this conversation. “Found what I desired, that is.”
“I am glad,” she said softly, at last returning her gaze to meet his. “You are happy?”
He hesitated, wondering how honest he should be, not only with her, but himself. “Happy enough, I warrant.”
“Then I am happy, too,” she said, but the bittersweet longing in her eyes didn’t agree. “A true Christmas miracle, yes?”
“A miracle?” He swept his arm through the air, desperately trying to clear the unexpected peril from this conversation. “Surely not here in this cold and cheerless place.”
She tipped her head to one side, skeptical. “Since when do miracles require sunny days like new seedlings in the spring?”
“They did for us in Calcutta,” he said. “Do you remember how even the mornings in the summer would be so infernally hot that we would stay awake all the night, then go riding before dawn, when it was still cool enough for the horses? We found miracles aplenty there in your garden on Chowringhee Road, with the peacocks and the palm trees, gold spangles on your gown and yellow plumes in your hair.”
“Chowringhee.” The shared memory reminded them both of other intimacies shared, of love and passion in a faraway world ripe with sensual possibilities, and her sudden, wistful smile with the single unbalanced dimple caught him by surprise. “Ah, Rev, you always were a dreamer, and a rover, too. You never could stop searching for whatever magic lay over the next mountain, could you?”
“I never have, Sara.” He smiled, too, their years apart slipping away as they used their given names. “Although dreaming and roving are not precisely the most admirable qualities for a man.”
“For you they were,” she said promptly. “You never were like the other greedy cadets and Company nabobs in their red coats, Rev. You saw the rare beauty in India, and not just the gold to be stolen away.”
“You know too much of me, Sara,” he said softly, “and too well at that.”
“Too much, too well,” she repeated sadly, and as suddenly as her own smile had come, it now vanished. “I know too much of you, and you know too little of me.”
“Then tell me, Sara,” he urged. “For the sake of what we once shared. Tell me where you have been, how you have come to be here, what makes you happy or content. Tell me whatever you please, and I swear I shall listen. You said yourself there’s no better time for miracles than Christmas.”
But she shook her head, drawing the hood of her cloak forward over her face and closing him out, as well. “Forgive me, but I must return now to Miss Fordyce. I would not have her wake and find me absent.”
“Sara, wait, please.”
“Good night, my lord,” she said as she turned away. “Good night.”
My lord. If she’d struck Revell with her fist, she couldn’t have made her feelings more clear, and he drew back as sharply as if she had. He watched her hurry away from him to the door, her black cloak swirling around her white skirts, and he did not follow.
What in blazes had he been thinking, anyway, presuming like that? Did he really believe that a handful of tattered old memories would be enough to overcome the reasons she’d had for leaving him in the first place, or his own doubts about reopening a part of his past that he’d thought permanently—and painfully—left behind? Fate might have brought them back into one another’s lives, but not even fate could undo whatever had happened in between.
For that, quite simply, would take another miracle.
Chapter Three
“Miss Blake?” Lady Fordyce paused, the pineapple raised in her hand. “Are you unwell, my dear?”
“No, my lady,” said Sara quickly, pulling her thoughts back to the small, sunny room that served Lady Fordyce as her personal headquarters, and where, with Sara’s help, she was busily marshaling her troops and resources like any other good general preparing for a major engagement. “The pineapples will be a most handsome addition to the sideboard.”
“I was speaking of ribbons, not pineapples,” said Lady Fordyce, frowning with concern. “Are you certain you are well? You are most distracted this morning.”
Sara flushed, likely the first color to come to her cheeks all day. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said hurriedly. “If I am distracted, it is only the usual happy confusion of the season.”
Skeptical, Lady Fordyce’s frown remained. “More likely it is Clarissa’s fault, fussing and worrying at you over what she’s to receive for Christmas.”
Sara only smiled wanly. If she looked only half as exhausted as she felt, then she was fortunate Lady Fordyce hadn’t sent her directly to bed and summoned the surgeon.
But how could Sara look otherwise, considering the miserable, sleepless night she’d spent after leaving Revell on the terrace? She’d truly believed she’d purged him forever from her thoughts and heart, yet the moment he’d smiled at her and begun talking of Calcutta, she’d once again felt that familiar warmth of joy and excitement begin to swirl through her body, the rare happiness that Revell alone had given her, and she’d realized how hopelessly weak—weak!—she still was.
In six long years she hadn’t learned one blessed thing, not where Revell Claremont was concerned. She might as well be done with it now: throw herself into his arms directly, and beg him to trample on her heart and abandon her again.
“I trust you would confide in me if something were truly wrong, my dear, wouldn’t you?” asked Lady Fordyce gently, settling the pineapple back into the basket on her desk so she could rest her hand on Sara’s shoulder. “You would tell me if there was a matter I could remedy?”
Oh, yes, thought Sara unhappily, of course she’d confide in Lady Fordyce. Governesses for young ladies were supposed to possess unblemished and virginal reputations. She’d never told the Fordyces that she’d spent most of her life in India, or that she’d been forced to leave in a rush of disgrace, let alone spoken of her unfortunate entanglement with Lord Revell Claremont. How could she, when any part of her sorry tale could cost her her place—a place she couldn’t afford to lose—even with a kindhearted mistress like Lady Fordyce?
“If there were any ills you could remedy, my lady,” she said with careful truth, “then I should always come to you.”
Lady Fordyce beamed, and gave Sara’s shoulder a fond little pat. “I am delighted to hear it. Ladysmith has always been a happy house, free of secrets and intrigue, and I would like to keep it so. Now, Christmas or not, surely it must be time to begin Clarissa’s lessons today?”
With a swift curtsy Sara hurried from the room, down the hall toward the library. She’d already decided that her lesson today would feature Hannibal’s ancient journey across the Alps, and she hoped to find a book with illustrations to pique Clarissa’s interest enough to make her forget the coming holiday, at least for a moment or two, and make her stop daydreaming of Rev Claremont.
With fresh determination she marched into the library. A small fire glowed in the hearth to take the chill from the room for any guests who might venture into it, but Sara was sure she’d have the collection to herself. She certainly wouldn’t
