The Seduction of Sara (6 page)

“Henri, please. I haven't had breakfast yet, and I've a million things to see to this morning, none of which will get done if I must listen to your drivel on an empty stomach.”

Henri stiffened. “A million things to do! But you cannot! I told Lady Langtry that you—”

Nick shot a swift look at the comte. “Lady who?”

“Langtry.”

“Your Delphi is the Duchess of Langtry?”

“
Oui
. But that should be no surprise. Every day I have told you that I—”

Nick broke in impatiently, “Henri, have you met the duchess's niece?”

“Lady Carrington? But of course. She rides with us every day.”

“Damn it, Henri!”

Henri blinked. “What, have I done something wrong,
mon ami
?”

“No, but I have an interest in Lady Carrington.”

Comprehension lit Henri's eyes. “Ah, the lovely Sara is your quarry. That is a pity.”

“Why?”

“She has only been a widow for a year and her husband was not faithful. I fear she did not accept it well.”

So the intriguing Sara was a romantic. That was useful information, indeed. In Nick's experience, women who yearned for the romantic often interpreted the simplest gestures as declarations, which made them all the easier to seduce.

“Mon Dieu!”
Henri said with a disgusted look. “I know that expression. Do not even think it. From what Delphi has let slip, Lord and Lady Carrington had a love match at one time, but it turned sour.”

“She has been disappointed, then.”

“
Oui
, and Delphi has hinted that Sara had fallen into some impropriety because of it.” Henri frowned. “Nicholas, she is the type of woman one falls madly in love with, not the type for a dalliance. You know I am not one to interfere, but I have a feeling you should let her be.”

“You have a feeling?” Nick's lip curled. “The next thing I know, you will be reading tea leaves.”

“If I could read tea leaves, I would be a very wealthy man. Unfortunately I have only my instinct, and it tells me Lady Carrington is not the woman for you.”

“What does it tell you about the lovely Delphi?”

Henri gave a reluctant smile. “Lady Langtry is different.”

“How fortunate for your conscience.” Nick stood. “Pray continue your association with the aunt. It could prove very beneficial to us both.”

After the barest hesitation, Henri clutched at his heart. “Oh, the pain! To have to endure another half hour in the presence of such a beautiful lady. It cannot be borne.”

“Go to hell, Henri.”

“
Voyons
, but you are irritable this morning.”

“I have been attempting to get the servants more focused on their duties. Like the Hall, they have not had proper supervision in some time, and they are incapable of doing a decent day's work.”

“Ah, that is because of Napoleon. You might think him safely ensconced on Elba, but he is alive and well in the sitting room at Hibberton Hall.” At Nick's questioning gaze, Henri chuckled. “There is a damp spot on the wallpaper. Your estimable housekeeper, the devout Mrs. Kibble, decided it looked exactly like the silhouette of Napoleon from the
Morning Post
.”

“Did she, indeed.”

“
Oui
. Half of the staff believes her, while the other half are steadfast that the stain looks more like Wellington. It has caused such dissension that the footman and the groom came to blows over the matter last night.”

Nick shook his head. Of all the houses in England, he had to win one that possessed a staff worthy of a Shakespearean farce. “I gave Wiggs a powerful incentive to refocus everyone's efforts on the east
wing. Perhaps some honest work will distract them from their search for Napoleon's likeness.”

“Perhaps. Me, I'd start anew.”

“I don't have the time to retrain an entire staff.” Nick looked down at one of Pratt's endless lists. “I fear that Lord Parkington cheated me in giving me this house. I should have shot him in the privates.”

Henri waved an airy hand. “But with a little paint, a little hammering…the Hall will be as good as new, no? A man should leave his mark on this world. Hibberton Hall will be yours.”

“So I hope,” Nick said. Though the cost would be high, most of the main work had already begun. Soon he would have a home as befitted his name, a home his mother would have been proud of.

Henri watched as the shadows slowly passed from Nick's face, the stiff façade shifting and then disappearing altogether. Most people thought the Earl of Bridgeton a hard, unsympathetic man. And most of the time, he was exactly that. Life had not allowed the earl the luxury of having a heart.

But every once in a while, Henri caught a glimpse of something in Nick's face—something very human. Something worth befriending. “Tell me something,
mon ami
. Now that you have returned to England and you have this beautiful house, what are your plans?”

The earl's cold blue gaze lifted from the sheet of paper and fastened on Henri. “I will ensure repairs to the Hall are well under way, and then…”

“And then?” Henri asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Then I will conquer a black-haired innocent with a propensity for teasing.” Nick turned to the window and stared with unseeing eyes at the front lawn with such intensity in his expression that Henri shivered.

Mon Dieu
, things were not going at all as he had planned—he'd meant for the earl to find a pleasant companion, one who would beguile and tease him from his moods. But it was obvious Bridgeton had something else in mind—a taste of the forbidden.

For one mad moment, Henri wondered if he should uncharacteristically drop a word in Delphi's ear. But a moment's reflection made him abandon such a foolish course of action. The young woman had been married, after all. And any attempt to sway Nick would only antagonize him further.

His only hope was that his information was wrong and the lady was not so innocent. For her sake, Henri hoped she was very well experienced indeed.

 

Sara stared absently at a small fire screen improbably adorned with hummingbirds and riotously colored parrots. The screen shielded the costly rug in the green salon from popping embers and generally got in the way whenever Sara was about. “Men are fools. Every last one of them.”

Anna looked up from where she was regarding a creation in
Costume Parisien
. “That's the third time you've said that in as many minutes. Am I supposed to agree with you or argue?”

“Neither. It is an irrefutable fact of life.” Sara
sighed and used the tip of her slipper to outline one of the hummingbirds. The last few weeks had been trying—more than trying, in fact. When she'd first embarked on her quest to find an acceptable husband, it had never occurred to her that there would be so few in Bath. Worse, as she and Anna culled the thin list of prospects, she'd begun to worry what would happen when she
did
find a suitable candidate. Would she be able to bring him to point before her brothers decided to visit?

Surely it wouldn't be too difficult. After all, she wasn't hideous, nor was she of unacceptable birth. It all came down to one thing: her lack of fortune.

“I've flirted and smiled and batted my eyes until I've feared for the life of my lashes, to no avail. I'm at my wits' end.”

Anna obligingly set the magazine aside. “Perhaps part of the problem is your devoted brothers. I daresay just the thought of facing one or more of them could scare off even the most honorable man.”

Sara ran the tip of her finger along the embroidered lines of the fire screen. Even miles away, her brothers still plagued her. “It's so discouraging. I haven't met a single man who would do.”

The image of the Earl of Bridgeton rose clear and strong. Of course, he was far from being an ideal husband; she'd seen that in the hotly possessive way he'd looked at her. Just the memory of that one glance made her shiver still. Smoldering and dangerous, Bridgeton was the kind of man who either possessed a woman, body and soul, or didn't bother with her at all.

Somehow, she hadn't been able to bring herself to admit to Anna exactly what had happened between her and the earl. But the image of his face had stayed in Sara's dreams and a shivery sigh flashed up her spine. For an instant, she'd had the distinct impression of his lips touching hers, his hands on her bared skin…A trace of raw desire smoothed the shiver into a whisper of heated anticipation.

Heaven help the woman he decided to make his—he would demand her attention. All of it. Worse, Sara feared she'd
want
him to be demanding. Had she kissed the earl, she never would have wanted it to end. She'd have melted like a chip of ice in a hot cup, turning into a useless puddle before his astounded eyes.

Anna suddenly sucked in her breath. “Sara! What about Viscount Hewlette? He just arrived in town last week and is not so bad looking. He's here visiting an elderly aunt and is very agreeable. Even my grandfather has mentioned that he seems to be looking over all the available women, and Grandpapa is not the most observant of men.”

Sara bit her lip. The viscount was a definite possibility. He was attractive enough, and polite. The only negative thing she could think of was that he had a propensity to talk about himself at every turn. But on the positive side, he already had a goodly set of children from his first marriage. It was rumored that his wife died giving birth to their fifth child and that his mother had taken over their care at that time. A man who already had family would not be wanting more. She brightened. “Anna, you might
have something there. Hewlette might be the perfect choice.”

“I hope so; I'm at a loss to think of anyone else. What is it about this place that attracts bores and elderly lechers? I'm inclined to agree with Grandpapa, who says Bath is stodgy and monotonous.”

Sara regarded her friend curiously. “Then why do you live here?”

“Because he insists London is full of scalawags and cretins, Brighton is inhabited by nothing but scoundrels and nincompoops, and York is crawling with vermin and weak-willed naysayers. Grandpapa would rather be crushed by respectability than sullied by despicability.”

“How difficult of him.”

Anna chuckled. “Yes, isn't it? But being difficult is the one thing he does well.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I really can think of no other candidates. If Hewlette will not do, then we are lost.”

Sara frowned. “Surely not. There must be some other men about.”

“If you wish to marry someone who will pander to your brothers I can think of at least a dozen men who would welcome a connection with the St. Johns. Other than that…” Anna shrugged. “If Hewlette does not come to fruition, we will have to make a second attempt at Bridgeton. He is the only other man who meets your qualifications.”

Sara picked up one of Aunt Delphi's embroidered pillows and absently tossed it into the air. “That's not an option,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

“You may not have a choice.” Anna put her elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. “At least Bridgeton is handsome, and he doesn't smell of garlic like Mr. Dotley.”

No, he smelled of maleness and danger and shivery desire. And Sara would never again allow herself to be in the position of wanting someone more than he wanted her. “Doesn't Viscount Hewlette frequently ride in the park?”

“Every morning at nine.”

Well. A man who was both reliable
and
the father to a large brood of children should be delighted to have a wife who was more interested in the gaieties of life.

The door to the sitting room opened, and Aunt Delphi appeared, waving a folded missive as she floated into the room. “There you are, Sara! You have a letter and—” She stopped when she saw Anna. “Miss Thraxton, how delightful to see you. Sara has received a letter from her brother.”

Sara took the letter and stared at the seal. “It's from Anthony.” She opened the letter quickly and scanned the contents.

“What does it say?” Aunt Delphi asked, her head cocked to one side as she tried to read the missive from where she stood. “Is everyone well? Does he tell you the latest gossip from London? Was the Cowpers' dinner party a shocking squeeze? I just know Maria Lockton wore that shocking pink stole to the opera. I asked him to relate all the details of the Oldenhams' rout, too, but he hasn't sent me a single missive.”

Sara was trying to decipher his quick scrawl. Anthony had never been much of a correspondent, once sending her a letter mentioning a “trifling injury” that turned out to be a serious fall from a horse that had left him with a broken leg. “He says Marcus has been detained by business.” She raised her gaze to her aunt's. “I don't understand. Was Marcus coming here?”

Aunt Delphi blinked rapidly and then glanced down at her shoes. “Ah. Yes. I do believe he was.”

“Why?” Sara asked bluntly.

“To visit you, of course. He is your brother, you know.”

“He was coming to bully me, wasn't he?”

Aunt Delphi looked uncomfortable. “Well, he did mention that he wanted to see how you were getting on in your new situation.”

“Naturally,” Sara said dryly. “I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he intended on parading me before every available vicar or lily-livered curate as a potential bride.”

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Delphi edged toward the door. “If we aren't having any visitors quite yet, then I had better tell Cook to go ahead and serve that leg of lamb I've been saving.” Delphi fluttered from the room trailing silk and the scent of lavender, the picture of domestic bliss.

Anna looked at the closed door with a mutinous expression. “Is she always like that?”