Lady Sarah's Sinful Desires (13 page)

The comment caught Sarah off guard. She was not accustomed to having her problems addressed so plainly by others and had in fact hoped they would go unnoticed. “It is kind of you to concern yourself about me, my lady—­”

“Oh, kindness has nothing to do with it, my dear,” Lady Duncaster said as she guided Sarah along a corridor. “I am an old woman with little to occupy my mind. It is why I chose to fill Thorncliff Manor with ­people.

“Have you any idea how empty this place is when it's just me and the servants? It's frightfully depressing really. No, my inquiry is entirely based on pure curiosity and the hope that your story will distract me from the fact that I have lived my last adventure long ago and have only the end looming before me.”

“You speak as though you're well into your eighties,” Sarah said, feeling quite distressed on behalf of her hostess, “when you appear to be not a day over fifty-­five.”

“Ha! You are sweet to say so. Why, I feel younger already.”

They soon arrived in a long, sunny room with tall ceilings embellished by stucco cherubs, flower garlands and flowing ribbons cast in gilded plaster. Displayed along the length of the left wall were paintings—­the usual ancestral portraits—­though they appeared more vibrant here, aided by the bright light spilling through the windows opposite. “Please forgive me, my lady,” Sarah said as they went to stand before a painting of a man wearing a breastplate, his chin adorned by a pointy beard, “but I would prefer not to speak of my troubles. It would serve no purpose but to tarnish your opinion of me.”

“I doubt that very much, considering my own colorful past, but I respect your wish and will press you no further. However, I do suggest you keep in mind that our transgressions are always far worse in our own minds than they are in actuality.”

“I must disagree with you there. The
ton
—­”

“Disapproves of most things that fall outside a particular set of rules. That is not to say your actions, whatever they may have been, are not to be frowned upon. But you are still young, and it would be a shame for you to let past errors deprive you of a happy future. Especially if you regret what you did and are unlikely to repeat the mistake.”

If only it were that simple,
Sarah thought as they moved on to the next painting. It was of a lady with hard eyes and a sharp chin, her lips set in a petulant pout, as if she could think of a dozen things she'd rather be doing than posing for a portrait. Set outdoors, she wore a heavy leather glove on one hand, upon which was perched a falcon. “Some things are beyond repair,” Sarah said, aware of the pain that laced her words.

“Certainly,” Lady Duncaster agreed, “but instinct tells me you're a good person, Lady Sarah, and that you don't deserve to be punished forever.”

“Perhaps,” Sarah said, wishing the conversation would draw to a speedy end.

“Lord Spencer seems to enjoy your company,” Lady Duncaster pointed out as she drifted onward. The manner in which she spoke suggested that she suspected a blooming romance between them.

“We are friends,” Sarah said, following her, “scarcely more than acquaintances, really, considering we did not know each other prior to coming here.”

“Hmm . . . there is no chance you will choose to share your secret with him then?”

The question brought Sarah to an abrupt halt. “Absolutely not!”
Good heavens
. The very idea of doing so was preposterous, not to mention that she could scarcely believe Lady Duncaster, whom she had only recently met, was being unbelievably forward, both in her suppositions and in her suggestions.

To her dismay, Lady Duncaster responded to Sarah's indignation with a light chuckle, the creases about her eyes deepening with the effort as she turned to face her. “Are you aware that George and I were not supposed to marry? In fact, I had been promised to his best friend.”

“That must have been terribly difficult.”

Lady Duncaster raised an eyebrow. “Duty-­bound to marry one while your heart belongs to the other.” She studied Sarah closely. “The passion with which you responded before suggests that you will consider confiding in Lord Spencer sooner than you think, my dear. Indeed, I do believe that you will find yourself without much choice in the matter.” Her smile was secretive as she moved on, leaving Sarah stunned and feeling uncomfortably uncertain about her life as she knew it.

“Come along, my dear,” Lady Duncaster beckoned, drawing Sarah out of her reverie. “I hope you will excuse my frankness, but I rarely have the opportunity to speak openly, since most of my peers think I'm playing with half a deck of cards for the most part. I hope you're not too offended by everything I've said to you this morning.”

“No,” Sarah said. “Indeed, I find your candor refreshing, though perhaps a bit surprising. You're different than how I'd imagined.” An older version of herself, Sarah decided.

Lady Duncaster nodded thoughtfully, then turned to regard the painting of a handsome man, perhaps in his midforties, with dark hair curling softly about his brow and a pair of chestnut-­colored eyes. His jaw, though angular, wasn't cut in hard lines, and the edge of his mouth was drawn upward, as though he was about to laugh. “This is my George,” the countess said, “forever youthful in the artist's portrayal of him, while I am condemned to wither with age. If everyone in the world were fortunate enough to know the kind of love we shared for each other, then they would be truly blessed.”

Gazing up at the painting while Lady Duncaster spoke of her husband, Sarah felt her heart ache for the countess. “It is so unfair that you must go on without him,” she said.

“I used to think so, but he was a great deal older when he died than he was in this painting, and truthfully, nothing lasts forever. We all know it—­we are aware that our days are numbered—­yet we are still surprised when they draw to an end. Now that I am standing at the end of mine, though I may still have a good ten years ahead, I will tell you this: life is much shorter than you can possibly imagine, Lady Sarah. Eventually, all that matters is how you chose to live it, and I daresay that once you get that far, nobody will care one way or another, except for you.” She hesitated a moment before saying, “His father died at sea, you know.”

“How?” Sarah asked, realizing belatedly that the answer was not only obvious but that she was asking Lady Duncaster to volunteer more information than she might be willing to share. “Forgive me,” she added hastily, “I did not mean to pry.”

“Whyever not? There's nothing wrong with being curious, you know.” With a final glance in Lord Duncaster's direction, Lady Duncaster moved on, her arm linked with Sarah's. “He was on his way to France in . . . 1797, if I recall. George and I were spending the Season in London, while George's father had decided to remain at Thorncliff, which had been his preference since his wife's death. Unbeknownst to us, he decided to go on a sea voyage. We never knew exactly what happened, but the ship sank, taking everyone with it, including Lord Spencer's grandfather.”

“How tragic,” Sarah said, astonished to discover such a connection between the two families.

“George blamed himself for his father's death, which is probably why he became so obsessed with finding that silly treasure.”

“Treasure?”

Lady Duncaster sighed. “There is no substance to it of course, other than a grieving man's desire to uncover his father's secrets—­secrets which have no basis in reality.”

“You're sure of this?” Sarah asked, curious to know more about this new, intriguing subject.

“Of course I'm sure, though I was careful in keeping that opinion to myself. George needed a purpose, you see, and hunting for imaginary treasure seemed as good as any.”

“But how do you know it doesn't exist?” Sarah asked.

“Because George's father was a very serious man, Lady Sarah. He was not eccentric, by any means, which is probably why he always frowned upon my position as his daughter-­in-­law, though I do believe he accepted me eventually. He was the very pillar of propriety, you see, never once acting beyond the bounds of what was deemed acceptable by the
ton
. But then, quite unexpectedly really, his behavior grew increasingly peculiar. He withdrew from Society, began traveling a great deal and became fixated on remodeling Thorncliff, insisting it needed more marble and higher ceilings. The roof in the foyer, for instance, was raised ten feet during the last years of his life.”

“And it looks magnificent,” Sarah said, “but I fail to see why your husband would have thought it had anything to do with a treasure. Surely Lord Duncaster's father was merely trying to give himself something to do—­his travels were probably nothing more than visits to various craftsmen.”

“I agree with you,” Lady Duncaster said, “but when his father died and George began organizing his belongings, he happened on a letter his father had received from Lord Spencer's grandfather. It was tucked away inside a book. George almost missed it, but after reading it, he became obsessed with the idea that his father had secretly been a treasure hunter and that his bounty was hidden away on the estate.”

“What did the letter say to put such an idea in his head?”

Lady Duncaster sighed as she waved her hand dismissively. “Something about having to take one final voyage and to beware the north wind. It was all rather cryptic, but there was one specific thing that stood out, because at the end of the letter, Lord Spencer's grandfather told George's father to ensure that
the wealth
had been placed in safekeeping.”

“That does sound a bit peculiar, though hardly enough to make an assumption about a hidden treasure,” Sarah mused.

“My thoughts exactly,” Lady Duncaster agreed, “but George had a vivid imagination, and I suppose he needed a project with which to pass the time, so he began searching for the treasure he believed his father had hidden at some time during the rehabilitation of the estate. To his great disappointment, nothing was ever found.”

“I see,” Sarah said. “Well, that is a pity, I suppose. It would have been wonderfully exciting if there really had been a treasure to find at Thorncliff.”

Lady Duncaster smiled. “I agree. Unfortunately that isn't the case, for if there were, it would have been uncovered during the recent renovations I made to the estate. I must admit I was hoping to find something so I could prove my George correct in his hypothesis. Instead we must accept that it was never anything more than the fabrication of an aging man and that the letter was probably in reference to some investment Lord Spencer's grandfather and George's father had made together.”

“I'm sorry,” Sarah said.

Lady Duncaster nodded. “Me too, but that hardly helps, does it? No, I think a ball would do a better job of it.”

“A ball?”

“Oh indeed! I shall host one on Saturday for all my guests and perhaps some of the local gentry too. What do you think, Lady Sarah? Wouldn't that be splendid?”

“Indeed it would,” Sarah said as, without thinking, she took Lady Duncaster's hand between her own and gave it a little squeeze.

S
itting in the shade of an oak tree that afternoon, Christopher tried to concentrate on a window detail he was drawing, satisfied that his trip to Portsmouth earlier in the day had gone better than he'd expected. At least he'd managed to send the letter he'd written—­a key element in the surprise he now
had
to prepare for Lady Sarah, thanks to his impromptu remark. What the hell had he been thinking?

That you wanted a reason to spend more time with her.

A picnic would have done the trick if he hadn't said he was “planning” it. Her expectations would be bigger now. He had to think of something grand. And he had. He'd even happened upon a gift for her—­something he was sure she'd appreciate.

His charcoal slipped and he muttered a curse. He didn't want this—­this stupid concoction of human emotions that she had created in him. It was his own fault for asking too many damn questions. Remaining indifferent had been easier before, but now, with each answer she'd given him, every little thing she'd said, he'd felt a commonality with her, along with an unexpected urge to give her something to look forward to.

“I admire your patience,” Fiona said as she plunked herself down beside him, scattering his thoughts. “Looks like your next project is coming along very nicely.”

“No thanks to you,” he grumbled.

“What? Is Lady Sarah distracting you, Kip? How promising.” She chuckled as she stretched out her legs.

He swatted her arm. “Not really. I'm determined to resist her charms just to spite you.”

“Ah! So you admit that you find her charming?”

He glared at her. “Not in the least.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Fiona insisted. “Lady Sarah is perfectly lovely. If you say otherwise, I won't believe you.”

“Then don't,” he muttered. “Whether you believe me or not is clearly inconsequential, but just so you know, I intend to repay all of you for this.”

“I shudder in fear,” Fiona said, looking not the least bit concerned. Instead, she glanced out across the lake. “She doesn't look very happy at the moment, does she?”

“Who are you talking about,” Christopher asked, even though he knew the answer well enough.

“Lady Sarah of course,” Fiona replied.

Christopher nodded. It was no coincidence that he'd picked a spot where he could keep an eye on her while Mr. Denison rowed her around the lake. As polite as he'd been the one time Christopher had met him, Christopher couldn't ignore the feeling that there was something unpleasant about that man.

“Do you suppose he might be blackmailing her parents?”

Christopher started. “Why on earth would you suggest that?”