with Gregory who was doing an excellent job of not looking at Marguerite who had escaped Lady Fitzhugh and had been rejoined by Peterson and Hitchin. Lucian knew he should probably show some disapproval of his sister sitting with two lively young gentlemen. They had found her a table and were plying her with refreshments, squabbling in the most flattering manner over which of them would fetch her lemonade. But if they were guests here they would be trustworthy and it seemed to him they were too young to be any danger to her affections for Farnsworth. Besides, a little flirtation with them would divert attention from any attention she paid to her brother’s secretary.
Peals of laughter made him glance across the terrace to where four young ladies, barely older than Marguerite, were clustered around a table, heads together as they chattered. Their charmingly fashionable, obviously expensive, morning dresses marked them as being out, probably part of this Season’s crop of young ladies launched on to the Marriage Mart.
Lord, but they are young, he thought as he watched them giggle and tease and cast lingering glances at the two young men who were talking to Marguerite. He had always managed to avoid the innocents, he realised. His London social life revolved around his clubs and invitations to dinner parties, balls, receptions and entertainments where he could mingle with men his own age or older, married couples, the dashing widows—anyone, in fact, rather than the pastel-clad girls so fiercely chaperoned by their anxious and ambitious mamas.
And these were the young ladies from whom he would choose his bride. His wife. He looked at the pretty faces unmarked by life’s experiences—or even much thought, he suspected. How did you choose, how could you know which would mature into a woman of character and intelligence, a woman he would want to spend the rest of his life with, the mother of his children?
A ripple of rich, amused laughter reached him through the chatter. He found he was smiling as he looked across at Sara, who was still talking to Farnsworth. What his somewhat solemn secretary had said to her to make her laugh he could not guess, but as Lucian watched Farnsworth said something else and she was immediately serious, listening with her chin cupped in her hand.
Intelligent, complicated, loyal, beautiful and, as he now knew only too well, sensual and desirable. Why the devil was he even contemplating marriage to one of those unformed little chits when he could marry this woman? She was eminently suitable by birth, Marguerite liked and trusted her—
‘We saw very little of you in London this Season, Lord Cannock,’ Lady Eldonstone remarked, jerking Lucian back from thoughts which were fast running away from him.
‘No, unfortunately I had business on the Continent. Brussels, then France,’ he replied, wondering why she had raised what Sara’s letter would already have told her.
‘And France was where young Mr Farnsworth suffered his dreadful injury?’
Ah, so she was setting the scene in front of two of the guests. Lucian did his bit. ‘Yes, Lyons. He had the misfortune to pass a house just as a heavy tile fell from the roof. It was a miracle he was not killed. I was not certain I should let him back to work so soon, and my sister tells me I am a cruel slave driver for doing so, but he seems to be coping.’
It gave him an excuse to look back to the table where Sara sat. She would be perfect. The shop would have to go, of course, but once they were married surely any desire to behave unconventionally would leave her...
He half-rose as the Galways got up to go, caught the eye of one of the four young ladies and produced his best brotherly smile when she simpered at him. She looked a trifle daunted.
‘Poor little birds in their gilded cage,’ Lady Eldonstone remarked as he sat again. It seemed she had noticed the direction of his gaze. ‘They cannot stretch their wings, all they may do is flutter from one perch to another, displaying their pretty plumage and singing their banal songs.’
‘You do not approve of the way young women are brought out into society?’
‘I was brought up in an Indian princely court. In many ways the restrictions on a young woman were as great, but no one would have dreamed of telling me to appear ignorant or feeble and helpless.’
‘You certainly did not raise your own daughter to be any of those things.’
‘No. Sara is independent and her standards are high, many would call them unconventional. She married for love to a scholar, the last man I would have expected my fierce little hawk to fall for, but perhaps she needed sanctuary in this strange new world she found herself in. And they were happy, until he let those primitive instincts you men are so prone to overwhelm him.’ She tossed her table napkin down beside her plate and made to get up. Lucian stood and held her chair for her. ‘Thank you.’ She put her hand over his as it lay on the chair back. ‘It is not easy to forgive someone you love when they kill themselves for your sake and even harder to forgive yourself for feeling that way.’ She hesitated, then turned back to him. ‘We can only do our best for those we love. Flagellating ourselves with guilt when we were wrong, or could not do the impossible, helps no one.’
Had that parting shot been meant for him? Lucian wondered if Sara had found time to tell her mother more about Marguerite than her letter could convey and whether Lady Eldonstone guessed at his own feelings of guilt. Probably she had—he was half-convinced the woman was a mind-reader.
Lucian stopped by Sara’s table and she smiled up at him, a perfectly friendly smile that she might have given any of the male guests. Yet deep in those grey eyes there was another secret smile just for him. Was he mad to think of marriage and this woman? He had been raised to regard a wife as a responsibility to be guarded, protected, shielded from the slightest puff of cold air, yet Sara wanted none of that, seemed to regard his protective instincts as some kind of patronising patriarchal domination. Did she share her mother’s view that those unmarried girls were simply birds in gilded cages? Did she regard marriage as yet another cage?
Her husband’s death had been a tragedy, but he could not but see it as an inevitable risk. As a gentleman, Harcourt had had no choice when his wife was insulted. He himself had no choice but to forbid the match when Marguerite had fallen for an unsuitable man when she was far too young. He could accept that he had handled the situation badly, but that did not negate the principle. Nor could he blame Eldonstone and Clere for their hostility to himself, even as he resented it.
Sara would expect him to let her fight her own battles and she would be constantly fearful that he would meet his death on a field at dawn for some slight. For himself, he would be always on edge, convinced that she was hiding things from him that might trigger that imperative to protect.
‘Impossible,’ he said and only realised he had spoken out loud when both Sara and Farnsworth stared at him.
‘My lord?’ Farnsworth got to his feet. ‘I apologise, I have lingered here far too long. I should be working.’
‘Nonsense. I mean, you have not lingered too long. All I meant was that it is impossible to relax and enjoy myself when there is such a press of work. If you have finished and Lady Sara will excuse us, we can discuss priorities in the garden.’
The last thing he wanted was company, but he could hardly justify bringing his secretary to a house party unless he showed some evidence of needing him to work.
‘I will fetch my notebook, my lord, and will be back directly.’ Farnsworth excused himself and went out.
‘Sit with me while you wait for him,’ Sara said.
Reluctantly Lucian took Farnsworth’s chair. He did not want to be with Sara, not until he could work out what he wanted to be to
