by Cora Lee
“I have my armored stays, the fiercest guards in the realm, your ‘associates,’ and a solid plan,” she reminded him gently. Part of her wanted to be irritated with him for even asking her to abandon her plan, but the worry was etched plainly onto his face. This wasn’t Hartland imposing his will upon her, it was her husband concerned for her safety. “I also have the skills you taught me, in addition to my strapping husband. I will be better protected than the Prince Regent tomorrow night.”
He pressed his lips together, then raised her to her feet and slid his arms around her. “Yes you will.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his. His solid body against hers fortified her, giving her strength she badly needed despite all her declarations to the contrary. Walking into the arms of a murderer, as he put it, scared her more than anything.
She kissed his cheek and started to draw away. “What was the second favor you wanted to ask?”
Hart cinched his arms around her waist and held her in place. “I’d like you to come to bed with me.”
Though they had occasionally shared a bed after the attack at the inn, Sarah had mixed feelings about doing so now. The previous occasions had happened out Sarah’s need for comfort in the night. This time it would be a decision made with a clear head. “Hartland...”
“We don’t have to do anything but sleep,” he added quickly. “You don’t even have to touch me if you don’t want to. I will simply sleep better knowing you are safe and sound beside me. I thought perhaps you might, too.”
There was no question that sleeping next to Hart would ease Sarah’s fears. But was that merely because of the physical danger she was in? Or had she fallen in love with her husband? “I don’t know...”
He cupped her face in one large hand. “Just for tonight. Not only did I promise to protect you, but I promised you an aristocratic marriage. Once Rebecca Barrington is taken into custody you will never have to see me again if you don’t want to.”
Never see him again? Sarah wasn’t sure she wanted that, but they didn’t need to decide that issue now. “For tonight, then. I will sleep better with you nearby.”
“Good.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, then released her. “Shall I send in your maid? Or do you want more time with your letters?”
“I told her to come up at midnight. I’ll come to bed then.” That gave Sarah ten more minutes to read her mother’s letters, and to decide what to wear to bed—a concern she’d never had before, but suddenly seemed important.
Hart left her alone and Sarah’s mind raced like an out-of-control carriage. The plan she’d put in place was a good one, and so were the people Hart had asked to help implement it. But it was entirely possible that this was her last night among the living. How did she want to spend it?
She settled on an old nightgown that she’d worn a hundred times before her marriage and slipped into Hart’s bedchamber after dismissing Lucy for the night. He was already lying in bed, clad in a nightshirt with the sheet pulled up to his waist and his hands tucked behind his head.
Sarah climbed into the big bed with him, pulling the sheet up over herself and stretching out on her side facing him. “Do you ever regret marring me?” she asked quietly.
“Never,” he answered without hesitation. He turned slowly onto his good side and reached for her hand. “Not for one second.”
“Truly? You wouldn’t be happier without Rebecca and her bombs and threats and the rabid dogs she’s sent after me?”
“Life would have been easier without all that, certainly.” He slid closer to her and kissed her palm. “But I did promise to take you for better or for worse.”
And he’d kept his promises—every one he had ever made to her. “You wouldn’t have had to take me at all if not for the ‘worse’,” she reminded him.
“In that regard, I’m indebted to Rebecca Barrington,” he chuckled. “I would never have thought to wed you if I hadn’t compromised you trying to warn you of her threat. But it turned out to be the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Even then.”
He was an insensitive knave at times, but Sarah’s heart was nearly bursting with tenderness for the man lying beside her. Not only had he literally saved her life more than once, but even when he had withheld information from her, he’d had her best interests in mind. And, most importantly, when she objected to his behavior, he’d changed it simply because she’d asked it of him.
“Hart, will you make love to me tonight?”
He didn’t respond right away, but slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him. “Is that what you really want? Or do you think it’s what I want?”
“Both,” she smiled, running her fingers through his wavy hair. “I want you to make me forget about everything but the two of us and this bed, and I suspect you would be happy to oblige.”
He levered himself over her carefully in deference to his damaged ribs, kissing her slowly and sliding a hand down her body. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, her heart beating a staccato rhythm as she waiting for his hand to find bare skin. She broke away and sighed when he found the hem of her nightgown and began to draw it upward, caressing her hip, her belly, her breast.
He trailed kisses across her cheek and down her neck, pausing near her ear to whisper, “I love you, Sarah Elliott.”
They shed their clothing and Sarah thought no more of his declaration, dismissing it as a product of the moment and concentrating instead on the physical pleasure he gave her. They were mindful of his injuries and her bruises, and when they’d exhausted themselves, they curled up together to find what sleep they might. She waited for his breathing to slow and become regular, for his body to relax against hers, before murmuring her own declaration.
“I love you, my Hart.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sarah stood beside her husband at the entrance to Elliott House’s ballroom, with Joanna and Miss Atwell filling out the receiving line. There hadn’t been time to have a new gown made for the occasion, so she’d chosen the green and silver gown she’d worn the day she married Hartland. He’d presented her with a parure of garnets, too, before they joined the others: drop earrings, a brooch, and rope necklace, all set in gold and trimmed with seed pearls. The gold jewelry didn’t exactly complement the silver of her dress, but Sarah didn’t care. The pieces were gifts from the man she loved, commissioned especially for her to match her wedding ring, and she would wear them with pride no matter the color of her clothing.
Hartland was likewise attired in spotless eveningwear, his shirt and cravat starkly white in contrast to the chocolate brown of his tailcoat. Sarah had dug through her belongings and found her father’s gold watch fob, complete with tiny gold books dangling from the chain. She’d attached it herself to Hart’s pocket, and it glinted in the candlelight from the chandeliers.
Guests were met at the front door by Richards, who compared their invitations to a list of invitees. A few people arrived hoping to gain entry without invitations, but they were all turned away without incident. The successful guests were escorted to the ballroom and announced by the butler to the waiting Hartlands. They were then ushered through the ballroom and out the French windows to the outbuilding where the festivities were actually being held. There were plenty of odd looks and Sarah knew it would be the one thing everyone talked about tomorrow. But having all those people two hundred yards away from the house kept them safer, and that was worth every moment of the social awkwardness to come.
When the steady stream of guests became more sporadic, Hartland reached for Sarah’s hand and held it in both of his. “There’s a chance she won’t come tonight.”
“She’ll come.”
He raised his dark brows. “What makes you so sure? She has to know we’re waiting for her.”
Sarah stepped closer and lowered her voice. “If someone took you from me, took away our future together, I’d want revenge.”
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Joanna and Miss Atwell had the courtesy to look away, pretending they weren’t witnessing a private moment between husband and wife, but Sarah no longer cared if the entire world knew how she felt about Hart. She was only sorry it had taken the imminent possibility of her death to recognize it herself.
“You wouldn’t act on it, though,” Hartland replied. “Would you?”
“I’d like to think not. But I don’t know how I would go on without you.” She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them. “I dearly hope that tonight is not the night I have to find out.”
He slid his arms around her and pulled her close without even a glance at their audience. “Living without you has been the theme of my nightmares these past weeks. I will not let tonight be the night they come true.”
It still wasn’t “I love you,” but from a man like Hart it was as close as she was likely going to get when he was clear-headed. Nor did she need the exact words, she realized. She only needed him.
She wasn’t sure who kissed whom, but they were interrupted too soon when Joanna cleared her throat. “Hoskins is blowing his whistle.”
Their man stationed on the rooftop had sighted something suspicious. Sarah smoothed her husband’s hair and pressed another kiss to his lips. “Here we go.”
“You have your fan with you?”
He’d made her a beautiful fan with blades of sharpened steel, decorated with pearls to match her jewelry. It dangled from her wrist as if it were any other accessory, ready when she needed it. He didn’t have to ask her about her armored stays, though—he’d laced her into those himself.
“I do, though I’d rather not have to use it.” Using it meant that Rebecca was within an arm’s length of Sarah’s body, and she didn’t want that woman coming anywhere near her.
Hartland caressed her cheek. “No matter what happens tonight, you must stay safe. Do you hear me? Listen to Joanna and Miss Atwell and stay alive.”
Sarah had no intention of disobeying her bodyguards, but she appreciated how difficult it must be for Hart not to be her primary protector this night and to acknowledge it in front of others. “I will. And you must promise me the same.”
“I promise.” He said it with no hesitation, no impudent grin, just his eyes meeting hers.
The moment was broken when Joanna spoke. “Let’s get you into the ballroom, my lady.”
Sarah nodded, kissing her husband once more, placing her hand over his heart to feel the steel plates she’d helped him sew into his waistcoat, before releasing him and following Miss Atwell. Moving Sarah inside the ballroom gave her guards more room in the event of a fight, and it put her closer to her escape route through the French windows in case she had to run.
They made it to the center of the dance floor before the French windows crashed open, one of the glass panes shattering when the window frame impacted the wall. Rebecca stalked inside the ballroom, dragging one of the shorter footmen by the hair with the tip of a knife pressed to this throat. Her hair was not the golden blonde it had been but a dull brown, her clothes older and more worn than the daughter of an earl would ever wear.
“Looking for me?”
Joanna and Miss Atwell took up defensive positions on either side of Sarah. She prayed Hartland had the sense to get away.
“Yes, we are. Why don’t you let Benson go, and you and I can talk.” Benson had been one of the footmen assigned to protect her when she’d first become engaged to Hartland. He’d watched over her when the threat against her had been intangible. She couldn’t allow him to be killed now that the threat was right here in their own ballroom.
Rebecca laughed, jostling the leather satchel slung over one of her shoulders as she adjusted the knife in her hand. “Of course, my lady. I’ll release the only leverage I have and let you take me into custody, shall I?”
Sarah clenched her fingers around her steel fan, hoping Rebecca wouldn’t see her hands shaking. Had Hartland’s associates been alerted to Rebecca’s presence in the ballroom? “We both know you’ve brought more weapons than just that knife. Release Benson, unharmed. You’ll still be able to kill me from where you stand, and that will be leverage enough.”
Rebecca glanced at the footman she held, then removed the knife from his throat. “He stays here, where I can see that he isn’t passing messages to whomever else you have recruited to help you.”
Benson’s eyes met Sarah’s and he nodded his agreement to the terms. Sarah had hoped for exactly what Rebecca wanted to prevent, that the footman would find Lord Thorston or Mr. Devlin outside and explain the situation. But this, at least, would put Benson out of immediate danger.
“Fine.”
Rebecca opened the hand that held Benson’s hair and shoved him away. He stumbled, careening into the glass of the broken French window. Once he’d righted himself, Sarah caught his eye again and shook her head the tiniest bit, hoping he wouldn’t disobey Rebecca and dash out into the night. If he did, she’d certainly lose what little control she’d exhibited so far.
“Good. Now we can talk like civilized people.” That was a phrase Sarah’s mother had used whenever her father lost his temper and then regained it. Speaking with a mad bomber in the middle of a ballroom was hardly Mrs. Shipton’s idea of civilized, but it was a step in the right direction for Sarah.
“Where is your husband?”
“What?” It was Sarah that Rebecca wanted dead, why was she asking for Hartland?
“Where is your husband?” Rebecca repeated, enunciating as if she were speaking to a slow-witted child. “I want him here, now.”
“I’m here,” a familiar voice called from the ballroom entrance.
Sarah’s heart pounded, and the smooth fan slipped between her sweaty palms. The plan had been for Hartland to stay out of sight with Mr. Fortescue until they were needed. What on earth was he doing putting himself in danger?
“Nice distraction with the empty hackney, by the way,” Hartland continued. Sarah didn’t turn to watch him enter the room but kept her eyes on Rebecca, tracking his voice until he came to a halt beside Miss Atwell. “You knew no one would come to an event like this in a hired carriage, and that we’d be suspicious of it. Too bad you didn’t pay the driver more—he told us about you without any resistance at all.”
Rebecca’s mouth turned down into a hard frown. “I might have known. I suppose you have your people waiting outside to take me into custody.”
“I do.
“Then I’ll have to be quick.” She reached into her satchel and drew out a small pistol, aiming it at Hartland, and glass jar. “Do you know what this jar contains?”
It appeared empty, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was really there. “It’s phosgene, isn’t it?”
“Enough to kill someone. All I have to do is smash it at your feet.”
“You don’t really want to do that, Rebecca,” Hartland tried.
But that only seemed to make her angrier. “I know that I’m the wicked witch in this fairy story, that there will be no happy ending for me. All I want is to avenge David’s death.”
Her gaze swung to Sarah and she raised the glass jar as if to throw it. “I saw you kill him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I watched you push him! Do you know what was in the box he carried?”
Sarah nodded slowly, fighting the lump that was growing in her throat.
“He lingered for three days. Three days of agony as his lungs filled with fluid and drowned him in his own bed.”
A trio of gentlemen appeared outside the French windows dressed in eveningwear and laughing. Joanna tried to discreetly wave them away, but they either didn’t see or didn’t understand her signal and continued their approach.
There were tears coursing down Rebecca’s face now, and Sarah felt her eyes prickling with her own tears. “You have to know it was an accident...”
“Well, this won’t be.”
The gentlemen were entering the ballroom as Rebecca took aim with her pistol once more. Sarah heard the
bang of the gunshot and the crash of breaking glass. Miss Atwell pushed Hartland to the floor before Sarah could even scream his name, and Joanna grabbed her charge around the waist, propelling Sarah toward the French windows.
A muffled pop halted their movement for a moment, and the scent of new-mown hay began to drift through the air. Sarah’s head jerked around—that was an odor that had no business being in a ballroom. Rebecca was lying on the floor with Benson atop her, her gun skittering across the marble.
Her leather satchel peeked out from beneath her torso.
“Everyone out!” Sarah yelled. “Phosgene is loose!”
She allowed Joanna to hustle her the rest of the way across the ballroom and out the French windows, waiting helplessly from the other side of the glass while others rushed in. Lord Thorston and Mr. Devlin grabbed Rebecca and Benson, Miss Atwell seized Hartland, and Joanna was scrambling to get the three guests out of the contaminated room.
Sarah imagined she could see the spread of the invisible phosgene throughout the ballroom. She “watched” it surround Rebecca and Benson, clinging to them as they were helped outside. It swirled around Hartland, too, invading his body through his nose and mouth as he gasped for air.
When Miss Atwell and Joanna finally brought him outside, Sarah directed them to set him down against the wall of the house and immediately began checking him for wounds. “Where are you hit?”
He raised his arm with a grimace, revealing a tear in his coat and waistcoat and a dent in the steel plate beneath. “Just a glancing blow. Benson hit her right before she pulled the trigger and fouled up her aim.”
Sarah ran her unsteady fingers over the misshapen plate. “Oh, thank God.”
“I think he’s cracked another rib, though,” Miss Atwell said, trying to catch her own breath.
“He likely should still be in bed from the last time,” Joanna said, winking at Sarah. “Some people just don’t know when rest is good for them.”
“This time he will get all the rest he needs,” Sarah vowed. “I will see to it myself.”
