Married For His Convenience. Eleanor Webster

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СКАЧАТЬ heroine, Miss Petunia Hardcastle, had just recently made a stunning entrance in a diaphanous blue dress created from her grandmother’s ball gown.

      Unfortunately, Sarah’s dress was neither diaphanous nor blue, but a serviceable grey. Moreover, unlike Miss Hardcastle, Sarah’s longing for fashionable company had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with London. The mere mention of that city gave her a wonderful thrill of hope, a prickly sensation like the goosebumps she used to get at Christmas.

      One day she would go there. One day she would keep her promise. One day—

      A crackle of twigs and leaves startled her out of her reverie. She stopped. A second scuffle caught her attention and she peered into the ditch. ‘Pauvre lapin,’ she spoke quickly in her mother’s language.

      A rabbit lay, sprawled among the weeds and grasses. Its back paw was entangled in a poacher’s trap, its brown sides moving in frantic undulation.

      Sarah bit her lip. Kneeling, she placed her valise to one side. She eyed the trap, but did not touch the mechanism for fear of hurting herself or causing the animal harm. She was familiar with the device, but it was vastly different to manipulate its jaws whilst they were empty than to contemplate doing so while this petrified creature lay within its grip.

      Carefully, holding her breath, she pushed her fingers against the metal. It felt cold and hard and did not budge. Then, with a snap, it released.

      The animal lay briefly frozen before bursting into frenetic life, its hind legs sending a tinkling cascade of pebbles into the ditch.

      ‘No, you don’t.’ She caught the creature and, pulling her shawl from her shoulders, immobilised its hindquarters within the folds of cloth.

      Bending closer, she inhaled its dusty animal scent as her arms tightened against its soft, warm weight.

      Now what? The animal was injured and would be fox fodder if she let him go. But she had no time to go home. Already, daylight was dimming and the air shone with the pewter polish of early evening.

      Besides, in many ways, Eavensham was more her home than the stark austerity of the Crawford residence. Shrugging, Sarah made her decision and, tightening her hold on the bundle, picked up her valise and stepped forward.

      Some five minutes later she exited from the overhanging trees and on to Eavensham’s well-manicured park, the change between woodland and immaculate lawn joltingly sudden. Without pause, Sarah skirted the impressive front entrance, veering away from the lamps and torches bidding welcome.

      She would hide the rabbit in the kitchen or scullery. Hopefully, the butler would be elsewhere. Mr Hudson was not overly fond of rabbits.

      Except in stews.

      The path wound towards the kitchen garden, a narrow track sandwiched between the house and dairy. As she expected, the kitchen was bright and the smell of cooking wafted into the garden.

      Carefully, she stepped towards the window, then froze at the snap of a twig. She caught her breath and turned, scanning the darkened outlines of the hedge and vegetable frame.

      Nothing. She stepped back to the kitchen. Likely she’d only heard a fox or stable cat. She was too practical for foolish fancy.

      But even as the thought passed through her mind, a hand clamped across her mouth and she was pulled against a hard, muscular figure.

      She tasted cloth. Her heart beat a wild tattoo. Her body stiffened, paralysed not only by fear but an almost ludicrous disbelief as she allowed her valise to slip from her hand.

      Dramatic events never happened to her. Ever.

      ‘If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?’ The voice was male. Warm breath touched her ear.

      Sarah nodded. The man loosened his hold. She turned. Her eyes widened as she took in his size, the breadth of his shoulders and the midnight-black of his clothes.

      ‘Good God, you’re a woman,’ he said.

      ‘You’re...you’re a gentleman.’ For the cloth he wore was fine and not the roughened garb of a common thief.

      She grabbed on to these details as though, through their analysis, she would make sense of the situation.

      ‘What was your purpose for spying on me?’ His gaze narrowed, his voice calm and without emotion.

      ‘Spying? I don’t even know you.’ The rabbit squirmed and she clutched it more tightly.

      ‘Then why are you hiding?’

      ‘I’m not. Even if I were, you have no reason to accost me.’ Her cheeks flushed with indignation as her fear lessened.

      He dropped his hand, stepping back. ‘I apologise. I thought you were a burglar.’

      ‘We tend not to get many burglars in these parts. Who are you anyway?’

      ‘Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, at your service.’ He made his bow. ‘And a guest at Eavensham.’

      ‘A guest? Then why are you in the kitchen garden?’

      ‘Taking the air,’ he said.

      ‘That usually doesn’t involve accosting one’s fellow man. You are lucky I am not of a hysterical disposition.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      Briefly, she wondered if wry humour laced his voice, but his lips were straight and no twinkle softened his expression. In the fading light, the strong chin and cheekbones looked more akin to a statue than anything having the softness of flesh.

      At this moment, the rabbit thrust its head free of the shawl.

      ‘Dinner is running late, I presume.’ Lord Langford’s eyes widened, but he spoke with an unnerving lack of any natural surprise.

      ‘The creature is hurt and I need to bandage him, except Mr Hudson, the butler, is not fond of animals and I wanted to ensure his absence.’

      ‘The butler has my sympathies.’

      Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the rabbit, suddenly spooked, kicked at her stomach as it clawed against the shawl. Sarah gasped, doubling over, instinctively whispering the reassurances offered by her mother after childhood nightmares.

      ‘You speak French?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘French? You are fluent?’

      ‘What? Yes, my mother spoke it—could we discuss my linguistic skills later?’ she gasped, so intent on holding the rabbit that she lost her footing and stumbled against the man. His hand shot out. She felt his touch and the strangely tingling pressure of his strong fingers splayed against her back.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Yes—um—I was momentarily thrown off balance.’ She straightened. They stood so close she heard the intake of his breath and felt its whisper.

      ‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you could СКАЧАТЬ