Irritation stirring, Sarah drank in the vision; his appearance—and its ridiculous effect on her—really wasn’t fair. He knew she existed, but beyond that…From this distance, she couldn’t see his features clearly, yet her besotted memory filled in the details—the classic lines of brow, nose, and chin; the aristocratic angles and planes; the patriarchal cast of high cheekbones; the large, heavy-lidded, lushly lashed blue eyes; and the distracting, frankly sensual mouth and mobile lips that allowed his expression to change from delightfully charming to ruthlessly dominating in the blink of an eye.
She’d studied that face—and him—for years. She’d never known him to appear other than he was, a wealthy aristocrat descended from Norman lords with a streak of Viking thrown in. Despite his aura of ineffable control, of being born to rule without question, a hint of the unpredictable warrior remained, lurking beneath his smooth surface.
A stable boy came running. Charlie handed over his reins, spoke to the lad, then turned for the front door. As he passed out of their sight around the central wing, Clary and Gloria uttered identical sighs and turned back to face the room.
“He’s really top of the trees, isn’t he?”
Sarah doubted Clary required an answer.
“Gertrude Riordan said that in town he drives the most fabulous pair of matched grays.” Gloria bounced, eyes alight. “I wonder if he drove them home? He would have, don’t you think?”
While her sisters discussed various means of ascertaining whether Charlie’s vaunted matched pair were at Morwellan Park, Sarah watched the stable boy lead Charlie’s hunter off to the stables rather than walk the horse in the forecourt. What ever Charlie’s reasons for calling, he expected to be there for some little while.
Her sisters’ voices filled her ears; recollections of their earlier comments whirled kaleidoscopically—to settle, abruptly, into an unexpected pattern. Leading to a startling thought.
Another frisson, different, more intense, slithered down Sarah’s spine.
“Well, m’boy—” Lord Conningham broke off and laughingly grimaced at Charlie. “Daresay I shouldn’t call you that anymore, but it’s hard to forget how long I’ve known you.”
Seated in the chair before the desk in his lordship’s study, Charlie smiled and waved the comment aside. Lord Conningham was a bluff, good-natured man, one with whom Charlie felt entirely comfortable.
“For myself and her ladyship,” Lord Conningham continued, “I can say without reservation that we’re both honored and delighted by your offer. However, as a man with five daughters, two already wed, I have to tell you that their decisions are their own. It’s Sarah herself whose approval you’ll have to win, but on that score I know of nothing what ever that stands between you and your goal.”
After a fractional hesitation, Charlie clarified, “She has no interest in any other gentleman?”
“No.” Lord Conningham grinned. “And I would know if she had. Sarah’s never been one to play her cards close to her chest. If any gentleman had captured her attention, her ladyship and I would know of it.”
The door opened; Lord Conningham looked up. “Ah, there you are, m’dear. I hardly need to introduce you to Charlie. He has something to tell us.”
With a smile, Charlie rose to greet Lady Conningham, a sensible, well-bred female he could with nothing more than the mildest of qualms imagine as his mother-in-law.
Ten minutes later, her wits in a whirl, Sarah left her bedchamber and hurried to the main stairs. A footman had brought a summons to join her mother in the front hall. She’d detoured via her dressing table, dallying just long enough to reassure herself that her gown of fine periwinkle-blue wool wasn’t rumpled, that the lace edging the neckline hadn’t crinkled, that her brown-blond hair was neat in its knot at the back of her head and not too many strands had escaped.
Quite a few had, but she didn’t have time to let her hair down and redo the knot. Besides, she only needed to be neat enough to pass muster in case Charlie saw her in passing; it was too early for him to be staying for luncheon and there was no reason to imagine that her mother’s summons was in any way connected with his visit…other than the ridiculous suspicion that had flared in her mind and set her heart racing. Reaching the head of the stairs, she started down, her stomach a hard knot, her nerves jangling.
All for nothing, she chided herself. It was a nonsensical supposition.
Her slippers pattered on the treads; her mother appeared from the corridor beside the stairs. Sarah’s gaze flew to her face, willing her mother to speak and explain and ease her nerves.
Instead, her mother’s countenance, already wreathed in a glorious smile, brightened even more. “Good. You’ve tidied.” Her mother scanned her comprehensively, from her forehead to her toes, then beamed and took her arm.
Entirely at sea, her questions in her eyes, Sarah let her mother draw her a few yards down the corridor to an alcove nestled under the stairs.
Releasing her arm, her mother clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Well, my dear, the long and short of this is that Charlie Morwellan wishes to offer for your hand.”
Sarah blinked; for one instant, her mind literally reeled.
Her mother smiled, not unsympathetically. “Indeed, it’s a surprise, quite out of the blue, but heaven knows you’ve dealt with offers enough—you know the ropes. As always the decision is yours, and your father and I will stand by you regardless of what that decision might be.” Her mother paused. “However, in this case both your father and I would ask that you consider very carefully. An offer from any earl would command extra attention, but an offer from the eighth Earl of Meredith warrants even deeper consideration.”
Sarah looked into her mother’s dark eyes. Quite aside from her pleasure over Charlie’s offer, in advising her in this, her mother was very serious.
“My dear, you already have sufficient comprehension of Charlie’s wealth. You know his home, his standing—you know of him, although I accept that you do not know him, himself, well. But you do know his family.”
Taking both her hands, her mother lightly squeezed, her excitement returning. “With no other gentleman have you had, nor will you have, such a close prior connection, such a known foundation on which you might build. It’s an unlooked-for, entirely unexpected opportunity, yes, but a very good one.”
Her mother searched her eyes, trying to read her reaction. Sarah knew all she would see was confusion.
“Well.” Her mother’s lips set just a little; her tone became more brisk. “You must hear him out. Listen carefully to what he has to say, then you must make your decision.”
Releasing her hands, her mother stepped back, reached up and tweaked Sarah’s neckline, then nodded. “Very well. Go in—he’s waiting in the drawing room. As I said, your father and I will accept whatever decision you make. But please, do think very carefully about Charlie.”
Sarah nodded, feeling numb. She could barely breathe. Turning from her mother, she walked, slowly, toward the drawing room door.
Charlie heard a light footstep beyond the door. He turned from the window as the doorknob turned, watched as the door opened and the lady he’d chosen to be his wife entered.
She was of average height, subtly but sensuously curved; her slenderness made her appear taller than she was. Her face was heart-shaped, framed by the soft fullness of her lustrous hair, an eye-catching shade of gilded light brown. Her features were delicate, her complexion flawless—including, to his mind, the row of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. A wide brow, that straight nose, arched brown brows, and long lashes combined with rose-tinted lips and a sweetly curved chin to complete a picture of restful loveliness.
Her gaze was unusually direct; he waited for her to move, knowing that when she did it would be with innate grace.
Her hand on the doorknob, she paused, scanning the room.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Even across the distance he sensed her uncertainty, yet when her gaze found him she hesitated for only a second before, without looking away, she closed the door and came toward him.
Calmly, serenely, but with her hands clasped, fingers twined.
She couldn’t have expected this; he’d given her no indication that marrying her had ever entered his head. The last time they’d met socially, at the Hunt Ball last November, he’d waltzed with her once, remained by her side for fifteen minutes or so, exchanging the usual pleasantries, and that had been all.
Deliberately on his part. He’d known—for years if he stopped to consider it—that she…regarded him differently. That it would be very easy, with just a smile and a few words, for him to awaken an infatuation in her, a fascination with him. Not that she’d ever been so gauche as to give the slightest sign, yet he was too attuned to women, certainly, it seemed, to her, not to know what quivered just beneath her cool, clear surface, the sensible serenity she showed to the world. He’d made a decision, not once but many times over the years, that it wouldn’t do to stir that pool, to ripple her surface. She was, after all, sweet Sarah, a neighbor’s daughter he’d known all her life.
So he’d been careful not to do what his instincts had so frequently prompted. He’d studiously treated her as just another young lady of his local acquaintance.
Yet when he’d finally decided to select a wife, one face had leapt to his mind. He hadn’t even had to think—he’d simply known that she was his choice.
And then, of course, he had thought, and visited all the arguments, the numerous criteria a man like him needed to evaluate in selecting a wife. The exercise had only confirmed that Sarah Conningham was the perfect candidate.
She halted before him, confidently facing him with less than two feet between them. Confusion shadowed her eyes, a delicate blue the color of a pale cornflower, as she searched his face.
“Charlie.” She inclined her head. To his surprise, her voice was even, steady if a trifle breathless. “Mama said you wished to speak with me.”
Head high so she could continue to meet his gaze—the top of her head barely reached his chin—she waited.
He felt his lips curve, entirely spontaneously. No fuss, no fluster, and no “Lord Charles,” either. They’d never stood on formality, not in any circumstances, and for that he was grateful.
Despite her outward calm, he sensed the brittle, expectant tension that held her, that kept her breathing shallow. Respect stirred, unexpected but definite, yet was he really surprised that she had more backbone than the norm?
No; that, in part, was why he was there.
The urge to reach out and run his fingertips across her collarbone—just to see how smooth the fine alabaster skin was—struck unexpectedly; he toyed with the notion for a heartbeat, but rejected it. Such an action wasn’t appropriate given the nature of what he had to say, the tone he wished to maintain.
“As I daresay your mother mentioned, I’ve asked your father’s permission to address you. I would like to ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
He could have dressed up the bare words in any amount of platitudes, but to what end? They knew each other well, perhaps not in a private sense, but his sisters and hers were close; he doubted there was much in his general life of which she was unaware.
And there was nothing in her response to suggest he’d gauged that wrongly, even though, after the briefest of moments, she frowned.
“Why?”
It was his turn to feel confused.
Her lips tightened and she clarified, “Why me?”
Why now? Why after all these years have you finally deigned to do more than smile at me? Sarah kept the words from her tongue, but looking up into Charlie’s impassive face, she felt an almost overpowering urge to sink her hands into her hair, pull loose the neatly arranged tresses, and run her fingers through them while she paced. And thought. And tried to understand.
She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had to, every time she first set eyes on him, pause, just for a second, to let her senses breathe. To let them catch their breath after it had been stolen away simply by his presence. Once the moment passed, as it always did, then all she had to do was battle to ensure she did nothing foolish, nothing to give away her secret obsession—infatuation—with him.
It was nonsense and brought her nothing but aggravation, but no amount of lecturing over its inanity had ever done an ounce of good. She’d decided it was simply the way she reacted to him, Viking-Norman Adonis that he was. She’d reluctantly concluded that her reaction wasn’t her fault. Or his. It just was; she’d been born this way, and she simply had to deal with it.
And now here he was, without so much as a proper smile in warning, asking for her hand.
Wanting to marry her.
It didn’t seem possible. She pinched her thumb, just to make sure, but he remained before her, solid and real, the heat of him, the strength of him wrapping about her in pure masculine temptation, even if now he was frowning, too.
His lips firmed, losing the intoxicating curve that had softened them. “Because I believe we’ll deal exceptionally well together.” He hesitated, then went on, “I could give you chapter and verse about our stations, our families, our backgrounds, but you already know every aspect as well as I. And”—his gaze sharpened—“as I’m sure you understand, I need a countess.”