Three weeks went by, three torturous weeks in which Christian returned to London and did everything in his power to stay away from Lady Sarah Highgate. The still-very-much-engaged-to-Lord-Branford Lady Sarah Highgate. Christian did whatever he could to keep her from his thoughts. He went riding in the park. He went to the fencing club with Upton. He even went shopping, of all bloody ridiculous things, with Monroe. According to Monroe, a well-dressed gentleman could never have too many fine shirts.
But Christian soon learned, to his chagrin, that while staying away from Sarah was easy enough, keeping her from his thoughts was much more difficult. For his thoughts were haunted by the memory of her in his bed in Surrey, her gorgeous naked body splayed in front of him. Her lips around him, driving him wild. Then, inevitably, his thoughts would turn to the talk they’d had after it was over. Do you love me, Christian? she’d asked in the most heartbreakingly vulnerable voice he’d ever heard. Can you say you love me? Those were the words that kept him awake at night. Made him toss and turn in bed. Those were the words that tortured him. And every time he thought of them, he cursed himself for not having answered them in the way she’d obviously wanted. Every time, he hated himself more for not being the man she clearly needed him to be.
While Christian’s thoughts were plagued with her, he spent his days studiously avoiding her, which proved to be somewhat simple. For Sarah was rarely in public. According to Lucy, she was busily preparing her trousseau while her mother saw to the wedding details. When he did attend ton parties, he rarely saw her. When she was there, he ensured that he spent his evening dancing with a never-ending slew of young, marriageable ladies. And he refused to look at her.
“I cannot imagine what she’s thinking,” Lucy declared one afternoon when she and Christian had gone for a walk in the park.
“I can. She’s thinking she’s about to marry Lord Branford,” Christian retorted, nudging up his hat with the tip of his finger.
“But we spoke in Surrey. I was certain she’d—”
He glanced at Lucy, who’d snapped her mouth shut. “She’d what?”
“We talked before the wedding. I was certain she’d leave him. What did you do to your hand, by the by?” She gestured to Christian’s right fist, which was wrapped firmly with a clean white rag.
“It’s nothing,” he murmured. He kept his mouth shut on the other score, too. He made a show of flexing his hand, in an attempt to prove it didn’t pain him.
He wasn’t about to tell Lucy what had transpired between him and Sarah in Surrey. Besides, if Sarah had ever had a moment of wanting to leave Branford and marry Christian, he’d bloody well put an end to it when he’d refused to tell her he loved her that night.
Damn it. Did he love her? Did he even know what love was? He couldn’t bring himself to say those words without being absolutely certain. It wouldn’t be fair to her. He couldn’t ask her to cause a scandal that might estrange her from her parents for the rest of her life without being entirely certain. She’d asked him. She’d put him on the spot. And he’d failed. He’d been unable to say it. He didn’t blame her for putting him on the spot. How could he? He was asking a lot of her, to toss over Lord Branford, anger her parents, and cast shame upon her family. Only he’d been convinced he was rescuing her … actually, stupidly believed she’d be grateful to him for offering for her. He’d been a bloody fool. And an utter arse.
To make matters worse, he’d nearly wished that Cade Cavendish had gone and told the household full of people what he’d seen. That, at least, would have forced the issue. Yes, there’d be an undeniable scandal, but in the end, no doubt, Christian would be with Sarah. The fact that he’d even thought about it, let alone wished it, made him an undeniable cad. The truth was, he wasn’t good enough for Sarah. He didn’t deserve her.
She’d told him to be honest. Told him he owed her that much. And it was true. Her tears had ripped him to pieces inside, but he did owe her his honesty. All this time, she’d said, I’ve wondered why you’ve remained a bachelor. Why you couldn’t find a wife. But I finally understand. You want to remain unmarried. You want to remain aloof, friendly.… And then you act as if you’re surprised that you haven’t found a wife.
Those words clawed at his mind each and every day. He couldn’t forget them, couldn’t banish them, couldn’t keep busy enough to drive them from his thoughts. It’s never been about your clothes or your boots or even your reputation, Sarah had said.
Was Sarah right? Had he wasted her time in Scotland, asking her to help him become a legend? He’d had the pick of the lot after him, Lady Sarah herself. But when it came to telling her the one thing she needed to hear, he’d bloody well ruined everything. He had no one to blame but himself. Perhaps despite all his protestations to the contrary, he didn’t want a wife and family after all. Perhaps he was incapable of love.
Do you want to know the real reason you aren’t married yet, Christian? Look in the mirror, Sarah had said.
And he had. He’d taken a good, long, hard look in the mirror. Stared at himself. Couldn’t look away. What he saw was a lonely bachelor staring back at him. One whose mother had left him when he was a child. She got sick one day and he never saw her again. It was a memory he rarely allowed himself to dwell upon, but he’d stared it down and let it torture him again for seconds, minutes, an hour. He’d taken that good, hard look in the mirror, and then he’d punched the bloody thing, shattering it into a hundred tiny pieces.
In the end, he’d realized why he wanted to be every lady’s friend. Friendships were easy. Love. Love was difficult. Love caused pain.
* * *
The three weeks before her wedding passed with both an alarming alacrity and an excruciating slowness that Sarah thought would drive her mad in turns. Lucy Hunt’s words echoed through her mind. You must not allow life to happen to you. Blast Lucy for putting a bunch of rebellious notions in her head. The duchess knew full well how the lives of ladies in their positions went. She knew full well what was expected of them. Sarah wanted to do what Lucy thought she should. She wanted to call off the wedding and choose Christian. If only Christian had given her a reason, a real reason … love. But Christian couldn’t have been more clear. She’d asked him if he loved her and he’d said … nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Obviously, he didn’t feel them. He’d mentioned passion and friendship, but nothing about love. She couldn’t defy her parents and damage her reputation for anything less than love. It just wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t help matters that Meg was firmly on Lucy’s side. “The duchess is right,” she’d said on more than one occasion.
“About which part?”
“You must decide whether you will marry for love or for duty.”
“I’ve decided,” Sarah had insisted. “I’m marrying for duty. I have a responsibility to.”
Meg had given her a sad look that reminded Sarah a bit too much of Fergus II when he was denied a treat, but in the end her friend had respected her decision and told her she would be there to support her on her wedding day, regardless of the groom’s identity.
But in her more quiet moments, when she wasn’t shopping for the final bits of her trousseau or being wished well by scores of callers and friends, Lucy’s other words haunted Sarah. Christian didn’t say that he loves you, which is quite different … he’s never experienced anything like this before. We’ve all had to overcome a bit of stupidity when falling in love.
Was Lucy right? Could she be? Did Christian truly love her but was incapable of telling her because he’d never been in love before? Didn’t recognize the feeling? Or was all of it just wishful thinking on her part? Idiotic, useless wishful thinking?
When she wasn’t plagued by such thoughts, Sarah’s days were spent with her mother making repeated visits to the dressmaker’s for the fittings for the wedding gown. Sarah couldn’t even look at herself in the thing. It was a gorgeous gown, everything she’d ever wanted, with a fitted silver bodice and a long trailing white satin skirt. It had tiny blue and silver beads threaded in swirling patterns along the hem and across the skirt, and she looked absolutely breathtaking in it (or so both the dressmaker and her mother assured her). But every time Sarah tried to look at herself in the mirror, guilt made her look away. She was a fraud.
Her nights were a different matter altogether. They were spent awake in bed, unable to forget about the night in Christian’s bedchamber when he’d made her feel things she couldn’t have imagined.
When she wasn’t thinking about Christian, she was fighting the fear that rose in her chest, the panic that threatened to bring the walls of her room crashing in on her, when she thought about spending the rest of her life with Lord Branford.
Sarah avoided Lucy and Meg the same way she avoided looking at herself in the wedding dress. And then one day she woke up, and it was the day before her wedding.