Chapter 29
Douglas carried her through the crowd of servants as she pressed her face against his bare chest. Each of her separate breaths, heated and soft, seemed to burrow beneath his flesh, into where the essence of him lived, and brand him for all time as hers.
“She’s fine,” he murmured to Thomas, and pushed himself past Jeremy Beecher and Mrs. Williams. He nodded to Cook, and with an aside only a few heard, said, “Can you send a tray to the Duke’s Suite? A bit of fruit, perhaps. Maybe some tea?”
She nodded and turned, disappearing into the crowd so sleekly she might have been an eel.
He made it to the rear of Chavensworth, caring hands brushing against him like palm fronds. Sarah was not light, but neither was she a burden he had any intention of releasing.
Two young men stood beside the door, and when he gestured to it with a lift of his chin, they hurried to open it.
Once inside Chavensworth, he set Sarah down on her feet, gathering her into his arms and pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
“Are you certain you’re all right?”
One hand came up to rest against his bare chest.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I think so. I also think I shall never be able to face anyone again.”
He pulled back and tilted up her face with one hand. “Yes you will. You’re Lady Sarah Eston.”
“I’ve never appeared nearly undressed in front of my staff, however.”
“You’re only missing your hoops,” he said, smiling.
“Not your corset. Brazen it through,” he said, bending to kiss her.
He didn’t mention that her lips were swollen and pink, or that her cheeks were delightfully flushed.
Anyone with any experience would be able to look into her beautiful gray eyes and know that she’d recently been kissed, and well.
They began walking up the stairs to their chamber, Sarah careful to keep her skirts, which trailed without their underlying hoops, from tripping her up.
The Duke of Herridge was not going to be happy about the explosion.
Douglas found it absurd that he slept in the man’s bed, all the while loathing the arrogant peer.
Despite the poverty he’d been born to, and the privilege the duke enjoyed, Douglas would have easily chosen his life over His Grace’s.
There was nothing about the duke that he would emulate, least of all the way he treated his daughter.
Sarah was simply a commodity to him, and the Duke of Herridge had rid himself of the problem of his only child in exchange for the promise of diamonds.
As if Sarah were only worth a mere purse of diamonds.
If he’d been married for months, instead of only weeks, he’d have felt a little more secure in explaining to Sarah exactly what her father had planned.
Not only was their marriage tenuous because of how it had occurred, but Sarah had been through enough in the past month.
She didn’t need to know the extent of her father’s perfidy.
These past weeks had only accentuated what he’d felt for her from the beginning.
He wanted to protect her and keep her safe.
He wanted to give her pleasure more than he wanted it for himself.
In the night, when he couldn’t sleep, when dreams beckoned yet couldn’t capture him, he wanted to speak to her in hushed tones in the shadows.
He wanted to tell her what it was truly like being Douglas Eston from Perth, Scotland.
He wanted to share with her feelings he’d never shared with another living soul, not even Alano.
If he left now, he could make it to London in two hours, speak to his solicitor, and at least ease his mind about the duke’s ability to end his marriage.
In addition, there must be some way to get out of his agreement with His Grace.
No money had exchanged hands, only the very precious hand of the duke’s daughter.
The best view of the observatory and the western fields was from the Duchess’s Suite.
Sarah stood on the terrace, watching the footmen douse the grass around the building and where the furnace had been.
The fire had been extinguished, but Douglas had returned and was now directing people and equipment.
Alano and a few of the other men dragged the diamond frames from the observatory, while still others removed the jars and jugs.
Could anything be salvaged?
The explosion could have killed them both.
If he hadn’t entered the observatory, Douglas would have been right there in the midst of the explosion.
She glanced down at the garden, her mother’s garden with the luckinbooth. Perhaps it was because she was standing at this angle, but the luckinbooth didn’t look like two hearts intertwined and topped with a crown. She walked to the other side of the terrace and looked at the hedges again.
A moment later, Sarah left the room, intent on her own chamber.
Grabbing her journal and her pencil, she returned to the Duchess’s Suite, slowly sketching what she saw both from the doorway and from the far end of the terrace.
Only when she was finished was she certain—the luckinbooth wasn’t two hearts, but two entwined initials. Two Ms—for Michael and Morna?
Douglas went to the stables and gave orders for the carriage to be readied.
“I’ll be happy to drive you, sir,” Tim said from behind him.
Douglas turned. “I’m going to London, Tim, and I’ve a mind to be back before nightfall.”
Tim nodded. “That suits me well enough, sir. Are you ready to leave now?”
Douglas looked over to where two boys stood laughing at the corner of one stall. He motioned one of them over, gave him an errand to perform, before turning to Tim.
“I’ll be ready in a quarter hour,” he said.
In actuality, it was less than that. Alano came walking through the stable doors ten minutes later, his valise in his hand and Douglas’s jacket slung over his arm.
“Time was,” Alano said, “I’d have to remind you to be proper dressed. It’s good I don’t have to train you anymore.” He handed Douglas his jacket with a smile. “If you’re going to London, I’ll follow you.”
Douglas glanced down at the valise in his friend’s hand.
“There’s no need for you to leave, Alano.”
“Yes, there is,” Alano said. “I’ll not howl at her door like a lovesick puppy.”
Douglas raised an eyebrow but didn’t make a comment.
He’d never before seen his friend in such a mood over a woman.
Perhaps it was something about Chavensworth, but he didn’t think so.
The two of them had simply found the only two women in the world capable of twisting their guts into frenzied snakes.
“Then I’ll be glad of the company,” Douglas said.
Alano gave orders for the second carriage, the one he’d arrived at Chavensworth in, to follow them. The coachman looked ecstatic to be returning to London.
Douglas signaled to Tim, and he and Alano climbed inside the first carriage. They were on their way to London less than an hour after he had made his decision.
Sarah walked back into her mother’s room. The tall windows had heavy burgundy drapes shut against the bright summer day, but she didn’t open them.
Slowly, she walked toward the secretary her mother had used until she’d become too ill. Sitting on the high-backed chair in front of the desk, she pulled open the bottom right drawer. She could remember the first time her mother had shown her the secret compartment.
“What’s in there, Mama?”
“Mama’s jewels, dearling.”
Although she’d been a little girl, she’d known her mother kept her rings and brooches in the small casket in the bottom of the armoire, but she’d not argued. She’d been old enough to know that a good daughter never questioned.
The drawer held unremarkable items—a porcelain potpourri container that still managed to scent the drawer with roses after all this time, another small jar that had once held ink, now dry.
A silver rocker blotter, and a selection of nibs.
One by one, she removed all the items, placing them on the surface of the secretary.
Once the drawer was empty, she reached toward the back and, using her nail, slid the false bottom toward her and lifted it.
Inside the secret compartment was a stack of letters, tightly tied in yellow ribbon.
She withdrew the letters, holding them in both hands. She had no right. Curiosity was not enough. Morna was a woman with secrets, some of them confusing, true, but they were her secrets.
Sarah studied the handwriting on the envelope.
Large and sprawling, it seemed to be written in a masculine hand.
If she opened this letter, she would read words that weren’t meant for her.
Perhaps the words would be commonplace, the correspondence of acquaintances, friends.
Or perhaps they were more, words of love, of devotion, and of sorrow.
God forgive her, but she couldn’t go for the rest of her life without knowing.
She replaced the false bottom and loaded the items back into the drawer before returning to her room. Once back in her chamber, she sat on the chair beside the window, resting for a moment with the letters on her lap as if to give herself another chance to do the proper thing.
She began with the oldest letter, one that seemed much read if the fragile folds were any indication. The letter was dated five years earlier.
Dearling,
Her eyes widened at the endearment, but she continued reading.
Forgive me for writing you, but your father has told me the truth he kept hidden all these years. Forgive me for once believing that you would love another.
I have no right to be in your life, now, but I want you to know that you have been forever in mine. I have never forgotten you, dearling, and every day that passes does so with my earnest prayers for your joy and health.
There was no name at the bottom of the letter. The second letter, however, was signed with a bold M. This time, there was no salutation.