Lady Sarah Milton’s spinsterhood is not because she hasn’t received proposals of marriage. Her beauty and dowry have attracted many. It’s just that the men who have proposed don’t appeal to her. One man who does, the sport-mad Alfred Wickham, doesn’t know she exists. Therefore, when his mother invites her family to spend Yuletide with her extended family at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Radcliff, Lady Sarah jumps at the chance.

Alfred Wickham is not happy. His matchmaking mother fancies an alliance between him and some well-bred young miss he’s to meet at the Radcliffs’. The last thing Alfred wants is to tie himself down in matrimony--and, besides, he’s never been attracted to well-bred ladies. He’ll show them! He enlists his best friend, Lord Pottinger, to intervene. Potts is to inform the miss of Alfred’s wicked ways: his gaming, his recklessness, and his (feigned) understanding with an actress. Once Potts has succeeded in poisoning Lady Sarah against his friend, Alfred realizes he’s made a most dreadful mistake . . .

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Cheryl Bolen’s Books

His Lady Deceived

(The Deceived Series, Book 2)

by

Cheryl Bolen

Copyright © 2019 by Cheryl Bolen

His Lady Deceived is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Chapter 1

Lady Sarah Milton was quite certain her mother would not be sitting here in Lady Landis’s parlor, paying a morning call and for all the world appearing to be on the best of terms with the odious woman if said woman were not the mother of a Most Eligible Matrimonial Prospect. Indeed, Sarah herself could not remember a time when that son, Alfred Wickham, had not been responsible for a prodigious fluttering in her own chest on the rare occasions when she beheld his tall, handsome presence at Almack’s.

On each of these occurrences, she had prayed he would take notice of her and do her the goodness of asking her to stand up with him. But Alfred Wickham was not attracted to the debutantes at Almack’s. Only the obligation of dancing with his sister or his cousin, now the Duchess of Radcliff, had forced him to those assembly rooms. The indulged only son and heir of the wealthy Viscount Landis not only had no interest in respectable young ladies, it was said he dallied with women of the worst sort—when he wasn’t thoroughly absorbed with sporting pursuits of every manner.

Alfred Wickham attended the race meetings at Newmarket. He engaged in high-stakes play at White’s. And Lady Landis’s son was sure to be at the center of any gathering of cheering men wagering on an outcome, whether it be pugilists engaged in fisticuffs or a pair of cocks tearing into each other, blood-tinged feathers flying. The newspapers were full of Alfred Wickham’s exploits.

“My dear Lady Landis,” Sarah’s mother said, “it must be nearing your daughter’s time. Your first grandchild, is it not?”

A satisfied smile swept over their hostess’s face. “Yes. Any day now. The earl is, quite naturally, hoping for an heir.”

Lady Babington nodded. “But as you and I know, daughters can be most dear and such a comfort.”

“Indeed. I will be with my dear Em at Christmas. We might even have a Christmas babe!”

She flicked a gaze at Sarah, then looked back at that young woman’s mother. “I am so gratified you and your beautiful daughter have honored me today, Lady Babington.” Lady Landis handed her a delicate porcelain cup resting on an eggshell-thin saucer. Then her gaze settled on Sarah.

Lady Landis must have been a beauty when she was a young woman. She was still lovely. Alfred had gotten his height from his statuesque mother, but he did not inherit her auburn hair. His dark hair had come from his father. Sarah had never before considered Lady Landis’s beauty, likely because of the woman’s abrasive personality. Lady Landis dismissed anyone who wasn’t titled. Because Sarah’s father was an earl, Lady Landis had always groveled in her mother’s presence and had been exceedingly solicitous of Sarah.

“Since you came out, my dear Lady Sarah,” their hostess said, pausing and lowering her brows. “How many years ago was that now?”

Most young women who had been out as long as Sarah without attracting a husband would be embarrassed to admit how long it was, but Sarah was not. She had received many offers of marriage, but none of the men had appealed to her in that special way. As she sat here in Alfred Wickham’s home she found herself wondering if she would have looked favorably upon an offer from him. It was difficult to say since she had never spoken to him. But the very notion sent her heartbeat thumping. “I was seventeen when I was presented. I am two-and-twenty now.”

Mama’s face screwed up with distaste. “My daughter is very discriminating. Too discriminating. She’s turned down countless offers—one from a marquess even. I keep telling her if she continues being so particular she’ll find herself a hopeless spinster who’s lost her beauty.”

Lady Landis shook her head. “I cannot image the lovely Lady Sarah ever losing her beauty.” Her gaze returned to Sarah. “As I was saying, from the day you came out, I told myself, that’s the girl for my Alfred.”

Sarah felt as if the breath were trapped in her chest. If she were called upon to respond, she was not sure she could summon her voice. Alfred Wickham and her? Just putting voice to such a dream set her heartbeat racing. Lady Landis suddenly became Sarah’s ally.

“Of course, at that time my dear boy was not interested in settling down, but it’s time Alfred began thinking about . . . well, it’s time he grow up. He’s thirty now, you know. One cannot live one’s life solely for sport.”

Did his mother not know about the opera dancers? Her Alfred was not a little boy any more.

Lady Landis continued smiling at Sarah. Was Sarah supposed to respond? Oh, dear. She cleared her throat. “I’m greatly flattered, my lady. I do believe, though, your son might wish to weigh in on a topic so close to his own future. You see, we don’t know each other. I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced, and I’m quite certain we’ve never spoken.”

“Oh, but our families are close. I’ve always known that when the time came, you would be the perfect wife for Alfred. The Babingtons are the best kind of people, and quite frankly, only a beauty would do for someone as handsome as my boy. You’re the prettiest of all the peers’ daughters. And I have the perfect plan to acquaint you and my dear boy.”

Wife. Sarah’s heart raced. Her brows shot up.

Lady Babington’s brows lowered.

Both ladies watched Lady Landis with their breaths held.

Lady Landis’s coy smile fanned from Lady Babington to her daughter. “Our whole family—including my daughter, the Countess of Dunsford—will be spending Christmas with our dear niece, the Duchess of Radcliff, at their country home, and the duchess has extended the invitation to your family. Oh, do say you’ll come. It will be smashing fun. The duke’s great friend Mr. Twickingham will be there, too, and he’s terribly amusing.”

Sarah’s gaze swung to her mother. To her astonishment—since she knew her mother did not admire Lady Landis—her mother said, “What a wonderful Christmas it would be! Our own country house is undergoing renovations, and I was so dreading spending Christmas in London. I’ve heard that the Duke of Radcliff’s Hedley Hall is magnificent.” Mama eyed Sarah. “Of course, if Sarah is opposed to the idea, we need not go.”

Sarah did not answer for a moment. “I am not opposed to spending Christmas at Hedley Hall.” Though she could not bring herself to say it, she was not opposed to an alliance between herself and the handsome Alfred Wickham, either.

Lady Landis clapped her bejeweled hands and smiled gleefully. “Wonderful.”

“But,” Sarah added, “I will have no part in entrapping your son into matrimony.”

“Oh, but my dear Lady Sarah,” Alfred’s mother said, “leave that to me. You need only be your beautiful self. I feel it in my bones. When Alfred is removed from all those wicked sporting influences and sees your loveliness, he will be snared by Cupid’s arrow.” The lady’s face went solemn. Her eyes narrowed. “I do hope you’re not offended by this whole idea. Could you be attracted to my boy?”

Lady Landis was no fool. She knew very well how attractive Alfred was to females of five to fifty.

“If your boy were attracted to me, I daresay I could find him  . . . most promising.”

* * *

Lord Hugh Pottinger looked up from White’s faro table at his best friend. “I say,Wick, why in devil have you not taken off your coat and muffler? You’re getting snowflakes everywhere.”

His friend effected an angry face. “Because I’m not staying. Come, Potts. I need you.”

Pottinger sighed. It went against his placid nature to defy his friend. It had been that way ever since they’d been together at Eton. Always, he’d done Alfred’s bidding, and for that, Alfred deeply valued this man’s friendship. It was really beastly the way he took advantage of Potts’s unwavering loyalty, but there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Potts.

Frowning, Potts got up from the gaming table. “What’s so bloody urgent?”

“I need you. My coach is waiting. I’ll explain there.”

Pottinger gathered up his coat, hat, and muffler and bundled up against the December chill before leaving their club. Alfred directed his coachman to take them to Pottinger House on Piccadilly.

“Why are we going to my house? The night’s young.”

“Because you’re going to be packing. Or you’re going to instruct your man to pack.”

“Pack for what?”

“I need you to come with me to Radcliff’s Hedley Hall for Christmas.”

“But I don’t precisely know Radcliff. Why should I spend Christmas at his house?”

“Because I’m going to be there. I don’t want you to be all alone at Christmas.”

Potts pursed his lips. “Since when did it matter to you how I spend my Christmas?”

“Ever since your father died, I’ve been greatly concerned about you being alone at Christmas—what with your brothers off fighting in the Peninsula and in the Royal Navy and your sisters living in the Great Beyond.”

“Now see here, Wick. If you’re so adamant that I come, there’s got to be a compelling reason, a reason that benefits Alfred Wickham. Now spill it, dear friend.”

“First and foremost, I cannot tolerate two weeks at a country home filled with couples wallowing in marital bliss.”

Potts shuddered. “Know how much you dislike the notion of marital anything.”

His friend did most thoroughly understand him. “That’s why I need you there with me.”

“Well, since you put it that way. Might as well.” Potts shrugged. “No fun spending Christmas in the city all by one’s self.”

“There is one other matter. . .”

Potts drew a deep breath. “I knew it!”

“It’s just a small thing. You see, my mother’s got a bee in her bonnet about marrying me off.”

Potts’s eyes grew large, then he burst into laughter. Loud, explosive laughter.

“It’s not remotely funny.”

As the coach stopped in front of the Pottinger baronial mansion, Potts finally managed to curtail his merriment, turn to his friend, and ask. “Does your mother not understand your extreme aversion to parson’s mousetrap?”

Alfred frowned. “I think it’s Papa. He’s devilishly angry about my gambling losses. He says if I were a responsible married man, I wouldn’t keep acting like a youth just down from Oxford. Then when he goes off on one of his tangents like that, Mama pops up with her praise of some earl’s daughter. Says she’s known for years this is THE very girl for me.”

“Pray, who is she?”

“Name’s Lady Sarah Milton. Can’t say that I’ve ever met her—though there was a Milton fellow with us at Eton . . .”

“Yes. A Year ahead of us, Lord John Milton. I believe he’s been serving in the Peninsula for some time now.”

“Me either, though I’ve heard the name.”

The coachman opened the door, and Potts disembarked first.

Just as Alfred was stepping down, Potts whirled around. “Now that I think about it, I remember something else about Lady Sarah Milton!”

“Pray tell, why?”

“That’s the girl who broke poor Fox’s heart. Remember how he kept praising her beauty?”

“That’s the one?”

Potts nodded. “Fox was determined to marry her, but she turned him down, along with his sixty thousand a year and the chance to be a marchioness.”

“Then it may be my good fortune that the lady must be holding out for a duke.”

“But I’ll lay you ten to one she’s a great beauty. Maybe you will fall in love with her.”

Now it was Alfred who laughed heartily. “Have you ever known me to be enamored of a well-bred lady?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

A footman in turquoise livery opened the door for the two men.

“If I recall, it’s been at least four years since Fox was smitten,” Alfred said. “If the lady’s still unmarried, I cannot believe she’s any worthy prize.”

“There is that,” Lord Pottinger conceded.

“And even if she were a great beauty, you know I don’t want to be trapped in marriage. Not until I’m much older.”

Potts sighed. “Remember when we used to think thirty was ancient?”

Alfred smiled. “And now I think of it as the prime of life. Think of how many more opera dancers and actresses there are out there.”

“Not to mention Italian contessas.” Potts had recently had an affaire de coeur with a beautiful Italian widow.

One thing both men had in common: neither had ever fancied himself in love with a respectable young Englishwoman.

As they climbed the stairs to Potts’s bedchamber, Potts turned back. “Has it occurred to you the lady might fall in love with you? You know, most woman do seem to be affected by you in that way.”

“That’s why you’re coming with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

They had reached the second-flood landing and turned toward the baron’s bedchamber.

“You have to convince her that an alliance with me would be disastrous.”

“Why would that be?”

“You will need to make the lady aware of all my wretched habits.”

“Tell her about your long-running losing streak in the betting book at White’s?”

“Yes.”

“And about how you’ll just take off to Newmarket whenever the mood strikes, even if there’s an important vote in Parliament?’

“Yes, that too.”

As they entered Potts’s bedchamber, Alfred’s brows lowered. “I thought you were going to redecorate this chamber after your father died. With all this crimson and gilt, it looks like a bloody brothel.”

Potts shrugged. “I kept meaning to, but you know I’m hopeless with things like that. What colour would you suggest?”

“You ask me about colour when my very freedom’s at stake? How should I know about colour? It’s not exactly in my line of expertise. There are, though, men at White’s who are noted tastemakers. I daresay you should consult one of them.”

“That’s the very thing! I shall.” Potts tossed his hat and gloves on a silk settee of faded red. “Now as to those wretched habits you wish me to apprise Lady Sarah of .  .  . do you want me to tell her how you fence at Angelo’s without a mask so she’ll be aware that your handsome face could become mutilated—or you could be blinded when your eyes are gouged out?”

“Of course. That should thoroughly repulse the lady.”

“What else?”

“You could tell her I have an understanding with a beautiful actress on the London stage.”

Potts’s brows hiked. “I thought I knew everything about you! How could you keep something like this from me? What’s her name?”

“Whose name?

“The actress with whom you have an understanding.”

“Don’t be such a fool. I have no understanding with any woman, nor do I plan to have an understanding with any woman.”

Chapter 2

The knowledge that Lady Landis’s handsome son had not yet arrived at the magnificent Hedley Hall accounted for Sarah’s congeniality whilst conversing with the ladies her first morning there. Had the object of her aspirations arrived, she would have been a mute ninny.

She had forgotten how lovely Alfred Wickham’s cousin, the Duchess of Radcliff, was. Sarah had been at Almack’s the night the former Bonny Barbara Allan had made her debut there, and all the young bachelors made cakes of themselves over the raven-haired beauty. Every eye had been on the Duke of Radcliff when he claimed the beautiful newcomer for their first dance. No one could have watched them together that night and not seen how they had been created for each other, how the attraction between them was as instantaneous and palpable as the cry of a newborn babe.

The duchess was, if anything, even lovelier now than she had been that night. Marriage and motherhood most definitely agreed with her.

“How very kind it is, your grace,” Lady Babington said, “for you to extend your Yule hospitality to Lord Babington and I and our daughter.”

“It is my pleasure.” The duchess eyed Sarah. “I remember seeing you the first night I was at Almack’s—the night I met Richard, the luckiest night of my life,” she added with a radiant smile. “I thought you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen. And now I finally get the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

A little laugh escaped Sarah. “I thought you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen! And I daresay I wasn’t alone. I do thank you for the kind words and for having us. We are, indeed, the fortunate ones, your grace.” Sarah glanced at the duchess’s cousin, Lady Dunsford, Alfred’s sister, who was due any day to be brought to bed with her first child. “Owing to the fact I came out before Lady Dunsford, we were not acquainted at that time, so it was a loss to all of us that we did not become known to each other then.”

“All shall be remedied during this visit,” a beaming Lady Landis said.

The tall door to the saloon opened and the nurse entered, carrying a small lad Sarah judged to be two years of age. Upon eyeing the beautiful duchess, he squirmed loose from the nurse and raced toward her. “Mama! Mama!” This most adorable-looking little fellow must be the lovely lady’s offspring, though he looked nothing like his mother. His hair was the colour of tree bark, not the coal colour of his mother’s.

The duchess’s face transformed when she beheld her son, and her arms opened wide as he leapt upon her lap, and she enfolded him in her embrace. She had not the slightest care that he might mess her elegant gown. His upturned face was soon covered with kisses before his mother addressed Lady Babington and her daughter. “I would introduce you to my son, Charlie, but I regret his manners are deplorable.”

Sarah and her mother giggled. “It brings me joy just to look upon that darling face of his,” Sarah said.

Sarah’s mother nodded. “What you say about deplorable manners reminds me of my firstborn. When he was the age of your Charlie, he could not understand the concept that when he was introduced to someone, he was expected to respond. And to make matters worse, his eyes would wander elsewhere to betray that he was colossally bored with the person with whom he’d just been introduced.”

The smiling duchess nodded. “It’s exactly the same with our Charlie.” She kissed the top of his head.

“Oh, Bonny, I do hope Henry and I can have a son,” Lady Dunsford said. As was the habit of so many expectant mothers, she folded her hands over the mound of her belly. “I want one exactly like Charlie! As you know, I have nothing against little girls, but we already have one. I’d love for Henry to have his heir.”

“Now, Emily,” her mother admonished, “you do not precisely have a daughter. Don’t give people the wrong impression.” Lady Landis eyed Lady Babington and Sarah. “My daughter’s far too generous and tender hearted for her own good. Lord Dunsford stands as guardian to his deceased brother’s natural child, and my daughter’s kind enough to allow that poor child to call her Mother.”

Lady Dunsford flashed an angry gaze at her mother. “I shouldn’t like to have this conversation in public, Mama. I’ve told you many times we wish to be mother and father to dear little Harriett and do not wish you to continually remind people of the circumstances of her birth. Please.”

Now, Sarah felt uncomfortable. Lady Landis could do that to people with regularity. A pity she did that to her own daughter. “Mama says no matter how much one may want an heir, daughters bring much joy,” Sarah said in an effort to smooth the tension in the chamber.

“I do know that. And there are many reasons to be happy if we have another daughter.” Lady Dunsford eyed Charlie who was tugging at his mother’s shiny necklace. “But we would be delighted to have a son like Charlie. We’re all so attached to him.”

It was easy to see that the cousins were close. Sarah suspected Lady Dunsford preferred spending more time here at Hedley with the duchess than at Landis House in London with her own mother.

The duchess smiled at her cousin. “Thank you, Em. Richard and I totally adore our little mischief-maker.”

Sarah tried not to stare, but it was difficult not to notice how very huge was Lady Dunsford’s enlarged belly. It seemed almost inconceivable she could go another day without giving birth. How uncomfortable she must be!

In spite of her size, the prettiness Lady Dunsford had always displayed remained untouched. She was quite lovely. How was it that remarkable good looks ran in some families as it did in theirs? As masculine as Alfred Wickham was, there was an undeniable resemblance between him and his fair sister.

Just thinking about Alfred made Sarah appreciate this last bit of calm that remained within her. For she knew that once he arrived, she would go all aquiver inside.

* * *

Because he had put off traveling to Hedley Hall for as long as possible, by the time Alfred and Potts arrived everyone was at dinner. Their arrival practically sent the beautiful hostess into spasms of apologies for not having set them places at the brimming table.

Poor old Potts always started stuttering when put in a situation that brought him to the attention of a beautiful woman. “No m-m-m-m-mat-t-t-t-ter. We needn’t eat,” he told their hostess.

Alfred glared at him. He was bloody starved after traveling these past several hours. “What my friend means, your grace, is that we can eat anywhere. You can just have a plate sent to our chambers.”

“Oh, but your mother would be so disappointed. She was so looking forward to . . . seeing you.”

He knew very well what the duchess meant. His mother was looking forward to trotting him out like a prized stallion. It had been that way his entire life. Mama had this peculiar need to have people fawn over her only male progeny. She had a most inflated view of his physical attributes. He supposed all mothers were like that, but he’d wager his mother could win the medal in a competition.  “I assure you, your grace, we shall have many opportunities to mingle with your delightful guests whilst we enjoy your hospitality.”

The duchess shook her head adamantly. For a brief moment, Alfred envied Radcliff. For a beauty such as his cousin Bonny, he might be able to forget his deep-rooted aversion to matrimony. “I insist,” she said. “I’ll just give instructions that two more place settings be inserted. I cannot guarantee they’ll be correctly placed according to rank.”

Alfred nodded. “Your grace, I should like to present to you my dear friend Lord Pottinger.”

Potts bowed. “M-m-m-m-my honor, your grace.”

A few moments later Alfred lowered himself to a seat between Twigs and Lady Sarah. Potts was seated directly across from Lady Sarah. Owing to the fact Alfred was sitting beside her, he could not really look at the lady. His first impression of her brought surprise. She did not look like an on-the-shelf spinster. The pretty blonde gave the impression she need only bat her lashes, and men would do her bidding.

Potts must be rattled by her for the fellow was inordinately interested in his soup and unable to lift his gaze away from the bowl—a sure sign that he was too embarrassed to stare at the beauty.

There was also the fact—a fact Alfred was doing his best to ignore—that Lady Sarah was possessed of a generous bosom, which rather spilled into the low-cut neckline of her saffron-coloured gown.  That, combined with her prettiness, ensured that poor Potts would remain tongue-tied for the duration of their stay.

But, being the good, loyal friend he was, Potts would find a way to convey to her what a bloody bad matrimonial prospect Alfred would be.

Mr. Twickingham, known as Twigs at White’s—and as far back as Eton—turned to Alfred and screwed up his face. “Ain’t you the fellow who fences with Angelo without ever a mask?”

“One and the same,” Alfred responded.

“Don’t mind losing an eye? Or two? Angelo’s frightfully good.”

Lady Landis shrieked.

“But my dear man,” the Duke of Radcliff interjected, “so is my wife’s cousin. If he were so inclined, I believe Alfred could soundly beat Angelo.”

Twigs’ eyes widened. “But Wickham’s an Englishman! Never heard of an Englishman who could beat Angelo.”

“Nor have I,” Alfred said. He did believe he could best his master, but modesty prevented him from boasting.

Alfred felt himself being scrutinized by Twigs. “Do believe Angelo could trace noughts and crosses on your face,” Twigs muttered.

Lady Landis shrieked again, and her hands clutched at her heart. “I just couldn’t bear it if my son’s handsome face were mutilated. Do, dear boy, give me your word you’ll not fence without a mask ever again.”

Alfred fumed. He glared at his mother. She was speaking to him as if he were Charlie’s age!

“Come, Mother,” Lord Landis said, “the boy’s thirty. You can’t order him about like he’s a lad of five.”

Alfred’s eyes flashed with mirth. “I shall take my chances.”

Lord Landis looked as if the food caught in his throat. “I regret that my son lives to take chances.”

The chamber went silent before the duke steered the conversation to a new bill being discussed in Parliament.

Alfred was into the third course before he remembered his manners. He turned to the lady beside him.  “You arrived today, my lady?”

“No. Yesterday.”

He nodded. “And your journey was pleasant?”

“Yes.”

He could see making conversation with this woman was not going to be easy. Perhaps she was as irritable about the situation as he was. But, then, did not all woman desire to wed? Of course, this woman had the opportunity to have married the exceedingly wealthy Lord Fox, who was a marquess, to boot. Perhaps, like Alfred, she had an aversion to marriage, though she would be the first of her gender with such an aversion. “I wonder if we’ll see snow this Christmas.”

“If it gets any colder, we may,” she replied.

“I do hope it doesn’t snow,” the duchess said. “We want to take Charlie and Harriett out of doors to gather holly with which to decorate the house for Christmas.”

The duke’s eyes flashed at the mention of his son. “And I’m going to pretend to allow the lad to help me select the Yule log. And lift it. He thinks he’s strong even though he’s about this tall.” The duke held his hand parallel to the ground about two feet from the floor.

They all laughed.

After dinner the men stayed behind for their port whilst the women went on to the drawing room. Alfred could have been perfectly happy to spend the next few weeks here were it just this group of men. To a man, he liked them all very much. It was the company of the women which put him off. And one woman in particular.

When they were rejoining the women, Alfred pulled Potts aside. “You’ve got to find a way to single out Lady Sarah and start to take the lady into your confidence.”

“You sure you don’t want to change your mind now that you’ve seen her? She’s . . . well, she’s uncommonly pretty.”

Alfred shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Surely you noticed her . . . jiggly bits.”

“Oh, those. I suppose those are rather nice, but one doesn’t go about noticing those on well-bred ladies. Can’t do a thing about them, you know.”

“’Tis true.” As the other men entered the drawing room, Potts halted. “There’s another problem, old fellow.”

“What?”

“You know I can’t speak properly to proper ladies. Especially if they’re pretty.”

Alfred clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ve got the perfect solution for you, old boy.”

Potts raised a brow.

“It’s all in visualization. Visualize Lady Sarah ugly. Think of the ugliest woman you know and imbue Lady Sarah with those characteristics.”

Chapter 3

A knot formed in Sarah’s stomach when Alfred Wickham and his friend Lord Pottinger casually strolled into the drawing room an hour after they had finished dinner. Even though she refused to look their way, she had the distinct impression they were looking at her. That could be logically explained. She was, after all, the only unmarried woman in attendance, and the two gentlemen were bachelors.

To her complete astonishment, it was Lord Pottinger and not his friend who came to sit beside her. Not precisely beside her. She sat at one end of the yellow silk sofa, her mother sat at the other, and now his lordship occupied the middle. How curious.

He turned to her. Throughout dinner the man had not uttered a single word. He had appeared inordinately absorbed in the consumption of his food. She felt certain he had not noticed her existence at the dinner table. “I s-s-s-say, m-m-m-my lady, forgive me for not speaking to you at dinner. M-m-m-m-y mother deplores the practice of speaking to one seated across the table from one at dinner. Read where the Royal Family doesn’t do it, and m-m-m-my m-m-m-mother always adopts everything done in the royal household. Daresay if the princesses started wearing breeches, m-m-m-my mother would be racing to m-m-m-my tailor’s.”

Sarah laughed. There was more to Lord Pottinger than at first she would have thought. She could see why Alfred Wickham valued his friendship so dearly. “I am having a great deal of difficulty purging the vision of the aging Royal Princesses parading around in gentlemen’s breeches, my lord”

He shrugged. “I doubt I c-c-c-could sleep at night were I to picture my aged mother s-s-s-sporting my breeches.”

“So, my lord, you’ve been friends with Mr. Wickham for some time, his mother tells us?”

“Yes, since w-w-w-we were lads at Eton. I think w-w-w-we were eight.”

“Well over half your lives.”

“Almost three-fourths of our lives.”

“You like mathematics?”

“’Twas my favorite interest at school and at university. Unlike Wick. S-s-s-sport was always his. Sport and wagering. He’ll w-w-w-wager on anything. Has a disastrous streak on the betting book at White’s. Bet Lord Simpson’s daughter w-w-w-would wed S-s-s-sefton; she didn’t. Bet Lord Huffington would lose his town house at the faro table; he lost it at the race meeting at Newmarket. The fact is, poor Wick has lost every s-s-s-single bet he’s ever placed in the betting book at White’s.”

“Why does he not quit wagering?”

Lord Pottinger shrugged. “He can’t. It’s in his blood. It w-w-w-w-will ruin him. Pity the poor woman who weds him.”

Now Sarah understood why Lord Pottinger had chosen to come sit by her. He was obviously fulfilling a mission for his best friend, a mission to turn her against Alfred Wickham, who had no matrimonial intentions.

“Dreadfully sorry about the wretched conversation at the d-d-d-dinner table. A lady shouldn’t have to hear about mutilations whilst eating. Do hate to think of Wick’s handsome face being carved up like a game of noughts and crosses, and it w-w-w-would be a pity if he were blinded with a saber to the eye.” He shook his head solemnly. “But that’s Wick for you. Quite the daredevil. Never s-s-s-saw anyone with a more devil-may-care attitude.”

“Then I feel very sorry for Lady Landis. It would break her heart if anything happened to jeopardize her son or his handsomeness.”

Lord Pottinger cleared his throat. “I feel even sorrier for the actress with whom Wick has  . . . an understanding.”

Sarah felt as if a Prussian soldier had just kicked her in the stomach. Admittedly, his friend was not painting a flattering portrait of Alfred Wickham, yet she still had not been able to snuff her attraction to the man. This final revelation was like a death knell.

It almost felt like hers.

To make her feel even more wretched, she peered across the chamber to behold Lord Dunsford standing behind his wife’s chair, lovingly squeezing her shoulder. Sarah had observed the couple throughout dinner as they exchanged tender glances with one another. Theirs was obviously a true love match. Such devotion!

Sarah was surrounded by loving couples. The Duke and Duchess of Radcliff acted as in love now as a pair of newlyweds. Perhaps even more so. Their mutual love of their son—the image of his father—united them even more.

Mr. Twickingham and his pretty blonde wife, who seemed quite devoted to him, were less demonstrative than the others, she suspected because Mr. Twickingham appeared oblivious to women. And then, of course there were Sarah’s own happily married parents.

The Landis marriage was the only questionable one among all these satisfactory alliances. Mama always said Lord Landis must be a saint to live with his domineering wife. Nevertheless, they had been married three decades and were here together tonight.

Sarah was the only woman in the chamber bereft of a loving husband. And she had never felt it so acutely.

“We must have Lady Sarah play for us,” Lady Landis said.

“As long as I don’t have to sing,” Sarah said. Playing the pianoforte always gave Sarah a measure of peace. Just what she needed to calm her internal blistering. Music always answered her needs.

Lady Landis sighed. “What a pity. You sing like a nightingale.” The lady directed her comments to her son. “Lady Sarah is possessed of uncommon musical ability.”

“Then I shall look forward to hearing her play.” Alfred Wickham did not even have the decency to look at Sarah.

Sarah glared at him. “I did not know you were interested in music, sir.” Then she got up and strolled to the instrument.

The kindly Lord Pottinger did her the goodness of accompanying her. “I will turn the pages for you, m-m-my lady.”

“It’s because in the periodicals my son’s scandalous behaviors outweigh his more respectable traits,” Lord Landis said.

Sarah was beginning to doubt Mr. Wickham had any respectable traits. But, of course, his parents were blinded to the truth about him.

* * *

Why in the devil did Lady Sarah’s words sting? Alfred most assuredly should have expected her wrath after Potts had finished imparting to her all that he had taxed his friend with passing on. Wasn’t Alfred expecting the woman to find him especially venomous?

He had to admit his father, who was much kinder than Alfred deserved, was being charitable when crediting his son with an appreciation of music. Alfred had been hopeless at the pianoforte. He could not for the life of him do what Potts was doing right now. The best thing one could say about Alfred’s musical ability was that he was a tolerable dancer—and that only because it involved ladies, of which he was fond—though he disliked assemblies and had no taste for respectable ladies.

He did, though, enjoy listening to music when performed by talented musicians. As he listened to Lady Sarah play, he knew his mother, who was prone to exaggerating, had not done so this time. Lady Sarah Milton was exceedingly accomplished at the pianoforte. Her selections were impeccable, too. He could sit for hours and listen to the beautifully haunting melody of her music.

He was mesmerized watching her. In one other matter his mother had not exaggerated. Lady Sarah was a beauty. Now that he was able to observe her full face, he saw that her eyes were large and blue, set in a flawless face that could have been molded by a sculptor of renown.  The perfection even extended to her teeth, which presently nipped at her full lower lip.

His gaze skimmed over her full bosom. He was not unaffected. He forced his gaze to her elegant fingers as they whisked over the keys with so rare a skill only a few possessed.

After she had played three songs, he began to envy Potts. Perhaps now that Potts had poisoned her against him, Potts would try to claim the beauty for himself. Alfred could not blame him.

But he could still envy him.

Not that Alfred ever wanted anything to do with well-bred ladies. Or with marriage.

After the fourth song, the duchess strolled to the pianoforte and led the chamber in applauding Lady Sarah’s performance. “I truly hate to bring this to an end,” she said, “but I promised the men we’d set up whist tables.”

Alfred never thought he’d ever see the time when music would trump whist for him. That’s how much he enjoyed Lady Sarah’s play.

To account for the odd number caused by his bringing Potts, the duke begged off, saying he had correspondence he must see to in his library that night. That left exactly three tables of four. He suspected his mother must have transpired with the duchess on the pairing for he found himself partnered with Lady Sarah.

One of the things he hated about playing whist at these country homes was being forced to play with women, whom he considered inferior players. Alfred took his whist extremely seriously. He always played to win.

“Do you account yourself to be a tolerable whist player, Lady Sarah?” he asked that lady when she sat down.

“No, Mr. Wickham.”

He tried not to show his disappointment, but he was especially downcast because they were playing against his sister and her husband. Not only was Dunsford a worthy opponent, but his sister was the best female player he knew. Even though it was to be a friendly game, Alfred never wanted to lose.

“I’m a very good player,” Lady Sarah added.

He exchanged an amused glance with her. “And to what do you attribute that, my lady?”

“Practice. My Papa taught me to play when I was four.”

He glanced at the table where her parents were challenging his parents. It ought to be a good contest. Then he regarded her with a raised brow. “You knew your numbers at that age?”

“My dear sir, my Papa was teaching me about Pythagoras long before that. I could count to a thousand at three.”

“A prodigy, to be sure.”

“We don’t all live to throw away money on the likelihood of another’s improbable matrimony.”

So she’d been informed of the betting books at White’s, and she was making him feel like a complete wastrel.

As Em sat down and drew up to the table, he marveled at her belly. It was so huge. How amazing that a human being could be rolled up inside her! How charmingly devoted was her husband! Dunsford was a good sort. No one could have been a better husband to his sister. In addition to being besotted over her, not once had there ever been any suspicion of infidelity—and that was rare in their circle.

It was the same with his cousin Bonny and the duke who adored her. Alfred’s chest tightened when he thought of his own father’s infidelities. But, then, his mother was not an easy woman with whom to live.

Alfred, of course, loved his mother, as maddening as she was. Often, he’d wondered why his father had married her. They were so unsuited. His mother had brought a hefty dowry, and she was a handsome woman even though she was in her fifties. He’d been told she was uncommonly beautiful when she came out and captured his father’s heart. Papa had offered for her just days after they met. Was that hasty wedding the reason Alfred was so violently opposed to getting married? He certainly wanted no part of a marriage as loveless as his parents’. Though he loved his mother, he would never marry a woman who possessed any of her domineering characteristics.

The Dunsfords took the first hand, but as the game progressed he realized that Lady Sarah had not boasted. Her skill at whist was well above average.

“I must commend your father,” he told her. “He taught you well.”

She glared at him. “Why is it men must always credit men? Is it inconceivable to men like you—men whose only interests are in sporting pursuits—to accept that women are capable of things other than watercolours and embroidery?”

Lady Dunsford clapped her hands. “Well said, Lady Sarah,”

Alfred felt like a lad just sent to the headmaster’s at Eton. “Do forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I find your gender intellectually inferior.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you do, Mr. Wickham,” Sarah said. “Just as I find sportsmen just a wee bit . . . inferior.”

He couldn’t help it. He glared at the infuriating woman.

Potts’s rubber was completed before theirs, and to Alfred’s irritation, he came to stand behind Lady Sarah’s chair. With each of her moves he nodded approvingly. Alfred’s friend reminded him of the devoted Lord Dunsford standing behind his wife’s chair earlier in the evening.

Good Lord, could Potts be falling for Lady Sarah just because she was possessed of a pretty face? And a perfectly heavenly bosom—from which Alfred had a most difficult time averting his gaze? No matter how abrasive the woman was, he kept thinking about those plump  breasts and how he would love to . . . glory in the feel of them, the taste of them, the beauty of their rosy tips. The very notion aroused him.

Why, of all the respectable women in the kingdom had he been forced to spend Christmas with this sharp-tongued, self-assured, opinionated, exceedingly distracting woman who happened to be possessed of beauty—and magnificent breasts?

Chapter 4

As the ladies gathered in the drawing rooms the following morning, Sarah was reminded of an expression favored by her paternal grandfather. She felt like a third tit. Every woman in the room was a wife--and most of them cherished. Since her conversation with Lord Pottinger the previous night she not only felt more than ever like a third tit, she felt humiliated.

When she had agreed to spend Christmas at Hedley Hall, it was with a modicum of assurance that she had some hope of attracting the one man who had always appealed to her.

Now she felt a laughingstock. How many people here knew of Alfred Wickham's attachment to his actress? How could she ever save face? Perhaps there was one way . . .

Had Lord Pottinger not been exceedingly kind to her? How thoughtful it was of him to have turned the pages of her music. Though he did not affect her in the same palpable and disturbing way his friend did, the baron did possess many fine attributes. He was not unattractive. He was titled. And he seemed to be far more respectable than Lady Landis's wayward son.

Sarah found herself being addressed by that lady. "I understand you and Alfred won at whist last night, Lady Sarah."

Sarah nodded. "We were most fortunate. Your daughter and her husband were very skilled opponents."

Lady Landis chuckled. "While I will own that luck plays a role, I hope I do not flatter myself too much when I say that my son is accounted to be an excellent player.  In fact, I am told by the men who frequent the clubs that Alfred is uncommonly skilled at all games."

The duchess nodded. "I do enjoy being paired with my cousin—not that I’m terribly competitive, but I will own, winning is far more enjoyable than losing, and Alfred almost always wins.”

"I shouldn't like to boast," Lady Babington said, "but my daughter is also an outstanding whist player. Can you imagine if Sarah and Mr. Wickham were to wed, how talented would be their children?"

Sarah's cheeks turned scarlet. She was not going to be the one to announce Mr. Wickham's forthcoming nuptials to an actress, but neither was she about to perpetuate this myth about any alliance between him and herself. "I beg that you cease such talk. Mr. Wickham and I are not suited."

Lady Landis's face fell.

Lady Babington's brows lowered.

Sarah was spared from further explanation when the children’s nurses brought Charlie and a little girl of about three into the chamber. The little girl, who was possessed of pale blonde ringlets and looked remarkably like Lord Dunsford, held Charlie's hand and adopted a maternal attitude toward the lad though she was no more than an inch taller than he.

The duchess dismissed the nurses. "The children will be spending the morning with us."

No sooner had they come into the chamber than a torrent of rain began pounding at the windows. The little girl raced to the window, Charlie tagging along behind her. “Oh, no,” she said, pressing her little face against the window.

Little Charlie imitated her stance and shrieked, “Oh, no.”

“We won’t be able to go out of doors to pick the pricklies today,” Harriett said in a dejected voice.

“Not pricklies, Harriett,” Lady Dunsford corrected. “Holly.”

The little girl turned around to face her mother. “But did you not say they were prickly?”

Lady Dunsford nodded with a laugh. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Charlie put his hands on his hips, faced his mother, and said, “Oh, no!”

The duchess’s violet eyes twinkled. “He mimics everything Harriett does.”

Lady Dunsford rolled her eyes. “I regret to say that also applies to her bad habits as well.”

“My dear niece has no bad habits,” the duchess defended.

It was difficult for Sarah not to stare at the duchess. One in possession of such extraordinary beauty was a rare sight—as rare as the lady’s violet eyes set in a perfect alabaster face framed with silken hair as sleek and black as a raven’s wings.

“If it were just misting,” Lady Dunsford said, eyeing the window, “I believe I’d let them out with proper coats and hoods, but no one can get out in this kind of wicked rain.”

Her mother nodded. “True. Not even Alfred, who normally has no compunction about getting wet, naughty boy.”

Lady Dunsford tossed a stern glance at her mother. “He’s not a boy anymore. You know how much he dislikes it when you treat him like he is.”

Lady Landis’s effort to look contrite fooled no one.

The duchess stood. “I believe a stroll in the gallery will be much more invigorating than sitting around here as the skies keep getting darker and darker.” Her gaze circled the gathering. “The invitation is open to anyone who would like to join me—if you don’t mind children running around underfoot.”

“I’ve always thought children enliven dreary rainy days,” Mrs. Twickingham said.

“The children are delightful,” Lady Landis agreed, getting to her feet slowly, “but I shall have to decline. My knee is aggravating me.”

Sarah stood. “The children will be a delight.” She approached Lady Dunsford. “Your daughter’s lovely. She’s the image of your husband.”

Lady Dunsford beamed. “Yes, she is. My husband and his brother looked almost like twins.”

It was only then that Sarah remembered little Harriett’s father was Lord Dunsford’s dead brother.

* * *

Seeing one’s mother standing in the doorway of the billiards room, beckoning, was an unexpected sight. Alfred drew a breath and excused himself. When would his mother ever realize he was no longer a lad whose every movement she could control?

“I just need you for a few moments,” she said. “In private.”

“That should be no problem in this place. There must be over two hundred rooms.”

“I daresay you’re right.”

After they had walked some thirty yards, his mother sighed. “I had hoped your sister could have won Radcliff’s affections. I fancied her running Hedley Hall, being the Duchess of Radcliff.”

Alfred scowled. “Em’s done very well for herself. Dunsford worships her. We are most fortunate that she’s so happily wed.”

“That is true. He is awfully good to her.”

They passed along a marble corridor and came to an older wing of the house, this one with wide wooden planks which led them to the house’s original morning room, a small chamber featuring dark Tudor furnishings and draped with faded crimson silk. He took his mother’s hand and directed her to a pair of arm chairs beside the tall window. “Shall we sit here? How’s your knee?” His voice lowered almost tenderly for the second question.

“I couldn’t have walked for another moment. Thank you.”

“Now, what’s the private matter you need to see me about?” He feared she would bring up Lady Sarah.

“Your father’s refusing to advance you any more money. He said he’s very dissatisfied with your continued high-stakes play and your refusal to settle down. You’re no longer young.”

He was trying to determine where his mother was going with this conversation. “But as a gentleman, I’m obliged to pay debts of honor. Papa knows that.”

“Your Papa has run out of patience.”

“Are you saying Papa wants me to marry?” Is that where this conversation was headed? Would the topic of Lady Sarah be introduced?

“Of course he wants you to marry. You’re his only son. He wants to know the succession is secured.”

He drew a breath. “Does he have a bride in mind?”

“Your father’s mind doesn’t work that way.”

“Ah, but yours does.”

“Yes, and I believe Lady Sarah is the perfect mate for you.”

There it was. She had not wasted much time.

“But I have no desire to marry.”

“I’m not going to force anything on you, dear boy. But I will agree to settle your affairs with money my mother left me—your father needn’t know about this—and all I ask in return is that you spend time getting to know Lady Sarah. I’m not asking you to offer for the lady. Now I don’t mean you, Lord Pottinger and the lady spend time together. I mean you and the lady together getting to know each other, with you being your most amiable self. If, at the end of the Yuletide, you find you do not suit, I will be satisfied.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I mean it. It’s because I am firmly convinced that she is so perfect for you, you will feel compelled to realize it, if you will but give the lady a chance.”

He was powerless to suppress the smile that seeped across his face. “I see.”

* * *

When Sarah saw Alfred Wickham enter the gallery—without his friend Lord Pottinger—her breath caught. She hated herself for being so utterly affected by this dissolute rake. Why should anything that man did elevate her pulse? He had never shown the slightest interest in her. Even at this very moment, he probably didn't notice her presence in this long gallery.

Unfortunately, she was walking beside Lady Dunsford, and he most certainly noticed his heavily increasing sister. In fact, he came straight to her.

"What in God's name are you doing, Em? You shouldn't be walking about like this with your babe expected practically any moment."

Lady Dunsford sighed. "I will own, I grow very short of breath."

Sarah felt terrible that she had not realized she was taxing the lady's delicate reserves. Why had she not been more sympathetic to his sister's delicate condition?

"You must sit down right now," Mr. Wickham said in an uncharacteristically tender voice, and he took his sister's elbow and steered her to a nearby bench. "You know how upset Dunsford would be to find you jeopardizing yourself and the babe in such a manner."

Sarah had to admire Mr. Wickham's consideration for his sibling.

Once he had seen  Lady Dunsford properly seated, he turned his attention to Sarah. "Ah, Lady Sarah. Would you do me the goodness of allowing me to walk with you?"

"How can I refuse?"

He stood there, tall and handsome, regarding her with a mischievous gleam. "I detect a lukewarm reception at best, my lady." He came forward and proffered his arm.

When she linked her hand to him, an odd—though not unpleasant sensation—rushed over her. Since she had never even danced with him before, this was the only time there had ever been any physical contact between them. Another reason to hate him for the way she was powerless to remain unaffected by the maddening man.

She strove to think of a tart retort. "I detect that you, sir, must be accustomed to actresses and such showering you with lusciously warm welcomes."

His steps slowed for a fraction of a second, and then he said, "A gentleman never discusses other women when in the presence of a lady."

"I'm surprised you know about decorum when one's with a lady, Mr. Wickham. Am I not correct in surmising that your experience with ladies is somewhat, if not completely, limited?"

He peered into her eyes. "Then, my lady, it's high time I rectify such an omission."

Had he said anything else, she could easily have kept up their adversarial banter, but this last comment completely disarmed her. He was waving a truce flag. He wanted to become better acquainted with her. It was as if the leopard were changing his spots.

Was he doing this out of gallantry? Was he being instructed to do so by one of his parents? Or was there some unfathomable chance that he truly did wish to get to know her better?

Then she remembered he had an understanding with his actress. "But, Mr. Wickham, what would your actress have to say about that?"

His brows lowered. "What actress would that be?"

"Your . . . intended."

"Oh, that one." He shrugged. "Well, I'm not tied down yet."

"Such a lovely ways of saying things. Tied down. I believe I would call off a betrothal if my intended spoke like that."

"Ah, but a man fortunate enough to win the hand of the fair Lady Sarah Milton would never look upon matrimony as being tied down."

"You, sir, have just redeemed yourself." Not really, but if he could attempt gallantry, so could she.

He smiled. He really did have an awfully nice smile, and he smiled quite readily.

"I pray you don't bite my head off for saying so, but I enjoyed playing whist with you as my partner last night. Male or female, I'd rather have you than anyone for a partner."

She smiled at him. "I won't bite off your head. Thank you." This time, she was sincere.

"It was almost as much fun as listening to you play."

"Oh, come, sir. You can't expect me to believe that."

"I know I have many faults, but I am speaking the truth. I did not even know how much I enjoyed music until I listened to you play last night. I was actually disappointed when my cousin announced whist—and that is the first time ever I wasn't anxious to set up the whist table." He stopped and looked at her. "I’m being perfectly honest."

"Thank you. Your friend was most helpful in turning the pages for me."

"Would that I had his . . . knowledge."

"He is awfully nice."

"Best friend a fellow ever had."

The sky had grown darker and darker as they made a complete revolution of the gallery. During that time, the wind had strengthened, fanning sheaves of leaves and ripping small branches from the trees. "I fear some branch may come hurling through these glass windows. If anything happens to Em, Dunsford will kill me. I'd better see her back to him."

Sarah was touched by his concern over his sister, even though he credited his brother-in-law with being the worrier.

"If Harriett wishes to stay behind, I'll look after her," Sarah offered Lady Dunsford, but when quizzed, the child opted to go with her mother and uncle.

That left Sarah with her own mother, Mrs. Twickingham, and the duchess. The four of them began to stroll another revolution of the gallery while little Charlie ran about. "It's terribly dreary," the duchess said, "and the rain gets more violent by the moment."

Indeed, it had. Its force was so strong Sarah feared the window glass would smash under the pounding. "It's gotten almost as dark as night," Sarah said.

"And it's just past noon," her mother added, shaking her head.

"Not the weather we had hoped for," the duchess said. "I'd much rather cope with snow."

Sarah and her mother agreed.

"I thought dear Alfred was more gallant than normal," the duchess said.

Sarah nodded. "He was quite charming."

"I was so disappointed back in the drawing room when you said you two did not suit,” the duchess said, “for I had such strong hopes that you would. I truly believe you two would be perfect for each another."

Why did members of his family not understand him better, Sarah wondered? Did they not realize his inclination toward a more disreputable sort of woman? "I can't answer for your cousin. I will own, I once found him most appealing, but I'll say no more."

The duchess gave her a quizzing look.

“I must say,” Cressida Twickingham said, “that I begin to feel quite the neglected wife being close to you and the duke and Lord and Lady Dunsford. Your husbands are so devoted. I declare, if Blanks fawned over me in such a manner, I’d be forced to call the magistrates and report that my husband had been abducted and replaced with an impersonator!”

The other ladies laughed.

“Don’t feel badly,” Sarah said. “It’s been my observation that few women in all the kingdom are as cherished as are the duchess and her cousin. Their marriages are not what one is accustomed to seeing.”

“I do wish, my dearest,” Lady Babington said to Sarah, “that you could find a husband like those two have.”

Sarah snorted. “That’s extremely unlikely, especially given that my matrimonial prospects grow dimmer by the day.”

The duchess rubbed her arms and shivered against the cold. “My fireplace beckons. I can stand this dreariness no longer.”

“A good suggestion,” Lady Babington said.

The others concurred.

Except for Sarah. “I believe I’ll stay behind. I crave a bit of solitude.” She needed time alone to contemplate her recent conversation with Alfred Wickham—especially now that it occurred to her that he was up to no good.

She ignored her mother’s worrying glance.

Chapter 5

It was only natural that Alfred Wickham dominate Sarah’s thoughts after he had signaled her out to walk with him—and after the duchess expressed her opinion that her cousin and Sarah were well suited.

But the more Sarah thought about the way Mr. Wickham had come to her here, the more her suspicions grew. His mother’s absence from the ladies’ gallery walking just happened to coincide with that lady’s son’s decision to be uncharacteristically civil to Sarah. Sarah was all but certain Lady Landis had cried off the walking in order to seek a private meeting with her son. At that meeting, the mother would have induced the son to make himself charming to Sarah.

Sarah paced the long gallery alone, her stride as angry as she. The slashing rain pounding the walls of windows and the skies as black as night did nothing to improve her dark mood.

Now she felt more humiliated than ever. How could she have been so foolish as to have fallen under Alfred Wickham’s spell, even if only for a few moments?

She would not let it happen again.

The man clearly favored women of ill repute. Let him have his actress!

As she strolled the long, chilly gallery she came to the conclusion she would make herself agreeable to Lord Pottinger. To salvage her pride, Sarah determined to do something she never did. She was going to actually flirt with a man—with Lord Pottinger. He was much kinder than Alfred Wickham, though Mr. Wickham was awfully solicitous of his sister. Mr. Wickham wasn’t a total wastrel.

* * *

At dinner that night Alfred was determined, especially since his mother was there as a witness, to be far more charming to Lady Sarah than he’d been the previous evening. His cousin Bonny had once again done him the goodness of placing him next to the lovely Lady Sarah, who once again wore a gown—this time one of a pale blue that matched her eyes—that displayed those magnificent breasts.

“My cousin says you stayed on by yourself in that dreary gallery,” he said to Lady Sarah. “Was it not almost totally dark?”

She studied her soup without looking up at him in much the same way Potts had studied his the previous night. “Yes, it was.”

The way she acted had him examining their conversation to determine if he’d said something that offended her, but he could think of nothing that would have. Perhaps she just relished her clear turtle soup.

He waited until the next course. “I am told the rain is diminishing. I will be most gratified. What about you, my lady? Surely, in spite of your solo walk in the darkened gallery, you cannot enjoy rainy days.”

She continued cutting the turbot into tiny pieces without looking at him. “No, I don’t actually.”

He waited to see if she would either expand on her views of the weather or look him in the eye, but neither was forthcoming.

But before she ate a single bite of the turbot, she smiled upon Potts. “What about you, Lord Pottinger,” said she, “Will you be happy to see the last of the rain?”

Potts looked completely taken aback to have been addressed by her. Then he looked up from the plate he had just cleaned, smiled at her, and said most cheerfully, “Oh, indeed, m-m-m-my lady. I will be m-m-m-most profoundly grateful to get outdoors.”

“As will I,” Lady Sarah said. “And the children. They are looking forward to picking holly with which to decorate for Christmas. Did you do that when you were a child, my lord?”

Alfred was feeling like one standing in queue who’d had the door slammed in his face.

“When I was a s-s-s-small lad, when we went to Lancaster House. When I was older, I was allowed to help with the Yule log.”

“The duke’s going to pretend to allow little Charlie to help with the Yule log—if the weather clears,” Alfred added.

Lady Sarah ignored Alfred. “Do you have nieces and nephews, my lord?” she asked Potts.

“Several. I don’t get to s-s-see them often, as m-m-m-my sisters are a good bit older. “One lives near the Scottish borders, and other in f-f-far west Devon.” He eyed Alfred. “I suppose Wick’s to be an uncle any day.”

“Yes,” Alfred said. “My sister and Dunsford are hoping for a lad. Course I’m already uncle to Harriett.”

“Yes. Quite forgot about that,” Potts said.

“How exciting it will be if the babe is born whilst we all are here.” Lady Sarah spoke more to Potts than she did to him. Alfred was beginning to feel low.

He wondered if his mother was noticing the lady’s coolness to him. What could he do to soften Lady Sarah toward him?

To his even greater humiliation, Lady Sarah looked past him to speak to the person on the other side of him, Twigs. “Mr. Twickingham, do you and Mrs. Twickingham have children?”

Twigs pursed his lips as if the question necessitated great thought. “No. Can’t say that we do.”

“How long have you been married?”

He looked to the head of the table. “Radcliff?” he called to the duke.

The duke set down his wine glass and raised a brow.

“How long you and Duchess been wed?”

“Three years.”

Twigs turned away and eyed Lady Sarah. “Then we’ve been married two and a half. We got married less than a year after Radcliff. He always teases that I copy everything he does.” He shrugged. “Daresay he’s right.”

Alfred could understand why the Twickinghams had not yet propagated. Twigs was seldom home with his wife. One could not go to White’s that Twigs wasn’t there. The fellow had never been much in the petticoat line. Sporting pursuits were what held his interests. Much like Alfred himself. Give them the company of other bloods and something upon which to wager, and they were happy.

When the next course came, the banter across the table between Potts and Lady Sarah grew even warmer—so warm, in fact, that Potts became so comfortable, he stuttered less and less.

And Alfred became a bit melancholy. He consoled himself that at least he’d have Lady Sarah as his whist partner. He vowed to be as charming as was possible. He rather looked forward to sitting across from her. Then it would be he—and not Potts—who would be staring at her pretty face.

But first they must get through this interminable dinner. He was getting bloody bored listening to her talking sweetly to his best friend. What was his mother to think? He fancied getting the money from his mother to settle his debts. She was bound to be unhappy with the way this dinner conversation was going. One watching them would think Lady Sarah was setting her cap for Potts.

Women always favored Alfred over Potts—not that Potts was not a grand fellow, and any woman would be most fortunate to secure his affections. Alfred just wished it wasn’t this woman who was trying to secure Potts’ affections. Because of Alfred’s mother.

After dinner and after the men stayed behind with their port, they rejoined the women. Then he had to be subjected to music, which until last night he had never enjoyed. What he really wanted was to hurry to the whist table and have Lady Sarah almost exclusively.

But first, Bonny said, “Pray, Mrs. Twickingham, won’t you favor us with a song?”

Twigs’ wife shrugged. “Being country bred, I do not like to hold myself up next to talented songstresses like your cousin, your grace.”

“I do understand,” Bonny said. “I, too, was country bred, and with no brothers, I regret to say I was raised like a lad.”

To which comment, the duke roared with laughter.

All eyes turned to the duke, and all in the chamber joined his levity.

“You see, my dearest,” Radcliff said, “no one here has an imagination that can extend to picturing anything about you that is remotely masculine.”

The duchess’s laughing eyes met her husband’s. “I thank you, my darling, but if you think to ever entice me to sing in public, you greatly miscalculate.” She directed her attention to Mrs. Twickingham. “Why don’t you play for Emily. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard my cousin’s lovely voice.”

Alfred had to admit his sister sang like a nightingale.

His mother looked inordinately pleased. “Oh, yes, please, Emily. Do sing for us.”

“Very well, if I may be permitted to sing sitting down. I get so out of breath when I stand.”

Their mother nodded. “You’re now breathing for two, dearest.”

Alfred did not at all mind listening as his sister sang, but did fear she would overtax herself. It pleased him that the others listened appreciatively as she performed, but he was thankful Dunsford insisted she sing just one song.

The duke and duchess then implored Lady Sarah to play once more for the gathering. She graciously consented. To Alfred’s consternation, as she rose, so did Potts. He followed her to the pianoforte, without being asked to do so, and proceeded to turn the pages while she played.

After quickly glaring at his friend, Alfred was mesmerized by Lady Sarah. He was reminded of the first time he beheld the actress Fanny Arbuthnot upon the stage. He’d been instantly struck by her beauty—and a strong lust.

What he experienced this night was similar yet vastly different. There was lust. How could he not be somewhat affected by those stunning breasts? They cried out to be . . . caressed. The very thought aroused him. But the other feelings this woman elicited in him were profoundly different than those stirred by the actress who’d briefly been under his protection before he tired of her and discarded her like a pair of old boots, albeit with a handsome settlement.

If one were just observing Lady Sarah from across the chamber, as he was now, she would appear to be the most elegant creature one had ever beheld. Everything about her was exquisite. The previous night he had conceded that she was lovely. Tonight he understood why his mother so strongly believed this woman was capable of capturing his heart. Not that she could, of course.

But he could not deny that for breeding, beauty, and an elegance beyond compare, this woman had no equal. Now he knew why Lord Fox had been so completely besotted by Lady Sarah Milton.

And for reasons he could not explain, he hoped to God Potts was not falling in love with her.

As much as watching her elegant fingers race over the keys of the pianoforte was a feast for his eyes and as much as he enjoyed it, another part of him was anxious to get her away from the instrument, away from Potts and have her at his own whist table. As his partner.

* * *

When she took her seat at the whist table, Sarah ignored Mr. Wickham as much as she could without being overtly rude.

“I very much enjoyed hearing you sing,” she said to his sister.

“Thank you. It does rather tire me these days.”

Lord Dunsford lifted his wife’s hand and kissed it. “Everything tires her these days, but it will soon be over. Her time’s near.”

Sarah was so touched over the tender relationship between the earl and his wife. She feared she would never find so loving a husband. She was beginning to fear she would never find a husband at all. Before she knew she was going to speak, she blurted out her feelings. “You two are so fortunate to have such a loving marriage.”

Lord Dunsford kissed his wife’s hand once more. “Yes, we are blessed.”

“And we know it,” Lady Dunsford added.

“I have been told, Lady Sarah, you have had many opportunities to wed but have chosen not to,” Mr. Wickham said.

She eyed him frostily. “I choose not to marry where there is no love. Look at how happy your sister is. That is what I wished for.”

“You use the past tense?” Alfred asked, his brows hiked.

“It’s not looking promising.”

“There are not many dukes available.”

She glared at him. “I care not for rank. All that I require is that my future husband come from a good family. Unlike some . . .” She drilled him with a knowing glare, thinking of his actress, “I think it’s difficult to have a successful marriage of mixed classes—not impossible, but difficult.”

He brushed off her comment. “Then a baron—or even a viscount—might answer your needs?”

“Or even a mister. Pray, do not misjudge me.” He was hard to read. Was he wondering if she would be interested in marrying Lord Pottinger? Why had Mr. Wickham mentioned marriage to a baron or viscount? Mr. Wickham himself was in line to become a viscount, but of course he was not interested in her since he was promised to an actress. And now Sarah had gone and blurted out about mere misters—which Alfred Wickham currently was. She was mortified.

And more resolved than ever to be cold to him.

She smiled at his sister. “If I were to marry, which is extremely doubtful, I should want a man as charming as your husband, and I fear there are no more.”

Lady Dunsford flicked a glance at her brother, then back. “While they are rare, I trust you’ll find one, my lady, and perhaps you won’t have to look so very far.”

For spite, Sarah cast her glance across the chamber at Lord Pottinger who sat across the table from the duchess. “Perhaps gallantry isn’t dead.”

“I believe it’s your deal, Lady Sarah,” Mr. Wickham said stiffly.

She and Mr. Wickham handily won the first game. Soon they got into a rhythm like that cultivated from years of familiarity. When his sister played the king of clubs, he said, “I do believe my partner is void in that suit. Will you not trump it, my lovely Lady Sarah?”

Sarah smiled and slapped a nine of diamonds on the king. “How well you know me, sir.” She marveled over the man’s skill at the game. And as angry as she was with him, she had to admit she had never enjoyed playing whist more than she had this evening.

Emily Dunsford expressed mock outrage. “I declare, Alfred! You must be cheating! How can you possibly know what cards are in Lady Sarah’s hand?”

“Now, now, my love,” Lord Dunsford said, “you know what an excellent player your brother is.”

“Indeed he is,” Sarah found herself saying. The ice she’d erected between the two of them had melted as the evening had progressed and their partnership had flourished.

“Ah, what a lucky man I am,” Mr. Wickham said, “to not only have so skilled a player for my partner, but how fortunate I am to be able to look upon one as pretty as she.”

Their string of winning hands and the ability to tap into each other’s weaknesses had the two of them exchanging compliments and encouragements.

She felt uncomfortable under his lazy-eyed gaze. Especially when his gaze lowered to her bosom.

She did purposely attempt to annoy him from time to time. “I would expect, Mr. Wickham, if you had applied yourself to your studies at Oxford with the intensity that you do to games of chance you would still be revered within those hallowed halls.”

Lady Dunsford giggled. “How well you know my brother, Lady Sarah. In fact, you sound exactly like Papa!”

Sarah looked into Mr. Wickham’s amused gaze. His eyes were green, his lashes dark. When he grinned, as he was doing now, a dimple slashed into his lean, manly cheek. He caused her breathing to be erratic. “I am trying to determine if you complimented me, my lady.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Wickham. You’re intelligent enough to realize I gave you credit for considerable intellect.” Their eyes locked. “Did I not?”

He smiled. “Then permit me to say of all the whist partners with whom I’ve ever played, you are my favorite.”

She was taken aback. That was high praise indeed. He was being very nice to her. But she kept wondering if his mother was forcing him to do so.

She was determined to bolster her pride. “I hate to boast, but we have been good together. It doesn’t seem fair. Perhaps tomorrow night I should pair with Lord Pottinger.”

She ignored her mother’s worrying glance.

Chapter 6

Alfred’s fire had gone out during the night, and even though the velvet curtains were closed around his bed, his bedchamber was devilishly cold when he awakened. He threw off his blankets, hurried into his velvet robe, and padded to the casement. The lawns around Hedley were carpeted with snow.

Radcliff would finally get to hunt for that Yule log today. Alfred could not deny he would be awfully happy to get outdoors himself. Being shut away during winter in town wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it was when one was in the country. He supposed that was because when he was in the country he was accustomed to riding and shooting and enjoying all manner of outdoor activities. He’d always preferred country life to city life. Because of those activities.

While he stood there, the char girl came, started the fire in his grate in under two minutes, and quietly left.

The fire drew him like the face of a pretty actress . . . or the bosom of Lady Sarah Milton. He went to stand before the fire, ashamed of himself. Lady Sarah had many more attributes than a fine pair of breasts. And they weren’t all physical—though her physical attributes were abundant. Even the timbre of her voice was pleasant. The way she walked and held her cards with such grace could make most other women look masculine. Her eye for fashion was unerring. Her skill at the pianoforte was unmatched. And her intelligence! Granted, he’d only been with her for two days, but in that time he had been significantly impressed with her mind. She thought like a man.

He smiled to himself. She’d be furious if he ever said that in front of her.

Lady Sarah was not without flaws. Unlike other women, she was not attracted to him. Not that he minded. But while his mother was observing, he bloody well wished Lady Sarah would have appeared to have taken some kind of interest in him.

Also, behind that lilting, feminine voice of Lady Sarah’s lurked a sharp-tongued shrew. And one more detriment: he suspected the woman preferred Potts to him.

Which was all very good. Potts was a fine fellow. Potts deserved the lovely earl’s daughter. So why in the devil did it make Alfred so beastly angry that this lady preferred Potts?

He did want that money his mother promised. How likely was his mother to give it to him if Lady Sarah spent her time gushing over Potts?

His man came to assist him in dressing for the day. “Warm clothing, Marks. We’ll be going outside today.”

* * *

“Hah-wee-ett.” Charlie was up on his knees upon the seat of his parents’ sleigh, peering at his cousin, as the sleigh sped off. He was about to cry at the separation from the other child.

The frowning duchess eyed Sarah, who sat across from her. “He doesn’t understand why Harriett isn’t coming with us.”

Sarah smiled. “It would be hard to explain to a child Lord Dunsford’s exceedingly worry for the child’s mother.”

The duke and duchess chuckled. “Dunsford does seem to think his wife’s some delicate egg that will crush during a sleigh ride,” the duke said.

“Or a coach ride,” the duchess added. “He insisted they come to Hedley a month before Christmas. He didn’t want her in a coach so close to her time.”

The duke gave a resigned shrug. “I would have done the same.” He put two strong hands around his lad’s waist and hauled him onto his lap. “I told you, son, you’re going to have to help me and the other men today. We have to find a big log, and we need strong fellows like you.”

This had the effect of making Charlie forget about Harriett.

A smaller sleigh carrying Lady Babington, Lady Landis, and Mrs. Twickingham glided along beside them, and the other men rode horseback on either side of them until they reached a copse of woods, and everyone dismounted.

The ladies, as had Lady Dunsford back near the house, carried baskets with which to gather holly. “You won’t need a basket,” Mr. Wickham said when he and Lord Pottinger approached her. “Those who are not married must go and locate mistletoe.”

She looked at Lord Pottinger. “Is that so?”

He looked from Mr. Wickham to her and shrugged. “That’s w-w-w-what Wick tells me.”

“Won’t I need a basket for the mistletoe?” she asked.

“I suppose you will.”

They broke away from the others and walked off toward the taller trees. “Are you proposing to climb the trees, Mr. Wickham?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll give you a leg up, old boy.”

She had noticed that Lord Pottinger never stuttered when speaking to his friend, only when speaking to her. She supposed he was exceptionally comfortable when talking to Mr. Wickham, owing to the fact they’d been close friends for almost three-quarters of their lives. They were rather like siblings.

She moved nearer to the baron. “Pray, Lord Pottinger, could I impose on you to offer your arm? I fear I’ll fall on this uneven terrain and muss my dress.”

His step slowed, and he turned to her. “B-b-b-but of course, m-m-m-my lady.” He proffered his arm.

Mr. Wickham stalked ahead.

“Oh, look there, Wick!” Lord Pottinger stopped and pointed to their left. “I believe that’s a bunch of mistletoe.”

“So it is,” Mr. Wickham said icily.

Was he angry because he hadn’t seen it first?

Lord Pottinger turned to her. “Pardon m-m-m-m-me. M-m-m-must help Wick up.”

He proceeded to thread his gloved fingers together, stoop, and offer his friend a step to advance him up the tree trunk.

She could not help but admire how easily Alfred Wickham scurried up the tree and snapped off three bunches of the parasitic plant with the pearly berries before he shimmied back down and plopped them in her basket. “That ought to be enough,” he snapped.

Then he did a most peculiar thing. “May I offer you my arm, Lady Sarah?”

Uncharitably, she wondered if he was wanting to display her on his arm for his mother’s sake. “I’m thinking your actress would object.”

“As I said before, I’m not yet tied down.”

She gave him a disapproving glare. “Your mother’s description of you as a naughty boy does come to mind.”

Lord Pottinger burst into laughter. She turned to the baron and took his arm, presenting her back to a fuming Mr. Wickham.

* * *

An hour later they were all gathered in the drawing room, and the ladies were decorating the chamber with lengths of holly they’d gathered earlier. Alfred sat on a big comfortable chair watching his niece. Though his mother had never fully embraced Emma’s daughter as a member of the family, owing to her illegitimacy, Alfred could not help but love the child. His sister obviously adored her. And Harriett was such a sweet little thing.

While the little girl was the image of the Dunsfords, she had adopted many of Em’s mannerisms, and it was probably Alfred’s imagination, but the child reminded him in many ways of his sister. He even fancied she had Em’s hands, those squared off fingers Em had always deplored for their lack of elegance. They were not long and graceful like Lady Sarah’s.

His gaze moved to Lady Sarah. She wore red velvet but not the full ensemble she’d worn earlier that day with ermine-trimmed hood and ermine muff. Now she held up Harriett so she could place a sprig of holly berries upon the mantel. His sister had been forced to sit on the sofa and prop up her swollen ankles while she watched the proceedings. The other men, like him, deemed themselves ill qualified to decorate.

“What a fine job you’re doing,” Lady Sarah said to Harriett. “Are these the berries you found this morning by the house?”

Harriett nodded proudly.

“I do believe they’re the best of all. You must be very proud.” Lady Sarah turned to Em. “Look, Lady Dunsford, how beautiful are these berries your little girl found!”

Em’s mouth formed an oval. “Oh, my! They are most lovely.”

Little Harriett slipped her arms around Lady Sarah’s shoulders, and she beamed.

Charlie moved across the chamber and tugged at Lady Sarah’s skirt. The lad spoke very little but seemed to understand everything. Alfred suspected he had no impetus to talk when the spoiled duke’s son’s every wish was fulfilled.

Lady Sarah looked angelic as she looked down at the lad and smiled. “Do you want me to pick you up, too?”

The young marquess nodded.

Still gripping Harriett, Lady Sarah bent down and scooped up Charlie, making it look effortless. The toddler’s face shone like the noon-day sun in summer, his smile stretching across it.

“See the pretty berries?” Lady Sarah said, balancing a child on each arm.

Charlie nodded. “Me berries, too.”

“Where are your berries?” she asked.

His head swiveled to the duchess, who was laying a garland upon a window seat. “Mama.”

“Shall we go get some of your berries to put up here?” Sarah asked him.

He nodded vigorously.

How in the devil, Alfred wondered, did a spinster like her know how to read children’s minds? As out of charity as he was with her, he had to own that she was decidedly good with little ones. He seemed to recall she had elder siblings who must have made her an aunt. That must explain how she’d acquired such expertise.

As she moved back to the chimneypiece, he could not remove his gaze from her. He knew of no other woman who walked with such grace. And her figure! It was womanly perfection. She was neither short nor tall, but just right. If he waltzed with her—something he never did—her face would meet his chest. In all physical aspects, she gave pleasure.

A pity he had alienated her. She was admired by all. She was pleasant to everyone except him. He had the feeling that if she had been as sweetly solicitous to him as she was to everyone else he would have been clay in her delicate hands. But, of course, he had destroyed that.

His gaze flicked to Potts. He, too, could not look away from the beautiful woman. Had Lady Sarah Milton bewitched him?

After a few moments, Alfred could tell Lady Sarah’s arms were aching. Harriett did not weigh so very much, but Charlie, though younger, must double her weight. Alfred sprang to his feet and moved to the mantel, smiling at his niece. “Ah, Harriett, come to your uncle. I think it’s time you had a ride upon my shoulders.”

Her wide blue eyes brightened and she happily went to him as he and Lady Sarah exchanged amused smiles. “I think you may have overextended yourself, my lady,” he said.

“Ah, but I enjoy these children far too much to think logically.”

He put Harriett on his shoulders, careful to hold on to each of her knees. “They are fun.”

“Alfred!” his sister shrieked. “You worry me to death when you carry her about like that.”

“Stop it, Mother,” Lord Dunsford said. “He’s not going to let anything happen to her. You worry too much.”

His wife looked him up and down. “Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

To which everyone in the chamber began to laugh.

“Speaking of your husband’s excessive worries,” the duchess said, “we ladies have been invited to have tea tomorrow by Mrs. Carlisle—she’s the local squire’s wife and also Cressida Twickingham’s mother. You’ll recall Cressy was our neighbor. That’s how she met Twigs. Do you suppose Lord Dunsford will allow you to ride over with us?”

Lady Dunsford looked to her husband.

His eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t allow you to ride in a carriage until after the babe arrives.”

Lady Dunsford sighed.

The duchess sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

Lady Sarah looked at Emma. “I shouldn’t like for all the women to go off and leave you tomorrow. I’ll stay with you. Do you fancy a game of chess?”

Em’s face softened. “That would be lovely. I adore chess.”

Em was very like him, Alfred thought. They had always played games when they were growing up.

Now that Alfred thought about it, Lady Sarah was very like them. She, more than any other woman, liked to play games that required skill. She was more like him than any other woman he’d ever met. Even more than his sister.

And he’d repulsed her.

“Hey, Wick, you’re much taller than me. Come help hang this mistletoe,” Potts said.

Alfred had been so caught up in the children’s activities, he’d forgotten about the mistletoe.

“There should be a tiny nail just above that door from last Christmas,” Bonny said, pointing to the door leading to the corridor.

Even though Alfred was well over six feet, he would not be able to hang the mistletoe on the twelve-foot doorways without standing on a ladder. Within a few minutes, a footman lugged a stepladder into the chamber, and Alfred started to climb with the largest sprig of mistletoe, all the while imagining what it would be like to capture Lady Sarah beneath it for a kiss.

Once he was finished, Radcliff seized his wife and carried her to the doorway, where he planted a kiss upon her lips as both of them merrily laughed. Then Charlie wiggled away from Lady Sarah and ran to his parents. “Me. Me, too.”

His father set Bonny down and swung the little lad into his arms, and both parents showered his face with kisses.

Next, Cressida Twickingham went and stood beneath the mistletoe. Her husband ignored her.

“I believe, Twigs,” the duke said, “you’re to kiss your wife when she stands beneath the mistletoe.”

Twigs scrunched up his face. “In front of all these people?”

The duke nodded.

Twigs looked at his wife. She nodded.

Frowning, Twigs got to his feet and stalked across the chamber, and then pressed a quick kiss upon his wife’s cheek before returning to his chair.

When the duke turned his attention to the Yule log, the children grew fascinated over it, and everyone forgot about the mistletoe.

Everyone except Alfred. He was waiting for the moment when Lady Sarah walked under it.

When that moment came, the others were still gathered around the hearth and not paying attention to Lady Sarah or to him. As she moved to the doorway, he intercepted her.

“I must claim a kiss, my lady. You’re under the mistletoe.”

Before she could respond, he drew her into his arms, lowered his head to hers, and kissed her thoroughly. At first she was all stiffness, then her body eased into his.

And he lost his senses. For a moment. Then he remembered where he was—and remembered this was a well-born lady. He drew a deep breath. “You, my lady, are as skillful at kissing as you are at whist.”

With that remark, he executed a neat pivot and left the chamber.

* * *

Later that evening Potts took Alfred aside. “I can certainly understand now why Lord Fox was so madly in love with Lady Sarah. She is perfection. I am so relieved that you, my friend, are not attracted to well-bred ladies, for I would never stand a chance with her.”

Alfred felt rather as if he’d been walloped in the chest with that Yule log Radcliff had hauled home this morning. Obviously his friend had not witnessed the scene under the mistletoe. “Are you saying you’ve fallen in love with the lady?” Like himself, Potts had heretofore never fallen in love with respectable ladies. He’d been marginally in love with his widowed contessa. For a very short time.

“Frightfully so, I’m afraid.”

“Then you mean to offer for her?” For some unaccountable reason, Alfred’s gut sank.

Potts shrugged. “I should like to. If I could ever summon the courage. I know she could do vastly better, but I do think she fancies me. And I’m exceedingly grateful you don’t fancy her.”

“Don’t say she could do vastly better, old boy. You’re a far better prize than, say, Lord Fox, even though his fortune is significantly larger than yours.”

“That’s awfully nice of you to say so, Wick.”

Alfred patted him on the back. “Only speaking the truth.”

Potts was the finest fellow he knew. He deserved a fine woman like Lady Sarah.

What a bloody big mistake Alfred had made.

Chapter 7

Several of them met in the morning room for breakfast. Even though no places were assigned, out of habit Alfred came and sat next to Lady Sarah after he piled his plate from the offerings on the sideboard. And as was his custom, Potts sat across from the lady, even more mute than normal.

The lady was exquisite. There was something ethereal about the way she looked in the pale blue and frothy lace gown. It was no wonder Potts was struck dumb. And Potts had yet to kiss her. As Alfred had. The very memory of that brief kiss under the mistletoe stirred him as no other kiss ever had.

"It appears the snow has continued all night," she said.

"Yes," Alfred agreed. He looked at the lady's mother who sat at her daughter's side. "Will you be among the group visiting the squire’s today?"

Lady Babington nodded. "I believe all the ladies are going, except for my daughter and your sister. It will also be nice to see the village."

He spooned marmalade onto his toast. "Indeed. It is very kind of Lady Sarah to stay behind with my sister."

"I assure you, it's no hardship” Lady Sarah said. “We're to play chess, and Mama knows how much I enjoy playing games."

"Just like Wick," Potts said.

Lady Sarah looked mischievously at him. "Oh dear, Mr. Wickham, I do hope I haven't your other vices."

He was glad his mother preferred to take breakfast in bed. This woman derived far too much pleasure in pointing out his shortcomings. What a pity he had been the instigator of the practice.

The duchess entered the chamber, and all the men stood in reverence. He was so proud of his cousin. Even though she was a duchess, Bonny never flaunted her exalted position. She eschewed the practice of eating in bed in order to mingle with her guests.

She placed a single piece of toast on her plate and poured herself a cup of tea before coming to sit down next to Twigs. "I understand your father-in-law’s coming here today to play billiards with the men whilst we women descend upon his house."

Twigs shuddered. "Can't blame the fellow. Wouldn't want to be there with all those babbling women." Then he grimaced. "Fine fellow, but a wretched billiards player." He shook his head. "Charlie could beat him."

The vision of two-year-old Charlie standing upon a chair with a billiards cue in hand sent Alfred into guffaws of laughter. Bonny followed, holding her hand over her mouthful of half-chewed food.

The duke then strolled into the chamber, standing in the doorway. "A happy Christmas Eve to all of you," he said before turning loving eyes upon his wife, then moving to the sideboard and filling his plate. He came to kiss his wife on the cheek before taking a seat. "Good morning, my love."

Bonny looked up at her husband with love in her eyes and squeezed his hand. "Happy Christmas Eve, my darling."

"Here," Alfred said to the duke, "you can take my seat. I'm finished."

* * *

They had been playing chess for hours. Sarah's body was stiff. She could only imagine how uncomfortable Lady Dunsford must be. "I think, my lady, you need a break. Shall I ring for tea or something to drink?"

Lady Dunsford sighed. "No, but I should very much like to put up my feet. These ankles tend to swell. I will be so happy when this babe comes."

They moved to the sofa near the window, and the expectant mother elevated her legs. Sarah sat in a nearby chair.

"You're an excellent chess player,” Sarah said. “I fear I'm going to sound like your brother, but I must say you play chess like a . . ."

". . . a man. I know. I was thinking the same thing about you!"

They both laughed.

"I will own," Lady Dunsford said, "I have only ever played with Alfred."

"And I have mostly played with my father. My brothers are much older and have been in the Peninsula for what seems half of my life."

"I met your oldest brother when I was there with my aunt and uncle a few years ago."

"I'd forgotten that you spent time in the Peninsula."

Lady Dunsford grew solemn. "Yes. It was a sad time. So many deaths. My aunt died while I was there, you know."

Sarah nodded. "And Lord Dunsford's brother died there.  Poor little Harriett. But she's fortunate to have you and Lord Dunsford."

"We're the fortunate ones. We adore her."

"Would you like me to send for her now?" Sarah knew how much Lady Dunsford enjoyed being around the little girl.

The lady shook her head. "No. I don't want her to see me like this. You see, I'm not feeling well at all."

Sarah's brows lowered. "What can I do to help?"

"I don't think there's anything you can do. I must wait and see if it's my time."

Panic struck Sarah. What if it was Lady Dunsford's time? All the ladies were gone. Sarah was as knowledgeable about birthing babes as the vicar squire was about billiards.

She knew but one thing about the birth of babes: the birth of a first child always took longest. She'd been told it could take many hours--sometimes even days. She coaxed herself to remain calm. The ladies would be home in a couple of hours. Since this was Lady Dunsford's first babe, the birth was not likely to occur before Christmas Day. Their mothers would be home by then, and the mothers could take charge of everything.

"Do I need to alert Lord Dunsford?"

The lady shook her head. "No. He’s gone shooting with duke. Besides, it's too early to say with certainty if it's my time, or if I'm just feeling poorly. I haven't felt terribly well for some time."

Sarah touched her hand. "I'm so sorry, but your reward is very near now."

Lady Dunsford favored Sarah with a radiant smile. "Yes, he is. I just know I'm carrying Henry's heir. We are very happy."

"You’re very blessed. I would happily trade places with you. To have a husband who is so clearly in love with you, to be on the verge of motherhood. I can't imagine having a more full life."

Sarah not only longed for a marriage that was a true love match, but she also craved children. Being around Harriett and Charlie made her more aware than ever of how much she loved children, of how much she was missing, of how empty her life was.

Lady Dunsford took both of Sarah's hands and clasped them within her own. "You will find such joy. I'm just very sorry it's not working out with my brother. I truly believed you two would be perfect for each other."

Sarah bit her lip. "I wouldn't have come here had I not initially been attracted to him, but I fear his affections are elsewhere engaged." But why had he kissed her? It was as if he’d pulled the carpet from under her complacency. She felt worse than ever now—now that she’d tasted his lips and knew what she was missing.

Obviously the kiss had meant nothing to him. It was a mere lark, a lark that had robbed her of sleep.

His sister's eyes widened, and she shook her head solemnly. "I cannot believe that. I would know it if my brother were in love with someone. We’ve always been close."

Sarah shrugged. "Lord Pottinger informed me, but it's not my place to speak further on the matter."

The lady nodded. Though she tried to disguise it, Sarah could tell she was in a great deal of pain.

"It's a pity the both of us are so ignorant of what one is to expect at a time such as this," Sarah said.

"Yes. Of course, it won't be long before my mother comes. She'll know everything."

Once more, Sarah experienced that third-tit feeling. She hated being so useless. Most of her life—even though she was the baby of her family—she had always been possessed of an authoritarian personality. She was a natural nurturer. She liked taking care of others. She had been a wonderful nursemaid when Mama had taken ill last year. And she had knitted socks for all her parents' cottagers and taught Scripture and reading to the children of the village, and she had organized subscriptions for the war widows in her brothers' regiment. She loved being useful.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the drawing room. Sarah was grateful the women had returned. The door opened, and Lord Dunsford and the duke came into the chamber.

"You're back early," Lady Dunsford said.

"We were lucky to make it back. It's a blizzard out there."

Lady Dunsford leapt to her feet and went to the window. Sarah followed. How could they not have noticed how wretched the weather had become? Just because sun shone in the sky, they had been blinded to the fury of snowstorm. That there had been no lull in their conversation had masked their interest in the day’s rather fierce weather.

"Oh dear," Lady Dunsford said morosely. "Will Mama be able to come home from the Carlisles’?"

The duke solemnly shook his head. "Not in this weather."

A tear trickled down Lady Dunsford’s cheek.

"What's wrong, love?" Lord Dunsford asked.

"My time has come."

Her husband moved to her and set a hand at her waist. "Everything will be fine." The tremble in his voice betrayed the comfort of his words.

Sarah also moved to her and placed a gentle hand on her forearm. "Don't worry. Your mother will be home in time for the birth. You know what they say about the first babe. It always takes the longest. It will be many, many hours before it comes."

The lady lifted frightened eyes to her husband. He looked from his wife, to the duke.

Both men frowned.

Lady Dunsford swallowed. Then she burst into tears. "It's not my first."

Chapter 8

It took a few seconds for the shock of Lady Dunsford's words to make sense, and then Sarah understood. Lady Dunsford must have given birth to Harriett out of wedlock when she lived on the Peninsula. Was Lord Dunsford's dead brother the father? He must have been. The child looked so much like the Dunsfords.

But the sweet child's parentage was not at question here. All that mattered now was bringing that child's little brother or sister into the world. And whether she knew what she was doing or not, Sarah meant to do her best to assist Lady Dunsford to the best of her capabilities.

She quickly recovered and smiled at the distressed woman. "Do not fret, my lady. All will be well. You are not alone. You're surrounded by those who love you, and I mean to help in every way I can. Were my mother here, she would attest to my abilities in the sick room. I do not get queasy, and I have never in my life fainted. I will do everything in power to help bring your little lord or lady into the world."

"We do thank you," Lord Dunsford said.

"My husband, I fear, does faint in the sick room," Lady Dunsford managed between grimaces.

Sarah turned to him and spoke in a commanding voice. "At least you can carry your wife up to her bed. I’ll do my best to take charge."

Then she turned to the duke. "What of your female servants? Have any of them attended at a birth?"

He gave the matter a few seconds of thought, and then nodded. "The cook was present at Charlie's birth. Of course, I had an accoucheur."

The Duke of Radcliff would have insisted only the most skilled persons attended his wife at the birth of his heir.

"Please send the cook up." Hopefully, between the two of them Lady Dunsford would be well cared for.

As Lord Dunsford was carrying his wife upstairs, her brother saw them, and rushed from the billiards room. "What's happened? Is Em all right?" There was panic in his voice as he raced after them.

"Her time has come," Lord Dunsford said solemnly.

"Where's Mama?" Alfred Wickham was now abreast of his brother-in-law.

"We fear she's been snowed in at the Carlisles’,” his sister responded. “Have you not noticed there's a blizzard outside?"

"No! The draperies were closed in the billiards room."

Mr. Wickham addressed his sister’s husband. "I thought you were useless in the sickroom."

Lord Dunsford hung his head. "Alas, I regret to say that’s true."

"I’ll assist,” Mr. Wickham said.

His sister’s head whipped around. “You will do no such thing! I should be embarrassed to death.”

“But in the absence of . . . most everyone, you need me. I've a stomach of iron—and I've been at the birth of countless foals."

Lady Sarah’s eyes rolled. "I beg you not put your niece or nephew in the same category with your livestock."

He eyed her. "And how many births have you even been at?"

She stiffened.

Before she could answer, Lady Dunsford erupted into tears. "Please don't bicker. Lady Sa-a-arah has done me the goodness to offer to help bring our child into the world. . .”

“And," Lord Dunsford added, "unlike me, Lady Sarah has never fainted at the sight of blood."

To this remark, Mr. Wickham burst out laughing. "I promise that between Lady Sarah and me, we will see mother safely delivered of a babe." He turned to Lady Dunsford and spoke softly. “There’s nothing embarrassing about becoming a mother.”

"Cook is to help, too," the duke added, a hopeful expression on his face.

Lord Pottinger had taken it upon himself to climb the stairs after them, for whatever purpose Sarah could not fathom, but as they reached the turquoise bedchamber where Lord and Lady Dunsford were staying, he said, “Could I have a quick w-w-word with Lady Sarah?”

Impatiently, she went directly to him.

“When you are finished with Lady Dunsford I should like to s-s-s-speak to you on a private matter,” he said.

“Very well.” She turned back and hurried to the room where the Dunsfords’ child would be born.

As inadequate as Sarah felt, she knew she could not let Lady Dunsford know of her weakness. For the expectant mother, she had to appear strong.

With her most commanding voice, Sarah instructed his lordship to place his wife upon the big tester bed, and she propped her up on mounds of pillows and produced a fine cambric handkerchief with which to dry the lady's tears. She spoke soothingly to her. "Don’t worry. You will be cared for by those who care about you."

Her brother leaned over and stroked her face. "You know I won't let you down, Petty."

His sister smiled. "It's been a very long time since you've called me by that name."

How sweet, Sarah thought. It reminded Sarah that her elder brother, John, the one closest to her in age, had always called her Scamp. She'd hated it for years and now longed to hear it just as she longed for his return from the Peninsula.

Sarah saw that Lord Dunsford looked not at all well. Was he going to faint? That was all they needed. Two patients. "I know, my lord, you're concerned about your wife, but I think you'll help her more by absenting yourself from this chamber."

Lady Dunsford took her husband's hand. "Yes, love. Do go."

He nodded, and he and the duke left the chamber.

Her husband's leaving freed the lady to grimace in a pain so intense that tears puddled in her eyes.

Sarah wanted to ask how long it had taken Lady Dunsford to bring Harriett into the world but did not feel it her place to discuss what was probably a shameful secret in front of the lady's brother. Did he know about his sister’s secret?

While the fire in the hearth felt good to Sarah on so freezing an evening, she knew from attending to the sick that it might not be welcome to her patient. Already perspiration was streaking Lady Dunsford’s face and moistening her hair.

As Mr. Wickham went to cover up his sister, Sarah said, “Don’t. I think she’s very hot.” Sarah watched Lady Dunsford for a reaction.

“I’m so hot. Please, no covers.” She spoke as if it took a great amount of effort.

“Have a servant bring water,” Sarah said to Mr. Wickham.

He did as bid and returned a moment later.

“I suppose we just have to wait,” Sarah said.

* * *

Lord Dunsford was not able to play billiards. He was too worried about his wife. The duke, whom the earl judged to have had a similar experience worrying over his adored wife during the birth of their son, sat with him in the library and attempted to keep him so engaged in conversation he would not dwell on Emily’s ordeal.

No amount of repartee, though, could efface from his mind that last forlorn glimpse at the woman he loved more than anyone on earth. Would he ever be able to forget the brave way she braced against the searing pains that shot through her fragile body? God, but he loved that woman!

They were soon joined by Twigs and Lord Pottinger. Which was probably a very good thing. Neither of the two was possessed of great intellect, but each was exceedingly well-liked, and each was amusing in a way that made the observer feel superior. Which was really not very charitable, especially when the fellows were so eminently likeable.

“Where are the other men?” the duke asked Twigs.

“Cressy’s father, Wickham’s father, and Lady Sarah’s father are all playing billiards—though Cressy’s father is only playing at playing billiards, if you get my meaning—while he rants about needing to get home tonight.”

The duke’s brows rose. “Is the man delusional?”

Twigs shrugged. “I ain’t a genius, but even I know he ain’t going to make it home by tomorrow morning.”

Lord Pottinger walked to the window and peered into the night. “The snow hasn’t stopped falling all day.” He came back and sat on one of the chamber’s velvet sofas.

“Gentlemen,” the duke said, “it looks as if we may be having a Christmas baby at Hedley Hall.”

“Your wife, Lord Dunsford?” Lord Pottinger inquired.

Dunsford nodded.

“I say,” Twigs said with the amazement of one who’d just discovered the printing press, “jolly good birthday to have! Just think how easy it will be to remember. Christmas Day. Everyone knows December twenty-fifth. I never can remember Cressy’s birthday. Thought I had it last year. You know the chant, Fifth of November Since I can remember.” Twigs’ face fell. “Unfortunately it wasn’t her birthday, it was . . .”

“Guy Fawkes Day,” every man in the chamber said, laughing.

Twigs shook his head somberly. “You may laugh, but I assure you my wife was not happy.” He looked most displeased. “And she did not at all like the present I gave her, either.”

Dunsford could not imagine a lady being rude enough to express displeasure over a gift. Unless it was in very poor taste. “Whatever did you give her?”

Twigs shook his head ruefully. “I even asked Duchess for recommendations.”

The duke had a puzzled look on his face. “And what did my wife suggest?”

Twigs held an index finger to his chin. “Let me think of Duchess’s exact words. Oh, yes, a living, breathing little being. That’s what she said!” He looked even more dejected. “Can’t understand it at all. Cressy exceedingly disliked the gift, and I must say it was the prettiest little bitch you ever saw. Fluffy with brown spots.”

The other men roared with laughter. Dunsford was thankful these other men had shown up to take his thoughts away from worrying about Emily.

“Don’t see what’s so devilishly funny,” Twigs said. “Like big dogs meself, but Duchess did say little, so I thought Cressy would like the little ball of fur.”

“I’m sure there was nothing wrong with your dog,” the duke said. “It may be that Bonny—being so mad over Charlie—may have had a child in mind when she made the suggestion about a little being.”

Twigs eyed his lifelong friend as if he’d just sprouted a second nose. “A fine suggestion that was. Where, I ask you, am I to procure a little Charlie? It’s not as if I can walk into a shop and purchase a lad who looks like the Duke of Radcliff.”

“Perhaps her grace thought Mrs. Twickingham might like a lad who resembles you, my friend,” the duke suggested.

“Which brings up the same difficulties,” Twigs said, throwing his arms wide, “unless . . . do you suppose one could be had at a foundling home?”

The duke coughed and exchanged amused glances with the other men present. “I believe, old fellow, you are missing the point.”

Twigs looked from him to Dunsford to Pottinger but still showed no sign of comprehension.

Finally Dunsford spoke. “Perhaps, Twigs, your wife might wish to be in a situation similar to what my wife is presently in.”

A moment later Twigs nodded with understanding. “I see. Never thought of it that way. Have to ask her. Bloody glad her father ain’t in this chamber at present. Shouldn’t wish to have this discussion with him listening.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” the duke agreed.

* * *

All Alfred cared about in the next few hours was seeing to his sister’s comfort—which was exceedingly difficult, given the circumstances. He did manage to procure a small amount of laudanum. “Well, Petty, I’m going to be your favorite brother now. I’ve found something to help your suffering.”

“Silly,” Emily slurred. “You are my only brother.”

“Oh, so I am.”

“Please say you’ve found laudanum.”

“Just for my favorite sister. Sit up for a minute, love.” He administered the liquid. It significantly eased her pain, but it also stole any clarity of her thoughts and caused her to ramble.

Radcliff’s cook was almost useless. Perhaps she would show her mettle when the babe was actually making its appearance, but for now her only contribution was as a go-between with the servants when they needed something, like water.

Lady Sarah, on the other hand, won his profound respect. For someone who had never before been around the scene of a birth, she displayed a remarkable maturity mingled with tenderness.

He kept deferring to Lady Sarah’s judgment. “Do you think we’ve given her too much water?”

She shook her head. “Not the way she’s perspiring.”

Lady Sarah always made so much sense.

How right she had been when she told Em she would be cared for by people who cared about her. He, of course, loved his sister. And Lady Sarah treated her as lovingly as one would treat a sister. Her first concern was Em’s comfort.

He would never have thought about how hot Em must be on such a frigid night. But Lady Sarah had that rare gift of empathy. He was quite certain Em was in better hands with Lady Sarah than she would have been with their own mother.

Not long after the laudanum had taken effect, he’d had a brief peaceful spell while his sister rested.

“God, I hope the babe’s all right.” His voice softened and cracked. “But most of all, I pray Em will be all right.”

Lady Sarah patted his forearm. “She will.”

Somehow, he was relieved by her words, and his turned thoughts to a prospective union between Potts and Lady Sarah. He wondered what Potts had said to her just outside this bedchamber door.

After having the opportunity to observe Lady Sarah’s kindness, he had more reason that ever to regret foiling his mother’s plans and to envy Potts.

But he wished Potts well, really he did. The fellow deserved happiness.

As did Lady Sarah.

But it was difficult not to be filled with regrets.

It was just after midnight when Em’s suffering worsened. His grip on her hand tightened, and he spoke soothing endearments to her.

“Something’s wrong!” Em shrieked. “It wasn’t like this last time.”

Lady Sarah was lovingly stroking his sister’s brow with cool water. “Don’t worry, my lady. Your baby will be fine.”

Em thrashed about, breaking his grip. “No. It was different last time.”

“What do you mean last time?” he asked.

“Water. Please, I need water,” Em said.

Lady Sarah held a glass to Em’s lips as she tried to drink.

The cook came closer to the bed. “Tell her ladyship every time be different. That much I do know.”

Lady Sarah nodded and smoothed the damp hair from his sister’s brow.

“Why does she keep talking about last time?” he asked.

Lady Sarah whispered. “I believe Harriett is truly your sister’s child.”

Alfred reeled. It was as if a hundred thoughts collided in his brain at once. He hadn’t been imagining it when he’d seen some of his sister’s expressions and mannerisms in his niece. He thought back to the time she’d spent in the Peninsula with their aunt. He remembered that Lord Dunsford’s brother had died there. He must have been Harriett’s father.

Clearly, their mother did not know. She needed to. She needed to know that precious little girl was her own granddaughter and not treat her like an unwelcome bastard.

By now his sister’s pains were coming quicker, and she was panting and moaning. Then she screamed. He wished he could have borne the pain for her.

He was terrified.

“It do be her ladyship’s time, I do believe,” the cook said.

Chapter 9

By sheer virtue of being the only one present who had been at a birth before, the cook turned out to be helpful when Lord Dunsford’s heir made his appearance into the world at half past two on Christmas morning. She knew how to sever the umbilical cord and instructed Alfred Wickham on washing the newborn while she and Sarah attended Lady Dunsford.

“It’s a fine, big baby boy ye’ve brought into the world,” Cook said to the mother as she handed the screaming newborn off to his uncle.

To which the new mother erupted into tears. “Henry will be so happy.”

“He’s got all his fingers and toes,” her brother called out. “I’d say he’s perfect.”

Mr. Wickham had been wonderful throughout the hours of his sister’s birthing. Sarah couldn’t help but envy that actress who would gain him for a husband. What a fine man he was. Even if he did gamble to excess. And swordfight without a mask. And associate with women of questionable morals.

How unfortunate for Sarah that of all the men in the kingdom, only Alfred Wickham had ever appealed to her—and she had never appealed to him. Even though he had once wanted to kiss her.

At least one very special thing had been accomplished over this Yuletide. She had the privilege of assisting sweet Lady Dunsford at the birth of her son. It was an event she would never forget.

It became even more special after Mr. Wickham cleaned up the little downy-headed darling and wrapped him in a soft blanket provided by the cook. He came to the bed and placed the sleeping babe in Sarah’s arms. She had never before held a newborn babe and was astonished at the rush of emotions provoked by this tiny little infant swathed in warmth. Tears pricked at her eyes, too, and she understood a mother’s instantaneous love for her offspring. When she handed him to his mother, she felt bereft. But incredibly happy for Lady Dunsford. How kind it had been of Mr. Wickham to allow her to place the tiny babe in his weeping mother’s arms.

“Please, my lady,” Sarah said, “don’t cry. You should be very happy to have such a fine son.”

“That’s why I’m crying,” Lady Dunsford confessed in a shaky voice. “Where’s my husband? He must see this most perfect little lad.”

“Your brother’s gone to fetch him.”

“Is my brother not wonderful?” she asked in a choking voice.

“Yes, he is rather.”

Lady Dunsford could not remove her adoring gaze from her tiny son. Her lips brushed over the blond fluff on his little head as she held him close. “He looks so much like Harriett looked when she was born.”

Moments later her husband hurried into the chamber, tears in his eyes as he kissed his wife.

“Look, my dearest,” she whispered, showing him the infant’s face, “is he not beautiful?”

Sarah, Wickham, and the cook quietly closed the door behind them to give the new parents privacy.

“Before you go to see Lord Pottinger,” Mr.  Wickham said, “may I have a word?”

It had been such a long night she had completely forgotten that Lord Pottinger had asked to speak to her once the birthing had taken place.

As she and Mr. Wickham were moving downstairs, they passed the duke. “I know I express what Bonny would say were she here when I thank you two for all you did for Emily.”

“Can you forget, your grace, Emily is my sister?” Mr. Wickham said.

The duke nodded and eyed Sarah. “But Lady Sarah was not bound by ties of kinship. We do thank you, my lady.”

“It was a most rewarding night,” she said.

A satisfied look on his face, the duke nodded. “Goodnight, Lady Sarah, Alfred. Happy Christmas. I believe Lord Pottinger awaits Lady Sarah in the library.”

“Happy Christmas to you, your grace,” she said.

“It’s certainly been an eventful night,” Mr. Wickham said as they continued along the stairs.

She smiled up at him. “I’m not even tired. It’s too exhilarating. All your sister’s pain has been completely obliterated under the sheer happiness that precious babe has brought to her and Lord Dunsford. You do have a very fine little nephew, Mr. Wickham.”

“Yes, I do, and I believe Dunsford may be the happiest man in the kingdom right now.” He drew a breath. “That brings up a matter I wish to discuss with you. My niece.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not a matter I would ever discuss with anyone. An innocent child could be harmed.”

“Forgive me for even thinking you might see it otherwise.”

“Your mother doesn’t know, does she?”

He shook his head.

“Such a pity. She’s such a dear child.”

“My niece has always been very dear to me.”

Sarah set her hand upon his, unconscious about what she was doing until the deed was done. Even though it now felt awkward, it would have felt more awkward had she withdrawn it. “You’re a far better man than you wish others to know.”

“Not good enough for the likes of you, Lady Sarah. You deserve someone like Lord Pottinger.”

Her eyes rounded. “Lord Pottinger! Where did you get such a peculiar notion? He’s a very nice man, but I assure you I could never be induced to favor any suit put forth by him.”

Mr. Wickham closed his eyes as if in pain. “Then I fear you’re going to break my friend’s heart.” He turned on his heel and left.

As she made her way to the library, she began to tremble. Now she realized the topic which Lord Pottinger wished to address. She would have given anything to avoid it, but from many similar experiences she had learned the best way to break a man’s heart was not to let him down incrementally but swiftly. It would be better for her, too, to get this behind her rather than to keep dreading a meeting with the adoring man.

It did rather break her heart when he leapt from his chair and smiled spectacularly at her when she entered the chamber. His smile was so full of hope and love, and she knew she was about to crush it all. She knew, too, that she could not be sweet. She needed to be brusque. “I’m very tired. What is it you wanted to discuss?”

“I. . . I w-w-w-wanted . . . p-p-p-perhaps it can w-w-w-wait until tomorrow.”

She felt utterly wretched. The poor man was so nervous, he was stuttering more than he normally did in her presence. “No. You’ve waited all night. Speak now, man.”

“W-w-w-well, this isn’t quite how I’d envisioned it. You s-s-s-see, it’s not very romantic.”

“Why should it be romantic?” She hated herself for being so calloused.

“Because I had h-h-h-hoped to offer for you. I thought perhaps there was s-s-s-something s-s-s-special between us.”

She could have wept for the poor, sweet man. How she hated herself for hurting him. Her voice softened. “I do think you’re a very fine man, Lord Pottinger, but I can’t marry you.”

“You’re not in love w-w-w-with me, are you?”

Her eyes moistened as she shook her head.

“Is . . . is there s-s-s-someone else?”

She thought of Alfred Wickham. “There is, but he’s . . . promised to another.”

Lord Pottinger bit his lip. “I s-s-s-see. Such a p-p-p-pity. Neither of us can be happy.”

She nodded and moved to the door.

“Hap-p-p-ppy Christmas, my lady.”

“Happy Christmas, Lord Pottinger.”

* * *

As tired as he was, Alfred could not sleep. He kept remembering the feel of Sarah’s hand upon his. Had she been stroking man’s vital organ, it could not have been more erotic. Though it was perfectly innocent on her part, she could not have known how powerfully it affected him. Even hours later as he lay in bed thinking of her, need strumming through him, his breath grew short.

His feelings for her had been building until this last day, when the realization that he’d fallen in love with her had slammed into him like a shot from a cannon. How he had wanted to draw her into his arms and tell her what he’d never told another woman. But because of Potts, he could say nothing.

Alfred was not often in agreement with his mother. Until now. On the matter of Lady Sarah Milton, he now knew his mother was right. Sarah would have been the perfect mate for him. And he had done everything in his power to drive her away. How he wished he could turn back the clock and relive these past few days.

It would not have been easy to win the lady’s affections. After all, she had turned down an exceedingly wealthy marquess. What chance did a wastrel mister such as he stand with a coveted beauty such as she? True, he would one day be a viscount, but that was a very minor title. Her father’s rank was considerably greater.

There was the fact that she had been induced to come here this Christmas. Could that possibly mean that she could initially have been attracted to the notion of an alliance with him?

Dare he risk humiliation to declare himself to her? Under ordinary circumstances, he would risk anything for the prospect of such a reward.

But there were Potts’ feelings to consider.

Even if Sarah had rejected his friend—which Alfred was almost certain she had—Alfred could not turn around and try to claim the woman his best friend loved. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do.

Because Potts was the truest friend a fellow ever had and because they’d been friends three-fourths of their lives—as Potts liked to remind him—Alfred would not be able to act upon his love of Lady Sarah.

He could search the three kingdoms and never again find the likes of Lady Sarah Milton.

It was enough to make a grown man weep.

Chapter 10

It was Christmas Day. Sarah had never spent a Christmas away from her family. She wished Mama would be able to come back to Hedley Hall. She sprang from her bed and raced to her window to see if it were still snowing.  She was nervous as she drew open the silken draperies of the same rose as her bed curtains but was rewarded with the sight of the sun rising in a blue sky—and nary a snowflake in sight. Snowdrifts blanketing the ground as far as she could see would impede any travel, but she was certain the Duke of Radcliff would find a way to bring home his wife and visitors.

She did not wait for her maid but quickly dressed herself so that she could wait upon Lady Dunsford. Sarah liked being needed. And even more, she liked the idea of holding that babe. She had never known that she could be so smitten over a newborn.

Helping Lady Dunsford and making a cake of herself over the babe might serve to take Sarah’s mind off her own melancholy. She not only felt wretched over hurting dear Lord Pottinger, but she had come to realize that she would never know the happiness Lady Dunsford experienced with her husband and in motherhood for Sarah had never found an attainable man who could give her those things, and it was unlikely she ever would.

* * *

“I mean to take a sleigh and collect my wife and some of the other women,” the duke announced over breakfast.

“I’ll take the smaller one and get my mother,” Alfred said. “I’d like to be the one to tell her about her new grandson.” And he wanted to speak to her in private about little Harriett. Her treatment of her own granddaughter was unacceptable.

“Now, see here,” Twigs interjected. “I must be the one to get Cressy.”

“Ride with me in the big sleigh,” the duke said.

Twigs stuck out his lower lip. “Won’t look very gallant.”

Radcliff shrugged. “So it’s gallant you want? Then you drive the sleigh. Mrs. Twickingham will be duly impressed.”

Twigs smiled. “Do you think so?”

“Most certainly.”

* * *

The ladies with their mussed hair and wrinkled dresses were most happy to see the men from Hedley Hall. Alfred’s cousin flew into the duke’s arms, covering him with kisses and lavishing him with profuse endearments.

Mrs. Twickingham gushed at Twigs. “Oh, my dearest husband, how very wonderful it was to see you flicking those ribbons! I was just saying to Mama that I hoped my dear husband would be coming to collect me for I could not bear to be apart from him on Christmas Day.”

“Couldn’t be apart on Christmas,” Twigs responded.

Alfred moved to his mother. “Come, Mama. I’m taking you back. I’ve news. . .” He handed her up on the box.

She whirled at him. “Don’t tell me Emily’s . . .?”

He hoisted himself up beside her and took the reins. “Yes. She is mother to a fine son. He was born just after two this morning.”

Tears began to stream down her face. “And I could not be there for the birth of my first grandchild.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Actually the lad is not your first grandchild.”

She drew an impatient breath. “Don’t you start sounding like your sister. It’s all good and well that Emily and Dunsford take their role as foster parents so well, but. . .”

“Mother, Emily gave birth to Harriett.”

Dead silence met his comment.

Several moments passed before his mother spoke. “You mean when Emily was in the Peninsula with her aunt?”

Alfred nodded.

“Now everything is so clear,” she whispered. “Now I understand why she was so forlorn when she returned, why she did not want to go to assemblies, why she resisted the notion of marrying.” Lady Landis began to weep. “How she must have suffered. Dunsford’s dead brother must have been the father?”

“I believe so.”

“I should get down on my knees and thank Dunsford for loving her as he does.”

“He’s a good man. A fine husband. A fine father. And today he’s the happiest man in the kingdom.”

“How wonderful. My poor, dear daughter deserves happiness.”

A moment later, she added, “And my poor, sweet granddaughter deserves all my love.”

* * *

When they got back to Hedley Hall, the scent of the Christmas goose was permeating the house. “Before we eat,” Twigs said to his wife, “I should like to speak to you in private.”

He took her to the library, closed the door for privacy, and walked with her to stand in front of the fire. Even though the snow had stopped falling, it was still bloody cold. “Must apologize. Don’t have a present for you,” he said. “Since the fiasco of your birthday—though it wasn’t really your birthday as I found out later. I’m afraid to pick out something you’ll hate.”

His little blonde-haired wife nodded.

Thank God she hadn’t thrown something at him.

He drew a breath. “Was wondering if . . . if having a little Twigs . . . or a little Cressy was something you’d like to possess.”

His wife’s pretty little face lit up. To his pleasant surprise, she threw her arms around him and kissed him rather . . . well, rather passionately. It was a while before she spoke. “That would be the best Christmas present I could ever receive. Can we, can we please go upstairs right now and start working on this most wondrous present?”

“But. . . but it’s daytime.”

She pressed up against him and spoke huskily. “Dinner won’t be served for another hour. No one will miss us.”

He became suddenly too winded to respond. Marriage had taught him it was always best to defer to wives.

* * *

Alfred stood back and watched as their mother entered Emily’s bedchamber. On the settee near the fire, Harriett sprawled out with her baby brother on her lap, their father sitting beside her. Once again, Lady Landis cried. “Oh, look! My two precious grandbabies! I’ve never had a happier Christmas.”

“Would you like to hold him?” Lord Dunsford asked.

“Oh, yes!”

It was an emotional scene, and Alfred had never heretofore considered himself much into emotions. Is that what came from falling in love? Or was that what came from being hopelessly in love?

Holding her grandson close, his mother strolled over to Emily. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here with you last night, my darling. How are you feeling?”

“Wonderful. I was in very good hands with Lady Sarah and my brother.”

Lady Landis’s eyes widened. “Your brother?”

“My brother was a great comfort—and he gave our son his first bath.” Em lowered her voice. “Did Alfred tell you about Harriett?”

Their mother nodded. “Forgive me for the past. She is a precious child. I will be THE best grandmother.”

Em’s eyes watered. “Thank you. What a perfect Christmas this is.”

Alfred was happy for his sister, happy for his mother, but he was wretched. And he knew Potts must be, too. He almost wished he’d never come here, never met Lady Sarah Milton, but then he would have missed the birth of his nephew, and he had to admit last night had been remarkable.

* * *

Christmas dinner was torture. Except for Potts and him, all the others were blissfully happy, and he’d never been so miserable. Sitting next to Sarah was agony. From the melodious tones of her sweet voice, to the rise and fall of her voluptuous breasts, to her pretty face, everything about her drove home how much he wanted, how much he had missed. He longed to touch her, to kiss her, to declare his love for her.

But all he did was refill his wine glass and drink. He did not have any appetite. He spoke to no one.  Christmas could not be over soon enough. He wanted to put Hedley Hall—and one beautiful lady—behind him.

The duke touched the tines of his fork to the crystal of his glass to garner the gathering’s attention for a toast.  “Bonny and I wish to thank all of our guests for sharing this most happy of Christmases with our family. We are exceedingly honored that Lord and Lady Dunsford’s son was born here at Hedley and look forward to all of our children and the children yet to be born sharing many more Christmases together here.” He held up a glass, and they drank a toast. “May all your Christmas wishes be fulfilled.”

Alfred touched his glass to Sarah’s and met her somber gaze.  If only.

* * *

Before they went into the family parlor after dinner, Potts called him aside. “Need to speak to you, old fellow.”

Alfred wasn’t about to go to the library. That’s where Potts and Sarah had spoken in the wee hours of this morning. He nodded and led his friend to the now unused billiards room that was lighted by a single wall sconce.

Potts closed the door. “I suppose you know Lady Sarah turned me down?”

Alfred nodded.

“She told me her affections are engaged.”

Alfred felt as if he’d fallen from a great height.

“She admitted that the man she cares for is spoken for.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Alfred glared at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. About her. She believed me when I told her you had an understanding with an actress.”

That was true. She had indicated as much to Alfred. The very realization sent his pulses accelerating.

“I’ve also been thinking about how all the ladies always fall for you. And I’ve been thinking about your mother playing matchmaker, and about why Lady Sarah would have bothered even coming here to Hedley Hall at Christmas. It wasn’t as if she was related to the Duke or Duchess of Radcliff like you are. She must have come here because she was attracted to you.”

Now Alfred’s heart was pounding nearly out of his chest. Dare he give credence to his friend’s words? And what a spectacular friend Potts was! He was handing the woman he loved on a platter to Alfred!

“And I’ll tell you something else, Wick. I think you’ve bloody well fallen in love with her. I’ve known you too long. You’re different around her. I wouldn’t be telling you these things if I didn’t think you’d treat her like she deserves.”

Alfred slowly nodded as he clasped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re the best friend a fellow ever had. I cannot believe such a paragon as Lady Sarah could care about me, but with your blessing, I’ve got to try . . .”

With that, he raced from the chamber.

Chapter 11

Potts probably had it all wrong. A woman with all the attributes of Lady Sarah Milton could win the heart of any man in the kingdom, but Alfred had always been a gambler, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t risk everything in the hopes of winning her heart.

He raced to the parlor where everyone, save his sister, who was still in bed, had gathered to celebrate the Yule. The children were playing with their new presents, and everyone seemed jolly, but there was no sign of Sarah. It was impossible to mask his deep disappointment.

“Where’s Lady Sarah?” he asked.

Her mother answered. “She was very cold, so she went to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl.”

“I told her to have a servant bring it,” her father said, “but she wanted to stretch her legs after the long dinner.”

Alfred eyed his mother, smiled, and left the room without a word to anyone.  His mother would know what was going on. He only hoped the outcome would be as his mother had hoped.

* * *

Sarah felt beastly for being so selfish. This Christmas had brought so much joy to so many people here at Hedley Hall. She had no right to be so melancholy. But she was utterly miserable. She and poor Lord Pottinger. Perhaps she should have accepted his suit. Then there would have been one less miserable person. It wasn’t as if she could ever be happy in love.

In all these years since she had left the school room she had never been attracted to any of the many men who had courted her. For years now only one man had ever appealed, and not only was he not attracted to her, but he was also promised to another.

No one else would ever do for her. She was destined to be a spinster. She had almost accepted spinsterhood as her fate, but after holding Lady Dunsford’s babe in her arms, she now knew how much she wanted the love of a husband and babes of her own. Coming here for Christmas made her more miserable than she had ever deemed possible.

Sitting in that parlor with those disgustingly happy couples accentuated the hopelessness of her situation.

She gathered her Kashmir shawl around her as she descended the broad marble staircase, dreading reentering the parlor.  Movement below caught her eye. Alfred Wickham stood at the landing looking up at her with a strange look on his face. Had he drunk too much at dinner?  It had not escaped her notice that he’d preferred the wine to his food.

“You look beautiful, Sarah.”

He’d called her by her Christian name. No lady in front of it. Very intimate. He must be drunk. Still, she was pleased over his words. “Thank you.” She decided she could give tit for tat. “Alfred.”

His eyes flashed with mirth.

He moved up the stairs and came to take her hand. “I liked it when you touched my hand last night,” he said in a husky voice.

“This morning, actually.”

“I would have kissed you if it weren’t for Potts.”

She stopped dead still and spoke in a husky voice herself. “Potts is no longer in the way.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. Then he pulled her into his arms for a crushing kiss.

It was quite unlike any kiss in which she had ever been a participant. It wasn’t just her mouth that was engaged but every single cell in her body throbbed. It was also of much longer duration—and it involved tongues—something that would formerly have shocked her but that now brought her unimagined pleasure that she did not want to terminate.

Eventually it did terminate. “Will you come with me to . . . a quiet place where we can talk?” he asked.

She realized he must not want to go to the library where Lord Pottinger had asked for her hand. Trembling, she drew a deep breath. Was he going to ask for her hand? “The morning room on the ground floor?”

He kissed her hand and nodded, squeezing her hand as they walked downstairs together. He didn’t take her to the marble-floored morning room she had in mind but to another, older wing of the house where the floors were of wood. He’d taken a candelabra and led them there.

In the cozy chamber, they sat together on a settee. “I must beg your forgiveness,” he began. “When I learned my mother meant to foist a woman on me, I persuaded Lord Pottinger to lie to you and make you despise me—all of this before I ever met you. I am not promised to an actress, nor do I have any kind of understanding with any woman, nor have I ever. There’s only ever been one woman with whom I’ve ever wanted to spend my life, and I’m sitting beside her right now.”

He drew a deep breath and continued. “I have no right to expect a perfect being like you to consider my suit, but I’ve always—and this much that Potts told you was true—I’ve always been a risk-taker. I’m willing to risk humiliating myself on the chance of winning your hand.  Could you possibly make me—and my mother—impossibly happy by consenting to become my most cherished wife?”

She felt as if she were in some joyous, celestial dream. It was a moment before she realized he was awaiting a response. “Alfred Wickham, I don’t know why I should consider marrying a man who gambles foolishly, rushes off to the races at Newmarket whenever the mood strikes, and fences without a mask, imperiling that devilishly handsome face, but I suppose I shall have to consent.”

He drew a deep breath and pulled her to him. “This is where I tell you I love you deeply, Sarah mine.”

“And I may always have loved you, my darling Alfred.”

He dropped a soft kiss into the crown of her head. “No Christmas could ever be happier. Even if I have just agreed to be tied down.”

“I don’t know why I love you, you odious man.” Then, smiling, she lifted her face to his for an incredibly tender kiss.

The End

Cheryl Bolen’s Books

Regency Historical Romance:

The Deceived Series

A Duke Deceived

His Lady Deceived

The Lords of Eton Series

The Portrait of Lady Wycliff

The Earl, the Vow, and the Plain Jane

Last Duke Standing

The Brides of Bath Series

The Bride Wore Blue

With His Ring

The Bride’s Secret

To Take This Lord

Love In The Library

A Christmas in Bath

House of Haverstock Series

Lady by Chance

Duchess by Mistake

Countess by Coincidence

Ex-Spinster by Christmas

Brazen Brides Series

Counterfeit Countess

His Golden Ring

Oh What A (Wedding) Night

Miss Hastings’ Excellent London Adventure

A Birmingham Family Christmas

The Regent Mysteries Series

With His Lady's Assistance

A Most Discreet Inquiry

The Theft Before Christmas

An Egyptian Affair

Pride and Prejudice Sequels

Miss Darcy’s New Companion

Miss Darcy’s Secret Love

The Liberation of Miss de Bourgh

My Lord Wicked

Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas)

Marriage of Inconvenience

Romantic Suspense:

Falling For Frederick

Texas Heroines in Peril Series

Protecting Britannia

Murder at Veranda House

A Cry In The Night

Capitol Offense

World War II Romance:

It Had to Be You

American Historical Romance:

A Summer To Remember (3 American Romances)

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Cheryl Bolen