Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  Because every mama’s dream was for their daughter to marry a duke. Wealthy, impoverished, handsome, unattractive. Money and looks made no difference. A duke was a duke, and Justin was primed for the taking. A duke--a man--for whom a woman would give up every penny to her name if only to have him as her husband.

  Sara’s only regret was that he was never hers.

  As she placed the last of her hair pins on the mahogany table, Sara let out a shuddering sigh. The clock on the wall read seven-thirty; any minute now a maid would appear at the door to summon her for dinner, and just like yesterday and the day before, she would politely refuse. Sharing a meal with the man she loved, who didn’t love her, was too much. She could not bear to look at him, knowing he wanted her gone, knowing she’d never forgive herself if she broke down and cried in his presence.

  Tears filled her eyes again. She braced herself, clutched the edge of the table, and fought for composure.

  “My lady?”

  Sara drew a long breath. She had to find strength. Someway, somehow, she had to be strong. “Yes, Lana?”

  “The duke wishes to see you.”

  “Tell my father I have a headache.”

  “Not ... that duke.” Lana came to stand behind Sara, and their gazes met in the mirror. “The other duke.”

  Sara saw the space between her brows pinch. Her eyes were red, her cheeks splotchy. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “He insists, my lady.” Lana rested her hands on Sara’s shoulders, squeezed gently, and, picking up a silver-handled brush from the vanity, began running it through Sara’s waist-length tresses. “He seemed ... desperate. He paces the library with all the ruthlessness of a madman.”

  “A madman?”

  “Not that I am familiar with his moods, mind. But he appeared quite put out.”

  “Doubtless because he wishes for us to leave sooner. His eagerness to be rid of me now our contract is dissolved could not be more apparent. When he looks at me,” she added, swallowing convulsively, “it’s as if he ...”

  “As if he longs for you?” Once more, their eyes caught in the glass. Lana tilted her head to the side, continued smoothing Sara’s hair.

  “But ... you don’t even like him.”

  “My regard for the duke has nothing to do with how he looks at you, my lady. Besides …” She wound a lock of hair around two fingers and let it slip free, slowly, until it rested in a soft curl over Sara’s shoulder. “He has grown on me. Responsible, he is. Intelligent, a gentleman. And he cares for you. Deeply, I would venture to suggest.”

  Sara’s eyes squeezed shut as the memory of Justin, sliding her sleeve over her shoulder, dropping kisses all over her skin, assailed her.

  ‘I feel deeply for you,’ he’d said, as her body burned.

  “All your life I have observed from a distance,” Lana continued. “Watched as you’ve caught the eye of man after man, some of whom were not of the genteel breed.” A soft roll of laughter chirred in her throat. “I believe the milliner’s son has been in love with you since you were naught but a wee lass.”

  Lana rested the brush on the table, met Sara’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “But not one of those men, gentleman or no, ever looked on you the way he does,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind Sara’s ear. “When his gaze falls upon you, it’s as if the entire room vanishes.”

  “He stared at me during the duke’s funeral service as if he loathed the very ground on which I stood.”

  “Tsk, tsk, sweet one,” said Lana. “Those were not eyes of loathing you witnessed on the opposite side of His Grace’s grave. Although it is a true wonder you weren’t as boggled as I by the sensuous glances tossed from that precarious Lady St. Clair toward Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  Sara had noticed, but it was of no consequence. Sensuous, provocative gazes or no, Cav would see right through a woman of Lady St. Clair’s breeding. He had no tolerance for a woman who did nothing but tease him.

  “Cav can take care of himself,” she murmured.

  “Of that,” Lana replied, and began plaiting Sara’s hair for bed, “I am certain. But be of sound mind, my lady. The duke’s eyes, grim though they were for the loss of his beloved father, did not look upon you with loathing. On the contrary, those were the eyes of a man aggrieved because he believes he has lost the woman he loves.”

  “Then why hasn’t he tried to talk to me before now? He’s had every opportunity.”

  “Every opportunity?” Lana snorted. “Locked yourself in your room for the past two days, you have. And seeing as the duke is a gentleman, he would never breach the threshold of your bedchamber, no matter the reason.”

  “He did before,” Sara pointed out, but Lana ignored her.

  “You need to do as he asks.” She carefully tied the end of Sara’s long braid with a white satin ribbon. “Go talk to him.”

  Sara closed her eyes, tightly. “But what if all he wants to do is hurt me? Men do that, you know. They say words, harsh words, with the sole intent to wound.”

  Lana’s warm hands folded around her cheeks. She bent down, pressed a kiss to Sara’s forehead. “If that is what you think of him, a thaisce,” she said, lolling Sara’s head back against her chest, “then perhaps it is best we return to Dublin. Because although I do not believe his intention is to add to your distress, you are the one who must make the decision.”

  Three days ago, she had inwardly admitted to loving him. Did she not love him still? But of course she did. Love wasn’t a fickle emotion, she knew. It would take a great deal more than his arrogance to remove him from her heart. And if he wanted to speak to her, didn’t she at least owe it to him? Didn’t she owe it to herself?

  Numb, Sara opened her eyes. “All right. I will go and speak with him. But I am hardly dressed to--”

  “A dressing gown, my lady,” Lana said excitedly. Heavens. Justin had grown on her. The man was capable of anything if he could win Lana, determined as she was to despise anyone who would take to Sara romantically. Just like a mother hen, she was.

  “Lana.” Sara stood, and obediently outstretched her arms as Lana helped her into the light blue robe made to match the ribbons fastening the front of her gown.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  Clasping Lana’s hands between her own, she said, “You have been like a mother to me all these years, and I want you to know how grateful I am. It was you who helped me up after my first fall from a horse. And it was you who taught me to sit properly, to be a lady even as I resisted.” She smiled, softened her voice. “Even when my father thought I was a lost cause.”

  “Your father never thought of you as a lost cause,” said Lana. Her lips quivered, tears filled her eyes. “You are his world, always have been. He never remarried because he thought no one was good enough to be a mother to you. And he wouldn’t have some young debutante infecting your rearing with less than acceptable behavior.”

  Small droplets of tears fell from her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. “Throughout everything he has ever done, in every decision he has ever made, he has always, always, thought of you. No father’s love could be greater than Brad--” She hesitated. “Than the duke’s love for you.”

  “You love him,” Sara said rather than asked.

  She knew it was true; had known for some time now. If the way in which Lana described Justin’s rapt gaze upon Sara was any indication, then Lana had been in love with the Duke of Kilkenny for years. Because when their gazes tangled, even in the fleeting moment of crossing paths in a hallway, there was no denying the desire charging the air between them.

  And it wasn’t any wonder. Together they’d raised a child, brought her up to be the lady who would be the Duchess of Tethersal. Should there have ever been any doubt, from working together in such close proximity, with such an intimate task at hand, that the two of them would develop feelings, one for the other?

  “Yes,” Lana said after seconds had passed. She turned around, ran her hands several times over her muted grey skirts. “Yes, I love him
.” And then, facing Sara again, her eyes swimming with tears, “Most ardently.”

  “Oh, Lana.” Sara pulled Lana into a tight embrace. “You should tell him so. You should.”

  “No, a thaisce.” She thrust Sara at arm’s length, grasped her shoulders. “You mustn’t worry about me. Or your father. We will find our own way, he and I. Now is about you, making a decision for what you want. And if that is Justin, then he awaits in the library, downstairs.”

  “I may not possess the strength to speak.”

  “You’ll find courage, sweet girl,” Lana said reassuringly. “You always do. Now, go.” She ushered Sara to the door. “And mind that you are not seen. Frolicking about the home of a duke in the evening hours whilst dressed in your nightgown is not exactly smiled upon.”

  “Thank you, Lana.” Sara stepped out into the hall, took a quick look around, confirmed no one was there save for a lone footman standing at the base of the stairs (he could be dealt with easily enough), and turned back to Lana. “Clear.”

  “Go,” Lana urged quietly. “Before it is too late.”

  She hoped it wasn’t.

  Sara tiptoed through the hallway and down the stairs, stopping only to tell the footman she was headed to the library for a book.

  “Be quick about it, my lady,” he murmured, perusing her nighttime attire with a sharply raised brow.

  Nodding her compliance, Sara continued along the hall into a second hall that, if she remembered correctly, led directly to the library where Justin waited. Where she would risk her heart being broken forever if he should reject her.

  Heavens, this was terribly frightening.

  She eased around one corner, looked both ways, and rounded the next. A whispering draft skimmed across the floor, and the candled sconces lining the walls flickered. Chills crawled up her legs. It wasn’t far now; just a few more paces.

  Taking a deep breath--she could do this, she could--Sara lifted her bare foot to take another step, and froze.

  Footsteps, boot-clad and swift, drew near.

  She gasped, started to bolt for the library, but decided against it. Looking a fright in front of Justin was not an option. She braced herself against the wall under a huge gilt painting of a meadow in spring, and waited, eyes clamped shut.

  “Sara?”

  Sara’s eyes shot open as a male figure stepped out of the shadows.

  Oh, no.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Is that you?” Cav stepped forward, closed the distance from his side of the hall to hers. “Good God. What are you doing out of your room, dressed like this?”

  “I ... I was going to the library. For a book.”

  “I see.” His eyes, glistening in the candlelight like green glass, swept over her. “I’d advise you not to romp around dressed so--”

  “Did you need something, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “Actually, I do,” he said, looking amused. “I need to speak with you.”

  “But I--”

  “No more delays, Sara.” His warm fingers closed around her upper arm, and she shivered. “Now.”

  Reluctance in every step she took, Sara allowed Cav to lead her away, wondering all the while if her almost-fiancé was still pacing like a madman.

  *** *** ***

  Although he would never aspire to indulge in the volatile behavior becoming a madman, Justin was, indeed, pacing. He had paced and paced, trudged the wide span of the library--back and forth, back and forth--so many times it was a miracle he hadn’t made a sizeable trench in the wooden floor.

  Where the hell was she?

  Had he not made himself clear to Mrs. Brennan? Had he not said it was urgent, imperative, and that his heart might very well crumble into a million pieces if she should refuse to see him? That he might find himself deduced to standing outside her window, begging like some drunken, overzealous, blubbering idiot for her to come down?

  All right.

  Maybe he hadn’t gone that far.

  But he had mentioned it was urgent. And though he knew Mrs. Brennan didn’t particularly care for him, would likely rather see him staked and on display in Dublin square, even she wouldn’t deny him this. This one chance to speak to Sara, to lay his heart on the line, to tell her that, with all of his being, he loved her. And if given the chance, he would spend the rest of his life doing whatever it took to make her happy.

  Bloody hell. It was murder waiting like this.

  Justin looked to the open door of the library for the hundredth time since he’d watched Mrs. Brennan leave to carry out his request. He looked at the clock. A quarter until eight. Fifteen minutes. It had only been fifteen minutes, and he was ready to tear out of the library, take the stairs three at a time, barrel into Sara’s room, and demand she hear him out.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, curled his hands into fists at his sides, and continued pacing. He knew he ought to be patient, but hell. Patience meant little to nothing right now. In two days she would be gone, and patience would have gotten him nowhere. Within seconds of her feet hitting the Irish soil, Sara would be swept away and married to Cavanaugh.

  Justin couldn’t allow that to happen without her first knowing the truth.

  That she belonged with him, not Cavanaugh.

  Deuce take it, where was she?

  The clock ticked again. Seven forty-six. Outside the rain strengthened, whereas Justin had momentarily thought they may have been in for clearer skies. Not a chance. Another week of this and England was bound to be the next Atlantis. He couldn’t wait another week. He had less than two days.

  That did it.

  Justin stormed from the library, tore down the hall at an accelerated pace. He’d gone into her bedchamber once without permission; he’d do it again. Propriety be damned, he was finished keeping everything bottled up inside like an iron kettle on a hot stove, waiting to spew its lid.

  Lengthening his steps, Justin turned the corner leading into the hall where his mother kept her favorite paintings. Turner, Lawrence, and Constable. They were all there, portraits and landscapes alike, hanging as crown jewels in all their artistic glory. Normally he stopped to admire them, but not tonight. Matters far more pressing than the artwork of romantic artists lay ahead, and he wasn’t about to let one more night pass without saying what needed to be said.

  What he should have said while they were in Worcester, before everything had gone to hell.

  Shaking the thought from his mind, for there was no wisdom in dredging up what was already said and done, Justin pressed on. Up ahead the glow of candlelight, flickering amber across the tile floor, caught his eye. He slowed his steps, tapered his gaze. The servants closed all doors to all rooms in the evening, and though it was early yet, he couldn’t remember having seen anyone meandering through the house.

  Yet someone was in the music room. Who?

  His mother had gone to bed; Anna, too. Kilkenny was in Justin’s office, writing correspondence and nursing a stout glass of brandy. Sebastian was undoubtedly doing the same, minus the correspondence. And, big surprise, Sara was upstairs being stubborn.

  So who could it possibly be? The door stood ajar, and voices, hushed yet distinct, carried from inside.

  Voices. Not one, but two.

  Justin ambled forward. This was his house, and he had every right to know who among his guests found it pertinent to carry on secret conversations during the late hours. Gathering composure, he laid a hand to the door. Pushed it further open.

  And what he saw, what he beheld in that moment made him wish he hadn’t been born with even an ounce of curiosity in his mind. It took all he had not to fall to his knees and weep. Because his heart had surely stopped beating, and his eyes, frozen though they were at present, were certain to emit tears once he found the ability to blink.

  Cavanaugh, bent on one knee in front of Sara. Her small hand clutched inside his as if his very life depended on it. As if he was in the middle of--

  Dear God.

  Cavanaugh was proposing.
<
br />   Sara looked up, her gold-flecked brown eyes round, lips parted in shock. Obviously she hadn’t expected an interruption. Meaning she had anticipated Cavanaugh’s proposal. And apparently, Justin observed broodingly, while dressed in her nightgown. The same angelic garment she’d worn the night he’d visited her room at the inn in Liverpool. Seeing her then had started a fire in his belly which never stood to be quenched. Now was no different.

  Because he wanted her as much now, no more, than he did then.

  But he was too late.

  Justin felt his jaw set, his chest constrict. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he thought he heard her whisper his name, but she appeared blurry through the haze that should have been his eyes.

  He had to get out of here.

  “Pardon,” he managed to mutter and then, as an afterthought, “My mistake.”

  And then he did the only thing he could do.

  He executed a stiff bow and left the room.

  Leaving his deteriorated heart behind as the door clicked shut.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Oh, no,” Sara muttered, and then, rising to her feet, “What have I done?”

  “He could have said something.” Cav stood and straightened his black silk jacket. “Instead of standing there, gaping as though one or the both of us had sprouted two heads.”

  “He thinks you were proposing to me.”

  “I was proposing to you,” he reminded her. “You, however, turned me down.”

  “Cav,” she said wearily. “You do not want to marry me.”

  “No?”

  “I would make you terribly unhappy.”

  “You could,” he said, tilting his head and looking down upon her, “let me be the judge of that. You said yourself that had I asked you instead of your father, you would have agreed. And there are many ways in which we can learn to make each other happy, to have an agreeable marriage.”

  “I don’t love you in that way, and you know it. Why put ourselves through a lifetime of simply being comfortable with one another?”