the pond and into the stand of willows fringing it. ‘Now, if we make our way along the path I think we will come out by the lake, which is where they have come from.’
‘You think? Don’t you know?’
‘I did not grow up here, so I have not discovered all the secret ways that a child would have found. Yes, here we are, just behind the boathouse. Can you punt?’
‘Yes,’ Lucian said immediately, and then, with a shrug, ‘badly. I am usually well co-ordinated, but I am a shambles with a punt pole. But this is too deep, surely?’
‘There is a sunken causeway going to the island in the middle with deep water either side. It used to be a track before the lake was made larger. If we punt halfway, then I can finish my tale and no one will disturb us and yet we will be sitting out in full view in perfect respectability.’
‘You will risk us going round and round in circles?’ Lucian eyed the punt tied up to the side of the boathouse dubiously.
‘No, I will punt, you recline and look decorative.’
‘That is my line.’ But to her surprise he got in without protest and sat down, not even insisting on handing her in or untying the rope.
Sara lifted the long pole, got her balance and pushed off. The punt glided out in a straight line, much to her satisfaction, and she took them to halfway between shore and island before she jammed the pole upright in the mud and tied the rope around it.
‘You looked very elegant doing that.’ Lucian was lying back on the cushions, his hands behind his head, and she was reminded of her great-uncle’s court and how the Rajah would have himself rowed out into the great lake with its pleasure pavilion in the centre. Lucian would not look out of place here if there was a marble summer house on the island, filled with beautiful women all ready to pleasure him. She kept the thought to herself as she settled down on the cushions at her end of the punt.
‘There is no middle way, I find, with punting. Either it goes well and you look elegant or it doesn’t and then you most definitely do not! I fell in four times when Michael was teaching me.’
She could see his face now and studied it for any reaction to her husband’s name, but could see none. A part of her, one she should be ashamed of, was a little piqued. Shouldn’t her lover be just a little touchy about any men who had been before him? Probably he did not care enough.
‘You were telling me about your decision to leave Cambridge,’ Lucian reminded her.
Sara drew a deep breath and tried to explain. ‘I wanted to get away from all of it, the places that reminded me of my marriage, the love and concern my family were wrapping me in. I ran away to the coast and found Sandbay. When I wanted to do some drawing I looked for a shop selling equipment and found the one I now own. That was all it did, artists’ equipment, and it was a poor affair. The owner was selling up and, on a whim almost, I bought it. And that was the beginning of Aphrodite’s Seashell. I made no secret of who I was and I found people were wonderfully discreet. I think they enjoyed the cachet of having a marquess’s daughter at their resort when they would have expected me to go to Weymouth. I kept my daytime and my evening personas apart and it worked.’
‘And you are happy in Sandbay, shopkeeper by day, lady by night?’
‘Yes. But...’
‘But?’ Lucian lounged there, all long legs and heavy-lidded eyes, temptation personified. Sara wanted to stop talking about herself, stop thinking about difficult things and pole over to the island and—
‘When you look at me like that I am tempted to try punting again,’ he said. ‘That island looks wickedly inviting, but I will behave like a gentleman if you tell me about the but.’
‘But...the shop is successful now. I have succeeded, proved that I can create and run a business, make a profit. Soon Sandbay will start to grow beyond the point where I can hide in plain sight. I need to find a new direction, but I have no idea what it might be. Certainly I have no intention of becoming yet another merry widow with an ambiguous position in society and a succession of lovers.’
Lucian sat up, his forearms resting on his raised knees, and seemed to be finding something on the bottom boards of great interest. Then he looked up. ‘Why not marry me?’
‘Marry you?’ Sara sat bolt upright and stared at him. ‘Marry you? But why? You wanted an affaire, right from the beginning, I could tell. You realised I was a widow, recognised that I was a lady, and so suitable for a dalliance for a limited time. A little mutual pleasure, no unseemly demands on either side. That was what you were looking for, wasn’t it? Can you deny it?’
‘No, of course not. And there was mutual attraction, mutual desire—can you deny that?’ He was frowning now.
‘No. So that is what we have. An affair. We are lovers. Lovers interrupted, maybe, but lovers none the less. You told my father, very definitely, that you had no intention of marrying me. And next Season you intended to launch Marguerite—you probably still will as Gregory has yet to find his feet in society—and you would have been looking for a nice young thing to marry. Marguerite thinks you have already decided on one. After all, it is about time you married and set up your nursery. Deny that.’ Something was building inside her chest, a pressure that she did not stop to examine because she feared it was anger.
‘I do not... And you are a nice young thing, are you not? You are simply slightly older than the fluffy little misses that Marguerite is making friends with. And she is wrong, I have fixed my interest with no one. This would be so logical, Sara, such a sensible step for both of us.’
Logical? Sensible? Yes, that was anger building inside her. And hurt, but she couldn’t probe that now because she rather feared she would cry if she did. ‘Of course, I am the daughter of a marquess, even if my family on my mother’s side is a trifle unusual, and I am still young enough to give you an heir and I have all my own teeth and you have tried me out in bed.’
Lucian straightened up and seemed, for the first time, to realise that she was angry, not simply taken by surprise. ‘Well, yes, although I certainly would not have put it like that. Sara, I can see that you are annoyed for some reason and I realise that this must have taken you unawares, but—’
‘But you really cannot see what I have to be annoyed about? I agree, it is most unreasonable of me to take exception to your charming logical offer, accompanied as it was by protestations of devotion and regard. And how unreasonable of me to conclude that it has only just struck you how much time and trouble it would save you if you married me.’
How very irritating it was not to be able to stride up and down as she ranted. ‘This way you do not have to go through some wearisome courtship. There will be no having to endure the rigours of Almack’s, no having to do the pretty or fight off predatory mamas. You simply speak to my father, who would be delighted to secure a marquess for a son-in-law, and regularise our relationship in one blow, and there you are.’
‘Do you want me to make a declaration of love? Is that what this is about? Are you back to accusing me of not being romantic?’ He seemed mildly baffled by her reaction and also patiently willing to humour her, which was even more inflaming.
‘No, I do not want some false declaration. Do you think I want you to lie to me? I thought
