The Affectionate Adversary (24 page)

“Marry Lord Delacroix?” Sarah lifted her head from the blanket upon which she reclined and eyed her sister. “Now it is you who have gone mad. Why ever would I wish to marry such a man, Pru? He is a rake.”

“He
was
a rake. But ever since your return from the Orient, he has been wholly devoted to you. Can you deny it?”

“I most certainly can. Delacroix has shown me no particular attention, and if he did, I should rebuff him at once.”

Miffed, Sarah lay back and gazed up at the twining branches and bright green leaves of the large beech tree beneath which she and her sisters reclined. Unlike the previous dreary afternoon, Saturday had brought sunshine, a sapphire sky, and a fragrant breeze that brushed over the fells and made the dandelions dance. Delighted to leave the drafty old house at last, the ladies had enjoyed a lovely picnic of cold meats, cheeses, and fresh lemonade followed by a stroll down to the stream. After wading in the icy water long enough to turn their toes blue, they had climbed back to the beech tree and spread out their blankets in preparation for a long summer’s nap.

And then Prudence had dropped her suggestion like a sudden squall.

“Besides, Lord Delacroix is my nephew,” Sarah reminded her sister. “As the nearest relation to my husband, he is almost a son to me.”

“Pooh!” Mary cried out. “Delacroix is older than you by at least three years. During your marriage to his uncle, he paid you little heed, and no one observed any motherly affection on your part. I think Pru is right in encouraging a union between you. It makes perfect sense that Delacroix should inherit his uncle’s wife along with the houses and estates.”

“Inherit me—as though I were an old chair or a candlestick?” Sarah gave a sigh of exasperation. “When will you and Pru ever accept that I have no intention of marrying again? I am far more content now than I have ever been, and I cannot see that taking another Delacroix for a husband would increase my chances of happiness at all.”

“All you want is your own happiness,” Prudence retorted. “I think it very selfish of you.”

“I am not the least bit selfish,” Sarah replied, her voice rising. “You know very well I am giving my entire fortune to those whose situations and living conditions are deplorable. How can you accuse me of thinking only of myself?”

“Because it is true. Why do you not consider poor Delacroix’s unfortunate situation? He has no money and cannot marry for love. And he has been such a cad these many years that no woman in our society wants him for a husband.”

“And so I make him the perfect wife?”

“Yes you do,” Prudence confirmed.

“Aye, Sarah,” Mary chimed in, “for Delacroix needs someone rich as well as forgiving. He has altered himself of late, and you ought to be religious enough to grant him atonement. Why, since meeting you again, he appears to have repented of his excesses entirely. I never see him flirting as he did before you returned from Asia. I believe you would do him very much good if you could get past your own selfish aims.”

Appalled at the accusations of her sisters, Sarah stared up at the leaves fluttering like tiny green flags overhead. Clearly Prudence and Mary had conspired to broach this topic, for they had worked out their argument to perfection. But why did they think Sarah could ever be happy with Delacroix? And was she really being selfish in seeking to give away her fortune in a quest for happiness? Dreadful thought!

“I have already endured one marriage in an effort to do good,” Sarah told her sisters. “I am not inclined to make the same mistake twice.”

“Delacroix is not a bad man,” Prudence insisted. “Even Mr. Locke agrees.”

“Mr. Locke? When did you speak to him about Delacroix?”

“Yesterday in the carriage while we were waiting for you to return from the cottage. He brought up the subject himself. He suggested that you ought to marry Delacroix, for you would make a good match. Mr. Locke reminded me that although Delacroix is penniless, he is landed and has many friends. One of those friends was Mr. Locke’s boyhood companion, and he places utmost confidence in this man’s opinion.”

“He must have been speaking of Lord Marston’s son, the viscount. I believe Mr. Locke attended school with Sir Alexander and his elder brother, Sir Ruel.” Sarah considered this news in light of the whispered marriage proposal Charles had extended the previous day. How dare he suggest she marry Delacroix in one breath and then ask for her hand himself in the next? What sort of impetuous and deceitful man was he to behave in such a way?

“If you marry Delacroix, Sarah,” Prudence observed, “we shall always be near, for I mean to wed Mr. Locke.”

At that, Sarah sat straight up. “Did he propose to you?”

Prudence giggled. “No, but I am thinking of encouraging him in that direction. You have said you want nothing to do with the poor man, and I find him enormously handsome. Since he has friends like Sir Alexander and Lord Delacroix, my husband and I shall be invited into your society quite often. In fact, Sarah, I think you ought to give us Trenton House as a wedding present, for then when we are in town, we shall be living directly across the square from you and Delacroix.”

“Upon my word, Prudence Watson, you do run on!” Sarah reached across to grab her bonnet. “I have no plans to marry Delacroix, and you should give up all thoughts of wedding Mr. Locke, for that would be a terrible mistake!”

So saying, she tugged on her bonnet and tied the ribbons in a hasty bow. As she struggled to her feet, she could see her sisters glancing at each other with brows raised and smirks on their silly faces. Why did they tease her like this? Calling her selfish and suggesting that she marry Delacroix. And the notion of Prudence marrying Charles was—

“Why should I not wed Mr. Locke?” the very girl cried out as Sarah started back toward the brook. “I like him! He is handsome and kind, and he is going to be a wealthy barrister some day! We shall have lots of children and live in Trenton House and be very happy!”

Gritting her teeth, Sarah hitched her skirt above her ankles and began to run. Dreadful girl! Abominable thought! Sarah would never marry Delacroix. And Prudence must not marry Charles. Though Sarah could not have him, yet he was hers. Hers by right. She had found him first, and he adored her. He loved her! Or did he?

Charles rubbed his eyes and yawned as he stood in an open window above the walled garden at Bamberfield on Saturday night. What a bore the weekend had become. He mused on the long hours that now seemed nothing but a waste. After taking Sarah and her sister to Shepton, he had returned them to the house, and they had joined the others for tea. Wanting to dress and refresh himself, Charles was shown to his rooms in a wing as far from the two unmarried ladies as possible—as was perfectly proper. Mr. and Mrs. Heathhill had taken a room near the center of the edifice, that they might chaperone the party.

Though the outing had gone well enough, dinner that evening proved tedious. Mary Heathhill took it upon herself to regale the company with a detailed accounting of all the events of the social season to date. This necessitated much recitation of various gowns, bonnets, jewels, and beaux. The latter topic excited Prudence Watson’s enthusiasm, and she began her own review of London’s most handsome and eligible bachelors—none of whom, it became obvious, were included in the current party at Bamberfield.

Throughout the meal, Sarah had sat quietly at the far end of the table from Charles, and Delacroix made it his object to entertain her with a running commentary on her sisters’ discussion. He offered little jokes and told one or two ribald tales that caused the ladies to gasp in shock. Mr. Heathhill felt obliged to weigh in with anecdotes of his own, all of which revealed him as one of the most deadly dull gentlemen of Charles’s acquaintance.

Today had proved hardly better. At breakfast, Sarah had informed the men that as it was a sunny morning, she and her sisters intended to walk into the country and enjoy a picnic. This was to be a ladies’ outing, she told them, and the men must occupy themselves elsewhere. Delacroix usurped any discussion of possible activities to declare that he, Mr. Heathhill, and Charles would go fishing.

Although Charles enjoyed the sport, he soon found himself more engaged in hearing Delacroix’s plans than in actually casting his fishing line. The lord of Bamberfield estate, it seemed, was intent upon marrying Sarah, and he felt sure he was making headway in the venture. He wanted to know how Charles had got along in urging the young woman in that direction on the previous day’s outing to Shepton. Charles could hardly tell Delacroix that—against all his better judgment and in opposition to everything he intended—he had managed to propose a marriage of his own. Instead, he informed Delacroix that Sarah remained committed to her plan of divesting herself of her fortune, that she was as pious as ever, and she intended never to marry.

This evening’s meal saw Sarah once again seated at a great distance from Charles and directly across from Delacroix. Miss Watson, who sat at Charles’s elbow, amused the company by recounting her sister Mary’s tumble into the chilly stream this afternoon. The women, it appeared, had enjoyed a fine day of frolic and dining
alfresco
, while the gentlemen had purported to fish while plotting marital schemes.

Exhausted by the tedium, Charles now made up his mind to depart the house the following morning after church. If possible, he would sit beside Sarah on the pew, for no one could orchestrate that event. The prospect of returning to London and his books pleased him greatly.

As he leaned on the rail outside the window of his bedroom, Charles wondered if Sarah had been correct in her assertions that the company of high society was empty and meaningless. Charles certainly had enjoyed his tea in the cottage with Sarah far more than anything else in the weekend at Bamberfield. Indeed, if the
ton
spent their days at hatching plans and their evenings attending receptions, balls, and dinners, he began to wonder if he truly wished to join that select rank. The gentlemen had little actual work to occupy themselves, for they employed stewards to oversee their finances and bailiffs to manage their tenants and estates. And the ladies … well, he could hardly blame Sarah for disdaining a life of embroidery, picnicking, and dabbling in watercolor paints.

The prospect of earning enough wealth to spend the rest of his days fishing, hunting, and dancing produced little interest in Charles’s mind. He resolved to discuss the matter with his father. If the duke of Marston and his aristocratic companions were so despicable to James Locke, why was he determined to see his son join their ranks? Why would Charles wish such a fate upon his own sons and grandsons? No, his male progeny had much better employ themselves at some gainful labor than fritter away the hours playing whist and smoking cigars. As for his daughters, they ought to go to school and then take up writing plays and novels or traveling or some other useful occupation. Better yet, they could practice charity in earnest.

As his discomfort increased, Charles decided to take a walk in the garden below his window. The fresh, crisp air would clear his mind, and a stroll through the moonlight might dispel the lethargy that plagued him. Wondering which door of the large house led into the garden, he studied the carefully plotted hedges and rose beds below. As he surveyed the walled enclosure, he spotted a lone figure emerging from behind the conical shape of a topiary yew.

Sarah. Her ivory evening gown had turned to silver in the moonlight that set a glow over the creamy rose blossoms and pale camellias. The long white gloves that slid up her arms and elbows almost to the poufs of her sleeves appeared ghostlike in the darkness. But Charles could not mistake the graceful way she strolled down the grassy alley between the low boxwood hedges that rimmed the flower beds. He knew the turn of her chin and the set to her shoulders. He knew the silken sheen of her skin. He knew the sweep of her dark hair and the glitter of the diamond tiara she had worn tonight at dinner. This was his Sarah. His beautiful, perfect lady. The desire of his heart.

Lest she leave the garden before he could join her, Charles abandoned his top hat and cane and hurried from the room. The corridor seemed endless, a long tunnel of doors and musty carpet and dripping candles. The stairs, too narrow for a man’s boots, were determined to tangle his feet, so he took them two at a time until he reached the ground floor of the house.

Which doors led into the garden? Two wings housing countless rooms stretched out from either side of the grand foyer with its double staircase and marble floor. Charles pushed open the door to the spacious drawing room and crossed it at a trot. His leg was better, he realized with some surprise. Much better. He pushed open a pair of glass-paned doors and emerged on a portico a short distance outside the wall that surrounded the garden. Within that enclosure was the greatest treasure a man could desire.