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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.’
