‘No, thank you. Fetch hot water and some small bowls, would you please?’ She waited until he was out of earshot. ‘How could you both? Papa and Mata are happy for me—couldn’t you be, too, Ashe?’
‘I am. Cannock’s a perfectly decent fellow.’ Her brother shrugged, swore in Hindi under his breath and managed a lopsided grin at Lucian. ‘Can’t fight worth a spit, but otherwise, I approve.’
‘Can’t fight, you cheating excuse for a viscount?’ Lucian lobbed a wadded-up neckcloth at Ashe. ‘I had you down as many times as you floored me and you know it.’
Sara glared at them both. ‘Oh, I see. This is that ridiculous male thing where you have to knock seven bells out of each other and then you’re friends for life, is that it? Never mind that Mata has a houseful of guests, or that Lucian’s sister might be upset at the sight of him in this mess or I might be, come to that. And do not roll your eyes at me, Ashe Herriard!’
‘Are you certain you want to marry her?’ Ashe enquired, reaching for a wad of lint and dipping it in the cold water before he applied it gingerly to his eye. ‘She’s grown into a shocking nag.’
Lucian looked at her, his face as innocent as any young urchin explaining how it wasn’t his fault he’d come home bloodied, dirty and with split breeches. ‘I’ve got to,’ he said, sounding resigned but noble. ‘A gentleman doesn’t jilt a lady even if she turns out to be a virago and he was expecting a ministering angel.’
‘Well, the virago can jilt the gentleman,’ Sara retorted and put down the pot of calendula salve with a bang. ‘And you can minister to each other as you are such good friends now.’
She swept out and off to the library where the volume of prints was sitting in the middle of the table, which did something to soothe her. By the time she came across Porrett in the hallway she was calm enough to ask him to send Ashe’s valet down to the flower room. If anyone could make them halfway respectable in time for dinner it was Gorridge.
She delivered the album to Mrs Galway and plumped down on a fat cushion next to her mother. ‘Those wretched men have been fighting.’ When Mata raised an interrogative eyebrow she explained, ‘Lucian and Ashe. They are black and blue, limping and look as though they have been in a street brawl.’
‘Oh, bless them. That is a relief. I was so worried about Ashe refusing to accept Lucian.’
‘Mata, they look as though they were trying to kill each other and now they are apparently the best of friends.’
‘That is men for you.’ Her mother shrugged. ‘They are like dogs and need to establish their order in the pack. Lucian outranks Ashe, but Ashe is your brother. It sounds as though they were evenly matched when they fought, so they have settled for equality, with each respecting the other.’ She fell silent for a while as Sara sat and fumed quietly. ‘Michael didn’t fight, did he?’
‘Certainly not, he was far too civilised for that.’
‘A pity, because they let so much aggression go that way. If Michael and Francis had been used to that sort of rough-and-tumble way of settling matters, then possibly Michael would have punched him, not challenged him.’
She laid her hand on Sara’s head and began to smooth her hair absently, as she might have stroked a cat. Sara let herself relax back against the rattan chair and absorb her mother’s words.
‘It isn’t that I object to fighting if it is necessary,’ she said, as much to herself as to her mother. ‘You taught me to defend myself and sparring wearing gloves seems to be very good exercise for men, but that fight must have been brutal.’
‘Are either of them seriously hurt?’
‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘Then they were deliberately making sure it did not become dangerous. Ashe is trained to kill and if Lucian was holding his own with him then he knows how to fight seriously, too.’
So Lucian’s instinct to fight to protect his sister and now, she supposed, her, was actually part of a strictly controlled repertoire of responses and if Michael had allowed himself to be just a bit more uncivilised he would not be dead now? It was an indigestible thought and part of what made it so hard to accept was the nagging fear that her own expressed opinions on what constituted civilised, rational behaviour might have contributed to Michael’s reluctance to simply let fly when his friend was so foolish.
* * *
Sara was too preoccupied with her thoughts about Michael and the duel to have any room for anxieties about the evening’s announcement, other than to think that if Lucian and Ashe were too obviously battered, then Papa would simply postpone mentioning the betrothal. But she dressed in her best evening gown, a pale straw-coloured silk sheath embroidered with crystals around the low neckline and the hem. She put her hair up with strings of crystals woven into it and wore no other gems. The image in the mirror was elegant and ethereal and renewed her flagging confidence in everything from her basic beliefs to her decision to marry Lucian.
It was a reaction, she told herself. Meeting Lucian had turned her world on its head just when she was beginning to feel unsettled in Sandbay, thinking about what she should do with the rest of her life, how she wanted to live it.
Perhaps this disquiet about Michael was simply a stage in the mourning process, a belated upwelling of unhappiness at his loss. But marriage to Lucian was a very big step away from everything she had thought that she wanted. Just how well did she know him?
I know him quite well enough in bed, she thought ruefully as she descended the staircase towards the hum of conversation in the drawing room. Even though they had only slept together twice she knew her betrothed was skilled, thoughtful, demanding and understood to a certainty how to pleasure a lady. But how well do I know him as a future husband?
‘That is a very charming blush on your cheeks.’ Lucian appeared at her elbow as she entered the room and handed her a glass of champagne. ‘Who has been flirting with you on the stairs?’
‘The second footman,’ she said with a smile of thanks for the wine. It would never do to let him guess she had been thinking about him, let alone his performance in bed. ‘Ashe’s valet has done wonders, I must say. You look as though you have actually been indulging in a proper sparring match with padded gloves, not some primitive free-for-all. Does Ashe look as respectable?’ She wanted to brush the hair away from his brow where it fell over a discreet patch of sticking plaster, wanted to run her hands all over his body and check him for injury. If truth be told, she was feeling possessive and wanted to fuss. ‘And how are the ribs?’
‘Your brother is pretending not to limp, although I suspect Phyllida has kicked the other leg, so it is more of a pained hobble. And my ribs are merely bruised. It doesn’t hurt at all unless I laugh.’
‘I will promise not to say anything amusing.’ They moved until they were shielded by the partly open door and Sara slipped her hand between his coat and waistcoat to cup it around his ribs. ‘I really do not blame Phyllida.’
‘But you forgive me?’ He was smiling down at her and under her hand his body was warm and solid.
‘I might as well forgive you for being male,’ Sara said and leaned in until she could rest her forehead against his lapel.
‘I cannot do much about that state of affairs, whether you forgive me for
