The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Sarah was concentrating on her feet so closely that she very nearly missed the earl’s question. “Well, yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Don’t you?”

  “Good God, no,” he answered emphatically before he joined the men in a separate circle while the women twirled.

  Sarah counted time to the music, her gaze fixed on the polished oaken floor and the graceful movements of the other women. She looked up just in time to rejoin Lord Weston. “So, you make a habit of concealing your true thoughts, then?”

  Weston was amazingly graceful for a man with a limp. He clapped in time and completed a full turn with impeccable precision. “I suppose it depends on the situation,” he answered, arching an eyebrow.

  He was making it difficult for Sarah to concentrate. And the seductive curve of his mouth as he smiled at her did little to help. “Lord Weston, why did you ask me to dance?”

  He looked at her incredulously, as if for the first time in a long while he wasn’t sure what to say. “Why does any man ask a woman to dance?”

  “Come now, Lord Weston,” Sarah said. “There’s no need to be mysterious. I assure you, no matter the truth, I’m hearty and hale enough to hear it.”

  It used to be that men would ask Sarah to dance in order to inquire after Claire. But that was obviously not the case now.

  The circle broke and couples joined hands together, the step bringing Lord Weston face-to-face with Sarah. “Miss Tisdale, have I done something to offend you … or perhaps your mother?”

  Sarah gripped the earl’s hands reflexively, his bluntness most unexpected. “Where would you have heard …? I’m sorry, but who …?” she asked, struggling to complete the sentence. “Bennington,” she hissed, searching the dancers for the traitor’s face.

  “Miss Tisdale,” Lord Weston pressed, squeezing her clenched hands in his. “Bennington did not intend to betray your confidence, I assure you. He was caught off guard—”

  “You queried while he was pining after Claire, didn’t you?”

  Marcus nodded, a mixture of guilt and resignation on his face.

  She could hardly lie now. He knew the truth of it and she wasn’t about to be caught in a falsehood. “He talks too much,” she said lightly, hoping that he would simply laugh and let it go.

  “Miss Tisdale, please,” he replied, his face taking on a determined set.

  Really, she thought, as if being made to dance was not enough. “You’ll not drop it, then?” Sarah asked hopefully.

  “Not a chance.”

  The dance was winding down and Sarah desperately needed to be free of the earl. Especially his hands, which held hers in a most distracting way—too large, too … male. “Very well, then. I fear that your return to the district will pique my mother’s interest in matrimony—mine, to be more specific.”

  Lord Weston’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “And the thought of marrying me is what’s troubling you?”

  “Not exactly,” Sarah replied, flustered. “Did Gregory tell you anything of my mother?”

  “He mentioned a few things.”

  Sarah winced at the thought of their conversation, though she could hardly blame herself for her mother being, well, her mother. “Then you might understand why I’m loath to undertake a courtship—doomed to fail, no less—with Lenora Tisdale at the helm. I am perfectly content on my own and have no reason to assume that I’ll ever feel otherwise.”

  Sarah watched the earl take in the information with a purposeful detachment, as if she’d shared a trifle from the morning’s newspaper. It was humiliating, which only made everything worse.

  “So this has nothing to do with our encounter at the lake?” he asked, slowing as the music floated to a halt.

  “Not at all,” Sarah replied, pointedly retrieving her hands from his.

  He looked relieved as they walked from the dance floor, which only made Sarah feel more humiliated. “Thank you for the dance, my lord. And good night.”

  “Miss Tisdale, wait—”

  But Sarah could not. She’d noticed that his limp was now slightly more pronounced. She knew she could outrun him if she had to. And she desperately needed to be away from the man, though she could not explain why.

  Marcus sat on the edge of the cliff overlooking the cove. Moonlight illuminated the craggy rocks and beyond, to where the channel lay, its waters black beneath the night sky. As a boy, he’d made a habit of sneaking out at night and settling in the very same spot, the cool summer air soothing his restless thoughts then much as it did now.

  Lulworth society had changed little in the past twenty years. His position and wealth could not be denied now that he was a man and marriageable, but the thinly veiled repudiation was still there.

  Marcus supposed he could have done more throughout the years to endear himself to the village. Made more of an effort to guide the goings-on at the castle, as most landowners did. But his pride had been stung, and if there was one truth he’d walked away with, it was that someone such as he would never find where he belonged, no matter how hard he might try.

  He’d learned in his time with the Corinthians that his charm, when applied evenly, was enough to smooth his way in most situations. That was all he could hope for in the way of acceptance. Not that he’d hoped for anything in quite some time.

  He stretched out his leg and swore, the pounding throb of pain in his healing wound hitting him. He should not have danced with Miss Tisdale.

  “Miss Tisdale,” he said aloud, the words carried off in a rush by the wind. She was a mismatched puzzle of right and wrong, the pieces fitting into place only when coaxed with a considerable amount of strength. Nothing like any other woman of his acquaintance. God, the woman was charming for the very reason that she tried so hard not to be charming.

  “And tae mak’ matters worse, th’ lassie is bonnie and braw,” he said to the sky, his burr appearing as if it had never left. Part of Marcus wondered that no man had wedded her for the great pleasure of bedding such a creature.

  The other part of him completely understood why she’d been put so firmly on the shelf.

  Marcus retrieved a rock from the ground and turned it between his fingers, the cool smooth surface slowing his thoughts. He was not himself around her. His reliable charm and easy wit were compromised in the presence of Miss Tisdale.

  And he could not say why. Shock, perhaps? He dropped the rock into his other hand and repeated the pattern. How could anyone find themselves at ease with Miss Tisdale? One never knew what to expect, which, in Marcus’s experience, was most unexpected when it came to women. Bennington’s comment concerning the woman’s unease had spurred him on. After all, any man worthy of calling himself a gentleman would have done the same.

  The true nature of her complaint had surprised Marcus. Not that he would have expected any woman within the county to have willingly jumped at the opportunity to be courted by him. If there had ever been doubt, the evening’s party had proven him correct on this point.

  But Miss Tisdale had been so bloody honest about the whole thing. No contempt, nor arrogance. Just the simple fact that his presence could disrupt her life. And she liked her life—loved her life, actually, from what he’d seen so far. Marcus couldn’t help but envy the woman, just a little.

  Her mother? She was entirely what one would assume of a prying country mama with nothing more to do than meddle in the lives of those around her. Marcus had been introduced to the Tisdales by Bennington toward the end of the evening. Lady Tisdale had been stiff, though polite, her air of superiority somewhat quelled by her undeniable fascination with him and his titles. She’d made it clear, though, that she would not be making a match between her daughter and the Errant Earl. The woman obviously disliked him.

  Sir Arthur had welcomed Marcus with a hearty pat on the back, his easy, friendly style in stark contrast to that of his wife.

  Miss Tisdale’s father had gone so far as to invite Marcus to their home for a glass of “the choicest brandy to be had in all of England.”
His accompanying wink had not been lost on the entire group standing about, their conspiratorial nods piquing Marcus’s interest.

  He slowly stood, stretching as he rose. He could hardly believe that a man as well-respected locally as Sir Arthur Tisdale was involved in a plot to extend Napoleon’s empire.

  He lobbed the rock into the air, losing sight of it as it disappeared against the blackness.

  “Strange lot, those Tisdales,” he mumbled to himself, turning back toward the castle.

  Sarah knew the way by heart, even in the dark. The winding path leading through the woods just beyond the gardens of her family’s home was one she routinely traversed.

  Filtered moonlight appeared here and there as she walked, the distant lapping of the Channel’s waves against the rocky shore the only sound for miles.

  Save for Titus’s panting behind her, she realized. The dog’s massive head bumped Sarah’s backside as he dutifully followed after her.

  She reached down and patted his soft fur and he responded with a stealthy swipe of his tongue on her wrist. He’d been none too pleased when she’d risen from bed, tripping over him in the process. But he’d wearily accompanied her out into the night, familiar enough with Sarah’s habits.

  She’d begun sneaking out of the manor house at the age of eight. Despite being clumsy, Sarah’s need for motion was undeniable, especially when something was on her mind.

  Her father had noted on more than one occasion that even in the womb, Sarah’s preference had been clear. Lady Tisdale had hardly been able to lie down without a stout kick from their unborn child.

  Sarah reached the edge of the wood, stepping out into the open and the gentle wind that blew in from the Channel beyond the cliffs below. Titus walked to an outcropping of rocks and threw himself down on the cool dirt, a huff escaping his wet muzzle.

  “You came of your own accord, Titus,” Sarah chided the giant, walking to where he lay. She crouched down beside him, slipped off her clogs, and ran her fingers through his smooth, short fur. “Though I am happy for the company.”

  She lifted her white cotton night rail slightly, and then collected as many pebbles as she could settle into the fabric. She rose, climbed a large flat rock, and stood, her bare feet tingling from the porous, faintly abrasive surface.

  She carefully poured the rocks onto the boulder’s surface, then picked a smooth, oblong pebble from the pile and flung it with force over the cliff, hardly pausing before choosing a second one and sending it on its way.

  She tilted forward, the feel of the grainy rock beneath her toes a welcome distraction. Walking alone at night in the woods was hardly troublesome. Well, to her anyway. Sarah could not imagine what her mother would do were she to discover her daughter’s solitary and certainly quite scandalous behavior.

  Sarah bent down and retrieved a large, rough rock, gripped it tightly, then hurled it into the ever-increasing wind. No, it was not what she was doing that was troublesome, but why.

  A gust of wind caught her unbound hair, strands blowing every which way and obscuring Sarah’s vision. She reached up and captured the mass and quickly plaited it before tossing the braid back over her shoulder.

  Why had Lord Weston returned to Lulworth Castle? She picked up two pebbles and sent them quickly after the others.

  Surely he knew the villagers’ feelings toward him? It was plain that those who attended his party were there to drink his wine, eat his food, and stare at the man as though he were one of the horrid animal attractions in London that Claire had told her about. If she were in Lord Weston’s shoes, Titus could not have dragged her back to Lulworth.

  At least now Sarah had a good reason for not liking the man. She’d been painfully embarrassed by their conversation during the dance. She cringed as she recalled her mother’s icy demeanor upon meeting Lord Weston, though, upon reflection, she really should have known that her silly mother would be unable to look past her dislike for the earl.

  Her face grew hot as she thought back to how Lord Weston had turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised and a question in his eyes. All she’d been able to manage was a mouthed “I was wrong” before hurriedly walking away to find Claire. A coward’s way out for sure. But at least she was safe from her mother’s machinations. And now she could return to her life before Lord Weston.

  Sarah grabbed a pebble and aimed for Ursa Major. Unsurprisingly, the rock fell short of its destination.

  She had to admit that Lord Weston was handsome. And charming.

  There was an intensity that seemed to lie just beneath his lightly tanned skin, though Sarah found she could not get far beyond thoughts of the skin itself. The vee of it visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt when he’d thought to jump in the lake was similarly colored. Sarah wondered just how far the tan continued down Lord Weston’s torso.

  She had a spectacular imagination, one that easily removed the earl’s fine lawn shirt and traveled lower to where it had been tucked into his snug breeches.

  A trickle of sweat ran between Sarah’s breasts and she rubbed at it distractedly.

  The earl was making her perspire. No, the mere thought of the man was making her perspire.

  She reached for the remaining pile of pebbles and gathered them together, standing and lobbing them over the cliff with force.

  She would not let Lord Weston capture her fancy. At best, such folly would be distracting. At worst, disastrous. And Sarah had experienced too much of both in her life to volunteer for such a fool’s errand.

  She undid her hair and shook it out about her, the long tendrils blowing wildly in the wind, tugging at her scalp.

  She lifted the hem of her night rail and jumped from the rock, landing in the soft dirt near Titus. “To bed,” she said simply, stepping into her clogs then clucking at the dog as she walked toward the woods.

  Titus heaved himself up with a second sigh and followed his mistress home.

  Marcus awoke stiff and sore from the past evening’s events. Despite the short distance to Tisdale Manor and the balmy afternoon weather, his aching leg wouldn’t allow him to walk there.

  Pokey, Marcus’s chestnut character of a Thoroughbred, had been enlisted for the trip, his champion bloodlines surely recoiling at the thought of such an inconsequential task, while his lazy disposition clearly relished the briefness of the short ride.

  The horse plodded up the private lane toward Tisdale Manor. Marcus idly scanned the grounds, noting the beech trees neatly lining the earthen track and the rhododendron bushes along the edge of the grassy lawn beyond.

  And a curvaceous backside, low to the ground as its owner crawled somewhat awkwardly from bush to bush. A muslin dress, the very faintest of moss greens nearly lost against the color of the grass, pulled tight over the swell of buttocks as the woman moved, knee to knee, the fabric straining to contain the ripe, round—

  Marcus squeezed his eyelids shut and swallowed hard. “Miss Tisdale, have you lost something?” he asked, adding “such as your mind,” under his breath.

  She stopped suddenly, frozen, obviously unaware that Marcus had approached.

  “Bugger.”

  Or at least that was what he thought he heard her say. “I beg your pardon?” he queried.

  She sat back on her heels and twisted to look over her shoulder at him. “Is that what it looks like?”

  Oh, the lass was clearly trouble, but so entertaining. “May I be of assistance?” he asked, turning Pokey from the path and onto the lawn.

  “No!” she vehemently whispered, her eyes darting toward the manor. “That is to say,” she paused, regaining her composure, “thank you for the kind offer.”

  She was breathing a bit harder now, her breasts moving up and down with the effort. “I’m glad to offer my services,” Marcus pressed, noting that each step Pokey took toward her made Miss Tisdale’s breath that much more labored. Marcus wondered if he urged Pokey closer whether Miss Tisdale’s delectable bosom would heave itself right out of the green gown.

  On s
econd thought—

  “Miss Sarah!” a servant’s voice rang out, the loud call coming from the general vicinity of the manor.

  She muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was anything but ladylike.

  “Is it that you’ve lost something, Miss Tisdale, or that something—or someone, rather—has lost you?” Marcus asked, enjoying this far more than he should.

  She looked as if she were contemplating something of great importance, her brow furrowing as she looked first at the manor house and then back to Marcus. Finally, in a very defeated tone, she muttered, “The Honorable Ambrose Dixon.”

  “Dixon has lost you?”

  She rose up on her knees, arms akimbo. “I am not the man’s to lose, on that point you may be sure.”

  “Miss Sarah!” the cry came again, this time markedly closer than before.

  Miss Tisdale threw herself to the ground, apparently attempting to become one with the lawn.

  “I see,” Marcus replied, stifling a laugh. Clearly, for all of her heat and fire, Miss Tisdale was very neatly stuck. “Well then, it appears you do require my aid, after all.”

  She ceased clutching the large blossoms in a vain attempt at concealment and looked him squarely in the eye. “In what way, my lord?”

  Marcus turned Pokey back toward the drive. “I’ll keep your location a secret, for a price.”

  Her emerald eyes grew as round as saucers, and she seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. “Are you implying that should I not agree to this price, you will reveal my hiding place?”

  Marcus was discovering the benefits of angering Miss Tisdale. Color flooded her cheeks and spread down the graceful arch of her neck and below, disappearing beneath the neckline of the green gown. Do not play games he told himself, but something about Miss Tisdale urged him on. “Exactly.”

  “You cannot be serious!” she whispered angrily, her hands balling into fists at her sides.