The house on Margaret Street was not large. Through the crack Sarah left open in her bedchamber door each night, she had no difficulty hearing the rasp of the key in the lock or the sound of the heavy front door opening, letting in distant sounds of a city that never slept. For by the time the nobles, gamblers, roisterers, footpads, and cracksmen were finding their way to bed, vendors of every description were coming awake, ready to supply London’s needs for yet another day.
Sarah’s candle had burned down to a nub, but there was enough light to see her pendant watch, left lying on her bedtable. Twenty minutes past three o’clock.
Earlier that evening, Harlan had appeared at the Nettington’s long enough to partner her in a merry Roger de Coverly before he had dashed off, with only the most casual farewell, to the next event on his list of engagements. Amaryllis LeFay, White’s, a gaming hell, a cockfight—who knew? From below came the sound of a heavy bolt snicking into place. Well, he was home now, was he not? All she had to do was . . .
Sarah shivered. The fingers that returned her crystal watch to the table next to her candle were suddenly stiff, as if frozen by winter ice. It had all seemed so logical earlier in the day. She must talk to Harlan in private. Therefore, she would wait up for him. But now that the moment had come . . .
He was tired and possibly irritable. It was unlikely he was sober.
Tomorrow at breakfast would be better.
Her appointment with Mr. Wendell was at eleven, when it was quite possible Harlan would still be closeted in his rooms. And more irritable at being woken up than now, when he might be mellowed by drink and . . . and pleasure.
Although Sarah did not care to think on what might have pleasured her husband, she sincerely hoped he had had a good evening. Though why she was suddenly so faint-hearted she could not say. Yes, on occasion he roared at her, but for the most part Harlan had been more tolerant than many husbands. Indeed, some of the stories she had heard since joining the ranks of married ladies were enough to curdle fresh milk. Truly, Harlan was a pattern card of generosity and indulgence compared to many gentlemen of the ton.
So why was she terrified of descending the staircase? The staircase on which no one had set foot since the Davenhams moved into the house on Margaret Street.
She was eighteen. A married lady. This was her home. Below was her husband, who was the only person who could help her out of the difficulty in which she found herself. She had no choice.
Her lips thinned in resolution, Sarah replaced the sputtering nub with a fresh candle, then lay down on her bed to wait. With the door at the top of the staircase open, as was her custom, she listened intently for the slightest sound from Harlan’s bedchamber. Finally, when she was quite, quite sure Morgan had retired for the night, Sarah got up, adjusted the ties on the embroidered dressing gown that matched her eyes, the one she had worn in Brighton when dining in their suite after the near disaster at the beach. Would he remember?
Her hand shook as she picked up the candle. Her knees went weak, her feet refused to move. What was more frightening—bearding her husband in his bedchamber or going back to Edmund Wendell’s studio?
She would never go back! Therefore . . .
The staircase was more narrow and uninviting than the servants’ stairs. Sarah wrinkled her nose at the musty odor and began her descent on tip-toe, clutching the candle with one hand, the banister with the other. Alas, the stairs ended all too soon on a stark landing, with a door on the left. Sarah shut her eyes, took a shuddering breath. What was she doing here? How could she be so bold? Surely she must be violating their agreement to lead g`separate lives.
Softly, she scratched upon the door.
No response.
Oh, no! Asleep already? He couldn’t be, horrid man. She needed him!
Eyes shut, her piquant face screwed into a grimace, Sarah tried the door handle. It turned smoothly to her touch. The door creaked open.
The bedchamber was enveloped in darkness. With shaking hands, she lifted the candle. Ah! Oh . . . my! Evidently finding the night warm, Harlan had not pulled the bedcurtains but was lying in full view on the broad tester bed, his bare arm hanging over the top of the coverlet . . .
Bare arm. Sarah took a step forward, peered more closely. A bare shoulder. Merciful heavens, he was naked! And sound asleep. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. But talk with him she must. She crept forward, never taking her eyes off her husband’s sleeping form. How young he looked—and delightfully tousled. If theirs were a real marriage, she would not be standing here quivering—tingling from head to toe—afraid to wake him, terrified of what might happen if she didn’t.
Of what might happen if she did.
Sarah forced herself to the very edge of the bed, waved the candle before her husband’s eyes. “Harlan? Harlan?”
His deep blue eyes snapped open, widened. “Sarah? Good God, what has happened? Is something wrong?”
Thanks be, he sounded quite sober, if more than a little startled. “I am so very sorry,” Sarah burbled, “but I must speak with you, and a Roger de Coverly was simply not the place to do it. For the matter is private, quite private, so I had to wait until you came home and then wait for Morgan to leave, and I am most abjectly contrite about waking you up, but I simply had to, you see.”
He did not see at all, of course. In fact, he saw nothing but his bride haloed in candlelight, wearing the enticingly transparent ensemble she had worn in Brighton, the one the sun had shone through, revealing all. No matter that tonight it was opaque, his first sight of her in that ruffled confection of a dressing gown would live in his mind forever. “Put the candle on the dresser, Sal,” he told her, “then come sit by me.” Invitingly, he patted the coverlet.
She did as she was bid, seating herself as gingerly as if he might turn into a fire-breathing dragon at any moment. “Now tell me what is troubling you. It must be dire indeed to bring you down those stairs at this hour.”
“Or any hour,” he thought he heard her mutter.
“Just say it, Sal. I don’t doubt you have good reason,” he said as gently as he might to a child of eight instead of a young lady of eighteen.
“Please, please do not be angry that I have not kept to our bargain,” Sarah burst out, “but I am expected for another sitting in the morning, and I simply cannot go. Marchmont and your mama have been so generous. I am mortified to be such an ingrate, but go back to Mr. Wendell’s studio I will not.”
Harlan sat up abruptly, the covers dropping to his waist as the weight of Sarah’s body kept the sheet and coverlet from moving with him. Sarah gasped. He swore and slid back down, pulling the covers to his chin. “Explain!” he snapped.
“Mr. Wendell is very talented, truly he is,” Sarah told him, “but always, from the very beginning, he made me uncomfortable, as if he were forever looking beneath my clothing. I did not care to sit for the second portrait, but I did not wish to appear ungrateful to your papa and mama, and of course I thought it might be quite grand to have one’s portrait displayed in the National Gallery, so the fault, I fear, was mine—”
“Sarah! What happened?”
“He touched me,” she breathed.
“Touched you?” Harlan examined his wife’s anxious eyes, her quivering lower lip, and felt himself go cold. “How did he touch you?” he inquired ominously.
“He was arranging a scarf and—and he decided to tuck it into my—my décolletage.” His wife was looking down, fingering the folds of the coverlet. “I am being quite foolish, am I not? A child, in fact, making mountains out of molehills—”
“Continue!” Silence. “Sarah?” Harlan demanded.
“When he tucked in the scarf,” she said in a very small voice, “he brushed my—my flesh. I do not believe it was an accident. Every day,” she added on a determined rush, “when he looked at me, I could feel him undressing me. It was horrid! So I will not go back. You must not make me. You must explain—”
“Make you?” Harlan exclaimed. “Are you mad? Of course you will not go back. You should have spoken to me immediately.”
“But your mama and your papa were so anxious to have the portrait done, and I did not wish to break our agreement by troubling you with something I should be able to manage on my own. Except, of course”—Sarah’s voice diminished to a thread—“except that I could not. I was . . . afraid. So here I am in the middle of the night.”
“So you are.” Harlan reached out and put his hand over hers, watching closely as her eyes peeped up, taking in his well-muscled arm, perhaps the first bare male arm she had glimpsed since nursery days. “Listen to me, Sarah. Listen closely. You will never go back to that man’s studio again. I, personally, will inform Wendell of our decision in this matter, and I will make any necessary explanations to Marchmont and my mother. Have no fear, Sarah. It is over.”
“Oh, thank you!”
Hell’s hounds! But with candlelight reflecting off the tears of gratitude swimming in his wife’s eyes and illuminating the entire petite and delectable vision perched not a foot from his chest, his wife was quite the most appealing sight he’d seen in years. If ever. He should offer to escort her back to her bedchamber, but he dared not get out of bed. Not only was he naked, but his arousal would be so apparent even his innocent Sal could not miss it.
Devil a bit, but this was not at all the way he’d planned it. They must return to the terms of their agreement. Immediately!
“Now off with you,” Harlan barked, more abruptly than he had intended. “Sleep peacefully. I will take care of everything in the morning.”
His wife swooped in and kissed him, nothing more than a brief brush against his cheek, but she smelled of flowers and of . . . Sarah, fresh and virginal. As she picked up the candle and headed purposefully toward the staircase, Harlan plunged his head into his hands, stifling a groan. No problem arriving at the bastard’s studio at the appointed hour of eleven. He had already had all the sleep he was going to get that night.
“Good morning.” Harlan experienced a grim surge of satisfaction at the expression on Edmund Wendell’s face when he opened his studio door, expecting Lady Davenham and her maid and discovering Viscount Davenham instead. “I have come to inspect my wife’s portrait,” he announced in his most arrogant noble accents. “Naturally, Marchmont wishes my approval before he settles your fee.”
The artist, whose face had turned the shade of a blank canvas, returned the greeting of his illustrious visitor, adding in remarkably obsequious tones, “Of course. This way, my lord.”
Miserable toad-eater. Bully a child, but fawn over a title, would he?
Harlan studied Sarah’s portrait—the white gown, the garden, her lovely face and shining hair. She was right—the nasty rat had talent. And yet Wendell had made his little Sally no more beautiful than she actually was. His parents would be exceedingly pleased. No sense in spoiling their gift by revealing any more than was absolutely necessary. But as for Wendell . . .
“And now,” Lord Davenham said, “you will show me the second portrait.”
“It is no more than a sketch, my lord,” the artist protested, “not worthy of your inspect—”
“Now!”
“Yes, my lord.” Wendell led him toward the large canvas set upon an easel, facing an opulent divan that, in itself, gave the appearance of decadence. Harlan, already coldly furious, felt his control slip even before he turned his gaze to the portrait.
He had told himself he would handle this matter in the style expected of a gentleman, but it was rapidly becoming obvious why duels were still so popular in spite of being banned. Not that he could go out with a cur like Wendell, but nonetheless . . . Amazing what could be portrayed in simple charcoal. The divan, the outline of a reclining body, long unbound hair, the decided swell of full bosoms . . . Harlan’s gaze stuck on the place where scarf met bodice, the place where this sorry excuse for a man had dared place his all-too-nimble fingers.
That morning, even as he had selected a dagger from his collection, he had told himself it was only a sensible precaution. Now Harlan knew why he had brought it. He drew it out slowly from beneath his jacket, savoring Wendell’s gasp of genuine horror. “I selected my favorite,” he told the artist quite conversationally. “It seemed only fitting for the task at hand.” The viscount withdrew the dagger from its gem-studded sheath and held it out to Edmund Wendell. “You may have the honor of making certain this portrait does not survive. Nor, I might add, is it ever to be duplicated. If I should hear of any attempt to do so, the next time I see you, it will not be canvas that tastes my blade. Do I make myself clear?”
Wendell stepped back, hands behind him. “No, no, you cannot ask this of me!”
“You do not understand my words?” Harlan inquired smoothly.
Edmund Wendell closed his eyes, swallowed, his handsome face gone sour with fear. “I understand quite well, my lord, but this was to be my masterpiece—”
“What it will be is the death of you,” Harlan told him. He thrust the dagger into the artist’s limp hand. “Now do it!”
When Sarah’s second portrait was nothing but shreds of canvas littering the studio floor, Lord Davenham nodded his satisfaction, reminded Mr. Wendell that it was never to be duplicated, and took his leave. With his hand on the door knob, the viscount paused and looked back at the stunned artist. “There are a great many fish in the sea, Wendell. Just be certain that my Sarah is never again among them. Stick to bored matrons who are eager for a roll in the hay. Good day.”
Lord and Lady Davenham went to the opera that night, sharing a box with Miss Twitchell and Lord Richard, a pairing neither Harlan or Sarah found credible, but which proved to be surprisingly congenial. Esmerelda Twitchell was lively, as well as good-natured and well-mannered, and although Lord Richard was so épris he spent most of his time watching his companion instead of the drama on stage, he was too much the polished gentleman not to uphold his end of the conversation. The result was that the Davenhams passed an entire evening in each other’s company without my lord feeling the least bit bored or constrained by dancing attendance on his wife. Even though he had, in fact, devoted all his time that day—save for a mid-afternoon nap—in her service. As he had always suspected, wives were a devil of a nuisance, but he had to admit his sense of satisfaction outweighed his annoyance tenfold. Being of service to his little Sarah made him feel like a giant, a knight of old riding full tilt to the rescue.
It felt good.
On stage, the tenor sang passionately of his love for his mistress, forcibly reminding Harlan that his wife’s peccadillos, no matter how innocent her involvement, were a threat to his preferred way of life. Feeling a brief sense of accomplishment could not compensate for the loss of his life as a young man about town. He must return to it and take Dickon with him. When he was thirty and Sal was of age—that was time enough to accept a leg-shackle. But not now, not yet.
She smelled good, though, bringing back thoughts of last night—her kiss, his throbbing arousal. Harlan shifted in his red velvet chair, jammed his program over his lap. He glared at the ballerinas who had replaced the soulful tenor, quite forgetting the number of times he had scanned each and every face and limb through his quizzing glass, wondering which one might be his selection for the evening.
In spite of the viscount’s discomfort, the evening might have ended on a figurative, as well as actual, high note, if their box had not had a visitor during the second interval. Southwaite, by God! Just when Harlan was congratulating himself on solving his wife’s problem and was once again well on his way to restoring her to invisibility, Geoffrey Hatton had to poke his patrician nose through the velvet curtains of their box. Dickon, no more pleased than he was, was suddenly hovering over Miss Twitchell as if Southwaite might attempt to fly away with her.
No doubt about it. Women were a great deal of trouble. If only ladies of quality could be kept to the bedchamber, as one did with a mistress, what a great many problems would be solved.
Lord Davenham’s eyes followed those of Lord Southwaite, who was standing, to the row of brilliants decorating the square neckline of Sarah’s lilac silk gown. The very low neckline, which though fashionable, exposed far too much of his innocent young wife. Hell and the devil confound it, was he never to have any peace?
Southwaite raised his eyes and smiled. A deliberate taunt, by God! No doubt he’d had a good look all the way down to Sarah’s stays, blast him for the rake he was!
The baron was asking Sarah to drive with him in the park.
She was accepting.
Harlan had to restrain himself from causing a scene. It was perfectly normal to be possessive, he assured himself as he gripped the gilded back of his chair so hard it nearly snapped. Sarah was his, if only on paper. If any man was to have her, it was going to be he!
Some day. When she was ready. When little Sal was old enough.
When he was old enough, whispered the still small voice of his conscience.
Aunt Portia, I shall never forgive you.