muscles beneath the smooth material of his jacket, the curl of that sensuous mouth…
Suddenly heated, Sarah felt her body diffuse with warmth and the colour flood into her face. It was fortunate that Mr Tilbury was rather unobservant, for it would have been impossible for him to believe that his own conversation could cause his companion to blush so vividly.
Sarah tried to concentrate on his observations on the price of coal, furiously castigating herself for allowing her thoughts to wander in so improper a direction. And this was hardly the first time!
The dance progressed in pedestrian fashion, with none of the zest of the previous waltz.
Guy was nowhere in sight, perhaps still talking with Mr Elliston, but Sarah noted a knot of people set a little back from the dance floor, with Mrs Bunton at its core. Several of the most influential hostesses in Bath had their heads bent close, their hairpieces waggling, their mouths forming shocked and horrified circles. One of them glanced in Sarah’s direction and looked away again hastily. Sarah frowned. Surely her behaviour with Viscount Renshaw had not caused such scandalised debate? One waltz, even with a notorious rake, hardly constituted a social solecism. Besides, Mrs Bunton had been pushing her own daughter in Guy’s direction only the night before.
Mr Tilbury addressed another of his remarks to her and Sarah temporarily forgot the group of gossiping matrons. However, she was reminded again swiftly as the dance drew to an end. As Mr Tilbury escorted her from the floor, Mrs Clarke drew her skirts aside and turned her back in the most pointed of snubs. Sarah stopped in surprise and Mr Tilbury’s face flushed with outrage.
He was about to speak when Mrs Clarke said loudly, ‘What can one expect with such low family connections? There’s bad blood in the Covell family, which no doubt accounts for his cousin throwing her lot in with him! I wonder at Lady Amelia giving countenance to a woman who is clearly lost to all sense of decency!’
Shock rendered Sarah temporarily speechless. All around her she could see the looks of speculation and hear the chatter of rumour and gossip. She looked about desperately for Amelia, but her cousin was across the room, talking to Greville Baynham. There was no help closer at hand. Mr Tilbury was opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish, his own expression one of painful embarrassment. Everyone else merely watched to see what would happen next.
Murmuring an incoherent apology to Mr Tilbury, Sarah hurried from the ballroom, almost ran up the stairs and instinctively sought shelter in her own room. Once there, she closed the door softly and leant back against it with her eyes closed. Mrs Clarke’s sharply cruel words echoed in her mind: ‘Lost to all sense of decency…’
There could be no mistake. Somehow, word of her intention to visit Blanchland had leaked out, been seized upon by eager gossips, and passed around the ballroom. Sarah felt outraged and humiliated. How dared they speak of her like that, make her the butt of their slander, rip her reputation to shreds in her very presence? She had seen them all, some condemning her already, others merely excited by scandal, but all watching her reactions for their own entertainment. Sarah had heard of times when the collective disapproval of Bath society had ruined someone’s reputation, or left them a social outcast. It was just that she had never been on the receiving end before.
And why should she hide away here as though she had something to be ashamed of? Eyes flashing, Sarah flung open the door, ready to do battle in the ballroom. She would show Mrs Clarke and Mrs Bunton and all the other quizzes that she did not give a rush for their disapproval! She would not let them judge her and run away from them…
Sarah closed the door behind her and walked towards the stairs, still burning with outraged anger. She did not see the figure on the shadowed landing until it moved, and then she spun round with a gasp of alarm.
‘Lord Renshaw! Good gracious, you gave me fright! Whatever are you doing up here, sir?’
‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Sheridan,’ Guy said, coming forward into the circle of light cast by the single candelabra. ‘I heard you come running up here and thought it best, perhaps, that we did not have an audience for our conversation.’
Sarah looked at him in puzzlement. There was something curious in his tone, some element that she could not define but that made her uncomfortable. It was impossible to decipher his expression in the flickering candlelight.
‘I do not understand you, sir,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Surely it would be better to return to the ballroom—’
‘Very well, if you are determined to face the extraordinary rumours that are circulating there,’ Guy said coolly. ‘Perhaps we could invite the whole of Bath society to join the conversation since they are taking such a close interest in your affairs!’
Sarah let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘Oh, so you have heard—’
‘I have! I could scarce believe it! Either you are seriously lacking in judgement, Miss Sheridan, or you are not the woman I thought you!’
Sarah stared at him, her temper soaring dangerously. She had been expecting him to sympathise with her in the face of the small-minded and malicious scandal-mongers, and to find herself condemned unheard was adding insult to injury.
‘Oh really, my lord!’ she burst out. ‘It is the outside of enough to have to put up with the ill-informed gossip of spiteful matrons without such as yourself picking pieces in my good character as well!’
‘Indeed?’ Guy stepped closer to her, his physical presence completely overwhelming her. Now that he was so near, Sarah could sense the slow burn of his anger, though she still did not understand its cause. ‘At the least you do not pretend ignorance! Are you telling me that the rumours are untrue, Miss Sheridan?’
Sarah hesitated for a fatal second, trapped by her own honesty. ‘Yes! No! At least…I do intend to visit Blanchland, but it is not as you imagine…’
Guy brought his hand down on the banisters with a force that seemed to make the delicate ironwork shiver. ‘Surely it can be no surprise that your apparent desire to spend the winter in a house of ill repute should set the town by the ears, Miss Sheridan! Good God, Blanchland is a place where no woman of respectability should dream of setting foot! You will not have a shred of reputation left to you!’
Sarah glared at him. ‘I can scarce believe that you are giving credence to chance-heard rumours, my lord! I should have thought better of you! You have not even paused to request an explanation!’
Guy had turned away, his face tight and angry, but now he swung back towards her.
‘There can be no reasonable explanation! At least,’ he corrected himself punctiliously, ‘the best construction I can put on your conduct is that you lack any sense of proper behaviour and the worst—’ his dark eyes narrowed murderously ‘—is that you are accustomed to the sort of society and pursuits that Blanchland has to offer! Neither is an adequate excuse!’
Sarah seldom lost her temper. The even tenor of life in Amelia’s household was hardly ever ruffled by upset or disturbance, but now she found herself furiously angry. Guy’s stubborn refusal to see anything but the worst in her was as distressing as it was infuriating. The situation was further exacerbated by the fact that she could not understand why he was so angry. Worst of all was a shaming desire to cry, as she realised that, despite the brevity of their acquaintance, his good opinion was something that she valued deeply. She swallowed hard and made a conscious effort to whip up her anger as a defence against the hurt she was feeling.
‘That is enough, sir! I do not wish to hear you
