‘About…? Marguerite, I am not in love with your brother. I did explain about not getting married.’ What a disaster that would be! The moment they got out of bed they would be disagreeing about something and when those shutters came down behind his eyes she felt as though she was on the other side of a pane of glass, a moth fluttering helplessly against a barrier she could not see and did not understand.
‘Oh.’ The younger woman rested her cheek on her crossed arms and looked at Sara. ‘I am sorry. I know what you said, but every time I see you together I think that you and he are falling in love.’
‘There is desire,’ Sara said cautiously. ‘But not love.’
‘So you really aren’t going to marry him, then?’
‘No. I am sorry if that shocks you.’
‘Not shocks.’ Marguerite lifted her head and watched the flight of the shuttlecock, pursued by two laughing young women. ‘I am disappointed. I had hoped for a sister.’
‘That would have been lovely. We could have formed an alliance against older brothers,’ Sara said, trying for a lightness she did not feel. She was very fond of Marguerite and the thought of her as a sister made her eyes swim with sudden, unexpected tears. ‘But I have been married once, very happily, and I do not think that Lucian and I would suit.’
‘He watches you, you know. All the time when he thinks you aren’t noticing. You watch him, too.’
‘Goodness.’ I watch him? I suppose I do. But he watches me, too? She should be worried, but the thought was dangerously welcome. ‘I do hope we are not as obvious as that.’
‘It is only noticeable to someone who loves you both. Oh, they have finished the game. It looks as though they are going down to the lake, so I will join them. I feel quite rested now.’
Sara remained on the rug as the group of young people wandered away. There were several of the married ladies down by the lakeside sketching, quite adequate for chaperonage, so she felt no compulsion to stir and certainly none to join Lucian with his sister’s words still reverberating in her head. Thought you were falling in love…he watches you, you know…
It was desire, surely? That was why she looked at him, because he was very easy to look at, very desirable to daydream about. That was all. That was not love. Love was wanting to spend your life with someone.
She looked up to see Gregory Farnsworth walking back to the house, his head bent over his notebook. He was no doubt laden with notes and instructions to write memoranda or draft letters. Poor man, stuck inside when his love was down by the lake, laughing in the sunshine.
Lucian had not followed him. She got to her feet and shook the wrinkles out of her muslin skirts, then made her way down the lawn towards the secret dell with its circle of still water.
Sara found him sitting on a rustic bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands. He smiled when he saw her, but did not move his position and she felt strangely warmed by the fact that he was so easy with her that he neglected the gesture of immediately getting to his feet.
‘The boundaries are all sorted out?’ she asked as she sat beside him and leaned in so their shoulders touched companionably.
‘I need more information on that. I have given Farnsworth just enough work to make Marguerite’s complaints that I am a slave driver convincing.’
‘She is very happy, you know. It means a lot to her that you are finally reconciled to this.’
‘It isn’t what I wanted for her, this match, but I must settle for her being safe and happy.’ Lucian spoke briskly, setting the subject firmly aside, she assumed. ‘Look, there’s a dragonfly, a monster.’
Sara followed his pointing finger and exclaimed over the insect, but she could feel the tension in him, just from that small point of contact where her shoulder touched his. Marguerite was never going to be the wife of a high-ranking man of fashion, never be as rich as her brother’s ambitions for her. She might be happy, but he was going to have to learn to forgive himself for allowing the relationship in the first place and then for driving the young couple to near-tragedy. She sighed a little and let her head rest on his shoulder, relaxing at the contact, even with his body so tense. She knew all about guilt, about the difficulty of self-forgiveness.
‘Tell me about your husband,’ Lucian said abruptly.
‘I did tell you.’ This was too close to her thoughts, as though he had divined her anxieties that she had not been a good wife.
‘Tell me about how you met, how you fell in love, what it was about Harcourt.’
‘I did not enjoy my first Season very much,’ she confessed, feeling that this was almost a Once Upon a Time story. ‘That makes me sound shy, or perhaps bored or difficult to please, I suppose. Oh, the gowns were lovely and I went to so many truly wonderful balls and receptions and theatrical performances. It was all new and strange and interesting, such a change from India. And yet, somehow I never felt I was really a part of that world.’
Lucian made a sound, an encouraging one, so she pressed on, wondering if he could possibly understand. The London ton was his world, the one he was born and bred to, and she was an outsider. ‘We caused rather a sensation—Papa having been out of the country for so long and Mama, of course, so beautiful and so exotic. Some high-sticklers were cold because of Mama’s parentage, but she simply dealt with them without turning a hair. And Ashe is very good looking and he had led a very adventurous life in India, at my uncle’s court, so he was accepted by all the gentlemen, and the ladies all flirted, and he met Phyllida and settled right in.’
‘And you are not good looking? Not beautiful?’ Lucian’s tone was teasing.
‘I am…different. I was a young lady and young ladies, just out, are expected to conform. My skin is never going to be milk white with roses in my cheeks, nor have I the dark hair and eyes that might make me look glamorously Italian or Spanish. I just looked wrong in white muslin and pastels.’
‘I can see that. Jewel colours suit you best.’ He shifted against the bench until he was sitting in the angle made by the back and the arm, with one foot on the seat. ‘Come here.’ He pulled her gently back until she was sitting with her shoulders against his chest, his arm steadying her.
Sara let her head fall back against his shoulder and wriggled until she was comfortable. ‘And I had been brought up to be as well educated as my brother, to have my opinion listened to, to take part in discussions, to read what I liked.’
‘And to do a man damage with a sharp knife.’