Lady Sarah's Redemption (9 page)

“With pleasure.” Sarah felt no embarrassment as she stepped forward
and placed one hand upon his shoulder while he clasped the other and rested his
hand upon the small of her back.

“Ready?” asked Mrs Hawthorne, and began to play.

However Cosmo proved no very great proponent of the dance and was
soon relegated to the sidelines by his critical aunt.

“You’re all over the place, Cosmo, and half the time upon poor Miss
Morecroft’s foot. Roland, you’re an excellent dancer. Step up and take his
place.”

Sarah turned, smiling slightly, in time to see Mr Hawthorne’s
dismay, quickly masked by a look of cool indifference.

But while her own heart was being exercised somewhat more than
usual, and not just by the energy required in twirling around a room, she
managed, to her surprise, a smile that was not at all tremulous.

“Shall we show the young ladies how it’s done, sir?” she said clearly
and for the benefit of all, smiling over her shoulder at Caro, for she wanted
to reassure the girl she did not consider herself in the evil clutches of some
shameless villain.

He could not look at her. “Yes, of course.” Fortunately, his dancing
was not as stilted as his manner. Roland was, as Mrs Hawthorne claimed, an
excellent dancer. Sarah felt herself perfectly matched, light on her feet and
expertly led as they twirled around the room.

She adored dancing, and it had been a long time. Trapped in his
arms, feeling the heat of his body and moving in time to the music was joy to
her senses but after a few moments, she acknowledged Mr Hawthorne’s grim
expression. Clearly, he had not lost himself in the dance as she had. Her
pleasure drained away. Pique turned to indignation. She pushed it back down,
murmuring, when they were in the farthest corner of the drawing room, “I fear
you are angry with me, sir.”

He jerked his head up to look her in the eye for the first time.
“Angry with
you
? Obviously Caro put
you up to it. The charade, I mean. Giving you Venetia’s dress to wear. No, my
behaviour last night was reprehensible.”

“I’m afraid it was entirely my idea. But if you’re not angry with
me, perhaps you could look a little less like you are-?” Sarah paused as he
raised her a little off the ground to compensate for dancing her too close to a
potted palm. He was not just adept on his feet. It was a relief to surrender
herself to his skill on the dance floor knowing she could say anything, it
appeared, without risk of being tripped up over the rug. His scowl was
unsettling but it was his nature and Sarah was determined to reduce the
frequency of such signs of unhappiness. When the time was right. For now, his
obvious discomfiture gave her the advantage. “At least for the benefit of the
others. And for my reputation,” she suggested, mildly.

“Forgive me. My manners have deserted me. I’d also understand
completely, Miss Morecroft, if you wished to give notice and leave Larchfield
directly.”

“My notice?” Sarah gasped. Such a thought could not have been
further from her thoughts.

His eyes narrowed as if he suspected the turmoil in her heart. “It
would be entirely appropriate for you to wish to hand in your notice,” he said,
carefully, as he set their course for their audience. “As your employer I have
behaved unacceptably.”

Without giving her a chance to reply he deposited her amidst the
others. “And that, Caro, is how your mother and I used to dance when the waltz
was still considered quite daring.” He smiled at her. “I am sadly rusty, but
Miss Morecroft has shown how it can be performed with skill and elegance. Come
Caro,” he invited. “It would be kinder to all if you tread first upon your
father’s feet before you are let loose to injure other innocent parties.”

Sarah’s thoughts were in such disorder it was a relief to have half
an hour to herself before putting the children to bed. Snatching her shawl from
the hook on her bedroom door she made for the ornamental lake.

Would Mr Hawthorne really let her go so easily when she knew he
reciprocated her feelings? Dismay replaced her confidence as she wondered if he
considered
she
were the one to have
exhibited a certain laxness by not pulling out of his embrace earlier. Surely
not? He’d made it clear he regarded himself entirely at fault. He’d also made
it clear, whether he later chose to refute it or not, that he found her
entirely irresistible.

Yet he’d offered to let her go, as if he cared neither way.

She would not go. She’d been at Larchfield nearly three weeks but
her task was not finished. Caro’s birthday was coming up and Sarah needed to
see her through it. After that it would be time to leave. But she’d return …

And she’d return as Lady Sarah Miles, Mr Hawthorne’s equal, with a
thoroughly convincing reason for having done what she’d done.

“Miss Morecroft.”

She turned, her heart lurching at the familiar voice.

Burnished by the setting sun, Mr Hawthorne looked like a mythical
creature emerged from the waters of the lake. But though Sarah managed a smile
of polite enquiry, he exhibited no answering pleasure.

“My apologies for my behaviour in the drawing room this morning,” he
began. He ran one finger inside his cravat, as if it were tied too tightly. “It
was unpardonable that the apology should have been prompted by you when I had
every intention of offering my sincerest regrets, in person.”

“I had no right to wear your wife’s dress,” said Sarah, lightly,
trying to make it easier for him.

“You must not think that I-”

“Oh, it has occasioned no alarm or dread on my part, sir.” Sarah
wished his brooding look really did inspire the pique she now strove for,
rather than making her want to kiss and stroke the lines of strain away from
his face. She went on in the same unconcerned tone, “For I cannot for one
moment think that it was desire for a mere governess which prompted your
uncharacteristic behaviour.”

Frowning, he advanced a few feet. “The ‘mere governess’ as you term
yourself, should feel properly protected. Do not imagine I am in the habit of
preying on the vulnerable members of my household.”

Her heart thundered but her voice was soft. “Let us walk,” she
suggested, stepping onto the worn path that led towards the wood. He hesitated,
then fell into step beside her.

“You are very like your father, Miss Morecroft,” he observed. “You
have his fearless spirit.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Our golden youth?” His tone was ironic. “I’ll happily recount those
halcyon days if you promise not to press me further, Miss Morecroft. Godby was
closer to me than my own brother. But boys become young men, and life becomes
complicated.”

They halted in a copse shaded by leafy elms. The air was damp and in
front of them was a grotto, overhung with ferns. Dominating the small cleared
space was a memorial stone dedicated to Venetia and Hector Hawthorne.

“Venetia died seven years ago, yesterday,” he said, clearly glad to
change the subject as her gaze went to the posy of flowers at its base. “I
gather Caro didn’t mention it?”

Sarah evaded his look. “She mentioned it.”

“Since Caro turned twelve she’s refused to accompany me here. She
says she hates her mother. Can I ask you what she said to you?”

Weighing up whether to spare him the truth, Sarah stared at the limp
dewdrops upon the woodleaf floor. Everyone at Larchfield had remarked upon the
anniversary yesterday. Seven years after her death Lady Venetia and her
powerful influence over her husband – amongst other men – continued
to provide the servants with a rich source of gossip.

When it was clear he intended waiting for her answer, she said,
hesitantly, “Caro asked why her father would erect a memorial to a harlot.”

To her surprise he looked amused. “Caro has spirit. It’s not
customary to cultivate the society of our adolescent daughters. They can seem
like strangers on occasion.”

Sarah thought of her own father. He had not been customary in his
approach to her upbringing, throwing at her books she must read, quizzing her,
arguing with her. He even took her shooting when only close friends were
visiting.

She felt a pang, but as ever her resolve hardened when she thought
of his parting words: “Marry James, or my doors are closed to a crotchety
spinster who insists on spurning life’s bounties.”

Well, she’d be going home soon, if only to prepare herself for her
return to Mr Hawthorne.

“Yes, she has spirit. Like her mother.” Boldly, Sarah moved closer,
putting her hand on the mossy surface of the rock face for balance. He did not
step back but the gaze he levelled at her was harsh.

“Venetia was a poppy eater. Did the servants tell you that?”

Shocked, she shook her head. It explained so much.

“Her addiction made her moods volatile and unpredictable.” His eyes
left hers and he gazed over her shoulder. His reflective smile suggested
happier memories. “When Venetia needed me she was everything I could have
wished for-” He gave a short, wry laugh, adding, almost imperceptibly, “Well,
almost. Sarah saw his pain as their gazes locked. “It’s one thing to be needed,
Miss Morecroft. His voice was now so low she strained to hear him as he finished,
“quite another to be loved.”

She was not prepared for such a revealing confidence. Nor what he
required of her. Sympathy? Understanding? But it was her heart, not her head
that dictated her next impulsive move. As if it were the most natural thing in
the world Sarah raised herself upon her toes and put her hands on his
shoulders. She closed her eyes. An instant later she felt the answering touch
of his lips upon hers. His hands cupped her face, and her senses were assailed
by sandalwood and leather, yearning and desire as his strong hard body pressed
her back against the stone.

She might have been a seasoned flirt, but Sarah had little
experience of physical desire. Tingles of sensation rippled through her as she
twined her hands in the short hair at the nape of his neck and felt the
roughness of his skin against her cheek, the sweet gentleness as his tongue
skimmed her upper lip before he deepened the kiss. Her bones became jelly as he
rained kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her neck. He kissed her like a drowning
man replenishing himself, and Sarah responded like a flower soaking up the sun.

He released her suddenly. Breathless, she steadied herself against
the rock behind. The turbulence in his eyes revealed mixed emotions. She could
see he wanted her still. Against his will.

The rapid rise and fall of his chest mirrored the turbulence of her
own reaction, but she was aware of the need for restraint.

“A gentleman would apologize to you, Miss Morecroft.” His voice was
strained as he stepped back. “Yet I’m not sure I’m entirely to blame.”

She felt stripped bare, from the inside out. Unable to respond, she
touched her lips.

“It shan’t happen again.” He turned, but she could not let him go.

“If I am to blame, then forgive me,” she ground out. If he didn’t
blame her, he was blaming himself, and hating her for it. She couldn’t bear it.

 
“Pretend it never
happened.” She lurched towards him, stopping herself before she stayed him with
a hand upon his sleeve. “Don’t let it spoil what was between us.”

He turned, his eyes drinking her in. There was more than just regret
in his expression, as he responded. “There was, and is, nothing between us,
Miss Morecroft.” At the devastation in her look his tone gentled. “Nor ever
will be.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

He was wrong, but now was not the time to persuade him. Smoothing
her skirts as she stepped away from the memorial stone, Sarah managed at last
to control her trembling mouth and in a voice that was light and careless,
said, “It’s getting late. We should return to the house or Caro will wonder
what’s become of us.” With an inviting smile she indicated the path and was
relieved when he began to walk with her. “Which brings me to the matter of
Caro’s Birthday Ball.” Her chatter was deliberately inconsequential. “I was
hoping you’d do me – and Caro – the great honour of allowing me to
be final arbiter of in the choice of Caro’s gown. Mrs Hawthorne, you see, has
her heart set on primrose. Caro exhibits great fashion understanding when she
declares that in primrose she’ll rather resemble Banquo’s ghost dressed for a
wedding.”

GEORGIANA
AND PHILLY were constant visitors to Larchfield in the lead-up to Caro’s ball.
The daily curriculum of dance practice, deportment lessons, drills in how to
use a fan to convey a hundred moods and meanings, and how to execute the
perfect curtsy had been gruelling. Despite that, the girls’ enthusiasm seemed
to have rubbed off on Caro.

In another couple of weeks her work here would be done, thought
Sarah with a pang. Caro, her ‘special mission’ had proved far more amenable
than expected, which was not surprising. Caro was like any normal young girl. A
boost to her self confidence, and a few friends, had made an enormous
difference.

Mrs Hawthorne, inferring at the outset that a lowly-born piece of
goods like Sarah would know nothing about such matters, had soon entirely
discharged to her all duties related to Caro’s initiation into the adult world.