For one mad moment, Henri wondered if he should uncharacteristically drop a word in Delphi’s ear. But a moment’s reflection made him abandon such a foolish course of action. The young woman had been married, after all. And any attempt to sway Nick would only antagonize him further.
His only hope was that his information was wrong and the lady was not so innocent. For her sake, Henri hoped she was very well experienced indeed.
Sara stared absently at a small fire screen improbably adorned with hummingbirds and riotously colored parrots. The screen shielded the costly rug in the green salon from popping embers and generally got in the way whenever Sara was about. “Men are fools. Every last one of them.”
Anna looked up from where she was regarding a creation in Costume Parisien. “That’s the third time you’ve said that in as many minutes. Am I supposed to agree with you or argue?”
“Neither. It is an irrefutable fact of life.” Sara sighed and used the tip of her slipper to outline one of the hummingbirds. The last few weeks had been trying—more than trying, in fact. When she’d first embarked on her quest to find an acceptable husband, it had never occurred to her that there would be so few in Bath. Worse, as she and Anna culled the thin list of prospects, she’d begun to worry what would happen when she did find a suitable candidate. Would she be able to bring him to point before her brothers decided to visit?
Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult. After all, she wasn’t hideous, nor was she of unacceptable birth. It all came down to one thing: her lack of fortune.
“I’ve flirted and smiled and batted my eyes until I’ve feared for the life of my lashes, to no avail. I’m at my wits’ end.”
Anna obligingly set the magazine aside. “Perhaps part of the problem is your devoted brothers. I daresay just the thought of facing one or more of them could scare off even the most honorable man.”
Sara ran the tip of her finger along the embroidered lines of the fire screen. Even miles away, her brothers still plagued her. “It’s so discouraging. I haven’t met a single man who would do.”
The image of the Earl of Bridgeton rose clear and strong. Of course, he was far from being an ideal husband; she’d seen that in the hotly possessive way he’d looked at her. Just the memory of that one glance made her shiver still. Smoldering and dangerous, Bridgeton was the kind of man who either possessed a woman, body and soul, or didn’t bother with her at all.
Somehow, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to admit to Anna exactly what had happened between her and the earl. But the image of his face had stayed in Sara’s dreams and a shivery sigh flashed up her spine. For an instant, she’d had the distinct impression of his lips touching hers, his hands on her bared skin…A trace of raw desire smoothed the shiver into a whisper of heated anticipation.
Heaven help the woman he decided to make his—he would demand her attention. All of it. Worse, Sara feared she’d want him to be demanding. Had she kissed the earl, she never would have wanted it to end. She’d have melted like a chip of ice in a hot cup, turning into a useless puddle before his astounded eyes.
Anna suddenly sucked in her breath. “Sara! What about Viscount Hewlette? He just arrived in town last week and is not so bad looking. He’s here visiting an elderly aunt and is very agreeable. Even my grandfather has mentioned that he seems to be looking over all the available women, and Grandpapa is not the most observant of men.”
Sara bit her lip. The viscount was a definite possibility. He was attractive enough, and polite. The only negative thing she could think of was that he had a propensity to talk about himself at every turn. But on the positive side, he already had a goodly set of children from his first marriage. It was rumored that his wife died giving birth to their fifth child and that his mother had taken over their care at that time. A man who already had family would not be wanting more. She brightened. “Anna, you might have something there. Hewlette might be the perfect choice.”
“I hope so; I’m at a loss to think of anyone else. What is it about this place that attracts bores and elderly lechers? I’m inclined to agree with Grandpapa, who says Bath is stodgy and monotonous.”
Sara regarded her friend curiously. “Then why do you live here?”
“Because he insists London is full of scalawags and cretins, Brighton is inhabited by nothing but scoundrels and nincompoops, and York is crawling with vermin and weak-willed naysayers. Grandpapa would rather be crushed by respectability than sullied by despicability.”
“How difficult of him.”
Anna chuckled. “Yes, isn’t it? But being difficult is the one thing he does well.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I really can think of no other candidates. If Hewlette will not do, then we are lost.”
Sara frowned. “Surely not. There must be some other men about.”
“If you wish to marry someone who will pander to your brothers I can think of at least a dozen men who would welcome a connection with the St. Johns. Other than that…” Anna shrugged. “If Hewlette does not come to fruition, we will have to make a second attempt at Bridgeton. He is the only other man who meets your qualifications.”
Sara picked up one of Aunt Delphi’s embroidered pillows and absently tossed it into the air. “That’s not an option,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
“You may not have a choice.” Anna put her elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. “At least Bridgeton is handsome, and he doesn’t smell of garlic like Mr. Dotley.”
No, he smelled of maleness and danger and shivery desire. And Sara would never again allow herself to be in the position of wanting someone more than he wanted her. “Doesn’t Viscount Hewlette frequently ride in the park?”
“Every morning at nine.”
Well. A man who was both reliable and the father to a large brood of children should be delighted to have a wife who was more interested in the gaieties of life.
The door to the sitting room opened, and Aunt Delphi appeared, waving a folded missive as she floated into the room. “There you are, Sara! You have a letter and—” She stopped when she saw Anna. “Miss Thraxton, how delightful to see you. Sara has received a letter from her brother.”
Sara took the letter and stared at the seal. “It’s from Anthony.” She opened the letter quickly and scanned the contents.
“What does it say?” Aunt Delphi asked, her head cocked to one side as she tried to read the missive from where she stood. “Is everyone well? Does he tell you the latest gossip from London? Was the Cowpers’ dinner party a shocking squeeze? I just know Maria Lockton wore that shocking pink stole to the opera. I asked him to relate all the details of the Oldenhams’ rout, too, but he hasn’t sent me a single missive.”
Sara was trying to decipher his quick scrawl. Anthony had never been much of a correspondent, once sending her a letter mentioning a “trifling injury” that turned out to be a serious fall from a horse that had left him with a broken leg. “He says Marcus has been detained by business.” She raised her gaze to her aunt’s. “I don’t understand. Was Marcus coming here?”
Aunt Delphi blinked rapidly and then glanced down at her shoes. “Ah. Yes. I do believe he was.”
“Why?” Sara asked bluntly.
“To visit you, of course. He is your brother, you know.”
“He was coming to bully me, wasn’t he?”
Aunt Delphi looked uncomfortable. “Well, he did mention that he wanted to see how you were getting on in your new situation.”
“Naturally,” Sara said dryly. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he intended on parading me before every available vicar or lily-livered curate as a potential bride.”
“Oh, dear.” Aunt Delphi edged toward the door. “If we aren’t having any visitors quite yet, then I had better tell Cook to go ahead and serve that leg of lamb I’ve been saving.” Delphi fluttered from the room trailing silk and the scent of lavender, the picture of domestic bliss.
Anna looked at the closed door with a mutinous expression. “I
s she always like that?”
“Like what?” Sara asked absently, staring at the letter in her hands.
“Floating about as if she was a blasted fairy.”
“Yes, but only when she’s not showing an annoying tendency to worry over you and treat you as if you were a child of twelve.”
Anna shuddered. “I’m glad I live with my grandfather. He may curse like a coal scuttler, but he doesn’t flit about in that disconcerting way. I don’t know how you stand it.”
“She has a good heart. I just repeat that to myself every five minutes.” Sara looked at the letter in her hand. Damn! She should have foreseen this. She jumped to her feet and began pacing rapidly.
Anna watched her for a moment, then said, “What else does the letter say?”
Sara stopped long enough to hand her friend the missive. “It says that if Marcus is unable to get away, another of my brothers will be joining me, but they have not yet decided who.”
Anna whistled silently. “Determined to keep an eye on you, aren’t they?”
“They are far too involved in my business.” Sara crossed her arms over her chest and resumed pacing. “I don’t want any of my brothers hovering over my shoulder, making my life a misery. We have a week to find a husband, Anna. Maybe less.”
“Then we will have to use every day to our advantage.” Anna handed the letter back to her friend. “Tomorrow morning we will ride in the park at precisely nine and meet Viscount Hewlette and see what is to be done.”
Sara dropped back onto the settee, her heart heavy. She didn’t have time for delicacy. No, she would be very explicit—she’d put all of her cards on the table and hope that the viscount understood the need for urgency. Once she was wed, she was certain Marcus would make a handsome settlement. It would irk him, but his pride would allow no less.
All she needed was to win the viscount’s acceptance to a whirlwind courtship. If that didn’t work, more drastic measures would be needed. Shivering slightly, Sara didn’t even want to think what those might be. Yet even as she had the thought, she had an image of Bridgeton’s face. Resolutely, she banished it. Viscount Hewlette had to be her answer. She wouldn’t accept any other.
Chapter 4
If there was one thing Nicholas Montrose knew, it was the game of seduction. It would not do to appear too eager to reengage the delicious Lady Carrington in flirtation so soon after the Jeffries ball. He decided to wait at least another week before arranging a “chance” meeting with his intended quarry.
So for several days after his conversation with the comte, Nick stayed occupied with the repairs of Hibberton Hall, taking a personal interest in the hiring of the various craftsmen. To those who did not know him, he appeared completely absorbed by the tasks at hand. Yet every once in a while, he would look up and imagine himself fixed in the finished manor house, his reputation reestablished, his staff well trained, a vague shadowy figure by his side. As the days progressed, the figure took on a more substantive form. One with a cloud of raven black hair and eyes of the palest blue.
He wanted Sara Lawrence. He wanted her in his house and in his bed. The comte was incorrect in thinking Nick needed a deeper, more permanent relationship. He wanted only passion. A tantalizing companion who could make him forget the shadow that hung over him, and nothing more.
Sara was perfect—well-bred, fascinating, and a widow, which meant she had a certain amount of knowledge, however limited it might be. In his experience, Englishwomen were less likely to have been educated in the erotic art of dalliance as the women were in Paris. With the exception of a few dashing souls like Lucilla Kettering, who spent more time abroad than at home, most Englishwomen were unaware of the more erotic physical pleasures.
The thought pleased Nick no small amount. He was more than willing to teach the lovely Lady Carrington the secrets of the boudoir. After all, he’d spent a considerable amount of time perfecting those very pleasures, and it would be wildly exciting to explore them with someone less versed than he.
To learn about his quarry, he sent one of the stableboys to watch the house she occupied. The stableboy faithfully reported Lady Carrington’s activities each morning. Nick was pleased to hear that her aunt rarely left her alone and that few of her visitors were men who offered him any competition. Few, but not all.
He scowled at the thought of someone else touching her white skin, kissing her soft lips. The image of Sara Lawrence locked in another man’s embrace made him grind his teeth.
It was madness, for Nick had never been a possessive man. He’d taken pleasure as he’d found it, and given it freely. In his experience women were far too ready to commit to him without being asked. Far too anxious to own him.
As the days progressed, Nick found himself thinking of Sara more and more, imagining her velvet-soft voice murmuring his name, her black hair spread across his pillow, her lavender scent mingling with the cool, crisp sheets of his bed. Just as he always did, once he set his sights on an object, he focused on it to the exclusion of all others, and his determination grew each day.
Even his renovations at Hibberton Hall were subtly affected by his preoccupation. He actually ordered a striking red wallpaper for the library because he’d had a wayward thought that it would contrast well with the rich black of her hair.
So, despite his decision to wait, only four days passed before Nick found himself riding into Bath. Henri had reported that Lady Carrington rode in the east park each morning with a small group of her friends and admirers. Nick rode the paths until he finally saw her, her diminutive form atop a feisty bay gelding.
Nick pulled up his horse and watched. If the fascinating Sara had looked appealing wearing a dull gown of watered silk, she was devastating in a form-fitting sapphire blue riding habit, its severe lines accenting her curves. A high collar framed her face; her cheeks were warm with color, her blue eyes sparkling. A long white feather decorated her tall hat and brushed her shoulder temptingly.
She was magnificent.
Laughing, she turned to reply to something her companion said, the movement highlighting her delightful profile for a moment against the shrubbery. Nick’s body responded with a rapidity that caused him to curse the tight cut of his breeches.
He smiled grimly at the reaction. For the first time since he could remember, all things were turning in his favor. The repairs of the Hall were moving quickly; Pratt had so wisely invested his funds that he would easily be able to afford the highest quality of life; and best of all, his headaches had diminished greatly. The fresh country air left him sharper, more alive than he’d ever felt.
And soon he would have a mistress. Nick turned his horse toward Lady Carrington’s party. To her left rode the tall, auburn-haired woman she’d been with at the Jeffries ball. Miss Thraxton, if he remembered correctly, and she seemed to be an unusual female in her own right. On Sara’s right rode three gentlemen; one was a groom and one was a footman. Her aunt was obviously taking no chances that her willful charge would slip away. His gaze flickered to the third man, and Nick’s smile faded.
Tall, dark, and impeccably dressed, Viscount Hewlette appeared the perfect escort for any lady of fashion. His face and manner were always charming, his smile respectful, his manner ingratiating. Still, Nick thought he could discern just the tiniest hint of boredom in Lady Carrington’s countenance. Without further preamble, Nick pulled his horse into their path and waited.
Sara saw the earl an instant before anyone else. After listening to Viscount Hewlette expound for the last half hour on the magnificence of a new hunter he’d bought, the earl appeared like a burst of sunlight in a world of murky, mundane trivialities. Viscount Hewlette was proving to be an enthusiastic suitor, a fact Sara was beginning to regret. Since she and Anna had arranged a “chance” meeting with the viscount three days ago, he had hardly left her side. Sara was more than weary of his constant expostulating on his triumphs in the hunting field and elsewhere.
She stole a glance at the earl from beneath her lash
es, and her heart stumbled a little as she pulled her horse to a halt. Taller than the viscount, broad-shouldered and impressively fit, he emanated power and wealth. And he rode a magnificent black gelding that made her poor mount look like a slug.
Some inner part of her leapt awake at the sight of his smile as he approached, and she found herself smiling in return. It had immediate effect—the earl perused her from head to foot, his gaze lingering on her mouth. A heavy warmth trickled a path across her breasts and settled in her stomach.
“Lord Bridgeton. How pleasant to see you again,” she said demurely.
He lifted his hat and bowed, a glint in his eyes. “Lady Carrington. It has been several days since the Jeffries ball, has it not?”
“Almost a week, in fact,” she said, then bit her tongue at her impetuousness. His knowing glance told her that he remembered the ball all too well. Still, the fact that he had remembered her name was vastly encouraging. Sara sent an appraising glance at him, noting how the sunlight glinted off his hair and deepened it to the tawny gold of a lion’s mane, and limned the hard line of his jaw.
Though she’d thought her memory had exaggerated his perfections, she now found it had been lamentably remiss. Somehow she’d forgotten the exact curve of his sensuous mouth, and the way his thick lashes cast shadows over his eyes, making the blue appear almost black.
“Sara?” Anna said from her side.
Belatedly, Sara remembered her companions. “Lord Bridgeton, may I introduce you to Miss Thraxton? And this,” she gestured vaguely to her side, “is Viscount Hewlette.” For some reason, Sara was suddenly embarrassed to be seen with the viscount and his stuffy theories on farming.
Bridgeton ignored Hewlette. Instead, his gaze flickered toward Anna, and he bowed. “Miss Thraxton. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Sara noted that even the pragmatic Anna was affected by the earl’s handsomeness. Her face was bright pink as she returned the bow with a jerky nod. “My lord, how do you do? Perhaps you would like to join us for a ride about the park?”