Page 3

CHAPTER 3

V ictory.

Damien expected satisfaction, pleasure even, at the plan’s smooth journey. A dash of relief perhaps, a modest amount of pride. He never expected pure triumph.

Sarah was his for the foreseeable future. He now possessed the time and opportunity to convince her a match was most logical for both of them. By the end of the winter, she would be his.

Unsurprisingly, she was not taking well to her entrapment.

“No. No. No.” She pressed closer to the window, the white light reflecting off creamy cheeks. “I cannot believe he did this to me.”

The urge to comfort her was all-encompassing, and unexpected. He rubbed his hands together, warming the chill.

She glared at him. “I must leave.” Then she hiked up her skirts, pivoted and fled .

He walked at a moderate pace, easily keeping up with her. “Where are you going?”

Her boots echoed on the hard floor. “London.”

“Do you plan to walk there?”

“That’s right. I should be in time for luncheon – in a month of two.” She quickened her stride through the long hallway. Of course, he wouldn’t actually allow her to leave on such a perilous journey, yet better to convince her than toss her over his shoulder.

Even if the thought of tossing her over his shoulder was extraordinarily tempting.

She reached the grand double doors. “Since the snow just started, the valley is not yet blocked. If we leave now, we can pass.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He stopped in front of the door. “There is no one to take you.”

“You could take me.” Yet he remained silent as the moments ticked by, and her face turned as white as the flakes drifting in the window. “But you won’t, will you?” she breathed. “You wanted to trap me here, didn’t you?”

Silence betrayed the absence of a denial, his predatory stance belying any remorse. “Do not worry. When the ground becomes white, it becomes quite a wonderland. It will give you time to consider my offer.”

“I’ve already given my answer.” She glared, blazing fire against the winter world. “I will not accept your suit, no matter how long I am trapped.”

Challenge accepted.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sarah tapped the quill against the pot repeatedly, a musical for an audience of one. She did so rather exuberantly, and just like her, the ink decided to be somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be, splattering on a mahogany table likely worth four times of everything she owned. She wiped it up with the raggedy cloth already soiled from half a dozen such spills.

“Are you channeling your anger towards me on the table?” A deep baritone startled her. This time, the quill slipped and hit the table, spreading droplets of ink through the air. Where did it land? The location that seemed the unfortunate victim of all her spills, inadvertent or not.

Damien’s cravat.

Laughing would be the incorrect move.

Laughing would be highly inappropriate.

Laughing would not be recommended by ladies of high regard.

Although, he did kidnap you.

Laughing would be the correct option.

So she did, just a little, and not even the hide-behind-your-hand kind, as he blinked at his cravat, “I say, what did my cravat do to you?”

She choked back another laugh, fashioned her lips into a crooked smile. “It has been most impertinent, my lord. Would you like to hear about its many transgressions?”

His lips twitched, and he seemed to be holding back laughter, to a greater success than her endeavors of the same. “If it has offended you in some way, please do share. I shall take the necessary steps to defend your honor.”

“How noble of you.” Why was she continuing with the banter, from this man who had all but declared her his captive? Yet somehow she did not only respond, but continued, “Would you challenge it to a duel?”

“Without hesitation.” The reply was as smooth as warm honey. “But pray tell, what has the cravat done to produce such hostility?”

“Actually, the man wearing it is the perpetrator.”

He pressed a large hand to his chest, brought it over his heart. “Someone else was wearing my cravat? Seems there are more reprobates at my estate than I ever imagined.”

There came the laugher again. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that you are the perpetrator. Shall I list your transgressions? I think I have enough paper.” She pointed to the large stack of paper, a rich trove in itself. “Actually, I must provide my regrets. Clearly, there is not enough paper here for your transgressions.”

“Is that so?” His voice was deceptively calm, as he edged closer.

“Indeed.” She resisted the urge to back up. “Perhaps you should rob a purveyor of paper. You do seem rather adept at stealing things that do not belong to you.”

“Do I?” he drawled. “And what are you accusing me of stealing?”

Me.

The unspoken word hung in the air between them. A spell spun, filling the air with tension, yet a delectable type, like a pot of chocolate just on the wrong side of wicked. She took a deep breath, yet his spicy scent inundated the air, and her senses.

Stay strong.

She turned her attention back to the mess, which hadn’t been limited to his cravat this time. The beautiful table with the (previously) flawless surface that was still likely worth four times of everything she owned had become a temporary ink pot, covered in the thick, dark substance. She lifted the quill from the table, leaving an exact impression of its feathered sides. His gaze tracked her movements, but there was no anger. “Ah, I see the cravat had a co-conspirator in its tyranny.”

She rubbed the cloth over the ink, yet it was far less effective than with the tiny droplets. She did succeed rather splendidly at spreading it around. “Don’t ask what the table did.”

“Too horrific to share?”

“I wouldn’t want to make you swoon.” She rubbed more vigorously at the stain, yet seemed only to accomplish rubbing it more in. Now a good portion of the table shone with a darker tint.

“Allow me.”

Damien produced a cloth from his pocket, then poured a little water from the pitcher on it. He rubbed at the stain, with limited success.

“I’m sorry.” Now she did truly feel regret, albeit just a smidgeon. She did not care to see a quality object marred, even if its owner deserved it.

“It is no matter.” He waved his hand. “I can get it remedied.”

Her smile faded. What fortune of lords to wave their hands and fix whatever malady dared intrude on their carefree lives. A life of knowing that all you had to do was ask, and others would obey your every word. The power to control others, especially and entirely ladies like her.

His expression turned wary, as if he knew the turn of her thoughts. Then, they too departed. Because he reached up and started loosening his cravat.

All the air in the room decided to take a holiday. “What are you doing?”

“I am removing my cravat.” He unthreaded the intricate knot, carefully drawing out the smooth fabric. He worked succinctly, his strength under the quality clothing apparent.

She gulped the little air that remained. “I can see that. Why are you removing your cravat?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He nodded towards the ink on the table, held out the speckled cravat. “I shall like to get it cleaned immediately, if there’s any hope of rescuing it from the fate of the last cravat you took a disliking to. I believe my laundry maids are still working on the fruit punch.”

“You don’t say?” Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off the cravat or his hands or the loosened fabric around his neck. And a little voice made the altogether unacceptable, untoward and outrageous suggestion to splatter more ink on his clothing. Such as his shirt. And perhaps on his–

“Sarah?”

“Hmm?” It wouldn’t have to be a lot of ink.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Of course.” Surely, she could make it look like an accident. He did deserve it, after trapping her. She edged her fingers toward the feather.

“You’re not thinking of spilling more ink of me, are you?”

Not anymore. “Would a lady do such a thing?”

“Forgive me, my dear. I do not know what I was thinking.”

Exactly what she was thinking, apparently. She lifted her gaze to brilliant eyes, filled with fierce intelligence. No, she would not get anything past this man. There was a reason why he always secured what he sought.

“Does it bother you that I am removing my cravat? I apologize. I should have waited until the privacy of my quarters.”

“It’s of no matter.” Now it was her turn to wave her hand. “I certainly understand about the ink and all. You may remove whatever clothes you wish.”

She stopped. Just stopped. As he stared. Just stared. And the world? It also stopped. Had she just said–

“I may remove whatever clothes I wish?” he choked out the words.

And she choked on the plain air. “No, of course not.” But, actually yes. “I mean, of course you may undress in the privacy of your quarters. Not here. Not in front of me.” She swallowed at the completely inappropriate images her mind shared. “Obviously, I didn’t mean here.”

What was wrong with her? She could barely think in front of this man, much less speak. A scratching sounded at the door, and she practically jumped in excitement. Help, or at least distraction, had arrived. Without taking his eyes off her, Damien called for the servant to enter.

A footman strode in. “Excuse me, my lord. Lady Frederica wishes to see you. She is waiting in the red room.”

Damien nodded, and the servant bowed and left.

Red was the precise color that edged into Sarah’s vision. Heat spread from her face, through her limbs, to her ink covered hands. To every part of her body. “You have another lady here? You’ve done this to someone else?”

“What? No.” He pulled off the spoilt cravat. “It’s not what you think.”

“Indeed?” Her voice emerged as frosty as the winter wonderland outside the window. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.” Forgetting about the quill and ink and the entire world in general, she pushed forward, striding past Damien. The housekeeper had shown her where the red room was earlier in the day, and now she set a direct path to it.

With his far taller stature, Damien had no trouble keeping up with her. “Whatever you are assuming is incorrect. You do not understand.”

“No?” Sarah moved forward, through one hallway, then another, frustration, anger and some other unknown emotion spurring her on. It almost felt like jealousy, but it couldn’t be, since that required another party to have something she wanted. She most certainly, unequivocally, definitely did not want Damien. “Are you telling me the young lady is here for another reason?”

“Well, yes. And your estimation of her is not quite accurate.”

“She isn’t a lady?”

“She is a lady. It’s just she isn’t–”

They reached the red room then, and she didn’t wait for him to finish before she burst into its confines. It was the height of impropriety to “burst” in anywhere, but so was keeping not one but two ladies trapped at your country estate. Was he comparing them, deciding which one he preferred? She wouldn’t have it.

She entered a room as red as its name, with garnet-colored walls, burgundy jacquard settees and plush ruby rugs. Even the light appeared red as it peeked out from red-tinted glass lanterns. The room smelled woodsy, and almost medicinal. A figure sat on the couch, with her back towards them.

Sarah did not wait for a proper greeting. “Lady Frederica, I have something to tell you.”

The woman turned, surprise, shock and clear displeasure written upon her aged features.

Oh No.

No. No. No. No. No.

Damien strode ahead of her, conducting the introductions that would have been exceedingly apt thirty seconds ago, “Sarah, may I introduce my great aunt , Lady Frederica.”

Sarah blinked at the woman who was older by about six or seven decades . She cleared her throat. Blinked some more, then added a bit of fidgeting and squirming.

The older woman gawked at her as if she’d gone daft. “I say, child, are you quite all right?”

No. Definitely not. “Um yes,” she managed to choke out.

Lady Frederica scrunched up her face like Sarah was a particularly sour lemon she’d been forced to endure. And Damien? The man smiled.

He’d better say goodbye to all his cravats.

“I am well,” she forced out, hopefully sounding a little less unhinged. “I am sorry, there was a little misunderstanding before.”

“A misunderstanding?” The older lady’s eyes sharpened, as her gaze shifted to her grand-nephew. “About what? Damien, do you know anything about this?”

“Why, yes I do.”

He wouldn’t.

“The truth is…”

She wouldn’t just sacrifice the cravats. The shirts were going, too.

“Sarah believed…”

Actually, it wouldn’t be terrible if the shirts also went. Then she would have a nice view of…

“That you were…”

She was going to decorate everything he owned with ink.

“In the throes of a megrim. She also suffers from them, so she felt terrible. She wanted to come right away to assist.”

Relief flooded every sense. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to splatter ink upon all his clothing. She pushed away the dash of disappointment that emerged.

The old woman looked at her critically. “Is this true?”

Sarah rubbed her forehead, where a true ache was starting to bloom. “They can be terribly painful, can they not?”

She hadn’t exactly answered the question, but the older woman seemed to accept it, to an extent. “Thank you, but I do not have an ache in my head. I just wanted to discuss matters with my grandson. As you know, he has major changes upcoming.”

“I understand.” Only she didn’t. What major changes? And why would the older woman think she knew about them? She waited for more elaboration, but the woman just tilted her head to the door. The message was clear.

“Since my services are not needed, I will make myself scarce. It was a pleasure to meet you,” Sarah lied. Without a glance at her host/nemesis/man who would soon be short of cravats, she dashed to the door. The footman closed it, just as the words drifted through. “Now about your upcoming nuptials.”

Oh, he was in trouble.

But clearly, not as much as she was.