The sturdy proprietresses were forced to carry the grandmother down the ladder, one clutching her on each side. To Sarah’s surprise, Miss Twitchell plunged right into the knee-deep water, splashing through the waves with more determination than grace. Not to be outdone, Sarah summoned every scrap of her Ainsworth courage and followed her in. Behind them, the bathing machine women were still trying to coax the other three ladies to get more than their lower limbs wet. On each side of them other bathing machines were also disgorging prospective sea bathers.
Her husband had done this at twenty and determined never again—Sarah had no difficulty understanding why. Another month closer to high summer and perhaps it might be more tolerable, but at the moment she was already turning blue. Balancing on her toes, she bobbed up and down. She hugged herself then plunged in again, swimming out and away from the others, savoring . . . what? Her agility in the water? A taste of freedom—from her family . . . the constraints of society?
Sarah turned on her back, floating, eyes closed. Incredibly, she was no longer merely the youngest Ainsworth, what her brothers called “the brat.” She was a viscountess. Sarah, Lady Davenham . . . and anything was possible.
The screams were pure terror. Not shrieks of cold or fear of the water, but ululations of genuine shock and fright. Sarah went upright, feet searching for the bottom, but it was no longer there. For a moment she stared, unmoving, unable to believe her eyes. A fine buck of the four-legged variety—antler points rising above the waves, was swimming straight toward her, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the great beast’s panic obviously as great as her own.
Lord Davenham and the Honorable Mr. Adrian Chumley strolled along the foot-way above Brighton beach, accompanied by two new acquaintances, Mr. Mumsford and Mr. Starkey. All four gentlemen were well turned out in the slim jacket, waistcoat, and skin-tight inexpressibles of the latest mode, in which a man was hard put to conceal his pocket book, let alone anything larger.
“I say, Mumsford,” said Mr. Chumley, “what’s that you have in your hand?”
Mr. Mumsford, a merry-eyed youth of some twenty-five years, put a finger to his lips and hastily glanced around. “Bit of a lark, don’t you know,” he confided, “but I fear even in its case the shape’s a tad obvious.” He leaned a bit closer, winked. “Spyglass,” he hissed. “See there, where there’s a curve in the shoreline. From there it’s possible to catch a glimpse of the ladies as they paddle about. Or stand with their bathing gowns plastered as close as skin. A fine sight—livens the morning, I promise you.”
Harlan grinned and winked back before noting the look of pure horror on Mr. Chumley’s face. “By all means, let us hasten our steps,” he managed before the full impact hit him. One of the ladies on whom they would be spying was his wife. And Chumley, damn him, had realized it first. No way out now. They would have to carry off this morning’s lark as if it were the high treat Mumsford promised. After all, hadn’t he been assured that the ladies entered the water fully clothed? What could be so shocking about that?
Or so salacious that spying on the bathers was an everyday sport for Brighton’s young bucks?
By the time the gentlemen reached the small promontory, the rear door of the bathing machine was just opening, the ladder being set up. “What ho!” chortled Mr. Starkey, a lad of only twenty. He whipped the spy glass away from Mumsford and raised it to his eye. The first female figure, enveloped in a mass of brown cloth, was just beginning to creep down the ladder. Harlan felt his hackles rise. A harmless prank of the like he had indulged in countless times, and he wanted to snatch the glass from young Starkey and break it over his head. When at last it was his turn to use the spyglass, four ladies were in the water and the stout proprietresses were carrying a fifth down the ladder. Davenham adjusted the glass more finely and searched for his wife.
There! When she stood up and hugged herself, he was able to distinguish her from all the other women in brown gowns and caps. Petite, a head shorter than her companion . . . who had a startlingly fine figure. Harlan swiftly moved the glass back to his wife, who was swimming now—like a fish, by Jove! But she was still moving away from shore . . . too far, too far. Davenham wanted to shout but realized at this distance it would be futile.
“Give over, Davenham,” Chumley urged. “My turn, don’t you know. There’s the good chap.”
Shouts. Screams from ladies strolling along Kings Road. The startling howl of hunting dogs in full cry.
The four gentlemen on the embankment swung round to the astonishing sight of a well-antlered deer streaking across the low ground toward the water, dogs in hot pursuit with a bevy of hunters, riding neck or nothing, breaking out of the woods a half mile away. Pounding hooves, more shouts as men along the embankment tried to turn the terrified deer before it reached the sea. To no avail. The buck sailed up and over the railing, pounded across the egg-sized pebbles and plunged into the water, splashing wildly, to the accompaniment of screams and shouts that only increased its terror. The animal veered sharply around the bathing machine farthest to right and headed for the open sea, his four legs churning the water to froth. Straight at the lone figure who had just turned her head to discover a large buck bearing down on her like a runaway barge.
Lord Davenham swore most colorfully, tossed the spy glass to Mr. Chumley and was off and running. So fascinated were the other two gentlemen by the excitement of the moment they did not notice his departure. Mr. Mumsford, never taking his eyes off the imminent collision of terrified deer and startled human, accepted his spyglass from Mr. Chumley before the latter followed his friend in a mad dash toward the bathing machines.
Chapter Six
In a life that had offered few challenges beyond memorizing the multiplication tables and pondering a spurious offer of marriage, being confronted by a ravening beast Sarah’s mother had never dreamed of was a bit of shock. Fortunately, the new Lady Davenham was both high-couraged and pragmatical. Even as a horrified gasp escaped her lips, she launched herself back toward the bathing machine, arms flailing, legs churning. But her legs, tangled in the voluminous folds of the sodden bathing gown, were nearly useless. The garment had been designed for dipping, not swimming in water well over her head.
Sarah kept her eyes fixed on the bathing machine, on Miss Twitchell struggling toward her, now chest deep in water. But the sound of splashing, the agitated movement of the water around her was not all of her own making. The beast, intent on its rush toward the open sea, its panic increased by high-pitched shrieks from the would-be bathers, was close, very close. The brown gown was like a lead weight, determined to drag her down. Dear God, she was trapped—like a fish in a net.
A peek toward the beast. An antler hovered within inches of her head. Stroke, stroke. Faster, faster, faster! The terrified deer surged by, its momentum dragging her backwards. And down. With one last burst of strength, Sarah shot forward and upward, out and away. She gasped, cried out as something seized her arm, pulling her forward. “’Tis only I, Esmerelda,” said her new friend, tugging Sarah toward the ladder. “You can put your feet down now,” she added on a whoosh of relief. “The deer is swimming for France. I daresay you frightened him as much as he frightened you. Poor thing. I fear he will drown.”
“Poor thing!” Sarah sputtered. “Poor thing, indeed. That miserable creature—”
The two young ladies became aware that others were not as hardy as they. Around them pandemonium still reigned. Among the three bathing machines currently in the water several ladies, including the grandmother from their own vehicle, had fainted, creating a challenge for the sturdy women who operated the machines. At least three other women were suffering spasms or attacks of the vapors, with the youngest among them, a child of perhaps eight years, sobbing piteously, crying out for her mama.
Without a word, Sarah and Esmerelda waded into the melee, guiding hysterical ladies up the ladders and into the safety of the bathing machines. Sarah was kneeling on the shed floor, eyes shut, teeth gritted, struggling to pull
one of the semi-conscious females up the ladder while Esmerelda boosted from below when the stricken woman suddenly seemed to rise of her own accord. Sarah’s eyes popped open. She scampered back, as the woman came to rest on the floor of the bathing machine, and Sarah found herself looking into the face of her husband. She gulped, speechless, eyes fixed on the tall figure on the ladder, who was nearly as wet as herself. She swallowed, continuing to goggle as it became apparent that a man in sopping wet shirt and pantaloons was just as exposed, if not more so, than a female sea bather. Oh, my!
“Are you all right?” Davenham demanded
All right? Her husband’s words finally penetrated the fog. “Yes, indeed, but”—Sarah made a valiant attempt to be brave but was forced to bite her lip before she could say with only the slightest quiver—“I must tell you, Davenham, that I doubt I shall ever go near a bathing machine again.” Was that concern she saw in the depths of those spectacular blue eyes? Perhaps it was simply the sun reflecting off the water.
“There are others to be helped,” the viscount murmured. Apologetically?—Sarah could not tell. And then he was gone.
Lady Davenham’s gaze lingered on her husband as he splashed toward another gentleman in shirt sleeves—Mr. Chumley!—who was struggling with a woman who outweighed him by at least three stone. Sarah’s lips curled in a tiny smile before she realized that the screams around them had increased instead of decreased. What on earth?
In full view of the unhappy, cold, dripping wet women restored to the bathing machine, the young Lady Davenham rocked back on her heels and began to giggle. The giggle grew to a laugh. She exchanged a glance with Esmerelda Twitchell, and the laugh grew to a guffaw. It would seem the ladies who had ventured out to sea bathe this sunny morning were more shocked by men seeing them in their bathing gowns than they were by the fear of a wild beast or drowning.
So much for gallantry.
Sarah counted the women in their bathing shed. Five. She took a good grip on the door frame, pulled herself to her feet, and firmly shut the door. Picking up a woefully inadequate linen towel, she turned to the task of getting dressed. Perhaps she wouldn’t bother with her stays . . . but where would she put them? She had a vision of walking down Kings Road to the Old Ship, side by side with a dripping Davenham, carrying her rolled-up stays in her hand.
She did not feel so much like laughing now. She was a mass of gooseflesh from head to toe, her teeth beating a veritable tattoo within her skull. And Davenham would likely scold. In her experience men always did after such incidents. No matter the facts, it was always the female’s fault.
Yet he had come to her rescue. In all the confusion she had not really thought about that. Somehow he had known she was in danger and had rushed to her aid.
Delicious. Truly delicious. A rush of warmth alleviated some of her discomfort.
Sarah complied with Miss Twitchell’s request for help in lacing up her stays, then stood quite still while her new friend returned the favor. And friends they were. This morning had taken them well beyond the realm of mere acquaintance.
When the bathing machine finally rumbled back to shore, Lord Davenham was waiting, though his lady could clearly see he was on the verge of turning blue in the stiff sea breeze. Good.
No, no, it was not good, of course, but she doubted he was any mood to read her a scold. A swift dash to the Old Ship was surely the only thing on his mind. Dry clothes and hot punch.
Merciful heavens, the madman had not put on his dry jacket to stave off the cold. But, of course. How could she have thought otherwise? Dandy Davenham ruin a jacket by Weston just to keep from freezing to death? How could she have considered such a solecism?
He stepped forward and placed the forest green jacket around her shoulders, shoving her arms, one by one, into the long sleeves as if he were dressing a doll in the nursery. The fine woolen was nearly as good as a fireplace, Sarah discovered. She wallowed in its comfort, both literally and figuratively, as she sent up a silent prayer that her unkind thoughts had not been communicated to her husband.
Lord and Lady Davenham set off for the Old Ship at as brisk a pace as Sarah could manage, while Adrian Chumley escorted Miss Twitchell to the Castle Inn. As might be expected, even as the four shivered in the sea breeze, they were silently vowing not to set foot on Brighton Beach for some time to come. If ever.
An hour later, Finella opened her mistress’s bedchamber door to Lord Davenham, whose look of concern became a wicked grin as he crossed the room toward the bed where his wife was tucked up under a mountain of quilts, eyes wide at the sight of her husband in nothing more than a dressing gown of heavy black silk. “Rest easy, my dear, I’ve merely come to inquire after your good health. I trust you are feeling more the thing?”
Lady Davenham, blushing quite prettily, assured him that she was. “But should you not be in bed as well? Your teeth were chattering quite as ferociously as mine.”
“A roaring fire, hot punch, and I am restored,” he declared. “In fact”—Harlan held out a crystal mug full of some mysterious liquid—“the punch was such an outstanding restorative that I have brought you a glass.”
Sarah eyed his offering with uncertainty. “I suspect it is quite full of spirits.”
The viscount’s blue-blue eyes sparkled down at her. “And guaranteed to raise your own, as well as your bodily temperature.”
“My lord!”
“Do not be missish, Sally, my girl. I have it on excellent authority that you’re a good sort who doesn’t cut up stiff over every little thing. Here”—he thrust the mug into her hand. “Drink up.”
Sarah took a tentative sip, her nose crinkling in distaste. “Is that blue ruin?” she gasped. “It is quite nasty.”
“Rum, I believe. With various wines and a dollop of brandy. No juice of the juniper, I assure you.”
“Merciful heavens,” Sarah breathed, “you wish to see me foxed.”
“I wish you not to catch your death,” Harlan declared, his grin replaced by a look of sincerity his wife felt all the way down to her toes.
Sarah returned the mug, favoring her husband with a winsome smile. “A hot fire, two turns with the warming pan, and three quilts have done the job. Truly, I shall survive without the punch. You may have my share with my right good will.” Amazing. Harlan Dawnay was standing next to her bed. In his dressing gown. Offering her an intoxicating beverage.
She was a wife. Grown up. And should not be blushing or feeling so . . . strangely. Tingly . . . disconcerted . . . suffering an attack of nerves such as she had never known before.
He’d asked her something . . . she hadn’t the slightest idea what.
Sarah gazed up at her husband, having no idea of the appealing picture she made, with her gold-streaked strawberry curls spilling over her lace-edged pillow and her youthful face wreathed in charming confusion. “I wished to know,” Harlan repeated, “if I should order dinner on a tray, or would you prefer to dine with me in our sitting room?”
Did she prefer to stay tucked up under her covers, or dine à deux with her husband of less than a week? En déshabillé, perhaps? Foolish man, how could he even ask? But of course he would, for he was Dandy Davenham, and manners were an essential part of his breeding from the time he was in leading strings.
“Dining in the sitting room sounds delightful. And, my lord—Harlan—I have not thanked you for coming to my rescue. It was most . . . gratifying.”
Davenham chuckled. “You know quite well it was you doing the rescuing when I arrived, but I hope I was able to be of some service.” He bowed with a mocking flourish.
His wife grinned, much in charity with the man she had married so precipitately. But suddenly the smile faded, her brow wrinkling in concern. “I was quite angry with the deer, but now I must admit some concern. It appeared to be intent on swimming all the way to France.”
“The entire matter is a puzzle,” the viscount admitted. “I shall make inquiries. Perhaps by dinner time we will discover the poor beast’s fa
te. Now settle down and rest, my dear. You’ve suffered an ordeal fit to fell a horse.”
Not the most lover-like sentiment, Sarah thought, but she would settle for her husband’s unexpected concern in whatever form it might take. Until dinner then. Her lips turned up in a secret smile as she snuggled farther under the covers and considered what she might wear for her first truly intimate dinner with Harlan Dawnay, Dandy Davenham.
In those few hectic days in London prior to the wedding, Lady Rotherwick had concentrated on providing only one type of brideclothes for her daughter; namely, the most sheer and delicate undergarments, lavished with embroidery and lace and—worse yet—bedgowns and dressing gowns that had Lady Sarah scarlet-faced with embarrassment and her heart anguished by the duplicity of her arrangement with Lord Davenham. When she had protested the design of the garments, her mama had given her the gimlet eye and said most awfully, “Sarah Elizabeth, you are marrying a gentleman of the first stare, a known dandy, whose taste is emulated by at least half the young gentlemen in the ton. You will not go to him dressed like some Bath miss arriving for a visit with her maiden aunt!”
“Indeed, Mama,” Sarah had murmured and swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
After the wedding, however, Sarah had eyed the dazzling array of frothy garments with something closer to wistfulness. Not that she could possibly be seen in such shocking attire—surely Amaryllis LeFay could not wear anything more revealing!—but the thought of what Harlan might think if he saw her in them would not go away.
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