“You know, I feel completely foolish remembering how you asked me if I recognized the name Viscount Berkeley.”
“What would you say if I told you Mrs. Goatsocks recognized my name immediately?”
“I would say I’m not a bit surprised. Mrs. Goatsocks hasDebrett’smemorized. I just don’t know how you and I never met before.”
“I was probably at Almack’s and you were somewhere much more fashionable,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Why did Sarah wish they had met? Why was it so important to her? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have become engaged to Lord Branford regardless. No. It was useless thinking about the what-ifs. If they’d met in London, Christian probably wouldn’t have ever spoken to her for fear of stuttering, and… Oh, it didn’t matter now, did it?
“What’s next?” she asked him, gesturing to the next room and fighting the tears that unexpectedly stung her eyes.
Christian was a marvelous tour guide. He spent the afternoon showing her his house. He led her into not one but two ballrooms, the expansive library, and rooms and rooms full of additional Berkeley family portraits.
When they reached the exquisite conservatory, Sarah sucked in her breath. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful place,” she said, turning around and around in the lush, flower-filled room. “Your house is beautiful, Lord Berkeley.”
He walked up next to where she stood sniffing a lilac. “Thank you, my lady. But I do hope you’ll continue to call me Christian. In private.” He winked at her.
“Of course.” She stood and turned abruptly, nearly knocking into him.
He grabbed her elbow to steady her. He didn’t let go when she found her footing again. She stared up into his eyes. It was wrong for a score of reasons, but she was willing him to kiss her. Here in the heady-scented, humid conservatory.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
He leaned down and brushed her ear with his lips. He slid a violet that he’d plucked nearby behind her ear. “I want to kiss you. You don’t know how much I want to kiss you. But…” He straightened to his full height and stepped back. “You’re engaged to another man.”
“I know.” She nearly sobbed. “I know.” She clutched her skirts and ran from the room.
***
That night, Sarah sat in the glorious bedchamber that Mrs. Hamilton had escorted her to soon after her arrival. The room that Christian had apparently chosen for her personally. It was decorated in soft blues and silver. The fresh lilies (no doubt from the viscount’s conservatory) sat in crystal vases on the delicate white writing desk and the bedside table. The bed itself was a beautiful cherry four-poster, and the linens spread over it were soft and fresh and clean. Sarah hadn’t realized how much she’d missed such luxury while she’d been hidden away in Scotland. Not that patchwork quilts didn’t hold a certain appeal, but this bedchamber was positively glorious. Now she was hidden away in Northumbria, she thought with a wry smile, but the furnishings were a sight better.
She sat on a tufted stool in front of the dressing table, slowly pulling the pins from her dark hair and thinking about all the things that had happened in the last several days. Why in the world had Christian decided to keep his title a secret from her for all this time? Did he truly think she was preoccupied with such things? She wasn’t the one who had decided to marry Lord Branford for his title. That had been her parents’ doing. She had, however, seemed pompous when she’d informed Christian regally that she was the daughter of an earl. But at the time, she’d been certain that rape or murder might have been his intention. No. She didn’t blame him for not telling her at first, but later… later, when they’d talked together, laughed together, waltzed together, played chess. Why hadn’t he told her any of those times? She sighed. She supposed it didn’t matter. She knew now, and it certainly did nothing but add to his appeal on the marriage mart, which was her part of their bargain, wasn’t it? Helping him find a wife. Though she couldn’t help wondering for the hundredth time why he was still unmarried if he was as handsome and well connected and kind and witty as he was and a viscount to boot. Not thatherparents would accept a title as lowly as viscount. No. No.Theirdaughter must marryup. But many a young lady on the marriage mart would be happy to have him. So why was he still unmarried? Was it truly because he became every lady’sfriend? She felt anything but friendly feelings toward him. Well, that wasn’t true, exactly. Hewasher friend. But did one want to madly kiss one’sfriend? She sincerely doubted it.
Her behavior in the conservatory had been wanton and shocking. She’d nearly begged him to kiss her. He’d known it. Known it enough to tell her why he couldn’t. And damn her, she’d wanted him to do it even after he’d explained why he couldn’t. The man was completely honorable through and through. He wouldn’t kiss another man’s betrothed. She shouldn’t have wanted him to. That’s why she’d left. Fled, actually. Like a coward. It was as if she couldn’t stand another moment in his presence being tempted by him. She’d asked to have her dinner served in her room. And had hidden from him here. She needed time and space. She would face him tomorrow. His friends would arrive then. Hopefully they would have a plan to help her and she could get back to London, where she belonged.
There was a soft knock at the door and Sarah’s heart leaped into her throat. The chances of it being Christian were slim, of course, but she couldn’t help admitting to herself that she wished it was him. “Come in,” she called weakly, her throat dry.
The door opened and Mrs. Hamilton stepped inside. The housekeeper quickly closed the door behind her.
Sarah let out her pent-up breath. Was it a sigh of relief or disappointment? “Good evening, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said, smiling at the woman through the looking glass.
“Good evening, my lady,” Mrs. Hamilton said, moving toward her. “I came ta help ye prepare for bed.”
“Thank you very much.”
Mrs. Hamilton crossed the plush rug to stand behind Sarah. First, she helped Sarah pull the last of the pins from her hair, and then the housekeeper picked up a silver-handled brush from the dressing table and began to stroke it through her hair.
“What do you think of Berkeley Hall, my lady?” Mrs. Hamilton asked, beaming at her in the looking glass.
“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” Sarah replied. “Superbly decorated with fine furnishings and perfectly kept.” Lord Berkeley was an interesting man. Handsome, kind, and friendly. Living up here all alone and wanting nothing more than someone to share it with. Sarah’s heart ached for him.
“It is gorgeous, isn’t it,” the housekeeper said with obvious pride. “Been in the family for nine generations. My own family has been in service to the Berkeleys for four.”
“That’s quite impressive,” Sarah said.
“You have beautiful hair, my lady, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Mrs. Hamilton murmured as she continued to brush Sarah’s hair.
