Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  Lin surveyed his own impeccable dress—mauve pantaloons and matching long coat with yellow lapels. He ran a hand carefully over his meticulously tied cravat and then took in the earl’s buckskin breeches and comfortably worn coat, which he had been travelling in from the beginning of the journey.

  Each day Lin had hoped to see at least a waistcoat added or something other than the plain linen shirt, devoid of lace or even tucks. The wish had been in vain, his cousin donning a clean, equally simple shirt each day. Today even the cravat, which Dunstan usually looped disdainfully about his neck, was absent.

  The earl, plainly enjoying himself, leaned back in the seat. “You had best see to that branch if we are to go on.”

  His cousin drew himself up. Staring straight ahead, he said in clipped tones, “Not I.”

  “But I am the earl,” Dunstan feigned injured protest. He waved a hand theatrically. “How can my dignity allow me to venture into the mire?”

  “Your title did not prevent you from wrestling with the innkeeper’s son at Tunbridge Wells. Besides, you are stronger.” Lin brightened at this thought. “You won the match.”

  Laughing at his cousin’s seriousness, Dunstan handed him the reins. “Think how valuable a secretary you must be that an earl is willing to remove you from a bog. Mayhap you wish me to carry you free of it?” he joked.

  Sullivan blushed furiously, a hurt expression in his eyes.

  “Lin, I am sorry I plague you,” Cris assured him contritely. “We both know I will be happier doing it. Many a time I have thought you better suited to the title.” He paused, then seriousness fled.

  “My sense of nobility is abhorrently lacking.” He shook his head in mock sadness and vaulted from the phaeton into the morass.

  “You may yet learn some degree of dress,” Lin told him in all seriousness. “Truly, Cris, you have the makings of an excellent peer if only you would attain some degree of decorum.”

  “Let us be glad for now that I have none,” the earl shot back, slogging toward dry ground.

  * * * *

  Sarita had spent some time collecting plants for Monsieur Mandel from various gardens in the area. Her long walk now led her to the main road. She tramped along, gently swinging the basket of plants and humming a gay ditty. The sounds of a man’s shouts and a team’s straining caused her to leave off her tune and hurry forward.

  Not the bog again, she thought with a frown, realizing she was near it. A loud snap sounded, then a dull plop, followed by a burst of unrestrained laughter as she neared the phaeton.

  “I fear you shall have to strain yourself, my lord,” she heard a deep, hearty voice proclaim and realized it emanated from the mud-coated hulk rising front the mire behind the phaeton.

  Lin, who had stood up to see the earl’s fate when the branch he was using for leverage snapped, was still taking in his thoroughly muddied cousin when Sarita came upon them. Raising his eyes, he encountered her small form as she hesitantly approached.

  “Thank God,” Lin heaved a sigh of relief. “Miss! Oh, miss!” He waved at her to come closer. “Fetch your father or brothers to come aid us.”

  Halting at the edge of the bog, unconsciously raising her skirts to keep them clean, Sarita stared at the mud-coated man. A pair of laughing eyes met hers, ran down her figure, and ended appreciatively on her neatly turned ankles. He gave an elaborate bow, and she could not help bursting into laughter at the ludicrous sight he presented.

  “Cris, mind your ways,” Lin chortled, fearing his salvation was being tampered with. “I apologize, miss.”

  “That is quite unnecessary, my lord.” She bobbed a tardy curtsy while she smiled at the mud-covered hulk before her.

  What beautiful deep, brown eyes he has, she thought. An odd sensation stirred within her beneath his half-humorous, half-serious gaze.

  “We shall need your husband’s aid,” the mud-daubed gentleman spoke. He was enjoying his scrutiny of the petite figure before him.

  “I have no husband and my father is not at home,” Sarita replied, her cheeks warm beneath his stare.

  “Surely there is someone,” Lin said again as the pair gazed at each other without speaking. “Cris, you must do something.”

  Dunstan shrugged, his eyes full of mirth. “Do you think we could get his lordship to dry land—spotless, of course?” he asked Sarita, attempting to keep his tone grave.

  Lin’s distress increased at Dunstan’s deliberate mistake in addressing him. “Cris!”

  “What am I to do with his lordship?” the earl reiterated, emphasizing the title and turning to face Lin with a threatening look.

  “Can you not manage to reach one of the team’s backs?” Sarita offered. “Then the horses could be unhitched and led to dry ground.”

  “A capital idea,” Dunstan agreed.

  Scowling, Sullivan glared at him. “You would think so.”

  “A little horse hair never hurt anyone,” he consoled his cousin.

  “Why, my lord, you are sitting on it,” Sarita offered, then blushed at the audacity of her words.

  Dunstan let loose a bark of laughter, which increased her consternation and his cousin’s. Turning to Lin, he wiped his hand on the inside of his jacket and offered to assist him. With Sarita looking on, the earl managed to get his cousin atop a horse and lead him free.

  Slipping to the ground with obvious relief, Lin bowed to Sarita. He noticed that his cousin couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her. “Pardon me, miss. Miss—” He coughed and gained her attention. “Would you know the direction of Braitlathe?”

  “Of course. I live there.” She smiled over his shoulder at Dunstan.

  “Are you one of the Misses Durham?” Lin asked in surprise.

  “Why, yes.” He had her full attention now. “But how did you know?”

  “Lady Bawden—”

  “You are the Earl of Dunstan?” Sarita clapped a hand over her mouth, took in Lin’s appearance, and swallowed a chortle of laughter. “I should have known.” She waved a hand, taking in the mauve jacket with the yellow lapels. “Your—bearing,” she ended weakly and blushed furiously as the muddied hulk behind Lin let loose a fresh burst of mirth

  “Sullivan was completely flustered by her error. You are mistaken miss. I am—”

  “His lordship, Lord Enoch here, has to be forgiven.” Dunstan stepped to Lin’s side and reached an arm around his cousin’s shoulders.

  Sullivan shied from him like a skittish colt.

  “It has been a difficult day for the earl. Do you think we could go to Braitlathe now, Miss Durham?”

  Sarita wondered at the mischievous glint in the man’s eyes. Why did she feel he had manoeuvred a trick of some sort? What a strangely personal relationship between him and the earl, she thought; not at all as she would have imagined an earl would wish to be treated. But then, she concluded, this was not so strange when one thought of the dowagers.

  “My home is not far from here, Mr.—”

  “Sullivan. Chris Sullivan at your service, miss.” The earl gave an elaborate bow.

  A choking cough claimed their attention. Sarita hurried to Lin’s side and thumped him on the back with all her strength.

  “His lordship has these spells,” Dunstan assured her. “He’ll be fine once we arrive at Braitlathe and he can rest.”

  “Fine?” Lin choked out. “I . . . was . . . fine . . . until I came on this journey.”

  “Before we go, Mr. Sullivan, you might wish to wash in the stream just beyond,” Sarita said, studying the two.

  “If you are quite recovered, my lord, I will show him the way.”

  “You wait here, my lord.” The earl bowed to his cousin with a wink. “I’ll not tarry long.”

  “Let me have your coat,” Sarita ordered crisply when they reached the stream.

  Surprised, Dunstan nevertheless shucked the muddy disaster from his broad shoulders.

  “You had best wash,” she urged him. “‘Tis no small chore,” she added, taking in the muscular s
houlders beneath the plain linen shirt as he waded into the stream. Stooping at the edge, Sarita dropped the coat into the water and began scrubbing it.

  “But you will soil your gown,” Dunstan protested.

  “I have managed to do that before,” she laughingly told him. “Not quite as well as you have done, however.”

  Dunstan joined in her laughter and began to rid himself of the drying muck. The task completed as well as he was able without disrobing, he returned to the bank. Halting where Sarita was still stooped over brushing at his devastated coat, he carefully eyed her trim figure.

  “It has not fared well, I fear,” she said, looking up.

  He reached down and took her hand, drawing her upright. Her head barely reached his chest. “‘Tis a small matter,” Dunstan said softly.

  Sarita’s heart raced at the caress of his voice.

  “Cris? Cris, where are you? Will you never be done?” Lin’s nervous voice reached their ears.

  “Ah, peers,” he sighed, and winked at Sarita. Grabbing his coat deftly from the ground, he guided her back to the team. “Shall you ride, my lord?” he asked his cousin.

  Lin grimaced. “I choose to walk. Miss Durham?” He held out his hand to her.

  “My basket?” She turned back to where she had set it down.

  “Mr. Sullivan may fetch it,” Lin assured her haughtily to attain a small degree of revenge for Cris’ prank.

  With regret, she placed her hand upon his arm and led the way, glancing back and wondering why her heart hammered so as the very damp Mr. Sullivan winked at her.

  Chapter 9

  “The ladies will be having tea,” Sarita told the man she believed to be the earl as they neared the rectory.

  “An unusual home, Miss Durham,” Dunstan noted from behind the pair. “Where shall our chambers be?” he asked, surveying the towers.

  “The tower room on the right has a large bedchamber with a smaller attached room. I think you shall be comfortable there, Mr. Sullivan.” Sarita flashed a smile over her shoulder. “The stable is there.” She pointed it out. “Josh will take care of the horses for you.”

  For a moment, basking in her smile, the earl forgot the reason for his question. Giving himself a mental shake, he surveyed the tower in question. A large trellis reached to the upper floor. Vines covered most of the east side above it. A smile came to his lips as he noted the large stone ledge beneath the windows that marked the upper floor from the lower. His chamber would be most accessible.

  “Shall we not enter properly?” Lin asked nervously as Sarita led them from the path towards the rear of the house.

  “But we always take tea out of doors,” Sarita told him. “The ladies will think it odd if I do not bring you to them at once. They have been quite excited at the prospect of your visit.”

  Lin refused to go forward. “It is most irregular.”

  “What is more odd? My being unchaperoned with two gentlemen all afternoon, or tea outdoors?” she asked exasperatedly.

  “Oh, dear,” Lin exclaimed, aghast. “I never thought. I mean—” He wrung his hands fretfully.

  “Well, old man,” Dunstan rejoined them. “Looks like you will wed at last. Compromising this little lady. Tsk, tsk.” His eyes sparkled as he gauged Sarita’s reaction.

  “M—married,” his cousin stammered. “Cris, now, Cris, you know—”

  “Mr. Sullivan teases, my lord,” Sarita assured him, undecided whether or not to be annoyed at the one’s boldness or the other’s trying nervousness. “Let us join your aunts, my lord.” She frowned a reprimand at Mr. Sullivan as she spoke.

  “Sarita, my dear, we were becoming concerned.” Mrs. Durham rose at her daughter’s approach. “Why, whom do you have with you?” She smiled at Lin’s immaculate appearance and frowned at the earl’s dismal state.

  “Mother, this is the dowagers’ nephew, the Earl of Dunstan.”

  Mrs. Durham fell into a deep curtsy. “My lord,” she said in greeting.

  “And this is his—”

  “Personal secretary,” Dunstan supplied.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” Sarita ended, finding herself unaccountably pleased to learn that he was not his lordship’s valet.

  “Rise, please rise,” Lin besought the rector’s wife. He reached out and drew her up. “This is not necessary. Actually there has been a misunderstanding—”

  “Yes, his lordship drove us into the centre of a bog,” Dunstan interrupted smoothly. “My appearance has suffered somewhat in the attempt to remove the phaeton. I do apologize for it.” He bowed, bringing a glimmer of approval to Mrs. Durham’s features.

  At mention of the quagmire, Lady Imogene and Lady Phillippa rose and approached the group. “Perhaps you know of someone who can assist in the freeing of Lord Dunstan’s phaeton?” the earl continued.

  “Your Mr. Traunt, Sarita,” Lady Phillippa offered and noted Mr. Sullivan’s sharp glance at the young woman. “Could he not aid Mr. Sullivan as he did us?

  “And you must be Lord Enoch.” The marchioness turned to Lin without waiting for Sarita’s reply. “So pleased to see you once again.” She mentally shook her head at his foppish attire.

  “I—I, also,” Lin stammered, bright red spots coming to his checks at the deceit he was being forced to continue.

  “I am Lady Phillippa, dear Enoch.” The marchioness rose on tiptoe as she stepped near him and brushed his cheek with a kiss.

  “And I am the Countess of Lackland,” Lady Imogene told him, thinking how unfortunate Henrietta’s success had been with the young man. “Your Aunt Imogene.”

  “Steady, man,” Dunstan whispered. He took his cousin’s arm as signs of bolting crossed Lin’s features.

  “And you must be Lady Brienne.” The earl nodded while keeping hold of Sullivan. “His lordship has spoken highly of you.”

  “Has he no tongue to speak on his own?” she bristled.

  Given a push by the earl, Lin had no choice but to move forward. A look told him that Dunstan was serious in maintaining the misunderstanding about their respective identities. “Forgive me.” He brushed a lace-edged cuff across his brow. “The excitement of the accident and now meeting all of you for the first time—in many years,” he added hastily and posed affectedly.

  Behind him Dunstan’s smile grew. His cousin was more adept than he had hoped.

  Watching the interplay, doubt rose in Sarita again. She had the oddest sense that Mr. Sullivan was enjoying a huge jest.

  * * * *

  “Lady Brienne, why such a frown?” Sarita asked as the baroness stalked into the dining salon bearing the supper plates.

  Setting them down with a clanking thud, she replied, “Lord Dunstan.”

  “What has his lordship done?” Sarita winced as her mother’s best plates were roughly slammed into place. “I shall finish this for you.” She took the last four. “He could not have had time to—”

  “He could and has. He is Henrietta to the core. Our sister, you know. I find it hard to believe he has ever stood up to her.”

  “Perhaps he will make a better impression as he becomes more familiar with all of you,” Sarita offered hopefully.

  “I warned Imogene and Phillippa. I told them what would happen. It will be a disappointment, my dear, if you choose to . . ..”

  “Yes, Lady Brienne?”

  “Never mind. Has that Mr. Sullivan returned?” the baroness asked, changing the topic of discussion.

  “Yes,” Sarita laughed lightly. “Tessy put him to work carrying water for his own bath. He seemed a bit taken aback at having to do it, though.” She paused.

  “Do you like Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I see nothing to dislike in the man, barring his familiarity at times.” Sarita shrugged off the question. “He is very different from Lord Dunstan.”

  “Everyone is different from his lordship, thank the Lord. I shall speak with Mr. Sullivan about providing us with some extra servants, however, so his lordship can be properly cared for.” She rolled her eyes.


  “You couldn’t—I mean you wouldn’t. Father would—”

  Reverend Durham startled Sarita with his unexpected entry. “What is this I am to do?”

  “Good eve, Father.” She greeted him with a kiss after recovering. “Did you not go to the solarium?

  “By the by, we have more guests this eve.”

  “I know. Our stable is nigh to overflowing, and these last are pure blood.”

  “My nephew, Lord Dunstan, has arrived, Reverend Durham,” Lady Brienne told him. “At least he knows his horseflesh and business matters. Unusually well for a peer, though,” she mused aloud. “I had better fetch the water goblets,” the baroness continued, sensing that the rector wished to speak alone with his daughter.

  When the door closed, concern aged Durham’s features. “How are we to go on?” he asked. “With all these guests? Can you manage the work?”

  “I have done well with the dowagers’ help, Father. And late this afternoon a haunch of beef was brought to the door along with other staples, compliments of the earl, according to the boys who brought the items.”

  “Most unusual.” He rubbed his forehead. “I suppose we had best thank the Lord and not question the source,” he concluded uneasily. “Does the earl have a pleasing demeanour?”

  “He is very proper,” Sarita returned carefully.

  “Sarita. Sarita!” Deborah burst into the salon. “Have you seen him? Oh!” She halted abruptly.

  “Good eve, Father.” She brushed his cheek with a kiss and turned to her sister. “Isn’t he superb? Didn’t I tell you that the ladies would help us,” she continued in her excitement. “We may not even have to go to London to make a match.” Recalling her father standing behind her, Deborah gulped in dismay.

  “I shall have to meet this paragon.” Humour tinged the rector’s deep voice. He arched his brows above twinkling eyes. “I shall bring our guest in to sup after I have assessed him,” he told them and walked solemnly from the chamber.

  “Oh, Sarita.” Deborah collapsed into a chair. “I thought I would receive a terrible scold,” she said in relief. She sat up. “Why do you suppose I did not?”

  Her sister shrugged nonchalantly. “You truly like the earl?”