Earnestly, Sarah peered up into Harlan’s face. “I think we should go home and have the doctor in.”
“Nonsense.” He gave her a squeeze that sent ripples of something very strange from her head to her toes. He smiled, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I’m discovering I rather enjoy the idea of chaperoning the chaperon.”
Harlan’s warm breath in her ear set off a quake inside Sarah’s small body. A sheltered nook, a fountain, moonlight, a few moments of her husband’s time. Lady Davenham brushed away a tear, sternly admonishing herself to be content. Tonight was a step forward, a move to bridge the chasm they had deliberately set between them. But the plank she was attempting to extend over the gap was narrow and treacherous . . . and would never work unless Harlan anchored it firmly on the other side.
Tonight . . . tonight she had cause to hope. And yet the maneuvers she had made since returning to London tended to remind her of her efforts to escape collision with the deer when her legs were tangled in the sodden bathing gown. A great deal of effort with very little satisfaction. No matter what she did, Harlan’s attention was momentary, his interest captured only long enough to be certain she was a credit to him, only long enough to satisfy society’s strictures, before he was once again slipping away into a world occupied solely by gentlemen. And their mistresses.
It was unfair. Decidedly unfair. And only recollection of her solemn agreement to her husband’s self-centered proposal was keeping Sarah from outright rebellion. She stuck her chin in the air and told herself she was enacting her expected role rather well. She had not succumbed to playing ninepins with the Sèvres dinner service nor to drumming her heels on the floor. Nor had she paid a visit to Amaryllis LeFay with one of Harlan’s fine collection of antique knives tucked into her reticule, though she had certainly given it serious consideration. Sarah had even gone so far as to wonder where Davenham kept his dueling pistols. Not that she would load it, of course, but . . .
It was early days yet. She had not yet begun to plumb the extent to which a female might annoy her husband, even while playing least in sight. Her intentions . . . ah yes, her intentions . . .
Out of sight . . . but far from out of mind.
Invisible . . . yet, somehow, omnipotent.
A mysterious smile still tugged at Lady Davenham’s lips as she parted from her husband in the entry hall—after solicitous murmurings about his poor shoulder—and slowly climbed the stairs to her lonely bedchamber on the second floor.
Chapter Eleven
“My dear,” declared Sarah’s mama-in-law a few days later, “Marchmont and I have had the most excellent idea. There is a young man . . .” The enthusiasm radiating from the viscount’s mother as she seated herself in the Davenham’s drawing room faded abruptly as she looked around. Her voice trailed into silence. She blinked.
“Yes, I know,” Sarah murmured. “It is rather . . . bold, is it not, but we were becoming desper—that is, my lady, naturally we wished to have a house of our own. Not that Marchmont House was not perfectly splendid, but . . .” The very young Lady Davenham most sincerely wished the Persian carpet would respond to some magic command and swallow her whole.
Fortunately, Lady Marchmont chose to be amused. “My child, Marchmont and I—when he was Davenham—spent the first three years of our married lives sharing the London house with his papa and mama before we grew bold enough to set up an establishment of our own. I quite applaud your resolve, even if the results are . . . shall we say a trifle ornate?”
Sarah giggled, then swiftly composed her face into something closer to the expression expected of a viscountess before assuring her mama-in-law that she and Harlan would find something more suitable for next Season. Lady Davenham added a silent vow to herself that her bedchamber and her husband’s would never again be on separate floors. “There was something you wished to tell me, my lady?”
“Indeed, my dear. Lady Quimby displayed her new portrait at tea on Tuesday, and all thought it very fine. The artist was present, a young man of good family, recently come to town. Darkly handsome—I assure you there was great fluttering among the ladies!” Lady Marchmont paused, clapped her palms together, and leaned toward Sarah, eyes aglow. “Marchmont and I have decided to commission Mr. Wendell to do a portrait of you, my dear. Although there must one day be a portrait of you and the heir, we agreed there could be no finer time than now to have you caught forever in the perfection of your youthful beauty.”
At mention of an heir, Sarah was swept by a furious blush, but again it appeared her mama-in-law found this quite normal, casting only a fond and knowing look at the viscountess’s scarlet face. “A portrait, my lady? Truly?”
“The artist comes highly recommended. Marchmont made inquiries and commissioned him at once. He is Edmund Wendell, who is just beginning what promises to be a most excellent career—perhaps as fine as Reynolds or Gainsborough. I have come to tell you that he is ready to begin tomorrow, if you have no objections.”
“How could I possibly object, my lady?” Sarah managed, though thought of having her portrait painted threatened to steal her breath away. “You and Lord Marchmont are most generous . . . and I am certain Harlan will be pleased.”
Perhaps she would hang the portrait in his bedchamber so he could recall what she looked like.
Now she was being unfair. Over the past few days, since the evening of the Roxbury’s rout, she had had a good many arguments with herself—the general gist of which concluded that she was a jealous, scheming, ungrateful hussy, unfit to call herself a viscountess. Davenham had given her as much—or as little—notice as Dickon did, and that was what she had agreed to, was it not? He was seldom gruff, except about poor Esmerelda . . . and, well, occasionally when giving her driving instruction. Lately, he had even bent the rules he himself had set down by being seen with her in public at least once a day. He was trying, really he was. And she had Esmerelda to accompany her to as many routs, balls, breakfasts, picnics, and enlightening educational lectures as any young lady might wish to attend.
Alas, however . . . Miss Esmerelda Twitchell was neither male nor her husband.
Not that she had a right to complain, not the least little bit. Her agreement with Harlan was like a gaming debt. She was honor-bound to abide by it. And a great many young men danced attendance on her, happy enough to spend their time with a young lady with no fear of raising expectations. And after Southwaite showed his approval, Esmerelda, who was constantly at her side, was developing a coterie of followers as well. Among them, oddly enough, Lord Richard Ainsworth. Dickon, displaying interest in something other than sports, cards, or an opera dancer? Would wonders never cease?
And now came Edmund Wendell—talented artist and young man of good family. Sarah’s lips curled into a provocative smile; a twinkle lit her aquamarine eyes. Was it possible Harlan might have a qualm or two about his wife posing for a handsome young artist?
She forced her wandering wits back to Lady Marchmont’s current monologue, which seemed to be a forthright apology for her son’s neglect of his bride and instruction on how to manage husbands who strayed from the fold. Solemnly, Lady Davenham nodded in what she hoped were the right places.
With scarcely a pause for breath Lady Marchmont then launched into a gentle but firm lecture on the dangers of associating with the lower classes. At this, Sarah took courage in hand and reminded her mama-in-law that Esmerelda Twitchell had quite likely saved her life in Brighton. Fortunately, this argument worked as well on Sarah’s mother-in-law as it had on her own mother. Grumble, grumble . . . oh, very well. Sarah must, of course, do as she thought right.
The two ladies parted on cordial terms, with Sarah promising to be at Mr. Wendell’s studio the next morning by eleven o’clock.
Edmund Wendell was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe him, Sarah thought, as he seated her on a white wrought-iron bench and arranged her shoulders just so, the precise position of each hand in her lap as well. Beside her bench was a broken Grecian colu
mn—plaster rather than marble, she noted as the artist moved it six inches closer with no sign of effort. Behind was a painted backdrop, like scenery at a theatrical performance, with rose bushes, hedges, and a well-trimmed park extending into the distance, where a castle was visible on the horizon.
Even as she clung to her pose, Sarah’s eyes refused to be still, following Edmund Wendell’s preparations with avid interest. Black hair tumbled in waves about the artist’s face, framing a pair of animated brown eyes and well-defined features that gave him character. With no sign of the languor that seemed to afflict the gentlemen of the ton, Edmund Wendell bristled with energy. Enough so that Sarah felt sparks when he touched her bare hands. Merciful heavens! She had wanted Harlan to be a bit doubtful about Mr. Wendell, but she had not thought to actually give him reason! How could she possibly have a physical response to the touch of a stranger? Appalling. Mr. Wendell must be one of those Don-Juan-like men who exuded unusual attraction for women. Undoubtedly, he would be a great success, commissioned by half the ladies of the ton.
As for herself, there would be no more nonsense. She had entertained a notion of flirting with Mr. Wendell, of encouraging his attention to discover if she could pry a reaction from her husband, but now . . . She might be only eighteen, but the young Lady Davenham was no fool. Any encouragement of Mr. Wendell, and she would have a problem on her hands. This was a man who had come to town with more than painting portraits on his mind. Poor Lady Marchmont. She had been so certain Wendell was a gentleman. In less than fifteen minutes Sarah had found him out.
Or was the fault hers? she wondered with horror. Had Harlan’s neglect pushed her into a wanton reaction? Or did Edmund Wendell truly possess some animal magnetism ladies could not resist? Thank goodness for Finella, sitting upright in a chair by the door, never taking her eyes off her mistress, except to cast an occasional awed glance at the artist.
Sarah had to admit her own head was a jumble of remarkably carnal thoughts for a virgin. She fought down a blush and concentrated on sitting perfectly still. This too would pass. Hopefully, not too many sittings would be required.
Lord Davenham dined at home that evening. Although admittedly casual in his dealings with his new wife, he was not a man who forgot his promises. Nor that the awkward situation he had created might possibly require more than a curricle and pair. He had also suffered an uncomfortable interview with his mama, who told him more than a thing or two about marriage, as well as informing him that his wife was having her portrait painted by an exceptionally handsome and dynamic third son of a baronet. He had subsequently made a visit to Rundell and Bridges before informing Cook that he would be home for dinner.
In response to his questions about her portrait that evening, Sarah had surprisingly little to say. On the few occasions they exchanged greetings, she was usually quite voluble, almost as if attempting to get in as many words as possible before he disappeared again. Tonight, however, she was remarkably terse, which in itself roused his suspicions. What was she attempting to hide?
“It was most generous of Lord and Lady Marchmont to commission the portrait,” his wife stated with as much formality as she might use with the Prince Regent. “I can only hope the result will be pleasing.”
“And the artist?” Harlan asked, failing to issue the obligatory response of assuring Sarah any portrait of her was bound to be pleasing.
“He is . . . charming. And from the work I saw in his studio, quite talented.”
“Handsome?”
“Finella could scarce take her eyes off him.”
“And you?”
“I must look only where I am told—off into the distance. Mr. Wendell was invisible to me.”
“I see,” Harlan mused, visualizing the encroaching Wendell peering down his wife’s neckline while she was blissfully unaware. “And how often do you pose?”
“Each morning at eleven until we are done, I believe. Except Sunday, of course.”
“So no more driving lessons.” Strange—he felt a decided twinge of disappointment. He had rather enjoyed putting his arms around his wife while helping her with the reins, showing her how to pick off a fly with the whip . . .
“Not for a short while. Truthfully,” Sarah added, “I am not certain how many times I must pose.”
“This Wendell—he treats you with respect?” Was that a slight hesitation before she answered?
“He is perhaps a bit too charming at times, but I suppose that is what artists must do to ingratiate themselves with their clients. I would prefer a bit less personality, I suppose, but I am sure he is an excellent artist, and it will all be over shortly.”
Harlan frowned. “You will tell me if he becomes annoying.” It was not a question.
“Indeed.” Sarah flashed him a grateful smile that sent his blood surging. She was, after all, his. He was responsible for her, and he was discovering the concept was more satisfying than frightening. As long as his newfound responsibilities interfered with his life only on rare occasions, all would be well. If he could only get rid of Miss Twitchell and Southwaite, his life would go along as smoothly as he had once envisioned.
After the covers were removed, Harlan invited Sarah to remain while he indulged in a glass of port. “I have something to show you, my dear.” From his inner jacket pocket he retrieved a flat leather case, dyed blue. “You see, I do not forget my promises.”
Indulgently, he watched as she opened the case and gasped at sight of the sapphires within—a finely matched set of necklace and dangling ear-bobs, sparkling against a bed of white satin.
“They are truly lovely,” she declared, looking for a moment as if she might leap up from her chair and hug him. He was, in fact, oddly regretful when she did not. Was she wondering why he was giving her another expensive gift so shortly after the first? Or wondering if these jewels were as fine as those he had given to Ryl?
They were, in fact, much finer. But how was his Sally to know? And surely he could not tell her. Damn and blast, no matter how hard he tried, he’d gotten himself into a fix. Word was that Mussulmen could have four wives. How they managed it Davenham could not imagine. His wife and mistress were supposed to exist in two separate, completely distinguishable worlds, yet already the two of them were clashing in his mind, haunting his days and nights as he neglected both of them quite shamefully, confining himself lately to the stolid, less earth-shaking world of men.
Tonight, he knew, was to be Miss Twitchell’s debut at Almack’s, her voucher a minor miracle wrought by her dowry and the somewhat reluctant influence of Lady Rotherwick supported by Lady Marchmont. Harlan had not learned of this great event from his wife, however, but from Lord Richard, who had cried off from tonight’s faro game at White’s, saying he must look in at Almack’s in support of his sister and Miss Twitchell. Betrayed, by God! By his best friend. As Harlan had said all along, the last thing his infant wife needed was to take up with a vulgar Cit—no matter how well-mannered or attractive she was. But Dickon? Lord Richard Ainsworth was old enough to have better sense.
Devil a bit! The more Harlan thought about it, the angrier he became. Sarah had kept her plans for the evening a secret from him. He, her husband, was not to know that she had found a way to insert Esmerelda Twitchell into the hallowed halls of Almack’s. Ha! The chit was in for a surprise. If the faro game ran long—as they tended to do—he must bow out, whether winning or losing, and be off to Almack’s before the witching hour of eleven, after which it was doubtful even the Prince Regent would be granted admittance.
He would not show his disapprobation, of course, but would be there in case Sal got into trouble. The old tabbies could be quite nasty when they wished. Not that his mama and Sarah’s mama were not capable of annihilating a regiment of tabbies, but all the same . . .
Tonight, Lord Davenham would dance attendance on his wife at Almack’s.
Oddly enough, this momentous decision turned not a single hair white. Harlan found himself grimly pleased by his determination to pr
otect little Sal from the sharp fangs awaiting her at Almack’s.
Sarah sat for some time, staring at the sapphires. She would wear them tonight, of course. Would everyone think her husband was well pleased with her? Or would the tabbies take one look and know that Lord Davenham’s conscience was bothering him? Again.
Was he truly going to White’s tonight, or straight to the arms of Amaryllis LeFay? Sarah supposed she should be pleased Harlan was to be occupied elsewhere. Had she not been very careful to avoid a confrontation over Esmerelda accompanying her to Almack’s? Harlan could not object if he did not know. So there!
And now it was Wednesday night and Lady Davenham was taking Miss Esmerelda Twitchell to Almack’s. Without her husband’s knowledge. Lord Southwaite had promised to be there and her mama and sister, as well. Amalie, of course, would be no help, but her mama would never allow the high sticklers to snub anyone arriving under the auspices of the daughter of the Marquess of Rotherwick. Therefore, she must simply straighten her shoulders, lift her chin, and be ready to put on her best smile when she heard the wheels of the carriage she had sent to Great Russell Street. Tonight Miss Esmerelda Twitchell would truly join the ton.
On this particular evening at Almack’s, the white chiffon rose adorning the décolletage of Lady Davenham’s indigo silk gown was eclipsed by the magnificence of the sapphires that sparkled under the tall candles in Almack’s crystal chandeliers. Female eyes might be drawn to the gems by avarice, but male eyes were undoubtedly gratified by an excuse to stray over the young viscountess’s youthful beauty, while being relieved that it was Lord Davenham’s purse, not theirs, that was short the considerable cost.
Lord Southwaite, true to his promise, made his way to Lady Davenham and her companion and requested Miss Twitchell’s hand for a set of country dances. Sarah laughed to herself when she recognized an almost parental rush of satisfaction as she watched the willowy beauty, tastefully adorned in ivory satin embroidered in silk and pearls, walk away on the arm of the elegant Baron Southwaite.
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