Chapter Six
“—and the cuffs were just to die for, so I thought the hem could be altered, and of course it could. There is nothing that my modiste cannot do, I highly recommend—”
“I am sure she is nothing to my modiste; her patterns are the very latest thing, straight from London—”
“London? No, my dear, it’s Paris one should be watching. My modiste drew them up for me, very swiftly indeed, a pattern designed especially for me based on the very latest…”
Sarah sipped her tea and tried not to fall asleep in the deep, luxurious armchair where she had been placed.
It was her own fault. She had finally given into her mother’s demands and permitted herself to be dragged along to one of the many afternoon tea parties Mrs. Lockwood was invited to.
If she had been clever, she would have carefully examined precisely who the invitation had been from before she had consented to it.
As it was…
“I tell you, nothing will surpass what my modiste can create,” Lady Romeril said severely to their host, a dull woman with little backbone, as far as Sarah could see. “Truly, it is the London fashions which…”
Sarah stifled a yawn behind her teacup and took another sip of the tepid drink.
She could not recall a time when she had been so bored.
There was Lady Romeril, championing her London modiste.
Their host, Mrs. Foster, was doing the same for her Oxford modiste.
A lady whose name Sarah could not recall was nodding sycophantically whenever Lady Romeril spoke, a Mrs. Marnion was nodding whenever their hostess was speaking, and her mother…
Sarah stifled a groan. Her mother was nodding vigorously regardless of who spoke.
And this was the height of society she had been missing out on?
“What say you, Miss Lockwood?”
For a moment, Sarah presumed the question Lady Romeril had shot over was addressed to her mother. As her mind caught up, a flush tinged her cheeks as every eye turned.
She caught her mother’s gaze. Mrs. Lockwood was looking beseeching, clearly desperate to make a good impression.
Sarah swallowed a sigh at the aimless nonsense the entire afternoon was filled with, and plastered a smile upon her face. “Why bother replacing one’s gowns at all? I think we all here are superbly dressed.”
She had considered her remark carefully balanced; a compliment to everyone, no obvious agreement with any particular party.
She may as well have burned the building down.
“Not bother replacing one’s—why, Miss Lockwood, do you mean to say you have not indulged in a new gown this Season?” remarked Mrs. Foster, her gaze flickering most uncomfortably across Sarah’s gown.
Sarah swallowed as her mother groaned quietly beside her.
Was everything women in society said a trap? Sarah could hardly believe they spoke for so long in such a roundabout way; it was so dull! At least with Montague, she could say what she meant…
“What was that for?”
“N-Nothing.”
“That…that was nothing?”
Sarah’s cheeks burned. Remarkably, her mother came to her rescue.
“What my daughter meant to say is that she prefers not to replace one’s gown entirely, but have it remade into the latest fashion,” Mrs. Lockwood said hastily, casting a severe look at Sarah. “Didn’t you, dear?”
It was all Sarah could do not to shrug her shoulders. “Yes, Mama.”
As her gaze fell to her teacup, she caught the gaze of Lady Romeril for a moment.
It truly was a triumph to tempt Lady Romeril out of London. Sarah had to admit Mrs. Foster had done well there.
But it was disconcerting to have the woman’s eye on her. She was, Sarah had been told countless times by her mother, one of the matriarchs of good society; the ton utterly depended on her. Why, she gave out vouchers to Almack’s!
Sarah tried not to catch her gaze again.
“Very proper, Miss Lockwood,” Lady Romeril said in a magnificent voice. “Clever.”
It was impossible to know if Lady Romeril was referring to her supposed gown habits or the way she and her mother had avoided the awkward conversation. Whichever it was, Sarah found herself pleased to have gained Lady Romeril’s approbation. Perhaps her mother would be satisfied with—
“And when will you be marrying, Miss Lockwood?” Lady Romeril said loudly over Mrs. Foster, who was still speaking about her modiste’s fine needlework.
Sarah blanched. This was precisely why she had not wished to attend such gatherings!
She looked instinctively toward her mother.
Mrs. Lockwood cleared her throat. “Oh, one cannot speak of such things until they are settled—and speaking of settled, Mrs. Marnion, I hear your daughter has recently married. Do tell us, did she decide on a blue suite for her new drawing room, or…”
Making a note—sadly not in her pocketbook, which remained in her reticule—to thank her mother once home, Sarah took the opportunity to rise and move to the window.
No one commented, the conversation now abuzz with debate over whether Mrs. Marnion’s daughter should have gone for a royal blue or a French blue.
Sarah sighed as she looked out the window. She had never truly enjoyed this sort of conversation, but for some reason, she was even more bored by it than before. She had a sneaking suspicion that it was, in part, Montague’s fault.
The Duke of Caelfall, she corrected herself silently, amazed she had the boldness to call him such a thing even in the privacy of her mind.
“—and the china was most exquisite, a floral—”
“Oh, floral plates! How very last Season!” That was Lady Romeril. “I have replaced my entire dinner service with gold…”
Sarah sighed. The whole thing was so dull!
She turned to look into the room. Her mother, Lady Romeril, Mrs. Foster, Mrs. Marnion, whatever that woman’s name was…they all seemed engrossed in their conversation.
So engrossed they would not notice if she…
Sarah managed it by taking very small steps—very small indeed. The conversation had meandered to the trustworthiness of servants by the time she reached the wall, and had skipped over to the right sort of riding habit one had to wear in Oxford as opposed to London when she reached the door.
It was during a loud outburst from Mrs. Foster that it was her home and she was not going to be spoken to like that by Lady Romeril that Sarah acted.
She opened the door. She slipped out. She closed the door behind her.
Heart pounding, she leaned against the door for a moment to ensure her absence had not been noted.
“Why, Mrs. Foster, I had no idea you were so envious of my—”
“Envious! My dear Lady Romeril, there are few things I am truly envious of, but your lady’s maid—”
Sarah smiled. She had managed it.
She left a quiet message with a bemused footman, so her mother would not panic at her absence, and placed the proffered bonnet firmly back on her head. Stepping into the sunshine-filled street, her feet swiftly took her in the one direction she truly wished to be.
Not home. Home was full of responsibilities, of her mother’s disappointment. Besides, that was precisely where her mother would look.
The Oxford streets were quiet. Graduation had occurred. Every Townie knew to stay indoors on that particular evening, the new graduates and their friends as likely to riot in their cups as not.
But it was pleasant now, the students returned home for the summer break. Weeks of gentle quiet lay ahead.
The Wessex College porter did not even look up as she walked through. “Miss.”
She stifled a snort. “Sir.”
She and Montague—she and the duke, she corrected—had no prior engagement, but she could not imagine he would be disinclined to see her. After all—
“It…I…it mustn’t happen again.”
“No, it mustn’t. We wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.”
Sarah swallowed as she walked down a corner of a quad, covered by an ancient roof and lined with columns. She had been right. They certainly could not make that sort of thing a habit. Even if when she had been in his arms, she had felt—
Swish!
A noise made her falter. Sarah’s gaze darted about the quad, her eyes widening as she saw the source of the strange noise she had just heard.
It was Montague.
Not Montague as she knew him. Stepping swiftly behind a column so she could watch him unnoticed, Sarah gazed, open-mouthed, at the Duke of Caelfall.
He was fencing.
Well, not fencing properly, Sarah corrected. He had a sword—a foil in his hands, but he was not moving. His cane lay abandoned some feet away, she could see, and there was a slight unsteadiness in his gait that gave her pause.
But that did not matter. Montague was not worried about his footwork, evidently. He was practicing his sword work. Foil work. Whatever it was called.
Sarah’s mouth fell open as he performed a complex swishing movement that twisted the flashing blade in the sunlight. His wrist appeared to move in a way not possible, the figure of eight transforming into a sudden upward rush, then diving, point first, halting just before it reached the lawn.
It was remarkable.
Sarah had never seen something so…so impressive.
Why had Montague never shown her this? Why had he never…well, Sarah did not like to disparage him, even in her thoughts, but why didn’t he show off in this manner? It was impossible not to be enthralled.
He took a step forward and immediately halted, his free hand clutching at his leg just for a moment before he regained his balance.
Sarah’s gaze was drawn uncomfortably to the cane on the ground a little way away.
She had never asked. She had not deemed it polite, would be mortified to offend…but still. She was curious.
Had Montague—had the Duke of Caelfall always had a cane? Did his leg pain him always, or was it a recent injury?
“Well, what would you know? You’re a duke, aren’t you? You’ve probably never been in danger in your whole life!”
Prickles of discomfort rippled through her. It had been a callous thing to say, in hindsight. After all, what did she know of him before meeting him at Wessex College?
Montague lunged forward with his arms against an invisible opponent and Sarah’s heart fluttered. He was remarkably handsome at the best of times—something she was sure, she thought archly, he was fully aware of.