The Seduction of Sara (8 page)

Sara thought so, too. Her heart beat far too quickly whenever he was about. “I'm sure he is just being polite.”

“Hmm. I think he's irked you rejected him at the Jeffries ball, and he's decided to have you.”

“I didn't reject him, he rejected me. I asked him to go out on the terrace, and he flatly refused. And then he looked at me as if—” Sara swallowed.
As if he wanted to bed me, right there on the floor of the Jeffries ballroom.
And Sara hadn't been shocked; she'd been excited beyond belief.

“As if?” Anna asked, looking far too interested.

“As if nothing,” Sara muttered. She turned her horse toward the path. “Come on. Aunt Delphi will be waiting.”

Anna wisely held her tongue and turned her mount beside Sara's. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara watched the earl's broad back as he cantered across the park, turning the heads of more than one woman as he went. Hewlette struggled to keep up with him; it was almost laughable the way the stout viscount bumped along on his mount behind the earl's lithe figure.

Sara sniffed. It was true that Hewlette appeared at a distinct disadvantage beside Bridgeton, but what man would not? In a way, Bridgeton was exactly like Julius—he depended far too much on his charm and wit. Well, she would not be fooled by such shallow intrigue. Pasting a smile on her face, she entertained Anna with every naughty bit of gossip she could think of, all the while praying that this odd attraction for the earl would disappear as quickly as it had occurred.

T
he heavy clock in the hallway outside the Kirkwoods' grand salon chimed, the sound mingling with the swirl of music and the noisy discord of a hundred voices.

“Midnight,” Sara muttered. And still the Earl of Bridgeton had yet to walk through the door. Not that she'd been looking for him;
her
attention was solely for Viscount Hewlette, who was also mysteriously missing.

“I cannot believe Hewlette has not yet appeared,” Anna said, echoing Sara's thoughts. “He is usually quite prompt.”

“He said he was coming,” Sara said absently. “Of course, I—damn!” Her gaze fixed on the receiving line, her heart sinking.

Anna tried to peer around the feathered headdress of a stout matron in green satin. “What is it? Has he come?”

“No. It's my brother.”

The stout matron moved, exposing Anthony at the head of the receiving line, his massive frame dressed in a black coat, his cravat impeccably arranged about his neck, his breeches stretched over his strong thighs.

“Sweet saints,” Anna said in a faded voice, “
that's
your brother? Which one is he—Adonis?”

“Anthony is my half brother,” Sara answered shortly, stepping behind a clock. She should have known he would come, since Marcus could not. She grabbed Anna's arm and yanked that bemused maiden to her side. “We don't have any more time. Now that Anthony is here, I won't have the freedom to sneeze, much less convince someone to marry me.”

“And the viscount isn't the kind of man you can goad into action.”

“If he's not ready to make a proposal, then I shall just have to propose to him,” Sara said resolutely. She had no choice now. A slight stir at the door made her peer around the edge of the clock. “There's Viscount Hewlette! I can't speak with him in the ballroom, not with Anthony lurking about. Maybe I can get him to take a turn with me on the terrace.”

“In this cold?”

“I wouldn't care if it was snowing; I must speak with him tonight!”

Anna sighed. “I don't like this at all.”

“We have no choice. Look, Anthony is going into the ballroom now. I'll ask Hewlette to walk outside with me. So long as you are with me, no one should pay much attention.”

“Very well,” Anna said, her voice heavy with doubt. She turned her clear, gray eyes on Sara. “What will you do if he refuses to marry you?”

Sara swallowed. She'd already thought of that, for no matter how marked Hewlette's attentions were, he was reticent on the topic of marriage. Her stomach tensed, and she hoped with all her heart that the viscount listened to her proposal. “We'll think about that later.”

Hopefully it would not be an issue. Hewlette stood talking to their host, no doubt discussing his rousing triumphs on the hunting field last season. Strangely, she found her gaze drifting past him to the foyer. Bridgeton had specifically asked her if she would be present, and she thought he'd have arrived by—Heavens, what was wrong with her?

Here she was, on the verge of attempting to secure the viscount's suit, and all she could do was think of the earl, damn his black soul. She didn't want to admit how much time she'd spent imagining all the witty things she should have said when he'd accosted them in the park.

Well, it didn't matter. She didn't have time for games now. Sara waited until Anthony had stopped well inside the ballroom to talk to an acquaintance before she whisked herself across the doorway toward Viscount Hewlette.

He drew himself up as soon as he saw her, his expression brightening. “Lady Carrington! I apologize for coming so late, but I was detained and—”

“Oh, it is of no consequence.” She laid her hand on his arm and leaned toward him, looking at him through her lashes. “But now that you are here, I wonder if I might secure your assistance.”

“You have but to ask,” he said with ponderous gallantry.

Sara suppressed a grimace with difficulty. “I am afraid that I have become separated from my friend, Miss Thraxton. I wondered if you would help me look for her.”

“Have you tried the refreshment room?”

“Oh, I'm certain she's not there. I rather think she went out on the terrace.”

An arrested expression touched his face. “The terrace?”

Sara laid her hand on his. “I believe I saw her walk out just a few moments ago.”

“My dear Sara,” Hewlette said, his voice deepening, his gaze narrowing on her face. “I had no idea that you were…By all means, let us take a turn on the terrace.”

It was like holding bacon in front of a hound. She took a step toward the wide doors that led outside, but halted when she realized that Anna really
had
disappeared from sight. Perhaps she had already gone outside.

Hewlette's hand on the small of her back propelled her gently toward the terrace. He pushed the curtains from the doorway. “After you, my dear.”

Just as she crossed the threshold, she cast one last glance behind her. But it wasn't toward her brother or in search of Anna, but rather toward the entryway. It was several minutes after midnight and still the Earl of Bridgeton had not come. Banishing a strange sense of disappointment, Sara placed her hand on the viscount's arm and stepped onto the terrace.

 

At exactly ten minutes past twelve, Nick walked into the Kirkwood ballroom.

The comte followed a desultory pace or two behind, resplendent in a mauve waistcoat adorned with silver trim. He handed his multicaped cloak to a footman and took a deep, exhilarating breath. “Do you smell that,
mon ami
? It is the scent of the chase, the heady fragrance of
l'amour
.”

Nick made no comment. Since last night, he'd been plagued with one of his headaches. Though it wasn't nearly as bad as previous ones, it was severe enough that he'd considered not attending this evening. After all, his absence would only make the lovely Lady Carrington wonder about him even more. The only problem was, he'd thought of little else but her since his ride in the park.

The comte sighed his satisfaction and rocked back on his heels. “All of Bath has come out tonight.”

“Indeed,” Nick agreed, searching the room for signs of his quarry. “A plaguey nuisance it is, too.”

“That is your headache speaking.” The comte's bright gaze narrowed. “Ah, there is my delicate Del
phi. No, do not look her way! Tonight, I pretend I do not see her, and she must watch me flirt with every woman present.”

“Uncertainty keeps them panting.”

“Exactemente!”
The comte waggled his brows, then turned to a lady in blue silk and asked her to dance, his French accent more pronounced than ever.

Nick barely noticed Henri's disappearance; he was too busy searching for Sara. It took him only a few moments to realize that she was nowhere in sight. Clenching his teeth against the sparkle of pain behind his eyes, he set out to find her. Almost immediately he realized the grim truth—she wasn't here. Disappointment gnawed at his temper and as he left the ballroom he wanted to ram his fist into someone's face.

He didn't even bother to tell Henri that he was leaving, but that was nothing new. He'd send a coach later, though he doubted the comte would leave anytime soon. Henri enjoyed functions like these, while Nick detested them.

He stood in the front hall, away from the racket of the ballroom, and pressed a hand to his right eye where the throbbing had increased to a near-frantic tempo. The evening had been a complete waste, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been made a fool of. Damn the heat, damn the crowded room, and damn Lady Carrington.

He spun on his heel and had just reached the front door when a light hand touched his sleeve. He turned immediately, disappointment weighing his brow when he met Lady Knowles's gaze.

“Nick,” Lucilla purred, slipping her fingers inside his sleeve, her mouth soft with invitation. “I was afraid you were not coming.”

“As you can see, your fears were unfounded.” He looked impatiently toward the door. “But I fear I cannot stay.”

“No?” She brushed her breasts along his sleeve, tightening her hold on his arm. “Perhaps I should leave with you. We could…relive old times.”

Nick looked down at Lucilla. He'd forgotten how persistent she was, how possessive. He placed his hand over hers and freed his arm. “I think you have made a mistake, Lucilla.”

The pleasant expression on her face froze. “What do you mean?”

“Only that I am not interested in pursuing this relationship.”

She looked at him for a long, cold moment, her face hardening. “You have settled on someone else.”

“No. I have merely realized we would not suit. Meanwhile—”

“Nick!” Henri said, entering the corridor and crossing to his side. “Have you seen Lady Carrington? Her aunt is looking for her everywhere.”

Lucilla flicked a frigid gaze at Nick. “Sara Lawrence? Surely not.”

He smoothed his cuff where Lucilla's clinging grasp had creased the fabric. “Pardon me, Lucilla. I must assist Henri in his search.”

Lucilla's hands had curled into claws, and a feral gleam entered her gaze, a certain smudge of self-
satisfaction. “My dearest Nick, I don't believe I have ever seen you like this before.”

He merely raised his brows, his temper sharpening. “And what way is that?”

Lucilla's smile widened, as unpleasant as it was vicious. “I don't believe I've ever seen you as a cuckolded lover.”

The comte muttered a curse as a red haze settled over Nick's eyes. He grabbed Lucilla's arm and yanked her against him. “Explain yourself.”

Lucilla's nostrils flared, triumph glittering in her eyes. “Sara Lawrence is on the terrace with Viscount Hewlette. I saw them leave a few minutes ago.”

Nick spun on his heel and swiftly made his way through the ballroom. He ignored the smiles sent his way, the outstretched hands and curious gazes.

Whether she knew it or not, Sara Lawrence was his, and she had no right to be alone in the garden with another man.

S
ara allowed the viscount to lead her a short distance down one of the dimly lit paths before coming to a halt. Where was Anna? Sara cleared her throat nervously. “Viscount Hewlette, I have a question I must ask you.”

He placed his hand over hers. “Ask anything, dearest Sara.”

She freed her hand, noting the dampness of his palm. “I know this is rather forward of me, but I…I…”
Oh, fudge. This is harder than I imagined
. She shivered in the cold.

Hewlette immediately pulled her against him. “Let me keep you warm.”

Sara tried to step away, but he held her tight. She frowned up at him. “Release me at once.”

He didn't move, just looked at her with a superior expression that made her want to slap him. “We are alone now, Sara. And we both know what you want.”

“Yes—marriage.”

He stepped away so quickly that he almost stumbled over the uneven walkway. “You are not serious.”

“Yes, I am.”

“That's a pity. As tempting an armful as you are, you have no fortune. I made inquiries; your jointure ends the day you wed.”

“Then why have you been calling on me?”

He smiled in a placating manner. “Because, my little pigeon, I was hoping we could…” He trailed a broad finger down her arm.

Sara jerked away. “I am not a pigeon.” She suddenly realized that she wouldn't marry this pompous bag of wind for all the freedom in the world. “I would like to return to the ballroom. Now.”

His brow lowered. “Surely we can come to some sort of an agreement—”

“Please step aside. I have nothing more to say to you.”

Hewlette's jaw hardened, his gaze narrowing. “You little tease,” he hissed.

“I am
not
a tease.”

“Then why have you been dangling yourself before me for the last week like an overripe plum waiting to be plucked?” he demanded.

Sara sighed her exasperation. “I was not dangling anywhere, and I am getting very cold. Please move aside.”

For an instant she thought he would comply, but
his gaze focused on her. “I think we should stay in the garden a bit longer.”

“My brother will be looking for me.”

He leaned so close, his cologne threatened to gag her. “Your brothers are in London.”

Sara cast a desperate glance at the shrubbery, hoping Anna was nearby for protection. The silence seemed to scream a warning, and her mind quavered on the brink of panic.
What if Anna isn't here?
Sara took a quick step backward.

Hewlette's hands shot out and he grasped her by the shoulders. “Oh no, you don't, my dearest Sara. I've been waiting for this since Julius died.”

She stilled. “Julius?”

“We were friends, though I daresay you never knew it. He was a generous man, and allowed me use of his best hunter and his phaeton. He even let me sample his mistress—a tasty actress with a penchant for riding whips.”

“I have no wish to discuss my husband with you,” Sara snapped. Damn it, would Julius continue to sully her life even now?

Hewlette's large hand slid up her arm. “You always fascinated me, you know. So pristine and pure. You were the one thing he would not share.”

“Lord Hewlette, that is more than enough. Release me
now
. I will not—”

His hot mouth covered hers. Sara couldn't breathe, and she fought wildly, but Hewlette's embrace pinioned her arms to her sides.

Hewlette's tongue pushed roughly against her
clenched lips.
Where is Anna?
There was only one thing to do. Sara twisted to one side and thrust her knee upward. She caught him in the side of the thigh, completely missing her target. Still, the solid contact made Hewlette yelp, and his grip slackened for a moment.

That was all Sara needed. She fisted her hand in the manner learned from countless tussles with five bigger, less-than-gentle brothers, and slammed it into his nose. Fate favored her, for the viscount was just reaching out to grab her, his motion propelling him directly into her fist and increasing the force of the contact. To her surprise, he fell like a stone and lay on the pathway, making little mewling sounds like a kitten.

“A pleasant night for a stroll, isn't it?” drawled a low voice, so deep and husky, it sent a shiver down Sara's back.

Oh God, not him. Not now.
But it was. The Earl of Bridgeton stepped from the path and into the shadows of the hedgerow to stand over Hewlette's prone body. “Tsk, tsk, Hewlette. You really should stay away from the port.”

“What are you doing here?” Sara demanded, her heart racing.

“Strolling. I do so love gardens.” Nick sauntered forward, golden and imposing even in the lantern-light. His faintly amused gaze flickered from Sara's face to where Hewlette struggled to gain his feet. “Lord Hewlette. Strange as it may seem, you are just the man I was looking for.”

Using a stone bench for support, Hewlette managed to stand upright. “Go to hell, Bridgeton.”

“But I've information to impart. Your mother is searching for you. You had best go to her.”

Swaying dangerously, Hewlette cautiously felt his nose before glaring at Bridgeton. “My mother is in London.”

“All the better,” the earl said in a silky voice.

The young lord reddened. “Damn you, Bridgeton! This is a private affair.”

Nick regarded the viscount's face with a considering frown. “Whatever happened to your nose? It is turning the color of a plum.”

“Nothing. I fell, that's all.” Hewlette cast a sullen glare at the earl.

“Lady Carrington's aunt is looking for her. It is time she returned to the ballroom.”

“I suppose her aunt sent
you
to rescue her?” the viscount said, his mouth twisted with rage. “I can't imagine such a thing.”

The earl shrugged, his broad shoulders never making even a crease in the fine coat. “I'm in an odd mood this evening…almost quixotic. Like a knight in a fairy tale.”

“Perhaps something you ate has disagreed with you,” Sara said, feeling ill-used. “I'm sure it will pass.”

The earl's gaze rested on her for a moment, an amused curve to his lips. “I'm sure it will. But until then, I am at its mercy.”

Despite Sara's annoyance, she had to admit that the earl at least appeared heroic, his tall, lithe form
making Hewlette appear short and stocky. And the viscount's florid waistcoat and exaggerated cravat were garish in the face of the earl's quiet elegance.

Oblivious to the fact that he was far outclassed, Hewlette sneered. “Tell the truth, Bridgeton. You have your eyes on her yourself.”

The earl turned a considering look at Sara. “No, I have never been in the nursery line.”

Sara gasped. “Nursery? I'll have you know I am twenty-one years of age and perfectly able to—” At the flare of amusement in Bridgeton's gaze, she swallowed the rest of her protest, seething.

Bridgeton chuckled. “I stand corrected. The lady is indeed old enough to have an
affaire de coeur
. That is very useful information, indeed.”

What was it about this man that made her flare up like dry kindling? Whatever it was, it unnerved her and sent her stomach spiraling into a thousand knots.

Hewlette gave an ugly laugh. “I have to agree with you, Bridgeton; she's an exciting bundle.” His gaze narrowed speculatively. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in settling this as gentlemen? A turn of the cards, perhaps?”

Sara balled her hand back into a fist. “My lord Hewlette,” she said in her frostiest voice, “I am
not
a ‘bundle,' and I am not about to allow you to wager me in a game of cards.”

“Don't play the innocent with me,” Hewlette snarled, gingerly touching his nose again. “You were the one who invited me to the garden, weren't you?”

“Only because I wished to ask you to—” She stopped, remembering Bridgeton's presence. “I
only wished to ask you a simple question. Nothing more.”

Nick raised his brows. What was the delectable Sara up to now? Well, it was time the troublesome Hewlette made his way home. “Viscount Hewlette, I hate to be rude, but Lady Carrington has other plans this evening.”

Hewlette's mouth twisted into a bitter scowl. “I understand perfectly.”

“I doubt it,” Nick said, “but it doesn't matter. You will not, I think, be mentioning this evening's encounter to anyone.”

The viscount drew himself upright, his nose already faintly purple. “If you were not so damned proficient at dueling, Bridgeton, I would call you out for your impertinence.”

“But I am damned proficient at it,” Nick said softly. “And you would do well to remember that fact as you take your leave of the lady.”

There was nothing more to be done, and Hewlette knew it. Stiff with anger, he bowed to Sara. “Lady Carrington, I look forward to speaking with you at a more convenient time.” He tossed a glare to Nick, turned on his heel, and marched stiffly across the terrace and into the ballroom.

Smiling faintly, Nick turned to the damsel he had just rescued.

She met his gaze with a look of blazing contempt. “You, sir, are not needed here.”

“Wasn't I? I rather flatter myself that I was right where I needed to be. Hewlette is not a man of honor.”

“And you are?”

He couldn't help himself. A slight smile curved his mouth. “No. Although you must admit that my presence was convenient.”

“I did not stand in need of any assistance.” She glanced toward the bushes beside them, where a sudden rustle announced the arrival of a visitor.

Nick followed her gaze and discovered a blue feather sticking up from behind a tangle of leaves. A swell of irritation gripped him. Instead of rescuing a demure innocent from Hewlette's evil clutches, it appeared he had instead rescued Hewlette from a marriage trap the size of France.

For some reason, the fact that Sara looked so angelic, so innocent, annoyed him further. He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her against him.

She lifted a shocked face to his, her soft lips parted, her eyes shimmering in the uncertain light. “Unhand me!”

“Tell your titian-haired shadow to come out now.”

“But I—”

His grip tightened until she gasped for breath. Her slight form was melded to his length, her breasts pressed against his lapels, her feet scarcely touching the ground. “I—I cannot speak…if you hold me…so tightly.”

He loosened his grip just enough for her to catch her breath. “Call her.”

“No.”

Scowling, Nick released her, then turned to the shrubbery.

Ignoring the damage to his coat and gloves, he
plunged his hands through the branches. A terrified squeak met his actions, and he smiled grimly when his fingers closed around a feminine arm. Without ceremony, he dragged her through the bushes and stood her before him.

“Let me go,” Miss Thraxton protested, struggling mightily.

“And have you run into the ballroom, screeching at the top of your voice that your friend is being ravished in the garden?”

“Leave her be,” Sara said from his side.

“Do you see the bench by the terrace door?” Nick asked the troublesome Miss Thraxton.

She nodded mutely, her eyes appearing ready to pop out of her face.

“Lady Carrington and I need a few moments of private conversation, but I have no wish to see her good name discredited. Therefore, instead of behaving like an idiot and helping your friend to ruin, you will play the part of chaperone.”

Her mouth opened and closed, but she was bereft of speech.

Nick controlled his impatience.
This
was why he eschewed innocents and imbeciles. He took the redhead's elbow and led her down the path and up the terrace stairs to the stone bench, walking so swiftly she nearly had to run to keep up. He dropped her onto the bench's cold surface, her skirts billowing about her. “I am glad to see that we are in agreement. Now stay here. At no time are you to leave this bench, or I will see to it that you are very, very sorry.”

Her gaze fixed on his face, she nodded in mute agreement. Nick suppressed an exasperated sigh as he turned to where Lady Carrington awaited him.

She stood in the pathway, arms crossed over her modest white gown to ward off the cold air, her round chin firmly in the air, the very picture of youthful indignation. “That was uncalled for.”

“
That
was necessary to preserve your good name.” Nick leaned against a tree and crossed his own arms, watching her grimly. “You are a fool if you thought to trap a man like Hewlette into marriage.”

Sara thought she was more of a fool to be in the garden with a man who looked like a gilded devil. “If you are about to give me a lecture on the horrors of marriage, pray spare your breath. I know more about them than I wish to.”

A flicker of amusement softened Nick's scowl. “All marriages are miserable, sweet. It is the nature of the beast.” His gaze traveled over her, resting on her breasts and hips as if he could see through the material of her gown. “If you don't wish to marry, then what do you want?”

She wanted him.
The thought came to her so suddenly that she caught her breath. She wanted to touch his face and smooth away the hint of aloofness that marred his handsomeness. She wanted to curl into his arms and feel the strength of him. But that was not to be. She wasn't interested in an affair; she wanted marriage.

But perhaps…She eyed Bridgeton carefully. He
was
a man of the world. She would simply explain
her circumstances and ask for his assistance. “Despite my dislike of marriage, I must have a husband.”

“And you chose Hewlette?”

There was a hint of sneer in his satin-smooth voice and her anger flared. “He seemed an excellent choice until this evening.”