The Seduction of Sara (7 page)

“Like what?” Sara asked absently, staring at the letter in her hands.

“Floating about as if she was a blasted fairy.”

“Yes, but only when she's not showing an annoying tendency to worry over you and treat you as if you were a child of twelve.”

Anna shuddered. “I'm glad I live with my grandfather. He may curse like a coal scuttler, but he doesn't flit about in that disconcerting way. I don't know how you stand it.”

“She has a good heart. I just repeat that to myself every five minutes.” Sara looked at the letter in her hand. Damn! She should have foreseen this. She jumped to her feet and began pacing rapidly.

Anna watched her for a moment, then said, “What else does the letter say?”

Sara stopped long enough to hand her friend the missive. “It says that if Marcus is unable to get away, another of my brothers will be joining me, but they have not yet decided who.”

Anna whistled silently. “Determined to keep an eye on you, aren't they?”

“They are far too involved in my business.” Sara crossed her arms over her chest and resumed pacing. “I don't want any of my brothers hovering over my shoulder, making my life a misery. We have a week to find a husband, Anna. Maybe less.”

“Then we will have to use every day to our advantage.” Anna handed the letter back to her friend. “Tomorrow morning we will ride in the park at precisely nine and meet Viscount Hewlette and see what is to be done.”

Sara dropped back onto the settee, her heart heavy. She didn't have time for delicacy. No, she would be very explicit—she'd put all of her cards
on the table and hope that the viscount understood the need for urgency. Once she was wed, she was certain Marcus would make a handsome settlement. It would irk him, but his pride would allow no less.

All she needed was to win the viscount's acceptance to a whirlwind courtship. If that didn't work, more drastic measures would be needed. Shivering slightly, Sara didn't even want to think what those might be. Yet even as she had the thought, she had an image of Bridgeton's face. Resolutely, she banished it. Viscount Hewlette had to be her answer. She wouldn't accept any other.

I
f there was one thing Nicholas Montrose knew, it was the game of seduction. It would not do to appear too eager to reengage the delicious Lady Carrington in flirtation so soon after the Jeffries ball. He decided to wait at least another week before arranging a “chance” meeting with his intended quarry.

So for several days after his conversation with the comte, Nick stayed occupied with the repairs of Hibberton Hall, taking a personal interest in the hiring of the various craftsmen. To those who did not know him, he appeared completely absorbed by the tasks at hand. Yet every once in a while, he would look up and imagine himself fixed in the finished manor house, his reputation reestablished, his staff well trained, a vague shadowy figure by his side. As
the days progressed, the figure took on a more substantive form. One with a cloud of raven black hair and eyes of the palest blue.

He wanted Sara Lawrence. He wanted her in his house and in his bed. The comte was incorrect in thinking Nick needed a deeper, more permanent relationship. He wanted only passion. A tantalizing companion who could make him forget the shadow that hung over him, and nothing more.

Sara was perfect—well-bred, fascinating, and a widow, which meant she had a certain amount of knowledge, however limited it might be. In his experience, Englishwomen were less likely to have been educated in the erotic art of dalliance as the women were in Paris. With the exception of a few dashing souls like Lucilla Kettering, who spent more time abroad than at home, most Englishwomen were unaware of the more erotic physical pleasures.

The thought pleased Nick no small amount. He was more than willing to teach the lovely Lady Carrington the secrets of the boudoir. After all, he'd spent a considerable amount of time perfecting those very pleasures, and it would be wildly exciting to explore them with someone less versed than he.

To learn about his quarry, he sent one of the stableboys to watch the house she occupied. The stableboy faithfully reported Lady Carrington's activities each morning. Nick was pleased to hear that her aunt rarely left her alone and that few of her visitors were men who offered him any competition. Few, but not all.

He scowled at the thought of someone else touch
ing her white skin, kissing her soft lips. The image of Sara Lawrence locked in another man's embrace made him grind his teeth.

It was madness, for Nick had never been a possessive man. He'd taken pleasure as he'd found it, and given it freely. In his experience women were far too ready to commit to him without being asked. Far too anxious to own him.

As the days progressed, Nick found himself thinking of Sara more and more, imagining her velvet-soft voice murmuring his name, her black hair spread across his pillow, her lavender scent mingling with the cool, crisp sheets of his bed. Just as he always did, once he set his sights on an object, he focused on it to the exclusion of all others, and his determination grew each day.

Even his renovations at Hibberton Hall were subtly affected by his preoccupation. He actually ordered a striking red wallpaper for the library because he'd had a wayward thought that it would contrast well with the rich black of her hair.

So, despite his decision to wait, only four days passed before Nick found himself riding into Bath. Henri had reported that Lady Carrington rode in the east park each morning with a small group of her friends and admirers. Nick rode the paths until he finally saw her, her diminutive form atop a feisty bay gelding.

Nick pulled up his horse and watched. If the fascinating Sara had looked appealing wearing a dull gown of watered silk, she was devastating in a form-fitting sapphire blue riding habit, its severe
lines accenting her curves. A high collar framed her face; her cheeks were warm with color, her blue eyes sparkling. A long white feather decorated her tall hat and brushed her shoulder temptingly.

She was magnificent.

Laughing, she turned to reply to something her companion said, the movement highlighting her delightful profile for a moment against the shrubbery. Nick's body responded with a rapidity that caused him to curse the tight cut of his breeches.

He smiled grimly at the reaction. For the first time since he could remember, all things were turning in his favor. The repairs of the Hall were moving quickly; Pratt had so wisely invested his funds that he would easily be able to afford the highest quality of life; and best of all, his headaches had diminished greatly. The fresh country air left him sharper, more alive than he'd ever felt.

And soon he would have a mistress. Nick turned his horse toward Lady Carrington's party. To her left rode the tall, auburn-haired woman she'd been with at the Jeffries ball. Miss Thraxton, if he remembered correctly, and she seemed to be an unusual female in her own right. On Sara's right rode three gentlemen; one was a groom and one was a footman. Her aunt was obviously taking no chances that her willful charge would slip away. His gaze flickered to the third man, and Nick's smile faded.

Tall, dark, and impeccably dressed, Viscount Hewlette appeared the perfect escort for any lady of fashion. His face and manner were always charming, his smile respectful, his manner ingratiating.
Still, Nick thought he could discern just the tiniest hint of boredom in Lady Carrington's countenance. Without further preamble, Nick pulled his horse into their path and waited.

Sara saw the earl an instant before anyone else. After listening to Viscount Hewlette expound for the last half hour on the magnificence of a new hunter he'd bought, the earl appeared like a burst of sunlight in a world of murky, mundane trivialities. Viscount Hewlette was proving to be an enthusiastic suitor, a fact Sara was beginning to regret. Since she and Anna had arranged a “chance” meeting with the viscount three days ago, he had hardly left her side. Sara was more than weary of his constant expostulating on his triumphs in the hunting field and elsewhere.

She stole a glance at the earl from beneath her lashes, and her heart stumbled a little as she pulled her horse to a halt. Taller than the viscount, broad-shouldered and impressively fit, he emanated power and wealth. And he rode a magnificent black gelding that made her poor mount look like a slug.

Some inner part of her leapt awake at the sight of his smile as he approached, and she found herself smiling in return. It had immediate effect—the earl perused her from head to foot, his gaze lingering on her mouth. A heavy warmth trickled a path across her breasts and settled in her stomach.

“Lord Bridgeton. How pleasant to see you again,” she said demurely.

He lifted his hat and bowed, a glint in his eyes. “Lady Carrington. It has been several days since the Jeffries ball, has it not?”

“Almost a week, in fact,” she said, then bit her tongue at her impetuousness. His knowing glance told her that he remembered the ball all too well. Still, the fact that he had remembered her name was vastly encouraging. Sara sent an appraising glance at him, noting how the sunlight glinted off his hair and deepened it to the tawny gold of a lion's mane, and limned the hard line of his jaw.

Though she'd thought her memory had exaggerated his perfections, she now found it had been lamentably remiss. Somehow she'd forgotten the exact curve of his sensuous mouth, and the way his thick lashes cast shadows over his eyes, making the blue appear almost black.

“Sara?” Anna said from her side.

Belatedly, Sara remembered her companions. “Lord Bridgeton, may I introduce you to Miss Thraxton? And this,” she gestured vaguely to her side, “is Viscount Hewlette.” For some reason, Sara was suddenly embarrassed to be seen with the viscount and his stuffy theories on farming.

Bridgeton ignored Hewlette. Instead, his gaze flickered toward Anna, and he bowed. “Miss Thraxton. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Sara noted that even the pragmatic Anna was affected by the earl's handsomeness. Her face was bright pink as she returned the bow with a jerky nod. “My lord, how do you do? Perhaps you would like to join us for a ride about the park?”

Sara cast a glance at Aunt Delphi's elderly groom. Hopkins gazed at Nick with a frowning stare, as if trying to place him. Sara bit her lip and
wished there were some way she could get rid of the groom and his minion.

Hewlette nudged his horse forward. “Bridgeton, I had heard you were back in England.”

“Did you?” the earl asked, looking less than interested. “How nice.” The subtlest hint of a threat threaded through the words and Sara shivered. There was something almost hypnotic about his voice, something dangerous and dark, yet seductive.

“It appears the gentlemen know each other,” Anna said brightly.

Hewlette managed a tight, superior smile. “Actually, no. Lord Bridgeton and I do not travel in the same circles.”

Sara ground her teeth. The imbecile. Of course they didn't travel in the same circles. She could hardly imagine a man like Bridgeton enjoying a discussion on the values of fertilizer application.

Bridgeton merely appeared amused. Indeed, he flicked a faintly contemptuous glance at Hewlette before saying, “Then I daresay you aren't familiar with Lord Wilkins. When I was in Rome, I was the guest of the consulate.”

Hewlette reddened. “Naturally I know Lord Wilkins. I didn't stay with him, of course—”

“Of course,” murmured Bridgeton. He smiled at Sara. “Lady Carrington, may I say how lovely you appear this morning.”

Sara managed to say with tolerable composure, “Thank you, my lord. May I compliment you on your horse? He is lovely.” She patted her own mount's neck. “Unlike poor Petunia. She cannot walk for ten minutes without needing a good nap.”

Bridgeton leaned over and rubbed a gloved hand along her horse's side. Sara watched as his hand moved breathtakingly near her knee before he straightened.

“She's not worthy of you.” He met Sara's gaze so directly that she blushed. “And it appears she is forming a splint. If you find yourself without a mount, I would be pleased to lend you one from my stable—”

“That won't be necessary.” Hewlette almost glared. “I have several mounts in my stables that would be more than adequate for a gentlewoman of Lady Carrington's standing.”

“I'm sure you do,” Bridgeton said. “But I wasn't offering her an ‘adequate' mount. Lady Carrington can handle a much livelier horse—one that won't bore her to death.”

Sara knew he wasn't speaking about horses. She also knew that it was pure folly to assume that his interest in her was anything other than prurient in nature. Still, some part of her responded to the thought of riding a horse like his, of flying through the park, leaping over the hedgerows and letting chance take her where it would.

Bridgeton's smile deepened and warmed. “Yes,” he murmured, as if hearing her thoughts, “a handsome black gelding with a lilting gait. One to match the color of your hair.”

The picture made her smile and a spark shimmered between them. It was as if he knew her and her impulses, her desire to taste freedom and to live life minute by minute.

Anna cleared her throat loudly. “Dear me! Look
at the time. Sara, aren't we supposed to meet your aunt at ten?”

Lord Hewlette inched his mount forward until his horse was between Sara's and the earl's. “Lady Carrington, I would be glad to escort you home. I would like to have a word with your aunt.” He spoke in a loud, proprietary manner, sending a warning glance at the earl.

Bridgeton still ignored the man. He touched the brim of his hat to Sara and Anna. “Lady Carrington, Miss Thraxton, perchance you will be at the Kirkwood rout tomorrow evening?”

Sara nodded. “I believe so.”

“Excellent,” said the earl, his voice deepening to a deadly purr. “I look forward to seeing you there.” He cast a glance at the viscount. “By the way, Hewlette, Lord Edgerwood mentioned you might be of a mind to sell a certain set of bays.”

Hewlette's eyes brightened. “Indeed I am. Are you looking for a pair?”

“I ordered a phaeton. In fact, I'm off to look at Oglethorpe's knockoffs in an hour.”

The viscount stiffened, his broad face darkening with concern. “I fear you may be disappointed; Oglethorpe's grays aren't nearly so well matched. Don't make up your mind until you've seen my pair. Perhaps tomorrow—”

“I must purchase a matched pair this morning,” the earl said softly.

Hewlette's mouth dropped open. “This morning?”

“The phaeton will be delivered to Hibberton Hall by noon. I wish to have the horses by then.”

Bridgeton glanced past Hewlette to Sara. “But you have plans this morning, so I will just call on Oglethorpe and hope—”

“No, no! I can visit Lady Langtry another time.” He turned to Sara and offered an apologetic grimace. “You will make my apologies to your aunt, won't you?”

Sara managed a stiff smile. “Of course.”

Hewlette took Sara's gloved hand and pressed his lips to her fingers, sending her a look fraught with meaning. “In the meantime, I hope to see you at the rout. May I have the honor of the first dance?”

Over Hewlette's shoulder, the earl watched, his gaze thick with mockery. Sara suddenly had the feeling that he was laughing at her. She jerked her chin in the air. “Only one dance, Lord Hewlette? I was hoping for two.”

The viscount's gaze flared with warmth, and he tightened his hold on her hand. “The
first
two, my lady.” With an air of reluctance, he turned his horse to the earl. “Well, sir? Shall we go?”

Bridgeton didn't grace Sara with another glance. Instead, he pulled his horse beside Hewlette's and, together, they rode down the path.

“Well!” Anna said. “I have now seen a master at work.”

“Who? Hewlette? I would hardly call him a master.”

“Not Hewlette. Bridgeton, of course. He came, sized up the competition, tossed out one tiny lure, and cleared the field without firing a shot. He is a very dangerous man.”