The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (25 page)

“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.