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And then he realised that she was not simply angry, she was on the verge of tears. They gathered shimmering in her eyes, making them look like two great moonstones. With an impatient gesture she dragged the back of her free hand across them and Lucian pulled her towards him, against his chest, and wrapped both arms around her. ‘Don’t cry, I’m sorry, don’t cry, Sara.’ He was not sure what he was apologising for, but he felt sick, as though he had struck her.
She stamped on his foot, pushed against him. ‘Let me go! I am not crying, I never cry. I am angry.’
He released her warily and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief, aware it would probably be thrust back into his face. And, finally, his brain started working, started piecing clues together. ‘How did your husband die?’
‘In a duel. A pointless, stupid duel with his best friend who is somewhere out there—’ she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of France ‘—with his life ruined and Michael’s death on his conscience.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they got drunk and Francis, who, it seems, had a perfectly harmless tendre for me, was teasing my husband, the man who I thought was above all this stupid, patriarchal nonsense about women’s honour and duelling. And Francis, in his cups, went too far and… I don’t know what was said. Michael wrote in the letter he left that he never believed for a moment that I had been unfaithful to him and yet I cannot understand how he couldn’t see that Francis was drunk and a bit jealous, perhaps, and didn’t mean it. They told me that Francis had intended to fire wide, but he always was a hopeless shot…’
‘My God.’ He thrust the handkerchief into her hand, she stared at it as though she had no idea what it was for, then swiped at her eyes with it, blew her nose with inelegant force and threw the crumpled linen to the floor.
‘I suppose you think he did the right thing? Even my father and brother, who were appalled at his death, obviously understood why he had made the challenge.’
‘What else was he to do if his wife was insulted?’
‘Oh, let me see.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Wait until they were both sober? Ask Francis to explain himself? Blacken his eye? Act like the reasonable, reasoning, intelligent human being that he was?’ Sara turned from him and stood looking out over the sea. ‘Can you imagine what it is like for someone you love to get themselves killed and to leave a letter telling you that they did it for you? The guilt is hideous. Can you imagine how Marguerite will feel if her brother kills the man she loves for her?’
‘Gregory Farnsworth should be punished.’
‘If he is alive, if he really is a heartless seducer, then, yes, he deserves punishment. But you are not judge, jury and executioner, Lucian.’ When he didn’t reply she looked round at him and all the anger drained from her face, leaving only a small, bitter smile. ‘I haven’t convinced you at all, have I?’
‘I am appalled at what happened to you, but the circumstances are not the same.’ He stooped and refilled the cups. ‘Come and sit down and have some tea.’
‘Of course. We are English, are we not? Anything can be made more bearable by tea.’ Sara sat, seemingly quite calm now, and took the cup he passed her with a murmur of thanks. ‘But the question of Gregory is neither here nor there while you have no idea of where he is, or even if he lives. When I was grieving it was talking to my close friends that helped more
than anything. Let me see if Marguerite will talk to me.’
Lucian looked at her as she sat, poised, beautiful, controlled again. And yet so much anger and grief and guilt boiled under that exquisite exterior. He wanted her, he realised, wanted to taste her again, to hold her, to strip every scrap of clothing from her body and possess her, wanted all that with an urgency that shook him. What did that make him, when he should be thinking about nothing but his sister’s welfare, when the woman he desired was still shattered by her husband’s tragic death? It simply made him male, he supposed, capable of thinking about carnal matters even in the midst of situations of great seriousness.
In the end all he could find to say was, ‘Thank you. I know I can trust you with her.’
*
Lucian was right to trust her to do her best to help Marguerite, but she would do nothing to help him bring down the errant lover, not if the girl still had deep feelings for the man. Sara sipped her tea and looked out to sea, watching Lucian from the corner of her eye. He was a brave man not to have fled when she had unleashed all that misery and anger about Michael’s death.
He was very attractive, she thought, and perhaps the fact that she noticed, that she wanted to kiss him again, wanted far more than that, was a sign that she truly had come through her mourning. She would never forget Michael, never stop loving the memory of him, or feeling anger at his death—and anger at him for challenging Francis and guilt herself for… No, she had promised herself not to dwell on her own guilt because it would drive her mad. She was a different woman now, a new Sara who had to decide what she really wanted in this moment, today. And tomorrow.
‘You are very thoughtful.’
And you, with all your demons, are an uncomfortable companion for my thoughts!
‘I was brooding on the future, what I will do when I leave here. The shop was always something for a year or so, something completely different from everything that had gone before. And it was creative, I could build the business, which was interesting. I have one grandfather who was an East India merchant and perhaps I have inherited his trading instincts.’
Restless now, she put down the cup half-emptied and went to look out over the sea again. The tide was turning and the little fishing fleet was making its way out to sea, red and buff sails vivid on the blue water as they butted through the waves. ‘Sandbay is changing, developing. There is perhaps one more year when I can live my dual life and then I will be too much of an oddity.’
Lucian came to join her at the rail, resting his hands on it as she was, their little fingers—his right, her left—just touching. A tingle like the spark from a cat’s fur in a thunderstorm shot up her arm. Did he feel it, too? His hand moved, covered hers, his thumb stroking slowly over the pulse in her wrist. Oh, yes, he feels it.
‘Sara. Last night you said you were curious. Are you still?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted and closed her eyes as the world narrowed down to the sensation of his caress on the tender skin, the awareness of his body next to hers, the brush of the breeze on her face. ‘But…’
‘Ah. The but.’
‘You should not allow your lover to associate with your young sister—and that is what we are talking about, isn’t it? Not just a kiss or two, but an affaire.’
‘That is what I desire, yes.’
