Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 3

  “Liar,” he whispered.

  As Sarah watched, feeling as though she were in some sort of trance, Devlin lifted her hand and pressed his lips ever so slightly to her chilled skin. “You taste of apricots,” he murmured, “and sunshine on a cold winter’s day.”

  “Oh,” Sarah breathed, unable to think of a single thing to say. Her lips parted on a sigh, and as suddenly as he had taken her hand, Devlin released it. He straightened and the length of his body went rigid while all emotion slipped from his face as though it were carved from stone.

  “Trot on now,” he said to the gray, while to Sarah he spoke not a word, nor spared a single glance, and they rode the rest of the way to Twinings in silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Try as he might, Devlin could not stop thinking about the shy, doe eyed girl he had met three days past. He did not know why she invaded his every waking moment, nor how she could be present in every dream. After all, there was nothing memorable about her. Her features were unremarkable at best, plain at worst. She had barely spoken more than ten words during the time they spent together and unlike the other women he tended to keep company with she was not flirtatious or provocative. Then why, he thought, crumpling a piece of parchment in his fist upon where he had been struggling to pen a letter for the past hour, can I not forget her?

  And he did not even know her name.

  He did know she smelled more sweetly than anything he had ever come across, and when he slept his dreams were consumed by fields of sunflowers and sunshine and her, laughing with her hair unbound in a tangle of gold as she ran towards him.

  “Bloody hell,” he growled. Standing, he began to pace across the length of his study, his hands clenched in fists at his side and his spine ramrod straight. He knew why he was so unsettled, though he dare not admit it aloud. He dared not speak her name aloud. So he said it in his mind… Moira… and it was a curse more than a name, which was fitting.

  Moira, the first woman he had ever loved.

  Moira, the first woman to own him body and soul.

  Moira, the first woman to rip his heart from his chest while it was still beating and cast it aside on the ground as if it were no more than a common piece of refuse.

  Eight years had passed since he got down on bended knee and asked that she-devil to marry him. Eight years since she laughed in his face and knocked the very ring from his hand. He could still remember what she had said as if it were yesterday, and even though he closed his eyes and willed the words away, he could not escape them.

  “Marry you, a common viscount? I am the daughter of a duke, you fool. Would you have me marry a farmer? Or a gardener? For it would surely be the same thing. I never knew you were so stupid, Devlin.”

  “But Moira I… I love you. I want to be with you. Spend my life with you.”

  “And you can, darling. In my bed. Now get up, you are embarrassing yourself.”

  Devlin’s jaw hardened as he cast the ugly memory aside. Moira had been a greedy bitch, and he a besotted fool. When she became engaged to the Marquess of Bainsborough a week later he vowed never to put himself at a woman’s mercy again. He had yet to break that promise.

  Oh, he still liked women well enough, both behind closed doors and out. They were frivolous, fanciful creatures meant to be enjoyed and never taken seriously. It was why he made it a point never to remember their names, or show preference to one over the rest. The moment the dance was over or they left his bed he forgot about them as one might forget what they had for dinner the night before. It had been that way for eight long years… Until three days ago.

  “Reynolds, get in here,” he called as he forced his fists to unclench and his body to relax. Within moments there was a faint knock at the door. “Come in.”

  Reynolds – the faithful butler of the Heathcliff family for more than three generations – stepped into the room and came to attention. Short and heavy set, with the jowls of a bulldog and all the bite of a poodle, the servant looked his young employer up and down with the same quick, careful appraisal he had been giving Devlin since he was no more than a squalling babe.

  “Something wrong, my lord?” he asked observably, for even though the viscount could appear at ease to the casual observer, Reynolds knew what simmered beneath the surface.

  Devlin had the same temper of his father, and his father before him. All intelligent, successful, and kind men who treated their staff with respect and strove for fairness in everything they did. But they were also men who guarded their true feelings and, although slow to anger, were quite unforgiving when provoked.

  Crossing his arms, Devlin leaned against the edge of his desk and cocked one eyebrow. “Nothing ever gets past you, does it Reynolds?”

  “Very rarely,” the butler acknowledged solemnly.

  Devlin’s lips twitched, but he did not smile. “I need someone found.”

  “Someone, my lord?”

  “A female someone. A young woman,” Devlin clarified. “In her mid-twenties, if I had to guess. I do not know her name, but her friend is Lady Connor. No, that is wrong. Not Connor… But something similar…” Damn it. What had been the chit’s name? He should have remembered it instantly. After all, she had been the prettier of the two. But whenever he tried to think of her the only thing that came to mind was a pair of shy brown eyes and a Cupid’s bow mouth. “Kinsman… Kinswood… Kin… Kin… Kincaid!” he said triumphantly as the name came to him at last. “Lady Kincaid. Do you know who she is?”

  Reynolds’ lips pressed together beneath his moustache. “Should I, my lord?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Devlin frowned. “Although it would make this much easier if you did. There is a ball tonight at Almack’s, is there not Reynolds?”

  The butler nodded.

  “Lady Kincaid should be there. She was at the last one. Was I planning on attending?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Well, now I am.”

  If Reynolds was surprised by this sudden change of events, it did not show in his face. “I will make the necessary arrangements, my lord. Your carriage will be brought round in one hour.”

  “One hour?” Devlin repeated. “Bloody hell, what time is it?”

  “Half past nine.”

  “Half past nine… You do not say. I had best get dressed then.”

  “Indeed.”

  Leaning across the desk to pick up his jacket which he had flung carelessly across the back of a chair, Devlin tucked it under one arm. He paused at the door. “Oh, and Reynolds, one last thing.”

  Reynolds waited, salt and pepper eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “Stop ‘my lording’ me all the time. It is damn annoying of you.”

  Wisely, the butler waited until Devlin had exited the room to say, “As you wish, my lord.”

  “I do not know,” Sarah said doubtfully as she swiveled in front of the full length mirror to peer at her back. “I feel terribly… exposed.”

  “Nonsense.” Clapping her hands together, Lily studied her friend’s reflection with a critical eye. What she saw made her grin. For once in her life, she had been able to talk Sarah into showing off her curvaceous figure. The ball gown, dark purple as a plum and fitted like a glove, was the perfect match for Sarah’s blond hair and ivory complexion.

  “Who knew you had such large… ears?” Lily continued, smiling mischievously when Sarah gasped in dismay and clutched her earlobes.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Darling, I was not talking about your ears.” Lily looked pointedly at Sarah’s breasts, exposed nearly to the nipple in the extravagantly low cut gown, and Sarah flushed and crossed her arms tight against her chest.

  “That is it,” she declared, spinning on her heel and marching across the bedroom to where her armoire was shoved up against the far wall. “I cannot wear this. I am changing into the dark green dress and—”

  “And you will attract exactly zero attention,” Lily interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Do not be a ninny. Besides, we
do not have any time. The carriage should be here by now.”

  Just short of distraught, Sarah returned to the mirror one final time, hoping something had changed between her last inspection and this one. Unfortunately, it had not. She still did not recognize the woman staring back at her, nor was she sure she wanted to.

  This woman had her eyes lined with kohl and diamonds in her hair. Her lips were red, her eyes a glittering hazel, and blue sapphires dripped from her ears and throat. Touching the borrowed necklace, Sarah swallowed audibly. “I do not look like me,” she whispered.

  “That,” Lily said as she finished clipping a ruby bracelet to her own wrist, “is exactly the point. If you do not turn heads tonight, I fear there is no hope for any of us. Now pick out a cloak and let us be off.”

  The carriage ride to Almack’s was blissfully short which was fortunate for the air was bitterly cold and snowflakes had already begun to fall from the night sky. Hugging their cloaks tight around their exposed shoulders, Sarah and Lily hurried inside with Aunt Ingrid trailing behind whom, for once, had put down her book in favor of a brightly colored silk fan.

  “These events get inexplicably warm you know,” she had said in the carriage, “and I cannot take a nap if I am too hot.”

  They gave their names to the announcer at the top of the stairs and descended slowly into the mayhem of swirling bodies, raised voices, and half-filled champagne glasses. Spying a friend through the crush of bodies Aunt Ingrid bid them farewell and wandered off.

  “Here,” Lily said as she plucked a flute of champagne from a silver tray held out by a passing servant, “drink this. Quickly, before anyone sees.”

  Sarah, who had never so much as had a sip of port before, eyed the golden bubbles dubiously. “Champagne?” Her nose wrinkled. “Why would I ever do that?”

  “Because it will give you confidence. Which you need in spades if everything you told me about your sleigh ride with Lord Heathcliff is true.”

  “It is,” Sarah said miserably. Already feeling rather reckless given her appearance, she plucked the glass from Lily’s hand and downed the contents in one hard swallow. “Oh,” she said as it slid pleasantly down her throat and pooled in her belly, “that was quite nice.”

  Lifting one eyebrow Lily gave her an I told you so look and held out another glass. “One more and we will do the rounds.”

  This time Sarah drank the champagne without question. Her limbs felt surprisingly light as they began to make their way through the crowd, and she giggled particularly hard at the sight of Lord Dentham, a man of walrus like proportions, dancing with Lady Griswold, a woman so thin she would have been all but invisible had she stepped behind one of the slender white columns that ran the length of the great ballroom.

  When someone jostled her elbow she turned automatically, and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw it was a rather handsome blond haired, blue eyed gentleman. Lily stopped as well, and listened attentively as the man introduced himself.

  “Good evening,” he said, sinking into a gallant bow that for some reason made Sarah giggle again. “I am Lord Gibson and who might you lovely flowers be?”

  “I am Lady Kincaid,” Lily said, handling the introductions as she always did, “and this is my close acquaintance, Lady Dawson.”

  “Lady Dawson,” Gibson, savoring the name as if it were a decadent piece of chocolate. His gaze traveled leisurely from the top of Sarah’s coiffure to the tips of her dancing slippers, pausing only half a second longer than necessary on her bosom before sweeping back up to her face. “I am absolutely delighted. Is this your debut?”

  Rather flustered by the intimate – and by no means subtle – perusal of her body, Sarah missed the question entirely. “My… my what?” she asked.

  “Lady Dawson has been traveling until recently,” Lily interceded smoothly. “She has just returned to London.”

  It was not exactly a lie. Sarah had been traveling, if one counted the trip back and forth to her family’s estate in the country two months ago. And it was certainly a better answer than the truth: that this was her seventh season and she had yet to attract the attention of a single suitor.

  “Might I place my name on your dance card?” Lord Gibson queried with a smile.

  Belatedly Sarah realized he had a mustache that curled over the edge of his top lip and was waxed at the corners. It was not a bad mustache – she had certainly seen worse – but she did not find it appealing, and she knew the reason why.

  Quite simply, Devlin did not have a mustache.

  And his was the only name Sarah wanted on her dance card.

  “Sarah, dear,” Lily said in a strained voice that was at odds with her beaming smile, “Lord Gibson is awaiting your reply.” She lowered her tone and simultaneously raised one hand, feigning a delicate cough while she hissed, “Surely you have heard of Lord Gibson, the Marquess of Faraday! If you do not dance with him I shall. Now bat your eyelashes, stick out your chest, and say yes!”

  “Yes,” Sarah said obediently. She blinked a few times, but it made her feel dizzy, and when she attempted to inexpertly push her chest out something popped in her back. Thankfully Gibson did not seem to notice and, taking her dance booklet, he signed his name with gusto beside the fourth line.

  “Until we meet again,” he said with great dramatic flair, bowing so low Sarah was quite impressed he did not tip over before he disappeared into the crowd.

  “What was that?” Lily cried the moment Gibson was out of sight. Grabbing Sarah’s wrist, she stalked past the refreshment tables filled with various pastries, cuts of bread, and colorful fruit to the corner of the ballroom where a handful of fellow wallflowers obligingly turned their heads and feigned deaf ears.

  “Have you gone mad?” Sarah asked, yanking her arm free once they were partially obscured behind a towering ivory pillar. The swift walk away from the dance floor had cleared her head immensely, but it had not given her an answer as to why Lily’s expressive violet eyes were glittering with annoyance. The brunette’s anger did not come as a complete surprise – she was forever getting herself worked up over this and that – although this time Sarah did not have the vaguest clue as to what had caused her temper to flare.

  “You hesitated,” Lily accused in a hushed tone. Crossing her arms tight across her chest, she tossed back her head and scowled. “When Lord Gibson asked you to dance, you hesitated. Why, Sarah? Any other woman would jump at the opportunity and you had to be talked into it! If this is about Lord Heath—”

  “This is not about him,” Sarah hissed. “And do keep your voice down!” Quickly looking around to ascertain if they had been overhead, she relaxed marginally when she saw the small crowd of wallflowers were more interested in gushing over the arrival of a handsome earl than what she and Lily were arguing about.

  “You promised,” Lily said emphatically. “You gave me your word you would not think of him anymore after the sleigh ride debacle.”

  With an unhappy sigh Sarah clasped her hands together and looked down, unable to meet Lily’s judgmental stare. “I know I did,” she whispered. “But I cannot seem to help myself.”

  “You said he was rude to you,” Lily reminded her. “You said he did not even wish you a good day! Is that the kind of man you want to be in love with? No,” she said, answering her own question before Sarah could get a word in edgewise. “He is quite nice to look at, I will grant you that. And wealthy, although I know that does not matter to you. But his demeanor matters, Sarah. The way he treats you matters. And, to be quite honest, he barely knows you are alive.”

  Sarah flinched from the harsh truth of Lily’s words. She knew the point could have been made with more finesse, but then such was not Lily’s way. Her friend said what she meant and meant what she said. It was a rare quality and one that Sarah constantly tried to emulate. Around Lily, of course, she was able to speak her mind without stuttering over every other word. But with anyone else – even her own family – she could not help but stammer and blush and forget e
verything she truly wanted to say. Her exchange with Devlin had certainly proved that.

  “You are right,” she said softly, even though the admission cost her. “I need to forget him.”

  “Perhaps you should hold that thought,” Lily said, her eyes widening as she gazed over Sarah’s right shoulder.

  “What?” Certain she had misunderstood her friend, Sarah’s brow furrowed in bewilderment as she wondered what could have possibly happened in the span of a few seconds to change Lily’s mind so suddenly. “Why?”

  “Because Lord Heathcliff has just entered the ballroom… And he is looking right at you!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sarah’s heart pounded. Lily had not lied. Devlin was, in fact, cutting a swath through the dancers and it appeared as if… but no, he could not be… except he was. He was walking straight towards her. Hope, delicate as a bird’s wing, fluttered faintly inside of her chest, only to plummet a few seconds later when she realized why the viscount would be approaching them.

  “He must want to dance with you again,” she said, doing her best to summon a note of excitement in her tone when she wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry. She had managed to sit idly by and watch her dearest friend in the arms of the man she loved once, but she knew she would not be able to do it again. Gathering her skirts she began to turn away, but Lily’s hand on her arm stopped her.

  “You ninny,” the brunette said under her breath. “He does not want to dance with me. He is looking at you. Now wipe that dumbfounded look off your face and smile! There you go. Very good. I will be right over there if you—”

  “Wait,” Sarah interrupted with a gasp. Panic stricken, she clung fast to Lily’s wrist. “You cannot leave me.”

  “Would you have him dance with both of us?” Lily gave an amused shake of her head. “You will be fine. Obviously you must have made an impression on him if he is purposefully seeking you out. Just do not stutter. Or be too quiet. Or talk too much.”