Lady Sarah's Redemption

by Beverley Eikli

  Turning with a slow smile, Caro touched Sarah’s cheek with the tip of her fan. “I believe that would be as effective.” There was a glint in her eye. “Perhaps Papa would win, as a result, even more than simply justice.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “YOU ARE NOT dancing this evening, Lady Sarah?”

  Sarah ceased her regal progress across the saloon and turned at the familiar voice, heart hammering, her breath catching.

  Caro, declaring herself proud to be seen with her old governess, had insisted Sarah deliver her to Philly and Mrs Hawthorne who were seated amongst a group of matrons and dowagers. Poor Philly. She’d blushed and stammered, terrified of acknowledging Sarah in front of Mrs Hawthorne who had clearly delighted in giving Sarah the cut direct.

  Torn between humiliation and amusement, Sarah had left them and was by a large potted plant several feet away from joining James when Roland stepped into her path.

  His eyes raked her with appreciation, his smile was confident. He seemed different, as if a great weight had fallen from his shoulders, and her heart soared with hope.

  Bowing, he asked, “Might I persuade you to make an exception and stand up with me for the next waltz?”

  She felt the blush creep from her bosom upwards. Unready to yield to her hopes, she inclined her head, warily.

  How dashing he looked in evening clothes. His hair, thick and dark, swept back from his high forehead, but she thought she saw a touch of silver at the temples that hadn’t been there before. It only distinguished him more.

  “Your magnanimous gesture might promote the rights of fallen women,” she said lightly, to hide her nervousness, “though you court society’s displeasure.”

  “I take little account of the gossip mill, Lady Sarah.” Offering her his arm as the orchestra struck up a Viennese Waltz, he led her onto the floor. “Mrs Hawthorne is watching and I am sure you’d relish the chance to demonstrate the grace with which this fine art form can be executed.”

  “I shall try to give satisfaction.”

  That his smile was colluding offered another beacon of hope. When his arm encircled her waist, Sarah wilted against him. “Embraced by society at last,” she murmured as he raised her up and they began circling.

  How commandingly he held her. She could indulge in all the adolescent daydreaming she chose and he’d navigate her surely to her destination. It seemed an eternity since she’d last danced in his arms. And under such different circumstances. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the rapture of the music and the familiar warmth and strength of Roland’s body inches from hers. Dare she hope this was the precursor to an even closer union?

  “Why did you not tell me the whole truth, Sarah?”

  The intensity of his softly spoken words jolted her back to the present. Before she could answer he went on, “I knew you’d been seen alone and unchaperoned en route to a supposed assignation—” His look was heartbreakingly tender — “but tonight is the first I’d heard my name mentioned.”

  She clung to him as they navigated a tight turn, not trusting herself to speak. Out of the corner of her eye she caught James’s disapproving look, saw Mrs Hawthorne fanning herself with a vigour unwarranted by the temperature. Beside her, Caro beamed.

  Perhaps Roland saw James also for he went on, “I can only imagine you did not press me to do as honour dictated because you preferred Captain Fleming, after all. If that is so, I am glad you are marrying the right man. You deserve only the best, Sarah, for I’ve not met a braver, more admirable woman.”

  “You know I don’t prefer Captain Fleming,” she whispered, stumbling as her vision blurred. Roland whisked her skilfully a few inches from the ground, averting disaster as he negotiated his own footwork, then set her down again and resumed the dance with all the finesse of a gifted athlete.

  Sarah’s heart lurched at the quizzical, wondering look in his eye. He loved her. Minutes ago she’d not dared hope. Now hope had taken root and was flourishing in the warmth of his gaze. So how could he continue to deny her? To deny himself? Was his honour really more important than his happiness? She recalled Caro’s plan in a new light. Perhaps it was not so foolish.

  He squeezed her hand and murmured with feeling, “How I long to repay you for all you have done for Caro and me.”

  She closed her eyes, tensing as she strove for courage. He declared his love and his admiration, yet the caveat was always the same. His honour prevented him. “Do you remember the last words I said before you left, Roland?” She heard the breathlessness in her voice.

  He gazed down at her, silent a long moment. Then he said softly, “They gave me hope when all hope was lost.”

  The waltz was nearing the end. Desperation clawed at her. She couldn’t let him walk away from her, yet again. She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, his eyes yearning, but — it broke her heart to acknowledge it, regretful— as he murmured, “Do you remember the last words I spoke to you?”

  How could she forget? He’d sworn he’d not seek her out until he considered himself worthy of her. Well, time was running out.

  Exhaling on a sob of frustration, she allowed him to navigate her towards the edge of the dance floor. Soon the waltz would be at an end.

  Then what?

  Roland studied her through narrowed eyes as she clung to him, the music thrilling to an end. He tried to make sense of it. She should hate him. Loathe and despise him. The sight of him ought to excite disgust. He’d failed her. Time and again. Instead, she gazed up at him with such transparent yearning it was enough to make him weep with frustrated longing.

  He must dampen this ridiculous feeling of elation that was sweeping good sense before it. Regardless of the outcome of this evening, marriage to Fleming ensured Sarah’s happiness. James Fleming was a good man: loyal and worthy of her. Roland’s past matrimonial credentials hardly bolstered his cause. That aside, the bluff, good natured James would be a far better anchor for his free spirited and headstrong beloved Sarah.

  The knowledge that contact must soon be broken was almost more than he could bear. He thought of the entertainment to follow, the groundwork so carefully laid out. Later this evening would be a different matter, though the outcome was by no means assured. It would be foolish to get either of their hopes up.

  But there she was, doing all in her power to convince him of her sincerity. Hadn’t she already proved it? So much more than he deserved?

  No. He must not weaken and take her somewhere secluded. It would be his undoing. He was entirely resolved to act only in Sarah’s best interests. To take advantage of her misguided and incomprehensible tenderness would be an act of the greatest cruelty.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah gasped the question as she was whisked off the dance floor and her arm was nearly dislodged from its socket as he dragged her across the room.

  “Taking you somewhere secluded.” He heard the urgency in his own voice, and didn’t care. Dear Lord, he had no idea what he was doing, much less what he intended doing. All he knew was that this conversation could not start and end on a dance floor in the public domain.

  “I know a private alcove, a balcony,” she said, unresisting as he drew her along with him, delighting – it would appear - in the shocked expressions of those scions of respectability they passed. Certainly, the wicked gleam he saw in her eye when he glanced back, and the way the corners of her voluptuous mouth turned up, indicated she was delighting in something.

  That’s right, Roland remembered. Sarah knew the house better than he. Had attended balls here, before.

  The French doors clicked shut behind them, and they were greeted by a blast of cold air. And she without a shawl.

  In his arms she would feel no cold. He would make sure of that.

  He wasted no time. Without roughness — but without undue gentleness, either, for the clock was racing — he had her against the wall. One hand steadied himself against the cold stone, beside her lovely face, the other gripped her shoulder, imprisoning her, befo
re trailing down to encircle her waist. Her rapid breathing matched his, fuelled by the same energy. He was confident of that, now: desire.

  Still he felt unable to act upon instinct: to thrust his body against hers and demand with a kiss, that she match him at all levels. Restraint was an integral part of his make up and right now, restraint was all-important. Any future they might have together depended on what happened in the next half an hour. Succumbing to his passion, now, was premature.

  And yet, wasn’t hope the wellspring of Sarah’s charm and vibrancy? It had sustained her through so much. Despite all she’d endured she’d never lost hope. The way she was looking at him now proved that.

  With just a trace of tentativeness Roland moved his face closer to hers.

  “Sarah—” he began. It was just above a whisper. He could hardly trust himself to speak steadily. The look in those limpid hazel eyes nearly undid him. All that he could have hoped for was reflected in their fathomless depths. She smiled tentatively but the invitation in the way she melded into him was implicit.

  “Why do you not despise me?” he whispered, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers. Her warmth and the hammering of her heart against his chest nearly drove him crazy.

  “Despise you?” She cupped his chin with her hand, her look impossibly tender. “When will you understand that you were as much a victim that night as I was. Stop blaming yourself. I don’t.”

  He hesitated, loosening his grip around her waist, still unsure of the wisdom of this impulsive tryst.

  “My darling Sarah, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he ground out, restraining himself from plundering her mouth as he would have Venetia’s, “but I must give you this final chance to walk away.”

  Sarah stamped her foot. “For God’s sake, Roland, was Venetia this patient? I’ve heard the gossip. The two of you couldn’t keep your hands off one another. Is your reluctance towards me now a measure of your true feelings?”

  Blood pounded in his ears. “I was twenty-one, an innocent boy enslaved by love but I never loved Venetia as I love you!”

  “I’ll say it again,” she whispered, nuzzling him, brushing her lips across his, “If you want me, I’m yours.”

  The featherlight touch was more than he could bear. Groaning, he crushed her against him, bringing his mouth down hard upon hers, extinguishing her gasp of surprise as he plundered the velvet cavern with his tongue, seeking, exploring, tasting and wanting more. And still more.

  The rapid beating of her heart through the silk of his striped waistcoat drove him mad with wanting. The softness of her chestnut curls, the contours of her delectable body were like fire to a power keg. But it was the enthusiasm of her unleashed passions that most fuelled the urgency within him; the base animal instincts he’d spent years beating into submission threatened to vanquish him.

  Yet the beast could not be unleashed, for he had not yet won her honourably.

  With a final groan he set her from him. For several seconds they simply gazed at one another, breathless and shaking.

  “Sarah!”

  Guiltily, they jerked around to face James upon the threshold.

  Only the faintest uprising of his eyebrows indicated he suspected anything untoward.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, smoothly. “I believe you promised me this dance.”

  “I’m sorry, James.” She glanced towards Roland.

  He saw the brightness of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, noticed the faint breathlessness, and hoped Captain Fleming did not. “Mr Hawthorne and I were just—”

  “Discussing Lady Sarah’s future,” Roland supplied, smoothly. “Perhaps we can continue our conversation during the next dance?” With a smile, he bowed himself out.

  James turned to Sarah with a frown. “You’ll catch your death out here,” he said, taking her shoulder and propelling her indoors. “Gad, but I’m glad it was me who stumbled upon the two of you, which is not to say I condone your behaviour, Sarah. Reckless, as always!”

  Sarah bit her lip.

  Out in the passage, James turned, softening at her expression. “You bring your troubles upon your own shoulders, my dear girl.” He sighed, draping an arm about her shoulders and giving her a bracing squeeze before setting her in the direction of the ballroom. “And I should remind you that you’ve already given Mr Hawthorne his chance. You are betrothed to me now, which gives me the right, I believe, to say I don’t like to see you cosying up to him, alone. In fact, I won’t have it.”

  “That’s wounded male vanity, James, when you’ve made it clear you don’t love me.”

  “Yes, but you’re about to become my wife. The contract has been drawn up, the matter is settled and the kind of behaviour I was witness to just now is simply unacceptable. Hawthorne is merely taking advantage.”

  “I … I just wish I were marrying a man who loves me,” she said, bleakly, ignoring the interested looks of a couple of society matrons.

  James continued to propel her towards the ballroom. “I hold you in the greatest affection. Isn’t that enough?”

  Sarah took a deep breath and turned, blocking his path. “James,” she asked, gently, “would you be very disappointed if you didn’t marry me?”

  “Good God! Is that what all that was about on the balcony? Hawthorne’s proposed at last? And you’ve accepted him?”

  “No, he hasn’t. James, please—” Sarah tugged at his sleeve to bring him back to her. His wounded pride was hard to bear.

  “He’s toying with you, Sarah. He’s made it clear he has no intention of being leg-shackled. Your admiration feeds his vanity. And he …” Flushing, James looked away.

  Sarah waited.

  “Truth is, Sarah,” he said in a rush, his expression suddenly sympathetic as looked into her eyes and patted her shoulder, “the fellow has a chère amie.”

  Sarah blinked. “That’s ridiculous,” she said scornfully.

  “Oh Sarah,” he muttered, “I knew you’d take it like that. You might think it’s a bag of moonshine and I’m trying to bamboozle you because I don’t care for the fellow. Only I know this to be the truth.” He hesitated, adding, “Though you’re not to think I’m in the habit of frequenting bawdy houses—”

  Relief made her gasp, “So that is where he was seen?”

  The Hollingsworths! Someone must have observed him enter the brothel.

  “No … ” James appeared to be weighing up his words. “Fact is, Lady Condon made it known. She was scandalized Hawthorne would carry his politics over the boundaries of what most people consider acceptable.”

  Sarah waited, still sceptical.

  “Lady Condon visited her seamstress and was forced to pass the time of day with a … female, clearly from the Cyprian corps who was being fitted for a modish ensemble.” He sighed. “Hawthorne was with her, offering his considered opinion. He … was financing her.”

  “She must have been a friend.”

  “She was no one Lady Condon had ever set eyes upon.”

  “A visitor from abroad?”

  James looked at her with even greater sympathy. “I believe the violent orange hue of her glorious ringlets is not a colour favoured by the respectable. Besides,” he added, “I saw Hawthorne with my own eyes lead a bit o’ muslin into a dark alley off the Haymarket not three weeks ago.”

  Sarah shook her head as if to clear of it of doubt. James did not lie, yet there had to be some explanation. With dignity, she took the arm he offered as they continued their progress towards the ballroom.

  “He’s a dark horse,” James persisted, oblivious to her feelings. “His wife was infamous. The betting book at White’s is offering ten to one the daughter is going the way of her mother—”

  Sarah swung round furiously, nearly knocking into a couple who had to sidestep past them. “How dare you slander Caro!” she flared. “Nor have you the right to cast slurs upon Mr Hawthorne’s reputation on account of hearsay. If you want my opinion, the bit o’ muslin he suppos
edly led away was a lass in distress whom he was offering assistance.”

  “Sarah, that’s doing it too brown,” said James, exasperated. “All right, I’m sorry I slandered Miss Hawthorne. I’d forgotten she was your charge for three months. But really, Hawthorne doesn’t deserve your slavish defence. Now where are you going?”

  She had to find Caro. She’d been away too long and Caro was inclined to rashness.

  “To mend a tear in my skirt, James,” she bit out.

  Surely James’s allegations couldn’t be true, she told herself. Though what did a man plagued by loneliness do to ease his frustration? She didn’t really know much about these things.

  A cotillion was in progress as she entered through the double doors but it felt claustrophobic in the crowded ballroom. James had not gone after her. She knew he thought she was being ridiculous; that he didn’t believe she’d end their betrothal so she could wed Mr Hawthorne. Well, he didn’t believe Mr Hawthorne harboured those kinds of feelings. But he did. She knew he did.

  She squared her shoulders. Marrying Roland Hawthorne was exactly what she intended doing. With a sigh she sagged against the wall near the supper room. That’s if Roland could sink his pride or put a bullet through Sir Richard’s head.

  A footman bearing aloft a silver tray offered her a glass of champagne. She drank it too quickly, trying to find a reason for Roland’s earlier behaviour. He’d surely not have kissed her like that if he was going to allow her to marry James? In which case, she thought, sudden excitement flaring within her, he must have come up with some plan to avenge himself against Sir Richard? That would account for the confidence she’d noted earlier.

  Pushing herself back from the wall, she remembered the urgency of finding Caro. If Roland was forced into action against his better judgment he’d not thank his daughter for it.

  Caro was no longer with Philly. When a thorough search of the card room, ballroom and ladies’ dressing room did not yield the girl, she became anxious.