Finally, after an excruciatingly long dessert course had been completed, the marquess pushed back his chair, indicating that the meal had come to an end. “Don’t let’s be formal tonight,” Branford said. “I find I don’t want to be long separated from my betrothed. Let’s take our drinks in the drawing room with the ladies this time, gentlemen.”
Christian said a brief prayer of thanks to the heavens for being spared the marquess’s concentrated company.
The entire group stood and headed to one of the drawing rooms at the front of the town house, where Branford promptly situated himself upon the sofa in the middle of the room and pulled Sarah down to sit next to him. Lady Claire and her mother hovered nearby. Lady Claire’s mother seemed intent upon asking the marquess all about the Prince Regent.
Christian took a seat at the far end of the room and gladly accepted a glass of port from a footman who was serving them from a silver salver. He surveyed the group in front of him, wondering how long Lady Claire and her mother would want to remain. Dinner had been torturous. Watching Branford paw at Sarah and Sarah’s uncomfortable response. Listening to Lady Claire drone on inquitethe most excessive fashion he’d ever heard. And watching Sarah slowly drink herself into oblivion. Was Branford more palatable to her when she was half-foxed? Christian couldn’t watch it any longer. He steadfastly kept his gaze off of her but couldn’t help but notice when Sarah’s mother called her over. The two ladies exchanged a few obviously terse words in the corner before Sarah returned to Branford’s side, a disgruntled look on her face.
Christian had been sipping his port and halfheartedly examining a book about ancient Rome that he’d found on the table next to his seat when he looked up to see that Sarah had slipped away from the marquess’s court and was slowly making her way over to him. Christian watched her approach. She swayed a bit on her feet, but her wineglass was still clutched firmly in her gloved hand.
She came to stand a few paces in front of him. “Interested in ancient Rome?” she asked, raising her glass to him in a silent salute.
“Immensely,” he said, sliding the book back into place on the table. He watched her carefully, hoping she didn’t tip over.
She took a seat on the bench near the window not far from his chair and swung her legs in front of her.
“Bored of your intended’s company so soon?” Christian nodded toward the group she’d just left. He glanced over to see Sarah’s mother staring at her with daggers in her eyes.
“I’m weary of counting the number of times Lady Claire saidquite,” Sarah replied with a tight smile.
“More than a dozen?”
“More than two dozen.” She lifted her glass to her lips before pausing to say, “I’m pleased to see you aren’t suffering any ill effects from the lake today.”
He nodded toward his feet. “Other than my new boots?”
“Rescuing another damsel in distress?” she asked in a slightly slurred voice.
Christian shrugged. “It seems I have a knack for it.”
“Also seems as if you’ve found a young lady.” Sarah glanced back toward where Lady Claire sat listening attentively to Branford’s tales.
“Who? Lady Claire?” Christian asked, crossing his booted foot over his knee.
Sarah took another sip of wine. “Yes, Lady Claire. I seem to recall she was in your company at the Hollisters’ ball as well.”
“Was she?” Christian drawled. He didn’t know what to make of this Sarah, this slightly drunken, seemingly jealous Sarah.
Her eyes narrowed on him. “You know she was.”
“I suppose my new clothing and aspect have been good for something. You said yourself she’s considered the belle of the Season.”
“She is,” Sarah said curtly, turning her head to stare at Lady Claire.
“As I said the other night, I have you to thank for my success,” Christian offered.
Sarah didn’t seem pleased to hear it. Her mouth was tight, drawn. “You didn’t bring her roses.”
“No.”
Sarah glanced away. She twisted her wineglass around in her hand. “I adore violets.”
“No doubt Branford can afford a great many violets.” Christian didn’t know why he said it. Why couldn’t he let it go? Why did he always have to bring the conversation back to Branford?
Sarah half laughed, half snorted. “He brings roses when he remembers to bring anything.”
“Ah, so that’s where your dislike of roses comes from.”
She waved her empty gloved hand in the air. “Roses are so… unimaginative.”
