Revenge Is Sweet

by Barbara Cartland

  Her houses were filled with the most exotic flowers that had ever been seen outside the Botanical Gardens in Kew and she would receive her guests against a background of orchids.

  Her bedroom would be decorated with hundreds, if not thousands of roses, which made it a bower for love.

  The men who became her lovers found themselves in an Arabian Nights dream, from the exotic perfume that bewildered their senses to the profusion of expensive presents that she gave them.

  A number of them hoped to marry Sarah, but she had her father’s genius and caution where a business deal was concerned.

  She was well aware that they were as interested in her money as in herself and she was determined to always have the best.

  The best meant a distinguished husband in an unassailable social position and with an impressive title.

  Too many of the men who were in Debrett’s Peerage were already married and some of the bachelors were so unprepossessing that she was too fastidious to want them in her bed.

  It was not by chance that she met the Marquis of Wyndonbury.

  She had seen him, of course, at every race meeting, but he was seldom a guest at the parties where Sarah was invited.

  The doors of the really influential and selective hostesses in the Beau Ton were closed to her.

  She had never been to Buckingham Palace.

  This fact had not worried her, at least not until she decided that the Marquis of Wyndonbury was the man she should marry.

  But it was more difficult than she had expected to get near to him.

  He would take off his hat politely to her on the Racecourse, but when she tried to talk to him, he seemed to slip away almost before she had opened her lips.

  She asked several of her more distinguished friends to invite him to dinner when she was present, but they all seemed to have excuses saying,

  “One can never rely on Wyndonbury – he is a law unto himself.”

  Or they would reply evasively,

  “Oh, he prefers to host his own parties and only goes out to a few chosen friends!”

  Because it seemed so difficult, Sarah became more determined than she would have been otherwise.

  Like her father, although it might take a little time, she had always got everything she wanted in her life.

  Finally she approached the Marquis directly, saying that she had some brood mares that she was sure he would be interested in.

  As it happened, her suggestion came at a time when the Marquis was looking for a new blood strain both for his racehorses and his jumpers.

  He did not think of Sarah as a woman but as an owner and he invited her to luncheon, so that they could discuss their stables.

  He found her charming, intelligent and very knowledgeable on a subject that was dear to his heart.

  A week later, when the Marquis had accepted an invitation to stay with the Earl of Stepple, he found, somewhat to his surprise, that Sarah was also a guest.

  He never knew that Sarah had bought her way into the party by paying the bills of the Earl’s son, which amounted to over fifteen thousand pounds.

  She was clever enough not to overdress or to be over- bejewelled.

  She made herself charming to everybody so that by the end of the second day they were singing her praises.

  The Marquis thought it was unusual to meet somebody who was so attractive and also so intelligent.

  When he went to bed he was, however, not thinking of Sarah but of her horses.

  He had fallen asleep when suddenly he was aware that there was something soft and warm beside him that had not been there earlier.

  He turned over to investigate and then Sarah’s arms were around him and her lips were on his.

  Women who knew the Marquis realised that, although he appeared to be reserved, he could be an extremely ardent lover.

  He was also extremely masculine and very passionate and he would have been inhuman if he had not accepted the favours that Sarah offered him.

  After the visit to the Earl was over, they had often dined alone at Sarah’s house in Berkeley Square and the Marquis left as the dawn was breaking.

  Because she wanted him to stay with her at The Towers, Sarah thought up a party that she was certain would please him.

  She challenged him to compete in a steeplechase with a team of six riders including himself against a team of her own choosing.

  It was an idea that appealed to him and the Marquis had a dozen of his best horses sent ahead of him to Ridgeley Towers.

  He looked forward to the steeplechase as well as several days’ hunting.

  Sarah saw him arriving in a superbly built phaeton drawn by four chestnuts that were perfectly matched.

  She had felt a wave of excitement sweep over her because she was sure that her goal was in sight.

  “He is mine!” she said beneath her breath.

  The Marquis drew his team to a standstill outside the front door and she ran eagerly down the steps to greet him.

  The Marquis was undoubtedly impressed by Ridgeley Towers.

  He thought it looked the size of an Army Barracks, but inside the rooms were well proportioned.

  There had been a great many innovations and improvements made since it had first been built at the beginning of the last century.

  Sarah had employed architects, who were already famous, and she had also been clever enough to augment the collection of pictures that her father had left her.

  Guided by what she had heard of the Royal Collection, she patronised the same art dealers.

  Several of her lovers had ancestral homes and she picked their brains.

  She found out from them what was correct and acceptable amongst the aristocracy and she determined not to make the mistake of buying just because an object was expensive.

  She had therefore accumulated a great number of pieces that the Marquis admired and would have been prepared to have them in his own house.

  Ever since she had met him, Sarah had been clever enough to ask his opinion on many subjects and she bowed to his superior judgement in every particular.

  Only now when they reached the stables did she say provocatively,

  “I am hoping to beat you in the steeplechase, but first we have a day’s hunting, which I hope you will enjoy.”

  “I am sure I shall,” the Marquis answered.

  “That is what I love about you,” Sarah said, slipping her arm through his. “You are not blasé like so many men who have so much.”

  “I could hardly be blasé about horses like these!” the Marquis replied, “and you are a very lucky woman to own such superlative animals.”

  “That is what I want you to say,” Sarah said in a soft voice, “and I am very lucky to – know you!”

  She hesitated before the word ‘know’ wondering if she was brave enough to say ‘own’.

  Then she thought that it would be a mistake.

  The Marquis had made love to her fiercely and demandingly before she left London and yet she had the uncomfortable feeling that when he left her he was not thinking of how soon he could see her again.

  Of course, she told herself, she was wrong and that he was completely infatuated with her.

  But she could not be certain.

  There was something about the Marquis that she could not reach however much she tried.

  She knew that he liked a woman to be soft, gentle and pliant, so she was all those things.

  She was astute enough to realise that he would hate anything vulgar, aggressive, or unrestrained and therefore she controlled herself admirably.

  Yet even in the wildest moments of passion he had never yet said, “I love you!”

  While he accepted everything she gave him as if it was his right, she did not know what his real feelings were.

  Everybody had warned her that he was the most difficult man in London.

  He never talked about his love affairs and they took place so secretively that even the most inveterate gossips were never quite certain
that they knew ‘all there was to know’.

  But Sarah believed fervently that she was different from his other women.

  Who else was so wealthy? That did not matter to the Marquis, as he was in fact enormously rich himself.

  Who else had horses like hers?

  Who else could entertain so brilliantly?

  Who else could command the attention of the most spoilt and fastidious men in the Clubs of St. James’s?

  ‘I have everything!’ Sarah told herself. ‘Everything except a husband and that place is waiting for him!’

  She had been extremely careful as to whom she had asked to this house party.

  The majority of guests were, of course, men, who were either bachelors or accepted without bringing their wives.

  Naturally they wanted women to amuse them and Sarah had chosen ladies who were almost as blue blooded as the Marquis was himself.

  She was determined that he should not think that her parties were vulgar or in any way outrageous.

  What she had to convince him was that she would make him a perfect wife.

  A wife who would keep him amused and happy in bed and in public was what he would expect from the Marchioness of Wyndonbury.

  She had chosen her clothes with this in view.

  She was not only a model of elegance and beauty but ladylike and by no means fantastic.

  Her jewels were mostly perfect pearls of inestimable value and she used less make-up on her cheeks and lips than she usually did.

  She only hoped that the Marquis noticed and, when she was sitting at the end of her dinner table, she willed him to think about how she would grace his table when she was his wife.

  The first night after his arrival he had come to her bedroom.

  She was certain then that she had won the race and the Winning Post was within sight.

  The dinner had been superlative and the wine was so unusual that almost every man in the party had congratulated her on her cellar.

  The conversation, too, she thought, had been exactly what the Marquis would enjoy and she had been careful not to appear too intimate when they were with other people.

  In fact she had left the other women to fawn on him.

  When he had come to her after everybody had retired, she had held out her arms with a little cry of delight.

  The room was filled with orchids that she had scoured the country for. They were white with just a touch of pink in each of their delicate petals.

  Orchids have no perfume and so the carpet had been sprinkled very discreetly with the essence of white violets.

  The Marquis had not seen Sarah’s bed at The Towers before and it had been specially designed for her.

  The headboard was in the shape of a huge silver shell in which nestled a few huge pearls of real mother-of-pearl. Curtains fell from another shell fixed to the ceiling and they were of net shimmering with tiny diamanté that caught the light.

  Her pillows were edged with the finest lace.

  The cover on the bed was of lace in which diamanté and pearls were embroidered into the material.

  Lights were discreetly hidden behind the flowers and Sarah made a picture that would make any man gasp in admiration.

  There was a faint smile on the Marquis’s rather hard lips as he walked towards her.

  He was wearing a long robe of royal blue that was frogged with black braid and which made him appear as if he was fully dressed.

  He stood looking at her as she held out her white arms.

  He then became aware that apart from a single row of black pearls around her neck, she was wearing nothing else.

  “I feel I am somewhat overdressed!” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

  Then he took off his robe –

  Chapter Three

  The Marquis left the commotion and excitement of the kill and, turning his horse, he started to ride back.

  He thought that it was the best day’s hunting he had enjoyed for a long time.

  The weather had been fine, not too cold, and he could see that the huntsmen and the hounds were outstanding.

  He reached the nearest road, which bordered the fields that he had been riding on and he was not surprised to see a row of carriages drawing up accompanied by grooms to take over the riders’ horses.

  He thought that Sarah certainly did things in style.

  He did not wait for anybody else and, as soon as he was seated in the carriage, the coachman drove off.

  The Marquis thought that it was a relief not to have to ride back for several miles when it was growing colder.

  It was also a joy not to have anyone with him who he would be expected to make conversation with.

  He wanted to think about the steeplechase tomorrow and decide which of his riders should ride the horses that he had brought to Ridgeley Towers.

  The men he had chosen to represent what was called on the programme the WyndonburyTeam were all outstanding riders and two of them had won Classic races riding as amateurs on their own horses.

  At the same time he was aware that Sarah’s team was as good as his.

  Harry Grantham, for example, was a first class rider to hounds, and Lord Freeman was an expert at jumping.

  It was an intriguing contest, the Marquis thought, and then he remembered what he thought had been a very difficult moment last night.

  He had made love to Sarah in her exotic and sensational bedroom and had just been thinking that it was time he returned to his own.

  Then with her head on his shoulder, she said very softly,

  “I think, Stafford, darling, we should not only join our stables together, which would be fantastic, but we should also join ourselves.”

  For a moment, because he was sleepy, the Marquis did not take in what she was saying.

  Then she murmured beguilingly,

  “I would make you an exemplary wife and no one could be a more handsome or exciting husband!”

  The Marquis could not believe his ears.

  It had never struck him for one moment in his affaire de coeur with Sarah that she might want marriage.

  He knew that a great number of men had pursued her and he had thought somewhat scornfully that they were fortune-hunters who would find it impossible to ignore a widow who was so wealthy.

  But marriage was something that at the moment did not figure in his scheme of things.

  He wanted to be free to enjoy himself.

  He was quite aware, as his family continually reminded him, that sooner or later he must have an heir.

  But he was determined that it should be later.

  He had not yet reached his thirty-third birthday and it could be at least five or six years before it became a serious problem.

  He was well aware that there was no young woman in the Social world who would not accept him eagerly and his position at Court, as well as his ancestry, which was one of the oldest in England, made him almost unique.

  He was extremely proud of his Family Tree and the Wyndonburys had played their part in every reign after one had been knighted after the Battle of Agincourt.

  An ancestor had been an adviser to Queen Elizabeth, another had been a close friend of King Charles II and almost as much a roué as he was.

  The Marquis knew that his ancestral home was one of the finest examples of Elizabethan architecture still in existence.

  His picture gallery was filled with the portraits of his predecessors, who had been painted by all the greatest artists of the day and perhaps those by Van Dyck were the most outstanding.

  The Marquis had learned the history of each one of them and he could declare proudly,

  “None of my family has ever made a mésalliance. My father used to boast that our blood was as blue as that of any King who ever sat on the English throne.”

  It had never struck him that he would not carry on the tradition, when the time came for him to take a wife.

  He had been approached by quite a number of the aristocracy.

  The Duke
of Cumbria only two months ago had suggested in a somewhat embarrassed manner that he had three daughters of marriageable age.

  “There is no one,” he said, “I would welcome more warmly into my family than you, Wyndonbury.”

  The Marquis had managed to refuse the offer without offending the Duke, as he made it clear that he had no intention of being married for a long time.

  He took good care not to go to balls or parties where the host had an unmarried daughter and he most certainly ignored any debutante who happened by chance to be in a house where he was a guest.

  He was astonished that Sarah Barton, whose father came from Liverpool, should suggest that she should be his wife.

  It had left him speechless.

  Because he was tired, his brain was not as alert as it usually was and he therefore said the first words that came into his mind.

  “My dear Sarah, you are very attractive and very exciting! At the same time, when I marry, it has to be to somebody whom my family will consider my equal!”

  After he had spoken, Sarah was very quiet and he thought a little belatedly that he might have worded his rejection of her more charmingly.

  Because he had no wish for her to be hurt, he kissed her and thought in fact that she was quite happy before he finally left her.

  Because he had only seen her this morning when they were mounting their horses for the meet, he wondered if she was annoyed with him.

  Then he told himself that she could not have been serious.

  How could she think that he would marry somebody who, to put it bluntly, was not of his class?

  He was well aware because she was so rich that Sarah had been accepted by a great number of the Beau Monde.

  They could not resist the parties she gave or her generosity to those she considered her friends.

  He also knew that many hostesses at whose houses he was always welcome would not allow Sarah to cross the threshold.

  “These people with new money,” one Dowager snorted in his presence, “should stay where they belong!”

  The Marquis looked at her for an explanation and she said,

  “I am talking about that Barton woman. I have heard that her father made his money out of shipping those wretched Negroes out of Africa and selling them as slaves!”

  The Marquis had not been aware of this before, but he asked,