by Cheryl Bolen
“It is my pleasure.” The duchess eyed Sarah. “I remember seeing you the first night I was at Almack’s—the night I met Richard, the luckiest night of my life,” she added with a radiant smile. “I thought you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen. And now I finally get the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
A little laugh escaped Sarah. “I thought you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen! And I daresay I wasn’t alone. I do thank you for the kind words and for having us. We are, indeed, the fortunate ones, your grace.” Sarah glanced at the duchess’s cousin, Lady Dunsford, Alfred’s sister, who was due any day to be brought to bed with her first child. “Owing to the fact I came out before Lady Dunsford, we were not acquainted at that time, so it was a loss to all of us that we did not become known to each other then.”
“All shall be remedied during this visit,” a beaming Lady Landis said.
The tall door to the saloon opened and the nurse entered, carrying a small lad Sarah judged to be two years of age. Upon eyeing the beautiful duchess, he squirmed loose from the nurse and raced toward her. “Mama! Mama!” This most adorable-looking little fellow must be the lovely lady’s offspring, though he looked nothing like his mother. His hair was the colour of tree bark, not the coal colour of his mother’s.
The duchess’s face transformed when she beheld her son, and her arms opened wide as he leapt upon her lap, and she enfolded him in her embrace. She had not the slightest care that he might mess her elegant gown. His upturned face was soon covered with kisses before his mother addressed Lady Babington and her daughter. “I would introduce you to my son, Charlie, but I regret his manners are deplorable.”
Sarah and her mother giggled. “It brings me joy just to look upon that darling face of his,” Sarah said.
Sarah’s mother nodded. “What you say about deplorable manners reminds me of my firstborn. When he was the age of your Charlie, he could not understand the concept that when he was introduced to someone, he was expected to respond. And to make matters worse, his eyes would wander elsewhere to betray that he was colossally bored with the person with whom he’d just been introduced.”
The smiling duchess nodded. “It’s exactly the same with our Charlie.” She kissed the top of his head.
“Oh, Bonny, I do hope Henry and I can have a son,” Lady Dunsford said. As was the habit of so many expectant mothers, she folded her hands over the mound of her belly. “I want one exactly like Charlie! As you know, I have nothing against little girls, but we already have one. I’d love for Henry to have his heir.”
“Now, Emily,” her mother admonished, “you do not precisely have a daughter. Don’t give people the wrong impression.” Lady Landis eyed Lady Babington and Sarah. “My daughter’s far too generous and tender hearted for her own good. Lord Dunsford stands as guardian to his deceased brother’s natural child, and my daughter’s kind enough to allow that poor child to call her Mother.”
Lady Dunsford flashed an angry gaze at her mother. “I shouldn’t like to have this conversation in public, Mama. I’ve told you many times we wish to be mother and father to dear little Harriett and do not wish you to continually remind people of the circumstances of her birth. Please.”
Now, Sarah felt uncomfortable. Lady Landis could do that to people with regularity. A pity she did that to her own daughter. “Mama says no matter how much one may want an heir, daughters bring much joy,” Sarah said in an effort to smooth the tension in the chamber.
“I do know that. And there are many reasons to be happy if we have another daughter.” Lady Dunsford eyed Charlie who was tugging at his mother’s shiny necklace. “But we would be delighted to have a son like Charlie. We’re all so attached to him.”
It was easy to see that the cousins were close. Sarah suspected Lady Dunsford preferred spending more time here at Hedley with the duchess than at Landis House in London with her own mother.
The duchess smiled at her cousin. “Thank you, Em. Richard and I totally adore our little mischief-maker.”
Sarah tried not to stare, but it was difficult not to notice how very huge was Lady Dunsford’s enlarged belly. It seemed almost inconceivable she could go another day without giving birth. How uncomfortable she must be!
In spite of her size, the prettiness Lady Dunsford had always displayed remained untouched. She was quite lovely. How was it that remarkable good looks ran in some families as it did in theirs? As masculine as Alfred Wickham was, there was an undeniable resemblance between him and his fair sister.
Just thinking about Alfred made Sarah appreciate this last bit of calm that remained within her. For she knew that once he arrived, she would go all aquiver inside.
* * *
Because he had put off traveling to Hedley Hall for as long as possible, by the time Alfred and Potts arrived everyone was at dinner. Their arrival practically sent the beautiful hostess into spasms of apologies for not having set them places at the brimming table.
Poor old Potts always started stuttering when put in a situation that brought him to the attention of a beautiful woman. “No m-m-m-m-mat-t-t-t-ter. We needn’t eat,” he told their hostess.
Alfred glared at him. He was bloody starved after traveling these past several hours. “What my friend means, your grace, is that we can eat anywhere. You can just have a plate sent to our chambers.”
“Oh, but your mother would be so disappointed. She was so looking forward to . . . seeing you.”
He knew very well what the duchess meant. His mother was looking forward to trotting him out like a prized stallion. It had been that way his entire life. Mama had this peculiar need to have people fawn over her only male progeny. She had a most inflated view of his physical attributes. He supposed all mothers were like that, but he’d wager his mother could win the medal in a competition. “I assure you, your grace, we shall have many opportunities to mingle with your delightful guests whilst we enjoy your hospitality.”
The duchess shook her head adamantly. For a brief moment, Alfred envied Radcliff. For a beauty such as his cousin Bonny, he might be able to forget his deep-rooted aversion to matrimony. “I insist,” she said. “I’ll just give instructions that two more place settings be inserted. I cannot guarantee they’ll be correctly placed according to rank.”
Alfred nodded. “Your grace, I should like to present to you my dear friend Lord Pottinger.”
Potts bowed. “M-m-m-m-my honor, your grace.”
A few moments later Alfred lowered himself to a seat between Twigs and Lady Sarah. Potts was seated directly across from Lady Sarah. Owing to the fact Alfred was sitting beside her, he could not really look at the lady. His first impression of her brought surprise. She did not look like an on-the-shelf spinster. The pretty blonde gave the impression she need only bat her lashes, and men would do her bidding.
Potts must be rattled by her for the fellow was inordinately interested in his soup and unable to lift his gaze away from the bowl—a sure sign that he was too embarrassed to stare at the beauty.
There was also the fact—a fact Alfred was doing his best to ignore—that Lady Sarah was possessed of a generous bosom, which rather spilled into the low-cut neckline of her saffron-coloured gown. That, combined with her prettiness, ensured that poor Potts would remain tongue-tied for the duration of their stay.
But, being the good, loyal friend he was, Potts would find a way to convey to her what a bloody bad matrimonial prospect Alfred would be.
Mr. Twickingham, known as Twigs at White’s—and as far back as Eton—turned to Alfred and screwed up his face. “Ain’t you the fellow who fences with Angelo without ever a mask?”
“One and the same,” Alfred responded.
“Don’t mind losing an eye? Or two? Angelo’s frightfully good.”
Lady Landis shrieked.
“But my dear man,” the Duke of Radcliff interjected, “so is my wife’s cousin. If he were so inclined, I believe Alfred could soundly beat Angelo.”
Twigs’ eyes widened. “
But Wickham’s an Englishman! Never heard of an Englishman who could beat Angelo.”
“Nor have I,” Alfred said. He did believe he could best his master, but modesty prevented him from boasting.
Alfred felt himself being scrutinized by Twigs. “Do believe Angelo could trace noughts and crosses on your face,” Twigs muttered.
Lady Landis shrieked again, and her hands clutched at her heart. “I just couldn’t bear it if my son’s handsome face were mutilated. Do, dear boy, give me your word you’ll not fence without a mask ever again.”
Alfred fumed. He glared at his mother. She was speaking to him as if he were Charlie’s age!
“Come, Mother,” Lord Landis said, “the boy’s thirty. You can’t order him about like he’s a lad of five.”
Alfred’s eyes flashed with mirth. “I shall take my chances.”
Lord Landis looked as if the food caught in his throat. “I regret that my son lives to take chances.”
The chamber went silent before the duke steered the conversation to a new bill being discussed in Parliament.
Alfred was into the third course before he remembered his manners. He turned to the lady beside him. “You arrived today, my lady?”
“No. Yesterday.”
He nodded. “And your journey was pleasant?”
“Yes.”
He could see making conversation with this woman was not going to be easy. Perhaps she was as irritable about the situation as he was. But, then, did not all woman desire to wed? Of course, this woman had the opportunity to have married the exceedingly wealthy Lord Fox, who was a marquess, to boot. Perhaps, like Alfred, she had an aversion to marriage, though she would be the first of her gender with such an aversion. “I wonder if we’ll see snow this Christmas.”
“If it gets any colder, we may,” she replied.
“I do hope it doesn’t snow,” the duchess said. “We want to take Charlie and Harriett out of doors to gather holly with which to decorate the house for Christmas.”
The duke’s eyes flashed at the mention of his son. “And I’m going to pretend to allow the lad to help me select the Yule log. And lift it. He thinks he’s strong even though he’s about this tall.” The duke held his hand parallel to the ground about two feet from the floor.
They all laughed.
After dinner the men stayed behind for their port whilst the women went on to the drawing room. Alfred could have been perfectly happy to spend the next few weeks here were it just this group of men. To a man, he liked them all very much. It was the company of the women which put him off. And one woman in particular.
When they were rejoining the women, Alfred pulled Potts aside. “You’ve got to find a way to single out Lady Sarah and start to take the lady into your confidence.”
“You sure you don’t want to change your mind now that you’ve seen her? She’s . . . well, she’s uncommonly pretty.”
Alfred shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Surely you noticed her . . . jiggly bits.”
“Oh, those. I suppose those are rather nice, but one doesn’t go about noticing those on well-bred ladies. Can’t do a thing about them, you know.”
“’Tis true.” As the other men entered the drawing room, Potts halted. “There’s another problem, old fellow.”
“What?”
“You know I can’t speak properly to proper ladies. Especially if they’re pretty.”
Alfred clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ve got the perfect solution for you, old boy.”
Potts raised a brow.
“It’s all in visualization. Visualize Lady Sarah ugly. Think of the ugliest woman you know and imbue Lady Sarah with those characteristics.”
Chapter 3
A knot formed in Sarah’s stomach when Alfred Wickham and his friend Lord Pottinger casually strolled into the drawing room an hour after they had finished dinner. Even though she refused to look their way, she had the distinct impression they were looking at her. That could be logically explained. She was, after all, the only unmarried woman in attendance, and the two gentlemen were bachelors.
To her complete astonishment, it was Lord Pottinger and not his friend who came to sit beside her. Not precisely beside her. She sat at one end of the yellow silk sofa, her mother sat at the other, and now his lordship occupied the middle. How curious.
He turned to her. Throughout dinner the man had not uttered a single word. He had appeared inordinately absorbed in the consumption of his food. She felt certain he had not noticed her existence at the dinner table. “I s-s-s-say, m-m-m-my lady, forgive me for not speaking to you at dinner. M-m-m-m-y mother deplores the practice of speaking to one seated across the table from one at dinner. Read where the Royal Family doesn’t do it, and m-m-m-my m-m-m-mother always adopts everything done in the royal household. Daresay if the princesses started wearing breeches, m-m-m-my mother would be racing to m-m-m-my tailor’s.”
Sarah laughed. There was more to Lord Pottinger than at first she would have thought. She could see why Alfred Wickham valued his friendship so dearly. “I am having a great deal of difficulty purging the vision of the aging Royal Princesses parading around in gentlemen’s breeches, my lord”
He shrugged. “I doubt I c-c-c-could sleep at night were I to picture my aged mother s-s-s-sporting my breeches.”
“So, my lord, you’ve been friends with Mr. Wickham for some time, his mother tells us?”
“Yes, since w-w-w-we were lads at Eton. I think w-w-w-we were eight.”
“Well over half your lives.”
“Almost three-fourths of our lives.”
“You like mathematics?”
“’Twas my favorite interest at school and at university. Unlike Wick. S-s-s-sport was always his. Sport and wagering. He’ll w-w-w-wager on anything. Has a disastrous streak on the betting book at White’s. Bet Lord Simpson’s daughter w-w-w-would wed S-s-s-sefton; she didn’t. Bet Lord Huffington would lose his town house at the faro table; he lost it at the race meeting at Newmarket. The fact is, poor Wick has lost every s-s-s-single bet he’s ever placed in the betting book at White’s.”
“Why does he not quit wagering?”
Lord Pottinger shrugged. “He can’t. It’s in his blood. It w-w-w-w-will ruin him. Pity the poor woman who weds him.”
Now Sarah understood why Lord Pottinger had chosen to come sit by her. He was obviously fulfilling a mission for his best friend, a mission to turn her against Alfred Wickham, who had no matrimonial intentions.
“Dreadfully sorry about the wretched conversation at the d-d-d-dinner table. A lady shouldn’t have to hear about mutilations whilst eating. Do hate to think of Wick’s handsome face being carved up like a game of noughts and crosses, and it w-w-w-would be a pity if he were blinded with a saber to the eye.” He shook his head solemnly. “But that’s Wick for you. Quite the daredevil. Never s-s-s-saw anyone with a more devil-may-care attitude.”
“Then I feel very sorry for Lady Landis. It would break her heart if anything happened to jeopardize her son or his handsomeness.”
Lord Pottinger cleared his throat. “I feel even sorrier for the actress with whom Wick has . . . an understanding.”
Sarah felt as if a Prussian soldier had just kicked her in the stomach. Admittedly, his friend was not painting a flattering portrait of Alfred Wickham, yet she still had not been able to snuff her attraction to the man. This final revelation was like a death knell.
It almost felt like hers.
To make her feel even more wretched, she peered across the chamber to behold Lord Dunsford standing behind his wife’s chair, lovingly squeezing her shoulder. Sarah had observed the couple throughout dinner as they exchanged tender glances with one another. Theirs was obviously a true love match. Such devotion!
Sarah was surrounded by loving couples. The Duke and Duchess of Radcliff acted as in love now as a pair of newlyweds. Perhaps even more so. Their mutual love of their son—the image of his father—united them even more.
&
nbsp; Mr. Twickingham and his pretty blonde wife, who seemed quite devoted to him, were less demonstrative than the others, she suspected because Mr. Twickingham appeared oblivious to women. And then, of course there were Sarah’s own happily married parents.
The Landis marriage was the only questionable one among all these satisfactory alliances. Mama always said Lord Landis must be a saint to live with his domineering wife. Nevertheless, they had been married three decades and were here together tonight.
Sarah was the only woman in the chamber bereft of a loving husband. And she had never felt it so acutely.
“We must have Lady Sarah play for us,” Lady Landis said.
“As long as I don’t have to sing,” Sarah said. Playing the pianoforte always gave Sarah a measure of peace. Just what she needed to calm her internal blistering. Music always answered her needs.
Lady Landis sighed. “What a pity. You sing like a nightingale.” The lady directed her comments to her son. “Lady Sarah is possessed of uncommon musical ability.”
“Then I shall look forward to hearing her play.” Alfred Wickham did not even have the decency to look at Sarah.
Sarah glared at him. “I did not know you were interested in music, sir.” Then she got up and strolled to the instrument.
The kindly Lord Pottinger did her the goodness of accompanying her. “I will turn the pages for you, m-m-my lady.”
“It’s because in the periodicals my son’s scandalous behaviors outweigh his more respectable traits,” Lord Landis said.
Sarah was beginning to doubt Mr. Wickham had any respectable traits. But, of course, his parents were blinded to the truth about him.
* * *
Why in the devil did Lady Sarah’s words sting? Alfred most assuredly should have expected her wrath after Potts had finished imparting to her all that he had taxed his friend with passing on. Wasn’t Alfred expecting the woman to find him especially venomous?
He had to admit his father, who was much kinder than Alfred deserved, was being charitable when crediting his son with an appreciation of music. Alfred had been hopeless at the pianoforte. He could not for the life of him do what Potts was doing right now. The best thing one could say about Alfred’s musical ability was that he was a tolerable dancer—and that only because it involved ladies, of which he was fond—though he disliked assemblies and had no taste for respectable ladies.
