He squeezed her hands. “Your engagement?”
“Is proceeding as planned.”Bother.She could hear the unmistakable note of melancholy in her own voice.
“I’m sorry to hear that. For your sake,” he hastened to add.
“I must do what they say. I’ve little choice. What am I to do, run away again?” She gave a halfhearted laugh.
“I’m certain Fergus Two misses you,” he said.
The tears stung harder.Bother. Bother. Bother.“I was given a chance that few young ladies are. A second chance. A clean slate. A restored reputation. I know how valuable that is.”
“That’s quite a string of reasons you’ve come up with. But are you happy?”
She couldn’t look at him. She forced the words through her dry lips. “I’m content.”
“Fine.” He glanced away over her head, looking off into the crowd as if he could tell their conversation was no longer honest.
The dance soon came to an end and Christian escorted her back to the group of people they’d been standing in. Lady Claire moved closer to him, obviously hoping for the next dance.
“I’ll just leave you to your new friends,” Sarah said, picking up her skirts and turning.
His hand was still on her arm. His voice was a whisper at her ear so the others wouldn’t hear. “I could always use friends,” he murmured. “That’s what we are, Sarah, aren’t we? Friends?”
“Yes,” she whispered back, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “We’re friends, Christian. Just friends.”
***
That night, when she climbed into her bed, Sarah could feel the walls closing in around her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The next afternoon, Christian arrived at the town house of the Earl of Marchland wearing an entire set of his new clothing, including his fine boots, his hair freshly cropped again, a smile pasted on his face, and holding a bouquet of flowers for Lady Claire. The girl seemed lovely and sweet enough, but she tended to giggle too much and he was beginning to think she might be a bit silly. What did he expect from an eighteen-year-old? But then he thought of Sarah and how she was only nineteen now. She’d had a birthday this spring, according to Lucy. But she’d never seemed silly to him.
Sarah.
Seeing her last night had been both better and worse than he’d expected. Better because he’d clearly done something right to have the belle of the Season somewhat interested in him. He was proud to show Sarah that he’d readily employed everything she’d been so generous to teach him. He’d even managed to ask for a favor. Though it had been deuced uncomfortable doing so. He’d asked Lady Alexandra to help. Alex had readily agreed and quickly was yet another voice whispering it about that Christian was consideredthe catchof the Season.
Lucy was right. Society was strange and fickle. The right well-timed rumor whispered by the right well-heeled person could be quite convincing. However, seeing Sarah again—even in his own much more popular state—had been a bit like looking directly at the sun too long. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, her dark hair piled high atop her head, a few tendrils left to brush her shoulders. She’d been wearing a light blue gown with a fitted bodice, and she still smelled like lilies. It made his mouth water. Worst of all, she was still steadfastly engaged to Branford. Christian had watched her after their dance—not when she was looking, of course, but he’d been unable to help himself—and he’d noticed she hadn’t danced so much as once with her estimable future husband. Branford had been holding court at the far end of the room, a group of ladies and gentlemen hanging upon his every word. No doubt exactly the way the marquess liked it.
Sarah had spent the better part of her evening laughing and talking with Meg Timmons near the refreshment table. It was good to see Sarah laugh. She’d seemed upset when he’d asked her how she was during their dance. But she clearly enjoyed Society and parties and was quickly back in her element, dancing with several young men and laughing with her friend. Christian had asked Lady Claire to dance a second time, just as Sarah had advised him. Lady Claire had been only too willing to do so, and his apparent success in that quarter led to his arrival upon her doorstep today with a handful of violets.
Lady Claire seemed happy to see him and had surprised him by ignoring the half score of other suitors who had arrived before him—most with roses, he noted with some irony—and asking Christian to take her riding in the park. Christian had considered the request for a moment and then decided that the only thing more ill-mannered than taking the focus of so much attention away to ride in the park would be torefuseto do so, especially when the young woman had requested it so prettily. Besides, this was exactly what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? The attention of a perfectly suitable, unattached lady who was looking for a husband? What the devil was he waiting for?
They’d barely made it onto Rotten Row in his sleek new curricle before Christian sorely regretted his decision, however. It seemed Lord Branford and Sarah had also decided to go riding in the park.
Christian noticed the chaise first, flashy, overly ornate, the crest of the marquess boldly outlined in gold leaf upon the side. Then Christian’s gaze shot to the two occupants who sat perched on the high seat. The marquess looked like a peacock basking in the glow of the imagined admiration of everyone in the park. Sarah, however, looked… bored. Her face was tight, her eyes were blank, and she didn’t appear to be listening to a word the marquess said.
As Christian’s curricle approached theirs, Lady Claire squealed, “Oh, there’s the Marquess of Branford and Lady Sarah Highgate. They werequitethelastSeason’s most celebrated couple, you know.”
“You don’t say?” Christian drawled just as the marquess’s chaise pulled to a stop beside his.
“Eh there, Berkeley, seems it’s been an age since I last saw you,” Branford announced. He pulled a pinch of snuff from out of his embroidered sleeve and sniffed it.
Christian let his gaze travel over the marquess. He’d never really considered the man before, but now he tried to see him as a woman might. A woman who was engaged to him. The man had a quickly thinning patch of blond hair atop his head. A rather decided nose. Thin lips and a puffed-out chest, though whether by anatomy or by intention, Christian couldn’t be certain. The marquess wore a heavily embroidered waistcoat, an overly fussy cravat, and a bright blue velvet coat. It was peacock blue. Fitting.
He also managed to carry an excessive number of accessories, including a top hat, a brass-tipped cane, an eyeglass, and of course his oft used snuffbox. In a word, the man was a dandy, something Monroe had explained to Christian one day while they’d been picking out shirts at Martin’s. Branford’s boots, however, did indeed look as if they were the work of Hoby, the master boot maker.
“I’ve been in the country all winter,” Christian replied, forcing himself to stop his inventory of the marquess.
