Stand and Deliver Your Love

by Sheffield, Killarney

  Before Sarah could correct her, Mavis jumped to her feet and picked up the empty tray. “Oh dear, listen to me chatting away when there is work to do. Cook will be fit to be tied if I don’t scurry back to the kitchen.” She hurried to the door balancing the tray rather precariously. “I will have the dressmaker sent up as soon as she arrives,” she said, over her shoulder then left the room.

  Sarah pondered the story for a moment. Byron could not possibly want to marry her when his heart so obviously belonged to another. It sounded as if none could possibly hold a candle to the exquisite Clarissa. The love she felt for Byron would never be returned. Had she been spared a quick death by hanging, only to die with a broken heart? No, she told herself firmly. She could live without his love, after all most of the ton were trapped in loveless matches. It was rare for any woman other than the poorest ones to marry for love as her parents so luckily had. Anyway, she had her children to love. Her orphans needed her and she could fill many hours seeing to their welfare while Byron was occupied by business and his mistress, Lady Livington. Her heart pinched at the thought of Byron kissing Lady Livington, and bringing the wanton woman’s body to life as he had hers that forbidden night in the cottage. A tap on the door dismissed any further thoughts. She looked up as Mavis poked her head around the door jam.

  “Madame La Rue, the dressmaker is here.”

  Sarah scrambled out of bed and slipped on the soft pink wrapper laid out for her at the end of it. Noticing a pair of matching slippers on the floor she shoved her feet into them and tried to smooth out her hair. She smiled self-consciously as a tall authoritative looking woman was ushered in. The woman was impeccably dressed in a dark blue day dress devoid of any ruffles or garnishes. Behind her trotted three young girls and a butler, their arms loaded with baskets of fabric, patterns, laces and trappings.

  The modiste gave Sarah an appraising look as she removed her bonnet and dropped it unceremoniously onto the dressing table. “Ah, ma chere, I am here to create for you a most haute couture ton wardrobe n’est-ce pas?” Without waiting for an answer she crossed the room and motioned for Sarah to take off her robe. Snapping her fingers, she held out her hand. One of the girls set down her armload of supplies and hurried to hand the modiste a measuring tape. Madame La Rue did not even look at the girl, but took the tape as if she expected it and began to measure Sarah’s waist.

  “I see we will have to make you an entirely new wardrobe. I do however, have a few ready-made pieces that might flatter you. They can be altered to fit until your new clothes are ready.”

  Once her measurements were taken, the girls busied themselves draping her with different types and shades of fabrics. Sarah was ashamed to think of all the money the marquis would spend just to have a suitable wardrobe made for her. The material for just a few of the elaborate evening and ball gowns alone would feed the children in her orphanage for months she was sure. When the colors most suiting her were picked out she was told to re-robe. Tea was called for and she was soon seated amongst books and catalogs to pick out the styles she liked.

  “Really, I should think only a few of these dresses will be enough,” Sarah protested when the modiste listed a double digit number of dresses to be commissioned.

  “No, no cherie. His lordship did specifically request a full wardrobe be made and to spare no expense.”

  “Please, I cannot possibly use so many dresses.”

  Madame Le Rue fluttered her hands. “Would you have me displease his lordship by refusing his orders?”

  “No,” Sarah relented, realizing the woman was truly distressed by her refusal. “Surely we could cut down on some of the ruffles and lace adorning the garments at least.”

  “S’il vous plait, my lady,” Madame La Rue agreed. She gave Sarah an approving smile. “Now, do you ride?”

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well then, you shall need a riding habit. What color is your mount?”

  “My mare is dark gray. But I do not have her here with me.”

  The modiste flipped through her bolts of velvet before picking out a length of bishop’s blue. “This deep blue with its purplish tint would be a lovely with your eyes and a wonderful complement to your horse’s coloring, oui?”

  Sarah nodded in agreement.

  “Good, now here are a couple of the newest designs from Paris. The cut of this habit would show you off very nicely.” Madame La Rue pointed to a very feminine lady’s riding habit in one of the catalogs.

  “Oh no,” Sarah frowned. “I should like a pair of comfortable breeches made, please. It is so much easier to ride astride you see.”

  The modiste and her helpers stared at Sarah aghast. “I could not possibly commit such a faux pas. Just think of what all of London would say if I attired a lady in such a garment. Oh dear! No, no, no,” the modiste raved, looking as if she would faint at any moment.

  Sarah stood her ground. “I am afraid I have to insist. I would like two pairs of breeches made, as well as two shirts.”

  The modiste rambled off a string of French, that Sarah suspected were words any well-bred lady should not know, but wrote the order down. She moaned dramatically putting the back of her hand to her forehead to emphasize her distress. “His lordship will surely shun me. I will not be able to hold my head up in public again!”

  Sarah sighed. This is not going well at all. She already had a headache. With a shrug she sat back and allowed the modiste pick out the rest of the outfits without protest. An hour later Madame Le Rue was finally satisfied Sarah had ordered every outfit, undergarment and accessory needed to be a London success. The girls packed up their things and left.

  Sarah waited until the door closed behind the woman and her helpers. Then she picked her way between the boxes of readymade garments and accessories and plopped face down upon the bed. Had her mother gone through all this hassle for her wardrobe when she was making her coming out? It had always seemed so simple when she was a girl because her mother made all the decisions for her. What she would give to be back in her cozy cottage in the woods, clad in her scandalous breeches or sitting around the big table at the orphanage cuddling little Sally.

  “Is there anything you need, my lady?”

  Sarah looked up to find Mavis standing in the doorway. “No, thank you, Mavis. I have a slight headache and would like to rest for a while.”

  “Very well, my lady. I shall wake you in time to dress for dinner then.” The maid left closing the door quietly behind her.

  Sarah lay her aching head down and closed her eyes. If she was expected to dress for dinner did that mean Byron would be joining her? Would he still be angry with her? Of course he would she realized. He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but she could hardly blame him if he despised her for the rest of his days under the circumstances. There didn't seem any way she could start this misbegotten marriage off to anything other than a rocky start.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Byron stomped up the steps to his townhouse, past the anxious looking butler without a word. After tossing his great coat to the only maid in attendance, he stalked through the entrance way and down the hall to his study. He flung open the study door not caring when it slammed into the wall and marched to his desk, easing down into his high backed chair, struggling to control his anger. The butler peered into the study and cleared his throat.

  Byron scowled at him. “Well? What is it?”

  “Madame La Rue just left, your lordship.” The butler stood there, wringing his hands, looking as if he had something else to say.

  Byron raised one eyebrow in silent question.

  The butler looked down at the floor. “The Madame was in a pet when she left.”

  “Why? Did I not pay the woman enough?” Byron growled.

  “No, I mean yes, I mean, well….” The man trailed off and then tucked his hands behind his back.

  “Spit it out. Which is it then?” Byron bellowed. He was not in the mood to listen to womanly complaints.

/>   “Well, my lord, it seems Lady Sarah offended the Madame by ordering some, ah….” The man paused, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

  Byron frowned. Was the man about to have a heart attack?

  The butler cleared his throat. “It seems your fiancée insisted the Madame make her some gentleman’s clothing.”

  Byron stared at the man in utter disbelief. “She what? Whatever for?”

  The butler’s wild gaze darted about the room before he cleared his throat again. “It seems Lady Sarah insists on wearing men's breeches when she rides.”

  Byron blinked and shook his head. Of all the ridiculous stunts! He hired the best modiste in all London and Sarah insisted on embarrassing him by ordering breeches so she could continue to rob coaches. What kind of game was she playing? First she lied and shamed him into marriage, and now she decided to continue her dangerous game of thievery. What was she trying to do, get them both hung? After all he had been through to keep her from swinging at the end of a hangman’s noose. How dare she just throw it all back in his face. The servant cleared his throat. Byron eyed him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more, but he asked the expected question anyway. “Is there something more?”

  “I thought your lordship might need something….” The man’s voice trailed off as he shuffled his feet.

  Byron jerked his rumpled cravat from his neck, sending the pin securing it flying through the air. The butler caught it neatly and handed it to him. Byron glared at him. “Is there anything to drink in this God-forsaken house that has any strength to it?”

  “Yes, my lord. I will fetch something right away, my lord,” the butler stammered before fleeing from the room.

  Byron swore and leaned over the desk to keep his raw back from touching the chair. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair, glancing at the pile of unopened correspondence on his desk. With a grunt he shoved it to the side and stared into the fire, watching the flames lick each piece of coal like it was savoring its last meal.

  The butler returned with a large decanter of brandy. He set it on the desk along with a glass and backed toward the door. “Is there anything else you need, my lord?”

  “How about a guide to handling infuriating vixens?” Byron growled. He shook his head and poured himself a glass of the amber-colored liquid. When he looked up the butler had already left and shut the door. He downed the glass in one quick gulp and poured himself another. After five glasses his anger began to dissipate somewhat.

  He was going to have to keep a close eye on this future wife of his, if only to ensure they both did not end up in Newgate. Did the woman care so little for herself and so much for her little charges she would jeopardize everything? His mind began to dull as the brandy proceeded to take effect. Damn the woman! How can I yearn for her and my mind be filled with her constantly after all the drama she had brought into my life? He had been forced to endure public humiliation at the hands of his peers and the physical pain of being horsewhipped but still, he wanted her.

  “My lord?”

  Byron looked up. His butler was once again standing in the doorway.

  “Dinner is waiting.”

  Byron set down his glass. “Is she there?”

  “If by she you are referring to the lady then, yes she is in the dining room.”

  With a grunt Byron refilled his brandy glass. “Who else would I be referring to?” He downed the drink and stood, already a little thick-headed from the liquor.

  “If you would rather I could have a tray sent here,” the butler offered.

  “No, I shall not keep my lovely fiancée waiting.” Byron stalked past the butler.

  When he entered the dining room he found Sarah seated in a chair at the far end of the long table. She was dressed in a pale pink gown, cut with a square neckline decorated with tiny white pearls. His breath caught in his throat and he stared at her for a moment before he remembered he was still angry with her. He sat in his seat, pointedly ignoring her while he signaled the footman to pour his wine and serve the first course.

  They ate in silence for a while until Sarah dropped her soup spoon to the table with a clatter. “I am sorry.”

  Byron put down his spoonful of soup. “For what?”

  She dropped her gaze to her bowl and swallowed. “For everything.”

  Byron glared at her as he picked up his wine glass. “For everything?”

  She worried her lip between her teeth, her fingers toying with the napkin in front of her. She is sorry. Is that it? Does the woman think a simple apology will put me in a

  compliant mood? “For everything?” he repeated, “Does that include trying to rob me, getting caught, lying or perhaps for having me forced to marry you?” The anger he had tried to repress earlier burst forth.

  Sarah met his stare, eyes snapping with matching anger. “I did not lie about anything. I admitted robbing coaches.”

  Byron slammed the flat of his hand down on the table, salvaging a little satisfaction when she jumped. “You told the Court of Peers I raped you!”

  “I did nothing of the sort. I admitted we might have conceived a babe. I never said you raped me.”

  “Same thing,” Byron spat. “Besides, it is not possible we could have made a babe, as you well know!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Byron stared at her slack jawed. Has she lost her mind? “All I did was coax a response from your body you yourself craved. I did nothing that would result in a babe.”

  “You … you took my innocence.” She jumped to her feet and headed for the door. Byron scrambled to his feet and hurried to bar her way. “Innocence? Ha! You, my dear, are not an innocent!”

  Arms akimbo she glared at him. “Are you calling me a Covent Garden Abbess? I have never been so insulted in my life! If you will excuse me, my lord, I find my appetite has diminished.”

  “No. Not until we straighten out this misunderstanding,” Byron growled.

  Her eyes sparkled with fury. “There is nothing more to discuss. I understand things perfectly.”

  “Obviously you do not,” Byron drawled, “Or you would not be under the misconception I took from you what I did not. Now sit down, let us finish our dinner. We will discuss the subject beyond earshot of the servants later. There is enough gossip to amuse the public, what with our sudden marriage and your apparent preference for wearing men’s breeches.”

  Her face turned a tell-tale red. “I do not care what the gossips say about me.”

  “Well I do. Is it not enough my reputation and position with the king has been strained? Hopefully, it is not yet beyond repair.”

  “Is that all you care about, your precious reputation?” She glared at him through eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “I care about yours as well, or I would not have taken a whipping for something I had not done to spare you any further public humiliation,” Byron said gruffly, not wanting to admit he cared very much indeed about her.

  “If you really cared about my reputation you would have let me go free instead of taking me to Newgate!” Byron took his seat. “You gave me no choice.” She cast him a daggered look and sunk back into her seat. “I paid the jailer well to see you got the best conditions possible under the circumstances. The king assigned me to the case of the notorious highwayman the day before your ill-fated attempt to rob Lady Livington.” He nodded grimly at her when her eyes widened in surprise. “I had no choice but to leave you at Newgate until I could send a message to the king. I told him you were not the real robber, and you were angry with me because you thought I had jilted you. When the king heard it was all a big misunderstanding he commanded you be released.”

  “Released? The how come I was taken to stand before the court?”

  “You did not realize you were not standing in a real court of England?” Byron asked in surprise. “Did you not think it strange when we were addressed by our given names instead of by our formal titles?”

  “I am afraid I do not understand.”

&n
bsp; Byron shook his head, “I had no idea you did not understand what was happening. You see, I suspect the king decided to mete out his own form of punishment. The court we appeared in is called the ‘Court of Peers.’ Officially it does not exist. It is the way many of the ton’s indiscretions are resolved in secret.”

  “Are you saying the whole thing was a sham?”

  “Not exactly. Any judgment passed down there is enforced and adhered to without question.”

  She stared at him, the realization of what he said reflected on her face. “So, your own friends beat you? And since they decided we must marry, so it must be?”

  He took a sip from his wine glass before he answered leaving her to stew a moment at the thought. “Peers, not my friends really, but I am afraid so.” She shook her head. “If you are so close to the king, then surely you can have the decision reversed.”

  Byron gave her a grim smile. “That is not possible. You see, as I said before, I believe the king was behind the whole thing.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Byron shrugged. “He is the king. Who knows why he does the things he does. Perhaps he thought he was doing a good thing, or perhaps he wanted to teach me a lesson.”

  Sarah frowned down at her half empty soup bowl. He wondered what she was thinking. A servant edged into the room. When Byron signaled for the next course the girl looked relieved. He sighed. The servants had no doubt heard at least some of the heated argument and probably expected the room to be in shambles. There would be some late night gossip in the kitchen tonight, he was sure. He must remember to have his butler remind the staff their jobs depended upon their discretion.

  “What do we do now?”

  Byron looked up from his plate of poached salmon and boiled baby potatoes. “We do what we were sentenced to. We get married tomorrow.”

  Her horrified expression made her feelings clear even before she shook her head. Was he that terrible a person marriage to him revolted her so? Perhaps she was waiting for the prince in shining armor she fantasized about to come and rescue her. He set down his fork. “Most marriages are arranged for convenience not for love anyway.”