The Winter Wish (3 page)

“You
can look now. We have stopped.” There was a husky note of laughter in Devlin’s
voice, and when Sarah tentatively opened her eyes she saw he was grinning at
her, his blue eyes filled with amusement. “You do not like horses, do you?” he
asked, and in the face of such a blunt question without Lily to lie for her,
Sarah was forced to shake her head.

“No,”
she admitted softly, looking down at her lap. “I am afraid of them, to be quite
honest.”

They
had stopped in the middle of a small clearing. The snow around them was
untouched, proving they were the first to venture here since its falling. In
the distance Sarah could hear the raised voices of children and guessed they
were somewhere close to the small skating pond where she had taken many a
tumble as a little girl with skates that were too big and hand-me-down skirts
that were too long.

She
peeked at Devlin, hoping he would not be angry with her for fibbing. The
Viscount certainly did not
appear
angry. If anything he looked more
handsome than ever with his cheeks flushed red from the cold and his hair blown
back by the wind. Without warning he turned his head to the side and caught her
studying him. There eyes caught and held for one breathless moment, before
Devlin smiled slowly and nodded down to the fur blanket.

“Do
you mind?” he asked.

“N-no.”

His
knee bumped against hers as he unfolded the blanket, then the hard length of
his thigh. Sarah felt her face burning and feigned interest in a pine tree so
she had an excuse to turn her face aside, not wanting him to see the effect his
nearness had on her body. She heard him sigh, and then cluck to the horse to
start them moving again, this time at a slow, leisurely walk.

“Why
would you choose to go for a sleigh ride if you do not like horses?” Devlin
said. Beside him Sarah stiffened and began to anxiously thread her fingers
through the long hairs on the blanket as she thought desperately of what Lily
would say.

“I…
I… That is, you… Well, I do not quite…”

“I
take it you do not fox hunt either,” he said, raising one brow.

Feeling
utterly miserable, Sarah shook her head.

“You
are quite honest when you are not in the company of Lady Kincaid,” the Viscount
observed, and despite her nervousness Sarah found herself smiling shyly. “And
you look quite pretty when you do that,” he added, his gaze dropping to her
lips for the briefest of moments.

Immediately
Sarah covered her mouth with her hand and looked away yet again, silently
cursing the blush that stole across her cheeks. Twenty three years of age and
she still acted like a new debutante, except she did not possess the
wherewithal to bat her eyelashes or make coy remarks. It was little wonder
Devlin had never so much as glanced at her before now, and she had little doubt
that once they reached Twinings he would ever have reason to speak to her again.

“I
do not even know your name,” he said.

“Does
it matter?” she asked softly.

“What
was that?”  

Taking
a deep breath, Sarah twisted in the seat to face him. If this was to be the
last time they were in each other’s company – which she was quite certain it
would be – then it was high time she grew some steel in her spine and stopped
behaving like a cowardly child. “I asked does it matter? My name,” she
clarified when he continued to look bemused. “You have already proven you do
not have a great affinity for remembering a woman’s name. Why then should I
bother to waste my time telling you mine? You shall forget it the moment I step
foot from the sleigh, or perhaps even before then.” Her shoulders lifted and
fell beneath her cloak in a small shrug. “Who is to say?”

Oh,
she had done it now. Immediately Sarah felt contrite for being so
uncharacteristically rude, and she half expected Devlin to bring the sleigh to
a screeching halt and demand she walk to the tea shop. When he said nothing she
drew her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it back and forth until she could
not take the silence any longer. “I do apologize. I do not know what came
over—”

“Stop,”
Devlin demanded, switching the reins over to his left hand so he could raise
his right, the palm facing towards her. His fingers were long and lean, the
tips of them calloused. Absently Sarah wondered what he did to have the hands
of a common laborer, for it was well known amidst the
Ton
that he had no
reason to work. His wealth was old and quite well established, more so now than
ever before since his father had passed and he inherited the late Viscount’s
title. It was little wonder that women were constantly throwing themselves at
him, although as far as Sarah was concerned he could have been a pauper.

Money
mattered little to her; she considered herself quite fortunate to be born into
the upper class, but did not allow her breeding to define her as so many other
members of the peerage did. Were Devlin a Duke or a farmer she was confident
her feelings for him would remain unchanged… not that it mattered.  

“Stop
apologizing?” she asked in confusion.

“No.
Stop doing that… with your lip,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “It is quite…
distracting.” He scowled, as if he did not
want
to find it distracting,
and was annoyed that he did.  

Sarah
blinked. “I did not realize I was doing anything—”

“There!
There, you are doing it again.”

Flustered
by the sudden anger in his voice, she covered her mouth with her hand. Speaking
between her fingers she said, “I think it would be best if you brought me to
Twinings now.”

Devlin’s
jaw clenched. “I think that would be best as well,” he agreed tersely. Taking
the reins in both hands he slapped them against the gray’s rump. The horse
arched its neck and sprang into a trot with such force that Sarah flew back in
the seat and her arms flew out, one striking the door of the sleigh rather
painfully while the other landed in Devlin’s lap.

“Oh,”
she gasped, frozen in shock as she saw the very intimate place her hand had
landed. “I… I did not mean… I am
so
sorry I… I…” Her voice trailed away
as Devlin once again transferred the reins to his left hand and used the right
to close his fingers around her wrist.

“Your
pulse is pounding,” he observed, tracing the pad of thumb down across the
delicate veins on the inside of her wrist. “And you cannot stop stuttering. Do
I make you nervous?” This was asked with a smile, all earlier traces of
annoyance gone.

“Nervous?”
Sarah repeated. Their eyes caught, plain brown against deep pools of blue, and
she swallowed convulsively. “N-n-no.”

“Liar,”
he whispered.

As
Sarah watched, feeling as though she were in some sort of trance, Devlin lifted
her hand and pressed his lips ever so slightly to her chilled skin. “You taste
of apricots,” he murmured, “and sunshine on a cold winter’s day.”

“Oh,”
Sarah breathed, unable to think of a single thing to say. Her lips parted on a
sigh, and as suddenly as he had taken her hand, Devlin released it. He
straightened and the length of his body went rigid while all emotion slipped
from his face as if it were carved from stone.

“Trot
on now,” he said to the gray, while to Sarah he spoke not a word, nor spared a
single glance, and they rode the rest of the way to Twinings in silence.

CHAPTER FOUR

Try
as he might, Devlin could not stop thinking about the shy, doe eyed girl he had
met three days past. He did not know why she invaded his every waking moment,
nor how she could be present in every dream. After all, there was nothing
memorable about her. Her features were unremarkable at best, plain at worst. She
had barely spoken more than ten words during the time they spent together.
Unlike the other women he tended to keep company with she was not flirtatious
or provocative.
Then why
, he thought, crumpling a piece of parchment in
his fist upon where he had been struggling to pen a letter for the past hour,
can
I not forget her
?

And
he did not even know her name.

He
did
know she smelled more sweetly than anything he had ever come across,
and when he slept his dreams were consumed by fields of sunflowers and sunshine
and her, laughing with her hair unbound as she ran towards him.

“Bloody
hell,” Devlin growled. Standing, he began to pace across the length of his
study, his hands clenched in fists at his side and his spine ramrod straight.
He knew why he was so unsettled, though he dare not admit it aloud. He dared
not speak
her
name aloud. So he said it in his mind…
Moira
… and
it was a curse more than a name, which was fitting.

Moira,
the first woman he had ever loved.

Moira,
the first woman to own him body and soul.

Moira,
the first woman to rip his heart from his chest while it was still beating and
cast it aside on the ground as if it were no more than a common piece of
refuse.

Eight
years had passed since he got down on bended knee and asked that she-devil to
marry him. Eight years since she laughed in his face and knocked the very ring
from his hand. He could still remember what she had said as if it were
yesterday, and even though he closed his eyes and willed the words away, he
could not escape them.

“Marry
you, a common Viscount? I am the daughter of a Duke, you fool. Would you have
me marry a farmer? Or a gardener? For it would surely be the same thing. I
never knew you were so stupid, Devlin.”

“But
Moira I… I love you. I want to be with you. Spend my life with you.”

“And
you can, darling. In my bed. Now get up, you are embarrassing yourself.”

Devlin’s
jaw hardened as he cast the ugly memory aside. Moira had been a greedy bitch,
and he a besotted fool. When she became engaged to the Marquess of Bainsborough
a week later he vowed never to put himself at a woman’s mercy again. He had yet
to break that promise.

Oh,
he still liked women well enough, both behind closed doors and out. They were
frivolous, fanciful creatures meant to be enjoyed and never taken seriously. It
was why he made it a point never to remember their names, or show preference to
one over the rest. The moment the dance was over or they left his bed he forgot
about them as one might forget what they had for dinner the night before. It had
been that way for eight long years… Until three days ago.

“Reynolds,
get in here,” he called as he forced his fists to unclench and his body to
relax. Within moments there was a faint knock at the door.

“Come
in,” Devlin growled.

Reynolds
– the faithful butler of the Heathcliff family for more than three generations
– stepped into the room and came to attention. Short and heavy set, with the
jowls of a bulldog and all the bite of a poodle, the servant looked his young
employer up and down with the same quick, careful appraisal he had been giving
since Devlin was first born.

 “Something
wrong, Lord Heathcliff?” he asked, for even though the Viscount would appear at
ease to the casual observer, Reynolds knew what simmered beneath the surface.

Devlin
had the same temper of his father, and his father before him. All intelligent,
successful, kind men who treated their staff with respect and rarely came home
drunk at some God awful hour. But they were also men who guarded their true
feelings, and, although slow to anger, were quite unforgiving when provoked.

Crossing
his arms, Devlin leaned against the edge of his desk and cocked one eyebrow.
“Nothing ever gets past you does it, Reynolds?”

“Very
rarely, Lord Heathcliff.”

Devlin’s
lips twitched, but he did not smile. “I need someone found.”

“Someone,
Lord Heathcliff?”

“A
female someone. A young woman,” Devlin clarified. “In her mid twenties, if I
had to guess. I do not know her name, but her friend is Lady Connor. No, that
is wrong. Not Connor… But something similar… Kinsman… Kinswood… Kin… Kin…
Kincaid!” Devlin straightened and held up one finger. “Lady Kincaid. Do you
know who she is?”

Reynolds
pressed his lips together beneath his moustache. “Should I, Lord Heathcliff?”

“No,
I suppose not.” Devlin frowned. “Although it would make this much easier if you
did. There is a ball tonight at Almack’s, is there not Reynolds?”

The
butler nodded.

“Lady
Kincaid should be there. She was at the last one. Was I planning on attending?”

“I
do not believe so, Lord Heathcliff.”

“Well,
now I am.”

If
Reynolds was surprised by this sudden change of events, it did not show in his
face. “I will make the necessary arrangements, Lord Heathcliff. Your carriage
will be brought round in one hour.”