you were at a house party in Worcester.”

  She nodded against his shoulder. “Justin, Anna, Sebastian, and I, but we’ve only been gone for a few days.”

  His hand stilled. “And you refer to Lord Carrington by his Christian name?” He pulled back, gazed down at her with tender amusement. “Already?”

  “Quite a bit has changed since you left me in Liverpool, Papa.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Your Grace?”

  Her father’s eyes, so kind, so blue, narrowed over her shoulder. “Mr. Cavanaugh.” His smile faded. “I was not aware of your plans to go to London. Dunmore said nothing.”

  Cav came up from his bow. “To Worcester, Your Grace.” Nervousness twisted his features. “My father and I are in partnership with Worcester and his son, Marquess Beaufort.”

  “Steam engines, eh?”

  Cav nodded.

  “Fine way to fill one’s pockets, I’ll wager. Though I am surprised Dunmore sent you in his stead, busy as you’ve been with other matters.”

  “Other matters, Your Grace?”

  “I believe you know my meaning, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  Cav’s cheeks colored.

  Sara looked from one man to the other. Something transpired. Something hung there, unsaid, between her father and a paling Mr. Patrick Cavanaugh. Something apparently neither cared to discuss in her presence.

  Unnerving, that.

  Indignant, she curled her hands into fists at her sides. “If the two of you do not mind, I must go in search of Lord Carrington. Feel free to continue with ... whatever this is, which clearly cannot be discussed whilst I am present.”

  “We have nothing to discuss,” her father said flatly.

  “We have much to discuss,” Cav retorted.

  “No. We do not.”

  “With due respect, Your Grace. Yes. We do.”

  In the blink of an eye, her father had Cav by the lapels of his coat, and Cav, unaccustomed to the duke as anything but the very model of decorum, gasped, horrified.

  “Listen to me, ye insolent mon.” Father’s Irish Brogue rang thick as molasses. “I know why ye’ve come. ‘Tis a might low thing ye do, standin’ ‘ere in the home of my dearest friend as he lays without so much as a whiff of life in ‘im. Ye do your father shame coming here on false pretenses, as they are.”

  Cav tried to speak, but his words exited as nothing more than a sputter. “I ... d-did ... n-no-”

  “Do not insult me, lad. Had enough of ye as it is, I ‘ave. I gave ye my answer, and when I gave it, I ‘ad no intention of recanting the decision. I said no. I meant no.”

  Cav’s face had turned from ripe tomato to brilliant, beet red. His eyes bulged, lips trembled. “Y-Your ... G-G-Grace ... p-please ...”

  Muttering a curse, her father released him, and Cav staggered backward, coughing and tugging at his cravat.

  “Heavens above.” Sara gazed first at her father, who, by the look of intense vexation streaked across his face, clearly felt no remorse for his actions.

  She then looked at Cav.

  And could not stand not to go to him. She may not have loved him, not the way she loved Justin, but he was still her friend. She would not deny him the same support he’d given her on countless occasions.

  “Don’t,” Cav protested as Sara set a hand to his back and bent over him.

  “You need to loosen your cravat,” she said, keeping her voice low. She could see her father fuming from the corner of her eye. “Cav, please. Let me help--”

  “I said don’t.” He all but spat the words.

  “Fine, then,” she said with equal loathing.

  Men and their ridiculous pride.

  “Gentleman?” she said. “Would you be so kind as to move this to another room? The situation at hand is of far greater importance.”

&nb
sp; “I have nothing left to say.” Her father’s educated tenor had returned. “I will, however, offer my apologies for my intolerable behavior.” He nodded, curtly, to Cav.

  Surprising though it was, Cav looked thoughtful. “Apology accepted, Your Grace. However, since you are unwilling to discuss the matter, I shall save what I have to say for your daughter alone.”

  The duke opened his mouth, doubtless to start another argument, but Sara was quicker.

  “No!” Father’s teeth hit in a solid clamp. “No more of this! A man’s life has ended. And by God”--she shifted her gaze from her father to Cav and back again--“I will not tolerate arguing over trivial nonsense, when we should be lending our support to this family.”

  The duke’s brows lifted. “I say, dear girl. Matters have, indeed, changed since your arrival in England. You have changed.”

  “Nonsensical as it may seem for the short length of time I have resided in this country,” Sara said carefully, “I have grown attached to this family. They are good people, and they have lost their father. We should grieve with them, not arge over a matter which has nothing to do with anything now.”

  “It has everything to do with it,” Cav countered, his gaze transfixed on Sara.

  What the devil was he talking about? Sara drew her lips taut, trying with all her might to stay calm. “Even if that is true,” she said, “which I do not see how it could be, now is not the time to discuss it. Don’t.” She put up a hand, as they both started to protest. “Please. I cannot abide the animosity between you.” She raised her chin, smoothed her skirts. “Lord Carrington needs me, and I intend to find him.”

  “He is in the office of the duke,” said Father.

  “Then that is where I shall go.”

  “I understand your want to speak with him, my dear,” her father said, “but there are times when a man needs to be left alone. I daresay the death of one’s father merits as one of those occasions.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he extended his arm. “May I suggest we have a cup of tea, catch up a bit? I’d very much like to hear about your visit in Worcester.”

  Though hesitant, Sara acquiesced. Her father was right, of course, he was always right. But that didn’t make it any less irritating, not being able to seek out Justin.