“Your Grace! It’s been such an age since we’ve…talked.” Her ladyship’s brown eyes quizzed him playfully.
Her arch tone irritated Max. It was on the tip of his tongue to recommend she took lessons in flirting from Arabella before she tried her tricks on him. Instead, he took her hand from his sleeve, bowed over it and pointedly returned to her, “As you’re doubtless aware, Emma, I have other claims on my time.”
His careless use of her first name was calculated to annoy but Lady Mortland, having seen his absorption with his wards, particularly his eldest ward, over the past weeks, was fast coming to the conclusion that she should do everything in her power to bring Twyford to his knees or that tiara would slip through her fingers. As she was a female of little intelligence, she sincerely believed the attraction that had brought Max Rotherbridge to her bed would prove sufficient to induce him to propose. Consequently, she coyly glanced up at him through her long fair lashes and sighed sympathetically. “Oh, my dear, I know. I do feel for you. This business of being guardian to four country girls must be such a bore to you. But surely, as a diversion, you could manage to spare us some few hours?”
Not for the first time, Max wondered where women such as Emma Mortland kept their intelligence. In their pockets? One truly had to wonder. As he looked down at her, his expression unreadable, he realized that she was a year or so younger than Caroline. Yet, from the single occasion on which he had shared her bed, he knew the frills and furbelows she favoured disguised a less than attractive figure, lacking the curves that characterized his eldest ward. And Emma Mortland’s energies, it seemed, were reserved for scheming. He had not been impressed. As he knew that a number of gentlemen, including Darcy Hamilton, had likewise seen her sheets, he was at a loss to understand why she continued to single him out. A caustic dismissal was about to leave his lips when, amid a burst of hilarity from a group just behind them, he heard the rich tones of his eldest ward’s laugh.
On the instant, a plan, fully formed, came into his head and, without further consideration, he acted. He allowed a slow, lazy smile to spread across his face. “How well you read me, my sweet,” he drawled to the relieved Lady Mortland. Encouraged, she put her hand tentatively on his arm. He took it in his hand, intending to raise it to his lips, but to his surprise he could not quite bring himself to do so. Instead, he smiled meaningfully into her eyes. With an ease born of countless hours of practice, he instituted a conversation of the risque variety certain to appeal to Lady Mortland. Soon, he had her gaily laughing and flirting freely with her eyes and her fan. Deliberately, he turned to lead her on to the floor for the waltz just commencing, catching, as he did, a look of innocent surprise on Caroline’s face.
Grinning devilishly, Max encouraged Emma to the limits of acceptable flirtation. Then, satisfied with the scene he had created, as they circled the room, he raised his head to see the effect the sight of Lady Mortland in his arms was having on Caroline. To his chagrin, he discovered his eldest ward was no longer standing where he had last seen her. After a frantic visual search, during which he ignored Emma entirely, he located Caroline, also dancing, with the highly suitable Mr. Willoughby. That same Mr. Willoughby who, he knew, was becoming very particular in his attentions. Smothering a curse, Max half-heartedly returned his attention to Lady Mortland.
He had intended to divest himself of the encumbrance of her ladyship as soon as the dance ended but, as the music ceased, he realized they were next to Caroline and her erstwhile partner. Again, Emma found herself the object of Max’s undeniable, if strangely erratic charm. Under its influence, she blossomed and bloomed. Max, with one eye on Caroline’s now unreadable countenance, leaned closer to Emma to whisper an invitation to view the beauties of the moonlit garden. As he had hoped, she crooned her delight and, with an air of anticipated pleasure, allowed him to escort her through the long windows leading on to the terrace.
———
“Count me out.” Darcy Hamilton threw his cards on to the table and pushed back his chair. None of the other players was surprised to see him leave. Normally an excellent player, tonight his lordship had clearly had his mind elsewhere. And the brandy he had drunk was hardly calculated to improve matters, although his gait, as he headed for the ballroom, was perfectly steady.
In the ballroom, Darcy paused to glance about. He saw the musicians tuning up and then sighted his prey.
Almost as if she sensed his approach, Sarah turned as he came up to her. The look of sudden wariness that came into her large eyes pricked his conscience and, consequently, his temper. “My dance, I think.”
It was not, as he well knew, but before she could do more than open her mouth to deny him Darcy had swept her on to the floor.
They were both excellent dancers and, despite their current difficulties, they moved naturally and easily together. Which was just as well, as their minds were each completely absorbed in trying to gauge the condition of the other. Luckily, they were both capable of putting on a display of calmness which succeeded in deflecting the interest of the curious.
Sarah, her heart, as usual, beating far too fast, glanced up under her lashes at the handsome face above her, now drawn and slightly haggard. Her heart sank. She had no idea what the outcome of this strange relationship of theirs would be, but it seemed to be causing both of them endless pain. Darcy Hamilton filled her thoughts, day in, day out. But he had steadfastly refused to speak of marriage, despite the clear encouragement she had given him to do so. He had side-stepped her invitations, offering, instead, to introduce her to a vista of illicit delights whose temptation was steadily increasing with time. But she could not, would not accept. She would give anything in the world to be his wife but had no ambition to be his mistress. Lady Benborough had, with all kindness, dropped her a hint that he was very likely a confirmed bachelor, too wedded to his equestrian interests to be bothered with a wife and family, satisfied instead with mistresses and the occasional affaire. Surreptitiously studying his rigid and unyielding face, she could find no reason to doubt Augusta’s assessment. If that was so, then their association must end. And the sooner the better, for it was breaking her heart.
Seeing her unhappiness reflected in the brown pools of her eyes, Darcy inwardly cursed. There were times he longed to hurt her, in retribution for the agony she was putting him through, but any pain she felt seemed to rebound, ten times amplified, back on him. He was, as Lady Benborough had rightly surmised, well satisfied with his bachelor life. At least, he had been, until he had met Sarah Twinning. Since then, nothing seemed to be right any more. Regardless of the response he knew he awoke in her, she consistently denied any interest in the delightful pleasures he was only too willing to introduce her to. Or rather, held the prospect of said pleasures like a gun at his head, demanding matrimony. He would be damned if he would yield to such tactics. He had long ago considered matrimony, the state of, in a calm and reasoned way, and had come to the conclusion that it held few benefits for him. The idea of being driven, forced, pushed into taking such a step, essentially by the strength of his own raging desires, horrified him, leaving him annoyed beyond measure, principally with himself, but also, unreasonably he knew, with the object of said desires. As the music slowed and halted, he looked down at her lovely face and determined to give her one last chance to capitulate. If she remained adamant, he would have to leave London until the end of the Season. He was quite sure he could not bear the agony any longer.
As Sarah drew away from him and turned towards the room, Darcy drew her hand through his arm and deftly steered her towards the long windows leading on to the terrace. As she realized his intention, she hung back. With a few quick words, he reassured her. “I just want to talk to you. Come into the garden.”
Thus far, Sarah had managed to avoid being totally private with him, too aware of her inexperience to chance such an interview. But now, looking into his pale grey eyes and seeing her own unhappiness mirrored there, she consented with a nod and they left the ballroom.
A stone terrace extended along the side of the house, the balustrade broken here and there by steps leading down to the gardens. Flambeaux placed in brackets along the walls threw flickering light down into the avenues and any number of couples could be seen, walking and talking quietly amid the greenery.
Unhurriedly, Darcy led her to the end of the terrace and then down the steps into a deserted walk. They both breathed in the heady
freshness of the night air, calming their disordered senses and, without the need to exchange words, each drew some measure of comfort from the other’s presence. At the end of the path, a secluded summer-house stood, white paintwork showing clearly against the black shadows of the shrubbery behind it.
As Darcy had hoped, the summer-house was deserted. The path leading to it was winding and heavily screened. Only those who knew of its existence would be likely to find it. He ushered Sarah through the narrow door and let it fall quietly shut behind them. The moonlight slanted through the windows, bathing the room in silvery tints. Sarah stopped in the middle of the circular floor and turned to face him. Darcy paused, trying to decide where to start, then crossed to stand before her, taking her hands in his. For some moments, they stood thus, the rake and the maid, gazing silently into each other’s eyes. Then Darcy bent his head and his lips found hers.
Sarah, seduced by the setting, the moonlight and the man before her, allowed him to gather her, unresisting, into his arms. The magic of his lips on hers was a more potent persuasion than any she had previously encountered. Caught by a rising tide of passion, she was drawn, helpless and uncaring, beyond the bounds of thought. Her lips parted and gradually the kiss deepened until, with the moonlight washing in waves over then, he stole her soul.
It was an unintentionally intimate caress which abruptly shook the stars from her eyes and brought her back to earth with an unsteady bump. Holding her tightly within one arm, Darcy had let his other hand slide, gently caressing, over her hip, intending to draw her more firmly against him. But the feel of his hand, scorching through her thin evening dress, sent shock waves of such magnitude through Sarah’s pliant body that she pulled back with a gasp. Then, as horrified realization fell like cold water over her heated flesh, she tore herself from his arms and ran.
For an instant, Darcy, stunned both by her response and by her subsequent reaction, stood frozen in the middle of the floor. A knot of jonquil ribbon from Sarah’s dress had caught on the button of his cuff and impatiently he shook it free, then watched, fascinated, as it floated to the ground. The banging of the wooden door against its frame had stilled. Swiftly, he crossed the floor and, opening the door, stood inthe aperture, listening to her footsteps dying in the spring night. Then, smothering a curse, he followed.
Sarah instinctively ran away from the main house, towards the shrubbery which lay behind the summerhouse. She did not stop to think or reason, but just ran. Finally, deep within the tall clipped hedges and the looming bushes, her breath coming in gasps, she came to a clearing, a small garden at the centre of the shrubbery. She saw a marble bench set in an arbour. Thankfully, she sank on to it and buried her face in her hands.
Darcy, following, made for the shrubbery, her hurrying footsteps echoing hollowly on the gravel walks giving him the lead. But once she reached the grassed avenues between the high hedges, her feet made no sound. Penetrating the dark alleys, he was forced to go slowly, checking this way and that to make sure he did not pass her by. So quite fifteen minutes had passed before he reached the central garden and saw the dejected figure huddled on the bench.
In that time, sanity of sorts had returned to Sarah’s mind. Her initial horror at her weakness had been replaced by the inevitable reaction. She was angry. Angry at herself, for being so weak that one kiss could overcome all her defences; angry at Darcy, for having engineered that little scene. She was busy whipping up the necessary fury to face the prospect of not seeing him ever again, when he materialized at her side. With a gasp, she came to her feet.
Relieved to find she was not crying, as he had thought, Darcy immediately caught her hand to prevent her flying from him again.
Stung by the shock his touch always gave her, intensified now, she was annoyed to discover, Sarah tried to pull her hand away. When he refused to let her go, she said, her voice infused with an iciness designed to freeze, “Kindly release me, Lord Darcy.”
On hearing her voice, Darcy placed the emotion that was holding her so rigid. The knowledge that she was angry, nay, furious, did nothing to improve his own temper, stirred to life by her abrupt flight. Forcing his voice to a reasonableness he was far from feeling, he said, “If you’ll give me your word you’ll not run away from me, I’ll release you.”