Читать книгу Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4 - Louise Allen - Страница 25

Chapter Fifteen

‘You were telling me about your decision to leave Cambridge,’ Lucian reminded her.

Sara drew a deep breath and tried to explain. ‘I wanted to get away from all of it, the places that reminded me of my marriage, the love and concern my family were wrapping me in. I ran away to the coast and found Sandbay. When I wanted to do some drawing I looked for a shop selling equipment and found the one I now own. That was all it did, artists’ equipment, and it was a poor affair. The owner was selling up and, on a whim almost, I bought it. And that was the beginning of Aphrodite’s Seashell. I made no secret of who I was and I found people were wonderfully discreet. I think they enjoyed the cachet of having a marquess’s daughter at their resort when they would have expected me to go to Weymouth. I kept my daytime and my evening personas apart and it worked.’

‘And you are happy in Sandbay, shopkeeper by day, lady by night?’

‘Yes. But...’

‘But?’ Lucian lounged there, all long legs and heavy-lidded eyes, temptation personified. Sara wanted to stop talking about herself, stop thinking about difficult things and pole over to the island and—

‘When you look at me like that I am tempted to try punting again,’ he said. ‘That island looks wickedly inviting, but I will behave like a gentleman if you tell me about the but.’

‘But...the shop is successful now. I have succeeded, proved that I can create and run a business, make a profit. Soon Sandbay will start to grow beyond the point where I can hide in plain sight. I need to find a new direction, but I have no idea what it might be. Certainly I have no intention of becoming yet another merry widow with an ambiguous position in society and a succession of lovers.’

Lucian sat up, his forearms resting on his raised knees, and seemed to be finding something on the bottom boards of great interest. Then he looked up. ‘Why not marry me?’

‘Marry you?’ Sara sat bolt upright and stared at him. ‘Marry you? But why? You wanted an affaire, right from the beginning, I could tell. You realised I was a widow, recognised that I was a lady, and so suitable for a dalliance for a limited time. A little mutual pleasure, no unseemly demands on either side. That was what you were looking for, wasn’t it? Can you deny it?’

‘No, of course not. And there was mutual attraction, mutual desire—can you deny that?’ He was frowning now.

‘No. So that is what we have. An affair. We are lovers. Lovers interrupted, maybe, but lovers none the less. You told my father, very definitely, that you had no intention of marrying me. And next Season you intended to launch Marguerite—you probably still will as Gregory has yet to find his feet in society—and you would have been looking for a nice young thing to marry. Marguerite thinks you have already decided on one. After all, it is about time you married and set up your nursery. Deny that.’ Something was building inside her chest, a pressure that she did not stop to examine because she feared it was anger.

‘I do not... And you are a nice young thing, are you not? You are simply slightly older than the fluffy little misses that Marguerite is making friends with. And she is wrong, I have fixed my interest with no one. This would be so logical, Sara, such a sensible step for both of us.’

Logical? Sensible? Yes, that was anger building inside her. And hurt, but she couldn’t probe that now because she rather feared she would cry if she did. ‘Of course, I am the daughter of a marquess, even if my family on my mother’s side is a trifle unusual, and I am still young enough to give you an heir and I have all my own teeth and you have tried me out in bed.’

Lucian straightened up and seemed, for the first time, to realise that she was angry, not simply taken by surprise. ‘Well, yes, although I certainly would not have put it like that. Sara, I can see that you are annoyed for some reason and I realise that this must have taken you unawares, but—’

‘But you really cannot see what I have to be annoyed about? I agree, it is most unreasonable of me to take exception to your charming logical offer, accompanied as it was by protestations of devotion and regard. And how unreasonable of me to conclude that it has only just struck you how much time and trouble it would save you if you married me.’

How very irritating it was not to be able to stride up and down as she ranted. ‘This way you do not have to go through some wearisome courtship. There will be no having to endure the rigours of Almack’s, no having to do the pretty or fight off predatory mamas. You simply speak to my father, who would be delighted to secure a marquess for a son-in-law, and regularise our relationship in one blow, and there you are.’

‘Do you want me to make a declaration of love? Is that what this is about? Are you back to accusing me of not being romantic?’ He seemed mildly baffled by her reaction and also patiently willing to humour her, which was even more inflaming.

‘No, I do not want some false declaration. Do you think I want you to lie to me? I thought you understood me, I thought you were listening just now while I was telling you about Michael and our marriage, and all the time you were fitting me nicely into the compartment marked suitable wife, needs looking after, poor thing, young enough to breed from.’

‘Sara, that is not at all how I think of you.’ Lucian stood up and made to move towards her, his hand held out.

‘Yes, you do. I need a man to protect me, fight duels on my behalf, make sure I do not do unconventional things like running a shop or wearing male clothing. Why else would you offer for me out of the blue like this? You do not love me, you have already slept with me, you do not need to give me a reason to chaperon Marguerite—it can only be for your convenience and because your male arrogance thinks I would be better off in your charge.’

She found she was on her feet, too, one of the battered old cushions clutched in her right hand. Had she meant to throw it at him or was she simply gesticulating so wildly that she let it go? Whichever it was, Lucian had not been expecting it. It hit him squarely in the face, he clawed at it, staggered and then, with awful inevitability, the punt tipped sideways and they both fell into the lake.

Her skirts were only light muslin, her undergarments no more hampering. Sara surfaced within seconds, spluttering, and kicked the few strokes that enabled her to grab hold of the side of the upturned punt.

‘Sara.’ Lucian was right beside her, his shoulders just out of the water, and she realised that he must be standing on the submerged causeway. ‘Hell, are you all right? I thought I was going to have to dive for you.’

‘Yes. I can swim perfectly well, thank you.’ She swiped at a weed that was dangling from her hair and realised that the ducking had done nothing to cool her anger. ‘I do not think that trying to turn the punt back over is going to be easy.’

‘No, and unsafe, considering that you are out of your depth. I will carry you back to shore.’

‘I told you, I can swim.’

‘But you have no need to.’ Lucian got one arm behind her shoulders, dislodging her grip on the punt. She flailed as she tried to get hold of it again, her legs floated up and he slid the other arm under her knees. ‘There. I have you safe.’

There was nothing she could do but submit to being carried ashore like some helpless shipwrecked maiden. Struggling was undignified and would only put them both under the surface again. Then she heard the shrieks and cries from the shore.

‘You have an audience for your gallantry,’ she said between gritted teeth as Lucian began to walk. ‘It appears that the entire house party is assembled on the shore to view the rescue.’ Her mama must have decided to have tea served on the lawn under the great cedar tree where there was an excellent view of the lake. ‘How gratifying. They presumably saw me hit you with the cushion as well.’

Lucian grunted. The effort of walking through water that rose almost to his collarbone while carrying a woman in his arms must be considerable and, despite her feelings about him, there was an undeniable thrill in being carried like this. Which just went to show that even the most rational and independent woman could be turned into a quivering blancmange by a display of masculine muscle. And that realisation did nothing to cool her temper either.

Sara focused on the shore through wet eyelashes and strands of soaking hair. Most of the female guests were at the water’s edge, shrieking encouragement, although one of the young ladies had managed to faint strategically into a gentleman’s arms. Her mother was still seated at the table calmly pouring tea and her father and brother stood on the boathouse jetty, apparently poised to carry out a full-scale rescue by rowing boat if necessary. Ashe was scowling, her father had the bland expression that meant he was controlling laughter, the beast.

As Lucian reached the shallows within a few yards of the shore and began to emerge from the water Ashe took off his coat and ran back along the jetty to meet them.

‘Put this on.’ He flung it around her shoulders as soon as Lucian lowered her to the fringe of shingle. ‘That muslin is glued to you. What the hell were you playing at?’ That was directed at Lucian. ‘Sara could have been drowned.’

‘I can swim, as you know perfectly well.’ That was comprehensively ignored. Sara turned her back on the bristling male aggression and began to squelch uphill towards the tea table while the female guests surrounded her like a flock of agitated chickens.

She finally arrived in front of her mother who handed her a large rug and gestured to a chair. ‘It is rattan, the water will not harm it and it is perfectly warm out here in the sun. Have a cup of tea, dear, and let us watch the men...er...analysing the situation.’

Sara discarded Ashe’s coat, huddled into the rug and accepted the tea gratefully.

‘Whatever happened?’ someone asked.

‘Did you not see?’

‘‘We were all looking at this wonderful cake that Cook sent out because it is Miss Henderson’s birthday and no one noticed until the splash,’ her mother said. ‘More tea, dear?’

Sara had a strong suspicion that her mother had seen everything. When she was a child she had been convinced that Mata had eyes in the back of her head and, although she now realised that she simply kept a very sharp eye on all the members of her family without seeming to do so, it still felt like witchcraft sometimes.

‘It was my fault. I stood up suddenly,’ Sara explained, more to quell the chattering than anything.

‘Entirely my fault, I stood up suddenly.’ Lucian’s voice rose clearly to them as he strode up the hill, flanked by her father and brother.

‘You both stood up suddenly?’ Lady Thale exclaimed.

‘We saw a Marsh Harrier,’ Sara said.

‘—an otter,’ Lucian explained at the same moment.

‘Incredible,’ Mata remarked. ‘Presumably the bird of prey had the otter in its talons as it flew over? Your Cousin Ernest will be so interested to hear that, he is a keen naturalist, I believe.’

‘The otter was swimming in one direction, the harrier flying in another,’ Lucian said. He was tight-lipped, presumably disapproving of the Herriards’ habit of levity.

Even Ashe was grinning. ‘Ah, that explains why the punt overbalanced.’

The ridiculousness of the whole episode was beginning to dawn on Sara. ‘I think I must go back to the house and change,’ she said, not quite managing to quell the unsteadiness in her voice. ‘I feel a trifle, um, shaken.’

‘Hardly surprising.’ Lucian strode forward, showering the assembled onlookers with lake water, much like a large gun-dog. He bent and scooped her out of the chair. ‘You must rest.’

‘Lucian!’

He was already several strides away from the tea table. ‘Did you want to stay there dripping gently while we made a mess of our stories and dug ourselves even deeper into the mud?’

‘No, but I can walk.’ Although it really was delicious being carried like this. Sara reminded herself that she was angry with him and could not quite recall why. His shoulders were shaking, she realised, and not with the effort of carrying her. ‘Lucian, are you laughing?’

‘Of course I am.’ He twisted to check that they were out of sight, then sat down on the edge of the terrace, Sara still in his arms. ‘And so are you.’

She made an effort to sit up, found that he was holding her too tightly and gave up. It was far too pleasant to lie there and share the joke, held against the wet heat of his body, the pair of them smelling of mud and lake water. ‘When Mata said that about the otter and the harrier, I nearly spluttered into my tea. And your face—I couldn’t decide whether you had a mouthful of pond beetles or were trying not to laugh.’

‘It was laugh or weep,’ Lucian said wryly. ‘I have hardly appeared in a very impressive light since I got here, have I? Almost floored by your brother on the drive, being raked over the coals by your father for my immoral behaviour with his daughter, making an utter mull of a marriage proposal and then emerging from the lake dripping with pond weed for the amusement of the entire house party.’

Sara managed to lever herself upright and twisted to look into his face. It was exceedingly unfair that he managed to look so good even soaking wet when she imagined she looked as though she had just emerged from a close encounter with a ducking stool.

‘Is that really how you think you appeared? Let me tell you that your restraint in not punching Ashe straight back was admirable, you stood up to Papa with great dignity and courtesy and I have to admit to an utterly shameful pleasure at being carried around by such a strong man.’ Lucian began to grin, so she added, ‘But I agree, that was an appalling proposal.’

‘I know. I will try again when we are both dry.’

He will? Did she want Lucian to propose? For a moment Sara seriously considered it, then she realised what she was doing. She did not want to marry a man who did not love her, whom she did not love—and it did not matter how good he was in bed, or how good looking or how eligible.

‘Lucian—’

‘You look enchanting wet through, you know. I feel as if I had fished out a water nymph.’ He gathered her in again and kissed her, open-mouthed, possessive, very certain.

The weak, primitive female part of her kissed him back, tongues tangling, her body arching to get as tight to his body as she could, and all the time the sensible part argued that this was wrong, that she was encouraging the ridiculous notion that they might marry.

Lucian released her far too soon for the primitive part. Too soon for the sensible part, if she was honest with herself. ‘That was skating rather too close to behaviour I gave my word not to indulge in while we were here. And you will catch a chill in those wet clothes. See—you are shivering.’

She was shivering from reaction, not the wet clothes, but Sara did not contradict him. ‘Yes, you are quite right.’ She got to her feet. ‘I will order baths for both of us and I will see you later, before dinner. Prepare yourself to be teased or interrogated by everyone though. I suspect the joke may be too good for the company to resist.’ He had laughed at the lake, but would his sense of humour stand teasing? Most marquesses held themselves very high and such a loss of dignity would affront all of them—except Papa, of course. She hadn’t seen much evidence of a light-hearted side to Lucian before, but then his worry about Marguerite would explain that, no doubt.

* * *

Lucian watched Sara’s progress to the terrace steps and then into the house and wondered at the emotion stirring in his chest. She should have looked amusing, her skirts bedraggled and clinging to her legs, muddy water dripping, her hair in rats’ tails. And yet he felt no temptation to laugh, only to smile. The feeling, the warmth in his chest, must be affection, he supposed, although it was very different from the affection he felt for his sister.

Lord, but he had made a fool of himself, making that proposal as though it were nothing more important than an offer to take her for a drive in the park—and one made on the spur of the moment, at that.

He had misjudged the moment, her emotions and, he supposed, his own. But, strangely, it did not make him any less determined to try again. Sara had been pleased that he had found some humour in the situation, he realised as he got to his feet and grimaced at the state of his breeches and his Hessians. She must have thought him very dour and intense all the time she had known him and he suspected that humour was important to her.

Lucian made his way round to the garden door and found an old settle to sit on while he pried off his sodden boots and stockings before he sullied the polished floors. He was met by the butler in the hallway who ushered him upstairs with the air of a man to whom half-drowned marquesses dripping on the marble were an everyday occurrence. Lucian managed to keep the straight face that his dignity was obviously supposed to require until he was inside his room and then gave way to mirth.

Lord knows what I’m laughing about, he thought as he began to wrestle with the knot of his neckcloth. My sister isn’t out of the woods by a long chalk and when she is I’ve got to find some way of advancing Farnsworth’s career. I have just made a complete fool of myself in front of a highly select company who will doubtless spread the tale all round town as soon as they can get pen to paper. I’ve thrown my perfectly rational plan for finding a wife out of the window and I have made a pig’s ear of a proposal to my mistress. Who, at the moment, is not my mistress but my host’s daughter.

‘My lord?’ Charles, the footman who had been delegated to act as his valet, came out of the dressing room, his arms full of towels. Pitkin, his real valet who was enjoying a much-deserved holiday in Sandbay, would have simply ignored his master’s behaviour, but this young man was obviously uncertain.

Lucian grinned at him and threw his arms wide, an invitation to view the wreckage.

The footman’s lips twitched. ‘Your...your bath is ready, my lord. I will consult with Mr Rathbone, his lordship’s man, and seek his advice on restoring your boots and garments.’

‘Thank you, but do not spend too much effort on them, I fear they are beyond redemption.’

‘Mr Rathbone works miracles,’ the young footman assured Lucian in awed tones, almost setting him off again. His host’s valet was obviously far more awe-inspiring than any marquess, especially a sodden one.

He dismissed Charles, stripped, and wallowed in hot, pine-scented water and thought. When was the last time he had laughed out loud? Not a laugh at some single joke, but uninhibitedly at something ridiculous, at himself. Laughed for the joy of it, because he was happy.

But what had he to be happy about here? Marguerite’s situation was still to untangle, his dignity was in tatters, his proposal of marriage had been rejected. There was no prospect of lovemaking until they left Eldonstone. And yet... It was Sara, of course. She made him happy and even when she was angry with him his heart lifted at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. He enjoyed her courage and her common sense and her intelligence and her passionate defence of Marguerite and Gregory. She made love like an angel. A wicked angel, he corrected. And...

The thought trailed away unfinished, leaving him staring at the picture hanging on the wall opposite. A still life of exotic fruit and foliage was absolutely no help in focusing his disordered thoughts. And... And I love her?