Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ in one discreetly whispered on dit. Why should Sarah believe any good of him? He found himself confronted by a growing need to tell her the truth, to strip his soul bare and to appear a man of integrity and principle in her eyes. Little chance of that! Morosely he studied the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him.

      Why should it matter what she believed? Why should it matter to him if he simply covered his tracks with a few well-chosen lies to prevent her from questioning him further?

      Because you are falling in love with her, you fool. You need her to believe in you, see the best in you. As simple…and as complicated as that.

      The little voice spoke insistently to take him completely by surprise. He recalled her standing there, offering her lips, the warmth and shelter of her arms, Sarah who rarely offered anything of her own volition, whilst he deliberately, coldly, distanced himself from her, holding her at arm’s length. Love? It was not so, of course. He cared for her, felt a strong urge to protect her. Without doubt desired her physically. But love? He would never in his life love another woman. Marianne had taught him that much. To allow one’s heart to be held by the slender, elegant fingers of a beautiful woman—of any woman—was inarguably a recipe for pain and disillusion. No—he did not love Sarah. He would not love her.

      Even though he regretted his callous treatment of her from the bottom of his heart.

      Having disposed of that little problem to his liking, Lord Faringdon was still faced with the prospect of the damaging rumours destroying any hope of a calm and satisfactory marriage. He doubted that anything could be done to smooth over the immediate damage. It was simply a matter of riding out the storm, taking his own advice, which he had so cavalierly flung at his unsuspecting wife. A subtle flash of colour tinted his cheekbones at the memory. He was not proud of that moment.

      There was, however, one conversation that he was determined to have, and as soon as might be. Anger returned in good measure, causing him to place his pen carefully on the desk before he snapped it in two. He knew where these rumours had begun. He would wager his best hunter on it. And he knew damn well who was responsible for Sarah being shadowed. He could most certainly put a stop to that. Picking up the pen again, he scrawled a few terse lines. Between them, Olivia Wexford and Wycliffe were threatening to undermine Sarah’s new-found happiness and contentment and create a bottomless abyss between them. He could not tolerate that. He could do that quite well enough on his own, it seemed! His lips curled at his own clumsy attempts to spare her further pain, where he had signally failed. But Wycliffe was resident in England for a few months, his sources suggested. It was time for Lord Faringdon to have some plain words with this elusive gentleman.

      Sarah rose early, dressed, drank her chocolate in an abstracted manner and listened unashamedly at the door of her lord’s dressing room. He, too, was up betimes. Perhaps he, too, had not slept well. She paced her bedchamber for half an hour until she heard his valet leave the room and walk past her own door. She walked through the dressing room, knocked briskly on the door of her husband’s room and entered without waiting for a reply. Then she stood and watched her husband, dispassionately, she hoped.

      Joshua looked up from the diamond pin that he was about to secure in his cravat. Still in his shirtsleeves, a little pale, heavy eyed, he was still outrageously attractive and Sarah’s heart performed its usual breath-stopping leap of awareness. But she gave no indication of her emotion or of the residual ache caused by his cold retreat from her. She hoped that he had slept as badly as she. He deserved it. She was, she realised, not dispassionate at all.

      ‘Sarah—’

      ‘I have something to say.’

      Lord Joshua made no move toward her, but shrugged into his coat. For once he could not meet her eyes, which held the bright light of imminent conflict.

      ‘When Eleanor felt most under threat from the Baxendale scandal,’ she spoke of it without a tremor, ‘when my brother seemed likely to succeed and the haut ton turned against her, when she was not invited to the homes of those whom she would have once called friends, do you know what she did?’ Sarah did not wait for an answer. Not that her lord was capable of giving one. ‘She went to the opera at Covent Garden. She insisted that Henry take her, to show the world that she believed in her own innocence and she did not care that others would question the legality of her marriage to your cousin Thomas. She sat there throughout the whole performance, with every lorgnette raised in her direction. She smiled, she flirted a little, she conversed. And hid from the world how much she suffered. Henry sat beside her, to shield her and support her with his presence because he could do no other. I admire them more than I can say.’

      Sarah stopped to draw breath, then continued.

      ‘We should do the same. You claim your innocence. Then we should show a united front against those who would disbelieve. There is an Exhibition today at the Royal Academy. I forget whose paintings. It is not important. We should attend. With Thea and Nicholas. And Judith and Simon too, if they will come. And I will stand with you because it is the only thing I can do to show the world that I do not believe what is being said.’

      ‘Sarah…’ He was for the moment speechless, astounded at her courage to embark on so public a display. Swamped with guilt that she should choose to have anything to do with him after the events of the previous day. ‘I do not know what to say… ‘

      ‘You do not have to say anything. I will arrange it with Thea. If you would be pleased to escort me, at seven-thirty, I think.’

      Without waiting for another word or a response from her lord, Sarah turned on her heel, closing the door behind her with a very positive click. And made sure that for the rest of the day she was so busy that should anyone—should Lord Joshua Faringdon—desire communication of any nature with her she would be quite unobtainable.

      The Faringdon party attended the Exhibition in strength. Lord Joshua Faringdon discovered that, despite the strength of the temptation, he dare not cry off. The involvement of the little party and knowledge of the paintings was to be fairly minimal, but that was not the object of the exercise. They displayed considerable if not amazing interest in the hanging. The joint subjects of murder and Marianne were understood by all to be taboo. A brief but detailed conversation between the three ladies ensured that all rose superbly to the occasion. Thea and Judith both instructed their husbands on the purpose of this unprecedented outing, which neither gentleman would have chosen over a quiet evening with cards and brandy at Brooks’s.

      They talked, smiled, admired, sampled the refreshments. Whatever they felt, they hid behind gracious exteriors. There was a need for Faringdon family unity, which they all recognised and supported. They surrounded their notorious black sheep with firm support and unquestioning loyalty.

      A very public statement of trust.

      Sarah cast off all her misgivings, her reserve, her lack of confidence, her dislike of attention. Not once did she turn away from interested glances, not once did she fail to meet a speculative eye. Bright, lively, engaging, she stood beside Joshua and dared anyone to believe him capable of violent death. When he offered his arm to lead her round the exhibits, she laid her hand there with perfect composure, smiling up into his face with great charm. What it cost her to put on this performance, her lord had no idea. She bowed, nodded, conversed with acquaintances, flirted a little with her painted fan when Simon engaged her in conversation, as if there was no problem on this earth to trouble her. She had dressed with particular care in—for Sarah—an eye-catching gown in a deep rose pink silk overlaid with silver lace, a pretty string of diamonds and opals clasped around her neck with drop earrings to match. Her naturally pale cheeks benefited from skilfully applied Liquid Bloom of Roses; it required no application of Olympian Dew to bring a sparkle to her eyes. Lady Joshua Faringdon, in her quiet way, had declared war.

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