The Legendary Lord

by Valerie Bowman

  Once he was freshly shorn, Christian embarked upon a shopping trip. He made his way to Hoby’s for new boots and shoes, Weston’s for new coats, Martin’s for new shirts and cravats, and Yardley’s for new hats. One by one he checked off the list that Sarah had prepared for him, ensuring that he was the best-dressed man in the ton. Or one of them, at any rate.

  He even met Owen Monroe at the stores a time or two, and the stylish man gave him advice on what precisely to order and lessons on tying not only the mathematical knot, Sarah’s favorite, but the l’Orientale and the mail coach as well. Once that tedious business was done, Christian waited for his purchases to arrive.

  In the meantime, Lucy stopped by nearly every day to regale him with tales of the latest goings-on of the ton. He steadfastly refused to ask about Sarah.

  “You’re going to Daphne and Rafe’s wedding next week, aren’t you? It’s to be in the country at Cass and Owen’s parents’ estate.”

  “Of course,” Christian replied, reading the latest political news from the front page of The Times while Lucy sipped tea in Christian’s drawing room. “I received my invitation weeks ago. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “And Alexandra and Owen’s next month?” Lucy prodded.

  “Yes, of course. I had a heavy hand in that one.” He chuckled, turning the paper’s page. “I’m greatly looking forward to it.”

  “What about Sarah’s?” Lucy asked in a singsong voice.

  Christian’s hand arrested halfway to the teacup he’d been about to pick up.

  “Will you attend that wedding?” Lucy asked. She was trying to keep her tone nonchalant, but Christian knew he was being closely watched.

  “I haven’t been invited,” he replied evenly, spreading the newspaper open in front of his face.

  “That’s because it hasn’t been scheduled yet. Rumor has it the bride has been reticent to set a date,” Lucy announced.

  “Is that so?” Christian asked from behind his paper.

  Lucy continued in the same singsong tone of voice. “You know that Sarah will be at the events of the Season.”

  Christian continued to feign interest in his paper, but he was no longer actually reading. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Lucy traced her fingertip around the edge of her teacup. “You’ll be there, too. I just thought perhaps you might want to attempt to court Sarah yourself. Change her mind about marrying Branford.”

  Christian folded the paper hastily and slapped it against the tabletop. “That’s preposterous.”

  “Not so preposterous,” Lucy replied, dropping two extra sugar lumps into her cup.

  Christian stood and paced toward the windows. “She’s engaged to be married. The contracts have been signed. You know as well as I do that these things aren’t just called off.” Had Lucy lost her mind?

  Lucy quietly stirred her tea, holding only the end of the silver spoon. “But I don’t believe Sarah’s happy with him. She ran away from him once, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Women marry men they aren’t particularly happy with all of the time. It’s hardly out of the ordinary. You know that.” He didn’t stop pacing. What the hell was Lucy about, saying such outlandish things?

  “Yes, but we know Sarah. She’s our friend.” Lucy’s voice was calm. Far more calm than usual. That worried him.

  “That makes no difference. She’s clearly decided to go through with it.”

  “But she might well be persuaded to change her mind,” Lucy replied. “I simply think—”

  Christian clenched his jaw. “What in heaven’s name makes you think she’d choose me over a marquess, at any rate? She was the belle of the Season last year. I’m the most forgettable man in the kingdom.”

  “You are not!”

  “Oh, really? Shall I remind you of how well my other attempts at courtship have turned out?”

  “That’s only because you hadn’t found the right lady yet.”

  Christian stopped and braced a hand against the wall. “And you believe Sarah is the right lady?”

  Another petite stir of her tea. “I think she may be.”

  “A betrothed woman? You’ve really gone round the bend this time, Lucy.”

  “But you’ve told me yourself. You feel comfortable with her. You don’t stutter in front of her. She likes dogs and has a dry sense of humor. Why, she even named her horse the exact same name as yours, for heaven’s sake. And it’s not a particularly common name. What more evidence do you need?”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting their argument and Christian’s regret that he’d confided so much in Lucy in the past weeks and over the winter in their correspondence. He hadn’t remembered he’d told her all of that, actually.

  The butler soon entered the drawing room. “Where would you like the boxes to be placed, my lord?”

  Lucy arched a brow over the rim of her teacup. “Boxes?”

  “The shipments from Yardley’s, Hoby’s, Weston’s, and Martin’s have arrived,” the butler explained.

  “Have them all brought up to my bedchamber. Matthews will see to them,” Christian replied.

  “New clothing, eh?” Lucy asked, after the butler had left the room to see to the disbursement of the goods.

  “Yes, actually. An entirely new wardrobe.”

  Lucy smiled at that. “I see you’ve shaved, too. You look quite handsome, Christian. The new crop of lovelies this Season will be certain to notice you.”

  Christian stroked his smooth chin. “I’m happy to hear that. Because I’m going to the Hollisters’ ball tomorrow night for the beginning of the Season and I intend to find myself a wife. One who is not already betrothed to another man.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Bother. Bother. Bother. Sarah was not enjoying her evening. Meg had spilled chocolate on her gown and had rushed off to the ladies’ retiring room to see to it. That left Sarah standing near the refreshment table at the Hollisters’ ball, listening to Lavinia Hobbs, the eldest daughter of the Duke of Huntley, take swipes at her.

  “Well, of course, we all thought the worst,” Lavinia was saying. “When you were gone so suddenly. Imagine our surprise when it turned out that you were merely rusticating in Bath with Mrs. Upton of all people.”

  Sarah sipped the tepid glass of ratafia she’d been cradling in her hand all evening. She’d long ago decided that saying as little as possible about her time away was the best course of action. Lavinia Hobbs was one of the few people who clearly didn’t believe the story Lucy had concocted. Lavinia was detestable as usual, but even her hideous company was better than some others’. Namely, Sarah’s betrothed’s.

  For the moment, Lord Branford didn’t relish Lavinia Hobbs’s company any more than anyone else did, so Sarah was actually safe from him if she remained with the spinster. Snide comments were preferable to closing walls.

  Sarah was about to suggest to Lavinia that she refill her ratafia glass and volunteer to undertake the task herself when a commotion by the entryway to the ballroom caught her attention.

  “Who’s there?” Sarah asked, craning her neck to see above the throng.

  Lavinia waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No doubt some popular young lady who’s just made her come-out. Every Season there’s always someone new to make a fuss over. I hear this Season it’s set to be Lady Claire Marchfield.” Lady Lavinia’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “Don’t be too disappointed that you’re no longer the belle of the Season, Sarah. That distinction is always fleeting,” Lavinia finished with a smirk.

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed,” Sarah replied. Good heavens, Lavinia probably couldn’t keep herself from being rude even if she tried.

  “Why would you be?” Lavinia sneered. “You’ve got Lord Branford, after all.”

  “Yes, lucky me,” Sarah said under her breath.

  Lavinia touched a hand behind her ear. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Sarah stood on her tiptoes, still trying to get a glimpse of whoever was causing a stir near th
e doorway.

  “Viscount Berkeley,” the Hollisters’ butler intoned, and Sarah gasped and fell back to her heels.

  “Viscount Berkeley?” Lavinia echoed, turning up her nose. “Viscount Berkeley cannot possibly be who that crowd is making such a fuss over.”

  Just then, Viscount Berkeley himself began to descend the long staircase that led down to the ballroom. Sarah glanced up at him and sucked in her breath again, this time for an entirely different reason.

  It was Christian all right. He was there, in the flesh. But he’d shaved. And his hair was close-cropped, and oh, God, he looked positively divine. He was wearing startlingly black evening attire, a crisp white shirt, a perfectly starched snowy cravat that had been expertly tied in a mathematical knot with a bit of a jaunty kick to it, and perfect new shoes. His blond hair was slicked back. His crystal-blue eyes shone in the light of the candles from the chandeliers, and he laughed at something someone with him had said, revealing his bright, white, perfectly aligned teeth and a smile that made her heart ache with the memory of it.

  Sarah pressed a hand to her belly. She’d never seen him looking like this. He looked rested, and clean, and … excessively handsome. He’d done it. He’d done what she’d suggested. He’d obviously been to Hoby’s, and Weston’s, Martin’s, and Yardley’s, for he was decked out in some of the finest clothing London had to offer. And he wore it all very well. No doubt he smelled like firewood. The thought made her go weak at the knees.

  He was standing with Lady Alexandra Hobbs, Lavinia’s younger, much nicer sister, and her betrothed, Lord Owen Monroe, Cassandra Swift’s older brother, who was known to cut a dashing figure in town. They were his friends, however, so he wouldn’t be shy with them. Wouldn’t stutter in their presence.

  “Good heavens, what the devil has happened to Lord Berkeley?” Lavinia said near her ear.

  Sarah couldn’t respond. Her throat had gone dry and her lips wouldn’t form any words.

  He’d obviously done quite a lot to change his appearance, but Sarah knew it would take more than that to turn him into the bachelor of the Season. The good looks and fine clothing were a fine start, but he needed reinforcements. Immediately.

  She spotted Meg slowly wandering back from the ladies’ retiring room. Sarah quickly excused herself to Lady Lavinia and hurried over to her friend.

  Meg was dressed in a gown that had at one time been white, but after much use she’d been forced to dye it pink to hide a few of the stains. Tonight, a blob of chocolate had landed squarely on her bosom, and it seemed her efforts in the retiring room had served only to smear it.

  “I’m hopeless,” Meg said, her bright jade-green eyes sparkling and her dark blond curls bouncing as she stared down unhappily at her décolletage. She quickly lifted her head again, however, a wide smile on her face. That was another thing Sarah loved so much about her friend. Meg was irrepressibly happy, even with many reasons not to be. “Who is that who just came in?” Meg asked. “He’s causing quite a stir.”

  “That is Lord Berkeley,” Sarah replied, nodding toward Christian and his friends.

  Meg’s eyes turned as wide as tea saucers. “Your Lord Berkeley?”

  “Well, he’s not precisely mine, no. But if you mean the man I’ve been telling you about, then yes. That Lord Berkeley.”

  Meg turned and stood on tiptoes to get a better look. “Why, Sarah Highgate. You’ve been holding out on me. You told me he was handsome, but dear heavens, you failed to mention he looked like that.”

  “I’ve never seen him cleanly shaven before,” Sarah answered lamely.

  Meg swayed on her tiptoes. “I could swear I’ve met him before. The name was familiar, but I feel as if I would have remembered him.”

  “It looks as though he’s taken some of my advice.”

  “Hoby’s? Martin’s? Yardley’s?”

  “And Weston’s,” Sarah replied.

  “Very well.” Meg straightened her shoulders. “What can we do to help this poor soul? I’m willing to sacrifice myself.”

  Sarah laughed at her friend’s antics. They both knew that Meg was madly in love with Hart, but it never stopped her from jesting about other handsome gentlemen. Just as Sarah was destined to marry Branford, Hart needed to marry well. And a penniless daughter of a baron, whose father happened to be their father’s sworn enemy, wasn’t exactly future countess material. No matter how much Sarah loved her friend, she knew her parents would never approve the match. And Hart had never seemed to even notice poor Meg.

  “He’s looking quite fine,” Sarah said, glancing back at Christian again. “But I know he’ll need our help.” She gestured for her friend to come closer. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  When a small woman with bright green eyes and a riot of blond curls atop her head came sidling up to Christian, at first he thought little of it. He was concentrating on keeping his breathing straight with so many pairs of eyes on him. He’d no idea what a difference a haircut and some clothing could make, but by God, so far everything that Sarah had told him was paying off in spades. His appearance here tonight was certainly the first time an entire ballroom full of people had turned to look at him.

  Lucy had promised she’d remain by his side, but he knew at some point he would have to brave the masses and ask some of these ladies to dance. Speak to them, hopefully sans stutter. Blast. It had all seemed so much easier with Sarah in Scotland.

  When the tiny pink-clad woman tapped him on the shoulder, he turned to look at her with a frown. Did he know her? She was a pretty little thing, but no, he didn’t recognize her. “Yes?” he asked, blinking at her. For some reason, she didn’t make him nervous either. Perhaps it was the smeared chocolate on her décolletage that set him at ease in her presence. She was too small and cute to make him nervous. She reminded him of a kitten.

  “I’m Meg Timmons,” she informed him. “Lady Sarah sent me.”

  Sarah sent her? No wonder this young woman didn’t make him nervous. He glanced around the room but didn’t see Sarah. Where was she?

  Lucy, who’d been keeping a close eye on him, leaned forward. “Ah, Miss Timmons. How lovely to see you. Do you know my friend Lord Berkeley?”

  “I do not,” Meg replied, clearly relieved at Lucy’s having performed the proper introductions.

  “I’m certain Miss Timmons would like to dance. Wouldn’t you, Miss Timmons?” Lucy continued.

  “I would indeed,” Miss Timmons replied with a curtsy.

  Christian cleared his throat. Obviously Miss Timmons had been sent by Sarah to ease him into the ball. No doubt she’d witnessed the commotion his entrance had made. He had to smile to himself. Sarah was indeed intent upon keeping her end of the bargain after all these months.

  “I’d be honored if you would dance with me,” he said, entirely without stuttering. “If you would be so kind, Miss Timmons.”

  “I’d love it,” Miss Timmons replied. Her smile was bright and infectious. He couldn’t imagine any man stammering in her presence. Sarah had sent the perfect friend to help him. But he remembered what she had said about Meg being hopelessly in love with another man. Meg was here as an emissary only. She wasn’t someone suitable to court.

  He led the young woman to the dance floor and whirled her around in time to the music.

  “How is your friend Lady Sarah?” he asked after they’d been around the floor once.

  “She is doing quite well, my lord. In fact, she has a message for you.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes, she says to remember your dance in Scotland and to pretend you’re there with her.”

  Christian’s chest tightened. Sarah had remembered that he would be anxious and that his stutter would return in a crowd full of ladies. Especially ladies he was meant to court. Another reason her choice of Meg to approach him was perfect.

  “She also wants you to take note of that young woman standing in the group just near the refreshment table.”

&nb
sp; Christian glanced about to locate the group in question. There was a small blond woman standing in the middle of what appeared to be a dozen suitors. She was pretty and smiling and laughing, obviously holding court.

  “That’s Lady Claire Marchfield,” Meg offered, nodding toward the young woman.

  “Why am I to take notice of her?” Christian asked.

  “Because she is the current belle of the new Season,” Meg explained. “She is whom you need to impress if you’re to become the most highly sought-after bachelor this year.”

  “She is, is she?” Christian’s hands began to sweat just thinking of approaching the belle of the Season.

  “Yes, and she does have beautiful gowns, I must admit,” Meg said with a sigh. “Of course, I’m convinced she doesn’t do idiotic things like drop chocolate on them.”

  Christian’s heart tugged at the memory of Sarah explaining to him how Meg’s clothes were old and outdated. He felt a sense of kindred with Meg. They were both the outcasts, apparently. Or had been in the past.

  “Why didn’t Lady Sarah come tell me this herself?” he couldn’t help asking. He also didn’t want to admit to himself that he wanted to see her. To know where she was.

  Meg’s irrepressible grin widened. “Because she’s busy spreading the rumor that you’re the most highly sought-after bachelor of the Season, of course.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  By the time Sarah made her way across the ballroom to find Christian more than an hour later, two things had happened. First, the rumor that Christian was the bachelor of the Season had spread like wildfire, no doubt helped along in no small part by his stunning good looks and fine clothing. Second, Lady Claire had heard the rumor (truth be told, she’d been informed by Sarah herself) and had positioned herself in Christian’s crowd. Her own group of admirers had followed her, as had all the other young ladies and their mothers vying to get a glimpse of the eligible viscount. When Sarah approached the group, it had turned into a veritable swarm of people.