The Incomparable Miss Compton (19 page)

And then he would strike.

 * * * *

As for Sarah, she had begun to wonder what Malcolm was about. Although she had hoped their time in the country would bring them closer together, a part of her was afraid he would badger her endlessly about his suit. Certainly his greeting the first day had been warm beyond anything. As time went by, however, she found only comfort in his presence. Instead of an importunate lover, she had found a true friend. As lovely as that was, however, the question of his emotions still remained. He had given her no reason to suspect he had lost his heart.

She noticed a change late in the first week of their visit. It started with, of all things, a toast. In the middle of dinner, with no apparent provocation, Malcolm had risen. Lady Prestwick did not stand on ceremony -- they had not dressed for dinner since the first night. Accordingly, he wore a brown wool coat and trousers, the glint of gold buttons rivaling the shine of his dark hair in the candlelight from the gilt chandelier.

“Ladies, my lord,“ he had proclaimed in his clear, strong voice. Immediately, all conversation ceased. All heads turned to him. The footmen near the serving board along the silk-draped wall even paused in their duties.

“I would like to make a toast,“ he continued, raising his fine crystal goblet high. The others reached for their glasses as if mesmerized.

“To the Incomparable Miss Compton,“ he declared.

Persephone blushed. Sarah’s heart seemed to drop into her stomach, and she scolded herself for wishing he would have chosen someone else.

“The Incomparable Miss Sarah Compton,“ he elaborated.

Sarah started even as Persephone blinked.

“To the Incomparable Miss Sarah Compton,“ Lord and Lady Prestwick chorused. Sarah looked anywhere but at Malcolm. Lord Prestwick drained his glass. Lady Prestwick took a sip and set hers down with a pleased smile. Persephone did not touch hers. But they were all looking at her, and she knew she was expected to say something witty in response.

“Thank you,” was all she could think of.

Lord Prestwick saved her. He popped to his feet even as one of the footmen hastened forward to refill his glass. “And to Miss Persephone Compton, the reigning bell of the ton who so graciously agreed to rusticate with us.”

Persephone smiled demurely, murmuring her thanks as well, but the bright spots of color on her cheeks told Sarah she felt the first toast to be a slight.

In the next few days, however, Sarah had far more to wonder over than how her cousin might react. It was as if Malcolm had finally decided to take their courtship seriously. He was never away from her side for more than a few minutes. He escorted her to her room each night and lingered over her hand. Like as not, he was waiting in the corridor to escort her to breakfast the next morning. He rode with her and Persephone each morning and took her calling each afternoon. He bragged about her intelligence, poise, and beauty to near strangers like the charming Earl of Brentfield and his lovely wife. Lady Brentfield had even evinced an interest in painting her, an offer that Sarah had blushingly refused. The countess’ other paintings were the highlight of the Brentfield’s extensive art collection. Sarah could not imagine her face and form hanging next to a Rembrandt.

It was even worse when they called on Norrie. It seemed he kept in constant contact with her body. His hand cupped her elbow as they climbed the steps to the great house. His thigh grazed hers as they were seated on the sofa in the withdrawing room. He was positively possessive and completely unapologetic about it.

“It reminds me of a conversation I had with Persephone,” Sarah admitted to her friend when she had at last managed to get Malcolm to discuss politics with Justinian Darby, Lord Wenworth. “She claimed that the way to know whether a gentleman was truly interested is that nothing will keep him from your side. I thought it sounded rather obsessive at the time, and now I know I was quite correct.” Of course, her cousin had also mentioned that the gentleman would look at her as if she were a raspberry trifle, and Sarah couldn’t admit even to Norrie that she had seen several such looks on his lordship’s handsome face. Her own face burned just remembering.

“He is besotted,” Norrie assured her giddily. “Sarah, I could not have asked for a better match for you. Please tell me you’ll let me help you plan the wedding.”

“I haven’t accepted him yet,” Sarah scolded her. “In fact, he has not reissued his offer.”

“He will,” Norrie predicted with a twinkle in her eyes. “I am so happy for you! Do not come visit the Dame School today. Only send me word when you are engaged so we can celebrate.”

Sarah had only smiled. In truth, she wanted to be able to celebrate, but she knew she would only be certain of her feelings when he declared his love for her. Surely he would tell her when next he proposed. Then she could set her heart free.

She did not have long to wait. A few days after their visit to Norrie, she was listening to Persephone practice at the pianoforte in the forward salon. The room, like most of the others at Prestwick Park, was graciously appointed, with twin windows facing the curving drive and the afternoon sun, and gilt sconces evenly spaced along the silk-draped walls. A quartet of wing-backed chairs with camel legs squatted on an Oriental carpet before a white marble fireplace. In one corner rested the black-enameled instrument, which Persephone played for long hours.

That afternoon her choice of music was particularly melancholy, but although Sarah had suggested something lighter, the girl persisted in things consigned to funerals and affairs of state. Thank goodness her cousin had not chosen to dress the part -- her ruffled pink cotton gown was all that was fashionable. Sarah, in her spruce round gown, was the one who looked severe.

Sarah focused on the mending she had brought with her, trying to stitch the patterned lace evenly onto her cousin’s gown where it had gotten mysteriously torn on a recent walk. Persephone had grown more composed in the country, but somehow Sarah felt she had grown farther away as well. The girl kept her own council, rarely asking Sarah’s advice on anything. Their morning rides were taken in silence. Sarah had tried to talk to her cousin, but the girl had fended off each attempt with an offhand remark. She wasn’t certain how to bridge the gulf that was growing between them.

She had been working for some time when she became aware of another presence. Looking up, she saw Malcolm standing in the doorway. He had taken to wearing the attire of a country gentleman, with tweed jackets and plain brown trousers. Combined with his naturally wavy hair and heavy brows, the outfits only served to make him look larger and more intimidating. They also made him look years younger and rather fascinating. It was as if an air of danger and excitement clung to him. She had seen any number of the local ladies turn to watch him as they rode in Lady Prestwick’s open carriage through the area. Looking at him now, she could easily see why.

She was certain he had been drawn to the room by her cousin’s accomplished playing, yet his gaze was for Sarah alone. The warmth and invitation in it brought a blush to her cheek, and she hurriedly refocused on her sewing.

Persephone must have realized she had an audience as well, for her playing became bolder, more impassioned. The dirges gave way to a Mozart sonata of intricate design. As always, Persephone played flawlessly. When she finished, Sarah raised her head in time to see her cousin regarding Lord Breckonridge, as if for his approval. Malcolm applauded.

“An excellent rendition, Miss Persephone,” he congratulated her, moving into the room with long-legged grace. “I feel quite the cur for interrupting you with a question.”

Sarah felt a shock of disappointment. So, he had come for Persephone after all. Her cousin tilted her head, letting the sunlight from the windows highlight her golden curls and making Sarah feel dowdy in comparison. “A question, my lord?” Persephone asked.

“Yes,” he replied, moving closer still. “May I borrow your cousin for a few moments?”

Sarah started, then shivered as a tingle of excitement shot through her. Her delight was tempered by the anger she saw flare immediately to life in Persephone’s eyes. The girl merely smiled, however, saying, “Why of course, my lord. As long as you have her back in time to help me change for dinner.”

Sarah frowned, rising. What was her cousin about now? She made it sound as if Sarah were her servant rather than a member of the family, however impoverished. Besides, none of them had changed for dinner in days.

“I’m sure Lucy will be available as always,” Sarah told the girl. “If you need to change, that is.”

“Do you need someone to accompany you?” Persephone persisted, rising as well. “I could ring for a footman, or perhaps I could join you myself.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Sarah told her with a frown at her sudden sense of propriety.

“We will only be in the garden,” Malcolm offered. “In plain view of all the east-facing windows. We shouldn’t be long.”

As she accepted Malcolm’s arm, Sarah rather hoped they would be long, at least long enough to erase the memory of the sour look on Persephone’s face as they turned away.

“Do not let her upset you,” Malcolm murmured as he led her through the rotunda to the right corridor, which held glass-paned double-doors opening to the garden. “She is just concerned.”

She noted he did not say for whom her cousin was concerned, but Sarah did not need to guess. Persephone was ever concerned about Persephone. Once, when she was a child and ill, it was understandable. Sarah had found it far less excusable for some time.

They left the manor and set off along the white-rock path that wound through the Prestwick garden. The regimented shapes of some of the larger shrubs told Sarah that once this had been a formal garden. Anne Prestwick, however, clearly had other ideas. Daisies grew in wild abandon, hollyhocks climbed so heavy with buds that they arched over the nasturtiums below. Roses stood sentinel among the green shafts of Dutch iris. Secluded paths wound through the blossoms, revealing quiet grottos here, a stone bench there. She could not think of a better place to hear a proposal of marriage.

But he did not propose, as she was sure he meant to do. Instead, he pointed out the many varieties of roses, the families of daisies, the types of hedges. He gave such a lecture in botany that she could only stare at him in amazement. Indeed, it was one of the few times she could remember ever being bored in his company. Finally, Sarah pulled him up short.

“My lord, I was raised in the country,” she reminded him. “I know the difference between a rose and a hellebore. I have gathered daisies in summer. Do you have nothing more to say to me than the names of flowers?”

He paused, looking out over the bright blossoms, which scented the air with a heady perfume. “I had something to say, but I find myself unsure whether you will like it any better now than when I asked it before.”

Sarah sighed. “Neither am I sure, my lord.”

“My lord,” Malcolm groaned. “Have we at least graduated to Malcolm and Sarah?”

“Certainly,” she agreed, “my . . Malcolm.”

“Your Malcolm.” He grinned at her. “I rather like the sound of that.”

“Do you?” She felt herself blushing. “Somehow I would have thought that, like my cousin, you would prefer to be the owner rather than the property.”

“Property? You make me sound like a slave owner, Sarah. I led the charge to abolish that concept. No one should be another’s property.”

“Agreed,” she replied. “I’m sorry. I do not mean to be offensive. I’ve just dreaded this moment.”

He led her to a bench surrounded by roses. She sat, feeling a chill even in the sun. The hum of bees busy among the flowers should have made her drowsy but she felt taught as thread on a spindle and just as tightly wrapped. If only he would say the words that would ease her heart.

“I had hoped to make you more certain of my devotion,” he murmured, rubbing the petals of a bloom between his long fingers. “I seem to have failed miserably if you dread time alone with me.”

“You have been a devoted suitor,” she acknowledged. “I am the one lacking.” She should be silent and let him get on with it, but something in her rushed to hold him off. “I have not forgotten your first proposal. I know you did not understand my reaction to it. It is just that I am so very tired of living my life in endless gratitude. I am beholden to my aunt and uncle for food and shelter, for clothing, for companionship however feeble. I am beholden to Persephone for allowing me to take part in her Season, even as a chaperone. Aunt Belle assures me I am beholden to Lord and Lady Prestwick for inviting me to their lovely home. I suppose I shall even be beholden to Lady Wenworth for offering the position in her Dame School, although at least I know that is offered from love. Can you say the same about your proposal?”

His graze flickered to the rose. “I’m offering you my name, a place by my side. Is that not enough?”

Her heart sank. He would not say the words after all. “I have a name,” she told him. “And I have a place at Persephone’s side, until she marries or tires of me. Then I have a place at Wenworth. You will have to do better than that.”

He frowned. “Do you barter yourself, madam?”

“Not in the slightest. Barter implies each has something to trade.” She sighed as the pain in her chest deepened. “I’m afraid you are not ready to give me anything I want.”

She had deliberately thrown down the gauntlet. He regarded her seriously with his brow furrowed. She stood, waiting for his answer, feeling as if she were waiting for a death sentence. He stepped closer, capturing her gaze with his. His dark eyes pulled her in, held her, as he brought up one hand to stroke her cheek. His touch sent an ache, hungry and demanding, to the center of her being, shaking her.

“You’re wrong, Sarah,” he murmured, bending closer until his lips brushed hers with fire. “I can give you something your family and friends never can.”

She raised her chin, silently daring him to prove it. The light in his eyes told her he accepted the challenge. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

She thought she was prepared for his kiss. Certainly she had lived through the warmth it had stirred in her before. But this time, all her resolve was swept away. From the moment he touched her, he claimed her lips. Only her lips? Her heart, her soul, was his. This closeness, this touch,
his
touch, was what she had been longing for. This warmth, this passion, this fire! How could she have ever thought this man cool? She gloried in the feel of him next to her, the sweet urgent pressure of his mouth on hers. At that moment, there was nothing she would have denied him.