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Damn.
By the time he left, a plan had begun to form. He needed to expose Fairford’s perfidy, but Sabrina would never believe a word of it from him. He needed help…
Sabrina went to her room utterly drained. Closing the door, she lay on her bed, her heart galloping like a horse gone mad.
All of her careful plans had gone awry in the worst way. She should never have sent Henry that note, but nagging doubts had forced her to reconsider him. The sensible choice just didn’t make as much sense anymore. Or was it just her body’s—or worse, her heart’s—demands interfering?
But the feeling of being in his arms again…all the fire that had been so utterly lacking in Fairford’s kiss had been there with Henry. It was no use denying her desire for him. Coupled with the emotional attachment beginning to form between them, it was a disaster waiting to happen.
Urgency filled her. Though she had misgivings, she must give Fairford a fair chance as well. The thought of him touching her was still repugnant, but she chose to ignore it. After all, her gut reaction was what had gotten her into so much trouble with Henry. She dare not trust something as fallacious as instinct, whether it pointed in the direction she wanted or not, to make her decision for her.
The chess set and poetry book Fairford had again sent caught her eye. She’d accepted them the second time. It still surprised her that he’d remembered their conversation at the opera. He’d also invited her to a literary-club meeting this week. His thoughtfulness and consideration pleased her enormously.
With passion erased from the equation, Fairford made perfect sense. She could never love him, but she could get along with him just fine. And she was certain she’d be able to tolerate him in the marriage bed.
Eventually.
The thought made her squirm as memories of Henry again intruded. His hands, his mouth…
Devil take it!
Her only chance for sanity lay in exposing Henry’s faults. She had to prove to herself once and for all that he was unequivocally the wrong man for her.
And that was something she couldn’t do if he wasn’t around. She resigned herself to enduring the torment for a little while longer.
A knock intruded upon her thoughts. “My lady, a courier has just arrived with a message for you,” the butler stiffly announced.
She looked up expectantly, but there was no tray in the servant’s hand. “Well, where is it?”
“Apologies, my lady,” the flummoxed man replied. “He refused to deliver the message to anyone but your ladyship.”
“Who sent him?”
“He would not say, my lady.”
Mystified, she put aside her book and followed the indignant servant down to the foyer. A young man awaited her, a parcel wrapped in black velvet and tied with scarlet silk ribbons in his hands.
With a bow, the young man presented the gift. “My lady, I was instructed to place this only into your hands and to tell you to open it in privacy,” he said, withdrawing an envelope from his pocket. “This accompanies it.”
Within the crinkly parchment, her fingers discerned the shape of a key. She immediately recognized the handwriting on the envelope. Thanking the courier, she turned toward the stairs.
The butler practically leaped to head her off. “My lady, hadn’t you best open it here, in case something dangerous lies within?”
“It’s quite all right. I know the sender’s hand,” she told him with a smile. Leaving the curious man behind, she continued her march up the steps to her room. Once there, she locked her door and placed the package on her bed. For a long moment, she just stared at it.
Henry’s first courtship gift. What could it be?
Taking a deep breath, she removed the ribbons and pulled back the cloth to reveal an intricately carved wooden box. A floral motif decorated its dark, polished surface, each leaf and bloom crafted of precious gems and joined to its sisters by vines of hair-fine silver inlay. The box alone was a gift worthy of royalty, yet she could feel that something else lay inside.
The envelope beckoned. Tearing it open, she inserted the strange little key into the lock and turned it. The tumblers aligned with a soft snick, and she lifted the lid. Inside lay a leather-bound book. A note slipped out as she held up the tome to more closely examine the elaborate tooling on its cover.
Sabrina,
Please accept these gifts as tokens of my great affection and regard. For my lady: Murshidabad silk from the looms of Bengal and an ancient, sacred Hindi text.
Yours,
H.
