The Marriage Truce

Chapter Five

S arah sat cross-legged on the grass next to the lake and looked down at her sketch. She frowned. No matter how she tried, her pencil refused to cooperate and produce the soft, graceful curves which were needed to convey the peaceful scene before her. Instead, the quick, angry strokes made the lovely swans look as if they were gathering for an attack.

She threw down her pencil and glared at the water. Usually she loved coming to sit next to the small lake in the park behind Monteville House. Today, she felt extremely out of sorts. No, she was furious. Furious at Nicholas for showing up in his brash arrogant way, furious at Huntington for making it clear he regarded their marriage as a way to avenge himself on Nicholas and, most of all, furious at herself for caring a whit.

She hugged her knees to her chest. She had left the house as early as possible, wanting to escape before anyone, especially Nicholas, was up. The conversation still left a bitter taste in her mouth. Not only because Nicholas might be right about Huntington’s motives, but because she feared the marriage would drive a greater wedge between herself and her brother. She had always loved her charming, sometimes irresponsible brother, but she had not been able to accept his running off with another man’s wife, no matter what the circumstances were. She had tried her best to understand and forgive him since Mary’s death in a remote Yorkshire inn had nearly destroyed him.

She had never thought her rakish brother would fall so deeply in love. Or that raven-haired Mary with her cool, untouchable beauty would return his love with an equal passion. Mary had seemed to accept her family’s wishes that she marry Devin St Clair, then Lord Warwick, without a qualm. She’d once told Sarah that a marriage of convenience suited her very well for falling in love seemed such an uncomfortable business. She had dismissed all Sarah’s arguments for a love match as hopelessly romantic.

And then Sarah had met Mary’s handsome, charming fiancé with his rather wicked smile and wondered if he would be willing to let Mary remain detached after all.

In the end it was not Mary’s husband but Sarah’s brother who had fanned her passion to life. And if Sarah had not invited Mary to stay at Meade Cottage, Mary might still be alive.

She shivered a little as a cool gust of wind brushed her arms. She’d scarcely noticed the ominous grey clouds gathering overhead. Reluctantly, Sarah gathered her sketchbook and pencils and stood.

‘Miss Chandler.’

She whirled around, nearly dropping her notebook. Cedric Blanton stood behind her. She felt a sudden lurch of fear, even though it was broad daylight. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I must speak to you.’

‘I would rather not. I must go in.’ She turned and started to walk down the gravel path.

To her dismay, he caught up to her and fell into stride beside her. ‘You cannot marry Lord Huntington.’

She kept her eyes fixed on the path and increased her pace. ‘That is none of your concern.’

‘But it is. You were with me first. If he hadn’t interfered, you would be betrothed to me.’

‘That is ridiculous. If you hadn’t behaved so…so ungentlemanly then I would have no need to marry anyone.’

‘You would do better to marry me.’

‘It is too late. I am to marry Lord Huntington in a few days.’ Thank goodness the house was only a short distance away.

‘We could elope.’

‘No!’ This time she stopped and stared at him. ‘I could never do that.’

His mouth tightened. ‘You will be sorry if you marry him. As will he.’

Was he threatening her? But she could not tell from the expression in his pale blue eyes. A drop of rain recalled her to the fact she was about to be caught in a rainstorm. ‘I…I must go in.’

‘What the hell are you doing with my fiancée?’

Huntington’s icy voice cut through the air like a whip. Somehow, he’d managed to come up behind them, the wind obscuring his approach. He was dressed in a dark coat and breeches, the wind ruffling his dark hair, his expression grim, like some sort of avenging angel. Sarah resisted the urge to cower.

Blanton looked at him, unruffled. ‘I was merely offering Miss Chandler my services if she should need me.’

Huntington took a step forward, his face full of icy contempt. ‘I will see you to the devil before she needs your services.’

Blanton’s smile faltered and then returned. ‘I hope not, my lord.’ He looked over at Sarah, his eyes filled with a cold fury that made her shudder. ‘Goodbye, Miss Chandler.’ He turned and walked away.

Sarah forced herself to look at Huntington. His face looked as stormy as the sky. She shivered. ‘I was just about to return to the house.’ She started to move, only to find him blocking her way.

‘What were you doing with him?’ he demanded.

His arrogant tone, along with the implication that she had actually sought Blanton’s company, set her back up. She lifted her chin. ‘I was not with him.’

‘Then he was an apparition?’

‘Of course not. I only meant…’ Several large drops of rain hit her squarely on the forehead. They were swiftly followed by several more. ‘This is not the time to engage in idiotic conversation, my lord. We are about to become extremely wet.’

He glanced up at the sky. ‘You are right.’

‘There is a small temple over there,’ Sarah said. He looked up in the direction she indicated, then grabbed her hand and started hauling her towards the summerhouse. By now, the rain was coming faster and faster.

The skies burst open just as they stumbled up the steps of the small Grecian temple. Rain dripped from Huntington’s hair and he looked as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over his head. Sarah had no doubt she looked every bit as bad. She shivered a little in her thin muslin gown.

He brushed the water from his coat, then shrugged out of it. He held it out to her. ‘Put this around your shoulders.’

She shook her head. ‘’Tis very kind of you to offer, but…’

He scowled, and stalked to her side. ‘You’re shivering. Don’t argue.’ He draped it around her shoulders, the warmth from his body penetrating her skin.

‘But won’t you be cold?’ She glanced over at him and then quickly away, the sight of his broad shoulders under the fine linen of his shirt making her uncomfortable.

‘My waistcoat is enough. I generally tend to be warm.’

‘Do you? I am always cold.’

‘I am glad we have that settled. Why don’t you sit down, Miss Chandler?’

She was about to argue and changed her mind. She sat down on the small stone bench near the wall and pulled his coat more tightly about her.

He had retreated to the other side of the building and leaned against a column, arms folded across his chest, his booted legs crossed as well. ‘What did Blanton want?’

‘Nothing, really.’ How many times had she said those words in the past few days?

‘I find that difficult to believe.’

She sighed. He had that implacable expression she was beginning to dread. She wrapped his coat more firmly about her shoulders. ‘Must we discuss this? It matters little.’

He scowled. ‘But it does. You are betrothed to me.’

‘That does not mean I must answer to you in every matter.’

‘It does in this matter. Stay away from him.’

His tone indicated the matter was closed. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Nor are you to go anywhere on the grounds without a footman.’

‘No, my lord.’

He shot her a suspicious glance. His scowl deepened. ‘There is one more thing.’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Will you cease to address me as “my lord”?’ he snapped.

‘Very well, sir.’

The next thing she knew he had stalked over to stand in front of her. She resisted the urge to cower and merely looked at him, her hands clasped in her lap.

‘Perhaps, Miss Chandler, you could tell me what the devil is going on,’ he said.

‘With what?’

‘I am very close to strangling you,’ he said softly.

‘I see.’

‘And the prospect does not frighten you?’

‘No. I suppose it might save quite a bit of trouble in the long run,’ she said complacently.

He suddenly laughed. ‘Hardly. I would have murder added to my long list of sins.’ He paced away from her. The rain was starting to ease up. He turned and looked back at her. ‘Can we try for some sort of civility? I know I’ve a damnable temper and I’ve been told more than once I’m dictatorial, but there’s no need for you to defer to me like some sort of lackey. I’d rather you argue with me than persist in those blasted “yes, my lord, no, my lords”.’

She sighed. ‘I fear I was rather angry with you. And when I do disagree, you immediately ply me with a thousand questions.’

‘I apologise.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘But I don’t want you out walking alone. I don’t trust Blanton.’

‘I am certain there is nothing to worry about,’ she said with more confidence than she felt, remembering Blanton’s words. But surely there was nothing Blanton could do.

He raised a brow. ‘On this point, I don’t want you to argue. I am responsible for you.’

‘But we aren’t married yet. And even when we are…’

‘Sarah.’ His voice held a warning.

‘Yes, my lord.’

He suddenly grinned, the harshness leaving his face. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You may defer to me after all, particularly in this instance. Although you will eventually need to address me by my given name.’

She stared at him, her breath caught in her throat, hardly hearing his words. She’d never really seen him smile before, never seen his face light up without a hint of its usual cynicism. He looked almost boyish and immensely attractive. A peculiar warmth centred in her stomach.

‘Sarah?’

She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you always disappear into such trances?’

‘No.’ She flushed and rose, her knees shaky. ‘The rain has stopped. Perhaps we should return to the house.’ She removed the coat from her shoulders, the loss of its warmth making her feel almost bereft. ‘Thank you for your coat.’ She held it out to him.

‘You may wear it until we reach the house.’

‘Th…thank you.’ Whatever was wrong with her? There was no reason for her to stammer like a school-girl just because he had smiled in such a way. It was unlikely to happen again. In fact, she hoped it would not, it was too unsettling.

She started to move past him, only to find him blocking her way as he had earlier. He took the coat from her hands and draped it around her shoulders again. ‘It will hardly do you any good if you carry it.’

‘No.’ She gave him a swift smile, moved away as quickly as possible and descended the two steps leading from the temple. She stumbled a little in her haste.

He was instantly at her side, his hand cupping her elbow, steadying her. His touch burned her skin and she jerked away.

‘Now what the devil is wrong?’ he demanded.

‘N…nothing.’

‘You are acting as if I’m about to ravish you. If you recall, my dear, I told you I had no intention of forcing you to my bed.’

Her face heated even more. ‘It is not that.’ How could she explain that his touch completely unnerved her, made her heart beat too fast, her stomach tighten and disoriented her thinking, shattering her usual cool composure.

‘Then what is it?’ he asked impatiently.

She held her sketchbook tightly against her chest. ‘I am rather tired. Perhaps we should go in.’

‘Very well,’ he said coolly. He fell into step beside her.

They said nothing as they made their way to the house. He had retreated into a cool shell and Sarah’s mind had gone completely blank.

They finally reached the steps leading to the back terrace. Sarah removed his coat from her shoulders and gave it to him. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Of course.’ He looked down at her, his expression impenetrable. ‘I came to tell you I am leaving today to procure the marriage licence. I will see you tomorrow. The wedding will take place the day after.’

She bit her lip, her stomach hollow. ‘Is this really necessary?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes were cool. ‘And don’t even think of trying to escape me.’

‘Most certainly not, my lord,’ she said coldly. The sudden flash of anger in his eye was quite satisfying.

But when he turned on his heel and strode off, her brief spurt of victory was replaced by despair. In two days, she was to be married to a man who did not want her and she had no idea how she would ever bear it.

Cedric Blanton crumbled the not-quite-polite request for settlement of his account at Stultz’s. He tossed it in the fireplace and flung himself down in the chair behind his expensive mahogany desk. Not even the sight of the ornate snuffbox he’d paid a small fortune for calmed his fury.

If it weren’t for Huntington’s interference, he could send off the announcement of his betrothal to Sarah Chandler, the Earl of Monteville’s granddaughter. Instead of sending him increasingly less courteous demands for payment, his creditors would fling open their doors and beg for his patronage.

Instead Huntington himself was to have the prize.

How could his plans have gone so far awry? He’d meticulously thought it out. He would persuade Sarah to accompany him to Henslowe’s study. And then a carefully worded note to Lady Henslowe, saying that Sarah needed help, would bring her to the study just as Sarah succumbed to his kisses. Lady Henslowe with her rigid morality would see to it that Sarah would become engaged as quickly as possible.

He hadn’t quite worked out the excuse to lure Sarah to the study, but had no doubt he’d come up with one. Ladies, particularly when someone was in distress, were likely to forget about propriety in order to render service. But when Sarah left the ballroom alone, he realised an excuse was not needed. His opportunity had been handed to him.

But his nemesis had interfered again. Just as he had a year ago when Cedric had nearly compromised the rather stupid Lady Alethea, the Duke of Wrexton’s daughter. Her frightened screams had brought Huntington to her aid.

Huntington had listened to him in his cool, arrogant manner as Cedric explained why he must marry the chit. And then Huntington had threatened to ruin him if a word of it ever leaked.

Cedric had no doubt that Huntington would do so. Just as he had no doubt Huntington had had him blackballed from Whites’ when old Stanton had sponsored him for membership.

Even now he was filled with a helpless burning fury.

He stared out the window at the lush green lawn spread before him. This was what he had wanted, had been born for, a country estate, fine food and furnishings, the best tailors and bootmakers. If his mother hadn’t been so stupidly proud, he could have been the heir to Baron Ruckston’s riches, mixing with the best society, welcomed into the best circles. Instead, his mother had refused to agree to his uncle’s terms that she was to never see her son again once Cedric became his heir. And so Cedric remained a poor clergyman’s son raised with five whining sisters while he watched an insipid cousin take his rightful place. And Cedric was forced to scheme, gamble, scrape and bow, and steal when necessary, for everything he had.

His mouth curled. He had no intention of allowing Huntington to interfere any more. Nor would Huntington have everything handed to him. It was time to upset Huntington’s plans.

And Sarah Chandler’s. Her rejection of him still rankled. He’d cultivated her acquaintance, flattered and cajoled her and then she dropped him for a bigger prize. Perhaps the prize would not be hers after all.

He smiled. Sometimes his less-than-desirable acquaintances could prove quite useful. And the wedding was the day after tomorrow. There was still time.

Dev returned from London in the early afternoon of the following day. Most of the house party had gone off on a picnic and Henslowe was closeted with his agent, which suited him. He had no desire to speak with anyone, not even Jessica.

Not that he’d had a problem procuring the licence. He yanked off his leather gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. No, the damnable document was safe in his pocket. The document he’d never intended to see his name on again.

He dropped his coat on the bed and paced to the window. The sun shone brightly, the hills rolling away. In the distance he caught a glimpse of Monteville House. His stomach lurched with a nervousness he had not felt for an age.

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