The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Read online

  Gregory cleared his throat and smiled at the women. “Lady Farnsworth, Miss Shaw, may I introduce our host, Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.”

  Lady Farnsworth omitted the obligatory curtsy, but fractionally inclined her feathered turban in acknowledgment. “Lord Weston, I knew your mother—and your father, of course,” she added peevishly, reluctantly extending her hand as if forced to do so.

  Lord Weston smiled serenely at the woman and took her hand in his, kissing it gently. “Lady Farnsworth, it is a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps one day you can regale me with stories of my mother’s youth. I do adore a good tale.”

  “Oh, will you be staying in Lulworth much longer?” Lady Farnsworth asked acerbically. “Silly question, I suppose. You’ve been here all of two days now, so of course you’ll be off—”

  “With such charming neighbors as yourself,” Lord Weston interrupted, his tone silken smooth though a dangerous gleam showed in his eyes, “why would I ever leave Lulworth?”

  Lady Farnsworth compressed her lips into a tight line of indignation. “Indeed,” she replied, reluctantly recognizing that she was no match for the man.

  Sarah struggled to keep her mouth shut, but a tiny giggle of delight escaped her lips.

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Tisdale?” Lady Farnsworth asked testily, still smarting from Lord Weston’s subtle set-down.

  As she’d done many times before in similar situations, Sarah forced herself to think of Theodore, a beloved spaniel she’d owned as a child. “Actually, I do believe I could not be better,” she answered, the deceased canine having come to her assistance yet again.

  “Lord Weston, do address Constance before she faints from her efforts,” Sarah said hastily, looking at the girl as she held a perfect curtsy.

  He bowed expertly and captured Constance’s hand in his, pressing a firm and lingering kiss on her kidskin glove. “My dear Miss Shaw, it is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Constance looked at Lord Weston—or rather, the top of his head as he kissed her hand. If she had been delighted to see Sarah again, then the girl was absolutely enraptured over the earl. She blushed from her neckline to the top of her pale blonde head.

  Lady Farnsworth cleared her throat and looked to be making ready to forcibly remove her niece’s hand from Lord Weston’s lips.

  And just like that, the earl released the girl’s hand and rose, looking into Constance’s eyes and smiling as if she were the only woman in the room.

  “Come, Constance,” Lady Farnsworth barked, nodding to the group and ushering her niece away.

  Sarah nearly applauded. “Brilliant,” she whispered in awe.

  Claire gasped, Gregory laughed … and Lord Weston? Sarah could have sworn he winked at her.

  Claire nodded serenely at the earl. “Gentlemen, I’ve need of Miss Tisdale’s attention at the moment. Do excuse us, won’t you?”

  They hardly waited for anyone to reply. Sarah bolted for an alcove while Claire sailed slowly behind, stopping a servant on the way and relieving him of two glasses of punch.

  “That was indelicate, even for you,” Claire professed, handing a glass to Sarah and taking a sip from her own.

  Sarah took one small drink and followed it up with another. “The woman is like a viper—rather more round, mind you, but still, very snakelike. That tongue of hers is deadly. I would not be at all surprised to discover it is forked. And he trounced her—wait, is that what one would do to a viper? Or would one obliterate, perhaps crush?”

  “I would run,” Claire offered, demurely sipping from her cup.

  Sarah rolled her eyes in response. “Tell me that Lord Weston’s skewering of Lady Farnsworth was not a thing of beauty.”

  “I most assuredly would not skewer—”

  “Claire!”

  “Oh, all right,” her dear friend relented. “It was most definitely a sight to behold. I don’t remember the last time Lady Farnsworth retreated from a fight, especially one that she started.”

  Sarah wanted to ask just what the Errant Earl was guilty of that made her fellow residents so emboldened as to eat his food, drink his wine, then thank him with slights. But she could hardly do so without seeming interested in the earl—which she obviously was not.

  “What is it?” Claire asked knowingly.

  Sarah feigned innocence. “What is what?”

  “You want to ask me something but are holding yourself back.”

  Sarah had never had any luck keeping her thoughts from Claire and wasn’t quite sure why she even bothered to try at all. “The thing is, I can’t imagine what Lord Weston could have done to deserve such treatment.”

  Both looked to where Weston and Bennington stood engaged comfortably in conversation.

  “You know as much as I,” Claire began. “His absence from the county has been a hardship for the farmers who work his land.”

  “I suppose,” Sarah answered distractedly.

  Claire delicately sighed. “Sarah dear, do explain to me why you are acting as though you’ve lost your senses.”

  “Lost my senses? Why, I am the only one here with any reasonable—”

  “Take a breath.”

  Sarah filled her lungs with air, and then expelled the breath with a huff, the act restoring her equilibrium. “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Claire said reassuringly, taking Sarah’s hand in hers. “Now tell me what is the matter.”

  “Don’t you see? I’ve spent the last several years most happily avoiding any nonsense concerning marriage.”

  “What of Mr. Dixon?” Claire interrupted, her mouth pursing as if she’d eaten a particularly disgusting bug.

  “Come now, Claire,” Sarah protested. “You know as well as I that the Honorable Ambrose Dixon is so monumentally unpleasant a person that even Mother cannot wholeheartedly recommend him as a husband.”

  Claire nodded in agreement. “Proceed.”

  “Well,” Sarah continued, “Weston’s return will have Mother thinking on marriage.”

  “True, though she’s not made any attempts since Lord Reginald Busby,” Claire pointed out.

  Sarah huffed. “Which means she’s out of practice. She was dreadful at it before. Just imagine what I’ll be asked to endure—what Lord Weston will be forced to endure—in the interest of a fortuitous match. And Bennington’s befriending him will only encourage her. To say nothing of your acceptance.”

  Claire’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “Oh indeed,” Sarah said gloomily.

  “He is quite handsome, though.”

  “Claire!”

  Her friend giggled. “I’m only trying to find the bright spot in all of this.”

  “Fine. He is handsome and charming.”

  “Quite awful, to be sure,” Claire affirmed.

  Sarah smiled at her, though her heart ached just a little from the effort. “Claire, when was the last time a man such as Weston courted me?”

  “What of Blackwood? Or Thorpe?”

  “Let me rephrase the question: Claire, when was the last time a man such as Weston pursued the courtship once he’d come to know me?”

  Claire squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Most disagreeable chap, that Weston. Certainly not the sort that Gregory nor I would endeavor to form a connection with. But my dear, it’s Weston’s loss. Any man should be so lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said softly.

  Claire placed a gentle kiss on Sarah’s forehead. “You are most welcome. Now,” she said, turning back toward the crowd, “let us rejoin the festivities before Gregory sends out a search party.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Sarah agreed. After all, one could not hide in an alcove for the entirety of a party. She’d tried before, with no measure of success.

  “They seem to have returned,” Marcus commented.

  Bennington’s gaze followed Marcus’s and found his wife and Miss Tisdale, strolling arm in arm on the far side of the room. “Yes, it’s what women do—disappear for apparently
no reason, then reappear out of thin air. Much like cats, I suppose.”

  As Marcus watched the two women, their heads bent toward each other as they whispered, their affection caused him to pause. “Is it a habit of theirs?”

  “Oh, yes, thick as thieves, those two.”

  Marcus nodded. “I suppose our rather unorthodox meeting at the lake is the subject of their whispering.”

  Bennington watched his wife, his love for the woman written across his face. “I know nothing of a lake, but Lady Tisdale’s impending attack is quite enough to keep them chattering for ages.”

  Marcus wondered if he should pretend to understand, but really could not see the point. “I’m afraid I do not follow.”

  Bennington turned back to face Weston, his demeanor changing abruptly. “Sorry about that, Weston. I should not be allowed to speak while looking at my wife.”

  Marcus was beginning to suspect that all things having to do with Miss Sarah Tisdale, no matter how trivial, were to prove exhausting and utterly confusing. “No apology necessary, though I am curious as to the nature of your statement. Does this by chance have anything to do with the dog?” he asked, trying to untangle Bennington’s words.

  Now Bennington looked just as confused as Marcus felt. “I’m sorry? Did you say ‘dog’?”

  Clearly the dog did not come into play. Surely no one could possibly forget Titus. “It’s nothing.”

  Yet Marcus could not help but wonder if the interlude at the lake was the reason for Lady Tisdale’s “impending attack.” True, Miss Tisdale may as well have stood there in her chemise for all the concealment her sodden gown had provided. But he’d made no advances whatsoever. And her brother was present the whole time. Not to mention the mighty-sized mongrel.

  “I am mystified,” he said frankly, watching as the two women left the room.

  “You’re not alone,” Bennington commiserated, punching him lightly on the arm. “Nothing about Miss Tisdale is ever straightforward. Or my wife for that matter. Women,” he finished, his eyes softening yet again as he watched his wife leave.

  “Is Miss Tisdale such a trial, then?” Marcus asked, unable to leave well enough alone.

  “Well,” Bennington began, turning back to Marcus, his brows furrowing a fraction of an inch. “She’s a lovely girl, don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that … How shall I put this?”

  Marcus resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake the words from his mouth.

  Bennington pondered a bit more, then finally spoke. “She’s exceedingly bright and knows not how to hide it, which has proven to be an impediment to retaining suitors in the past.”

  “A bluestocking, then?” Marcus queried, sure that Miss Tisdale could not be categorized so easily, but anxious to discover the details about her just the same.

  “I suppose that such a term is useful when speaking of her,” Bennington replied, flagging down a servant. “She was not always so—well, the intelligence was always there, of course. But early on, I’ve been told, she was able to hide it better.”

  Marcus watched the man toss back the bubbling, pale gold contents of the flute. “I suppose the same can be said of any of her ilk.”

  “Perhaps,” Bennington answered, placing the glass on a passing servant’s tray. “I can’t say that I possess any real experience with such women. But Miss Tisdale seems … I don’t know … Different somehow.”

  The understatement of the century, Marcus thought to himself while murmuring his agreement aloud. If there was ever an excuse to not further an acquaintance with a woman, Bennington had just handed it to him on a silver jewel-encrusted platter.

  “I suppose I should extend my apologies for mine and Miss Tisdale’s introduction all the same.”

  Bennington coughed loudly. “God, no. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, you’d have a devil of a time trying to catch her alone long enough to do so.”

  Oh, but what fun it would be to try. “And why is that?” he asked, distracted.

  “The mother.”

  Bennington’s tone was so ominous that Marcus’s attention shifted instantly from the lusty image in his mind. “Lady Tisdale?”

  Bennington gestured for Marcus to follow him. The two made their way across the small crowd to a turned railing that overlooked the room where a merry country dance was under way. “Do you see the woman in the purple gown, near the gentleman whose hair matches Miss Tisdale’s?”

  Marcus searched the crowd, looking past the dancers to a group of men and women conversing. He caught sight of the woman, her countenance pleasant enough, though a hint of something severe could be seen just beneath. “Yes.”

  “That is Lady Lenora Tisdale. A force of nature, that one. And the only person Sarah fears.”

  Marcus studied the woman. “I can’t imagine Miss Tisdale being afraid of anyone.”

  Bennington folded his arms and leaned back against the railing. “Perhaps ‘fear’ is the wrong word. Lenora will not mortally wound you physically, but if one could kill by vexation—well, that’s the woman to do it. No, you’ll want to keep a goodly amount of distance between you and Lenora Tisdale, which means avoiding Sarah at all cost.”

  Marcus chuckled. “You’ve so little faith in my ability to elude the woman?”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” Bennington began. “I simply have more faith in Lady Tisdale.”

  “Where is Gregory?” Claire wondered aloud, looking about for her husband.

  Sarah stood as close to the wall as she could without weakening its structural integrity. “Never fear. Bennington knows you adore dancing. He’ll not let you down.”

  She watched the couples as they trotted through the steps of a country dance. It was so graceful that she almost—almost—found herself tapping her toes.

  “At last!” Claire exclaimed.

  Sarah followed Claire’s gaze and saw Bennington, his compact form making quick work of the distance between them. “Ah, your knight hath come!”

  “And he is not alone,” Claire replied, her mouth forming an O of surprise.

  Sarah spotted Weston just behind, his presence drawing morbidly curious glances from everyone in the room. “But why?” she asked, puzzled. Only yesterday she’d made his acquaintance covered in mud and dog slobber. This evening she’d bumbled her way through their earlier conversation, all but running from him in the end. She’d assumed the man would keep his distance. He’d struck her as intelligent, after all.

  “I can’t say that I blame him,” Claire replied hastily. “With the likes of Lady Farnsworth in attendance this evening, I dare say, if I were the earl, I’d spend the majority of my time with Gregory as well.”

  Bennington appeared at his wife’s side and smiled with besotted affection. “My dear, I believe you promised me this dance.”

  “That I did,” Claire answered, offering her hand to her husband. “Lord Weston, do join us,” she added politely, cheerily looking about the room for his potential partner.

  Lord Weston followed Claire’s lead, his gaze skimming the crowd. Most wore looks of mild boredom—a few boldly displaying their outright disgust with the earl.

  “Miss Tisdale, may I have the honor?”

  “No,” Sarah answered quickly, her earnestness clear.

  “That is to say,” Claire interrupted in a smooth tone, “Sarah prefers to observe rather than participate.”

  Sarah snorted lightly. “What Claire is trying to tell you, Lord Weston, is that I cannot dance without causing injury to myself or my partner. I am utterly hopeless and destined to remain so.”

  Lord Weston quirked an eyebrow, his mouth curving with male amusement. “Come now, you can’t be as bad as all that.”

  Sarah looked expectantly at Claire and Bennington, the two nodding in agreement. “You see,” she waved a hand at the couple. “Even my dearest friends support the claim.”

  “Are you afraid to dance?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, challenging her.

  “Please,” Sarah ground out, n
ever one to back down. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Her skin tingled with what felt oddly like anticipation.

  “Prove it.”

  Sarah had never been prone to violence; in fact, she abhorred the very idea. But she wanted to slap him. And then tell him in a most impolite manner why she had nothing to prove to him.

  And then slap him a second time.

  Dammit all.

  “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth, her eyes shooting daggers at him. “On your head be it—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He bowed and held out his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve and he smiled, cocking his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”

  They joined a group and lined up with the other couples, clasping hands to form a circle. Priscilla Willit, the woman next to Lord Weston, visibly tensed at his touch.

  Lord Weston only smiled at her, his lips turning up at the corners in an irresistible fashion. “I’m so glad you were able to attend this evening,” he began.

  Priscilla’s demeanor changed, the coldness melted instantly by the earl’s charm. She hesitated, then offered him a small smile.

  For her part, Sarah could not help but glare at Priscilla. How the earl had managed to keep from throttling the girl for such boorish behavior was beyond her.

  The music began and Sarah looked worriedly from the musicians to Lord Weston. “La Boulangere?” she whispered to the earl.

  “Yes,” he answered, offering her a reassuring look. “Only a simple country dance.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and swallowed a whimper of protest.

  “I am the one with an injured leg,” he said in response to her silent objection. “If either of us had cause for trepidation at such a task, I would think it was me.”

  Of course Sarah had taken note of the earl’s slight limp almost immediately, but she had possessed the sense to hold her tongue.

  “I’m sorry, but why, exactly, would you put us through such torture, especially in light of your infirmity?”

  Lord Weston looked somewhat shocked at Sarah’s indelicate question, and then he let out a shout of laughter, the sound drowned out by the two violins beginning a lively air.

  Unable to avoid it, they moved with the dance, the circle traveling right with a simple enough step, then left. “Do you always say exactly what is on your mind, Miss Tisdale?”