they were not careful, she thought, she would wed a librarian—that would rattle them. Not that she wanted to marry poor James, even if he ever plucked up enough courage to court her. The only man she wanted, the one by now half a mile out of town, would drive her to distraction within days, she was certain. Not, shamefully, that marriage was what she wanted him for.
Sara made herself smile at a party of ladies strolling along the promenade, stopped to admire Miss Wheatley’s new parasol and advise Mrs Carlow on the best place to collect seaweed, bought herself an entirely unnecessary length of lace, two cream tarts and a fashion journal she could have perfectly well read at the library, and finally went back to the shop where Dot had hung up the Closed sign in order to eat her noon meal.
‘Hmmph,’ Dot remarked at the sight of the packages. ‘I’ll put the kettle on the hob and get a plate for those tarts. Eating cream cakes won’t get that man in your bed, although cakes are a lot less trouble in the long run.’
‘Dot!’ But the reproof was half-hearted. ‘He is very attractive. And loyal to his sister and intelligent when he is not being an idiot about honour above everything else.’
‘And he must be rich and he’s your class and that’s where you ought to be, and you know it, not hiding down here.’
‘I am not hiding.’ That was half-hearted, too. Sara rather thought she was hiding, not so much from anything but because she had absolutely no idea what would make her happy and she was avoiding making a decision. ‘And taking that man as my lover is not going to do anything for my social standing.’
‘Not as a lover,’ Dot mumbled through a mouthful of cream cake. ‘A husband.’
‘Lucian? He’s the Marquess of Cannock, you know, only he’s incognito because of Marguerite’s situation. And I know what you are just about to say, that it makes him even more suitable. But he would be impossible to live with, he doesn’t want me—’ Dot snorted ‘—not to marry, and besides I do not want to marry anyone.’
Dot made a face and took the other cream tart.
‘That’s mine!’
‘They make you fat. Doesn’t matter for me, my man likes me big, but that Marquess, he’ll want a wife who looks elegant.’
‘I told you, I do not want to marry the man. I think he is rather attractive, that’s all. Anyone would. A girl can look, can’t she?’ She took herself off in a huff to drink her tea on the balcony with the door closed on Dot’s wickedly inventive suggestions on just what a girl could do besides looking.
I am young still, she thought, staring out to sea. And sometimes now I cannot see Michael’s face clearly. I want a family of my own and a man who loves me and who wants to grow old with me and who is exciting in bed and interesting to talk to and who stops to wonder whether I would prefer him risking his life to defend my honour or alive and simply punching someone on the nose for being offensive. And that includes some of the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s.
The thought of Lucian felling—and silencing—Lady Jersey with a well-aimed left hook when she made snide remarks about Sara’s ancestry was so ridiculously funny that she stopped sulking and went to open the shop door with a smile on her lips.
* * *
‘Oh, yes, Lucian...there...oh, please, more...’ Sara was vaguely aware of her own voice, her incoherent pleas and moans, but she was beyond pride or shame. She only wanted his hands on her body, his lips on her mouth, on her breasts, between her thighs. ‘Oh, yes, Lucian. There, like that.’
His hair was rough silk to her clutching fingers, his skin was hot, his body hard and any moment now—
The dream shifted in the maddening way dreams did and now she was alone in the bed and Lucian was swinging a sledgehammer against a great slab of teak. He was naked, of course—that was logical. He had only just got out of her bed, after all. His body was magnificent, his legs long, the muscles elegant, his hips slim, his erection—
‘My lady! Do wake up, my lady, please.’
Sara blinked her eyes open to see Maude, her hair in curl papers, clutching the edges of her wrapper together with both hands. ‘What? What time is it?’
‘Just on five, my lady. And there’s this man at the door hammering and he won’t go away and he says if I don’t open up and let him talk to you he is going to break it down.’ The continual hammering of the door knocker confirmed that. ‘Walter’s got his shoulder to it, but that’s no help.’
Sara scrambled out of bed, dragged on her wrapper and went out on to the tiny balcony. It was, of course, Lucian. For a confused moment, as the mists of the dream faded, she was surprised to see that he was fully dressed, although bare-headed.
‘Be quiet,’ she called down softly. It was a miracle that half the street weren’t hanging out of their windows to see what was going on.
He looked up, his expression grim. ‘Where is she?’
‘Marguerite? She is missing? No, don’t answer me, we cannot talk like this. I will open the door.’ She stepped back into the room. ‘Maude, go down and tell Walter to let Mr Dunton in and put him in the drawing room while I get dressed.’
She had thrown off the wrapper and was in her nightgown rummaging for a day dress when the bedchamber door banged open. ‘Lucian!’
He ignored her protest and her state of undress, and went directly to the dressing-room door, opened it, looked inside and turned on his heel to confront her. ‘Where are you hiding her?’
‘Marguerite is not in this house and I have no idea where she is if she is not at the hotel. I have not seen her since the concert, you have my word on it. Now will you kindly get out of my bedchamber, Lord Cannock?’
For the first time Lucian focused on the furious woman in front of him and realised that Sara was wearing nothing but a flimsy muslin nightgown which, as she was standing with her back to the window, might as well not have been there. His body reacted with an inconvenient inevitability, despite the anxiety that consumed him.
‘Your word?’ He put the slightest doubt into the question and it was enough to keep her gaze, fixed and furious, on his face and not any lower.
‘Do you not believe that a woman can have honour to pledge? You would like to search the house, perhaps? Look under my bed? Check the roof? The bread bin? Please, go ahead.’
‘I believe you. I apologise.’ He should have known better, should have trusted her. The stinging contempt in Sara’s voice was enough to extinguish a forest fire, let alone a brief flare of lust. He was duly grateful. Lucian dug the note out of his pocket and held it out. ‘I will go downstairs and wait. I would value your assistance with this.’ He was reduced to begging, but Marguerite was more important than his pride, especially with Sara. With her he did not seem to have any protection for his feelings or his emotions and certainly not for his weaknesses.
‘No, wait.’ To his amazement Sara pulled on her robe, jerked the sash tight and curled up in the armchair, with a wave of her hand towards the chaise at the foot of the bed. ‘Sit down while I read this.’
He
