Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 9

The next day, Sara took particular care with her appearance. She donned a light green muslin gown she’d always thought flattered her figure, and made sure her hair had the perfect number of curls for a country house party. Just before going down to lunch, she dabbed a touch of jasmine perfume on her neck.

At the luncheon table, Lord Whitley seated her beside him; a mark of high favor. Sara noted that Lady Blackwell looked a bit more perturbed than she had the evening before. But her loss was Sara’s gain.

The anticipatory butterflies in her stomach made it difficult to eat, though she did manage a few bites of her chicken Florentine. The servants kept her wine glass topped up with crisp Chardonnay, and dessert was a lovely chocolate tart. By the time the meal ended she felt slightly off balance, but at least her nerves had settled.

Lord Whitley pushed his plate aside and stood, addressing his guests. “This afternoon at two we’ll have battledore and shuttlecocks set up on the lawn. Until then, your time is your own. Do enjoy it.”

There were murmurs of assent, and a few of the attendees remarked that they planned to go riding.

“I believe Lady Sara and myself will retire for a lie-down,” Aunt Eugenie said, deftly keeping Sara from having to refuse an invitation to ride with the others.

Her aunt had been most pleased when Sara reported she was to meet with Lord Whitley at the gazebo.

“I’ll come with you, of course,” Aunt Eugenie said. “It won’t do to meet a gentleman alone, even if his intentions are honorable.”

“Oh, Aunt, you must give us a few moments of privacy! No man wants to propose to a lady with her relatives looking on. Come along, but pray, stay back behind the lilies.”

Aunt Eugenie had given a sniff of disapproval, but allowed as how Sara was, possibly, correct in this matter.

The guests dispersed from the luncheon table, and Sara and her aunt returned to their suite, ostensibly to remain there until two. Aunt Eugenie perched impatiently on one of the chairs in the small parlor, while Sara lurked behind the curtains and watched out the window.

“Most of the guests are riding out now,” she reported. “Lord Whitley, of course, is not among them.” Neither, she was disappointed to note, was Lady Blackwell.

Ah well. She must hope she didn’t cross paths with the woman on her way out to the gazebo. The assigned meeting spot was a graceful white structure at the edge of the gardens, next to the pond studded with water lilies. It was the perfect place for a proposal.

“Then we’d best be going.” Aunt Eugenie rose. “Don’t forget your hat.”

“I’ll fetch it and meet you outside by the hedge,” Sara said.

“Very well, but make haste.”

Sara nodded and slipped out. Her room was a few doors down from Aunt Eugenie’s, but there was no one about to observe her.

There was a bit of a delay as she searched for her hat. It was not sitting on the bed where she’d left it in preparation for her clandestine outing. At last she discovered it tucked back into the wardrobe, where likely her maid had tidied it away.

When she reached the yew hedge, there was no sign of Aunt Eugenie. No doubt she’d tired of waiting and had gone ahead to lurk among the lilies.

Retying her hat ribbons at a better angle, Sara went into the garden. Bees hummed lazily among the bright flowers, and the distant splash of a fountain drifted through the air. Overhead, swallows darted and dipped, stitching paths across the creamy blue sky.

She paused and drew in a contented breath.

Whitley Manor was a lovely estate, and she thought she’d enjoy the running of it. In her mind’s eye, she could see children playing on the lawn. It was a fine place to raise a family.

Her family.

With that invigorating thought, she turned her steps toward the lily beds, and the white gazebo rising beyond.

“Aunt?” she called in a low voice when she reached the fragrant path bordering the lilies. “Are you here?”

There was no response. Drat it. Something had detained Aunt Eugenie, though punctuality was one of her hallmarks.

Sara turned to go back to the hedge, but Lord Whitley called out to her from the gazebo.

“Lady Sara, there you are! I’d almost given up hope.”

Her heart leaped guiltily, and she pivoted to face him. He stood framed in the opening, and though he was not tall and dark with tousled hair, he was a presentable enough gentleman.

“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

She really ought to go back and find Aunt Eugenie—but then her chance would slip away, and who knew if it would come again?

“Well, come in.” He gestured to her, then stood aside as she mounted the steps.

Soft light filtered through the trellis-enclosed walls, and dappled reflections spangled the ceiling. One side of the gazebo was taken up with a low couch piled with cushions. A rug patterned in rich oranges and blues covered the floor, and the near corner held a small marble replica of the Venus de Milo. The lush scent of lilies filled the air.

“How pleasant,” she said, turning in a circle. “Your own secret hideaway.”

“It is, indeed.” He stepped in front of her and untied the bow of her hat. “You won’t need this.”

“I suppose not.” She laughed to cover her nerves, then removed her hat and set it gently on the cushions.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I indulged more than enough at lunch.”

“A woman who’s not afraid to dispense with the preliminaries. I like that.” He took her by the shoulders. “Shall we begin with a kiss?”

“I… suppose.”

It wasn’t proper, but then again, she and Tarek had shared a kiss and he hadn’t even been on the verge of proposing. Surely it would do no harm to allow Lord Whitley this small leeway.

He pulled her against him and pressed his mouth to hers. Sara waited for the rush of light to sweep through her, but nothing happened, beyond a sense of discomfort. Belatedly, she raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. Perhaps she just needed a little time to become accustomed to Lord Whitley.

But instead of being filled with yearning, a vague disquiet swept over her. She pulled back, breaking the kiss.

“Delicious,” Lord Whitley said. “But perhaps you’d be more comfortable on the couch.”

“I suppose so.” It was unusual for a gentleman to propose while standing, at least from what she understood of the matter.

Carefully, she sat. Lord Whitley immediately settled beside her, so close his thigh pressed against hers.

“Oh, before I forget, I brought along a little something for you,” he said, patting at his pockets.

The ring. She leaned forward. What kind of precious stones would it feature? She was partial to emeralds, though diamonds and amethysts were equally agreeable.

“Here we are.” He pulled out a thin packet and laid it upon the cushions.

Sara eyed it dubiously. It did not seem to contain a ring.

“French letters,” the viscount said. “Always best to be prepared.”

“I… don’t know what those are,” she said, uncertainty beginning to swirl through her.

Rigidly, she tamped it down. Everything was going according to plan. And if it didn’t match her idea of a proper proposal, well, she’d never been betrothed before. Surely Lord Whitley knew what he was about.

“What a sheltered young lady.” He peered at her. “Are you certain you want to go on with this?”

“Of course I am.” He couldn’t back out now! She clutched at his hand. “I just… thought that perhaps you’d brought a ring.”

His eyebrows rose and he let out a chuckle. “Truly? Perhaps not as sheltered as I’d thought, then. We can procure one for next time, if you wish.”

Sara didn’t quite follow him, but nodded. Lord Whitley had an odd way of going about things, but eventually she was sure they’d come to understand one another without confusion. Every couple had a settling in period, after all.

“Now, let us try that kiss again,” he said.

Before she could protest, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down upon the couch, covering her mouth with his. It was worse than before, and her heart fluttered with incipient panic. She tried to push him off, but he was too heavy.

She could not speak, could scarcely breathe, but somehow she must stop him. She felt as though she were being smothered by an excruciatingly warm, fleshy blanket.

Then his hand rose to cover one of her breasts, and she let out a squeak of shock. This was completely unacceptable. She could not push him away, but she had to do something.

The statue, in the corner. Could she reach it?

She wriggled along the couch, which Lord Whitley seemed to take as further encouragement, as he redoubled the motion of his lips against hers.

Sara stretched out her arm, and her fingers met the cool, smooth torso of the replica Venus de Milo. It took another suffocating moment before she could wrap her hand about it, but as soon as she did, she brought it across Lord Whitley’s temple with a thunk.

Lord Whitley groaned and toppled off her, to lie motionless on the carpet.

“Oh no!” she cried.

Gasping for breath, she set the statue down and went to her knees beside him. Had she killed him?

“Sara!” someone called, and then a man leaped into the gazebo.

Not just any man, however, but Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac.

Her heart stuttered, then burst into flame.