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Lady Crewood spun and marched away from her husband, who was left with a startled expression.
Matthew frowned. “What the devil just happened?”
“Our mother is doing her damnedest to get us shot.”
“What?”
Mark resumed walking. “For ladies, dear brother, subtlety is the key in the best insults, and a fan is never just a fan. Mother just insulted Lady Crewood, pulled rank, and challenged her, all in two simple sentences. Men only think we hold the power in these situations. But never turn your back on a duchess.”
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, 26 July 1814
Lady Crewood’s home
Half past six in the evening
Sarah mulled overthe incident in the park again, but her emotions remained a chaotic tangle. They had been such since before the Embleton carriage had delivered her home, the large, lacquered vehicle with the prominent ducal crest once again looking outsized and out of place on the narrow lane and causing numerous curtains to flutter. And the carriage would be back the next evening to pick her up for the excursion to Almack’s.
A prospect that filled Sarah with both fear and excitement.
She had never been to Almack’s; she had married too early and had spent most of her married life at the Crewood country estate. Sarah had never had a debut or made the rounds of balls, soirees, and musicales that immersed a young woman into Society and made her a familiar creature to the nobility.
Sarah, despite her title and long reign as a countess, was a stranger to them. And the crème de la crème of Society would be at Almack’s, many of them eligible women in search of a husband. It would put Matthew—who had finally acquiesced to attend—on full display. A duke. Handsome, healthy, and quite wealthy. And as of yet unmarried. He quite literally could have his pick of women from among the Society diamonds, most of whom would readily agree to his terms of a rapid marriage with preparations for him to be out of the country for extended periods of time. The title of duchess would be the ultimate prize, worth any sacrifice.
Yet he had chosen her.
Why?
Yes, Sarah knew what he had told her, but she did not completely believe him. Something was missing in this.
Sitting at her escritoire, Sarah began to make two lists. One of her quite jumbled and inconsistent emotions. The other of possible reasons why he would choose her—an almost penniless, scarred widow far too old to be considered a viable catch—as his bride over any of the others.
The first list was considerably longer, covering much of the page.
The second only had two items on it: a good manager with experience and a determined nature. She scratched out “will marry quickly” since any number of marriageable debutantes would marry quickly with the enticement of being his duchess.
Sarah turned back to the other list, and her eye fell on one word: desire.
A word of complete confusion.
Over the past four days, each time she had been with Matthew something had fluttered inside, growing ever stronger, as if an emotion long squelched within were rousing to life. He was gentle toward her, his touch warm. When he studied her with those lovely eyes, she had grown warm and befuddled. She should not feel this way.
This was to be a business arrangement, much like her first marriage, and she had expected him to treat her as Owen had. Brusque and efficient. Her married life had been brutal and abusive, and their times in bed had been rough and painful. Owen had seen that duty as needed only to procreate, and when it became clear she would never conceive a child, he had stopped coming to her bedroom—for which she had been infinitely grateful. But Owen’s pronouncement about that had seared her soul.
“You are an adequate countess but worthless as a woman.”
Sarah scowled and looked at the second list again, her mind going over his “requirements” as stated in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. He needed an heir.Surely he realizes I do not have children.
But did he realize she couldnothave children?
“I have to tell him.” She muttered the words aloud, but the idea made her uncomfortable. Sad. But why? She never wanted this match.
Desire.
Matthew’s warmth, his kindness, his intelligence—and as seen today—his sense of protectiveness had stirred something in Sarah she had not felt in many years, if ever. In four days, she had not only adjusted to the idea of marriage to Matthew, she had begun to relish it. Want it. But what she felt was not just desire.
It was hope.
