by Cora Lee
He leaned forward an inch and squinted slightly, studying her. “Is that a yes?”
“You haven’t asked me a question, my lord.”
He grinned. “I haven’t, have I?” He took both her hands in his—their first skin-to-skin contact in their nearly ten-year acquaintance—and dropped to one knee. “Sarah Shipton, will you make me the happiest of men and become my wife?”
She arched an eyebrow. “The happiest of men?”
“Too much? I’ve never proposed marriage to a lady before, so I wasn’t quite sure how to do it.”
“Too much for our situation, perhaps. But I appreciate the attempt at sentiment.”
He squeezed her fingers. “And you consent?”
She liked the feel of his hands in hers, strong and steady, his eyes searching her face for an answer as if she had the option to refuse him. “Yes,” she smiled, squeezing back. “I consent. I can’t let all your planning and generosity go to waste. And I am grateful to you for offering both.”
“Excellent.” He sprang to his feet and released her. “Is tomorrow satisfactory? Or would you like a day to prepare?”
Tomorrow? “Aren’t there settlements to draw up? A vicar to find? A location to choose?”
“All done. That’s why I was so late arriving. All you need to do is pick out a gown and tell me where your mother would like to go.”
And pack. And say her good-byes. And turn over the running—and closing—of the bookshop to Mr. Higgins. And be sure this really was her best option. “Tomorrow is too soon.”
“Very well. The day after will suffice.” He fished inside his coat and withdrew another sealed letter. “I’ve written out the details here for you, including the items I asked my solicitor to include in the settlement. I’ll also send a notice to The Times. Ollie tells me it’s the proper thing to do, and it will ensure all of Polite Society knows you are safely wed. If there is anything you wish to add or change you may send to me at Elliott House and I will see that it is taken care of.”
She accepted the letter and decided to open it after he’d left; she’d be better able to process the information when she was alone. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Hartland will do from now on. Or Hart, if you like nicknames.”
“You’ll call me Sarah, then?”
“If you’d like.”
So much had happened since she arrived home from Dover two days ago, she wasn’t really sure what she’d like. But she nodded. Having something familiar with her in the days to come would be comforting, and her Christian name was the only thing that wasn’t about to change. “I think I would.”
“Then I will see you the day after tomorrow, Sarah.” He bowed formally, then took her hand and kissed it before she could react. “I look forward to it.”
She inhaled deeply and held the breath, letting it out as soon as he rounded the corner into the corridor. Had the Earl of Hartland become the handsome prince to Sarah’s Cendrillon? Would they live happily ever after? Or would he lock her away from the world?
Either way, she’d just agreed to give over her entire life—and that of her mother—to a near stranger.
“This calls for fortification.” Following in Hartland’s footsteps out of the drawing room, she continued down into the kitchen in search of a meal and perhaps a cup of tea. The practicality of eating and the fact that she still could control that aspect of her life helped to push down the wave of apprehension threatening to overwhelm her.
Upon entering the kitchen, she found two footmen clad in red Hartland livery chatting amiably with the Shiptons’ cook. “Your master has departed.”
The shorter of the two cleared his throat as they snapped to attention. “His lordship said we were to stay with you at all times, Miss Shipton, unless he was with you himself. He said you’d been followed by some ruffian and we were to make certain you came to no harm.”
“For how long?”
“Until he assigned us elsewhere.”
He left her guards? She didn’t know Hartland—or the threat against her—well enough to decide if he was being overprotective or appropriately cautious. But compared to everything else she’d dealt with this day, the guards were a minor complication...and an extra set of hands. “Fine. You can help me with my preparations. What are your names?”
“Benson, ma’am.”
“Goren, ma’am.”
She nodded to each of them and turned back toward the door. “Come along then, Benson and Goren. We have a lot to do.”
Sarah sat on the bed in her chamber clutching a pillow in her hands. What she really wanted to do was crush the pillow against her chest and squeeze it until the tension left her body, but she didn’t. She was wearing her best gown—the beautiful leaf green one with silver embroidery she’d had made for Diana’s betrothal ball—and crushing the pillow would also crush the gown. But a lady only married the earl who compromised her once, and Sarah wanted to look her best for the occasion.
A knock sounded on the door, followed by her mother’s smiling face peering around the edge. “Ready? The last of your things is being loaded now.”
Hartland had sent a small army of liveried footmen to transport her belongings to Elliott house. “Nearly. Just one more moment?”
“Certainly. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
The door closed and Sarah gripped the pillow tighter. Her husband-to-be still hadn’t told her where they were going after the wedding ceremony or how long they might need to remain there. She was giving up the measure of independence she had with her parents and the running of the bookshop in order to turn her entire life over to a man who could do anything he wanted with her.
“Except I wouldn’t have independence if I refused Hartland,” she said aloud. “Nor the bookshop. That life ended when Mother made up her false ledger.”
And when someone put a price on her head.
For just a moment, Sarah indulged in a bout of self-pity. Only days ago her greatest worry had been for the gentleman she’d bumped into near her aunt’s home in Dover, and the valuables that might have broken in the box she’d caused him to drop. She would give anything for that to be the case now!
But self-pity wouldn’t help keep her or her mother safe and alive. Standing and placing the pillow carefully back in its place, she smoothed her hands down her skirts and took a deep breath. Marrying Hartland was the only real option she had and she wasn’t going to shrink from it now.
One of Hartland’s brightly painted carriages carried Sarah, her mother, and Diana to Hampstead Parish Church, where her bridegroom, wearing a tailcoat nearly as dark as his eyes, was waiting with Lord Preston and two other gentlemen outside the main door.
“Who are they?” Diana asked, nodding toward the two unknowns.
“The one in the green coat looks like Major Oliver,” Mrs. Shipton answered. “He’s come into the shop a time or two with Lord Hartland. I don’t recognize the other one.”
Sarah watched Hartland break away from the group and approach the carriage as a footman in Hartland red helped her mother and Diana alight. His lordship brushed the footman away and offered his own hand to his bride.
“Right on time,” he said with a smile.
She stepped cautiously from the carriage, gripping Hartland’s hand a little harder than she wanted to. “You didn’t imagine that I’d be late for my own wedding, did you?”
“No,” he laughed. “But it was the only thing I could think of to say that might set your mind at ease.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “Thank you for making the attempt.”
He drew her arm through his and escorted her toward the group of people at the church door. “I brought my solicitor to finalize the settlements, and I asked Preston to witness the document so there isn’t any question as to its authenticity.”
“That was good thinking.”
“I’d like to take the credit, but that was Ollie’s idea—Francis Oliver, my oldest friend.” Hartland pointed toward the green-c
oated man Mrs. Shipton had indicated. “I’ll introduce you before we go in. I don’t have any family to contest the provisions I’ve made for you, but there’s always the chance that someone will come forward claiming to be a long-lost cousin and make trouble.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“I hope so,” he returned. He abruptly halted a few feet from their party and turned toward her, sliding his hand down her arm and clasping her gloved fingers in his. “No. I didn’t tell you just how beautiful you look today. You are absolutely stunning, Sarah.”
She knew he paid such compliments to a variety of women, but felt her cheeks warm nonetheless. “Thank you...again.”
“It is my pleasure.”
Sarah’s smile widened and she allowed him to lead her toward the church door, where introductions were made and the solicitor went through each clause of the settlement with her. Once he was satisfied that she understood the document, he presented his leather satchel as a makeshift tabletop while Sarah, Hartland, and Lord Preston signed.
“All that’s left now is the actual ceremony.” Lord Preston slapped Hartland on the back. “I thought I’d have to drag you here kicking and screaming, Hartland, but here you are of your own accord.”
“I don’t show it very often, but I do have a sense of honor,” Hartland replied. “And I think Miss Shipton and I will rub along together well enough.”
He offered his arm to her once more and Sarah took it, wondering how long Lord Preston’s concern for her would last. Preston’s affection for Diana was probably the reason he’d taken such a hard line with Hartland to begin with, but she doubted he would pay much attention to her once she was safely wed.
If Hartland was right about the order for her demise, it was better—safer—if Lord Preston forgot all about her.
Sarah swept up the center aisle of the church toward the waiting vicar, her gaze level and her breathing as steady as she could make it. Hartland was only a few inches taller than she was but he carried himself like a reigning monarch, the effect amplified by the gaggle of people trailing in their wake. She tried to draw strength from the imagery, from the solid presence beside her, but it was difficult to draw strength from a man with Hartland’s conflicting reputations. Who was he really—the hero or the rakehell?
Could he be both?
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began when everyone was in place.
He had a pleasant speaking voice, and Sarah made sure to pay attention, particularly when they came to the part about possible impediments. There weren’t any, but she half expected Hartland to flash a big grin and say, “I object!” while running as fast as he could from the church.
He did give her a smile and made a show of wiping his hand across his forehead when there was no answer to the vicar’s command to speak or forever hold one’s peace. But he didn’t run, and he even became almost serious when he took her hand to plight his troth.
“I Andrew John Dominic Edward Zaleski Elliott, take thee Sarah Jane Shipton to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
“I Sarah Jane Shipton, take thee Andrew John Dominic Edward Zaleski Elliott to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Hartland’s grin returned the moment she said “obey.” And it grew when he slid the garnet and gold ring on her finger, promising “with my body I thee worship.” Sarah made a concerted effort to keep her reaction minimal, but more questions swirled in her mind. In all the excitement stirred up by her potential murder and this speedy wedding, neither she nor Hartland had thought to discuss what they expected of the actual marriage. Did he think she would give him unconditional obedience? Were they to consummate the marriage? Was he going to lock her away until she was safe again? What would happen when she was safe again?
“I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Too late to change her mind now, despite the fluttering in her stomach. The vicar said one last blessing over them, then Sarah and Hartland signed the parish register—he in a bold but messy hand, she in the precise writing she’d perfected keeping ledgers for the bookshop.
Her mother was the first to congratulate her, wrapping Sarah in a fierce embrace. “I am so very happy for you, Daughter, and not just because we are now financially secure. I do believe him to be a good match for you. I’ve seen him with you at the bookshop over the years. He is nearly as clever as you are so you’ll have lively conversations, and I think under all that immaturity lies a man who is serious about his responsibilities. He will take good care of you.”
Sarah smiled at Mrs. Shipton’s usual overestimation of her daughter’s qualities, but it was a forced smile. She was wagering her life on her new husband’s character. “I hope you’re right, Mother.”
Diana was next, hugging her nearly as tightly as her mother had. “Perhaps now our daily schedules will be more alike.”
Sarah laughed a little, though the fluttering in her stomach was beginning to feel more like frenzied butterflies. What would her days be like with Hartland? “Perhaps they will be.”
“Are you staying in Town?” Diana asked, releasing her.
Sarah shook her head. “Hartland is taking me to one of his country estates, but he won’t tell me which one. He says it’s a surprise.”
“How wonderful! Promise you’ll write to me and tell me all about it.”
Would she be allowed to write, even to Diana? She was supposed to be difficult to find. “I will do my best.”
“Might I be the first to kiss the bride?”
Sarah looked past Diana to see Lord Preston beaming a few steps away. Before she could answer, though, Hartland appeared at her side and answered for her.
“No you may not. That will be my honor, Preston, when Lady Hartland and I have some privacy.”
Lady Hartland. Sarah stared blankly at Lord Preston for a moment, then found her manners. “But we are pleased to accept your felicitations, my lord.”
Lord Preston took Sarah’s hand and bowed over it, ignoring Hartland. “You have them, my lady.”
She received similar offerings from Major Oliver and Hartland’s solicitor before Hartland himself held out his hand to her. “We should probably be on our way.”
“Yes, of course.” The sooner she was out of London, the safer everyone would be.
Sarah accepted Hartland’s hand and allowed him to thread her arm through his as he led her from the church. Their little wedding party followed them to the waiting carriage—a vehicle with a more subdued paint color than the one that had brought her, without the Hartland crest emblazoned on the door—and waved good-bye as they drove away.
Hartland sat beside her on the front-facing seat and turned to her with a cheerful smile. “Now about that kiss.”
Chapter Four
“You actually want to kiss me?”
As Hart’s countess removed her bonnet and gloves, he studied her with the same care he might look over a new horse. Not that Sarah reminded him of a horse. She wasn’t the type of woman he was usually drawn to but she was rather pretty in a serious sort of way, with intelligent blue eyes and what looked to be a pleasant armful of a figure under her gown. She was a new acquisition, though, and he realized that he’d never thought much about her beyond their interactions at the bookshop.
“Yes,” he finally replied. He found that he did, in fact, want to kiss her. Apart from her physical attractiveness, he was curious about the experience itself. Each woman he’d been intimate with kissed just a little differently than the others, and he wondered what it would be like with
Sarah.
“I have some questions first.”
“Questions about kissing?” Just how sheltered was this girl?
She shook her head impatiently. “Of course not—questions about me, about us. About what’s going to happen.”
“Oh.” He probably should have anticipated more questions from her now that she’d had time to properly mull over her situation. “Go on, then. Ask what you need to ask.”
“Where are we going?”
“My estate in Devon.” They’d be far enough from Town to be safe—he hoped—and Hart could meet with his Irish contact to let her know what was happening.
“And where is my mother going?”
He almost told her it was safer if she didn’t know, but that wasn’t strictly true. It would probably set her mind at ease, too, to know just where her mother was being housed. “The north of England. I have a friend whose ancestral home is there, and he will keep her safe and entertained. And overland travel within our own island is less risky than going by water in the middle of a war.”
She leaned back against the seat. “Good. Thank you for arranging that for her.”
“It was my pleasure.” He was back to telling partial truths again. He did feel good about getting a person out of harm’s way, but it hadn’t been exactly pleasurable to convince his friend to play nursemaid to his new mother-in-law.
“I appreciate you allowing me to tell her the truth about the threat against me, too. I know she’ll worry, but I don’t think I could have lied to her.”
Sarah’s gaze dropped to her shoes and Hart tilted her chin up, compelling her to look him in the eye. “Don’t worry, Thorston will keep a close watch over her.” He released her chin. “I do regret that I couldn’t give you more time to say goodbye to her and Miss Talbot at the Church, though.”
She glanced down at her hands for a moment and Hart half expected a tear to fall, though none did. “I hope to see them both again soon. Do you know how long we’ll be in Devon?”
