Precisely what had she written about him? Part of him longed to know, whilst another part of him recognized it may be better if he did not. After all, her poems had been written from a place of pain, when she had believed he had betrayed her with her own sister.
He forced down his pride. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood. I am grateful for your understanding.” While everything in him cried out against the notion of waiting until Elsmere returned to ask the duke for her hand, he knew he had little choice in the matter. It was the right thing to do.
“I will allow you to see Lady Sarah,” Kirkwood said then, a grudging edge entering his voice. “But Lady Frederica must remain in the chamber with you as chaperone at all times. I am quite firm on the matter. You have already done damage enough to Lady Sarah’s reputation. As her father is a trusted business associate of mine, it benefits me to stay in Elsmere’s good graces.”
Philip felt as if he were a lad who had just received a firm dressing down at the hands of his nursemaid. But never mind that. He stood and bowed all the same. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood, for your generosity.”
“Grudging generosity,” Kirkwood added pointedly. “One wrong move, Markham, and I shall mark you. With my fists.”
Of course, he would.
Philip inclined his head. “I would expect nothing less, sir.”
Chapter Seven
“I am terribly sorry Mr. Kirkwood insists I remain,” Lady Frederica apologized. “He is reacting with caution, given what occurred at the masque ball and then that awful scandal sheet. It is my fault, I fear, for allowing you to attend alone. I ought never to have done so.”
“It is quite well with me,” Sarah reassured her friend. “And the blame for what happened at the earl’s masque falls solely upon me. I went there intending to seek vengeance upon an innocent man.”
As long as she was able to see Markham, she told herself, she would feel a modicum of ease. She could say what needed to be said in the presence of Lady Frederica. After all, she already knew the entire tale, having first read Sarah’s volume of poetry and then the letters of Amelia’s they had uncovered last night. There had been more than just the one, and Sarah had brought them all with her.
“You had no way of knowing then that he was innocent,” Lady Frederica assured her calmly. “No one would have expected the depth of betrayal you uncovered on the part of your mother and sister.”
It was true, she supposed. Part of her was still in shock over the revelations of Amelia’s letters. There remained the greater question of whether or not her father had been privy to Mama and Amelia’s machinations. None of the letters she had uncovered had mentioned Father in a manner that suggested he was. And Sarah recalled all too well the rage and bitterness that had vibrated from her father whenever he had spoken of Markham, Amelia, or Mama.
But she would not think upon that now. She could only turn her mind toward the present. Father was yet in Oxfordshire. She would fret over his reaction to everything that had transpired later. For now, all her thoughts must be for Markham.
She had no notion of what she would say to him. Sarah had spent much of the night unable to sleep, pacing the Aubusson, imagining the meeting they were about to have. So many words, so many emotions, clawed at her.
But then, he appeared on the threshold as handsome and dangerous to her heart as he had ever been, and she forgot every last one of them.
He was the picture of gentlemanly perfection this afternoon, dressed in fawn breeches and a navy coat, his waistcoat an understated gray that somehow served to emphasize the unusual brightness of his gaze. His eyes met hers as they exchanged meaningless pleasantries by rote, as if nothing between them had changed. As if they were mere strangers, meeting for the first time.
She thought, for a moment, of the first time he had called upon her, how he had sent her the biggest bouquet of hothouse blooms she had ever seen.
“It is good to see you again, Lord Markham,” she told him quietly, with a smile meant for him alone.
Lady Frederica discreetly settled herself in a far corner of the golden salon, before a writing desk. “Pay me no heed,” she directed cheerfully. “I shall be writing.”
Gratitude warmed her as she and Lord Markham seated themselves at the opposite end of the room, facing each other on settees. His eyes traveled over her, his expression undeniably tender.
“I brought something for you,” he said quietly, reaching into his coat and extracting a slim leather volume before holding it out to her.
She accepted it, glancing down at the cover. “Lyrical Ballads,” she read aloud. Poetry, of course, Wordsworth and Coleridge. “Oh, Markham, thank you. You need not have brought me a gift. I have nothing for you.”
“Being here with you after so long is the only gift I could ever want,” he told her. “I thought of you often when I read these poems, and I wanted you to have them.”
“The last time, you sent me flowers,” she said foolishly, a tremor in her voice she could not control.
“If I have any say in the matter, this time will be nothing like the last time, Lady Sarah.” His voice was quiet, yet strident. His eyes burned with fiery promise.
“There is something I must tell you.” She paused, taking a deep breath before she continued. “I discovered some letters Amelia had written. Yesterday, Lady Frederica and I dug through Amelia’s belongings that had been packed away, and we found them.”
“Lady Sarah, I can see this pains you. You need not speak of it, not for my sake.”
She had not believed in him. Had not listened to his explanations. Instead, she had allowed herself to become consumed by hatred and bitterness. How very wrong she had been.
“But I do need to speak of it, my lord,” she insisted, forging onward. “You deserve to hear the truth.”
“I already know the truth.” He was solemn. And handsome, so handsome.
Her gaze caught on his sculpted lips for a heartbeat, and she imagined kissing them. Recalled in vivid detail just how they felt against hers, hard and hot and insistent. Hungry. She wanted to kiss him again, very much. So much. More than she wanted to take her next breath.
But she could not forget Lady Frederica’s presence in the room.
And she could not forget her purpose.
“I know the truth now as well.” The words, as they left her, lifted a great weight from her. It was the weight of years of lies and bitterness. Of disappointment and hurt and fear. “I know Amelia and my mother concocted a plan together to make certain you would compromise her. She was with child even before you compromised her, you see. From what I can glean, according to the letters my mother failed to destroy, Amelia was seduced by one of our footmen. He was sent away when it became known Amelia was with child. She and my mother conspired to entrap you that day in the garden at Elsmere House.”
How she hated to think of that day, a day that had broken her heart and dashed her hopes. She would never forget the sight of Markham with her sister, the horrified gasps of Mama and all her friends. How foolish she had been to never question a thing, not the delay in procuring her gown which had left her preparing her toilette frantically, not the reason for Amelia taking a turn in the garden with Markham, not the unusual decision of Mama to entertain her lady friends in the small salon which overlooked the garden. Nor Mama’s direction to join her there.
“I suspected your sister and your mother colluded,” Markham said then. “Her outrage held an edge of desperation I ought to have noted at the time. Lady Amelia’s fall to the path was far too elegant and conveniently placed before the window where the duchess and her friends watched.”
A pang of regret accompanied by the swift tide of anger hit her then. “If I had known then, perhaps I could have done something. Perhaps I could have altered our courses, and we would not be where we are now.”
“Where we are now is precisely where I wish to be,” he said quietly, his gaze burning into hers with an intensity that stole her breath again.
“But if
you had told me your suspicions,” she insisted. “Perhaps I could have—”
“It is a moot point, my lady,” he told her, shaking his head. Sadness deepened the color of his eyes. “You would not have believed me, and I would not have blamed you. What you must have seen from that window…”
What she had seen was the man she loved—the man who she had believed had seen her and loved her for who she was instead of being blinded by Amelia’s beauty—embracing her sister. Even though he had sprung instantly away, Sarah had been overwhelmed with shock, humiliation, and outrage. She had been hurt.
But she knew now what she ought to have known then, that the man who had won her heart would never have betrayed her.
“What I saw from that window was a lie, Markham,” she told him. “I know it now, and my greatest regret was that I did not realize it then.”
“Oh, dear!” Lady Frederica exclaimed, suddenly, leaping to her feet. A massive ink stain marred the skirt of her gown. “How clumsy of me. I fear I must go change at once, for my dress shall be ruined if I do not.”
“Can I fetch you something, my lady?” Sarah asked.
The glance she sent Sarah’s way was sly. “I can trust the two of you alone for a moment, can I not?”
No, Sarah thought. But she wanted nothing more than to feel Markham’s mouth upon hers once more. To kiss him, touch him, to replace the anger with happiness, the resentment with love.
“Of course, my lady,” Markham said.
“Wonderful. I shall be back in a trice.” With a secretive smile that left no doubt she had intended to give them some privacy all along, Lady Frederica made her hasty exit, closing the door behind her.
Her gaze met Markham’s, her heart thudding. Years of hurt and anguish fell away. In her heart, where the need for vengeance had once festered, she felt a deep sense of peace. It seemed almost a dream that they sat here, separated by a few feet, the walls between them torn asunder.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked softly.
He stood and crossed the carpet, holding out his hand to her. “For the moment, the only place I want you to be is in my arms, where you belong.”
She took his hand without hesitating, and in the next breath, she was wrapped in his strong embrace. Her hands settled upon his shoulders, so broad and strong. “Oh, Markham. I have missed you so. I have missed us.”
“Philip,” he told her, his eyes roaming over her face with such naked adoration she feared she would melt then and there. “You must call me Philip if we are to be husband and wife.”
Her breath caught. “Are we, then?”
“From the day I first saw you, I have wanted nothing more.” He cupped her cheek tenderly. “When I thought I had lost you…”
She pressed a hand over his, love surging through her with such potency she trembled with it. “You have me now, Philip. I love you.”
“And I love you.” He paused. “Will you be my countess, Sarah? Will you marry me?”
“Yes.” The word left her instantly. No thought. No pause. No need to wait. “There is nothing I want more.”
“I promised Kirkwood I would wait until your father returned from the country to ask for your hand, but I could not wait,” he admitted then. “Just as I cannot wait to kiss you again.”
She smiled at him, her heart light, bursting with all the love she had ruthlessly attempted to quash since that awful, long-ago day. “Then I think you really ought to stop waiting. Do you not?”
She had his answer in the form of his lips taking hers. Her arms wound around his neck and she rose on her toes, kissing him back with all the fervor clamoring to life within her. On a sigh, she opened, and his tongue swept over hers. Her body came to life, hunger stirring low in her belly, need making her breasts ache, a pulse pounding between her thighs.
Just when the kiss began to deepen, a sharp knock sounded on the door. They sprang apart instantly, and Sarah’s face went hot. She was sure she was flushing the deepest shade of crimson and that her mouth was kiss-swollen. Philip’s lips were dark, his sensual mouth proof of what they had been about in Lady Frederica’s absence.
The door opened, and Lady Frederica swept inside, her countenance troubled.
“His Grace just arrived home from Oxfordshire early, and he is meeting with Mr. Kirkwood now,” she announced.
Father was here? Now? He was not meant to have returned for another day. And if he was meeting with Mr. Kirkwood, Sarah knew he was about to learn the scandal she had managed to create in his absence. He would be furious.
Her heart gave a pang of worry, but she smiled for Philip’s benefit. “It is good if he has returned. I am certain he will grant us his approval.”
“Approval?” Lady Frederica asked, the worry leaving her face as her voice took on an expectant note.
“I have asked Lady Sarah for her hand,” Philip said, casting a secret smile in Sarah’s direction.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Lady Frederica beamed. “I wish you both happy! I am certain Elsmere will be thrilled as well.”
Sarah hoped Lady Frederica was right.
“I forbid it.”
Father’s voice, vibrating with icy disapproval, sliced through the euphoria which had been buoying Sarah’s spirits ever since Philip’s proposal. He had not even been returned from Oxfordshire an hour, and already he had made his displeasure known.
He had delivered a lengthy, stinging sermon about her behavior for the length of the carriage ride back to Elsmere House. Mr. Kirkwood had relayed the scandal she and Philip had created at his masque ball, and her father was distinctly unimpressed.
Actually, he was furious.
But Sarah was determined. She and Philip had been torn apart and kept apart by lies for long enough. She wanted to be his wife. They had already lost too much time.
“Father, please see reason,” she begged.
She had feared he would not approve of her wedding Philip after what had happened in the past with Amelia, but she had not expected his outright denial.
“The Earl of Markham is a scoundrel,” her father said, his voice dripping in scorn. “Need I remind you he compromised your sister and was directly responsible for her death?”
Ah, here it was at last. The chance to discover whether or not her father had been a part of Amelia and Mama’s schemes.
“Markham did not compromise Amelia,” she said. “Not intentionally. Amelia and Mama planned that day to make it appear as if he did. It was all arranged to hide the fact that Amelia was carrying the babe of a footman.”
Her father’s jaw went rigid. “Is that what Markham told you?”
“No, it is what I discovered when I went through Amelia’s belongings and found her letters,” Sarah confessed. “The footman—Bernard, his name was—you sent him away. Tell me, Father, did you know?”
Her father’s expression shuttered. “That is enough, my lady. I will not hear another word. Go to your chamber while I think about what shall be done with the tatters you have made of your reputation.”
“I have a right to know,” she pressed. “Did you know Markham compromising Amelia was staged? Did you know he was not the man responsible for seducing her?”
He slammed his fist on the desk. “You have no rights beneath this roof other than those I give you, Lady Sarah.”
Understanding hit her, along with a sick sense of dismay. “You knew.”
“I knew nothing of the sort, and I will not hear another of your lies about your sister and your mother,” he spat. “Not another damned word, madam.”
Sadness replaced the dismay. “You always loved Amelia better. You and Mama both. She was more beautiful, more accomplished than I. Tell me, was her future worth the price of my happiness?”
“You were young,” her father boomed. “You had only just had your comeout. You could have had your pick of anyone else, but Amelia was running out of time. She favored Markham, and your mother agreed he would make a decent match. You would have found another.”
&
nbsp; Sarah flinched as if he had hit her. And indeed, for the way his admission made her feel, he may as well have. “I did not want another. I wanted the man I loved.”
“Your sister would have been ruined.”
“She could have found someone other than Markham,” Sarah cried. “She could have had anyone else! She was always surrounded by suitors. She had no need to steal mine.”
Her father stared at her, his expression impassive. “He was the one she chose.”
“And Amelia got whatever she wanted,” Sarah finished, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
For two years, she had mourned the loss of her sister. Had believed the worst of the man she loved. And all the while, her father had known. She wondered if Amelia had ever even cared for her. How could she have, to manipulate Markham into getting betrothed just to save herself?
“Amelia’s reputation was in grave jeopardy. Your mother and I did what we felt was right in our hearts,” her father said coolly.
“What you did,” she told him, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion, “was wrong. But there is one way you can make it right, and that is to give me your consent so that I can marry Markham.”
“No,” he denied again, his tone sharp. “Marrying Markham will only heighten the scandal and further darken our family. He already compromised one of my daughters, and now he has compromised the other. You will marry someone else.”
“I will not,” she cried. “You have kept us apart long enough!”
She was not yet one-and-twenty, and she required her father’s consent before she could wed Philip. But she refused to believe he would not allow it. He had to see reason.
“You are not marrying the Earl of Markham, and that is final,” her father roared, slamming both his fists on the desk. “You will marry a man of my choosing. I refuse to tolerate another moment of your insolence. Go to your chamber. I will see your dinner is sent to you.”
She clenched her jaw, holding her head high. “I will never forgive you for this,” she vowed.
Turning away from him, she did the only thing she could do.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 22
