special symbols on them to designate dangerous areas.’
‘A cupid in red, perhaps to indicate stretches of road where lovemaking might be inadvisable? We could expand on that—the guide could have inns with dreadful food marked with a red leg of beef and ones with damp beds with a rain cloud. If we lose all our money we could go into the publishing business.’
‘Idiot,’ she said and kissed him, regardless of the fact that they were bowling along the main street of Bricket Wood and the local inhabitants were going about their early morning business.
I fell in love with him without even being certain whether he had a sense of humour or not. Thank goodness he has.
It occurred to her as they rattled through the countryside that Michael had not had much of a sense of humour, or at least, not much of a sense of fun or the ridiculous. He hadn’t been dour or humourless, but she could not imagine him entering into her silly little fantasy about road books marked up with warnings to lovers. He had been a good companion, but, she supposed, a serious one.
Not that Lucian could not be serious, she thought, shifting so she was in the corner and could look at him as he sat relaxed, watching the road ahead. He was serious about family, about honour, about Marguerite’s feelings, even when he had been exasperated with his sister. He had been serious about her own feelings, too, about her memories of Michael, even though he had not understood her opposition to duelling.
He still doesn’t understand why I do not feel glad that Michael cared so much about honour as to fight for it, she thought. It shocks him that I see it as a weakness that Michael did not find some other way to deal with Francis’s drunken ramblings.
A cold shiver went down her spine as she wondered, yet again, what exactly Francis had said. Had Michael gone to his death believing that she had betrayed him with his best friend? And many people would say that she had, she supposed, even though nothing had gone beyond a light, fleeting kiss.
* * *
Somewhere after Basingstoke, when they were, all being well, halfway back to Sandbay, Sara slept. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and they had just finished half a roast chicken, some soft bread rolls with fresh butter and a jug of ale.
It was the ale that had put her to sleep, Lucian thought, smiling at the crumbs on her skirts and the greasy smudge on one cheek from the chicken leg. Not one for standing on her dignity, his future Marchioness. He put an arm around her shoulders and tugged gently until she was cradled against his side and was amused to find that his other hand rested on the butt of one of the horse pistols he had pushed into the side pocket next to the seat.
She made him feel very protective, he realised, even more than was normal for him. Was this love? He supposed it was, although there were none of the symptoms he had expected. Or feared, to be honest. Her brother had said something about love matches—not that she had reacted to that in any way—so what had Clere seen? Lucian did not feel himself to be in a daze, or to have lost his judgement. He was not attempting to compose sonnets to Sara’s eyebrows, fine though they were, and he had no desire whatsoever to put her on a pedestal.
Far from it. His desires towards her were decidedly earthy and the only pedestals that appealed were ones of a suitable height to perch her on, or bend her over, while he had his wicked way with her.
He had felt desire like that for other women, so why did the mere thought of this one vanishing from his life leave a hollowness inside that he suspected might be fear? Now that he had definitely never felt about any other woman.
But why? Yes, she was desirable and very lovely, intelligent, loyal, courageous, honest. Passionate. All of those things and yet...he suspected that it was none of them that made him feel like this when he was with her, but some indefinable quality that combined them all in a way that spoke to his heart and his soul. Was this love?
Honest, outspoken—and she had said nothing about loving him. He had not said he loved her, Lucian acknowledged, but it was a difficult thing for a man to admit to, even to himself. Surely Sara would have told him if she loved him? He began to wonder why she had agreed to marry him at all. They had moved from an expedient to distract attention from Marguerite and Gregory’s indiscretion to discussing compromise in marriage, he realised, and then she had accepted him and he had not thought to ask the obvious question—why?
Perhaps it was because she had become his lover and then realised that she had made a mistake in having a sexual relationship outside marriage. Yet she had stood up to her father and brother’s disapproval with no sign of either repentance or of changing her mind and expecting marriage. Unless she was too honest to want to trap him and it was not until he proposed that she allowed herself to agree.
That line of reasoning was making the hollow feeling considerably worse. Lucian closed his eyes. Hell, but this falling in love business is a miserable thing, not at all what it is puffed up to be.
His confidence was seeping away, he felt sick and he very much feared it was fear itself that caused it. He was out of his depth here. No wonder men went mad for love, shot themselves in despair. Where was all the sunshine and roses that were supposed to go with love? The songbirds tweeting, the bloody cupids flying...
‘Lucian! Wake up, you are having a nightmare.’ Someone was shaking him.
He blinked, opened his eyes and found himself nose to nose with Sara who was, predictably, laughing at him. ‘What?’ he asked, disorientated, his hand clenched around the pistol which was half out of its holster.
‘You were muttering about Cupid doing something that I suspect is anatomically impossible, especially for someone with wings. You were quite correct when you said that you are not a romantic, weren’t you?’
He jammed the pistol back, hoping Sara had not noticed that reflexive movement. ‘I could try,’ he suggested, imbuing as much confidence as possible into his voice. What did being romantic involve, anyway? Courtship seemed to be fairly straightforward—squire the lady about, bring her flowers, pay attention to what she wore, pay her compliments—he had felt no qualms about the prospect of doing all that once he had identified his potential bride next Season.
His previous lovers hadn’t expected romance, only the best lovemaking he could give them, and he had certainly done his level best to please Sara in that way, with, from her reaction, excellent results. But she had mentioned romance twice, which made him think it was important to her.
‘Men!’ She laughed and rolled up her eyes, making a joke of it that he suspected was not a joke at all. ‘If you have to try, then it is not romantic, you see. Do not worry about it, we have agreed to a perfectly rational marriage, haven’t we?’
But why have we? Lucian asked himself. Or, rather, why have you? And realised that he did not want to ask that question because not only might she think hard about it and decide she did not want to marry him after all or, just as bad, she might think he was trying to hint that he hoped she would decide just that. No gentleman could jilt a lady, it was up to her to end an engagement if she changed her mind, and the thought that she might lose faith in the sincerity of his proposal appalled him.
‘Of course we have,’ he said and that time it sounded as though he meant it. He would not say the word love to her, admit what he felt, because then she would feel he was pressuring her to admit the same and she obviously did not feel it or she would have said so when she accepted him. She wanted a perfectly rational marriage so, as he loved her, that was what he would give her. It was what he had always thought he wanted, after all.
* * *
‘We
