His glacial tone shocked her nearly as much as the fact that he appeared to be quitting the rout without so much as a word. In a rustle of skirts, she flew down the stairs.
“You are leaving?” she asked, her cheeks pinking under the gaze of the butler and several hovering footmen.
“You have some objection, my lady wife?”
At his savage emphasis, her heart sank. Without doubt he had heard the story, and he was most definitely livid. So livid he intended to leave his disgraced wife to face a disdainful crowd alone. Nicholas, how could you abandon me?
“N-no, of course not. The evening is yours to command.”
“At least something is,” he muttered. “Don’t let me keep you from your admirers.” With another overcourtly bow, he turned his back on her and strode out the door.
Sarah swallowed the tears that clogged her throat. Damping down hurt and a burgeoning anger, she lifted her chin. If Nicholas did not wish to support her, so be it. Had she not always relied solely on herself? Perhaps ’twas only right. She’d gotten herself into this mess. She’d just have to get herself out of it.
Setting her head high, she made herself reenter the ballroom. And nearly bumped right into Sally Jersey.
Before Sarah could utter a word, Lady Jersey took her hand and tucked it under her arm. “Stroll with me a moment, Sarah darling. My, you do manage to get yourself talked about. Now, what’s this I hear about a farm?”
Ignoring the queasiness in her stomach, Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Is something being said? If you’ll tell me what you wish to know, your ladyship, I’ll be happy to enlighten you. Though quite frankly,” she added, trying to invest her voice with just the right note of boredom, “I can’t credit you’ve any interest in a farm.”
Lady Jersey eyed her sharply. Sarah held her gaze, maintaining a look of faint hauteur. After a moment, her ladyship’s lips twitched.
“Very good, my dear.” She patted Sarah’s arm. “Despite your denial to Lord John, the ton does possess some dreadful gossips. Yes, Mrs. Drummond Burrell was standing by the hallway, and heard all. You’re quite right. That Weston boy is a swine.”
A vibrating hum in Sarah’s ears muffled the rest of her ladyship’s speech, and she felt faint.
Mrs. Drummond Burrell witnessed the encounter! Praise heaven she’d not succumbed to the temptation of seconding Lord John’s assessment of the ton. Had that haughty woman—perhaps the greatest of London’s great hostesses—overheard it, by night’s end, her name would have been cut from the invitation list of every person of social standing in London. She dared not even contemplate Nicholas’s reaction to such a catastrophe.
“…thought I saw Nicky sneaking away,” Lady Jersey was saying. “How like a man to hie off to his club, just when one most has need of him. Well, never you mind.” She gave Sarah a conspiratorial smile. “I shall support you.”
And she did. Lady Jersey made a determined stroll through the entire ballroom, chatting as they went with various of the highest-ranking, most socially prominent people present. Any lurking sniggers vanished as Sarah approached on the arm of the queen of society.
At last they reached the ballroom doorway. “I expect you’re ready for refreshment, Lady Englemere,” Silence said as she released Sarah’s arm.
“Since her husband has already gone—no doubt seeking refreshment of a more intimate nature,” remarked a voice beyond the doorway.
A mocking smile on his face, Lord John stepped into the room. He stopped short, his expression changing to dismay, and bowed hastily. “Ladies.”
Lady Jersey’s eyes flickered over Lord John without acknowledgment. “I dare swear, my dear Sarah, one is continually astonished by the low sort of person one encounters at these parties. Whatever can the Sheffingdons be thinking of? Perhaps I must cut the connection.
“Christopher, darling.” Lady Jersey plucked the Earl of March from the gaping onlookers, “you simply must accompany Lady Englemere.” She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the frozen Lord John. “’Tis suddenly so close in here.”
The captured peer dutifully escorted Sarah and remained with her, chatting pleasantly over a glass of champagne. By the time they returned to the ballroom, Sarah could sense the change in the atmosphere. Cordiality reigned now.
Though all she wished to do was return home to await Nicholas and the explanation she vowed she would not sleep until she had delivered, Sarah remained at the ball. ’Twas best to firmly face down the rumors.
Why Sally Jersey had chosen to help her, Sarah couldn’t imagine, but she could only be grateful. Catching the lady’s eye across the crowded ballroom, she sent her a nod of silent thanks.
At last, feeling she’d aged two years in as many hours, Sarah departed for the blessed solitude of Stanhope House.
Sighing, Sarah dismissed Becky, found a book and ensconced herself in a chair beside her bed. ’Twas no telling at what hour Nicholas would return.
Was he in fact at his club—or enjoying “more intimate refreshment”? A pain shot through her.
She seemed unable to summon up the explanations she’d used before to dismiss the matter of Nicholas’s mistress. She was simply too weary, she told herself. Opening the book, she settled in to wait, and forced from her mind the searing image of Mrs. Ingram in Nicholas’s arms.
Chapter Twelve
A banging in the hallway startled her. She must have dozed off, for her book had slipped to the floor and the candle at her elbow guttered. Unsteady footsteps clomped past to the adjoining bedchamber.
She crept to the door and put her ear to it, listening until Nicholas dismissed his valet. Then she knocked.
Eyes closed, Nicholas lay back against his pillows. He blinked them open as she approached the bed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Nicholas, but I should have spoken much sooner, and don’t wish to wait any longer.”
He put a hand to his temple and groaned. From the pungency of the alcoholic odor emanating from him, she could well believe his head hurt. “I’m in no state for confessions now. Leave me to my bed.”
Resentment boiled through her apprehension. If he’d not abandoned her, she’d have finished this task much earlier. “’Tis but a moment I would have. As I’ve not seen my bed tonight either, surely you can spare me that.”
He glanced up then, albeit slowly, a calculating look in his bloodshot eyes. “No bed at all, sweet Sarah?”
“No. I knew you were angry with me, so after Clarissa brought me home, I waited up for you.”
“Clarissa brought you?” His eyes opened wider. “And you’ve been waiting for me since? Alone?”
She wrinkled her brow. Whomever would she have waited up with? “Y-yes, I sent Becky to bed.”
“I suppose your maid or the butler can attest to that?”
She tilted her head, exasperated. He didn’t seem to be making any sense. Perhaps he was more castaway than she’d thought. “You may have Glendenning inventory the tallows I expended whilst reading, but—”
“No, no.” With another groan, he hauled himself up onto the pillows and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve courage, to brave the lion in his den. Proceed.”
She took the chair beside the bed. Now that the moment had arrived, her stomach was doing more leaps than an unbroken colt put under his first saddle. “I wanted to apologize. I’m fully aware I’ve been the most miserable sort of wife. First Clarissa’s rumor, and then to have forgotten your mama’s ball! Anyway, before spending what is, after all, your money, I should have consulted you.”
“You wanted to apologize about money?” he asked, his tone sardonic. “’Tis of little moment. Your allowance is yours, to do with—” he grimaced “—what you wish.”
She stared at him, trying to gauge the depth of his displeasure. If only she could bring him to appreciate her goals, she might make him sympathize. “Oh, Nicholas, the money will bring such benefit to Wellingford! Surely you cannot begrudge the poor tenants that.”
“
Tenants?” He opened his eyes wide again. “Wellingford? What have they to do with this?”
“Did whoever told you the—the rumor not tell you about the seeds?”
“Seeds? Rumor? What the devil—?” Hand to his head, he sat up straight. “Sarah, are you trying to tell me you spent that allowance money on seeds?”
“You did not know? When I saw you in the card room looking so displeased, I was sure someone had told you.”
His intent gaze devoured her. “You ran away before I could speak with you—because you thought I was angry?”
“Y-yes. I wanted to explain, but after I’d composed myself, I couldn’t find you. And then you left, so I…I waited up for you,” she finished in a small voice.
He flopped back against the pillows, looking dazed. “You thought I was angry. About seeds.”
“Well, there were also plows, and roofing thatch—”
As she spoke, a smile lit his face, then his lips twitched. Finally he threw back his head laughing.
Her words trailed off. She gazed at him first in wonder, then with growing resentment.
He seemed to be deriving great amusement from her expenditures, she thought grumpily. She was just about to retreat with injured dignity when he seized her, and laughing still, dragged her onto the bed.
“S-seeds,” he stuttered between gasps. “Oh, Sarah, if you only knew what I thought—! God’s blood, what an idiot I am!” Fiercely he pulled her into an embrace so tight she could scarcely breathe.
All her disgruntlement dissolved as he clutched her to his warm chest. After the miserable evening she’d endured, the sound of his laughter and the feel of his strong arms were a precious gift.
Then a dismaying fact struck her. “But—if you didn’t know how I spent the money, then you couldn’t have heard—” She drew away, consternation flooding her.
“Heard what?” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Oh, Nicholas,” she whispered. She detested having to jeopardize the blessed sweetness of their reestablished rapport by telling him the rest, but he must know.
“You’re going to be truly angry with me now. You see, Wexley found out I spent my allowance on estate needs, and thinking it vastly amusing, spread the story all over town. Some…wits have started calling me ‘The Farmer Bride.’
“I’ve ignored them,” she went on quickly, “and Lady Jersey was kind enough to stand by me, though I believe she more than half suspected ’twas true.” She sighed. “Even so, I very much fear there will still be whispers.”
Unable to bear his scrutiny, she covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Nicholas. Rumor upon rumor! What a sorry bargain I’ve been as a wife.”
“Hush, sweeting.” Gently he pried her hands away and kissed them. “What matter to us what the gossips say?”
“I care what they say about your wife,” she said in a low voice. “For once, I should like to be a source of pride rather than an embarrassment.”
“I am proud of you. Did you not use your pin money to better the lot of some distant tenants? No other lady I know would have done so.” He chuckled. “My farmer bride.”
She shuddered.
His face sobered. “’Tis almost nothing you could do that would truly anger me, Sarah. You can’t imagine the start you gave me when I saw you in that doorway looking so distressed. I followed you, searched everywhere, and when I couldn’t find you I was…beside myself.”
How like a man, to translate upset into anger, she thought, touched by his concern. “Clarissa cornered me in the withdrawing room begging help in repairing her torn lace. I’m so sorry you worried.”
He took her hand and kissed it earnestly. “Promise me, Sarah, you’ll never run from me again.”
The image of her papa with his coin recurred. Should she confess the whole? Perhaps he might understand.
“You were in the game room, if you’ll recall, flipping a guinea?” When he nodded, she continued. “The night Papa lost the rest of our capital, our dowries, everything, I found him staring out the library window, tossing a single coin. Oh, ’twas foolish, I know, but seeing you do that brought it all back. Gaming—frightens me so, Nicholas.”
He looked at her gravely. “I’m not your papa, Sarah. I’ve worked too hard for my fortune to throw it away.”
“But you like to gamble! You cannot continue to risk, and expect always to win.”
“Yes, I enjoy gaming—specifically, games in which I can calculate the odds and pit my expertise against that of other players. I do not play those that depend solely on chance. But you mustn’t fear that enjoyment will land us on the parish. Though I tremble to confess something so unfashionable, I’m afraid most of our income comes from deplorably bourgeois business activities.”
“Business?” she echoed.
She must have seemed incredulous, for he chuckled. “Ah, yes, you’re thinking of Englemere’s Luck. Though I’ve never made any secret of my activities in the city, the ton seems to prefer perpetuating the image of me as a wildly successful gamester. ’Tis partly true—I did have a phenomenal run of luck when I first came to town. Fortunately, a friend of my father’s advised me to put most of my winnings into investments. My dear, we currently own shares in shipping, coal, canal projects—we’ve even thrown a bit into Mr. Trevick’s horseless carriage experiments.”
Her immediate surge of relief quickly faded. “Shipping and canals and horseless carriages? But are not such investments even more risky than the tables?”
“True, there are losses. A cargo of East India spices here, a coal shipment there may founder. The trick is not to sink all your capital in any one venture. Those that do succeed usually bring a handsome profit.”
His face lit with enthusiasm. “Assessing the potential value, weighing the probability of success, choosing which projects to fund and which to refuse—ah, that is even more fascinating than gaming.”
Sunken cargo here, lost shipments there? Sarah blanched. ’Twas only the thrill of risk-taking translated to a different environment. She could see the gambler’s fever she so feared glowing in his eyes as he spoke.
His excitement faded as he gazed at her. “You don’t trust me, do you?” he said at last.
He looked more hurt than affronted. She opened her mouth, closed it, searching desperately for words that were softer than the truth and yet not a lie.
He sighed. “I suppose ’tis not remarkable, after what you and your family endured. Sarah, I would never gamble with our security.”
“I know you will do what you feel is right.” That, at least, she could say honestly.
He smiled, the warm light she so loved back in his eyes. “And what would you sink our capital into, little Puritan? Land, I suppose?”
“’Tis ever there, Nicholas,” she said fervently. “No flip of the dice or shipwreck can make it disappear.”
“But land lying fallow earns nothing. You must harvest salable crops. How many years has the corn or wheat failed? All life is a risk, Sarah, none more so than farming.”
She yearned to dispute that, but memories of the lean times came back all too vividly. “True, land may not always be profitable. But still it remains, with its potential for next year and the year after. Land remains to pass on to your children and grandchildren.”
He laughed shortly. “My father passed all the Stanhope lands to me. And almost nothing in cash, having ever put his money back into his properties. After his death, when the price of grain plummeted, I could barely keep the household in coal and tallows.” He shook his head. “That’s a position I never wish to be in again.”
She couldn’t dispute that either. The image of wealthy, successful Nicholas in want of anything was so novel she could hardly credit it.
He grinned at her. “We shall make a bargain. I will teach you about investments, and you can instruct me in farm management. Deal?”
She winced. Even now, he used gambler’s terms. “I shall try, Nicholas. It’s just—oh, you cannot imagine what ’t
is like to suddenly have your familiar world, your very future, collapse in the space of an instant into unsalvageable ruin!”
“Can I not?” he said, an odd note in his voice. A strange, bleak expression crossed his face before he took her hand. “Sarah, I will never risk our children’s inheritance. Can you trust that?”
’Twas an honorable bargain. “As you have trusted me. I shall do better, Nicholas! I shall apply myself to all my duties, be a model wife and never embarrass you again.”
“And so shall I do better, Sarah, I swear it. Now, about those ‘duties,’” he murmured, his fingers going to the sash of her dressing gown. “You can begin right now.”
Three weeks later, Nicholas sat with Hal at White’s, sharing a convivial bottle of brandy after dinner.
“Excellent meal, Hal. Thank you.”
Hal nodded. “Pleased to host you. Don’t see you here much. Married, an’ all.”
“Married indeed,” Nicholas said with a sigh and drained his glass. “I’m off to fetch Sarah for a party. Not that I can complain—I should have dined with her at the Dowager Duchess of Arundel’s first.”
Hal shuddered. “Good you shied off. Dreadful woman.”
“Sarah got me out of it, actually.” He smiled wryly. “Another of her courtesies.”
At Hal’s baffled look, he continued, “First it was the rumor about our star-crossed love, and then that silliness over the ‘Farmer Bride.’ Was Sarah upset over that!”
“You miffed about it, Nicky?”
“Devil a bit.” Nicholas laughed. “Sarah’s much more concerned about my consequence than I am.” His humor faded. “So much so, she’s throwing all her energies into being the perfect marchioness, the perfect chatelaine of my household and the perfect wife. To make it up to me for the rumors, she said.” He groaned. “I’m being ‘perfected’ to death.”
“Fretting you to flinders, eh?”
Unable to resist the temptation of unburdening himself, Nicholas poured another glass and eased back in his chair.
The Wedding Gamble Page 17
