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

Lord Weston settled into the chair next to Sarah, sprawling negligently and allowing a footman to place a stool beneath his feet. “I’m afraid yesterday’s hunt proved too strenuous for my leg.”

  Try as she might, Sarah could think of nothing but when the expertly formed limb pressed deliciously against her own. “Were you shot? A duel perhaps?” she blurted out.

  Claire’s elbow landed a second blow. Sarah couldn’t suppress a wince but found if she continued to speak, she didn’t have time to worry about what Lord Weston might be thinking.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah offered halfheartedly for Claire’s benefit. “I should not inquire after your—”

  Lord Weston laid his hand on the arm of her chair, perilously close to Sarah’s bare arm. “I applaud your curiosity, though I fear the truth would only bore you. So yes, let us say it was a duel of great consequence.”

  Sarah turned to give Claire a smug smile, then examined Weston’s words more closely. Curiosity? What sort of curiosity might he be referring to? Intellectual? Physical?

  Bugger.

  The entire situation was distressing indeed. Sarah didn’t know whether to be thrilled at his presence, as her body seemed inclined to be, or terrified.

  “Who is winning?” she rattled off, her vision blurring as she attempted to watch the field.

  Claire beamed. “Gregory’s team.”

  Lord Weston shifted in his chair. “Miss Tisdale, I thought to call upon you and your family tomorrow afternoon. Will you be at home?”

  Sarah looked at Claire pleadingly. She wanted to ask just what his intentions were, but knew that, well, she’d make a fool of herself if she did.

  It was much more complicated than she’d ever imagined—had she ever before considered the problem. One simply could not go about kissing men and expect that all would be just as it had been before.

  Or maybe one could. Perhaps if she simply took Lord Weston aside and asked his intentions, all would be made clear.

  Or she could rely on her baser instincts and attack the man again.

  Bugger.

  She stood abruptly, needing to do anything but sit for one more moment.

  “Brava, Sarah!” Bennington yelled from across the field, running toward her with cricket bat in hand.

  He thrust the bat at her. “I’d thought to call a footman to bat for Weston, but you’ll do splendidly.”

  Sarah eyed Bennington then turned to look at Claire and Lord Weston.

  She’d bungled her way into ridiculous situations before, but this was a new low. Of course the proper thing was to refuse, though if she agreed she’d have no choice but to concentrate on hitting the life out of an innocent ball.

  It took only a second to choose. She’d take her chances with the bat. “Tell the boys to move back, Bennington. I’m known for my distance hitting.”

  “Sarah,” Claire began, but her voice was soon drowned out by applause.

  Lord Weston said nothing, simply clapped, a smile making his features even more rakish.

  Whether that smile was a reflection of admiration or horror, Sarah could not say.

  Nor did she want to.

  She gripped the bat with one hand and marched onto the field, walking to the pitch and taking her place.

  Mr. Dixon stood stock-still with the ball in his hand, as though he thought to deny her.

  “Come, Mr. Dixon, or are you afraid?” Sarah teased.

  The men on the field responded with hoots, while the women tutted with satisfaction.

  Mr. Dixon looked angry enough to strike someone, but he reined in his pride and prepared to bowl.

  Sarah did not doubt that she could hit the ball, having played cricket with Nigel and his friends more times than she could remember.

  But she wanted to hit it hard. And far. And she didn’t want to think why.

  Mr. Dixon rolled the ball in his hands once, then twice, then took his run up and lobbed the ball toward Sarah with force.

  He attempted to deceive Sarah by adding spin to the ball, typical of a leg bowler such as Mr. Dixon.

  Sarah waited for the precise moment then swung, the crack of the bat against the ball deafening.

  She didn’t bother to look to where it may have landed, but simply picked up the skirts of her floral print muslin gown and ran. Ran for her life down the length of the pitch while all around her chaos ensued. Men chased after the ball while women screamed with sheer delight. Bennington, her fellow batsman, shouted with glee as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the pitch.

  Sarah rounded the wicket and headed back toward Bennington, skidding to an awkward stop upon reaching the end of the pitch.

  “Splendid, Sarah!”

  Bennington and the rest of her team gathered around, cheering.

  Sarah lost herself for a moment in the pure, unadulterated joy. Laughing, she allowed each man to kiss her hand and may have, in her enthusiasm, even accepted a marriage proposal.

  And then she looked across the field to where Lord Weston sat, the same small smile affixed to his face, undecipherable as ever.

  She was unique, he had to give the lass that. Marcus hadn’t bothered to entertain thoughts of just what Miss Tisdale might do or say after their brief kiss at Bennington House.

  Her surprise at his presence amused him—or, more specifically, pleased him. For once, he had surprised her, rather than the other way around.

  And he’d been honest enough. His leg did throb from the prolonged ride yesterday, followed by attending the excellent, if tedious dinner with the rest of the party that evening.

  Nothing of interest had come up in the stilted conversations he’d endured during the meal, and God knew Marcus had tried nearly every trick in the book. His reputation as the Errant Earl was getting in the way. Not even when the women left the dining room did talk turn to anything that might lead Marcus to believe the noblemen present were tied to the Orlov emeralds.

  Save for Dixon. The man had guardedly underscored what Marcus had already guessed: Sir Arthur loved his brandy so dearly that he’d do almost anything for it.

  Marcus watched as Dixon made ready to pitch Miss Tisdale’s ball. He wondered if his suspicions concerning the man were valid. Marlowe had yet to discover anything that tied Dixon to the smugglers or the burglaries.

  Perhaps his suspicions had everything to do with Dixon’s obvious designs on Miss Tisdale.

  And if it was the latter, what in the name of all that was holy was Marcus thinking?

  Dixon threw the ball, a bit of spin adding to its speed.

  Miss Tisdale appeared to desire the quick demise of the ball, sending it whistling through the air with all the force her slender body could muster. And then she ran as if her life depended upon it.

  Marcus caught a glimpse of Lady Bennington beaming with pride.

  He laughed out loud as Miss Tisdale gleefully accepted the thanks of her teammates.

  She was unique, to be sure. But that was not reason enough for Marcus to risk his heart.

  His uncle Calum had long ago promised there would be a woman for him—one woman whose heart beat only for Marcus. One woman whose soul completed his own.

  Marcus had shuddered at the description but kept it tucked away in his heart for safekeeping. It was those words that had kept Marcus carrying on through every vicious attack and bitter tongue he’d encountered over the years.

  It was foolish and absurd.

  True, at times he’d lost hope of ever finding such a woman. But not completely, at least not yet.

  His kiss with Miss Tisdale had gotten him to thinking, but that was all.

  The risk was too high, the timing impossible. When he gave his heart it would be forever, and he could not see forever in her eyes.

  Bennington marched across the field with Miss Tisdale in tow, finally reaching his wife and bowing with a flourish.

  Claire nodded in acknowledgment, graciously holding out her hand for her husband’s kiss. “My dear Lord Bennington, congratulations on the win.”r />
  Bennington scoffed at her hand and instead leaned in to kiss her full on the mouth. “My dear Lady Bennington, I thank you.”

  Marcus dropped his feet from the stool and stood, offering his hand to Bennington. “Congratulations.”

  Bennington took his hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Thank you, Weston. Now, let us retire to the house for refreshment, shall we?”

  Claire accepted Bennington’s help and stood. The two set off at a slow pace, following the rest of the party as they made their way back to Bennington House.

  Leaving Marcus and Miss Tisdale alone.

  Marcus offered his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  Miss Tisdale looked at the chattering party trailing toward the house, then back at Marcus, as though judging the distance. “We shall,” she answered, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm.

  Marcus could feel the nervous energy coursing through her slim body. She nearly hummed with it.

  “Where did you learn to play cricket?”

  She flexed her fingers once, then twice. “Well, here, of course, in Lulworth. Nigel and his friends used to beg me to play.”

  “Until?”

  “Until I got better than them,” she answered simply. “Do you find that hard to believe, Lord Weston?”

  “Not at all,” he said, chuckling.

  “Why are you laughing?” she demanded, stopping to pull her arm from his.

  She was angry, though Marcus truly could not understand why. “Miss Tisdale, have I done something to offend you?”

  “You’re laughing at me,” she declared forcefully, her cheeks faintly flushed with pink.

  God, he loved that. She was fiery and damned confusing, but she drew him to her like a moth to the flame.

  And she didn’t even know it.

  She wasn’t the one for him, her comfortable life in Lulworth having guaranteed she’d never understand a man so at odds with his world. But she was damn close.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Miss Tisdale. I simply find it delightful—and, on my word, completely believable—that you’ve bested your brother at cricket.”

  Her breath slowed slightly but she still looked capable of exploding. “You’re not scandalized by my participation in today’s game?”

  “No,” Marcus answered, “on the contrary.”

  “Oh,” she answered quietly, her ire dissipating. She slipped her arm through his once again and they set off.

  He chuckled. “Come now, of all people, did you truly expect the Errant Earl to judge you?”

  “Lord Weston, do not use that ridiculous name,” she scolded.

  “But why ever not?” Marcus countered teasingly, though her reaction secretly touched his heart.

  “Because it’s not true,” she answered, looking at him earnestly. “Besides, it’s hardly creative enough for a man such as yourself,” she added, breaking into a gorgeous giggle.

  Marcus could not help but join her, the two drawing questionable looks from the party up ahead.

  “You are not like every other gentleman, are you, Lord Weston?” Miss Tisdale asked, clearly regretting the words once they’d slipped from her mouth.

  Marcus whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “I am not. Nor are you like every other gentleman’s daughter.”

  He could see from the quick rise and fall of her breasts that the lady liked him near.

  He straightened, and instantly missed the scent of her skin. “Miss Tisdale, I believe I asked earlier whether you will be at home tomorrow but you’ve yet to respond.”

  Her fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on his coat sleeve. “Do you remember my mother, Lord Weston?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you would pay us a visit—of your own accord,” she pressed, the tattoo now resembling a fast reel.

  Marcus covered her fingers with his own, regretting the white gloves that kept him from feeling her warm, silky skin. “Miss Tisdale, you are aware of my heritage, are you not?”

  She nodded, her brows furrowing with confusion.

  “We Highlanders have faced markedly rougher foes than your mother.”

  “With all due respect, my lord,” she began, leaning in toward Marcus, “you’ve more of the London dandy about you than the Scottish warrior.”

  Marcus didn’t know whether to chastise her for saying such a thing or commend her, his own misgivings about his place in the world having led him to ponder the very same conundrum on more than one occasion. “You do say whatever comes to mind, don’t you?”

  She smiled insecurely. “It is who I am, my lord.”

  “Yes, it is,” Marcus agreed.

  He would find it easy enough to play this game.

  But stopping? That was an altogether different matter.

  * * *

  Sarah could hardly breathe. The dress that Claire had insisted she borrow for dinner was beautiful, to be sure. The subtle peach hue perfectly complemented her coloring, just as Claire had said it would.

  The cut, on the other hand, was a touch constricting, even with the alterations that had been made to accommodate Claire’s growing figure. Sarah wiggled in her seat at the table, to no avail. Her hips were encased in the fabric with nary an inch to spare.

  And her breasts! Sarah peered down at them, now rising toward her chin. Claire had gone on at some length the previous summer about the Scafells in the Lake District where she’d spent her honeymoon. The mountains were said to be the tallest in all of England.

  Sarah tilted her chin slightly, testing just how little movement was required to spy the Tisdale Range.

  “I suspect that you two would fare well against the Scafells,” she murmured under her breath.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Sarah snapped her head to the right and answered Sir Hugh Darlington. “Oh, it’s nothing. Simply thinking aloud.”

  Sarah had known Hugh for years. Born less than a year apart, they’d spent many an hour together as children, racing through the forest, playing smuggler and customs official, and talking their way out of many scoldings. And despite Lenora’s best efforts, they’d never moved past viewing each other more as playmates than romantic interests.

  “Talking to yourself again, then?” Hugh teased, wiggling his thick black eyebrows.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Hugh, we’re adults now and really should behave as such,” she chided, adding, “besides, it was only the one time—and, need I remind you, we were all of eight. So really, a conversation with oneself was hardly outside the realm of acceptable behavior.”

  A servant set a Wedgwood china bowl of turtle soup in front of Hugh, though his attention was now turned to the woman sitting across the table. “Quite.”

  “Hugh, are you speaking to me or to Lottie Dunworth?” Sarah asked, accepting her soup with a nod and admiring the delicate crest and bands of interlacing gold that adorned the otherwise white bowl.

  Hugh continued to stare dreamily at Lottie, while Lottie continued to stare dreamily elsewhere.

  Sarah followed the woman’s line of vision down the length of the expansive rosewood table. It was beautifully set, with artfully arranged flowers from the Bennington gardens lining the center, along with shimmering silver candelabras holding the finest of wax tapers. A snowy white tablecloth provided the perfect contrast for the heavy silver cutlery and fine glassware. It was, in a word, perfection—hardly surprising considering Claire’s domestic skills. But the masterfully laid table was not what held Lottie’s attention.

  Sarah looked to the end of the table, where Lord Weston sat, just to the right of Claire. He leaned in and whispered something, making her laugh.

  “What, exactly, does she see in that man?” Hugh pondered, taking up his spoon begrudgingly.

  Sarah turned her gaze to her own bowl and brought a spoonful of the flavorful soup to her lips. He’s desperately handsome, quietly charming, and mysterious in a most delicious manner. And seems to care not a fig whether a woman plays cricket or not.

  “Lucky for t
he lot of us he’s an abysmal landowner or there wouldn’t be a single eligible chit left.”

  Sarah swallowed hard. “Hugh, what are you talking about?”

  Hugh brought a second spoonful to his mouth, slurped softly, and swallowed. “Come now, Sarah. His family’s bad enough—what with his barbarous father storming down from Scotland and stealing Lord Steele’s only daughter away—”

  “Really, Hugh,” Sarah interrupted, stopping short of voicing her own opinion on the matter—which was that it seemed all rather romantic to her. She’d never met Lord Weston’s parents, but in her mind his father wore a colorful kilt and his mother an even brighter smile.

  He set the spoon down and reached for his claret. “Oh, all right, complete and utter balderdash, but enough to put off a fair number of our neighbors,” he replied, glancing at their fellow diners, many of whom were clearly engaged in gossip, pausing only to cast a critical eye in Lord Weston’s direction.

  “And the rest?” Sarah pressed, anger warming in her belly.

  “You know as well as I that a titled landowner has certain responsibilities to the community,” Hugh began, returning his glass to its place and taking up his spoon again. “Especially to those who work his land. Weston’s turned his back on the lot of us—from the farmers to the big landowners. It’s as if he thinks himself too good for the likes of Lulworth.”

  The anger in Sarah’s belly began to grow, the flames licking at her throat. “Did no one ever stop to wonder whether Lord Weston’s absence from Lulworth had anything to do with the treatment he’s received while in residence?”

  Hugh lifted a brow. “Really, Sarah, what difference does it make?”

  “Let me ask you this, then,” Sarah replied, gripping her silver spoon as though it would fly from her hand at any moment. “Mr. Dixon,” she began, looking to where the insufferable man sat near the head of the table. “He’s of ‘pure English blood’ and an extremely involved landowner—some would say too involved, actually.” She paused, turning to look at Hugh in an effort to underscore her meaning.

  Every last inhabitant of Lulworth knew of Dixon’s efforts to cheat the very men who worked his land, yet the snake was far too slippery to ever be caught.

  “Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Dixon is a better man than Lord Weston?” she finished, only to discover that she was pointing her spoon toward Hugh in an accusatory manner.