The Marriage Truce

Jeremy looked at him, a little smile at his lips. ‘I was not speaking particularly of Miss Chandler.’

Dev frowned, and then his attention was caught by Cedric Blanton who stood at the doors leading to the garden. He seemed to be looking at something outside. And Dev had a good idea what it was. His fawning after Sarah Chandler in London had been obvious to any fool. It made Dev exceedingly uneasy, particularly after a houseparty Dev had attended last summer where Blanton had also been a guest. Blanton had pursued the Duke of Wrexton’s daughter in the same fashion. Like Sarah, Lady Alethea had attempted to avoid the man as much as possible. She’d been successful until the picnic two days before they were to leave. And then Dev had caught Blanton almost ravishing the girl near a thicket of bushes by the lake. Dev had stopped him, barely restraining himself from mowing the man down. Only the knowledge of the certain scandal and insult to Lady Alethea’s name that would be the certain result kept him from doing so. Instead, he’d threatened to ruin Blanton if a word of it leaked out.

The music had stopped and a footman appeared to announce the supper. Jeremy glanced at him. ‘Coming? Aunt Beatrice has commanded that I escort her. I’ve no desire for a scold if I don’t appear on time.’

‘Not yet.’ He shifted his attention back to Blanton, who still stood in the doorway.

Jeremy gave him a curious look. ‘Later, then.’

Dev watched Blanton disappear through the French doors. He frowned. Was Sarah Chandler still foolish enough to be outside? A quick search of the guests milling towards the doors and out of the ballroom revealed no sign of a slight figure with a crown of rich auburn hair in a cream-coloured gown. And surely he’d have noticed if she had come back in.

He stalked towards the terrace doors, wondering what sort of a fool he was about to become. If she were there, she would probably stare at him with her calm, collected look as if he was partially invisible.

The garden was cool and dark. A veil of wispy clouds covered the moon. He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked down into the garden. At first he saw nothing, then he heard voices coming from the shrubbery. He moved down the steps with a light tread. He rounded the edge of the circle of shrubs, just in time to see a woman struggling in Blanton’s arms. She suddenly yanked away and Blanton grabbed for her. There was an ominous sound of ripped fabric. And Dev caught a glimpse of Sarah Chandler’s frightened face.

‘Let me go!’

‘No, my dear, I must speak to you,’ Blanton said smoothly.

Without a second thought, Dev stepped forward. ‘I suggest you do as the lady asks.’

The two froze. Blanton’s head whipped around and he stared at Dev, his eyes unfocused. Then he glared, hatred shooting across his face. ‘What do you mean by interrupting a private conversation, my lord?’

Dev regarded him coolly. ‘If you wish to hold a private conversation, I suggest you find somewhere less public than this. Particularly during a ball.’ His eyes briefly swept over Sarah. She stared at him, her arms crossed over her breast, trying to hide the damage to her bodice. She looked dismayed, shocked and completely miserable. He fought to keep his fury at bay. ‘Although the lady does not appear to particularly enjoy your conversation.’

Blanton took a step towards him, his chin trembling with anger. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It should be obvious. Miss Chandler wished to go and you attempted to detain her by force,’ he said indifferently.

Blanton tugged at his stock. ‘It was hardly by force. And she is my fiancée.’

Sarah gasped. ‘I am not!’

Blanton turned to her. ‘But you will have to marry me. It will hardly do to have it spread about that we were alone together and you were allowing my embrace. Your reputation will be ruined.’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Such lengths are unnecessary.’ Dev folded his arms across his chest, regarding Blanton with contempt. ‘I’ve no intention of mentioning this particular conversation.’

‘I have no reason to trust your word.’ Blanton looked as if he held a trump card. ‘You detest the Chandlers. What better method of revenging yourself than by destroying Miss Chandler’s reputation? It would bring disgrace down upon her entire family.’

‘You are mistaken. I would no more enact revenge by ruining a lady’s reputation than I would force her into marriage by the same means.’ Dev took a step towards him. ‘So, unless you wish to meet me tomorrow, I suggest you keep such speculations to yourself.’

Blanton stiffened, fury distorting his features. Dev took another step in his direction and Blanton tugged at his cravat, backing away, and then scurried off.

Dev watched his portly figure retreat through the ballroom doors. Then he looked over at Sarah. She stood motionless as if she’d gone into shock. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

He found himself half-wanting to shake her and half-wanting to take her into his arms, and erase the misery and shame from her face. The unexpected thought made him scowl. ‘What the devil were you doing out here with Blanton?’

‘I…I wasn’t out here with him. That is, I was here alone and he…he followed me.’

‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you that wandering around in dark gardens alone is not only improper, but highly dangerous? Unless, of course, you wish to encourage behaviour such as Blanton’s.’

That seemed to jolt her out of her trance. ‘I most certainly do not! And I was not wandering around—I…I was merely standing here.’ Her voice quivered and she suddenly looked utterly defeated. ‘I…I know it was quite improper to come here, but I…I wanted to escape for a few minutes and it was nice to be alone and I did not want to go in and suddenly he…he appeared…’

She looked away from him for a moment as if trying to collect herself. When she spoke, her voice was calm. ‘So, I suppose it was my fault. If you will excuse me, my lord, and thank you for…for rescuing me.’ She started to move past him, still clutching her bodice.

‘Wait.’

She glanced up at him, a question in her dark eyes.

He frowned. ‘How bad is the tear?’

‘Not very bad. A small rip in the lace, I think. Nothing that cannot be mended with a needle and thread.’

‘You cannot go into the ballroom with a rip in your bodice.’

‘I have little choice. At least everyone has gone into supper.’

‘We can only hope,’ he said drily. His glance fell to the small brooch she wore. ‘Your brooch. Can you use that to repair the tear?’

She looked down also. ‘Perhaps. I…I think so.’ She fumbled with the clasp, but her fingers were trembling and he realised that, despite her collected manner, she was very badly shaken.

‘I’ll do it.’ He stepped forward. She went very still as his fingers brushed her breast. His fingers suddenly seemed as clumsy as hers and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. Her scent was soft and sweet and feminine and the fact she seemed to be trying very hard not to breathe was making his own breath come far too fast.

‘My lord, I…I think I should go in.’ Her voice was faint.

He scowled. ‘In a moment.’ He’d just about extricated the pin from the soft silky fabric of her dress when he heard a screech from behind them.

And then, ‘Oh, my! Oh, my goodness!’

He spun around, the brooch in his hand. Lady Henslowe stood behind them, a hand clasped to her breast. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her eyes were wide with shock. And with her was Lord Henslowe, a murderous look on his normally placid face.

‘Damnation.’ He was beginning to think fate fully intended to make him pay for every one of his numerous sins.

Chapter Two

N ever, even if she lived to be a hundred and one, would Sarah forget the shocked expressions on the faces of Lord and Lady Henslowe. She closed her eyes and prayed she could vanish. Or die on the spot.

But she did not. She opened her eyes to find Lord Henslowe advancing on Huntington. He fixed him with an icy stare. ‘I trust this means there is to be a betrothal, my lord.’

‘Yes,’ Huntington said coolly.

‘No,’ Sarah replied at the same time.

‘But, my dear, you cannot allow such…such liberties and not marry him!’ Lady Henslowe exclaimed. ‘And, oh my! Your gown!’