“It’s charming, this little town of yours,” Carmichael commented with interest. He stood just inside the terrace doorway with Marcus, observing Lulworth society as the ladies and gentlemen arrived at the Benningtons’ for the much anticipated ball.
Marcus’s laugh was a low sound of amusement. “It’s hardly mine,” he responded, smiling as two men he’d met at the Bennington house party passed by and nodded in friendly recognition.
“Well, perhaps not,” Carmichael conceded. “Though it appears you’ve made up for your lack of attention to the county in the past.”
“Yes, well—” Marcus gestured for Carmichael to accompany him out onto the terrace, “—it’s amazing what taking a bit of initiative will do, especially when it involves a crime.”
The two left the stately room, Marcus allowing Carmichael to pass through the opened doors first.
The swell of attendees spilled out into the warm night. Decorative lanterns swung gently in the light breeze off the sea. Their golden glow cast circles of soft light, revealing and then concealing the guests as they strolled.
“That, and the help of a good woman,” Carmichael added, smiling at the sight of two guests who’d wandered off the path and into an alcove half-concealed in the tall laurel hedge. He clasped his hands behind him and glanced sideways at Marcus. “Sully mentioned a Miss Tisdale.”
The muscles in Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Miss Tisdale has been quite helpful. She offered to ease my way into Lulworth society, if you can believe such a thing.”
“It appears she’s been successful,” Carmichael replied, noting with some interest yet another party who strolled by and smiled in greeting.
Marcus nodded briefly, returning the gesture of goodwill with a charming wink. “Yes, I suppose. Her connections with the townspeople certainly made the investigation easier in the beginning.”
“Is that all?”
“What else would there be?” Marcus asked abruptly. “I won’t be spending any more time here than is completely necessary—and may I remind you, Miss Tisdale’s brother is wrapped up so tightly in this case that he can barely draw breath. No, the woman fancies herself in love with me—a notion I’ll be putting a stop to immediately.”
“Why?” Carmichael asked quietly.
Marcus’s hands curled into fists. “I’ve my reasons. Besides, I told you, I’ve no desire to stay here.”
This was not going well.
And then there she was. She stood in the doorway like some enchanted creature, the candlelight from inside the ballroom highlighting her curves in a blue silk gown.
Marcus ignored the swift stab of pain in his chest, just over his heart. Without taking his gaze from Sarah, he cleared his throat. “And there she is now.”
“Oh,” Carmichael replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
Sarah’s searching gaze found Marcus and a smile lit her face. She quickly stepped onto the terrace and began to thread her way toward him through the throng of strolling, laughing guests.
A trio of men hurrying toward a cluster of young ladies passed too closely behind Sarah and one of them knocked into her while attempting to avoid another lady. He bumped her hard enough that she faltered in mid-step and tripped on the hem of her gown. In an instinctive attempt to catch her balance, she raised her arms as counterweights.
Unfortunately, a servant chose that precise moment to dart past her with a tray of fluted glasses.
The servant managed to remain upright.
The tray did not. The crystal fell with a crash to the stone floor of the terrace.
Carmichael turned to take in the chaotic scene, along with seemingly everyone else on the terrace. “She certainly knows how to make an entrance.”
Sarah’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as she looked past the apologetic servant to Marcus.
He wanted to stalk across the intervening space and toss the clumsy youth over the balustrade, then sweep Sarah away from the raised eyebrows and judgmental glances, but he had a charade to play tonight. The game didn’t include defending Sarah—quite the opposite, in fact.
With effort, he schooled his features into a frown of disapproval and turned back to Carmichael. “Yes, she does.” His voice held no inflection whatsoever.
Carmichael’s shrewd gaze met Marcus’s and he lifted an expressive brow.
Head held high, Sarah made her way through the onlookers and joined the two men at last. “Lord Weston,” she began, dropping into a graceful curtsy. “I do hope you’re not excessively thirsty. I’ve reason to believe the supply of spirits has been somewhat depleted.”
“So we’ve heard as well,” Marcus answered coolly, turning to Carmichael. “Miss Sarah Tisdale. May I present Lord Carmichael, a friend just down from London.”
Marcus watched as Sarah curtsied, careful to execute it perfectly.
Carmichael took Sarah’s hand and brushed a light kiss against her knuckles. “Miss Tisdale, a pleasure.”
“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” she replied with just the right tone of politeness, clearly determined to erase the impression created by the scene just enacted behind her.
“A lovely evening for a ball, would you not agree?” Her gaze moved over the guests as they chatted, sipped punch, and made use of the gardens beyond.
“Yes, quite,” Carmichael answered. “This is my first trip to Lulworth, and I must say, the sea air and breathtaking scenery does much to recommend the town. I’m quite pleased that Weston encouraged me to stop on my way to Cornwall.”
Sarah beamed with delight, clearly pleased by Carmichael’s praise of her village. “I’m so happy to hear of it.”
“Yes, acceptable weather indeed,” Marcus drawled in a bored tone. “Though I do have to wonder at the delays.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sarah asked, confusion furrowing her brow.
Marcus feigned forgetfulness. “My apologies, Miss Tisdale—I’d forgotten that you’ve spent little time in society,” he said. “In London, the dancing would have begun long ago and this—” he gestured to the crowd milling about on the terrace and garden below, “—would never do. It’s as if the Benningtons are eager to invite scandal. Would you not agree, Carmichael?”
“We are not in London, Weston,” Carmichael said repressively.
“Precisely,” Sarah said, her voice quivering ever so slightly.
He’d wounded her—just as he’d planned to. And it hurt like hell. There were times when Marcus hated being the bastard he knew he was.
Her face had fallen, the impact of his condescending criticism written across her expressive features for the entire world to see.
“I’m sorry, Lord Weston,” she said with quiet dignity. “I was under the impression you’d become quite fond of Lulworth—even with its quaint ways.”
She wasn’t putting up a fight, at least not to the extent that he knew she could.
Which meant the words he was about to utter would be unimaginably painful.
He shrugged. “Lulworth’s charms were tempting. For a time. But I could not be happy in such a simple place. Never.”
Sarah took a deep breath. Her hands fisted at her sides, her grip on the sticks of her fan punishing. “Are you quite sure?”
“Quite.”
“Well, in that case …” She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting. “Since your time in Lulworth is drawing to a close, I suggest that we not waste a minute longer. I’ll speak to Claire about informing the musicians.”
With admirable dignity, she nodded briefly at the two men and turned, lifting her skirts to quickly disappear into the throng.
“What was that?” Carmichael demanded, his disapproval clear.
“That was necessary,” Marcus answered. “Come, I’ve need of a drink.”
* * *
“Why would he say such a thing?”
Claire inspected the poached salmon with a critical eye before nodding at the servant, who lifted the platter and disappeared among the seemingly hundreds of cooks and servants currently engaged in serving the expansive buffet.
“Come with me,” Claire ordered, taking Sarah by the hand and towing her toward the larder.
No fewer than five anxious individuals attempted to impede their progress, a pheasant in need of tasting, a pudding that lacked the desired consistency, and three dishes that Sarah could hardly identify.
Though Claire was well known throughout the county for the iron fist she wielded over such an affair, she refused all requests, opened the larder door, and shoved Sarah inside.
She followed, closing the door tight. “Are you sure he was speaking of you?” Claire asked pointedly.
“Yes, of course,” Sarah answered. “I might be naïve, but I’m hardly stupid.”
“I was not suggesting that you’re stupid, Sarah,” Claire said reassuringly. “I simply needed to know.”
She paused, as though she was considering her response—or as if she truly did not want to continue.
“Claire,” Sarah begged, “why would he say such a thing?”
She took Sarah’s hands in her own. “Because it’s true.”
That was hardly what Sarah had expected to hear. “Well, I could have reasoned that out. Come now, Claire, you’re usually so insightful—”
“Sarah,” Claire interrupted, squeezing her dear friend’s hands. “It’s not fair, but I fear that he speaks the truth.”
Sarah slipped her hands from Claire’s and sat down on an upended bucket, her legs suddenly losing the ability to hold her.
“Men are hardly known for their steadfastness, Sarah,” Claire began in a calm tone. “And when they’ve, well …”
“Yes,” Sarah prompted her friend.
Claire frowned. “Oh, Sarah, I fear Lord Weston got what he wanted from you on Cove Road.”
Sarah propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. “No, it can’t be.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said with regret, the sound of a bucket scraping across the floor followed by the swish of skirts as Claire sat accompanying her apology.
“I know he has feelings for me,” Sarah protested. “I saw it in his eyes.”
Claire’s delicate silk dancing slippers came into Sarah’s view as she stared at the floor.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. More sorry than I’ve ever been.”
“What can be done?”
“To Weston? Well, I’ve a few ideas of my own—all involving a very sharp knife.”
Sarah dropped her hands into her lap and looked up into her friend’s face. “What can be done to win him back?”
“Sarah, dear,” Claire replied, brushing aside a stray curl that clung to Sarah’s tear-damp cheek. “I don’t think he was won to begin with.”
And then Sarah cried, not the few tears that had begun when she’d first entered the kitchen, but large, hot drops of moisture that threatened to carry her away.
“Bollocks.”
The sound of such a vulgar term spilling from Claire’s lips shocked Sarah.
“This is what we are going to do,” she said firmly. Her voice was militant, resolute, as she stood and pulled Sarah up beside her.
She fussed with Sarah’s hair, looping a few errant strands about her finger, removing and replacing pins to repair the damage.
“You are going to march upstairs and thoroughly enjoy the evening.” She paused, reaching for a length of linen and dabbing the evidence of tears from Sarah’s face. “No, you are going to march upstairs and enjoy this year’s Bennington ball as you’ve never enjoyed a ball before.”
“But Claire, I’ve never liked balls,” Sarah replied flatly. The storm of crying had been replaced with an emptiness that seemed to multiply by the moment, spreading throughout her body, numbing her.
Claire continued to do her best with the linen. “Well, he hardly knows that, now does he?”
Sarah took the damp cloth from Claire’s hands and blew her nose loudly. “And how will this help me?”
“Your mother really did fail you when it came to explaining these things, didn’t she?” Claire teased, and then pulled Sarah into a warm embrace, hugging her fiercely before holding her at arm’s length and fixing her with a ferocious gaze. “You’ve tried honesty and look where it got you. Now you’ll employ what God gave you—and make that man pay.”
Being honest did have its advantages.
Sarah knew exactly which of her attributes could be relied upon to capture the attention of the male sex.
Not her legs, for they were, though well turned, somewhat on the short side. Her hips and posterior were all well and good, but she’d never learned to walk in a way that showed them to the best advantage.
But her breasts? She’d never seen anything out of the ordinary about the pair, but she had witnessed men ogling them time and time again.
It always made her angry—though in the back of her mind, she pitied the fools for being controlled by two arbitrary mounds of flesh.
“Present them,” Claire hissed, smiling as Gregory and Mr. Dixon walked toward them.
As they’d exited the larder, Sarah had not been entirely convinced that she could proceed with the plan.
Now she was sure she could not. “You said nothing of Mr. Dixon,” Sarah whispered back, opening her fan and holding it in front of her bodice.
Claire’s gaze darted toward the corner of the room where lords Weston and Carmichael were engaged in a lively conversation with several of Lulworth’s most notable eligible females. “We must take the opportunity when it arrives.”
“ ‘It’ is precisely the problem,” Sarah muttered, lowering her fan reluctantly as the vile man approached with Claire’s husband.
She glanced in Weston’s direction but was unable to discover whether he was looking at her.
She wanted to slap Marcus, then dissolve into a puddle of tears.
He’d reduced her to this—worse, she’d allowed him to do so.
And for what? Sarah could not fathom why Marcus had behaved so cruelly.
“Lady Bennington, Miss Tisdale,” Mr. Dixon said in greeting, bowing low.
Claire nudged Sarah with a circumspect poke of her folded fan. Sarah responded by slightly arching her back and thrusting her breasts out in what she hoped was a subtle fashion.
Judging from Mr. Dixon’s expression, she’d been successful in gaining his attention.
“May I have this dance, Miss Tisdale?” he asked, trying very hard to focus on her eyes.
He failed miserably.
Bugger, Sarah thought resignedly, allowing him to take her arm. “I would be delighted.”
And so it begins.
Courtship had always been a nasty business, but for Sarah, the absolute worst part of it all was the lying.
One lied about a preference in food or drink in order to appear more amiable. One lied about a particular talent or skill so that a man would think you more deserving of bearing his children. One lied about lying.
“Quite a fine evening, wouldn’t you agree?” Mr. Dixon asked as he steered her toward the dance floor.
“Yes, quite,” Sarah agreed, mentally rolling her eyes at the sound of her own voice.
Two lies within the space of thirty seconds, and for what?
To make Marcus regret having tossed her over?
At times, it felt to Sarah as if she were the only sane person in the whole of England.
She didn’t want to make him regret anything—not yet anyway. She wanted the truth. What was so difficult about the truth?
“Oh, good, a quadrille. ’tis a favorite of mine,” Mr. Dixon said with satisfaction, positioning Sarah as though she were a little girl and taking his place across from her.
Sarah sighed, pasting a flat smile on her face. The music started, and she waited, watching as the head couple began to dance. When it was her turn, she nodded politely at Mr. Dixon and concentrated on making her feet move to the music. But she could not make her mind think of anything but Marcus.
She’d thought to never feel this way.
She had promised herself that Lulworth and the little world she’d built for herself would be enough.
What had Marcus done to tempt her away from the comfort of that idyllic, if limited existence?
Claire’s encouraging face appeared in Sarah’s view as she spun to the right, Mr. Dixon’s superior sneer when she returned to the left.
And as she clapped three times, then turned to take the man’s hand, she saw Marcus.
Sarah failed to read his face, though the dance continued at such a clip she doubted that she would have been able to even if she was not spinning in Dixon’s arms.
Marcus.
The memory of his name scrawled across her journal flashed through her mind.
And she felt … She felt embarrassed? No, Sarah thought, turning once again. Not embarrassment.
Shame.
Though she knew deep in her heart that she’d done nothing wrong, there was no denying the emotion as it swept over her.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Tisdale?” Mr. Dixon inquired as they completed yet another turn.
“Perfectly well, thank you,” she lied amiably, smiling at him.
He released her hand and they parted, each returning to their places.
She convinced herself to send the man a coy look as they stood across from each other, punctuating the glance with a slight shift of her shoulders. She was no fool. She knew exactly what the motion would do to her breasts.
Mr. Dixon looked as if he was about to lick his lips in anticipation.
Sarah noticed her mother near the edge of the dance floor, observing with keen interest her progress with the man.
And the flicker of anger bloomed stronger.
This was what had been expected of her all along.
This was what she got for her trouble.
The music ended and Mr. Dixon moved to her side, placing her gloved hand on his coat sleeve and covering it with his, the move possessive. “You’ve always claimed to abhor dancing, but I must say, Miss Tisdale,” he paused, his gaze lowering to rake her breasts once more, “your passion for the art is truly inspiring.”
Sarah needed to be free of him. Free of the house and all the people in it. Free of the fear that she’d betrayed herself and her emotions tonight.
She pulled her hand from beneath Mr. Dixon’s and walked away without any explanation. She didn’t look back, her pace increasing until she was nearly running, moving swiftly toward the terrace doors.
She slipped through them and picked up the blue skirt of her gown as she raced down the steps to the gardens. She didn’t stop running until her legs refused to go on, far from the lights of the ballroom, far from the gathering of polite society.
And there, in the middle of the Bennington gardens, where the most charming of gazebos stood flanked by roses and hydrangeas, Sarah stopped.
She pulled at the pins in her hair.
Kicked off her slippers.
Ripped the long, white gloves from her arms and flung them to the wind.
She reached beneath the skirt of her blue gown and ripped the silk stockings from her legs, leaving them to lie where they fell.
Then, and only then, did Sarah let loose with a string of profanities so coarse that a blue streak could surely be seen from as far as the next county over.
The woman could run.
Even if Marcus’s leg was completely healed—or, better yet, never injured at all—he’d have been hard-pressed to keep up with her.
She’d left the ballroom so abruptly that there was little time to react.
Dixon had simply stood there, looking annoyed until skulking off toward the dining room.
Claire had been intercepted by Lady Colby, with no hope of following after her friend.
Lady Tisdale was frozen in place on the edge of the dance floor, obviously torn between concern for her daughter and fear that any further action would bring unwanted attention.
“Either you go after her, or I will,” Carmichael told Marcus.
And so he had, using a circuitous route so that no one would connect his exit with hers.
He’d run full bore for a time then dropped to a jog when he heard a woman’s voice.
It was Sarah, all right, the tone elevated, but still recognizable.
She was swearing up a storm. Literally.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks and listened, noting with some interest the clouds that threatened in the east.
The moment reminded Marcus of when he’d first met her that day at the pond.
She’d shocked him, wild and unabashed. Her appetite for life had terrified him.
It terrified him still.
But he should have known then what was so clear now: One could not avoid falling in love with Sarah Tisdale.
It was impossible—she was impossible.
And Marcus could no longer deny what was right in front of his eyes.
He continued toward the gazebo, circling around to where Sarah stood.
She stopped abruptly as he approached, a look of disbelief forming on her face. “What do you want?”
Her tone, so raw yet so sharp, cut him like a knife.
He’d hardly thought on what he would say, words usually rolling off his tongue like autumn leaves falling off a tree.
But this was different. This was not a lie.
This meant something—everything.
“You.”
“Really,” she countered, her arms akimbo as she moved to stand near him on the platform, her eyes level with his. “I understood you had grown weary of Lulworth’s charms—”
“Please,” Marcus interrupted. Hearing his words repeated by her twisted the knife in his gut.
Lightning flashed, brightening the dark sky, and a soft breeze stirred the warm night air, followed almost immediately by the loud roll and crack of thunder.
And then Sarah slapped Marcus so hard across his cheek that his ears rang as though a second roll of thunder had arrived.
“Why did you hurt me?” she demanded, her voice thick with pain and anger.
The rain began, fat drops landing on Marcus’s shoulders and quickly dampening his coat.
He thrust a hand through his hair, roughly raking it back from his brow. “You cannot know what a risk it is for me—to be with you.” Even as he spoke the words, he could hardly believe he was exposing a truth he’d never uttered aloud before. Not to anyone. “No one has ever wanted me just for me.”
Sarah raised her hand again, but she brought her palm to his heart instead.
“I want you for this,” she said, pressing firmly, as though marking him with a permanent imprint on his flesh. “And this,” she continued, moving her soft palm to his forehead. “You bloody stupid, ridiculous, arrogant ass. I want all of you—and nothing less.”
The rain continued to fall, soaking his hair above her small hand, running in rivulets down his face, yet Marcus couldn’t move.
“Can you say the same for me?” Sarah’s fingers trembled as she gently brushed back a lock of his wet hair.
She gazed into his eyes with heartbreaking honesty and hope—such forgiveness in her deep green eyes. Marcus knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she spoke the truth.
He stepped up onto the platform. “Sarah.” He wrapped his arms about her waist to lift and carry her to a bench tucked toward the back of the gazebo. “I don’t have the words,” he said as he set her on her feet.
“Then show me.”
She half twisted away from him, turning her back. Tucking her chin, she pulled her mass of curls to one side and forward over her breast, the move exposing the row of tiny buttons that ran down her spine.
“Aye.” His fingers fumbled with the tiny pearls as one after the other popped free.
Sarah tugged the bodice down over her breasts, slipping her arms free from the sleeves until the gown pooled in a circle of blue silk about her feet, leaving her clad only in her chemise and corset.
She turned to face him and he slid his hands into the silky mass of her auburn hair. He bent to kiss her shoulder and the soft spot where arm met torso and the side of her breast. The taste and scent of her skin sent impatience roaring through him and he unlaced her corset to peel it free and toss it aside.
With matching haste, Sarah reached for the buttons at his waist, her nimble fingers eagerly attacking each one, his cock throbbing under the brush of her fingers.
She pushed his breeches and smalls down his thighs, taking the length of him in one hand while the other closed over the heavy crown.
“Christ Almighty, woman!” Marcus ground out, tearing his coat and waistcoat off.
“Oh!” She looked up at him through her lashes, but her curious hands didn’t still. “Is this wrong?”
Marcus groaned as he licked her right breast through the soft, thin chemise. “On the contrary. It’s very right.”
“Lovely,” she breathed.
She released him and pressed hard on his chest, forcefully pushing him back until his shoulders were against a supporting beam.
Then she sank to her knees, her warm breath stroking him as she descended. Marcus’s muscles clenched, shivering under the erotic brush of her quick breathing as it skimmed over his skin.
Kneeling at his feet, she pulled off his slippers, tugging first one, then the other free to toss aside. She caught the edges of his breeches and smalls and shoved them the rest of the way to the floor, easing them off over his feet.
She placed her palms on his thighs, careful to avoid his healing wound. She sank back on her heels, her gaze moving slowly upward. Marcus felt the brush of her stare like a brand moving over his skin and when those emerald eyes finally looked into his, he caught his breath.
His lust roared out of control and he reached for her, but she shook her head, stopping him. Her gaze left his, following her stroking hands, totally absorbed in his body. She explored him slowly, her fingers petting, stopping to touch here, caress there, until both settled on his testicles, cupping and squeezing until Marcus groaned aloud, his muscles bunching as he clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Marcus ground out, determined to let her have this moment, though his cock throbbed almost painfully with anticipation.
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, very much so.”
Her hands encircled his thick shaft, stroking the sensitive skin until Marcus groaned again and muttered a guttural curse.
His head rolled back and hit the beam, though he failed to notice anything except the feel of her fingers on him.
But when her mouth came down on him, hot and wet, every inch of his body felt the force of it, her lips lightly clasping as her tongue swirled and her teeth ever so slightly tugged.
Marcus sank his hands deep into her hair and held on, gently urging her into a rhythm that made him grit his teeth.
She grabbed his buttocks, her fingernails raking the skin. He had barely enough presence of mind to grab her shoulders.
“For the love of God,” he growled. Her mouth left the head of his cock as he pulled her up and into his arms. “Where did you learn such ways to bedevil a man?”
“Claire.” She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as her mouth sought his in a kiss desperate with need.
“Remind me to thank her,” Marcus said a moment later, lifting his head before his mouth took hers once again and his tongue ravaged the slick inner surfaces of her sweet mouth.
He walked her backward to the bench and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he laid her down, the cove of her hips rocking against the hard angles of his.
Marcus looked at her, lying beneath him, beautiful in all her unfettered glory. Her skin glowed with arousal, her eyes filled with passion and promise.
“Are you certain? Is this what you truly want?” he asked her, his body clenching against the possibility that she would deny him.
Her hips lifted, pushed, and rocked against him again and she smiled as only Sarah Tisdale could. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
“I love you.” The words had come of their own accord, but Marcus did not regret for one moment having said them.
Her green eyes flared with fierce emotion, her hands tightening about his arms.
Before she could answer, he shifted, nudging the blunt head of his arousal against her soft core. She gasped, shuddering as he entered her with a slow, steady thrust.
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat and Marcus stopped, fearful that he’d caused her pain.
“I know,” she whispered.
Mine, he thought for one fierce moment before his lust raged out of control. He partially withdrew before rocking his hips forward, burying himself in her farther with each slow, powerful stroke.
She bucked against him, demanding more.
Marcus breathed in the scent of her skin and hair and the smell of sweat and female arousal. He quickened the pace. She breathed faster, her body arching like a bow beneath his. She strained, desperately reaching for the summit.
And then she cried out, her legs wrapping more tightly about him as she shuddered beneath him.
His hand closed over her thigh and he drove into her with several quick, deep thrusts before he stiffened, the intensity of his climax tearing a deep groan from his throat.
He rolled to the side, taking her with him while still so deeply embedded in her body he couldn’t tell where his ended and hers began.
“Trust me—no matter what happens,” he whispered into her hair. “Promise me.”
Her hands came to rest on his face. “I promise. With all of my heart.”
And he believed her.