Surrender To The Marquess
Louise Allen
A battle of wills!When Lady Sara Herriard’s husband dies in a duel, she turns her back on the vagaries of the ton. From now on, she will live as she pleases. She won’t change for anyone – certainly not for the infuriating Lucian Avery, Marquess of Cannock!Lucian must help his sister recover from a disastrous elopement and reluctantly enlists Lady Sara’s help. She couldn’t be further from the conventional, obedient wife he’s expected to marry, but soon, all he craves is for her to surrender – and join him in his bed!
A battle of wills!
When Lady Sara Herriard’s husband dies in a duel, she turns her back on the vagaries of the ton. From now on, she will live as she pleases. She won’t change for anyone—certainly not for the infuriating Lucian Avery, Marquess of Cannock!
Lucian must help his sister recover from a disastrous elopement and reluctantly enlists Lady Sara’s help. She couldn’t be further from the conventional, obedient wife he’s expected to marry, but soon all he craves is for her to surrender—and join him in his bed!
‘Ladies need protection.’ Lucian stalked over to the balustrade.
Shaking the provoking creature would not be a good illustration of his case—kissing her would be even worse.
‘How did you get here this evening, for example? These streets and lanes are dark—anyone could be lurking.’
‘By sedan chair, with the same two reliable, burly chairmen I always use. They will come and collect me later. And should desperate footpads leap out and manage to fell both of them I can defend myself.’
‘How? With sharp words?’ he demanded, and took two strides to stand in front of her, his hands either side, pinning her back against the balustrade. ‘Men are stronger, more vicious, than you could imagine.’
‘Also more vulnerable,’ she murmured. ‘Look down, my lord. It is not only my words that have an edge.’
He did—just as he felt pressure against the falls of his evening breeches. In the moonlight something glinted: sharp steel, held rocksteady in her hand.
Lucian stood quite still. ‘Where did that come from?’
Author Note (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
Some time ago I wrote Forbidden Jewel of India, a story I was passionate about, set entirely in India in the 1780s—a time when the East India Company ruled in uneasy alliance with the Princes and Rajas. Anusha was half-Indian; her lover, Nicholas Herriard, an English officer and heir to a marquess. When it was time for him to take up his title and return to England in 1816 I had all the fun of discovering how he and Anusha and their son and daughter adapted to English life.
I told Ashe Herriard’s story in Tarnished Amongst the Ton, but I had no inkling of what might happen to Sara, his sister—until now. So here she is, very much her mother’s daughter and determined to be her own woman—despite what the men in her life think and certainly despite what Lucian Avery, Marquess of Cannock, believes is best for her.
I hope you enjoy following Sara’s stormy path to true love as much as I enjoyed discovering it.
Surrender to the Marquess
Louise Allen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk (http://www.louiseallenregency.co.uk), @LouiseRegency (https://www.twitter.com/louiseregency) and janeaustenslondon.com (http://www.janeaustenslondon.com).
Books by Louise Allen
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
The Herriard Family
Forbidden Jewel of India
Tarnished Amongst the Ton
Surrender to the Marquess
Lords of Disgrace
His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish
His Christmas Countess
The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux
The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone
Brides of Waterloo
A Rose for Major Flint
Danger & Desire
Ravished by the Rake
Seduced by the Scoundrel
Married to a Stranger
Silk & Scandal
The Lord and the Wayward Lady
The Officer and the Proper Lady
Mills & Boon Historical Undone! ebooks
Disrobed and Dishonored
Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
To Lorna Chapman
for encouraging me to tell Sara’s story. Thank you!
Contents
Cover (#ue7a50558-b8f4-525c-a97f-c25c3ef99773)
Back Cover Text (#u7e5a11ac-84f3-52fc-96d3-ffa0ff1e1c48)
Introduction (#u4598affb-b153-5ae2-bc66-a667ab38a9c9)
Author Note (#u2a9fa050-0cff-537a-981a-72cce6101d8c)
Title Page (#u14776b3e-f711-5b54-bcea-3f19a1626b13)
About the Author (#u4d0ddb6c-93bf-52ca-b057-e15a2bba140e)
Dedication (#u6b400d98-1297-53db-bbba-5ae9edbccd73)
Chapter One (#u0ae8d13f-1be2-541b-8c0d-36bd6a942ce2)
Chapter Two (#ub86abd21-3d10-5fdb-80d6-59a3b7ac91ad)
Chapter Three (#udf682281-67da-5bb2-96ae-371c83435c64)
Chapter Four (#uac392087-9ce0-5e59-8892-189915497003)
Chapter Five (#u920443db-455c-523b-a18e-60fef28b37f0)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
September 1818—Sandbay, Dorset
It was an elegant shop front with its sea-green paintwork, touches of gilding and sparkling clean windows. Aphrodite’s Seashell. A risqué choice of name, Lucian thought, considering that Aphrodite was the Greek goddess of love, born from the sea foam when Cronus cut off Uranus’s male parts and threw them into the ocean. Otherwise it looked feminine and mildly frivolous as befitted its function and location. Not a place he would normally set foot in unless absolutely desperate.
But Mr L. J. Dunton Esquire, otherwise known in polite society as Lucian John Dunton Avery, Marquess of Cannock, was desperate. Otherwise he would not be found dead within a hundred miles of an obscure seaside resort in the not very fashionable time of mid-September. That desperation had driven him to ask for advice and the landlord at the rigidly respectable Royal Promenade Hotel had recommended this place, so he pushed open the door to a tinkle of bells and stepped inside.
* * *
Sara gave one last twitch to the draperies and stepped back to admire the display of artists’ equipment she had just set up beside the counter—easel, palette, a box of watercolour paints, the beginnings of a rough sketch of the bay on the canvas—all tastefully made into a still life with the addition of a parasol set amidst a drift of large seashells and colourful beach pebbles.
There, she thought, giving it an approving nod. That should inspire customers to buy an armful of equipment and rush to the nearest scenic viewpoint to create a masterpiece.
She replaced the jars of shells she had used on their shelf next to the other glass vessels full of coloured sands and assorted mysterious boxes and tins designed to stir the curiosity of the browser. A glance to her left across the shop reassured her that the bookshelves, the rack of picture frames and the table scattered with leaflets and journals looked invitingly informal rather than simply muddled.
Behind her the doorbells tinkled their warning. Sara turned, then modified her welcoming smile of greeting into something more restrained. This was not one of her usual clients. Not a lady at all, in fact. This visitor was not only unfamiliar, but male. Very male and a highly superior specimen of the sex at that. She kept the smile cool. She was female and most certainly young enough to be appreciative, but she had too much pride to show it.
‘Good morning, sir. I think you may have gone astray—the circulating library and reading room is just two buildings further up the street on this side.’
He was studying the shop interior, but looked round when she spoke and removed his hat. That was a very superior specimen as well. ‘I was looking for Aphrodite’s Seashell, not the library.’
‘Then you have found it. Welcome. May I assist you, sir?’
Aphrodite, I presume? The question was obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he caught it with the faintest twitch of his lips and said only, ‘I hope you may.’ He glanced down at her hand, saw her wedding ring. ‘Mrs—?’ His voice was cultured, cool and very assured.
She recognised the type, or perhaps breed was the better word. Her father was one of them, her brother another, although those two conformed only in their own unique way. Corinthians, bloods of the first stare, non-pareils, aristocrats with the total, unthinking, self-confidence that came from generations of privilege. But they were also hard men who worked to keep at the peak of fitness so they could excel at the pastimes of their class—riding, driving, sport, fighting, war.
Whether such gentlemen had money or not was almost impossible to tell at first glance because they would starve rather than appear less than immaculately turned out. Their manners were perfect and their attitude to women—their women—was indulgent and protective. Nothing mattered more than honour and the honour of these men was invested in their women, in whose name they would duel to the death in order to avenge the slightest slur.
It was not an attitude she enjoyed or approved of. She feared it. Nor did she approve of their attitude to the rest of the females they came into contact with. Respectable women, of whatever class, were to be treated with courtesy and respect. The one exception, in terms of respect, although the courtesy would always be there, was attractive widows. And Sara knew herself to be an attractive widow.
She conjured up the mental image of a very large, very possessive, husband. ‘Mrs Harcourt.’
The warmth in his eyes, the faint, undeniably attractive, compression of the lines at their outer corners that hinted at a smile, was the only clue to what she suspected his thoughts were.
He was a very handsome specimen, she supposed, managing, with an effort that was deeply annoying, not to let her thoughts show on her face. He was tall, well proportioned, with thick medium-brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin decided, his mouth...wicked. Sara was not quite certain why that was, only that staring at it was definitely unwise.
‘Sir?’ she prompted.
‘I have a sister. She is eighteen and in rather delicate health; her spirits are low and she is not at all happy to be here in Sandbay.’
‘She is bored, perhaps?’
‘Very,’ he admitted. Then, when she made no response, he condescended to explain. ‘She is not well enough for sea bathing and, in any case, she is unused to the ocean. That unfamiliarity makes her rather nervous of walking on the beach. She has no friends here and there are few very young ladies resident here, as far as I can see. At home, were she well enough, she would be attending parties and picnics, going to the theatre and dances, or shopping. At least her friends would be on hand. Here, she is not up to evening entertainments.’
‘You hope to find an occupation for her, something that will help her to pass the time during the day. I can understand that it might help. Can she draw or paint?’
‘Her governess taught her, but I do not think she ever applied herself to perfect her art. Marguerite was always too restless for that.’
If the girl was naturally active then convalescence and its restrictions must be even more galling. ‘Can she walk at all?’
‘A few hundred yards along the promenade seems achievable. Then she flags and asks to return. I cannot tell whether her reluctance is weakness or depressed spirits.’
‘Would she come here and visit the shop to see what we can offer?’
‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Not if I suggest it.’ He shut his mouth, tight lips betraying his anger with himself for allowing that flash of irritation to escape.
So, the young lady was at outs with her brother. Probably she wanted to be in London with her friends, however unhealthy that grimy city was for her. ‘Then shall I come to her? I could bring some ideas for crafts she might like to try, some drawing equipment, perhaps.’ As she spoke Sara made a slight gesture with her hand at the bounty of objects in the shop. ‘Something might tempt her.’
‘Temptation?’ The word, spoken in that warm voice, was like a touch. He really could stand very still for a man of his size. It was faintly unnerving for some reason, even though her closest male relatives had the same quality of stillness. It came from power and fitness and the knowledge that they did not have to move to make their presence felt. But this was not her father or her brother. ‘That would be most obliging of you, Mrs Harcourt. But who would mind your shop for you? Your husband, perhaps?’
That had been clumsy of him, the first maladroit thing he had done, and the rueful twist of those beautiful lips showed that he knew it.
‘I am a widow, Mr—?’ She did not expect for a moment anything other than a title, or at the very least a family name she would have heard of. She did not recognise him, but then she had been out only one Season before she married and moved to Cambridge with Michael, so it was perfectly possible to have missed him.
‘Dunton.’ He produced his card case and placed a rectangle of crisp pasteboard on the counter. ‘We are at the Royal Promenade Hotel.’
‘Where else?’ Sara murmured. With that tailoring and manner even the best private lodgings in Sandbay would not do. She took the card, felt the depth of expensive engraving under her thumb, glanced at it and found herself surprised. A plain Mister without so much as an Honourable to his name? She was not altogether certain she believed that, but she could hardly challenge the man on no evidence. Besides, as long as he was not engaged in some criminal endeavour he could call himself what he liked.
Faint sounds of pans clattering emerged from behind the curtain screening the door to the back room. ‘Excuse me, sir. Mrs Farwell, could you spare me a moment?’
To do him justice, Mr Dunton did not flinch when Dot emerged through the curtains, rolling pin in hand. She was a big woman, but then most of the dippers who commanded the bathing machines were. She glowered at him, which was her normal reaction when any man was close to Sara, and he returned the look with one of indifference. Dot gave a little grunt as though he had passed some test.
‘I am accompanying this gentleman to visit his sister at the hotel. Do you mind managing by yourself for an hour? I am not expecting more than usual to this afternoon’s tea and everything is ready to set out.’ Sara handed her henchwoman the card. Dot was not much of a reader, but it did no harm to let him see that someone else knew where she was going with Mr Dunton. She might be independent to a fault, according to her brother Ashe, but she was not reckless enough to go away with a strange gentleman without taking basic precautions. Particularly with this one who, she was certain, was not who he said he was.
‘Aye, all’s prepared and ready. All I need to do is to pour the hot water on the tea. Sandwiches are made, fruit cake and plain scones with strawberry jam waiting to be set out and the boy brought up a good lump of ice, so the cream and the butter are cooling nicely. I’ll take my apron off and come out the front.’ Her accent might be pure local Dorset, but none of their customers ever had any problem understanding it. If fate had decreed that Dot had been born somewhere other than a fisherman’s cottage, then she would have made even more of herself than she had already.
‘This is also a tea shop?’ Mr Dunton enquired as Sara took a basket and began to walk around the shop, selecting things to try and tempt his sister’s interest. It was hard to decide what to take, for Miss Dunton might be a very fragile invalid or she might simply be a wilful and tiresome brat. Time would tell.
‘We provide tea and refreshments twice a week. Customers come and work on their latest artistic projects, or their writing, perhaps. They exchange ideas and take tea. It provides a congenial place for ladies to congregate, somewhere they are not expected to confine themselves to idle chit-chat or to sit about looking decorative.’
‘And it encourages them to replenish their supplies while they are here.’
‘Exactly. This is a business, after all, Mr Dunton. The ladies encourage each other, take up new crafts having seen them being practised by their acquaintances and have an enjoyable few hours together. If you are ready?’
She put on a light pelisse, tied on her new, and pleasingly dashing, bonnet and added her reticule to the craft supplies. Mr Dunton reached for the basket, Sara held on to it. ‘There is someone outside to carry it, thank you, sir. I will be back soon, Dot.’
He held the door for her and attempted again to do polite battle for the basket, but as they emerged Tim Liddle came trotting over from the mouth of the alleyway beside the milliner’s shop opposite. He was eight and the main support of his widowed mother, so Sara gave him all the odd jobs she could find and some she had to create. He was clean but skinny, despite her best efforts to feed him up, and dressed in clothes that were worn and handed down, but his gap-toothed grin was cheerful.
‘Here you are, Tim. Down to the hotel with it, if you please.’ She handed over the laden basket, took Mr Dunton’s proffered arm and sent him a slanting look from under her bonnet brim as they walked down the hill to the promenade. ‘You did not really think I would go to a hotel with a strange gentleman, just like that, without any escort?’
‘That lad would not provide much protection against some unscrupulous buck, I’d have thought.’
‘No? If I do not reappear by the time I give him Timmy will raise hell with the hotel staff, then run for Dot, then fetch the constable whose second cousin he is.’
‘Ah, the formidable Dot. Now she would scare any ill-meaning male. She might well have assisted Cronus in his gruesome assault on Uranus, given the size of those brawny arms and the look she gave me. Does she not like my face in particular, or is she opposed to the entire male sex on principle?’
Sara did not rise to the bait of his reference to Aphrodite’s birth. ‘Dot was a dipper. They need to be strong women to deal with nervous customers who have never been in the sea before. Some of them fall over and have to be dragged out of the surf and others become agitated when it comes to being dipped and so have to be held tight and ducked under even more firmly. She hurt her back and could no longer do such heavy work, so she came to help me. She was grateful for the opportunity and, quite unnecessarily, has set herself to guard me against...importunity.’
That should suppress any inclination Mr Dunton might have to flirtation. Sara, who was not above enjoying the escort of a large, elegant gentleman—or the stimulating sensation of a well-muscled arm under her hand—allowed the silence to persist for the five minutes it took to reach the Royal Promenade Hotel at a gentle stroll.
The hotel was a straggling edifice consisting of a number of adjoining buildings tacked together with linking doors and added passageways. All had been unified by a coat of cream colour wash over the entire façade, set off by royal blue trim and the hotel’s name in large gilt letters.
Mr Dunton removed the basket from Tim’s grasp and stopped in front of the reception desk where the proprietor was speaking to the clerk. ‘Mr Winstanley, would you show Mrs Harcourt to our private sitting room while I fetch my sister to her?’
Nicely done, sir, Sara thought as she, and her basket, were ushered upstairs and through to a pleasant room with a bay window overlooking the promenade. All very much above-board and using Mr Winstanley to establish his credentials as a respectable man who does, indeed, have a sister in residence. But there is still something not quite right about you, Mr Dunton.
But whatever it was it did not affect the essential attractive masculinity of the man, even if something was making her antennae twitch with curiosity. He was very aware of her as a woman and she was equally as aware of him—the trick was going to be not showing that.
She settled herself at the table, took the sketchbook and a pencil from the basket and began to draw the scene from the window, concentrating on a rapid and amusing vignette of two ladies who had stopped to chat by the flagpole. One was large, the other thin, and both had ridiculously small lapdogs on ribbon leashes. When the door opened Sara stood up and dropped the book quite casually, face-up, on the table.
The young woman who came into the room with Mr Dunton at her back was obviously his sister, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but a straighter nose and less firmness to her chin. She was also very obviously young, had been unwell and was in a state of the sulks.
‘Marg—Mrs Harcourt, might I present my sister, Marguerite.’ Mr Dunton frowned at his own stumble and the girl sent him a sharp glance. ‘Marguerite, this is Mrs Harcourt whose shop I passed today. She has kindly brought down some things that might interest you.’
Miss Dunton bobbed the sketchiest of curtsies and sat on the other side of the small round table set in the window bay.
How very interesting. Dunton had begun to present her to his sister, which was correct if the girl was of higher rank. Then he had caught himself and presented the girl to her, the older, married woman. Which meant two things. Firstly he was treating her like a lady, not a shopkeeper, and secondly he and his sister actually ranked above a respectable married lady, even though he did not know to whom she had been married.
If you are not in possession of a title, my fine gentleman, I will eat my expensive new bonnet, feathers and all.
So what was he doing in Sandbay and what was wrong with his sister?
Sara summoned up her professional smile and a brisk but friendly tone of voice. ‘Good morning, Miss Dunton. My shop provides everything in the way of rational entertainment for ladies.’ That was met with a blank look so she tried for something more direct. ‘I stock everything from hammers to hit fossils out of rocks to nets to explore rock pools with.’
Finally she had managed to produce a blink of reaction from the young woman. ‘Hammers?’
‘And art materials and plain wooden boxes and mirror frames and so forth to decorate with paint or shells or scrollwork. Fabrics and embroidery floss, knitting wool, water trays for making seaweed pictures, patterns...books, journals.’ She nodded towards the basket. ‘Perhaps you would like to take a look. Would you excuse me while I just finish my sketch of those two ladies outside, they make such an amusing picture.’
Behind her chair she gestured with her hand towards the doorway, hoping Mr Dunton would take the hint. After a moment, when she picked up the pad and pencil again, she heard the door open and close and bent her head over the sketch. To have the man out of the room was like releasing a pent-up breath and letting air into her lungs. He seemed to inhabit all the space, even when she could not see him.
Sara steadied her breathing and her pencil. She was not here for Mr Dunton’s sake.
Chapter Two (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
From the corner of her eye Sara saw Marguerite hesitate, then begin to explore the basket. ‘Why would you want to hit rocks?’ She uncorked a bottle of little shells and let them run out into her palm. ‘And what is a fossil?’
Sara sketched and explained about fossils, then mentioned, very casually, how liberating it was to scramble about at the foot of the cliffs, hitting things hard. ‘I really do not think that young ladies have the opportunity to hit things enough, do you?’
‘I often want to.’ Marguerite picked up the hammer and weighed it in her hand as though visualising a target. Despite her apparent fragility she managed it with little effort. ‘Aren’t rock pools full of slimy things?’
‘They are full of beautiful things, some of which are a trifle slimy. But the pleasure of taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling far outweighs the occasional slithery sensation.’
‘No stockings? In public?’ Finally, some animation.
‘On the beach only, of course. There, what do you think?’ She tipped the sketch up for Marguerite to see.
‘Oh, that is so amusing! The large lady with the little dog and the thin lady with the fat pug. How clever you are. I could never do anything like that.’
‘It really isn’t very good technically—I only sketch for my own amusement and rarely show anyone.’
‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ The girl’s shoulders slumped again, the moment of animation gone. It wasn’t boredom or petulance, more as though she was gazing at blankness, Sara thought. This went deeper than a lowness of spirits after the influenza or a fit of the sullens at being dragged off to the seaside by her brother. ‘I can’t draw as well as you. I do not like embroidery...’
‘Neither do I. Did your governess insist on you sewing tiresome samplers?’ Marguerite nodded, so, encouraged, Sara pressed on. ‘I hold afternoon teas at my shop where ladies bring their craft work or their writing and chat and plan new projects and eat wickedly rich cake. There is no need to socialise if you don’t want to—some ladies just read or browse.’
‘I suppose they gossip about their beaux.’ The pretty mouth set into a thin line.
‘Not at all.’ Interesting. Has she been disappointed in love, perhaps? ‘We do not meet to talk about men, but about what amuses us. And men, so often, are not at all amusing, are they?’
‘No. Not at all.’ Marguerite glanced towards the door, then stooped to rummage in the basket again and came up with a pamphlet. ‘What is this?’
‘How to make seaweed pictures. It is rather fun, only very messy and wet. I am holding a tea this afternoon at three, if you would like to come. It is six pence for refreshments and there is no obligation to buy anything.’
‘What did Lucian tell you about me?’ Marguerite asked suddenly.
There are going to be tears in a moment, poor child. Whatever is wrong? Don’t lie to her—she will know. She isn’t stupid.
‘That you hadn’t been well, that you were here for your health, but were very bored, and he hoped I might have something that would entertain you. Do you wish you were back in London? If that is where you live?’
‘No... Yes, that is where our town house is, where my brother lives. I wish I were in France.’ The hazel eyes with their lids that seemed swollen from crying gazed out southwards over the sea. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Marguerite whispered so softly that Sara realised she could pretend she hadn’t heard that heart-rending murmur. What on earth could she reply that wasn’t simply a string of ill-informed platitudes?
‘I have never been to France. I was brought up in India.’
‘Is that why your skin is so golden? Oh, I do beg your pardon, it was rude of me to make a personal observation like that. Only you are so very striking.’
‘Not at all. I am one-quarter Indian on my mother’s side. Her mother was a Rajput princess.’
That sent the threat of tears into full retreat. ‘A princess? And you own a shop?’
‘Because it amuses me. When my husband died I wanted to do something practical for a while, to get right away from everything that had been my life before. I found it helped.’ A little. It even keeps the nightmares at bay for most of the time.
That would probably all get back to Mr Dunton, or whatever his name was, but her real identity was no secret in Sandbay. It would certainly serve to confuse the man, what with his assumptions about widows. Would he still flirt with a part-Indian descendant of royalty?
She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘I must go now. Shall I look for you this afternoon?’ Sara kept the question indifferent, as though she did not much mind one way or another. This girl was being pushed to do things for her own good and her natural reaction was to push back, because that gave her some feeling of control. Sara reflected that she was all too familiar with that response herself. She began to gather up the scattered contents of the basket, pouring the seashells back into their jar.
‘Yes, I will, thank you. Must my brother come, too?’
‘Oh, no. We do not allow the gentlemen to join in. He may deliver you and collect you, of course.’
And, finally, she had earned a smile. Small and fleeting, but a smile. What on earth was wrong with the child? And with her relationship with her brother, for that matter.
They said their goodbyes, Sara deep in thought. The moment she closed the door behind her the basket was taken out of her hands.
‘What response did you get?’
‘Mr Dunton, I suggest you speak to your sister. I am not some sort of go-between for you and I am certainly not going to spy on her.’ Then she saw the rigid set of his jaw and the anxiety in his eyes and relented. ‘Miss Dunton would like to come to our tea this afternoon. Three o’clock, for ladies only.’
‘These are all respectable ladies—’ he began.
‘Either you trust me, Mr Dunton, or you do not. Good day to you. I hope to see your sister later.’ She did not stop to see if he reacted to the emphasis she put on his name. ‘Tim! Take the basket, if you please.’
Respectable ladies, indeed. What does he take me for?
* * *
A fierce little beauty. Lucian was in half a mind to wrest the basket back from her tame urchin and walk Mrs Harcourt back up the hill. Then he recalled why he was here, which was not to flirt with shopkeepers, however well spoken. However beautiful. Mrs Harcourt was slender, except for a lush bosom, and she was blonde, grey-eyed and golden-skinned. She might have Italian blood, perhaps, although that imperious little nose did not look Italian. Very beautiful, very self-possessed and dressed in perfect, expensive, simplicity. This was not what he had expected to find when he had set out that morning to interview a shopkeeper.
He nodded to the porter who opened the front door for him and strolled across the road to lean back against the rail that protected the drop to the beach. From there he could watch Mrs Harcourt stroll up the hill without appearing to stare. Even in motion she had a poise that argued a much more rigorous upbringing than a shopkeeper normally had. And when she was near there was a rumour of perfume in the air, a scent shockingly exotic in the salt-laden air of this little Dorset town. Sandalwood and something else, something peppery. Temptation, indeed. His body stirred at the memory.
Her voice was not merely genteel and well modulated, it was unmistakably of the upper classes. What on earth was a lady, a respectable young widow, doing acting as shopkeeper in a seaside resort, guarded by her miniature police spy and her formidable assistant? Lucian was conscious that the puzzle was doing nothing to dampen his very definite arousal.
How long had it been since he had been with a woman? Not since the beginning of this nightmare with Marguerite, he realised. Almost six months...a long time for him. Ever since he had been an adult he had been in a discreet relationship of some kind, sometimes simply brief affaires...more recently longer-term arrangements with a mistress. Lucian was naturally wary either of compromising his partners or of exposing himself to emotional entanglements. He was conscious of what was due to his name and his position and the reputation that his father had acquired as a womaniser did nothing to recommend a more flamboyant way of life to him. Finding himself responsible for a sister was an added incentive for discretion and the thought of next Season, when he had resolved to find himself a suitable young lady to court and marry, was another reason against setting up a new mistress. He had no intention of being an unfaithful husband.
But six months... No wonder the thought of taking a mistress was appealing. And pretty widows were often game for a brief liaison, ideal for a situation where his stay here was inevitably limited. But not, it seemed, this widow, who gave him the uneasy feeling that she was a mind reader and had no intention of reaching the end of the chapter as far as he was concerned.
Mrs Harcourt was almost out of sight now, still walking slowly, talking as she went to the lad beside her whose head was tipped to one side so he could look up at her. For some reason the slow pace seemed uncharacteristic—he could imagine her in rapid motion, swift, swirling, dangerous.
Dangerous? He really needed to get a grip on his fantasies.
* * *
That man had come out of the hotel and was watching her, she could feel it, even though she did not make the mistake of looking back. Sara kept her pace slow: let him look, she was not going to scuttle away like a nervous maiden and reveal how much he unnerved her.
‘Just drop that at the shop, there’s a good boy, and ask Dot for tuppence,’ she said to Tim as he shifted the big basket from one hand to the other. She kept going past Aphrodite’s Seashell and went into the third establishment she came to, Makepeace’s Circulating Library and Emporium, the town’s only library.
‘Good morning, Mr Makepeace.’
James Makepeace was sitting behind the counter, making up an order for one of the page boys at the hotel to take down for a visitor. He stood up, bowed from the neck and sat down again. ‘How may I assist you, Mrs Harcourt?’ He knew perfectly well who she really was, all the town did, but he kept her two identities, the shop and her social life, scrupulously separate like everyone else.
‘I wanted to consult the Peerage, if it is available, Mr Makepeace.’
If the library had been empty, which rarely happened during opening hours, he would stammer out Sara and she would call him James and he would blush rather shyly, his ears turning red, and offer her a cup of tea, which was as far as his notions of courtship dared go.
Sara did not encourage him beyond friendship, it would not be fair. She liked him very well, although not in any romantic sense. Besides, she had one marriage to a sweet, unworldly man behind her and she knew that it took a special kind of gentleman not to be dominated by her direct approach to life. The librarian was a friend, and always an amiable one, and that was quite enough for her.
‘It is on the usual shelf upstairs, Mrs Harcourt. Please let me know if I can be of further help.’
She murmured her thanks and climbed the short flight of stairs to the reading room with its panoramic view of the bay, one of its main attractions for those who were not bookish. Several people were out on the balcony in the sunshine using the telescope, two elderly gentlemen were engaged in a politely vicious dispute over the possession of The Times newspaper and a pair of young ladies came through from the lending section clutching a pile of what looked suspiciously like sensation novels.
Sara found the familiar thick red volume of the Peerage and settled down at a table. She had been out for less than a year before she married and she and Michael had moved immediately to Cambridge for him to take up his new post at one of the colleges. It was perfectly possible that she had missed seeing any number of members of the ton, including Mr Dunton, especially as her family had come to England from India only shortly before the Season began.
If I were going to take a false name I would keep it as close to my real one as possible so I would react to it without hesitation, she thought. Mr Dunton was about twenty-eight or nine, she guessed. His card gave his initials only, L. J., but Marguerite had called him Lucian quite naturally, so that was a start. She would begin with the Marquesses and work down the hierarchy because she was certain she knew all the dukes, at least by sight.
There was always the possibility that he was the heir to a title, which would slow the search down, but she was certain he was not a younger son. That gentleman had been born with a silver spoon, if not an entire table setting, firmly stuck in his mouth. Two pages...she turned the third and struck gold. There it was.
Lucian John Dunton Avery, third Marquess of Cannock, born 1790. Only sibling Marguerite
Antonia, born 1800. Seat, Cullington Park, Hampshire.
She closed the book with a satisfied thump of the thick pages which made the elderly gentlemen look over and glower. She smiled sweetly at them and they went back to their newspapers.
So why was the Marquess staying at the hotel incognito? There was nothing unfashionable or shocking about taking a seaside holiday in the summer and a good half of the ton did just that, although this was a quiet resort and not a magnet for society’s high-fliers like Brighton to the east or Weymouth, for the more sedate of the ton, to the west.
He was hardly outrunning his creditors and if there had been a great scandal involving him she must have noticed it in the papers, however little interest she took in society gossip. Or her mother would have written about it in the fat weekly letters that covered everything from the latest crim. con. scandals to the more obscure lectures at the Royal Society.
So the anonymity must be because of his sister and, as there was no shame in being unwell and a large proportion of the visitors were invalids or convalescent, there must be a scandal to be hidden, poor girl. She would need handling with even more sensitivity if that were the case.
Sara slid the Peerage back in its place on the shelf and went downstairs.
‘You found what you wanted, Mrs Harcourt?’
She was so preoccupied that James’s question made her jump. ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’
‘Will you be at the Rooms tonight? It is a ball night.’ Despite being shy James Makepeace loved to dance and the Assembly Rooms’ programme always included two ball nights every week during the summer season. When she nodded he asked, ‘Will you save me a set, Mrs Harcourt?’
‘Of course. The very first.’ Even with the Assembly Rooms’ rather limited orchestra it was a pleasure to dance. She had missed that almost more than anything during her long year of mourning. At least the very serious and straight-faced Marquess-in-disguise was unlikely to indulge in anything quite so frivolous as a seaside assembly dance.
* * *
Lucian was in half a mind to order a sedan chair for Marguerite to take her up the hill to Aphrodite’s Seashell, amused to see that the resort still provided them. But when he suggested it she laughed, actually laughed, and he was so delighted that he could not bear to put a frown back on her face by insisting.
She had been so bitterly sad and angry—with him, of course. This was all his fault, according to Marguerite. Not that bas—All the spirit, all the restless enthusiasm that was Marguerite, had been knocked out of her, replaced by a listless apathy in which he could not make the smallest crack. Even the anger had faded away, which was what had truly frightened him.
Marguerite was his only sibling and he was well aware that the difference in their age and sex had kept them apart. His childhood had been far stricter than hers—tutors, riding and fencing masters, carefully selected playmates from suitable local families had filled his days and provided his company. He could never forget that he was heir to an ancient title, great responsibilities, with a duty to the past and to the future. Marguerite had been spoiled and rather vaguely educated by a doting governess—it was no wonder that she had been hit so hard by what had happened.
‘As though I want to be carted through the streets like an ageing dowager,’ she said, pulling him back from his brooding, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, just like she used to do in the days before she ran away.
‘Well, take it slowly,’ he chided, not wanting to let his delight show. ‘It is a hill.’
‘I have to learn to climb hills again some time, otherwise everything would be abominably flat,’ Marguerite observed as she unfurled her parasol.
Had that been a mild joke, a pun even? Perhaps this flight to the seaside had not been such a bad idea after all and he had been too impatient for results. She managed the climb well, without needing to pause for breath, and studied the shop windows as they passed with something like interest.
Lucian took her into Aphrodite’s Seashell and let his gaze wander with seeming casualness over the women already gathered around the long table. Some were sitting with craftwork spread out in front of them, others stood chatting. Everyone looked up as he and Marguerite entered and then the ladies went back to what they had been doing without any vulgar staring. They all seemed perfectly respectable, well dressed and spoke in educated accents. Their ages ranged from about twenty to sixty, he estimated.
Mrs Harcourt was standing at the shelves, a number of books in her hands, talking to a tall, earnest-looking woman. ‘You could either write the journal directly into a book that is already bound and do your sketches on blank pages, or do the entire thing loose-leaf and then have it bound up, which might be safer—then if there are any small corrections you want to make that page can easily be replaced. But see what you think of these, at any rate, Mrs Prentice.’
She excused herself and came over to greet them. ‘Miss Dunton, Mr Dunton.’ She looked at him and Lucian found himself staring back into those intelligent grey eyes that, surely, held a gleam of mischief. What was there to amuse her? It did not seem to be malicious, more, almost, as though they shared a secret. And once more that inconvenient sense of attraction, of arousal, stirred. It should not have surprised him, he thought. This was a lovely woman with an intriguing mixture of assured sophistication and youth.
He wanted to touch her, badly, and that made him abrupt. ‘I understand there is a small charge for refreshments?’
‘Six pence, if you please, Mr Dunton.’
Lucian took off his glove to retrieve the loose change from his pocket book and held out the small coin, rather than put it on the counter. She extended her own hand, palm up, and his bare fingertips brushed her skin as he laid the silver on it. He suspected she knew exactly what he was about, but she was perfectly composed as she broke the contact and placed the coin on the counter. Her hand had been warm and soft to his fleeting touch and Lucian had a startling mental picture of it, pale gold on his bare skin.
‘Thank you, sir. At what time will you be returning to collect your sister? There is an excellent library just up the street on this side, if you choose to wait.’
So much for any thought of waiting in the shop to observe proceedings. ‘Thank you, I will investigate it,’ he said with a deliberately cheerful, open smile when he suspected she was anticipating something more laden with meaning, an invitation to flirt, perhaps. ‘Half past four, Marguerite?’
‘Mmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’ His sister was already investigating the books and pamphlets. As he watched her a woman in late middle age smiled and indicated a book with a murmured comment. Marguerite took it down from the shelf and Lucian nodded to Mrs Harcourt, resumed his hat and left the shop.
Most definitely surplus to requirements, he thought, turning to continue up the hill in search of the library. It was a surprisingly good feeling to see Marguerite confident and engrossed. He couldn’t even be annoyed that Mrs Harcourt was proving so resistant to his hints. She was a respectable lady with a position in the town to defend, no doubt, and, as a gentleman he had no intention of ruffling those feathers without a clear signal to proceed. Still, it was a pity, he enjoyed the unspoken conversation they seemed to be having. Or perhaps it was a duel.
Chapter Three (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
Two hours later Sara watched Mr Dunton—the Mysterious Marquess, as she was beginning to think of him—finally extract his sister from the shop, his arms full of parcels. She had suggested that Marguerite leave her purchases, and the shell-work project she had just begun work on, and she would have Tim bring them down to the hotel. But nothing would content her other than heaping them into her brother’s arms, despite the fact that no gentleman—let alone a marquess—should be walking around town laden like a footman.
To judge by his expression, any number of parcels was worth the animation on the girl’s face, the colour in her cheeks. Sara knew she ought to dislike him, or, at least, be completely indifferent to him, for he was exactly the kind of man she was living her life to avoid, but she admired his care for Marguerite.
She was still musing on the brother and sister—rather more on the brother, if she were to be truthful—as she locked the door, drew down the blind and began to deal with the contents of the cash drawer while Dot cleared away the tea things and washed up. The day’s takings had been good, she saw with satisfaction, entering them in her ledger before locking the money bag away in the safe. She must make a trip to the bank tomorrow, which was very gratifying.
It was not that she needed the money, exactly, but profitability was her main measure of success in a business and Sara did not like to fail at anything she put her hand to.
‘There you are, ducks.’ Dot emerged from the scullery, flapping a drying cloth before hanging it on the rail. ‘All done and dusted. Busy today, wasn’t it? I liked that little scrap of a lass, the new one. Pretty manners and no side to her. Looks as though she’s been having a difficult time of it though, bless her. It’s a hard thing to lose a baby.’
‘What?’ Sara stood up from the safe so sharply that she hit her head on the shelf above. ‘Ouch! What do you mean about a baby?’
‘She’s grieving and sad and she’s thin—but not in her bubbies. And Mrs Pike knocked against her when she passed the scones and she flinched and made a little sound like it hurt. I reckon they’re still sore, poor lamb, just like mine were when I lost our second.’
‘But she’s so young, only eighteen, I think. Oh, Dot, how awful.’ No wonder her brother was so anxious and so protective and they were here under a false name. ‘We must look after her, because I don’t think she has her mother or a companion with her, no woman to talk to, only her brother—and her maid, I suppose. And I would wager this shop he’s thinking most of the time about how to kill the man who fathered her child and not about how it has affected her.’
That was what men of breeding did, guarded the honour of their womenfolk whether the women wanted it or not. And people got killed as a result and the women in question were tied about with rules and restrictions because their menfolk cared so much and honour meant everything. Their honour, she told herself angrily. That helped stifle her own guilty conscience. A little.
The demands of honour had killed her husband, the man she had thought was above those antiquated notions about women and their lack of right to govern themselves and it had driven her here, a safe distance from the loving tyranny of father and brother. She could not turn away from Marguerite.
‘We’ll do our best for her, that’s for sure.’ The older woman threw her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her basket. ‘I’m off home to make supper, then we’re going down to the Dog and Mackerel, Farwell and me. What’ll you be doing, ducks?’
‘Dancing at the Assembly Rooms. I have promised Mr Makepeace a set.’
‘He’s sweet on you, you know, and he’ll never say, a’cos of who you really are.’
‘I know. I don’t encourage him, Dot. I just want to be friends. It isn’t because of who I am—it’s because I don’t think of him in any other way.’
‘Aye, poor bugger. He knows it, so don’t you be worrying about breaking his heart. He wouldn’t do for you anyway, but he’ll be hard put to compete with the likes of that other one now he is on the scene.’
‘What other one?’ As if I don’t know. ‘Honestly, Dot, shouldn’t you be off home?’
Her henchwoman, superbly indifferent to hints, made herself more comfortable with one expansive hip propped against the doorframe. ‘That Mr Dunton. If he’s a plain mister, then I’m the Duchess of Devonshire. And he’s taken a fancy to you. Not an honest one, that’s true, but where’s the harm in a bit of fun between the sheets, you being unattached and no maiden, as it were?’
‘Dot, stop it this minute. A bit of fun between the sheets indeed! I wouldn’t think of such a thing.’
Which is a barefaced lie. I haven’t thought of much else since I set eyes on him. The Mystery Marquess. Only his presence here was not such a mystery now she knew about his sister.
‘Aye, well, that’s what you say. You have a good time and if the Rooms are too dull, you drop in at the Dog and join in the sing-song.’ She took herself off on a gale of laughter at the thought, leaving Sara torn between amusement and exasperation.
Home for you, my girl. A nice bath, a few letters to write and then get dressed up and off to the Rooms for some wild dissipation, Sandbay-style.
* * *
Sandbay’s Assembly Rooms were only a year old, the creation of a consortium of the town’s leading businessmen who had raised the money for the construction. They had visited Weymouth and Brighton to seek inspiration and had returned to order a building containing a ballroom, card room, tea room and the associated retiring rooms, cloakrooms and entrance hall.
It was all very shiny, still smelled faintly of paint and had proved an instant success with the visitors and local gentry alike. Sara, who had a subscription for the season, paid off her sedan chair, left her outer clothing at the cloakroom and entered the tea room which served as the foyer during the evenings. A little flurry of new visitors was clustered around the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Flyte, who abandoned them with a smile and descended upon Sara.
‘Dear Lady Sarisa, welcome, welcome.’ She was his highest-ranking subscriber—unless Mr Dunton had subscribed and been recognised—and flattering her was far more important to the Master of Ceremonies than any number of newly arrived minor gentry.
‘Mr Flyte, please do not let me interrupt. You were speaking to these ladies and gentlemen.’ She bowed slightly in apology to the waiting visitors, annoyed that he had deserted them to toady to her, and went on through to the ballroom.
Although the music had not yet begun the room was already filling up, none of the subscribers feeling the need to demonstrate fashionable ennui and drift in halfway through proceedings.
James Makepeace appeared at her side, slightly pink and scrubbed around the ears, but smartly attired in his best evening suit. ‘Lady Sarisa, good evening. You have not forgotten that you promised me the first set, I hope?’
‘I have not.’ She put her hand on his proffered arm and they strolled around the room, greeting old friends and stopping to chat with the local squire, Sir Humphrey Janes, whose grandfather had built the first lodging houses which had given the resort its initial impetus. His son had invested in the hotel and the bathing rooms and the present baronet saw it as his family duty to encourage the social life of Sandbay.
‘You are in great beauty tonight, my lady.’ He bowed over her hand, twitted the librarian mildly on his courage in leading out the belle of the ball and warned Sara to ready herself for a visit from his sister. ‘She has plans for a charity bazaar and is scouring the town for committee members for the organisation. You would do well to flee to Brighton, if not Scarborough, to be at a safe distance.’
* * *
It was the laughter that caught Lucian’s attention as he entered the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side. Rich and musical, it sent a shiver of awareness down his spine.
‘Now, Mr Dunton, you must not hesitate to call upon my services for any needs you have while you are a guest in our little town. We may be small, but we pride ourselves here in Sandbay on giving our visitors our most personal attention. Suggestions for tours, recommendations for the most reliable livery stable—’
‘Who is that lady? The one in the amber and the emeralds? The one laughing.’
It couldn’t be, surely? A shopkeeper in silk and gems? Perhaps they were paste, but he doubted it—the green glowed in the candlelight with the authentic fire in the eyes of a black panther.
‘That, Mr Dunton, is our most distinguished resident, Lady Sarisa Harcourt—Lady Sarisa Herriard as was—the only daughter of the Marquess of Eldonstone.’ The Master of Ceremonies beamed as though he was personally responsible for the appearance of so elevated a personage. ‘A widow, you understand,’ he murmured. ‘We are fortunate that she recovers from her loss amongst us.’
‘Mr Flyte, this morning I took my sister to a shop called Aphrodite’s Seashell and met a Mrs Harcourt who bears a most uncanny resemblance to that lady.’ Someone was playing games with him and he did not like it.
‘Oh, hush, sir, I do beg you.’ Flyte was positively flapping his hands in agitation at this indiscretion. ‘A little eccentricity in a lady is something to be indulged, is it not?’
‘It is?’ Eccentric dowagers were one thing, beautiful young widows were quite another.
‘Oh, most certainly. Lady Sarisa lends lustre to all the social and charitable occasions in the town and also amuses herself harmlessly by providing entertainment of a cultured and unexceptionable kind to ladies of all ages.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice even more. ‘We assist in keeping her ladyship’s two, shall we say, lives quite separate.’
What the blazes her father the Marquess thought of this Lucian could not imagine. He had met the man, and his exquisite and alarming Marchioness, two years ago when they had come to England from India when Eldonstone inherited the title. The East India Company soldier and his exotic, half-Indian wife had caused a stir amongst the ton and there had been a son and daughter, he recalled now, but he had not met them because he had been called from London to his father’s deathbed and the remainder of that Season had passed without him.
Lady Sarisa had inherited her mother’s looks, but her father’s blond hair and grey eyes, striking in contrast with the pale gold of her skin. For a moment he speculated that her marriage had caused a rift in the family, but if it had, she had not been cut off without a penny, because that gown and those gems had not been bought on a shopkeeper’s earnings.
The small string orchestra struck up with a flourish and couples began to come on to the floor to form the first set. Lady Sarisa was led out by someone else he recognised, the gangling local librarian.
‘I would beg the favour of an introduction to the lady when this set is completed, Mr Flyte.’
‘Of course, sir. I would be only too happy to oblige.’
Lucian might be incognito, but he knew that Flyte had discreetly assessed his tailoring, his accent and his manner and clearly decided that he was suitable to make the acquaintance of Sandbay’s grandest resident.
Lucian was wryly amused at his own reaction to that valuation. He had thought that somehow he kept his own self-esteem separate from his sense of what was due to his rank and position, but it seemed that his father’s constant reminders of what was due to—and from—a marquess had made a deeper impression than he had thought. This was the first time that he had ever found himself in society as a plain gentleman and it was a mild shock to find how much he would have been put out to have been ignored.
He took himself off to the card room, reluctant to let Lady Sara see him standing waiting on her, watching her. If she wanted to play games, he was not going to join in, at least, not too obviously. But how to approach her now? Flirtation would be acceptable, he was certain, but anything else was another matter. This was not some dashing widow on the fringes of society.
* * *
When the set finally came to an end he was back in the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side.
‘Lady Sarisa.’
She turned at the sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice, the movement wafting her scent to Lucian’s nostrils. Definitely sandalwood, with an overtone of citrus, an undertone of pepper and a stimulating frisson of warm female skin, although that last might have been his fantasies at play.
‘Mr Flyte.’ The smile on her lips curved them into a seductive bow and her grey eyes seemed to pick up green glints from the emeralds at her ears and throat.
‘May I have the honour of presenting Mr Dunton of Hampshire to your ladyship as an eligible partner? Mr Dunton, Lady Sarisa Harcourt.’
Lucian bowed, she curtsied. Mr Flyte retired beaming.
‘Lady Sarisa.’
‘My lord.’
For a moment he thought he had misheard her, then he saw those grey eyes were alight with mischief. ‘Just who do you think I am, madam? I confess that you have me confused.’
‘I know exactly who you are. The Marquess of Cannock. Do you intend to ask me to dance, my lord? I am unengaged for the next set.’
‘I would be delighted,’ he said grimly, offering his hand as the musicians signalled the start. ‘We need to talk, Lady Sarisa, but not here.’
‘No, indeed. I will show you our seafront terrace after this set. It is delightful on such a warm evening as this.’
‘I am sure it is.’ Lucian made himself concentrate on the dance, a complex country measure that kept him busy negotiating the steps and gave little opportunity for speculation on the games eccentric young ladies might play on moonlit terraces.
‘There is no reason we may not converse about general matters,’ Lady Sarisa remarked as the convolutions of the dance brought them together for a moment. ‘Unless you are a nervous dancer, of course, in which case I will observe strict silence. You only have to give me a hint. Do you intend a long stay in Sandbay, Mr Dunton?’
‘My nerves will withstand a little conversation, I believe. I had planned on a stay of a few weeks, Mrs Harcourt.’
She chuckled softly as the measure separated them and he remembered with a jolt that this was not some game between the two of them, but something much more serious. She knew he was keeping his sister from society, that there was something very wrong and he had no idea at all whether he could trust her discretion. Who did she know and, more importantly, who might she gossip to? If he had any hope of saving Marguerite’s reputation then she must make her come-out next Season in good health and spirits without a whisper of suspicion that anything had gone amiss. Even then, it was going to be hard enough finding a suitor willing to overlook what had happened if it ever came to a proposal of marriage.
But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, there was this woman to deal with. This infuriating, teasing, beautiful woman.
By the time the set had finished Lucian was quite ready to scoop up Lady Sarisa and dangle her over the waves if that was what it took to ensure her promise of silence. Somehow he managed to wait until they were off the dance floor and to make his words a suggestion, not a demand. ‘Madam. Would you care to take the air?’
‘That would be delightful. The terrace is this way.’
The Assembly Rooms building stood at one end of the promenade with its back to the sea at the point where the sweep of sand tapered into the beginning of low cliffs. At high water, which was the present state of the tide, the waves broke against the foot of the sea wall along which the terrace had been built. In a high wind they would have been drenched. As it was, with only the lightest breeze, and the moonlight enhancing the glimmer of lanterns set along the balustrade, it was a welcome escape from the heat and noise of the ballroom.
Lucian scanned the terrace along which at least half-a-dozen couples were strolling. ‘We are adequately chaperoned, I see.’
‘We will be alone soon enough, but I am not quite so careless of my reputation as to come out here when it is deserted to begin with, my... Mr Dunton.’
‘If your reputation can survive spending half your time as a shopkeeper, Lady Sarisa, I would suggest it could stand most things.’
‘Sara, please. Anywhere else it would not, of course, but Sandbay is not the resort of the ton, nor even the smarter set. One day soon it will begin to come into fashion and then I will have to become respectable all of the time or leave.’ She lifted her hand from his arm and strolled to the balustrade.
Lucian felt as though he had stepped away from a warm hearth. ‘You do not fear that irreparable damage has already been done by your masquerade as a shopkeeper?’
Lady Sara turned in a swirl of skirts and leaned back, both her elbows on the stonework. The amber silk settled into soft folds that hinted at the slender limbs and feminine curves beneath. He kept his eyes on her face with an effort that he feared was visible.
‘It is not a masquerade. I am a shopkeeper, just not all of the time.’ She sighed. ‘I see I was right about you, Mr Dunton—you are one of those men who believe a woman begins and ends with her reputation and that what defines good and bad reputation is dictated entirely by the whims of society.’
‘Hardly whims. The conventions uphold moral standards and protect the lady concerned from insult.’ Lord, but I sound like some crusty old dowager.
‘You believe that running a shop as I do somehow degrades my morals?’ Sara seemed genuinely to expect him to answer such a shocking question. ‘If I were running a milliner’s and whoring out my assistants, which is all too common, then, yes, I would agree with you. It seems to me that society is too lazy to apply judgements on a case-by-case basis and so must make sweeping statements that mean nothing and only serve to imprison women.’
‘The rules are there to protect women, not imprison them.’
‘They do little to protect women who are without money or influence, those who have to work for their living. They trap ladies.’ The passionate belief throbbed through her voice.
He could have shaken her because she was so mistaken. ‘It is the duty of gentlemen to protect ladies. A matter of honour. You know your father and brother would say the same and your husband would have agreed.’
‘Oh, yes, he agreed with them. In the end.’ A tremor shook her voice and for a moment he thought she blinked back tears, then she was on the attack again. ‘When you come right down to it this is all about men’s honour because we are your possessions.’
‘Ladies need protection.’ Lucian stalked over to the balustrade and stood a safe six feet away. Shaking the provoking creature would not be a good illustration of his case, kissing her even worse. ‘How did you get here this evening, for example? These streets and lanes are dark, anyone could be lurking.’
‘By sedan chair with the same two reliable, burly chairmen I always use. They will come and collect me later. And should desperate footpads leap out and manage to fell both of them, then I can defend myself.’
‘How? With sharp words?’ he demanded and took two strides to stand in front of her, his hands either side, pinning her back against the balustrade. ‘Men are stronger, more vicious, than you could imagine.’
‘Also more vulnerable,’ she murmured. ‘Look down, my lord. It is not only my words that have an edge.’
He did, just as he felt a pressure against the falls of his evening breeches. In the moonlight something glinted, sharp steel, held rock-steady in her hand. Lucian stood quite still. ‘Where did that come from?’
Chapter Four (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
Sara’s smile was wicked as she watched his face. ‘My sleeve. The current fashion for long sleeves on evening gowns makes life so much simpler. I am carrying two blades and three hairpins which are not really hairpins at all. And the cord threaded through my reticule is the perfect length for a garrotte. There are other things in my repertoire, but I shall keep them to myself in case I should need them.’
‘Who the blazes taught you to use a knife?’ And a garrotte? The dangerously intimate pressure eased and when he risked another downward glance the blade had vanished.
‘My mother. At her uncle’s court she and the other ladies were taught to fight. If an enemy had penetrated into the fort then they would have defended themselves and died rather than be captured and dishonoured. Their honour was in their own hands, you see.’ She smiled, the moonlight throwing mysterious shadows across her face. ‘My father and my brother added to my education, even though they are both European enough to want to fight the duels themselves on my behalf.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘Don’t be so stuffy, my lord.’
Stuffy! His father’s infidelities had hurt his mother deeply, not that she ever gave any obvious sign of even knowing about them. As a youth Lucian had watched and listened and, he supposed, he had judged his father. A gentleman behaved in a certain way—or, rather, he must be seen to behave that way. Appearances were all. But to Lucian that seemed like hypocrisy and he vowed he would not behave that way. Not only did one not hurt women, but one protected them, with one’s life if necessary.
But to label him as stuffy because of that was the outside of enough. The music had begun again. Lucian was aware of movement along the terrace, then he sensed they were alone. A rapid glance confirmed it. ‘You think me stuffy?’ he demanded.
She nodded, so close that the movement brought her upswept hair close to his face. Sandalwood, pepper, warm woman...
Lucian bent his head and kissed her. He lifted his hands away from the balustrade so that she could slide sideways if she wished, then closed his eyes and sank into the sensual, dangerous taste of her. Her hands, innocent of any weapon, settled on his shoulders and he let his own close around her waist, feeling the delicious swell of her hips, resisting the urge to lift his hands to her breasts.
She had been a married woman, one who had enjoyed fully the sensual pleasures of the marriage bed—that was very apparent in the frank way she kissed him back, the sinuous glide of her tongue into his mouth, the way her body moulded itself to his. To kiss her, to hold her, was every bit as inflammatory as the fantasies he had been trying to push away since he had first set eyes on her. And now he wanted more. He wanted all of her, naked, in his arms, in his bed.
* * *
Lucian’s kiss was every bit as delicious as she had been dreaming about, his hands on her body as strong. The subtle vibration running through his muscles told her how hard the effort to restrain himself was and that was reassuring. She had not misread this man after all. He wanted her, but he would ask for what he wanted and take no for an answer, she thought.
But the indulgence of a kiss was one thing, allowing him to assume her intentions went any further, as far as her desires, was quite another. It took an effort that surprised her to push Lucian away, her lips clinging for one last moment of contact.
His hands dropped from her waist and he stepped back, his face impossible to read in the poor light. ‘I apologise.’
‘Why?’ She felt genuine surprise. ‘If I had objected, you would have been in no doubt. I wanted you to kiss me.’
‘Why?’ he echoed her, standing very still. Sara realised that the lamplight fell full on her face and he was studying her expression intently.
‘Because you are an attractive man, because I miss being kissed and because I was curious.’
‘And is your curiosity satisfied now?’ Lucian’s voice was very dry.
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
He moved slightly and the light caught the lower part of his face, betraying just the glimmer of a smile, a sensual curve of those lips that had been so skilful, caressing hers. ‘And?’
‘And nothing more. I know why you are here under an assumed name and I know what it is like to kiss you.’
‘You know why? How can you?’ Every ounce of sensuality had vanished from his voice. Sara found she was glad of the support of the cold stone at her back.
‘Because Dot knows what it is to lose a baby.’
The hiss of his indrawn breath was audible even over the sound of the waves sucking at the shingle on the beach below.
‘Neither of us would dream of betraying her secret and I do not think anyone else would realise unless they knew how sad and fragile she is.’ When Lucian said nothing she risked putting her hand on his forearm. ‘Marguerite is lucky to have your support.’
He shrugged. ‘I feel helpless. I do not know how to help her, to reach her. She rejects everything I try.’
‘You have to give her time, she is mourning.’ In the ballroom there was applause as another set drew to a close. ‘We cannot talk out here for much longer or it will be noticed. Tomorrow the shop is closed for the morning, come then. I would like to help Marguerite if I can. A loving brother is a wonderful thing, but I suspect she needs a woman to talk to.’
Lucian put his hand over hers as it rested against his arm. ‘What happened just now—’
‘Was a moment that will not be repeated? Of course it will not. I told you I was curious, not that I expected an affaire and, besides, you do not want a woman with whom you are having an irregular relationship anywhere near your sister, do you?’
His cool silence said it all. Where had all that tingling warmth gone to? Sara took back her hand, gathered up her skirts and moved towards a side door. ‘I will go to the ladies’ retiring room, it would be more discreet if we do not return together.’
And so much for your assumption that you were sophisticated enough to deal with any gentleman who crossed your path, she scolded herself. No wonder he had become cool. She had sent messages that she was available and then backed away. He must think she was an outrageous flirt or a horrid tease and either possibility made her feel hot with an embarrassment she hadn’t felt for years.
The room set aside for ladies to repair their complexions and hair, and to have drooping hems and split seams attended to, was mercifully empty, except for the maid on duty. She stood up when Sara entered, bobbed a curtsy and then waited in the background while she sat at a dressing table and made a pretence of fussing with her hair.
What did you expect? she scolded herself. Sinking with embarrassment was not going to help matters, she needed to understand herself. She had wanted a moment of madness, the touch of a man’s mouth on hers, the affirmation that she was not rushing towards a sexless middle age, she supposed, and Lucian had assumed she expected more, probably a full-blown affair, she guessed.
Perhaps that is what I really want. She hadn’t expected to miss sex. It had been lovely with Michael, of course. She had loved him and he had been tender and careful. Perhaps, thinking about it in retrospect, a little too respectful. All the whispers, the gossip from other women, portrayed sex as exciting, thrilling, sublime. Her experience had been that it was pleasant, and occasionally exciting, and the intimacy and trust had certainly brought her and Michael closer together. But sublime and thrilling? That kiss just now had been thrilling, it had made her toes curl, but perhaps that was simply because it was not a married kiss but a shocking one.
The Marquess of Cannock was a physically attractive man who apparently found her attractive, too, which was, in itself, arousing. But he was precisely the kind of man she had avoided marrying, the sort who wanted to smother all his womenfolk under the all-enveloping cloak of his honour, to control them, however benevolently. Daydreams and frankly erotic night-time dreams were no reason to risk entangling herself with a man she would have no intention of marrying.
Sara frowned at her own face in the mirror. It had taken long enough to recover from Michael’s death, she would be insane to risk her still-tender emotions on a man so very different, so very...dangerous.
She gave herself a little mental shake. The fact that she was attracted to a man was an encouraging sign that she was returning to normal after her mourning—that was all. The really important person in all this was Marguerite and she could do nothing about the girl until tomorrow. Now she was going to go out into the ballroom to dance and enjoy herself and if Mr Dunton was making himself agreeable to all the ladies, then that would be excellent.
* * *
Lucian climbed the hill to Aphrodite’s Seashell next morning, prey to more uncertainty regarding a woman than he had experienced since he was eighteen. Lady Sara... Mrs Harcourt rather, as this was daylight and she seemed to change at nightfall like some magical creature, Sara was not indiscreet or mischievous or uncaring. However she felt about him after that kiss she would do nothing to harm his sister. But what had that been about? She was sexually experienced and yet she had treated it as no more than a moment’s diversion, not the invitation to a full-blown affaire that he had taken it for.
Was she actually that sensual, that beautiful, that free and yet that innocent? He reached the door, which had the blind drawn down and a sign reading Closed, and knocked.
When the door opened it was the redoubtable Mrs Farwell who stood there. She came right out into the street before ushering him in and Lucian realised she was demonstrating to anyone who happened to have seen him that Mrs Harcourt was very adequately chaperoned.
Lucian knew himself to be experienced, sophisticated even, in the relationships between men and women. It was strange and more than a little disconcerting to feel a faint apprehension about this meeting. Sara had kept him wrong-footed from the beginning, although if he was honest with himself, she had done nothing and he had fallen into one misapprehension after another about her identity, her likely morals, her availability. And he did not feel very comfortable about any of that, he realised as he waited inside the shop for Mrs Farwell to relock the door.
‘Lady Sara’s out on the balcony,’ Mrs Farwell announced with a wave of her hand towards a door in the back wall. ‘I’ll brew some tea. Expect you’d like some cake, most men do.’ Having reduced a marquess to the level of a small boy greedy for sweets, she stomped off through the curtained opening.
Lucian knocked on the door she had indicated and opened it to find himself apparently in mid-air over the sea. He covered the instinctive grab at the wall by closing the door and remembered that the hill that the street climbed was in fact a cliff, so the houses on this side of the road were built virtually to the edge. On either side the owners had cultivated tiny strips of clifftop garden but Sara’s shop, and a few other buildings, had balconies stretching along the width of their properties.
‘Good morning. You have no fear of heights, I see.’
Lady Sara was leaning on the elegant but terrifyingly spindly balcony railings facing out to sea. Lucian hitched one hip on the rail, leaned against an upright, and ignored the same unpleasant sensation low in his belly that he had experienced crossing Alpine passes on his Grand Tour. He itched to reach out and pull her back against the wall, away from danger.
‘Nor have you.’ She smiled as she turned her head and the heavy plait of hair slid over her shoulder to swing over the waves crashing below.
His stomach swooped in sympathy even as he admired the unconventional simplicity of her hairstyle. ‘Loathe them,’ Lucian confessed. ‘But it doesn’t do to give in to things.’
‘Does that work, or do you simply become good at dealing with the fear? I am afraid of snakes, which is a ridiculous thing in this country. In India there are a whole variety of lethal ones and it was quite rational to be wary of them. But here, my brother assures me, I would have to find an adder and then prod it with my finger to encourage it to bite me.’ He laughed at the image of Sara experimentally prodding an adder, but her smile faded. ‘I have never before come across a man who is actually prepared to admit that he is frightened of something.’
‘You see that as a sign of weakness?’
‘No, certainly not.’ She straightened up, very earnest now. ‘I think it admirably honest, though surprising.’
‘It depends what it is and to whom one is confessing. I wouldn’t admit a weakness, any weakness, to another man or to anyone who I suspect might want to do me harm: that would be a foolish thing to do, like showing a housebreaker where you keep your front door key. Besides, if it was something I was afraid of, but didn’t have the guts to confront, then I doubt very much that I’d own up to that, to you or anyone else.’ The fleeting look that she gave him expressed considerable doubt that he was keeping that kind of secret. Which was flattering.
‘A man challenging another to a duel, or accepting a challenge—he would be afraid, wouldn’t he?’ Sara asked, abruptly.
‘He’d be a fool not to be, just as a soldier going into battle must feel fear. The knack is not to show it, to harness it so that it sharpens you, not blunts you. Why do you ask about duels?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
She is lying, he thought, and waited.
‘Did you challenge the father of Marguerite’s child?’
Ah, so that was what this is about. ‘No, not yet,’ he admitted.
‘Not yet? You mean he refused your challenge?’
‘No, it means that I have not been able to lay hands on the bas—on the swine yet.’
‘Will she not tell you where he is? Or who he is?’
‘Oh, I know who he is all right. I trusted him, employed him, in fact.’ He hadn’t even managed to keep danger out of the house, but had invited it in to share the place with his innocent sister. ‘He abandoned her. She denies it, says something must have happened to him, but he walked out on her because of the baby and because the money had run out, I would wager anything on that.’
‘Oh, poor girl, she must be heartbroken, to lose both him and the baby.’
‘She is well rid of him. This is not some damned romance,’ Lucian snapped as the door opened and Mrs Farwell brought out the tea tray.
‘Language,’ she said, giving him what he categorised as A Look.
‘Thank you, Dot, that is delightful.’ Sara gave him the twin of the look and reached for the teapot. ‘Tea, my lord? Do take a scone.’
Lucian gritted his teeth into a smile at Mrs Farwell who looked less than impressed as she marched out, leaving them alone again.
‘Tell me about it if you can. I am exceedingly discreet.’ Sara handed him a cup and settled down on a rattan chair. He took its twin, glared at the scones, decided it would hurt no one but himself to ignore them and heaped on strawberry jam and cream.
‘I employed Gregory Farnsworth as my secretary eighteen months ago. He was just down from university, the third son of our rector. He proved intelligent, hard-working, personable. I began to include him in dinner parties and so on when I needed an extra man and before long he was part of the household. I trusted him implicitly.’ He took a bite of scone, savoured the delicious combination of cream and jam and made himself go on with the story.
Whatever your doubts, whatever errors you make, you keep to yourself, his father had told him. Remember who you are, what you are. And here he was, spilling out every detail of his failure to a woman he hardly knew.
‘Marguerite was just turned seventeen. Not yet out, but free of her governess and in the hands of my cousin Mary to acquire some polish before she made her come-out next Season. Mary apparently noticed nothing between them and I certainly didn’t, fool that I was. Not until, that is, the young puppy comes in one morning and announces that he is in love with Marguerite, that his affections are returned and that he wants my permission for them to be formally betrothed with the intention of marrying when she was eighteen.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Not such an age gap and not at all unusual, if he waited until she was eighteen.’
‘But he didn’t, did he? He lured the girl into believing herself in love with him instead of doing the honourable thing and waiting, keeping his distance, until she was out. I should add that he is probably the most beautiful young man I have ever seen—blond hair, blue eyes, Classical profile and so on and so forth. Even Mary admitted it gave her palpitations just to look at him. When I get my hands on him he is not going to look so pretty, believe me.’
‘You refused him permission, I assume.’
‘Of course I did. She was far too young, he had no prospects and no money beyond the salary I paid him. How did he think he was going to support the daughter of a marquess in the manner she was accustomed to? By sponging off me, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps she would have been happy to live more modestly?’ Sara ventured. ‘And if he is a good private secretary he might have hoped for a career in a government office or the Bank of England.’
‘That is academic. I refused him and warned him that if I ever discovered him alone with my sister, or writing to her, I would break his neck. I should have booted him out there and then, but his father the Rector was an old friend of my father’s, a decent man, and I hoped to keep this from him. Then I had to deal with Marguerite. I was an unfeeling brute, I had ruined her life, cast dishonourable aspersions on the motives of the man she loved, et cetera, et cetera... She threw an inkwell at my head and refused to talk to me.’
‘Go on.’ Sara poured more tea and Lucian realised he had drained his cup.
‘I had no idea that he had gone behind my back, but Farnsworth must have set out to seduce her almost immediately, if he hadn’t already. I worked it out when I eventually found her and talked to the doctor who told me how far along the pregnancy was. Two months after I forbade the match Mary came to me in strong hysterics, waving a note from Marguerite. I had forced her to take desperate measures, she said, so they had eloped and would be halfway to Scotland before I read the note.’
Chapter Five (#u5e72efc4-bc0f-57b0-879f-5f3811a0f2b6)
Sara’s gaze was fixed on his face. ‘Did they make it to Scotland?’
‘It was a bluff.’ Lucian blanked out that nightmare journey to the Border and back from his mind with the same concentration that he had applied to stay sane, to keep thinking and find their trail. ‘He took her to Belgium, to Brussels, thinking that they would find an English cleric there to marry them. They did find one. When I finally got on their track and found him he told me he had refused point blank, guessing that she was so much underage. It seems they then decided to try in Paris. Since Waterloo the Continent is full of English visitors and it was a reasonable assumption that they’d find someone, if not at one of the Anglican churches in the cities, then a private chaplain or tutor accompanying tourists.
‘They finally located a cleric, in Lyons. Their money was running out and Marguerite was six months pregnant. Farnsworth left her in a lodging house, telling her that he was going to interview the clergyman. He never came back. You may imagine the state she was in when I found her three days later.’
‘I can guess at it.’ He was so lost in the black misery of that time that he almost jumped when Sara put her hand over his. ‘And you must have been beside yourself with worry and exhaustion if you’d been chasing them the length of England and back and then across Belgium and France.’
‘Me? What I felt did not matter. I found my sister, my little sister, having a miscarriage in a run-down French lodging house with a landlady threatening to throw her out if she didn’t get paid. There was no hope of saving the child and for days I thought we would lose Marguerite as well. Even when the doctor said she was out of danger she simply turned her face to the wall. All she would say was, “He must be dead. They are both dead. I want to die, too.”’
Marguerite was all the family he had and he loved her and he had failed her.
‘And you have been looking after her ever since. How long?’
‘Three months.’
‘Is your mother alive? Are there no female relatives to help? Your cousin Mary?’ Sara’s warm hand was still over his, her fingers firm and comforting.
I do not need comforting. I am a man, I should be able to cope with this. It was surely a sign of weakness that he couldn’t bring himself to draw his hand away.
‘My mother is dead and I do not trust our aunts to know how to help her—they would be shocked and disapproving. Mary was in hysterics, it was all I could do to get her to be silent about it. Of course, I should have married as soon as I inherited. If I had found the right wife then she would have seen what I did not, but I had put that off, believing I had ample time.’ Another failure on his part, the selfish reluctance to plunge into the Marriage Mart, try and sift through the seemingly identical mass of pastel-clad, simpering misses to find the perfect Marchioness.
‘I thought it best to take Marguerite where no one would know her and gossip about her looks and her low spirits. Then, when she’s stronger, she can come out next Season, find a husband. If there is someone she takes to, then I will make certain her dowry will be large enough to ensure he doesn’t think about her past.’
‘But she will still be mourning Gregory,’ Sara protested. ‘She will not be ready to think about another man by then.’
‘He seduced, deceived and deserted her. Once she recovers from the miscarriage she will realise what a fortunate escape she has had.’
‘Idiot!’ Sara pushed away his hand abruptly and got to her feet. ‘I hardly know your sister, but I can tell she is no fool. And she is loyal. She has had to keep her feelings entirely to herself with no one to talk things through with, so how do you expect her to realise if she was mistaken? Or how could she convince you, for that matter, if she was not wrong about him? If she truly does love him, then you will have to find out what happened to him so she can begin to heal.’
‘If I thought he was still alive I’d be on his heels with a pistol, believe me.’ Lucian found he was on his feet, too, toe to toe with the maddening woman on the narrow balcony.
‘Oh, that would be very helpful!’ Sara prodded him painfully in the sternum with one long finger. ‘How do you expect her to cope if her brother kills the man she loves?’ She jabbed him again. ‘And it is not for her, is it? All this sound and fury is because of your honour. You believe you did not protect her. You failed as a self-appointed watchdog, so now you have to restore your own self-esteem, whatever the cost.’
‘I did fail to protect her and it was my duty to do so. And stop prodding me.’ He caught her hand in his just before the nail made contact for the third time.
‘Why? You deserve to be hit over the head with the tea tray, you and every other muddle-headed, bloodthirsty, honour-obsessed man.’
And then he realised that she was not simply angry, she was on the verge of tears. They gathered shimmering in her eyes, making them look like two great moonstones. With an impatient gesture she dragged the back of her free hand across them and Lucian pulled her towards him, against his chest, and wrapped both arms around her. ‘Don’t cry, I’m sorry, don’t cry, Sara.’ He was not sure what he was apologising for, but he felt sick, as though he had struck her.
She stamped on his foot, pushed against him. ‘Let me go! I am not crying, I never cry. I am angry.’
He released her warily and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief, aware it would probably be thrust back into his face. And, finally, his brain started working, started piecing clues together. ‘How did your husband die?’
‘In a duel. A pointless, stupid duel with his best friend who is somewhere out there—’ she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of France ‘—with his life ruined and Michael’s death on his conscience.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they got drunk and Francis, who, it seems, had a perfectly harmless tendre for me, was teasing my husband, the man who I thought was above all this stupid, patriarchal nonsense about women’s honour and duelling. And Francis, in his cups, went too far and... I don’t know what was said. Michael wrote in the letter he left that he never believed for a moment that I had been unfaithful to him and yet I cannot understand how he couldn’t see that Francis was drunk and a bit jealous, perhaps, and didn’t mean it. They told me that Francis had intended to fire wide, but he always was a hopeless shot...’
‘My God.’ He thrust the handkerchief into her hand, she stared at it as though she had no idea what it was for, then swiped at her eyes with it, blew her nose with inelegant force and threw the crumpled linen to the floor.
‘I suppose you think he did the right thing? Even my father and brother, who were appalled at his death, obviously understood why he had made the challenge.’
‘What else was he to do if his wife was insulted?’
‘Oh, let me see.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Wait until they were both sober? Ask Francis to explain himself? Blacken his eye? Act like the reasonable, reasoning, intelligent human being that he was?’ Sara turned from him and stood looking out over the sea. ‘Can you imagine what it is like for someone you love to get themselves killed and to leave a letter telling you that they did it for you? The guilt is hideous. Can you imagine how Marguerite will feel if her brother kills the man she loves for her?’
‘Gregory Farnsworth should be punished.’
‘If he is alive, if he really is a heartless seducer, then, yes, he deserves punishment. But you are not judge, jury and executioner, Lucian.’ When he didn’t reply she looked round at him and all the anger drained from her face, leaving only a small, bitter smile. ‘I haven’t convinced you at all, have I?’
‘I am appalled at what happened to you, but the circumstances are not the same.’ He stooped and refilled the cups. ‘Come and sit down and have some tea.’
‘Of course. We are English, are we not? Anything can be made more bearable by tea.’ Sara sat, seemingly quite calm now, and took the cup he passed her with a murmur of thanks. ‘But the question of Gregory is neither here nor there while you have no idea of where he is, or even if he lives. When I was grieving it was talking to my close friends that helped more than anything. Let me see if Marguerite will talk to me.’
Lucian looked at her as she sat, poised, beautiful, controlled again. And yet so much anger and grief and guilt boiled under that exquisite exterior. He wanted her, he realised, wanted to taste her again, to hold her, to strip every scrap of clothing from her body and possess her, wanted all that with an urgency that shook him. What did that make him, when he should be thinking about nothing but his sister’s welfare, when the woman he desired was still shattered by her husband’s tragic death? It simply made him male, he supposed, capable of thinking about carnal matters even in the midst of situations of great seriousness.
In the end all he could find to say was, ‘Thank you. I know I can trust you with her.’
* * *
Lucian was right to trust her to do her best to help Marguerite, but she would do nothing to help him bring down the errant lover, not if the girl still had deep feelings for the man. Sara sipped her tea and looked out to sea, watching Lucian from the corner of her eye. He was a brave man not to have fled when she had unleashed all that misery and anger about Michael’s death.
He was very attractive, she thought, and perhaps the fact that she noticed, that she wanted to kiss him again, wanted far more than that, was a sign that she truly had come through her mourning. She would never forget Michael, never stop loving the memory of him, or feeling anger at his death—and anger at him for challenging Francis and guilt herself for... No, she had promised herself not to dwell on her own guilt because it would drive her mad. She was a different woman now, a new Sara who had to decide what she really wanted in this moment, today. And tomorrow.
‘You are very thoughtful.’
And you, with all your demons, are an uncomfortable companion for my thoughts!
‘I was brooding on the future, what I will do when I leave here. The shop was always something for a year or so, something completely different from everything that had gone before. And it was creative, I could build the business, which was interesting. I have one grandfather who was an East India merchant and perhaps I have inherited his trading instincts.’
Restless now, she put down the cup half-emptied and went to look out over the sea again. The tide was turning and the little fishing fleet was making its way out to sea, red and buff sails vivid on the blue water as they butted through the waves. ‘Sandbay is changing, developing. There is perhaps one more year when I can live my dual life and then I will be too much of an oddity.’
Lucian came to join her at the rail, resting his hands on it as she was, their little fingers—his right, her left—just touching. A tingle like the spark from a cat’s fur in a thunderstorm shot up her arm. Did he feel it, too? His hand moved, covered hers, his thumb stroking slowly over the pulse in her wrist. Oh, yes, he feels it.
‘Sara. Last night you said you were curious. Are you still?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted and closed her eyes as the world narrowed down to the sensation of his caress on the tender skin, the awareness of his body next to hers, the brush of the breeze on her face. ‘But...’
‘Ah. The but.’
‘You should not allow your lover to associate with your young sister—and that is what we are talking about, isn’t it? Not just a kiss or two, but an affaire.’
‘That is what I desire, yes.’
Looking out to sea, with only Lucian’s voice to judge by, undistracted by his expression, she could read the layers of meaning. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, an affaire was what he meant: this was most definitely not a proposal of any other kind. And, no, he would no more bring his lover into contact with his sister at the moment than he would his mother, had she lived.
The silence hung there for the time it took a seagull’s scream to die away and then he said, ‘And you are quite correct, of course, about Marguerite. Her needs must be paramount.’
He was going to kiss her, she felt him shift against her as his breath touched warmth to her wind-chilled lips, then she was in his arms, moulding herself into his blatantly aroused body. There was no pretext now that this was curiosity or flirtation taken a little too far. This was an exchange of desire and demands that they both knew would go no further.
One of them had to stop and she supposed it had better be her. Sara rested her cheek on Lucian’s chest and listened to his heart beat and imagined it over hers as they lay in bed, then put the fantasy firmly away.
His hands dropped from her shoulders and she opened her eyes to see him outlined against the sun dazzle on the sea, already moving towards the door. ‘We will be in all day if you call. Marguerite would be pleased to see you. Thank you...for the tea.’
* * *
Marguerite was occupied with her new sketchbook at the window of the private sitting room at the hotel when Sara called. It had taken an hour to regain some composure and to think about how to best approach the younger woman. Now she perched on the table next to her and admired the drawing of the cliffs which was lively, if amateurish. ‘How is the shell mirror frame coming along?’
‘It is drying over there. I need some more small shells for the rim around the glass. Have you seen Lucian today?’
Was that a question with a hidden meaning, or simply a genuine enquiry? Sara bent over the mirror and spoke casually. ‘He dropped into the shop this morning to tell me you would be at home all day. Would you like to go out on the beach? I need to collect seaweed to make some pictures and it is lovely weather.’
‘I...yes, I would, I think, if it is safe. I can’t swim, you see, which makes the waves rather frightening. What should I wear?’ Marguerite looked dubiously at her very pretty morning dress with its frilled hem.
‘We won’t be doing anything more perilous than paddling, I promise. Wear something cotton, the kind of thing you would put on at home in the country to go into the garden to gather flowers. Something that doesn’t matter if you get salt splashes or sand on it. And no stockings, just some old, sensible leather shoes.’
‘No stockings?’ Marguerite looked mildly shocked.
‘It is far less immodest to walk across the road with no stockings on than it is to take them off on the beach. We will be getting our feet wet.’
‘Oh!’ She sounded dubious, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘I expect I have something. I won’t be long.’
* * *
The tide was ebbing as Sara led the way across the beach to the foot of the cliffs where the retreating sea exposed firm, flat sand. ‘If we go around the little headland then we are into Bell Bay, which is quite small and secluded. There is some talk in the town about creating a path over the headland and making that the ladies’ bathing beach with no men allowed until after noon on the sands or the part of the headland that overlooks it. It would mean room for some more bathing machines and the shyer ladies might feel more comfortable.’
She kept talking, chatting casually about trivial town affairs until they were around the headland, then she perched on a low rock and pulled off her shoes. ‘You do the same and then we can leave them on top of the rock. There, isn’t that pleasant? And walking on the sand smooths the feet beautifully.’
Marguerite grimaced at the feel of the cool, wet sand, then smiled, the first really wide, uninhibited, smile Sara had seen on her face. ‘It is lovely. Ooh—if I wriggle my toes I start to sink.’
‘There are no quicksands in this bay, we are quite safe. Now, if we walk across to those rocks over there we can explore the rock pools.’
* * *
It took no more than half an hour of splashing along the surf line and picking up shells and driftwood for Marguerite to relax. She finally came to rest on top of a smooth rock to catch her breath while Sara dipped glass jars into the rock pools under the cliff.
‘What does Sarisa mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘Is it Indian?’
‘It means charming.’ Sara straightened up and held out a jar to Marguerite. ‘See? A little crab. I’ll put him back in a moment. Papa said I was a perfect charmer, right from the beginning, so that is what they called me.’ She tipped the crab back into the pool and watched it scuttle under a fringe of weed. ‘Marguerite means daisy, doesn’t it?’
There was silence, then a wrenching sob. Appalled, Sara dropped the jar into the water and took Marguerite in her arms. ‘I am so sorry, what did I say?’
‘That’s what he called me. Gregory called me his... Dai... Daisy.’
Sara gave her a handkerchief, sat down on the rock beside her and held her until the storm subsided into sniffles. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? I guessed about the baby. And Gregory is the father?’
‘Oh!’ Wide, tear-drenched hazel eyes gazed into hers. ‘Did Lucian say anything? I think he believes it is better that I lost her, but he doesn’t say that, of course.’
‘I told him that I had guessed and asked if I could help you. I’m sure he would never wish that you had lost the baby, although probably he would prefer that she never existed in the first place.’
‘I am certain he does.’ Marguerite blew her nose defiantly and sat up. ‘I am sorry to be such a watering pot. I try to be brave, but I worry so.’
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