Surrender to the Marquess Page 15

  ‘And one day,’ she said, clearing her throat because it was a little husky, ‘we were in Hatchard’s bookshop. We both stretched up for the same book and bumped elbows and the next thing I knew I was in his arms and he was kissing me in the corner of the Greek and Latin translation section. Fortunately, it is not a popular area.’

  Lucian’s grunt of amusement made her smile, too, and suddenly Sara realised that she was smiling over a memory of Michael for the first time since his death. Smiling out of amusement and affection, not the sad smile of memories and regret.

  How strange that it was this man, her lover, who had given her that humour back.

  ‘So what happened next?’ Lucian prompted when she had fallen silent for several minutes.

  ‘Michael dropped three different translations of Homer that he was carrying and the shop assistant came and he had to end up buying two of them because the corners were bent.’

  ‘Not with the books, with your romance,’ Lucian said in her ear. ‘Women! Never can tell a story.’

  Laughing—how did that happen when she was crying, too?—she nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘So Michael took himself off to see Papa, all very proper and formal, and Papa was really very good about it. I don’t think he had ever come across someone like Michael because he had not gone to university himself, but straight into the East India Company army, so intellectuals were a strange breed to him.’

  ‘And I should imagine he was a terrifying prospect for a quiet scholar.’ Lucian shifted a little and managed to link his arms around her.

  ‘Oh, no. Michael could stand up for himself. He was quiet, certainly, but exceedingly intelligent, so he could play Papa like a fisherman with a trout, long before Papa realised he was being manipulated. And he had courage. He loved me and he wanted me, so he was going to stand up and ask for me. He was not a poor man. Not rich, but he could keep us in very respectable comfort. And Papa, bless him, did listen and talk to both of us and then it was agreed. Before the Season was over I had married and moved to Cambridge and I was learning an entirely new culture.’

  ‘You liked life in a university town?’

  ‘Yes. I made a lot of friends amongst intellectual women—bluestockings, I suppose you would say—and I began to learn Greek in earnest and I taught Michael the languages I knew and we were friends as well as lovers. We were so happy.’ I was safe.

  ‘Are you weeping?’ Lucian murmured, close to her ear.

  ‘Just a little, and smiling, too,’ she admitted and he kissed her in the soft hollow behind her ear. ‘I could not cry much, before. I was too angry.’

  ‘With his friend, the one he challenged?’

  ‘No, with Michael. I have to learn to forgive him for wanting to protect me that way.’ And with myself. If I had been a better wife this would never have happened.

  ‘Perhaps the need to protect our womenfolk is as deep in a man as the need to protect a child is in a woman,’ Lucian suggested. ‘I had never thought of it like that before, but it does not seem to me to be something one learns, or has impressed upon you. For me, certainly, it feels like instinct.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, reluctantly impressed by the comparison. ‘But the man should talk it over with the woman first. I don’t mean if there is a physical attack, it would be foolish to stand about debating when someone is brandishing a cudgel. But if it is a case of an insult, then definitely.’

  ‘You would let an insult pass?’

  ‘There are more ways of getting even than getting up before dawn and shivering in a damp field with the chance of getting killed at the end of it. A woman would apply her mind to finding a poetic form of revenge. Itching powder in a rake’s silk breeches at a Court presentation, a mouse in a spiteful gossip’s reticule…’

  ‘Itching powder? Remind me never to upset you.’

  His breath was warm on the side of her throat. Was he going to kiss her there? She arched her neck in invitation and was rewarded by the pressure of his lips, the slight friction of stubble. Lucian was going to have to shave before dinner.

  All too quickly the caress stopped. ‘What do you miss most about being married?’ he asked.

  Sara thought about it for a while and he did not press her, simply held her while she lay back in his arms, watching the wildlife around the pond come out, reassured by their stillness. A dabchick bobbed across the surface, fish rose and dived, the dragonflies buzzed.

  Strange that her lover should be so interested in her marriage. Most men would have wanted to ignore the subject, pretend her husband had not existed. Some would have jealously probed for a flattering comparison—was he more handsome, taller, better endowed, a better lover? But Lucian’s questions did not seem like that, more as though he was genuinely interested in her past, wanted to understand and sympathise with her loss.

  ‘Miss?’ she said at last. ‘I miss him, of course, as a person, because he was my friend. And I miss the companionship of marriage and being able to say what I was thinking without having to censor it in any way. I miss discussing things. I miss…missed, the lovemaking. I miss the intellectual stimulation of trying to keep up with him mentally and the community of friends we had.’

  ‘You were not tempted to stay there, in Cambridge?’

  ‘No. That would have felt like second best, somehow. Michael was why I was there and without him… No, I wanted to do something different, something for myself.’ Somewhere new to run away to while you tried to find the real you, the niggling little voice of her conscience murmured.

  ‘Someone is coming.’ Lucian had heard the voices raised in laughter before she had. He pushed her gently upright so she could slide along the seat and let him get both feet on the ground. ‘Heading this way, by the sound of it. Shall we make a bolt for it or be found earnestly studying pond life?’

  ‘Bolt. This way.’ She took him by the hand and ran round the head of the pond and into the stand of willows fringing it. ‘Now, if we make our way along the path I think we will come out by the lake, which is where they have come from.’

  ‘You think? Don’t you know?’

  ‘I did not grow up here, so I have not discovered all the secret ways that a child would have found. Yes, here we are, just behind the boathouse. Can you punt?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucian said immediately, and then, with a shrug, ‘badly. I am usually well co-ordinated, but I am a shambles with a punt pole. But this is too deep, surely?’

  ‘There is a sunken causeway going to the island in the middle with deep water either side. It used to be a track before the lake was made larger. If we punt halfway, then I can finish my tale and no one will disturb us and yet we will be sitting out in full view in perfect respectability.’

  ‘You will risk us going round and round in circles?’ Lucian eyed the punt tied up to the side of the boathouse dubiously.

  ‘No, I will punt, you recline and look decorative.’

  ‘That is my line.’ But to her surprise he got in without protest and sat down, not even insisting on handing her in or untying the rope.

  Sara lifted the long pole, got her balance and pushed off. The punt glided out in a straight line, much to her satisfaction, and she took them to halfway between shore and island before she jammed the pole upright in the mud and tied the rope around it.

  ‘You looked very elegant doing that.’ Lucian was lying back on the cushions, his hands behind his head, and she was reminded of her great-uncle’s court and how the Rajah would have himself rowed out into the great lake with its pleasure pavilion in the centre. Lucian would not look out of place here if there was a marble summer house on the island, filled with beautiful women all ready to pleasure him. She kept the thought to herself as she settled down on the cushions at her end of the punt.

  ‘There is no middle way, I find, with punting. Either it goes well and you look elegant or it doesn’t and then you most definitely do not! I fell in four times when Michael was teaching me.’

  She could see his face now and studi
ed it for any reaction to her husband’s name, but could see none. A part of her, one she should be ashamed of, was a little piqued. Shouldn’t her lover be just a little touchy about any men who had been before him? Probably he did not care enough.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘You were telling me about your decision to leave Cambridge,’ Lucian reminded her.

  Sara drew a deep breath and tried to explain. ‘I wanted to get away from all of it, the places that reminded me of my marriage, the love and concern my family were wrapping me in. I ran away to the coast and found Sandbay. When I wanted to do some drawing I looked for a shop selling equipment and found the one I now own. That was all it did, artists’ equipment, and it was a poor affair. The owner was selling up and, on a whim almost, I bought it. And that was the beginning of Aphrodite’s Seashell. I made no secret of who I was and I found people were wonderfully discreet. I think they enjoyed the cachet of having a marquess’s daughter at their resort when they would have expected me to go to Weymouth. I kept my daytime and my evening personas apart and it worked.’

  ‘And you are happy in Sandbay, shopkeeper by day, lady by night?’

  ‘Yes. But…’

  ‘But?’ Lucian lounged there, all long legs and heavy-lidded eyes, temptation personified. Sara wanted to stop talking about herself, stop thinking about difficult things and pole over to the island and—

  ‘When you look at me like that I am tempted to try punting again,’ he said. ‘That island looks wickedly inviting, but I will behave like a gentleman if you tell me about the but.’

  ‘But…the shop is successful now. I have succeeded, proved that I can create and run a business, make a profit. Soon Sandbay will start to grow beyond the point where I can hide in plain sight. I need to find a new direction, but I have no idea what it might be. Certainly I have no intention of becoming yet another merry widow with an ambiguous position in society and a succession of lovers.’

  Lucian sat up, his forearms resting on his raised knees, and seemed to be finding something on the bottom boards of great interest. Then he looked up. ‘Why not marry me?’

  ‘Marry you?’ Sara sat bolt upright and stared at him. ‘Marry you? But why? You wanted an affaire, right from the beginning, I could tell. You realised I was a widow, recognised that I was a lady, and so suitable for a dalliance for a limited time. A little mutual pleasure, no unseemly demands on either side. That was what you were looking for, wasn’t it? Can you deny it?’

  ‘No, of course not. And there was mutual attraction, mutual desire—can you deny that?’ He was frowning now.

  ‘No. So that is what we have. An affair. We are lovers. Lovers interrupted, maybe, but lovers none the less. You told my father, very definitely, that you had no intention of marrying me. And next Season you intended to launch Marguerite—you probably still will as Gregory has yet to find his feet in society—and you would have been looking for a nice young thing to marry. Marguerite thinks you have already decided on one. After all, it is about time you married and set up your nursery. Deny that.’ Something was building inside her chest, a pressure that she did not stop to examine because she feared it was anger.

  ‘I do not… And you are a nice young thing, are you not? You are simply slightly older than the fluffy little misses that Marguerite is making friends with. And she is wrong, I have fixed my interest with no one. This would be so logical, Sara, such a sensible step for both of us.’

  Logical? Sensible? Yes, that was anger building inside her. And hurt, but she couldn’t probe that now because she rather feared she would cry if she did. ‘Of course, I am the daughter of a marquess, even if my family on my mother’s side is a trifle unusual, and I am still young enough to give you an heir and I have all my own teeth and you have tried me out in bed.’

  Lucian straightened up and seemed, for the first time, to realise that she was angry, not simply taken by surprise. ‘Well, yes, although I certainly would not have put it like that. Sara, I can see that you are annoyed for some reason and I realise that this must have taken you unawares, but—’

  ‘But you really cannot see what I have to be annoyed about? I agree, it is most unreasonable of me to take exception to your charming logical offer, accompanied as it was by protestations of devotion and regard. And how unreasonable of me to conclude that it has only just struck you how much time and trouble it would save you if you married me.’

  How very irritating it was not to be able to stride up and down as she ranted. ‘This way you do not have to go through some wearisome courtship. There will be no having to endure the rigours of Almack’s, no having to do the pretty or fight off predatory mamas. You simply speak to my father, who would be delighted to secure a marquess for a son-in-law, and regularise our relationship in one blow, and there you are.’

  ‘Do you want me to make a declaration of love? Is that what this is about? Are you back to accusing me of not being romantic?’ He seemed mildly baffled by her reaction and also patiently willing to humour her, which was even more inflaming.

  ‘No, I do not want some false declaration. Do you think I want you to lie to me? I thought you understood me, I thought you were listening just now while I was telling you about Michael and our marriage, and all the time you were fitting me nicely into the compartment marked suitable wife, needs looking after, poor thing, young enough to breed from.’

  ‘Sara, that is not at all how I think of you.’ Lucian stood up and made to move towards her, his hand held out.

  ‘Yes, you do. I need a man to protect me, fight duels on my behalf, make sure I do not do unconventional things like running a shop or wearing male clothing. Why else would you offer for me out of the blue like this? You do not love me, you have already slept with me, you do not need to give me a reason to chaperon Marguerite—it can only be for your convenience and because your male arrogance thinks I would be better off in your charge.’

  She found she was on her feet, too, one of the battered old cushions clutched in her right hand. Had she meant to throw it at him or was she simply gesticulating so wildly that she let it go? Whichever it was, Lucian had not been expecting it. It hit him squarely in the face, he clawed at it, staggered and then, with awful inevitability, the punt tipped sideways and they both fell into the lake.

  Her skirts were only light muslin, her undergarments no more hampering. Sara surfaced within seconds, spluttering, and kicked the few strokes that enabled her to grab hold of the side of the upturned punt.

  ‘Sara.’ Lucian was right beside her, his shoulders just out of the water, and she realised that he must be standing on the submerged causeway. ‘Hell, are you all right? I thought I was going to have to dive for you.’

  ‘Yes. I can swim perfectly well, thank you.’ She swiped at a weed that was dangling from her hair and realised that the ducking had done nothing to cool her anger. ‘I do not think that trying to turn the punt back over is going to be easy.’

  ‘No, and unsafe, considering that you are out of your depth. I will carry you back to shore.’

  ‘I told you, I can swim.’

  ‘But you have no need to.’ Lucian got one arm behind her shoulders, dislodging her grip on the punt. She flailed as she tried to get hold of it again, her legs floated up and he slid the other arm under her knees. ‘There. I have you safe.’

  There was nothing she could do but submit to being carried ashore like some helpless shipwrecked maiden. Struggling was undignified and would only put them both under the surface again. Then she heard the shrieks and cries from the shore.

  ‘You have an audience for your gallantry,’ she said between gritted teeth as Lucian began to walk. ‘It appears that the entire house party is assembled on the shore to view the rescue.’ Her mama must have decided to have tea served on the lawn under the great cedar tree where there was an excellent view of the lake. ‘How gratifying. They presumably saw me hit you with the cushion as well.’

  Lucian grunted. The effort of walking through water that rose almost to his
collarbone while carrying a woman in his arms must be considerable and, despite her feelings about him, there was an undeniable thrill in being carried like this. Which just went to show that even the most rational and independent woman could be turned into a quivering blancmange by a display of masculine muscle. And that realisation did nothing to cool her temper either.

  Sara focused on the shore through wet eyelashes and strands of soaking hair. Most of the female guests were at the water’s edge, shrieking encouragement, although one of the young ladies had managed to faint strategically into a gentleman’s arms. Her mother was still seated at the table calmly pouring tea and her father and brother stood on the boathouse jetty, apparently poised to carry out a full-scale rescue by rowing boat if necessary. Ashe was scowling, her father had the bland expression that meant he was controlling laughter, the beast.

  As Lucian reached the shallows within a few yards of the shore and began to emerge from the water Ashe took off his coat and ran back along the jetty to meet them.

  ‘Put this on.’ He flung it around her shoulders as soon as Lucian lowered her to the fringe of shingle. ‘That muslin is glued to you. What the hell were you playing at?’ That was directed at Lucian. ‘Sara could have been drowned.’

  ‘I can swim, as you know perfectly well.’ That was comprehensively ignored. Sara turned her back on the bristling male aggression and began to squelch uphill towards the tea table while the female guests surrounded her like a flock of agitated chickens.

  She finally arrived in front of her mother who handed her a large rug and gestured to a chair. ‘It is rattan, the water will not harm it and it is perfectly warm out here in the sun. Have a cup of tea, dear, and let us watch the men…er…analysing the situation.’