"Sarah…" Why had he been so eager to promise something over which he had no real control? He wasn't her legal guardian. He wasn't a relative. He couldn't force her to marry the man of his choosing or keep her from marrying one not of his choosing. The only thing Jarrod could legally do was marry her himself and he wasn't prepared to do that. Jarrod clamped his lips together and focused on the small window at the rear of the coach.
Sarah bit her bottom Up and quickly turned to look out the side window, fighting the sting of tears, and her growing frustration with Jarrod for being so eager to give her away.
* * * * *
It was only a few miles as the crow flies from Ibbetson's Hotel to the Garrisons' magnificent estate in Richmond, but the crush of vehicles heading out of Mayfair for Lady Garrison's ball and the crush of vehicles heading into Mayfair and into town for the opera or to Vauxhall Gardens made for slow going.
The atmosphere in the coach had turned decidedly chilly and Jarrod concluded that it would have been much faster, and a great deal less torturous, to walk. He was just about to call a halt to the driver in order to get out and do just that when the journey came to a merciful end. Jarrod breathed a sigh of relief as he alighted from the coach before it rolled to a stop. He wasn't sure he could have managed an additional block in such close quarters. Jarrod had thought Sarah's attempts at seduction were torture, but he soon learned that her silence was worse. He preferred the daringly outrageous Sarah to the one who bit her bottom lip and blinked back tears. He didn't like seeing her suffer, especially when he realized that he'd been the one to cause it.
Jarrod waited as the coachman pulled down the steps, then watched as he extended a hand to assist Sarah from the coach to the pavement, then did the same for Lady Dunbridge.
"Shall we?" Jarrod offered Lady Dunbridge his arm. She shook her head. "See to Sarah. I'll follow." Jarrod did as she asked, reluctantly offering Sarah his arm.
She placed her gloved hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her up the steps and into the house. Lady Dunbridge followed.
The Garrisons' butler met them at the door.
Jarrod placed his engraved invitation in the butler's hand, then leaned close enough to give the butler their names.
Lord Shepherdston, Lady Dunbridge, and Miss Eckersley," the man announced. They stepped forward.
Sarah turned her back to Jarrod and untied the cords on her cape. She shrugged the garment off her shoulders and handed it to the waiting maid while Jarrod deposited his hat and coat with a footman.
He turned back to Sarah and froze when she turned to face him.
Her very proper evening gown was made of
a bronze silk and bordered in black velvet. It shimmered when she moved and fit her like a second skin, molding itself to the curves of her body and thrusting her breasts into prominence. The design of the dress was elegant and simple. And as Jarrod attempted to focus his gaze on something other than her velvet-edged decolletage, he realized that the design suited the purpose. It was designed as a simple and elegant means of torturing the human male.
The wide neckline was modest compared to some of the others he'd seen. It covered the essentials, but it wasn't nearly modest enough for Jarrod's peace of mind. The black velvet ribbon bordering it screamed to be noticed, framing Sarah's decolletage for all to admire. And the fact that she wore no jewelry other than a pair of tiny square black onyx earrings meant there was nothing to distract from the creamy expanse of flesh.
It was almost impossible for Jarrod to look down at her and not feast on the enticing display of cleavage. Any man his height or taller would profit from a unique vantage point where it was possible to see everything except the very tips of her breasts. Fortunately, there were only a handful of men in the ton who could equal or better the Marquess of Shepherdston's stature. Jarrod stared at the offering and sucked in a breath as he remembered the way her breasts had felt in the palm of his hand, the weight and softness of them, and the way the tips had hardened beneath his thumb.
"Do you like it?" Sarah asked.
He scowled at her. "I thought you said you were wearing a very proper evening gown." Blister it! But he hated feeling this way! What had happened to him? And what had happened to her? And when had it happened?
This was Sarah. Sarah of the knobby knees, bright orange hair, freckles, and flat chest. Sweet, innocent Sarah who had never tempted him before. Or presented him with such a moral dilemma.
"It is proper," she protested.
He gave a derisive snort. "It might be proper if it came with a shawl or scarf or a fichu attached." He looked down at her again, marveling at the way her bodice clung to the tips of her breasts and continued to keep her covered, despite the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. "But it isn't proper like that."
"Fichus are hopelessly old-fashioned." Sarah glanced around. "None of the other ladies are wearing them and my neckline isn't nearly as revealing as hers." She nodded toward a young lady wearing pale green, then to a young lady in blue and another in silver. "Or hers. Or hers."
"It is from my vantage point," he growled.
Frowning, Sarah glanced down and realized he was right. She'd never considered that a man as tall as Jays might be able to see more of her figure than she had intended. She shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't realize…"
"Don't!" Jarrod hissed through clenched teeth, fighting an almost primal urge to tug at the bodice of her dress. But he couldn't say which he wanted most. To tug it up? Or tug it down?
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that." He hissed a bit louder. "What?"
"Don't shrug your shoulders," he ordered, staring down at her bodice, studying its construction the way an engineer studied a bridge. "Or bend at the waist. Or lift your arms. Or sit beside any gentleman taller than you. Or dance…"
"Don't be ridiculous, Jays."