“So tell me, what have your efforts been to date?” Sarah asked. She stood, gathered up the plates and wineglasses, and located the wash bucket under the counter. She filled the bucket with water from another pitcher, pushed up the sleeves of her gray gown, and began scrubbing the dishes as if she’d been born to the role of scullery maid.
Christian watched her for a few moments in awe. If everything else she’d told him didn’t seem plausible, he’d wonder if she was indeed the daughter of an earl. For some reason, despite her cooking skills, he’d expected the belle of the London Season to perch on the sofa while he catered to her. But she did nothing of the sort.
He shook his head and refocused his attention on the question she’d just asked. “My efforts?”
“At courting young ladies.”
“Ah, that.” He pushed up his sleeves and grabbed a dish. Their fingers touched in the wash bucket and Christian swallowed. Sarah froze.
Sarah took a step away from him to the side.
Christian shook his head again. Focus. Focus. “My efforts have been positively abysmal. If I’m not stuttering, I’m saying something entirely wrong. However, it is how I made some of my closest friends. I cannot say it’s been entirely bad.”
Her head snapped up to face him. “Friends?”
“Yes. Some of my closest friends are ladies who weren’t a bit interested in me.” He chuckled.
“And you were interested in them?” she ventured.
He shrugged. “Not all of them.”
“Who?”
He picked up a bit of linen to wipe the plate he’d just finished washing. “Let’s see. One is my friend Lucy.” He wasn’t about to admit that she was also known as the Duchess of Claringdon.
“Who else?”
“Cassandra and Jane.”
Sarah frowned, perhaps wondering why he was referring to his lady friends by their Christian names. But Cass was a countess and Jane a future countess. Sarah would wonder why he was acquainted with such highborn ladies. “Anyone else?” she asked.
“Most recently, I did a good turn for my friend Alexandra. Though I cannot say we were ever enamored of each other.”
Sarah scrubbed a bowl. “And these ladies live in … London?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot believe you and I didn’t meet in London.” She winced. “Did we?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I’m certain I would have remembered you.”
She expelled her breath. “I’m so relieved.”
“Difficult to keep track of everyone, eh?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t attend Almack’s?” he asked.
“I did. Once. It was hideous. As you said, tepid lemonade and even more tepid conversation.”
“Can’t that be said about most of the ton events?” he drawled.
“Not if you know whom to speak to and whom to avoid.”
Christian cracked a smile. “I see. Something tells me I’ve chosen exactly the right person to assist me in becoming fashionable.”
Sarah returned his smile. “Indeed you have. I have little to recommend me, Mr. Forester. I’m not particularly well learned. I was rubbish at maths. I’m not a fine horsewoman and am abysmal at the pianoforte. But if you’re in need of someone who knows the way of the ton and its young ladies, you’ve found the right person, I can assure you.”
They finished washing the dishes, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes.
“I must see to Oberon,” Christian announced.
“Oberon?” Sarah blinked.
“Yes. My horse.”
The hint of a smile touched Sarah’s lips.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you not an admirer of Shakespeare?”
“On the contrary. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is my favorite of his works.”
“Is it?” Christian arched a brow. “Mine too. And you just finished telling me you’re not particularly well learned. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Well, reading is different.”
“Tell me. Why were you smiling?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I was smiling because my horse is also named Oberon.”
Christian’s eyebrows shot up. Contemplating that interesting bit of information, he pulled on his boots and overcoat and braced the freezing wind and snow to go to the barn to see to the horse. When he returned, he found Lady Sarah in the yard next to the front door, wrapped in a wool coat, ushering little Fergus II to a spot she’d obviously cleared in the snow so the dog might relieve himself. Apparently, she wasn’t even above seeing to the unmentionable needs of an animal. Full of surprises was this Lady Sarah Highgate.
“Did you make Fergus Two that coat?” he asked, pausing next to her.
“Yes,” Sarah replied.
“Why?”
“Because I thought he might be cold, of course,” she said, giving Christian a look that told him she thought the question a bit daft. She sauntered ahead of him back into the house, and Christian tried to ignore the swing of her hips.
When they got inside, Christian closed the door behind them. They stamped the snow from their feet, hung up their cloaks, and removed their boots. Fergus II wiped his paws on the rug accordingly and trotted over to his little bed near the fire. He paced around in a circle a few times before curling up into a tight ball.
“Care for another drink?” Christian asked Sarah, moving back into the kitchen.
“What are you having?”
“Only tea. I’ve had enough wine for one evening.”
“As have I. Tea sounds lovely.”
Christian strode over to one of the cabinets, where he found two teacups. He pulled a bag of leaves out of the cupboard and put the kettle on to boil. Once the water had heated, he poured two cups over the leaves and left them to steep for a bit. Finally, he brought the mugs to where Sarah sat on the sofa in the great room. She’d discarded her slippers and her feet were curled under her.
“No cream or sugar?” she asked with a bit of a pout to her lips.
“My apologies.” Ah, here was the moment when she would no doubt indulge in daughter-of-earl-like histrionics.
“I’ll make do,” she said gamely.
Blinking back his surprise, Christian handed her one of the cups. “Are you certain?”
“What choice do I have?”
“What choice indeed.” He set his own cup on the side table and made his way toward the fireplace, where he added more logs to the crackling fire while Fergus II’s little snores filled the room.
After stoking the fire, Christian moved back toward the sofa and took a seat across from Sarah on one of the large leather chairs that rested near the fireplace. He picked up his cup again and took a sip.
“So, tell me, what do I need to know? To finally attract a wife?”
“First, I am curious … If you’re such good friends with Lucy, Cassandra, and Jane, why haven’t they helped you find a suitable wife already?”
Christian couldn’t help laughing. “Lucy? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Doesn’t she have the right connections?”
He nearly choked. “Oh, er, ah, she has the right … connections, but…”
“But what?”
“My friend Lucy has many talents, but choosing a wife for me hasn’t been one of them. She’s tried countless times to matchmake for me, to absolutely no avail. Every single one of the ladies she’s attempted to introduce me to is either already madly in love with some other chap or firmly disinterested in me altogether. Why, Lucy didn’t even realize her own match was directly under her nose for the better part of two months.”
Lady Sarah smiled at that. “She’s too close to you to know what’s good for you, is that it?”
“Partially,” Christian replied. “And it’s also that she doesn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t enjoy parties and balls and meeting strangers. She has no earthly idea why meeting some ladies makes me stutter, why dancing isn’t my forte, and why anyone on earth would want to retreat to Scotland for peace and quiet.”
Lady Sarah glanced at him from behind her cup. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I also quite enjoy parties and balls and meeting strangers. And dancing. But I understand why you don’t like it. My brother, Hart, doesn’t like any of it either. Neither does Meg. Hart calls it all nonsense. But he must find a wife because he’s an heir and a future earl and … well, just be glad you don’t have any of that title nonsense to deal with.”
Christian tugged at his collar and didn’t meet her eyes. “Who is Meg?”
A bright smile lit Lady Sarah’s face. “Oh, Meg is my dearest friend.”
“Another belle?”
“No…” Lady Sarah sighed. “Unfortunately not. Meg is the opposite of the belle of the Season, I’m afraid. She’s more the wallflower of the Season.”
“Why is that?”
Lady Sarah shook her head sadly. “Her father is a terrible gambler. He’s reduced their family to poverty, and Meg’s dowry is gone. Her gowns are hideously out of fashion and she’s attracted nary a suitor. It’s quite sad, really. I’ve tried to give her some of my gowns. I have far too many. But she’s proud. She refuses any charity. She’s gossiped about horribly by some of the other ladies, though not within my earshot. I would not stand for it. Meg is perfectly pretty and sweet and funny. I adore her.”
Christian pushed back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. He took another sip of tea. “Meg sounds lovely. Is she still in the market for a husband? Say, someone tall and blond who lives in Scotland?” He cracked a grin.
Another smile crossed Sarah’s lip and she took a sip of tea. “I’m afraid not.”
Christian did a double take. “She’s looking for someone titled?”
“No. It’s just that Meg, much like the ladies Lucy has introduced you to, is already helplessly, hopelessly, in love with another man.”
“Ah.” Christian shook his head sadly. “A story I’ve heard all too often. Who is the lucky man?”
“That is a story for another time,” Lady Sarah replied. “For now, let’s get back to your predicament.” She took another tentative sip, the grimace on her face less noticeable this time at the lack of cream and sugar.
“By all means,” Christian replied, raising his cup in the air in salute.
Sarah smoothed her skirts with her free hand. “Let’s begin with the obvious. Pardon my forwardness, but I assume you are eligible?”
“Eligible?” Christian nearly choked on his tea. He drew his brows together.
“Yes. You know. Not already married? Have a steady income? That sort of thing.”
He laughed and settled back into his chair again. “No. I’m not already married.”
“No heavy debts?” Lady Sarah drew an elegant finger around the rim of her teacup.
“None.”
“And your income?” she prodded.
“Steady enough.” Why was the smell of lilies slowly driving him mad? The woman was helping him find a wife, for Hades’s sake. He shouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing her rose-red lips.
“No madness in the family?” she ventured.
Christian scratched the back of his ear. “None of which I am aware.”
“No scandal that’s marred your reputation?”
“Ironic, you asking me that.”
She pushed her nose in the air, but she smiled. “We’re talking about you now, not me.”
“Fine, no scandals,” Christian said. He still couldn’t shake the image of what it would be like to kiss her.
“No former wives dead under unusual circumstances?” she asked.
This time his head snapped up to face her. “Good God, no.”
She laughed. “I didn’t think so, but I felt it necessary to ask. Anything else to declare that might make a lady in any way reticent to accept your suit?”
Christian quirked a brow. “Other than the stutter and the fact that my home is far from London?”
She contemplated that for a moment. “Scotland isn’t so bad.”
Christian didn’t correct her. She obviously believed this was his only home. He didn’t know why he hadn’t told her the truth yet. “Some young ladies don’t like the idea of being so far from the amusements of London, and…”
“And?”
“I’m not overly fond of town, so my lady might well find herself living in the north for a good part of the year.”
“I don’t see why that would be so bad. London can be tedious after a bit.”
“You may not see why, but I assure you, some do. Lavinia Hobbs said I was the least eligible man in London because of it.” She’d actually said he was the least eligible lord in London, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.
Sarah wrinkled up her nose. “Lavinia Hobbs is a shrew. How she has such a dear of a sister, I’ll never know.”
Christian took another sip of tea. “You know Lady Alexandra?”
“Yes. She would be a good catch for you, though I hear her parents are set on Lavinia marrying first. And of course, without a title, you’d be hard-pressed to gain the favor of her father, the duke.”
Christian grinned. “No matter. I have it on good authority that Lady Alexandra already has her sights set on Lord Owen Monroe.”
One of Sarah’s fine eyebrows arched. “Lord Owen? Really? That is an unlikely pair, but I suppose he’s somewhat eligible.”
Christian grinned again. “More eligible than I am?”
“Well, he’s set to inherit an earldom one day. However, given his scandalous reputation, I daresay you’d still be a fine catch compared to him, even without a title.”
“Ah, yes. A title is important, isn’t it?”
“Quite. But don’t worry. You said you’re gentry, correct? We’ll find someone perfect for you.”
He hid his smile. “There’s a viscount in my lineage.”
“A viscount? Why didn’t you tell me? What was he? An uncle? Twice removed?”
“Something like that.” Christian lifted his cup as if to dismiss the question.
“What’s the title?”
“Berkeley.” He studied her face for any sign of recognition. There was none. “Have you heard it before?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “I haven’t.”
“Not at all?”
“I’m certain I read the name at school when I studied Debrett’s. Unfortunately, my memory for such things is rubbish.”
“That’s my entire problem. It seems no young ladies remember me. Obviously, aside from my stutter, I have left absolutely no impression at all. I am the man to whom all the ladies lament about the men they do remember.”
A touch of a smile graced Sarah’s lips. “It can’t be all that bad. As I said, I’ve yet to hear you stutter even once.”
“I assure you it’s quite real and it’s quite humiliating, but that’s precisely why I need you. I need you to tell me what I must do to become memorable. I’m not greedy. I don’t require a flock of ladies vying for my attention. I am only in need of one. One kind, thoughtful, happy one who won’t mind spending quiet days and nights in the country. One who is in want of a faithful, healthy, equally kind husband.”
Sarah leaned back and rested her head against the sofa. “It sounds quite lovely,” she said wistfully. “So much more lovely than anything Lord Branford has ever said.”
“Branford that awful, eh?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “The sacrifices one must make for family and lineage and all of that. As I said, you’re fortunate to not have to deal with such nonsense.”
He glanced at her, his throat tight. “Yes, of course. You and I, we could not possibly be—”
“No. No! I mean … that is to say … my father would never consider a man without a title. Without an estate. A healthy income. All utter nonsense, I assure you.”
“Ah, yes. A pity.” He took another sip of tea. That’s why he hadn’t told her he was a viscount. And his income was quite healthy. It didn’t matter. She could give him all sorts of advice and the belle of the Season still wouldn’t be interested in him. No. This wasn’t about Sarah. It was about his future wife.
“Don’t worry,” she hastened to add. “By the time I’m through with you, you will have a flock of ladies vying for your attention.”
Christian rubbed his beard. “It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. So, tell me, what do you think it will take to make me memorable?”
“Well, it’s certainly not a problem with your looks,” she blurted out, then blushed and pressed her lips together tightly. “I mean, you seem quite easy to look at.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, at least,” he replied with a chuckle.
“And your physique is also pleasing.”
Yours is, too.
He opened his mouth wide, spreading his lips back, and turned his head from side to side. “Care to examine my teeth?”
She snorted but proceeded to lean forward to examine them. “Your teeth are bright, white, and perfectly aligned. Quite a fit set, actually. I see no problem.”
He tried not to look at the décolletage she displayed when leaning forward. He cleared his throat and glanced toward the front door. “I have no limps or injuries. And the only scar I’ve managed to earn is one from putting out a fire that was consuming my cousin Harriet’s dollhouse when I was ten years old.”
“Oh, dear. However did your cousin’s dollhouse manage to catch fire?”
“She tried to light the tiny fireplace with a candle. It was a near ruin. I spent most of my summer holiday rebuilding it for her.”
Sarah glanced down into her teacup. “That was kind of you.”
Leaning forward, he showed her the small scar that spanned between his thumb and forefinger. She touched it and immediately pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Forester. We might be quite alone together in this hunting lodge, but that doesn’t give me leave to behave like a hoyden.”
“You’re far from a hoyden, Lady Sarah.” The scent of lilies filled his senses.
“You don’t think people will speak ill of me? If they don’t believe my story, I mean.” Her frightened eyes searched his face. “You don’t think Lord Branford will cry off?”
Christian leaned forward and touched her shoulder. “I wouldn’t think ill of you even if I knew the truth. And if you were my betrothed, I would never cry off.”
She gave him a tentative smile. But there was something in her eyes he couldn’t read. “You do know the truth,” she murmured.
“Precisely.” He moved away from her and settled back into his seat. “You care far too much what others think of you.”
She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Perhaps you haven’t cared enough, Mr. Forester.”
He inclined his head toward her. The lady was astute. He’d give her that.
She glanced away, shook her head, and cleared her throat. “My apologies for changing the subject. Tell me, what, in your expert opinion, is the reason you’ve been relegated to a friend of every young lady you’ve fancied?”
His grin was unrepentant. “Why, my lady, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me. For I cannot for the life of me discern the reason myself.”
“You’re handsome, eligible, connected to the Quality, have a steady income, seem nice enough, and have good teeth. There is no reason I can think of why you haven’t made a good match yet.”
“Precisely what my cousin tells me.” He rested his wrist atop his head.
Sarah was busily tapping her cheek in thought. “Perhaps it’s the ladies you’re choosing to court. It sounds as if they all had other gentlemen in mind before they met you. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
Christian narrowed his eyes. “It’s true. I suppose I never thought of that.”
Sarah took another small sip of tea. “Is there anyone else? Anyone you fancy?”
He swallowed and looked away into the fireplace. He slowly shook his head.
“That may also be part of the problem,” Sarah said. “Ladies like to feel special, singled out, as if the man who is courting them is interested in absolutely no one else.”
Christian set aside his cup. He stood and picked up the poker and nudged the burning logs in the fireplace again. “Ah, I see. Does Lord Branford show interest in anyone else?”
“Indeed.” Sarah laughed. “Himself, and I’m afraid there’s no competing with the strength of that particular affection.”
Again, Christian admired her sense of humor.
A singularly loud snore from Fergus II tore through the room. Sarah glanced over at the little dog. “I suppose it’s past time to retire. I’ll take Fergus to bed with me if it’s all right with you. I’ve got quite used to sleeping with him since I came here.”
Christian jabbed at one of the logs. The bloody dog’s making more headway with a woman than I ever have. “Perfectly all right with me.”
She nodded toward the bedchambers. “The room I’m in … it’s all right for me to remain?”
“Yes. You’re perfectly welcome to stay there. I’ll be in the other bedchamber.” He wasn’t about to tell her she’d been sleeping in his bed. “With the door firmly shut and perhaps locked so that I won’t have to defend myself against a sword-wielding woman in the middle of the night.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him up and down. “You shouldn’t have a thing to worry about as long as you don’t do anything that would make me grab my sword.”
She was playful, this Lady Sarah. She made him feel younger, lighter. He’d smiled and laughed more tonight than he could remember having done in the last six months.
She stood, stretched, and moved over to the kitchen, where she set her teacup on the countertop. “Tomorrow we’ll begin by examining your clothing.”
“My clothing?” Christian glanced down at his attire. Not particularly his finest hour, he acknowledged.
“Let’s go, Fergus.” Lady Sarah clapped her hands and the little dog’s brown eyes popped open. He scrambled up from his spot and hurried over to her.
Christian watched as an English earl’s daughter went to bed with a Scottish dog wearing a red coat in his hunting lodge. A piece of wood snapped and crackled in the fireplace. Christian rubbed the back of his neck and cursed silently to himself. It was the first time in his life he was jealous of a dog.