Stand and Deliver Your Love

by Sheffield, Killarney

  The barmaid gave him a triumphant smile. “I know a Mistress Sarah. She might be the one you seek. I used to work for the abbess and met her there.”

  “Does she live around here?”

  “Aye, she has a warehouse on Dewberry Street. She’ll be there this time a day ‘cause it is just about the time when the dandies come round.”

  Byron jumped to his feet. The startled barmaid yelped, falling to the floor in a heap. He tossed the girl a shilling and hurried out the door as she began to curse at him. No doubt she hoped to earn more than a mere shilling by getting him upstairs, he thought. Tossing a coin to the boy who was still dutifully holding his horse, Byron took the reins, mounted, and headed for Dewberry Street. The closer he got to the house of ill repute the angrier he got. How dare Sarah run away and prostitute herself! Had she no morals? He would kill any man who touched his wife.

  When he turned onto the street he slowed and scanned the shabby houses there. Somehow he imagined the nunnery would look different than these, grander at least. A small boy darted into the street right under his horse’s nose. Before he could pull the animal up, it reared and knocked the frightened boy onto his backside in the dirt. Fearing the child would be trampled, Byron reached down and scooped the boy up onto the saddle in front of him.

  He steered his horse over to the side of the street. “Do you want to be killed?” The boy looked up at him, his eyes filled with terror. Byron pulled the horse up short. “Well, well, if it is not my good friend, Dickie. Pray tell, where is your Mistress Sarah?”

  “She is at home, sir,” the boy mumbled.

  “My lord,” Byron corrected. “Show me where she is, Dickie.”

  The boy pointed to an old storehouse two doors down. Byron set him back on his feet on the boardwalk. “Thank you, Dickie. Now go and play somewhere safer like a good lad.” The boy looked up at him, but stayed where he was. Byron shook his head and rode on to the warehouse.

  Two little girls were sitting on the doorstep playing with wooden sticks wrapped in cloth. He stopped his horse before them. The sticks apparently were supposed to be dolls, the scraps of cloth their clothing. The little girls continued moving the sticks back and forth, oblivious to his presence until he dismounted. They looked up at the big black horse towering over them and scrambled to their feet wide-eyed.

  He backed the horse up a step. “I am looking for Mistress Sarah, is she here?”

  One little girl nodded and ran into the warehouse while the other stared up at his horse, clearly fascinated with the animal. “Orsey?” She pointed to Byron’s horse. Bacchus lowered his head and sniffed her fingers.

  Byron glanced at the door and back at the little girl, “Yes, horsey.” He scanned the street to see if anyone could over hear his undignified discussion. When Bacchus snuffled the girl’s hair she giggled and Byron couldn’t help smiling.

  A short older woman opened the door. She wiped her hands on her apron, regarding him with a suspicious air. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I am Lord Cobbett. I am looking for my wife, Lady Sarah.”

  The woman’s eyes widened in disbelief and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Byron cleared his throat. Obviously she knew who he was which meant Sarah had been there recently. “Is she here?” The woman nodded and scooped the small girl up into her arms. “Bertie,” she called over her shoulder. “Can you take his lordship’s horse?”

  The old sailor Byron remembered from the cottage came out. He scowled when he saw who it was but took the reins and led the horse around the side of the storehouse without a word.

  The woman ushered Byron inside. “Mistress Sarah is in the nursery.”

  Byron removed his hat and stepped into the warehouse. Just through the entrance way was a parlor of sorts. A few old, but serviceable chairs were placed near the fireplace that held the remains of what looked like the previous night’s fire. He stepped over a set of crudely painted children’s building blocks and frowned. This certainly didn't look like a house of ill repute, so it must be the orphanage Sarah looked after.

  A small boy ran into the room wailing, great tears running down his dirty face. The housekeeper set the little girl on the floor and picked up the crying boy. Then the little girl began to wail, holding her arms up to be picked up again. “Oh dear,” the woman muttered, trying to console both upset children.

  Byron cleared his throat. “I see you have your hands full. Perhaps you could just tell me where to find the nursery?”

  The woman nodded in the direction of the hallway. “Down there, up the stairs, first room on the right.”

  Byron didn't bother to thank her instead turned, heading down the hall. Reaching the staircase he gripped the rickety banister and made his way up the steps, his anger resurfacing. When he reached the landing he turned right. The first door stood open and he could hear a soft feminine voice. He peered inside.

  Sara was seated on a chair between two small wooden beds with an open book in her lap. Two little girls in patched dresses peered over her shoulder in rapt attention. “Unhand the princess!” Sarah commanded in a masculine voice. The two girls gasped, their little fingers clenching the bedclothes. “The handsome prince threw a bucket of the magic water on the wicked witch. And then the wicked witch cried, I am melting!” Sarah said in a cackling voice. This brought giggles from the two little girls. She smiled and continued, “The witch turned into a puddle of green water and the princess lived happily ever after.” She closed the book and placed a kiss on each of the little girls’ foreheads.

  “Now if you do not want to turn into a green puddle like the bad witch, you two had better take your nap.” The two little girls giggled as she tucked the blankets up underneath their chins and smoothed back their chestnut curls.

  When she stood and looked up, her face blanched. “Byron,” she breathed.

  “Mistress Sarah,” Byron growled, stepping into the room, “I have scoured most of London for you.”

  Her eyes darted to the doorway. “I … I was right here … all the time.”

  He crossed his arms across his chest. “And you just forgot to tell me?”

  She hurried forward, ushering him out of the room then closed the door behind her. “Can we discuss this somewhere else?”

  Byron lowered his voice. “There is nothing to discuss, we are going home.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. “I will do nothing of the sort. I am staying right here.”

  Byron grasped her by the elbow and propelled her down the stairs. “And I say you are coming home, right now.”

  She pulled from his grasp. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

  Byron clenched his teeth, trying to control his anger. “I most certainly can, my lady. I am your husband. Do not ever forget that.”

  “That is just the problem!” she spat, “I cannot forget it.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Byron dragged her along to the parlor. “All of London has been gossiping. I had to tell the duchess you were ill from the excitement of the wedding to explain why you have not accepted her cards.” He towed her through the room.

  “Byron, you are hurting me!”

  He softened his grip, not intending to cause her harm in his haste to leave.

  The housekeeper followed them to the front door. “Your lordship, please wait.”

  Byron ignored her and flung it open. Bert stood on the other side scowling ferociously. “Stand aside,” Byron growled.

  The old sailor crossed his arms. “Will you not listen to what the lass has to say?”

  “No. There is nothing she can say to make up for the embarrassment she has caused me.”

  Bert shook his head but stepped out of the way.

  With a grunt Byron slung Sarah over his shoulder as she dug in her heels and refused to move.

  “Bert,” she yelped. “Do something!”

  Bert shook his head as Byron packed her from the house. “Nay mistress. He is your husband
and I’ll not interfere.”

  “Ann,” Sarah screamed.

  “Stubble it!” Byron barked, tossing her over the back of his horse, “Do not cause more of a scene.” He climbed up onto the horse behind her and turned the animal towards home. When she tried to slid down from the horse’s back he flipped her face down across his lap and kicked Bacchus into a brisk trot.

  “I … hate … you!” she gasped, the horse’s bumpy gait leaving her short of breath.

  Byron snorted and kicked the horse into a rough canter silencing any further outbursts. So she hated him. It didn't matter he told himself. She was his and therefore her likes or dislikes mattered not to him. He looked down at her backside bouncing across his knees with the pace of the horse. Her breath was coming in short strangled gulps. Guilt ridden, he slowed the horse to a slow jog and prepared himself for her scathing tongue, however she remained silent the rest of the ride home. When he stopped in front of his townhouse she slid down from the horse and marched up the steps.

  He leaped from his mount and followed her. “My study,” Byron said with grim determination to settle their feud. “Now.”

  Her back straightened. “I have nothing to say to you,” she spat.

  “Well I have plenty to say to you, wife. You will join me willingly, or I shall throw you over my shoulder again like a naughty child for all the staff to see.”

  Fortunately, she headed for his study, flinging herself into the nearest chair and staring into the fire as he slammed the door behind them. He crossed to his desk, poured himself a brandy and perched on the edge trying to control his temper.

  “I do not understand. I saved your life at great risk to my person and my reputation. I gave you my name, a home and offered everything you need, and how do you repay me? You run away.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest. “I did not run away, I went home.”

  “Home? This, my dear wife, is your home. I will not have you walking the gutters of London.”

  “This will never be my home. My home is with the children, they need me. I love them. I gave them my word I would take care of them. I will not abandon them.”

  It was as if Sarah had stabbed him with a thousand knives. She loves only the children. The children will always come first. She does not love me. In a fit of anger Byron threw his glass of brandy to the hearth where it shattered into tiny shards. “Your word? With the king as witness you gave me your word you would love, honor and obey me—yet you would abandon me? Which is it Sarah? Which promise will you honor?” He stood and advanced on her. “Does a promise from your lips mean anything or do only ones from your body ring true?”

  She flinched when he grabbed her arms and hauled her out of the chair. Her eyes were defiant, but when she opened her mouth to speak no sound came out. His focused on her quivering lips. Why did he still want her when she did not love him? Even as he stood there, angry enough to do her bodily harm, he wanted to kiss her full lips and bury himself to the hilt in her. Have I finally gone mad? “If you do not want to be with me why does your body beg for my touch?” he forced the desire strangled words from his tongue.

  “No,” she moaned when his head lowered to hers.

  He devoured her lips with his. Her fingers clutched his shirt front. He jerked her to him and punished her lips with a brutal kiss. When she clenched her mouth shut against his probing tongue, he growled and nipped her bottom lip. With a whimper she opened for him and he plunged his tongue into her warm recesses. She tasted sweet, like berries he thought as he explored every crevice of her mouth and lips. He wanted to punish her for the hurt she caused him but his body cried out for fulfillment. Pushing her back against the wall he groaned and tore his lips from hers.

  “Promise me you will stay. Tell me you love me,” he whispered, looking deep into her eyes.

  Her voice shook. “No, I cannot.”

  “Your lips lie but your sweet body tells me the truth,” he whispered. Taking her hands in his he pinned them against the wall above her head and kissed his way from her chin to the neckline of her modest dress.

  When she moaned he knew the truth. Her body was his now and forever. She surrendered to his kisses, going limp under his lips. He moved his leg between the folds of her skirt and brushed against the place where only he had touched. He wanted to tell her he loved her, to profess it to the heavens, but pride prevented him.

  Then her lips were on his, soft and coaxing. He released her hands; she pulled his head to hers and demanded more. Byron groaned. Her matching passion was almost his undoing. He picked her up and laid her in front of the fire without releasing her lips. When he felt her hands fumbling frantically with his buttons he reluctantly released her and sat up. She gazed up at him through passion-hooded eyes, her lips red and swollen from his kisses. With a groan he tore off his shirt and flung it from him. She reached for the buttons on his breeches and he undid them for her and then worked feverishly on undoing the tiny row of buttons down the front of her dress. Finally, frustrated at his slow progress he pulled, rendering the garment and causing the last few buttons to scatter across the carpet. When she leaned forward and kissed his nipple, he stiffened and groaned.

  She reached up and slid her fingers through the patch of curly hair on his chest. “From the first time I saw you I wanted to do this,” she whispered. Her fingers slid down the thin line of hairs to his navel and he knew he could wait no longer to take her. He moved between her legs and sheathed himself in one thrust. She gasped and moved her hips in a frenzied pace that matched his own. Together they rose to a dizzying height of ecstasy.

  When Byron's mind finally drifted back down to earth he had forgotten all about being angry. Flipping Sarah’s discarded dress over top of them both for warmth he laid, spent, with her in his arms. Her breathing gradually slowed and she snuggled into his chest. He frowned when she began to sob. He turned her to face him, baffled and concerned by her reaction to their lovemaking.

  “Sarah? What is wrong?”

  She didn't answer him, her sobs turning into wails of grief. He scrambled to his feet and pulled on his breeches. After wrapping her in her torn dress, he picked her up and carried her upstairs to her room. He set her with great care on the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Sarah, please stop crying, you will make yourself ill,” he pleaded. When she didn't respond he hurried to find her maid and summon a physician.

  * * * *

  Byron paced the floor outside Sara’s bedchamber. What is taking that blasted physician so long in there? He stopped and placed his ear against the door. Faint sounds of conversation drifted to him but he couldn't make out any of the words. When the door opened without warning he jumped back, tugging on his waist coat with chagrin. The physician’s lips twitched into a lopsided grin and he stepped out into the hall, shutting the door.

  Byron cleared his throat. “Is she all right?”

  “Your wife will be fine. I have given her some laudanum to help her sleep. After a good night's rest she should be herself again.”

  Byron released his pent up breath. The doctor didn't seem to be overly concerned, so whatever was wrong with Sarah could not be that serious. “What is the matter with her?”

  He gave Byron a dirty look. “I believe she is suffering from stress and exhaustion. You should take better care of your wife. See she rests with no excitement for a few days.”

  Byron bristled at the man’s insinuation it was he who was responsible for Sarah’s

  condition, but he kept his feelings to himself.

  “Now if you will excuse me I will be on my way, my lord.”

  “I will show you out.”

  “That will be quite all right, I shall see myself out. I have roamed these halls many a day since before you were born,” the physician pointed out. He headed off down the hallway swinging his medical bag.

  Byron entered Sarah’s room. Her maid was sitting in a chair beside the bed but stood when he entered. She put her fingers to her lips and left the room closing
the door behind her. Byron moved to the vacated chair and sat. Sarah lay, dressed in a clean nightdress, with the blanket tucked across her chest. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He noted the dark circles under her eyes which confirmed the physician’s diagnosis and brushed wayward curl from her forehead. He was responsible for her illness he realized. It was all his fault. The woman had been a veritable recluse and he let her fall into a hellish prison and then dropped her back into a society she could not possibly cope with in so short a time. He shook his head disgusted with his own lack of compassion. How could he have been such a blunderbuss?

  The butler poked his head around the door and motioned for him. Byron sighed and got to his feet. After one last look at Sarah he left the room.

  “There is a man here asking to speak with you, my lord.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Bert, my lord.”

  “Bring him to my study,” Byron started down the stairs and headed for the study. Why was Bert here? What could the man possibly want to discuss?

  He seated himself behind his desk and waited. It wasn't long before the butler showed Bert in. The old sailor removed his hat and stood fidgeting with the brim.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Byron asked, waving the man to the empty seat across from his desk.

  Bert shuffled forward and perched on the edge of the chair, “The missus bid me come.”

  He cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room. “She’s worried about the mistress, you see.”

  Byron snorted. “There is nothing to worry about. You can reassure your missus I have not beaten Lady Sarah, despite the fact I was sorely tempted to.”

  Bert scowled but nodded. “Don't be too harsh on the lass. She means well.”

  “That may be, but the woman is going to destroy me if she does not watch her step,” Byron grumbled.

  “I best be going,” Bert said, preparing to leave.

  “Wait.” Byron opened his desk drawer, pulling out the letter he had written earlier. “Take this to my solicitor.”