Sold to a Laird Page 4

  Hester, her mother’s day nurse, pressed a finger against her lips, then gestured with her other hand for Sarah to enter.

  Sarah came into the room quietly, closing the doors softly behind her.

  Her heart sank when she looked at her mother.

  “Thomas said she’s not awakened in all the time I was gone.” Even her whisper sounded too loud.

  “No, my lady, she hasn’t. And Margaret tells me the nights are the same.”

  Hester was an older woman of indeterminate years. Her hair, once vibrantly red, had faded to a rust color. Wrinkles ravaged her skin, and age had grayed the whites of her eyes. Despite her age—or perhaps because of it—there was a calm implacability about Hester. But the true reason Sarah had hired Hester was the look in the older woman’s eyes, a warmth revealing her caring nature. Hester granted her affection without reservation. She’d never met a stranger, she was fond of saying, and it was for that quality more than any other that Sarah had made her the duchess’s nurse.

  Sarah sat on the straight-backed chair kept beside the bed for just such visits as these.

  Her mother had not been well for years. In the last six months, however, the Duchess of Herridge had become so frail she was a mere shadow of herself. Her complexion was pale, almost waxy, and her lips had a bluish tinge. The hands resting on the top of the coverlet were so white and thin that Sarah could see the tracery of veins beneath the skin. Her rings had long since been placed in the duchess’s jewelry casket for safekeeping.

  Lowering her head, Sarah kissed the back of her mother’s hand, wishing she could warm her in some way. Wishing, too, that her father was at his wife’s bedside, if not to say a final farewell, then at least to pretend to care.

  Her mother’s breathing was labored. At the end of each struggling breath, Sarah found herself inhaling deeply, as if to infuse her mother’s lungs with air.

  “What can I do?” she whispered. The question was addressed to God, to her mother, to Fate itself, but Hester answered.

  “Go on as you have,” Hester said kindly. “God gives us trials and tribulations to test us, Lady Sarah.”

  Just how many trials and tribulations did one life deserve? Her mother loved a man who didn’t care about her affection. She’d lost four children before they’d drawn breath.

  The door opened suddenly, surprising her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Eston standing there, accompanied by Thomas.

  Would he not give her any privacy, even here?

  Hester stood, but Eston waved her back in her chair.

  He didn’t speak, merely entered the room softly, to take a stance behind Sarah. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched from his touch, even as she realized it was a gesture of support. Despite her rebuff, however, his hand remained, and she gradually relaxed, feeling the warmth from his palm permeate the fabric of her dress.

  “What is wrong with her?” he asked softly.

  “The physicians do not know,” she said. “One of them said it was a depression of the spirit. Another thought it might be a tumor of the inner organs. Or a deficiency of the heart.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  “If there is, I do not know it,” she said. “I’ve consulted with physicians, and wisewomen, and even a woman who read cards. All I have left is to find a witch.”

  A moment passed before he spoke again.

  “My parents died when I was a boy. Cholera. I’ve never thought about it before, but I don’t know what’s worse, not being prepared for the loss or watching as death happens in measures in front of you.”

  She was startled by his candor. If she’d known him better, she would have answered him with the same honesty and told him that watching her mother die slowly was unbearable. She felt as if her heart were being torn out of her chest every day.

  “You sit with her a great deal, I warrant.”

  She nodded. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I would.”

  “At least she will not be sent to Scotland.”

  “Would your father really have done such a thing?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He would really have done such a thing.”

  She took a deep breath, stood, and faced him.

  “But she will not be moved. Nor disturbed. She will be treated with love and care until the moment she takes her last breath. On this I swear, Eston.” Her look defied him to argue with her.

  “I have no intention of moving your mother anywhere, Sarah. Nor in disturbing her one whit. On the contrary, whatever she needs, you have but to ask, and I’ll ensure it’s done.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  Finally, she turned, taking up her post beside the bed again. She would not cry. Not now. Not in front of him. Not in her mother’s room. But it took moments for her to regain a semblance of composure.

  “When I think of my childhood, I don’t think of my father,” she said softly, remembering the comment he’d made in the carriage. “I think of my mother, instead. Whatever I learned from my governess, she augmented. She had a wonderful imagination. She and I took long, fantastic trips to Istanbul, Russia, China, and America, even though we never left Chavensworth. I learned to speak French, so that when we imagined Paris, I could converse along with her. There was no happier child than I was. Nor spoiled, perhaps.”

  “I doubt you were spoiled,” he said.

  He didn’t look at her but continued to study her mother. Finally, he turned to leave the room, glancing back at her. “My name is Douglas,” he said. “What shall I call you? Lady Sarah? Even though you’ve lost your title on marrying me?”

  “I haven’t,” she said. From the look on his face, she’d surprised him. “I’ve merely changed it. I’m Lady Sarah Eston now.”

  “A duke’s daughter.”

  “Yes. An accident of birth, if you will, Mr. Eston. Am I to deny it?”

  “I wouldn’t ask it of you,” he said.

  She was grateful for his smile. It tripped her annoyance and kept her from tears.

  “Call me whatever you wish.”

  He looked as if he would like to say something but changed his mind. She allowed him the privacy of his thoughts. She would not pull and push as he’d done to her. She didn’t want to know what he was thinking.

  She looked beyond him to where Thomas still stood. He and Hester were certainly getting an earful. Thank heavens neither was the type to gossip.

  “Please prepare the Red Room, for Mr. Eston,” she said to Thomas. There, far enough away from her own chamber that he would not be a bother. If she tried, she could even ignore the fact that her husband was living under the same roof.

  Eston merely smiled, but instead of correcting her, turned to Thomas. “Ready the Duke’s Suite for me. I presume Chavensworth has one?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And move my wife’s things into it as well.”

  The fact that she was in her mother’s sickroom kept her mute, but nothing could push back her anger or the fear following on its heels.

  “I told you I would not come to your chamber.”

  “And I told you I would not come to yours,” he said, still smiling. “Fate has decreed that we have a chamber large enough to share. Or are you telling me that what I imagine is not true? Is the Duke’s Suite a cramped closet?”

  Hardly, since it occupied nearly half of the second floor. She remained silent, however, not divulging any information.

  “Besides, I have always believed in beginning a task with the outlook in mind.”

  “The outlook?”

  “Being a married couple. Acting as man and wife.”

  She hadn’t actually thought beyond getting home. Perhaps she’d believed that once she was inside Chavensworth, the situation would magically rearrange itself, and he would disappear. Perhaps she’d thought that her mother would be well and would banish him with her tinkling smile and a look that dared him to complain. Perhaps she even thought that he would see
the error of his ways and feel only shame for having taken advantage of the situation.

  Instead, he was saying things like acting as man and wife.

  “Are you insane?”

  He didn’t look mad. In fact, he looked positively pleased. Dear heavens, what on earth did she do now?

  He didn’t respond to her goad, and she wondered what he would do if she simply stood and walked from the room. Would he demand her return? Worse, would he make a scene in front of the servants?

  She gave him a small smile, the same kind of smile she would offer to the upstairs maid when she finished a rather deplorable piece of mending of Chavenworth’s linen sheets. The effort was to be commended even though the result was not acceptable.

  “Will your valet be joining you?”

  “I haven’t a valet,” he said, his smile appearing to be a more genuine effort than hers. “I have no personal servants. I can cope quite well without people helping me tie my shoes.”

  Had she just been insulted?

  She might have asked him if her new husband hadn’t suddenly left the room, leaving her to stare after him.

  Chapter 5

  The sad fact was that, despite her annoyance, misgivings, and general reluctance, Sarah was Mr. Eston’s wife. As Mr. Eston’s wife, she was subject to his rules, and one of those rules, however much she disliked it, was that they were to sleep in the Duke’s Suite.

  Since her father never came to Chavensworth, and since it was the largest chamber at the estate, Mr. Eston’s proposition made some sense. However, Sarah gave orders to have a cot moved into the room. Just because Mr. Eston insisted they sleep in the same room did not mean she agreed they should sleep in the same bed.

  She requested a tray to be served in her sitting room, thereby removing from the staff any temptation to prepare a bridal dinner, or an intimate meal for her and her new husband. She didn’t fool herself that they had been kept ignorant of Mr. Eston’s presence or role.

  “Have you served Mr. Eston?” she asked the footman when he delivered her meal.

  The young maid behind him tittered in response. When she glanced at the girl, she bobbed a curtsy and flushed, both accomplished at exactly the same time.

  “Begging your pardon, Lady Sarah. Mr. Eston thanked us kindly.”

  Why did the girl find it necessary to giggle when making that statement?

  She dismissed them both, concentrating on her meal. In actuality, she had little appetite, but she managed a few greens and something Cook had prepared, no doubt of a celebratory nature. The beverage consisted of a measure of white wine, currants, and grated ginger, sweetened with sugar and topped off with a sprinkling of lemon rind. She liked it so much that she considered ringing for more but reasoned that it was not the wisest course.

  Being a reluctant bride should not be compounded by being a tipsy one as well.

  Once she was finished with her meal, she withdrew her journal from its spot on her secretary and spent several moments in earnest writing. Only then did she summon Florie to help her prepare for bed.

  “I am married, Florie,” she said, when the girl arrived. “I am married, and I do not wish to discuss it. Not now, not tomorrow, not next month.”

  Florie said nothing, but it was clear, from her openmouthed expression, how surprised she was.

  Nearly as surprised as Sarah.

  None of Sarah’s sleeping garments were outlandish or revealing, but she still felt conspicuously uncovered in her linen nightgown and matching wrapper. Of white linen, with pink piping, it was perfectly proper. Unless, of course, one was going to a bedchamber occupied by a man one had only recently met—and married.

  Once Florie left the room, Sarah surveyed her reflection in the pier glass. If she stood in front of the light, the shape of her limbs was visible. Since she had no other garments of a sturdier nature, there was nothing more to be done. She would simply have to remain covered at all times.

  She left her chamber and walked down the corridor, with shoulders squared and head held high.

  Mr. Eston opened the door to the Duke’s Suite at her knock and silently stood aside.

  “Your cot has arrived,” he said.

  What a very strange voice he had. Not simply the inflection of his words but the tone of it as well.

  “Do you sing, Mr. Eston?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her wits.

  “I was asking because of your voice. You have a very deep voice. We have a great many baritones in our Christmas choir. You might consider joining it.”

  He shook his head, and she had the impression that he considered her odd, perhaps eccentric.

  “It’s a very good choir, Mr. Eston,” she said, frowning at him.

  “I’m quite certain it is, but I don’t sing.”

  She was left with nothing to say, which meant that she had no choice but to enter the Duke’s Suite.

  Indigo draperies, the same shade as the coverlet, covered the many floor-to-ceiling windows. The four-poster bed, sitting on its dais, was swathed in the same material.

  The round carpet covering the mahogany floorboards was woven with a deep border in indigo and lavender chains. Lavender, honoring the first crop ever to be planted at Chavensworth, was also replicated on the pillows of the upholstered chairs beside the window and the embroidery on the coverlet.

  On the far wall was the defining feature of the room, a series of cupboards with gold-leaf fronts. Each cabinet bore a scene from Chavenworth’s history, from the planting of the first lavender beds to the building of the house itself. The gilt required constant maintenance and delicate handling, so that it didn’t flake and peel from the wood.

  “Do you really intend to spend the night on a flimsy cot?” he asked from behind her.

  “Unless you give me leave to return to my room,” she answered quite amiably.

  “Do you need my leave?”

  He was, like it or not, her husband. But this union would not be dictated solely by his rules but also by her wishes. That, she’d decided in the two days she’d been locked in her room. If he did not like it, Mr. Eston could simply go away, leaving her in the not-unwanted state of being married with no husband in sight.

  However, it was one thing to make such a decision in her own room and quite another to do so in his presence.

  “I think it would be best if we began this marriage in the traditional way,” he said.

  She clasped her hands together, making a fist of the two of them. How very cold she was.

  “I will not bed you,” she said.

  Would it become a contest of more than wills between them? He was a very large man, and although she was taller than most of her acquaintances, she could not best him in strength. Would he force her? Surely not. He had seemed like a gentleman upon their first meeting. And he had been kind and polite enough in the carriage. But did his surface veneer rub off in the bedroom? Would he expose himself as a vicious and horrid man?

  “In New South Wales,” he said, striding across the room, “the aborigines do not sleep together for at least three nights.”

  She frowned at him. She didn’t know whether to satisfy her curiosity or drop the subject entirely. Talking to him, however, kept her attention from what he was doing, and what he was doing was undressing in front of her. He didn’t even take the precaution of stepping behind the screen erected in the corner for just such a purpose. No, Douglas Eston was above such sensibilities or beyond them. He was removing his waistcoat, then his shirt, divesting himself of his clothing with such an insouciant attitude that she suspected he had done so many times before.

  “You’re very comfortable undressing in front of strange females, aren’t you?”

  “You are my wife. I believe you should become accustomed to it.”

  Well, she was very much not going to become accustomed to it, regardless of what he said. She deliberately turned and stared at the opposite wall.

  “What are aborigines?”

  “The native peo
ple of New South Wales. It’s located on the other side of the world.”

  “I know where New South Wales is,” she said. “I’m very well-read. I’ve just never heard the term aborigine.”

  “Their habits are no odder than this union of ours, Your Ladyship.”

  “I’m not to be addressed in that fashion,” she said. “It’s Lady Sarah. Or my Lady.”

  “I would prefer Sarah,” he said. “Despite the fact that you’re the daughter of a duke.”

  “I had absolutely nothing to do with the circumstances of my birth,” she said.

  “And if you had? Would you have changed anything? Or would you have preferred, instead, to have been born at a different time? A handmaiden to Cleopatra, perhaps?”

  “Why couldn’t I have been Cleopatra herself?” she asked, staring into the maw of the fireplace.

  “Do you see yourself as royalty?”

  She considered the question for some seconds before she answered him. “There is a great deal of responsibility to being royal,” she said. “For that matter, there is a great deal of responsibility to being the daughter of a duke.”

  “Especially the Duke of Herridge.”

  She merely inclined her head in agreement.

  The silence stretched between them for a few moments. She heard sounds like fabric rubbing together and wondered if he was taking off his trousers. The sound of a shoe dropping was loud enough that she jumped, startled, before admonishing herself sternly to remain motionless.

  Then there was nothing. No sound at all, unless she counted her own breathing. But in the bathing room, there was water splashing, then the gurgle of the drain.

  Was she going to stand here like a ninny for the entire time it took for him to ready himself for bed?

  He emerged from the bathing chamber and she nearly turned around before remembering that he would be naked, of course. He should be attired in a nightgown, as was proper, but somehow she doubted he would be.

  “Will you not share the bed with me, Lady Sarah? It looks comfortable, at least, and certainly large enough. You can occupy one half, and I shall occupy the other.”