Sarah’s jaw dropped when she saw it. She leaned forward, pressing her nose to the glass. The Prince Regent’s Marine Pavilion was a sprawling domed palace with twin towers that came to a point at the top, set in a fine park, with a stables even larger than the mansion. Although still a work in progress, it was now more fantasy than graceful Palladian. It dominated the modest buildings around it, like a ship of the line surrounded by slew of punts. Unconscious of her seventeen-year-old dignity, Sarah gaped.
“The furnishings are even more exotic,” Davenham told her. “No wonder the country is up in arms over the prince’s profligate spending.”
“But it’s beautiful,” Sarah protested.
“It’s . . .” Harlan was at a loss for words. It was exotic, extravagant, totally out of place in its setting, an overblown fantasy of a childish adult mind, but damned if he could tell her so.
Fortunately, the carriage had rolled on down the Steine, leaving the prince’s palace behind. “Look ahead,” Davenham said, oddly gentle as if he understood her reluctance to give up her first sight of the prince’s Pavilion.
Sarah looked, shrieked with joy, and clapped her hands. “Oo-h, Davenham! Is it the ocean? Really, really the ocean?”
He laughed. “Of course it is, child. Surely you’ve seen it before?”
“Never,” Sarah breathed. “My brothers have, of course. Amalie and I were quite green with envy, but we could only travel with mama, who never went anywhere but London or Bath.”
“Ah, yes—Ainsworth Abbey’s in Warwickshire, is it not?” He tossed her a teasing grin. “Still . . . seventeen years on an island, and you’ve never seen the sea . . . ?”
But his bride of one day was not listening. She had lowered the glass and had her head stuck out the window, breathing in the salt air, one hand clutching her hat to keep the stiff breeze from blowing it off. “I can see forever,” she cried. “To the end of the world!”
“If you could see but a few miles farther,” Davenham replied dampingly, you would catch a glimpse of LeHavre and Cherbourg. Brighton has suffered from French raids throughout its history.”
“Spoil-sport,” Sarah sniffed, but kept her eyes fixed on the sun-kissed whitecaps that extended all the way to the horizon.
“You should have paid more attention to your lessons in maps and globes.”
“Piffle! If I wish to believe there is nothing between here and the Americas or . . . or the Antipodes, I shall do so. Imagination is almost as wonderful as true adventuring. After all, how else may a lady enjoy excitement when we are not allowed the real thing?”
Lord Davenham cupped a hand over his mouth lest he be tempted to answer his young, very young, wife’s question. To tell her that there were indeed other ways a lady might find excitement.
The carriage rolled to a stop. “Ah, I believe we have arrived,” Harlan announced. How fortunate Adrian Chumley had agreed to make the journey to Brighton ahead of them, for it had taken considerable largesse and all Chumley’s persuasive manner to arrange, on such short notice, a suite of rooms on the ocean side of the Old Ship Inn. But good old Chumley had managed it, dispossessing a family of Cits to whom guineas appealed more than a sea view.
A short while later, Lord Davenham stood with his arms folded, attempting to look disinterested as his wife dashed across the sitting room that separated their bedchambers and peered out the window. “This is quite splendid,” she cried. “To see the sea by day and by night. Look! There is even a table where we might have tea or eat a meal while savoring the view. Oh, thank you, Davenham! You are a trump!”
He’d gone soft in the head, to be touched by the effusions of a school girl on her first day off the leash. But, truth was, he was glad he had pleased her. Disillusion would touch her world soon enough. She would be caught up in the feigned boredom of the haut monde, the endless round of parties, full of fury and signifying nothing. Ah, but the bard was always ready with a comment when a man’s own brain was too full of contradictory thoughts to craft a sensible sentence.
He had to say something. “Thank you,” Harlan mumbled. Pleased. He was actually pleased by the little minx’s enthusiasm.
More so than when he planned an evening’s ramble round London that Dickon and Chumley found entertaining? Much more so, devil take it! The last thing he wanted was to find his bride delightful.
Careful. He would have to be very careful. This was Dickon’s sister, an innocent child, totally unready for Dandy Davenham . . . or marriage to anyone, for that matter.
Hell’s hounds, what had he done?
Davenham took himself in hand. “When you have freshened up and changed into a walking dress, I am told we must go to the lending library and sign the Master of Ceremonies’ book. A small fee, and we will be able to attend assemblies here or at the Castle Inn, and be eligible for introductions to both residents and visitors.”
“How lovely!” His wife gave up her view on the instant, dashing toward her bedchamber, calling for her maid.
Harlan was left to recall the ice water that had drenched his veins as he signed the hotel register. Lord and Lady Davenham. The child at his side was his wife. He was married. Leg-shackled. Well and truly caught in parson’s mousetrap.
He must have been mad.
Chapter Four
“And now we have stood up for eight dances,” Sarah declared as they finished a long and lively set of country dances that evening in the assembly rooms of the Old Ship Inn. “You are a very fine dancer, Davenham. You never step on my feet.”
“Indeed.” The viscount regarded his wife in quelling fashion, as if the terpsichorean skill of a renowned London dandy could never be in question before adding smoothly, “Perhaps you would care for some ratafia? And I believe—ah, yes, there’s Chumley. You are acquainted, are you not?”
“Indeed, my lord. Dickon, Mr. Chumley, and yourself have been an unshakeable triumvirate since Eton, as I recall.” But to the extent of taking him along on their wedding journey? Sarah did a quick scan of the ballroom, looking for her brother. If Dickon had dared, she would never forgive him.
Half way to Adrian Chumley, Lord and Lady Davenham were intercepted by the Master of Ceremonies, who presented two young gentlemen, who on the very heels of congratulating Davenham and his lady, proclaimed their boredom with London’s mating game and their escape to Brighton before the entire ton descended on the seaside community. When the Master of Ceremonies announced that he wished to introduce the young Lady Davenham to several of the female scions of Brighton society, the four gentleman, including Mr. Chumley who had just joined them, proclaimed their desire to retire to the cardroom, while Sarah found herself whisked off to a bevy of dowagers, fortunately, not all of them strangers.
It was difficult to smile sweetly and force herself to remember names. She had been married less than thirty-six hours. She wanted to dance with Harlan, be with Harlan, with no intrusions from the outside world. Foolish, so very foolish under the circumstances, yet . . .
Lady Tosson, Lady Isleworth, Lady Stoke, Mrs. Crimpleshaw, Mrs. Walmesley, Mrs. Swivington—no, that could not possibly be right!—, Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe.
An intimidating array, but—the sheer joy of it!—none of them was Lady Rotherwick. Here in Brighton there was no mama keeping a gimlet eye on her daughters, no mama to caution her about dancing more than twice with one man. No mama to say she must not stand up with Lord This or Sir That because he was a rake, sadly in need of a fortune, or a widower with five motherless children, the eldest her own age. Davenham, foul deserter, had gone off to the card room, yet her annoyance, followed by a rush of depressed spirits, was soon overcome by the wonder of being on her own. For the very first time in her life, she was free.
How completely remarkable.
Sarah curtsied quite prettily to the imposing row of women who seemed to be Brighton’s equivalent of the Patronesses at Almack’s. The newly elevated viscountess chatted easily, as was expected, answering even the most impertinent questions with a de
ft turn for speaking softly and saying nothing at all. And then Sarah raised her eyes to a cluster of gentlemen on the far side of the room, whose fine clothes and expressions of ennui proclaimed them refugees from Mayfair. And discovered a familiar face. Geoffrey Hatton, Baron Southwaite. When they had been introduced by one of Lord Richard’s more rakish friends, her mama had suffered palpitations, proclaiming him one of the Carlton House set and the worst kind of rake. Naturally, Lady Sarah had been fascinated, even while reluctantly obeying her mama’s edict never to speak to That Man again. Though she had been aware that Lord Southwaite continued to cast an assessing eye in her direction in London, much as he was doing now.
Borne on the wicked impulse of her first taste of freedom, Sarah smiled. And was immediately rewarded by sight of the Wicked Baron—as she always thought of him, much influenced by novels from the Minerva Press—straightening off the column on which he had propped one shoulder and striding purposefully in her direction.
Married women are fair game. That had been another aspect of her mama’s talk on the eve of her marriage. Sarah shivered. Quite deliciously. Davenham might think her a child. Obviously, Lord Southwaite did not. She was looking her best, she knew, though there had not been time to acquire the more sophisticated gowns in rich dark shades that she envisioned for her London debut as Lady Davenham. But her bell-skirted blush silk gown, overlaid in puckered gauze, each graceful poof of transparent fabric set in place with brilliants alternated with small pink roses, was in the latest mode, the product of London’s finest modiste. Her double string of perfect pearls with diamond clasp, a wedding gift from her father, adorned her neck. Pearl-drop earrings of equal perfection depended from her dainty head-hugging ears. Her satin slippers, peeking out beneath the ankle-length hem of her gown, boasted diamond bows. Her spotless white gloves were the finest kidskin; her fan, a confection of ivory and lace whose language she had practiced before her mirror until she had the nuances down to perfection.
Or so she thought, until Lord Southwaite loomed before her like some fallen angel wreathed in gold, the lines of dissipation in his flirting-with-forty face an awesome intrigue for a miss barely out of the schoolroom. What adventures he must have had! Beside the Wicked Baron, Davenham was a callow youth. Though what he was doing in Brighton when the Prince Regent was in London, she could not imagine.
“Lady Davenham.” He bowed, offered a slow, insinuating smile, his tawny eyes coming to rest on her half-open fan, which had somehow become pressed against her lips. “Ah, if only you meant it,” he sighed.
Sarah blinked, ran rapidly through her fan language, and gasped. Her nerves in tatters, she had just invited the Wicked Baron to kiss her!
Lord Southwaite held out his gloved hand, palm up. “I believe this dance is a waltz. Will you do me the honor, my lady?”
Waltz with the Wicked Baron? How utterly delicious. If only Davenham would return in time to see it. Sarah smiled and put her small hand in his. Behind her, the twittering of the Brighton grand dames escalated. Let the tabbies twitch their tails. She was a married lady now and could do as she pleased. If Davenham gave a fig whom she danced with, he should have stayed and guarded her.
So there!
Sarah looked up—and still farther up—until she caught the look of amusement in Lord Southwaite’s golden eyes. The devil! It was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Had her pique been so obvious? Mortifying. Married all of a day and deserted by her bridegroom.
The Wicked Baron swirled her around the outer circle of the dance, avoiding the less adept with all the aplomb of an experienced courtier. Sarah knew she had never danced so well and whom she had to thank for it.
“I must confess, my lady, I envy Davenham his choice of bride.”
“Ah, but only now is it safe to say so, my lord.”
Lord Southwaite laughed out loud, causing several heads to turn, as he was not noted for his humor. “There is the crux of why I like you,” he told her. “I would assume your liveliness of spirit was the result of having three older brothers, but your sister . . .” The baron whirled her in a dizzying circle, wisely avoiding the necessity of finishing his sentence.
“You need not fear me, you know,” he added with an odd little smile. “I admire you as a work of art, not one of Elgin’s miserable marbles, but a sparkling light on the ton’s often dull tree. I am old enough to be your father—”
“You must have begun at a shockingly early—” Sarah, stumbling over the enormity of her faux pas, would have fallen if Southwaite had not held her up. “I beg your pardon!” she gulped. “My mama is forever warning me to watch my tongue.”
“But that is what is so delightful,” the Wicked Baron assured her. “You are as lively as you are lovely. Not surprising Davenham snapped you up. Best move he ever made.”
“You are too kind,” Sarah murmured, still suffering waves of mortification.
As they began their third circle of the Old Ship ballroom, Lord Southwaite bent his head down close to her ear. “I fear I did begin early,” he confided. “Much younger than you are now.”
Merciful heavens! Encourage a rake, and this is what happened. And yet . . . this was an encounter she would never forget. Being rescued from her husband’s neglect by the infamous Geoffrey Hatton, Lord Southwaite, was a coup exceptionnel.
“My dear, I fear our delightful dance may be coming to end. Davenham is bearing down on us like a ship under full sail.” Sarah’s heart surged into her throat, then fell to her toes. “I shall, of course, relinquish you with good grace. Infamous to snatch a man’s bride the day after the wedding. Ah . . . Davenham, how good of you to join us,” Southwaite added smoothly, deftly maneuvering them out of the swirling circle of couples.
“Southwaite.” Harlan nodded in the direction of the most accomplished rake in the ton without ever taking his eyes off his wife. “I believe this waltz was mine, my lady.”
“But, my lord, you were not here.”
Lord Davenham ground his teeth. It seemed as if every gaze was upon them, even those of the dancing couples whirling by. He seized his wife around the waist and swept her onto the dance floor, nearly upsetting a country couple too unskilled to get out of the way. Sixty seconds later, the orchestra slowed to a flourishing close. So much for waltzing with his bride.
Southwaite. Of all the so-called gentlemen in the beau monde, Sarah had accepted an invitation from Southwaite. Damn and blast! The minx hadn’t an ounce of town bronze. Had her mama taught her nothing at all?
He had gone off with his friends, left his bride of one day to fend for herself in a roomful of goodness-knew-what. A public assembly where anyone might gain entry by paying the proper fee. Harlan heaved a sigh. Children were a great deal of trouble. It was unfortunate Lady Sarah had not come to him with a governess in tow.
After a visit to the tea room, where Harlan piled a plate high with delicacies he thought might appeal to his young bride, he suffered through a quadrille, whose interminable intricacies he absolutely despised, before dragging his wife off to the card room, where he sat her down with a plate of biscuits and cup of hot negus and bade her entertain herself by watching the play. She was not to move from her chair!
Nine more days in Brighton. Nine more days to play the eager bridegroom, make a good show of wedded bliss—something, he was well aware, he was making a mull of at the moment. But with the usual wedding journey amusements denied him . . .
Denied by him.
Nine more days, then back to London, where his bride could more easily become invisible.
Sarah, Lady Davenham, invisible?
Harlan’s blood surged as he recalled the fire in his belly when he had caught sight of Sarah dancing with Southwaite. He’d wanted to strangle the man, call him out. Fortunately, common sense had triumphed before he made a fool of himself. And yet . . .
He made a bad discard . . . and then another. At the end of his first evening in Brighton Davenham had been piqued, repiqued, and capoted, a loser by five hundr
ed pounds. His wife, hands folded neatly in her lap, looked grave.
They walked back to their rooms in silence, Sarah offering a soft good-night as they entered their suite, then hurrying toward her chamber door. Harlan opened his mouth, knowing he owed her an apology, but the words would not come. Viscounts did not apologize for anything, by God!
Sarah was through the door. It closed behind her. Leaving Harlan Dawnay to serious reflection on marriage in general, his own marriage in particular, and the nasty suspicion that he had made a disastrous mistake. A more biddable girl, that’s who he should have chosen. A lifetime of adoration, no matter what he did, that was the ticket. A man was head of his household. A man could do no wrong.
Didn’t the silly little chit know that?
Had she complained? Eyed him with disgust? No, indeed, not one word of censure.
She danced with Southwaite. Nothing she could have done was more calculated to send him into the boughs. And he was nearly certain the dreadful little baggage knew it. Three brothers. Young ladies should not have older brothers, thus guaranteeing their innocence until a husband could teach them . . .
There was territory he could not breach! He was not allowed to teach his wife anything. Anything of significant interest, that is.
Females! He’d never had trouble with them before. His manners were frequently described as smooth as glass. Evidently, wives were a different breed. Something about a few archaic words and signing a register turned a perfectly good female into a . . . a harpy. A grasping harpy with expectations. A house, a tame husband curled up before the fire . . . children . . .
Double damnation! Nine more days . . .
And then what?
“No, no! Thread your fingers through the ribbons . . . just so!” Lord Davenham adjusted his wife’s small gloved fingers, gave a brisk nod. “Now sit up straight and act as if you know what you’re doing. Even job cattle like these can sense hesitation. Now . . . only the slightest flick of the ribbons . . . you don’t want to spring ’em. We may be far out of town, with not a gig to be seen—”
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