The Legendary Lord

by Valerie Bowman

  “I believe I saw her in the conservatory,” Cass offered.

  “I only know she’s not in the library,” Jane announced.

  “I could have sworn she told me she was going riding,” her husband, Claringdon, informed him.

  A half hour before dinner, Christian finally spotted her, coming around a corner in one of the downstairs corridors. “Lucy,” he called. She quickly turned to retreat in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” He set off after her, nearly running down the marble hallway and skidding to a halt once he’d reached the corner.

  Lucy had made it halfway down the other side and was busily looking about, obviously for someplace to hide.

  “Stop!”

  She whirled around and gave him an innocent look, as if she hadn’t been trying to elude him at all.

  “Berkeley, there you are,” she said prettily, pushing a dark curl behind her ear.

  He arched a brow. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been hiding from me.”

  They walked toward each other and met in the middle of the corridor.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Lucy pushed the same errant curl back into her coiffure. She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Yes, you do.” He gave her a look dripping with skepticism.

  More blinking innocence. “Did you have something to say to me, Berkeley?”

  “Yes, I have something to say to you. Why is Lady Sarah here?”

  Lucy had perfected her innocent face; he’d give her that. “What? Lady Sarah is here? Why, I didn’t—”

  “Don’t pretend,” he drawled. “You know as well as I do that she’s here, and I want to know why.”

  Lucy sighed. “Why does it matter why she’s here?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you or did you not have a hand in inviting her here?”

  Lucy crossed her arms over her chest, too. “The question is … now that she’s here, what are you going to do about it?”

  Christian’s arms dropped to his sides. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Speak with her. Alone. Admit you have feelings for her. I can’t believe it won’t matter to her.”

  “Damn it, Lucy, I all but—”

  Lucy whirled on him, her green skirts twirling about her ankles. “All but what? Have you admitted you care for her?”

  “No.” He cursed under his breath.

  Lucy shrugged one shoulder. “Can you stay away from her, then, Berkeley?”

  “Yes,” Christian ground out through clenched teeth.

  Maddeningly, Lucy studied her fingernails nonchalantly. “Very well, Viscount. Prove it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Dinner had been served and consumed with gusto. Afterward, all of the guests had retreated to the drawing rooms and study to drink and play games. The sky was dark and the air cool when Christian went for another walk in the gardens. Thankfully, he was alone this time. But he was cursing himself unmercifully. It had taken him less than four hours. Less than four pathetic hours to admit that Lucy, that infernal meddler, had won. She was right. He couldn’t stay away from Sarah. He hadn’t seen her at dinner, but he had to speak to her. Alone.

  A torchlight came bobbing toward him, and he soon recognized the form of Lord Owen Monroe heading his way. “Berkeley, there you are. I’ve been scouring the house for you.”

  “If Lucy sent you, I don’t want—”

  “Lucy? Why would Lucy send me?”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed on Monroe. “Why did you come?”

  “My, you’re suspicious tonight. I thought we patched things up between us back in Bath. Not to mention the shopping. Why, I’ve showed you how to tie a mathematical knot better than my valet. Doesn’t that deserve some loyalty?”

  Christian expelled his breath. He scrubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “We did patch things up. My apologies, Monroe. I’m just a bit … on edge this evening.”

  “Perfect, because it sounds as if you could use a drink, and that’s precisely why I came looking for you. I want to talk to you if you have a moment. Care for a drink?”

  “No.” Christian usually wasn’t so blunt, but tonight all he wanted to do was find Sarah and—

  “Yes, you do. Come on. We’ll go to the library. It’s nearly empty. We can toss Jane Upton out.”

  Berkeley shook his head at Monroe’s audacity. Something told him he wasn’t going to win an argument with the man tonight. Besides, Christian couldn’t exactly hunt down Lady Sarah and charge into her bedchamber. No matter how much he’d like to. “Very well. Lead the way.”

  Less than a quarter hour later, Christian was sitting in the otherwise empty library with a glass of port in his hand, watching as Monroe lit a cheroot.

  “Father’s got some of the best wine in the country,” Owen said, leaning back against the large leather chair in which he sat. He slung a long leg over the arm of the chair. Monroe was anything but proper.

  “It was good of your parents to agree to have the wedding here,” Christian said.

  Monroe sucked on the end of the cheroot. “It was all Cass’s doing. She adores Daphne. Nearly as much as she adores Daphne’s brother, her husband.” He chuckled.

  “Cass is one of the kindest people I ever met,” Christian replied. He spent a few silent moments contemplating the wine in his glass before he finally said, “Forgive my bluntness, but what did you want to speak with me about?”

  Monroe took a long pull from his cheroot and blew the smoke into the air, making perfect rings. He remained splayed in a haphazard fashion across the chair. “I apologized for punching you when we were in Bath last autumn, Berkeley, but I wanted to tell you something else.”

  Christian nodded. “Which is?”

  “That I owe you a great deal.”

  The hint of a smile touched Christian’s lips. “You owe me nothing.”

  “On the contrary, I owe you everything—my happiness, at least. If you hadn’t been willing to pretend you were interested in Alex to make me jealous, I might never have come to my senses and declared myself. I was a damned fool.”

  Christian took a long sip of port. Monroe was right. His father did have some damn fine wine. “As I said, you owe me nothing. It was all Lucy’s idea.”

  Monroe’s bark of laughter echoed off the wooden bookshelves in the room. “I don’t doubt it, but you could have told her no.”

  Christian snorted. “Do you know how difficult it is to say no to Lucy?”

  Another laugh from Monroe. “Actually, I do.”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed on the other man. “Don’t tell me, you lied to me. You’re up to her bidding tonight after all, aren’t you?”

  “No. No. I’m not up to Lucy’s bidding. However, I may have had a talk with Cass earlier.”

  Christian groaned. “Cass? Fine. You might as well come clean. What errand did Cass send you on?”

  Monroe blew another set of smoke rings into the air. “No errand other than to remind you that you’ve helped many of us find love, and it’s high time you accepted some help yourself.”

  Christian bowed his head. He was slowly being defeated by his own friends. It seemed the lot of them were conspiring against him. He expelled his breath. Very well. So be it. “How do you propose to help me?”

  “Cass tells me that you want to speak with Sarah alone.”

  “I never said—”

  Monroe arched a brow at him. “Do you want to speak to her alone or don’t you?”

  Christian rubbed his palm against his eye. “Bloody hell. Fine. Yes.”

  Monroe grinned at him. “Excellent. Tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock, there’s a gamekeeper’s cottage on the far northern edge of the property.”

  “How in the name of God—”

  “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t question my methods.” He blew another set of smoke rings into the air. “Alex is helping with this, too. She’s pleased as punch to have the opportunity to be of assistance to you after what you’ve done for
our relationship. Leave everything to us.”

  “But—”

  Monroe took a long sip of port. “The gamekeeper’s cottage. Two o’clock.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sarah had absolutely no idea why Alexandra Hobbs was so insistent on showing her the far reaches of the Monroe estate. She supposed the woman was overly fond of the place since she would be the lady here one day. It was a lovely property. But by the time she and Lord Owen and Lady Alex had hiked all the way out to the far northern border, Sarah was beginning to wonder why she’d agreed to this “little walk” in the first place.

  Her inability to sleep had returned with vigor last night after seeing Christian in the gardens yesterday afternoon. She’d managed to convince her mother that she had a headache and was served dinner in bed last night, thereby avoiding the dining room and any conversations fraught with anxiety. But she would have to face him sooner or later. She was certain of it. And she’d known it. She’d known all along when she’d come to Surrey that she would see him. He’d mentioned the wedding to her last winter in Scotland. Daphne Swift and Rafe Cavendish were two of Christian’s closest friends. She was the interloper here. She’d only come because her mother had insisted. Apparently, the wedding of a daughter and sister of an earl to a newly minted war-hero viscount was a social boon as far as her mother was concerned.

  Sarah had spent the entire ride here going over their next meeting in her mind. What would she say to him? What could she say to him? The last time they’d seen each other, she had been passionately kissing the man, then she’d run from him. Like a ninny. There weren’t many things one could say after such an episode. Last night she’d been unable to come up with a single coherent thing to say to him. She’d agreed to go on this outing with Alex and Owen partly because she was a coward. If she left the house for a while, she’d have even less chance of running into Christian. But the outing had turned into a far greater adventure than she’d expected, and her feet ached.

  “I really should be getting back,” she called to her companions, slowing her pace. “Mother wants me to have one more fitting for the gown I’m wearing for the wedding tomorrow morning and—”

  “Ah, look, there. The gamekeeper’s cottage.” Alex pointed to a small whitewashed house resting on a low rise ahead of them. “Isn’t it quaint?”

  “Very much so,” Sarah replied, barely glancing at the small structure. “But I should—”

  “Let’s get a closer look.” Lord Owen set off at a brisk pace across the wide expanse of grass toward the cottage. Alex quickly picked up her skirts and followed.

  Sarah glanced back toward the main house. She couldn’t very well traipse all the way back there alone. Her mother would wonder why she’d left her companions. No. She’d have to convince her friends that she needed to return.

  “Wait for me,” she called, reluctantly picking up her skirts and following them.

  By the time the three of them made it to the front door of the cottage, Sarah was out of breath and had a pebble in her slipper. Lord Owen was peering in a window, and Alex was studying the bright red flowers that spilled from the window planters.

  “Is the gamekeeper in there?” Sarah asked, bracing a hand against the cottage wall in order to pluck off her slipper and shake out the errant pebble.

  “Father isn’t employing a gamekeeper at the moment,” Lord Owen replied, still peering in the window.

  Her shoe free of the small stone, Sarah joined Alex near the planters. “A pity for such a pretty little house to be empty.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Alex said, motioning toward the door.

  Sarah’s gaze flew to her friend’s. “Oh, but we really should—”

  “Go on.” Lord Owen nodded. “I expect the door is unlocked.”

  Sarah glanced at the little red door. She was standing closest to it. She hesitated for a moment but eventually decided that the sooner they looked about the place, the sooner her friends would be willing to return to the main house. She might as well get this over with.

  She grabbed the door handle and turned it. Lord Owen was right. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was pleasant and swept clean. A small table and chairs, an unlit hearth, two wooden chairs near the fireplace, a large feather bed in the corner. It smelled faintly of dust and wood. But overall it looked quite pretty and tidy.

  She was about to turn around to motion her friends inside when a movement from the corner of the room caught her eye. She looked again. A man was standing there. She gasped.

  The man turned to face her. It was … Christian. He stood there in buckskin breeches, with a white shirt and cravat, a sapphire waistcoat, and black Hessians. His hair was slicked back and he was clean-shaven, as he had been since his return to town. The look on his face was unreadable, but his crystal-blue eyes met hers and fire leaped between them. Sarah braced a hand on the door frame. He was so handsome. She instantly wanted to touch him.

  She took another step inside the room. Her breath caught in her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  He slid his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to see you.”

  She shook her head. “To see me? But we—” She glanced behind her. No Alex and Lord Owen. The door was still open, but they weren’t there.

  She stepped back outside and looked back and forth. Gone.

  She reentered the cottage, completely confused. “Where did they—”

  “They’ve probably continued their walk. They said they would give us some privacy.”

  “Some priv…” Sarah’s mouth fell open. “You planned this? With Lady Alex and Lord Owen?”

  “Yes.” Christian stepped closer to her. “I hope you’re not angry.”

  She pushed the door shut behind her, to give herself a moment to think. How did she feel, exactly? How was she supposed to feel? He’d lured her here? For what reason? “No. I’m not angry. I … I don’t know what to think.”

  He rested an arm against the fireplace mantel. “I didn’t know you were coming to this wedding until I saw you yesterday in the garden.”

  Sarah untied her bonnet and pulled it from her head. She felt conspicuous suddenly, wearing it inside the cottage. Christian’s hat was sitting on the table. “We received a late invitation. Mother readily accepted because Lord Branford was invited. Apparently he knew the former earl, Lady Daphne’s father.”

  Christian’s back stiffened. “Branford’s here? I didn’t see him at dinner.”

  She quickly shook her head. “He’s not coming until tomorrow for the wedding itself. Seems the prince needs him at another dinner party this evening.”

  Christian arched a brow. “That sounds like Branford. Always interested in the most prestigious invitation.”

  Sarah tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet. “You didn’t bring me here to talk about Lord Branford, did you, Christian?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m hoping you’ll listen. For just a moment.”

  She took another step toward him. They were only a few paces apart. She tossed her hat onto the table beside his. He held out his hand to her and then let it fall back to his side. “Never mind. This was idiotic. I’m sorry I even thought of it. I should—”

  She looked up at him. “Tell me. What did you want to say?”

  He stared down at his boots. “Something that I doubt will make any difference.”

  She took a deep breath. “Say it, Christian.”

  He turned to face her. His gaze met hers. “What if I offered for you, Sarah? Would you cry off from Branford? Would you defy your parents?”

  Tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe she was hearing these words. That he was actually saying them. “Oh, Christian.”

  He fell to one knee and pulled her hand into his grasp. “Marry me, Sarah. I’ll save you from him.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Christian, I—”

  He stood again quickly, cupped her cheeks in his hands, and searched h
er face. “You can’t tell me you love him. I know you can’t.”

  She shook her head. “It’s true. I can’t.”

  “You don’t want to marry him. I know you don’t. You ran away to Scotland to avoid the man. You can’t possibly want him.”

  She shook her head more vigorously, biting her lip. “I don’t. I know I don’t.”

  “Then marry me, Sarah. You’ll never have to see him again.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I’m so confused.”

  “Let me convince you.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His tongue plunged into her mouth and Sarah melted against him. Every thought in her head was telling her to stop him, to pull away, to say no, but she couldn’t. She wanted to kiss him, had wanted to from the moment she saw him standing there next to the fireplace.

  “Christian,” she whispered fiercely, standing on tiptoe and wrapping her arms around his neck.

  His mouth didn’t leave hers. He kissed her until her lips were swollen. Then his mouth traced the line of her cheek, her jaw, his tongue dipped into her ear, and she shivered against him.

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her the few steps over to the bed.

  “Christian, we can’t—”

  “Just let me touch you. Only touch.”

  She nodded, her mind hazy with lust. She wanted him to touch her, too. Wanted it so badly that it was all she could think about. He pulled off his cravat, and his shirt was soon gone. There was that muscled abdomen again. She sat up and he worked on the back of her gown. He pulled down her stays, freeing her breasts to his hungry mouth. She traced his muscled chest with her fingers while his lips found her nipple and he sucked one and then the other. She held his head to her chest, wanting it never to end. Then his hand moved under her skirts, up her leg, and she shivered again as his fingers made their way inexorably toward the juncture between her thighs. She wanted his touch there most of all. She spread her legs and his fingers toyed with her. Oh, God, this was wrong, but she didn’t want it to stop. Ever.