“Have they yet determined what causes your brother to ail, De la Pole?” asked Jonathon. “Has he suffered long?”
“The last two months have certainly felt as much, especially when the physician does not know why he labors so. His breath is ragged, his lips are tinged blue, and he is no longer the vivacious man he once was,” answered Mr. De la Pole in a thin voice.
Lady Vincent clicked her tongue. “How unfortunate. It is a shame nothing can be done for him.”
Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. There were plenty of things that could be done. A multitude, really. The urge to contradict the marchioness with scientific fact was overwhelming. But doing so would not only hinder her reputation, but Jonathon’s as well.
“It truly is,” De la Pole uttered.
Sarah tapped her fingers. She bit her cheek harder. But even the sharp taste of blood was unable to prevent her from blurting out, “But there is something that can be done. While my past actions do not speak highly of my talents, I do know, from my research, nature provides some sources of pain relief. Your brother may not be healed, but some comfort can certainly be offered him.”
Three surprised faces stared back.
“You propose a remedy?” asked Mr. De la Pole, “that his physician has not?”
“I am not familiar with his physician, nor do I claim any medicinal expertise. I only know that which I have read and observed.”
Lady Vincent tittered. “Reading is all good fun, my dear, but you are hardly qualified to dole out medical advice. One only has to remember Lady Isabella’s misfortune, or Lady Georgiana, or, good gracious, your own sister. Did she not ache two weeks after the consumption of one of your supposed remedies?”
Gripping her cards too tight, Sarah nearly crumbled the stiff paper. “That she did, madam, but only because she took it without my knowledge.”
Lady Vincent snapped open a wooden bladed fan and began to wave it in the air. “Then it was intended for another to consume and suffer?”
“No. The tea itself was harmless, though perhaps rough in its design. It was a first attempt, after all. The amount she consumed made it toxic, though no one has cared enough to make the distinction.” She laid down another card a bit harder than she intended, the side of her fingers slamming into the felt.
Mr. De la Pole eyed her. “What is your source for these pain relievers you propose?”
She turned toward him. “A botanist’s guide on plants in the Earl of Amhurst’s library at Plumburn. Along with a known vintner’s guide to oenology.”
“How does oenology fall into this?”
Her gaze slipped to Jonathon, his expression one of silent warning. She’d overstepped the boundaries of propriety and was swimming in dangerous waters. But she was confident she could offer her assistance, if only allowed a chance to discuss the matter. Clearing her throat she said, “The healing qualities of certain plants are best utilized through a liquid vessel. Based on the information I have read, I created a formula for a more potent elderberry wine, specifically from berries of the Sambucus nigra plant. The dark berries are quite restorative, and I’ve found the wine, when taken in small measured doses, can quiet a cough and reduce a fever.”
“Enough. There is no need to propose you know of what you speak,” Lady Vincent said vehemently. “Such knowledge is meant for men and does not agree with our sex.”
“My apologies. I only meant to offer my assistance.” She glanced at her cards, wrinkled and bent in her hands.
Jonathon laid a low trump onto the table. He bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.
He was asking her to hold her trumps? Now? After she had obviously incurred the marchioness’s wrath? Well, she could hold her trumps all he liked, but they were all she had left to play. Forced to empty her hand, she set her lowest trump onto the green felt.
Lady Vincent’s eyes’ widened. “A knave of hearts? And that, after the ten of hearts you set down the last round. How resourceful.”
As he shot a disapproving look in her direction, Jonathon frowned. “How very resourceful, indeed.”
If he thought a knave was superfluous, he would be astounded and quite vexed when he saw the queen she would be forced to lay down in the next round. As tricks and points went, they were already ahead by a good measure and would win without any subterfuge.
“A good play,” Mr. De la Pole acknowledged. “You take the trick, my lady.” He discarded a low card and slid the pile toward her. “I must confess, I am intrigued by your proposal. If you could write me of your wine—”
“She will do no such thing,” said Lady Vincent, seething. “I shall have her removed from my house if she continues to act in such an unbecoming fashion. A woman vintner? Honestly. She offers you promises she cannot keep, Mr. De la Pole. I see now why your supposed source offered you false information on her sister. A woman jockey.” She clicked her tongue. “You are too eager, sir.”
“That I am, my lady. Eager to see my brother relieved of the pain that furrows his brow and makes his teeth chatter. If Lady Sarah has information that may give Harold a moment’s peace, I am more than eager to pass it along to our physicians.”
Winning the trick, Sarah set the third highest card in her hand onto the felt. She would certainly not be winning Lady Vincent’s favor after this hand.
The marchioness lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes at De la Pole. Her jaw clenching, she said, “I understand your concern, but Lady Sarah has harmed more souls than she has helped.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” said Jonathon. He set down his cards. “While one cannot argue she provided discomfort, she also afforded her sister the luxury of time with the earl, madam, thus resulting in not only a proposal of marriage, but her sister’s happiness, and I daresay, the earl’s as well.”
The marchioness glared at Jonathon. “I did not think you a romantic.”
“I’ve always enjoyed a good match.”
“And a good game of whist,” added Sarah. Mr. De la Pole once again slid the won cards toward her.
“Another trick, my lady.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I have two more.” She set down the remainder of her cards. “There is no point in pretense. My hand was exceptionally dealt.”
Mr. De la Pole’s eyes widened. “That it was, my lady.”
Pushing his chair away from the table, Jonathon stood and clapped his hands. “Bravo, Lady Sarah. A game well played.”
She offered him a smile, aware something other than praise lurked beneath his polite words and congratulatory applause.
He walked to her chair, sliding it away from the table. “I’d offer a turnabout the gardens, but with the weather being what it is, a stroll down the portrait gallery should be a suitable alternative.”
Lady Vincent nodded toward Olivia sitting two tables over. “Take your sister as chaperon. Her partner looks to be in want of relief.”
If anyone looked to be in need of relief, it was Lord Satterfield, his expression of sullen boredom in direct contrast with Olivia’s animated face beside him.
“A splendid idea,” said Jonathon. He gave a curt bow as Sarah scrambled into a perfunctory curtsy.
His hand settled onto the small of her back, the warmth of his flesh seeping through the layers of her mustard-yellow dress. Firm and unyielding, he led her to Olivia’s seat.
“Forgive the interruption, but Lady Vincent has requested a change of tables.” Jonathon’s voice was all charm, but Sarah heard the underlying hint of steel, though his sister was too far into her glass of berry cordial to register her brother’s command.
“But we have not yet finished our game.” Her eyes bright, she turned to Jonathon’s impassive face.
“For that I apologize. But services are required, Miss Annesley. And the rest of the table is to be seated at Lady Vincent’s.”
With an apologetic smile, she set down her cards. “Until next time.” Sliding out of her chair, she dipped into a graceful curtsy.
Sarah couldn’t exit the
room fast enough. Every head had turned in their direction, every gloved hand had risen to settle discreetly over their mouths to hide the whispers they did little to quiet. Her neck and cheeks warmed as Jonathon pressed against her back, once more directing her where he wanted. Thankfully, it was toward the door.
Olivia trailed behind them, if somewhat reluctantly, her steps not near as quick. Rather blissfully, the three retreated into the hall. Jonathon continued to guide her but said not a word, his lips pressed together in foreboding silence. He remained so for three more turns, leading her down one corridor and then the next. His thick brow was furrowed, his square jaw set. As if feeling her gaze upon him, he flicked his eyes toward her. Questions and a hint of uncertainty swirled in their emerald depths. It appeared he had led her to the rumored portrait gallery.
Stern faces in the same stoic pose as Jonathon’s stared back at her. The ancestors of Lord Vincent loomed on the walls, their disapproving glares following her, each one more admonishing than the next.
Olivia remained quiet, but her shoulders lifted into a questioning shrug. Sarah had done nothing wrong, per se. Nothing but offer her assistance to a man who was obviously desperate to help his ailing brother.
Midway down the hall, he stopped at a set of doors on the left. “Stay here.” His hand left her back, her flesh instantly chilled from his absence. He opened a door, popped in his head, and came out looking somewhat relieved. His pressing gaze on her, he motioned to the opening. “A word, if you please.”
Olivia gave a nod and stepped forward.
Jonathon held up his hand. “Olivia, you are to keep watch outside the door. Knock if someone approaches.”
Sarah frowned. “I hardly think—”
“No. I’m afraid sometimes you do not.”
…
Grabbing Sarah’s arm, Jonathon pulled her into what appeared to be an abandoned sitting room. Dust-covered white linens enshrouded the sparse furnishings, the limp draperies over the clouded windows affording just enough light to navigate the room without incident.
Releasing her, he turned his back to her to stare at the dim expanse of the room.
“You are frustrated.” Her words echoed in the soft silence.
“I am confused. You encourage my efforts at restoring your place in Society, but you undermine them with your actions.”
He gambled with fate, pulling her aside, alone in this room with Olivia as his lookout. For someone promising to repair a reputation, he’d acted quite the opposite, further endangering her name. He’d only wanted a moment of peace, alone with her. Without the reproachful glares and whispers uttered in too loud voices.
Jonathon ran a hand over his face. He’d underestimated the ton’s lack of forgiveness and their propensity for resentment. He’d also underestimated Sarah. And her selflessness. He gripped the top of what he presumed to be a chair, the linen beneath his fingers cool and icy, much like the glares Lady Vincent had sent her when she had believed no one else to be looking.
“A man suffers. I sought to offer what comfort I could.”
He nodded…slowly…understanding her perspective but fearing his. “But you realize the position you have placed both of us in.”
“A more complicated one.”
“Yes.” He turned toward her. Even when scorned, she stood assured and confident. Her beauty, while visually appealing, came from the inside. From her heart, which was too damn big for the ton and its precious ideals. Regardless, they were ideals he had to uphold to remain in favor. Ones she seemed unable to follow.
He took a deep, steadying breath. “I made you a promise. And I am trying my damndest to fulfill it.”
“I am truly grateful for everything you have done.”
His gaze bored into hers. “Then why do you go against me? You openly admitted to being a vintner. And freely offered medicinal advice. I don’t have to tell you what the societal standard is for a woman, but I feel compelled to say it does not involve oenology or healing.”
Sarah hung her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I know. You are absolutely right. And I have gone against myself and my desire for redemption. But I could not sit quiet while a man shared his fears and frustrations over his brother’s health. Not when I believe I can do something that may relieve them, if only ever so slightly.”
Frowning, he righted himself. “You do not owe Mr. De la Pole anything. Especially when he spoke out against your family at dinner.”
“He spoke the truth. I cannot refute his words.”
“Satterfield admonished him in hopes of protecting your family’s name.”
She closed her eyes, allowing her hand to fall as she let out a sigh.
“If you are so determined to aid him, why not tell him in a letter on an aside?”
“Because I seize the moment, much like you.” She stared at him, somewhat defiantly.
And he desired her all the more for it.
Her bravery, her charity, her selfless character, compelled him to forget his restraints. Bringing his hand to her face, the backside of his fingers brushing across her cheek, he allowed himself the intimacy. “You mean like this?” His heart hammered, his blood rushing heavy through his limbs.
She licked her lips as she held his gaze, further fueling his ardor. “It depends on what you intend to do.”
“I intend to kiss you.” Lowering his head, he brought his mouth to hers.
There was no timidity he presumed she would, as an innocent, possess. Instead, her lips parted open on a sigh and Jonathon wasted no time in sampling the gifts she offered. He devoured her, his tongue clashing with her own, her response as needy and urgent as his. Plunging her hands into the hair at the back of his neck, she pressed against him and he wanted nothing more than to loosen the lace at her back and slip her gown to the floor.
He wanted her. As a woman. As a—a wife.
Jesus.
A sharp knock on the door sounded.
Her eyes wide, Sarah pulled away from him. “Someone must be coming.”
She touched her hair, searching for her hair pins as he stood there, immobile. His mind had gone numb with the realization he was in love with Sarah.
His Sarah.
The same woman who stood in his path to achieving a promise to his deceased cousin, Elizabeth, and ultimately, his mother.
“Someone is coming,” she hissed. “We need to leave. If we are discovered alone, together—”
“Your reputation will not be the only one to suffer,” he finished. He held out a hand for her, which she grasped and stood. “You slip out first,” he whispered. “I will join you and Olivia in a moment.”
With one last glance at him, she lifted the latch and slipped into the hall.
Chapter Nine
Her heart thudding, Sarah shut the sitting room door with a firm click behind her. Resting a hand to her chest, she leaned against the solid wood of the door and attempted to resume a natural rhythm of breathing.
She’d kissed Jonathon and enjoyed it.
The Kama Sutra’s descriptions, while detailed, had not prepared her for the sensory satisfaction achieved with his guidance. She could only imagine how much pleasure awaited her should the later chapters of the book be explored with his tutelage, if he were to undress and touch her in intimate places.
Her pulse pounded loud and fast in her ears.
“You know, I always thought the crook in Lord Vincent’s nose was born of an accident or some romantic heraldry,” said Olivia. She stood off to the side, peering up at a portrait of a particularly stoic man, then turned toward Sarah. “It turns out, it’s simply a family trait.”
Sarah dropped her hand and thrust off the door, righting herself in the straight-backed posture her governess had enforced since childhood. There was no sense in giving Olivia any suspicions to her untoward thoughts. Especially when they were consumed with her brother. And a book of Indian lovemaking.
“Yes, I know,” she replied, rather breathless. “I’ve met his father a
s well as his brother. All three bear the same imperfection.”
“How curious. You never mentioned you had made their acquaintance. Or that you knew their nose was a family distinction.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Olivia blinked and appeared, to all the world, as though she was quite distressed by the revelation.
“Are you disappointed?” Sarah asked, her voice a pitch higher than her usual soprano.
Goodness. Did kisses affect voices?
“I suppose I am. There is nothing very romantic about the man now.”
“And there was before?”
“There is always something romantic about a deformity. One wants to know how it came about. A duel? A war wound? A lover’s quarrel?”
Sarah’s pulse jumped. “How ridiculous a notion. Now, you knocked on the door. Who comes our way?”
“Oh, yes. I did knock, didn’t I? Well, honestly…no one.” She shrugged. “You two were in the room a fair amount of time to discuss whatever it was Jonathon required of you. I thought to save you from his ill temper. He appeared piqued.”
“You sought to save me? From Jonathon?” Still tingling from his kisses, she brought her fingers to her lips. Had she needed rescuing? She flushed. She was fairly certain she had wanted him to deepen their intimacy. In fact, she’d yearned for it…
However, she did warrant a rescue. Heaven only knew what would have happened had they continued in their endeavors. She’d been exposed to enough erotic literature to have an active imagination when it came to amorous entanglements. And her curiosity had only just been piqued…
“What is it?” Olivia asked. “Is there something wrong? You keep touching your lip.”
“Goodness, no.” She dropped her hand as though it were leaden. “There is absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Your vehemence suggests otherwise.” Olivia arched a brow as she stared past her to the door. “What is Jonathon about?”
“He believes someone is headed this way. As such, he is waiting to come out so as to avoid any suspicious talk of our time spent alone together.”
The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst) Page 12
