Clutching the lapels of her cloak tightly in one hand, Sarah flipped the hood over her hair with her other hand, opened the back door, and groaned in dismay. "Oh, no."
The gentle spring rain that had persisted throughout the day and into the night had become a torrent. Her velvet cloak offered little protection against the pouring rain and her slippers afforded none at all against the puddles forming on the cobblestones as Sarah darted from the rear of the hotel, across the wet cobblestones to the mews and the shelter of Mr. Birdwell's coach.
"I could have waited at the back door," Mr. Birdwell told her as he held out his hand to assist her into the coach.
Sarah shook her head. "Our habits are well known here, Mr. Birdwell. I didn't want to risk having anyone inquire as to why you were waiting with the coach when Aunt Etta had retired for the night."
The coachman eyed her velvet traveling cape. "But now you're soaked to the skin."
"Not quite," Sarah told him, fighting to control the chattering of her teeth as she settled onto the cushions. "Just damp around the edges."
But Mr. Birdwell knew better. He handed her a thick wool lap robe, then reached for the brass pan in the floor of the coach. "Wrap this around you while I freshen the coals in the warming pan."
Sarah unfolded the wool blanket and settled it over her wet cloak. "I don't need the warming pan, Mr. Birdwell," she said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry and the blanket is quite sufficient."
Mr. Birdwell left the warming pan where it was, tucked the ends of the blanket around Sarah's feet, then closed the door. "Are you sure you still want to do this, miss?"
"I'm not sure of anything," Sarah admitted, "except that I have to do this."
"All right then, miss." Mr. Birdwell acknowledged her decision with a tip of his hat. He had known Sarah all her life. He didn't need to understand the nature of her venture to understand her determination to see it through to the end. "Rap on the ceiling if you change your mind," he instructed. "And I'll turn this coach around and we'll come back and join Lady Dunbridge in a good night's sleep."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Mr. Birdwell frowned. "Don't be thanking me, miss, for doing something that goes against my grain. As a matter of fact, I don't look forward to driving you around the city this time of night. And the only reason I'm doing it is because I know that look of determination on your face and because I know that you must have a very good reason for doing what you're doing." He leaned into the coach and looked Sarah in the eye. "What are you doing, miss?"
Sarah returned his gaze steadily. "I'm waiting for you."
The coachman heaved a sigh as he climbed up to his seat, released the brake, and lifted the ribbons. "Where to, miss?"
"Mayfair."
Mr. Birdwell wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Mayfair, miss?"
"Yes, Mr. Birdwell," Sarah confirmed. "Mayfair. Drop me off on Park Lane."
"Where on Park Lane?"
"The beginning," she replied. "I'll walk from there."
"In this weather?" The coachman was stunned. "I'll do no such thing."
"Yes, you will, Mr. Birdwell." Sarah's firm tone of voice brooked no argument. "Because I'd rather you not draw attention to my presence by pulling up to the house."
"Where shall I wait?"
"You're not to wait," she said. "You're to return here immediately."
"I can't do that, miss."
"Yes, you can, Mr. Birdwell."
"How will you get back?"
Sarah gave the coachman what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "By coach. Through the park. And I suggest you use the same route, Mr. Birdwell. It's quicker."
* * * * *
Jarrod, fifth Marquess of Shepherdston, looked up from the stack of deciphered messages he was reading as his butler, Henderson, entered the study of his Park Lane town house. "I beg pardon for disturbing you, sir."
"What are you doing up?" Jarrod asked. "I may be cursed with the inability to sleep, but the staff needn't suffer with me. I thought everyone retired for the night hours ago."
"We did, sir, but I got up to answer the door. You have a visitor."
Jarrod glanced at the clock on the mantel and lifted an eyebrow in query. He had been so engrossed in his work that he hadn't heard the front bell. "At this hour?" Henderson nodded.
It was nearly four o'clock in the morning and although the hour was still early by the ton's standards, it was much too late to be paying a social call… unless one of the Free Fellows needed him. "Lord Grantham or either one of His Graces?"
"Neither, milord," Henderson replied. "Then who?"
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you, sir," Henderson answered. "Why not?" Jarrod demanded.
Henderson met his employer's disapproving gaze without flinching. "The young female wouldn't give her name."
"What young female?"
"The one dripping water upon the drawing room rug, sir," Henderson replied. "I would have refused her entrance," he explained, "but the forward creature insisted you were expecting her. Are we expecting a visitor this evening, sir?"
Jarrod frowned. "No, we are not."
"Shall I send her packing, sir?"
Jarrod glanced at the rivulets of rain on the window. "In this weather?" He sighed, then raked his fingers through his hair and stretched his aching shoulders before collecting his ciphers from the surface of the desk and locking them in the top drawer. "No, let's find out who she is and what she wants. Send her in."
Henderson raised an eyebrow but he didn't voice his opinion on the unusual turn of events. Unattended females did not pay calls on gentlemen and most certainly did not turn up on unsuspecting gentlemen's doorsteps.
Jarrod walked over to the drinks table, poured himself a glass of whisky, then moved to the fireplace and stoked the embers. If she was dripping water on the carpet, she'd be cold.
Henderson opened the study door and announced the visitor. "The female, milord."
Jarrod pursed his lips, then turned to face his visitor. The figure in the hooded black cape was tall and slim and, from the looks of it, soaked to the skin. "Good evening. Won't you come in and warm yourself by the fire?"
She walked over to the fireplace. Steam rose from the fabric of her cape as she neared it. "Thank you, milord."
Her voice was soft, deeply provocative, and hauntingly familiar. Jarrod took a sip of his drink, trying to recall where he'd heard it before, then suddenly remembered his manners. "Would you like something to eat? Drink?"
She gave him a mysterious smile. "It's kind of you to offer, milord, but I'm not a woman of the street — yet."
"Pardon me," he said. "But you have me at a disadvantage."
"I hope so," she breathed, flipping back her hood to reveal her face and her hair. "But I'm afraid it's rather unlikely. I don't think you've ever been at a disadvantage, Jays."
* * *
Chapter Three
Contents - Prev | Next
When a woman wants a man and lusts after him,
the lover need not bother to conjure up opportunities,
for she will find more in an hour
than we men could think of in a century.
— Pierre de Bourdeille, Abbe de Brantome, c.1530-1614
"Sarah." Only one person had ever had the temerity to call him Jays. He breathed her name as his heart began to beat in staccato rhythm. He hadn't seen her since Lady Harralson's ball last season. And he'd been trying to put her out of his mind ever since. Theirs had been a brief encounter — an exchange of conversation and one dance — yet Jarrod still vividly recalled each detail. Jarrod had accompanied Colin to Lady Harralson's. He had been standing near the refreshment table watching Gillian Davies — the same Gillian who was now Colin's bride — when someone spoke.
"Why didn't you ask her to dance?"
Jarrod had turned at the sound of the softly spoken question and discovered a pretty, brown-eyed redhead looking up at him. "Whom?"
"Gillian," she answered. "Gillian Davies, the woman
dancing with Lord Grantham. The woman at whom you've been staring for the better part of a quarter hour."
"Davies?" Jarrod had asked, frowning in concentration. "Any relation to — "
The young woman nodded. "Baron Carter Davies is her father. And despite the fact that her father is richer than Croesus, Gillian is quite nice. Unfortunately, she seems to be in disgrace."
Jarrod lifted his eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yes," she answered, lowering her voice to make certain no one could overhear. "The story is that she's been visiting relatives in the country for the past month. But there's a nasty rumor circulating around town that she wasn't in the country at all, but that she eloped to Scotland with a bounder who left her there."
"Do you believe the story or the rumor?" he asked, staring at Gillian Davies once again.
She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip for a moment. "I find it difficult to believe that Gillian would ever do anything to disgrace her family. But then again, no one goes to visit relatives in the country at the beginning of the season." She looked up at him. "I'm sure it's just a rumor. I'm sure Gillian's reputation is beyond reproach." Her voice quavered. "She'll make you a wonderful marchioness."
Jarrod whipped around, focusing his full attention on the young woman standing at his side. "What makes you think I'm interested in making Miss Davies my marchioness?"
"Because you're the Marquess of Shepherdston and because you've been staring at her most of the evening."
"I only noticed her because she wasn't dancing," Jarrod answered honestly.
"And you were trying to summon the courage to ask her to dance with you…"
"Not at all," he argued.
She arched one pale reddish blonde brow in disbelief. "Then you're staring at Gillian because she's beautiful."
Jarrod frowned. He wasn't accustomed to being contradicted and his brown eyes flashed fire as he turned his gaze on her. "Not true."
"Gillian isn't beautiful?" she asked hopefully.
Jarrod shook his head. "She's quite beautiful, but so are a great many other ladies here tonight. I noticed Miss Davies because I found it strange that she wasn't dancing."
"Lucky Gillian," the young woman muttered. "Because I haven't been dancing, Jarrod, and you didn't pay me the slightest bit of attention until I spoke to you."
She'd broken the rules of etiquette by speaking to him and by daring to call him by his given name. But Sarah had always been good at breaking rules and that daring finally captured his full attention.
"Are we acquainted?" he remembered asking.
She presented him with a mysterious smile. "I'm well acquainted with you, my lord. But apparently, you are unable to say the same." She looked him up and down, and then gave him a dismissive glance. "I apologize for interrupting your search for a marchioness, Jays. And when you dance with her, please, give my best to Gillian."
Jarrod frowned as she turned to walk away. Only one person in the world had ever had the temerity to call him Jays. And she had been a scrawny, knock-kneed, flame-haired, precocious five-year-old girl named Sarah Eckersley. "Sarah? Is it you?"
She turned on her heels and beamed at him. "All grown up and in the flesh."
Jarrod had eyed the creamy expanse of flesh displayed above the fashionably squared neck of her evening gown and agreed. She had certainly grown up and, from the looks of it, quite beautifully. The shockingly bright orange-colored hair she'd despaired of as a child had darkened over the years, mellowing into the soft, rich color of burnished copper, and the freckles that dotted her pale skin had all but disappeared, leaving a scant few paler freckles to decorate the bridge of her nose. Only her eyes were the same. He should have recognized them if nothing else, for Sarah Eckersley's big, almond-shaped eyes had always been more gold than brown and had always seemed much too large for her face. Years ago, she had been a funny little kitten with full-grown cat eyes. But now, it seemed, the kitten had filled out and grown into a breathtakingly lovely queen. "How long has it been?"
"Long enough for you to forget about me and look for someone else."
His breath caught in his throat. "Sarah, I'm not — "
"Looking?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I beg to differ, Jays."
It took a moment for Jarrod to recover his speech. "It's not what you suppose. I'm not interested in dancing with Gillian Davies or in making her my marchioness."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"I don't happen to be in the market for a wife," he answered.
"Then, what are you doing here?" He shrugged. "Would you believe I came to dance?" She didn't believe it for a moment. "You don't appear to be dancing."
Jarrod grinned at her. "Only because you haven't asked me to."
They had danced one dance and Jarrod still recalled the sight of her in the gold ball gown with the square neckline that bared her neck and shoulders and had showed her figure off to perfection, still smelled the scent of her perfume in her skin and in her hair, could still feel his hand at her waist and the brush of her body against his.
During the past year, Sarah's image had popped into his brain at the most inopportune times, but Jarrod never dreamed the real Sarah would appear in his study in the middle of the night. Like this.
"What the devil are you doing here? Alone? At this time of morning?" Jarrod couldn't stop staring at her. Her plump lips were tinged with blue from the cold and her long red hair was wet and plastered to her head, but she was as lovely as he remembered.
"You're a hard man to catch, Jays." Sarah Eckersley stared up at him, fascinated by the wedge of dark curly hair peeking out from beneath the open front of his shirt and the velvet dressing gown he wore over it. "I read about the Duchess of Sussex's ball in the papers and I came at a time I hoped I might find you at home. Alone." She left the fire-place and moved closer to him. "You are alone, aren't you, Jays?" Sarah reached up, removed the glass of whisky from his hand, and took a sip from the same place his lips had touched.
Her provocative gesture took him by surprise. When had she learned to do that? Who had taught her to appreciate fine whisky? Jarrod narrowed his gaze at her and sucked in a breath as a certain part of his anatomy came to life, pressing against the buttons of his breeches in a powerful bid to be free of the constraints of the fabric. Reaching down, he automatically tightened the belt of his robe in an effort to conceal the evidence of his arousal. "Except for the twenty or so employees in this household and you, I am quite alone."
Sarah took another sip of his whisky, then handed it back to him. "Somehow, I don't think their presence makes much difference," she said. "I think you're always quite alone."
"Oh?" Jarrod arched an elegant eyebrow. "Have you come all the way from Helford Green to discuss my solitary state of affairs?"
"No." She shook her head. "I've come all the way from Helford Green for lessons."
"Lessons?" He was puzzled. "In what?"
"Seduction."
Jarrod choked on a mouthful of whisky and set the glass aside. "From whom?"
"You, of course."
Jarrod coughed again. "Sarah, be serious," he began, as soon as he'd recovered well enough to speak.
"I'm very serious," she told him. "I need to learn the art of seduction and I came to the most seductive man I know for lessons."
"Lessons for what purpose?" Jarrod didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered. Flattered that Sarah found him seductive or insulted because she thought he would agree to give her lessons on the subject.
"I'm not a beauty…"
Jarrod frowned. When had she gotten the notion that she wasn't a beauty?
"I don't possess a fortune or a great family name or even a dowry to offer a man," she said. "All I have is my body." Sarah reached up and unfastened her cape, then let it fall to the floor. "I need to learn how to use it."
Jarrod caught his breath. Sarah Eckersley, the rector's daughter from Helford Green, had come to him wearing nothing more than a white lawn nightgown beneath her cape. And he had
never seen anything more lovely. He leaned closer, until his lips were only inches away from hers. "Forgive me if I'm reading this the wrong way, but are you here because you're in the market for a husband?"
Sarah tossed her hair over her shoulder, then reached up and put her arms around his neck. "I'm here for lessons, Jays." She focused her gaze on his lips. "You can start by teaching me to kiss."
"I'll kiss you," he said, leaning close enough to detect the hint of whisky on her breath as he inhaled the air she exhaled. Jarrod closed his eyes. He'd kiss her. Quite thoroughly. Not because she had audaciously demanded that he do so, but because he suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to press himself against her, to taste the whisky on her lips, and to satisfy his curiosity. Because he'd wanted to kiss her the last time he'd seen her and hadn't done so. And because he wasn't noble enough to pass up a second opportunity and resist temptation when it arrived in so intriguing a fashion. "But I'm not going to marry you."
"I don't recall asking you to," Sarah replied. "At least, not since I turned ten or so…"
Jarrod stared at her, openmouthed.
Sarah placed her index finger beneath his chin and pushed upward. "Don't look so stunned, Jays," she said softly. "It's all right. I'm not a little girl anymore. I don't expect you to marry me."