CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Happy Christmas? Bah! It shall be a far sight happier when I have a grandchild, you ungrateful whelp. And when will that be, hmm?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to herself upon reading a recent letter from her son, Charles.
Watching her husband lovingly stroke the black hair of the babe he held in his arms, Sarah struggled for a sigh. Perhaps her sudden need for air could be blamed on sentiment. More likely, it was the immense quantity of roasted goose and plum pudding she had consumed at dinner. Her hand settled over her belly.
Gracious me, she thought, I have never been stuffed so dreadfully full in my life. At present, breathing would be a luxury. Of course, Colin had been incorrigible, insisting she eat more and more and still more until she had promised to do anything he wanted if he would only leave off. His wicked grin had carried promises of its own. But at least he had stopped.
“He will be a most devoted papa, I expect.” The words came from Victoria, who sat in the red chair nearest Sarah. Startled by the unexpected comment from her sister-in-law, Sarah turned to gaze at her husband, sitting next to her on one of the blue sofas near the blazing fire of the drawing room, cradling Victoria’s son.
“Mmm. Devoted,” Sarah murmured. “If he is as devoted to them as he is to me, I fear they will all be as round as a Christmas pudding.”
Colin looked at her and raised a brow. “I notice you are finally beginning to regain your color. You can thank me later.”
She pursed her lips and waved toward the overlarge, uncomfortably warm fire that had reddened all their cheeks. “I shall place my thanks where it truly belongs, if you please.”
A familiar, heated glint entered his eyes. “And if I don’t please? May I still expect a proper thank-you?”
Her breathing quickened and her body burned for reasons other than the fireplace. “Well,” she said, swallowing against a suddenly parched throat. “If you insist.”
Victoria rose to retrieve her son from Colin’s arms. The babe was wrapped in the quilt Sarah had made for him, a mix of blues and greens. Sarah was pleased with her work, and noted that some of the colors matched little Gregory’s eyes.
“Time for Roseanna to put you to bed, my darling,” Victoria said, carrying him to the waiting nursemaid.
“I have it!” announced Jane, entering the drawing room with Harrison, waving a letter in the air. “Lady Wallingham has come through. We shall not miss our entertainment for the evening.”
They all settled in around the fire—Jane and Harrison, Lucien and Victoria, Sarah and Colin and Eleanor—to listen as Jane shared the best tidbits from the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham.
“She appears to be most concerned for the legacy of Lord Rutherford.” News of the Marquess of Rutherford’s death on the night of Lady Rutherford’s rout had been the topic of much conversation over the last few weeks. Adjusting her spectacles, Jane continued, “Oh, dear. She does have a rather low opinion of the new Lord Rutherford. Listen to this: Chatham—for I shall not be persuaded to refer to that reprobate by his father’s previously estimable title—will undoubtedly prove irredeemable in every respect. Some have suggested he will undergo a miraculous transformation upon his inheritance, that a new jewel in his scepter shall turn a drunken, ravening wolf into something resembling a gentleman. His mother has a greater chance of joining a nunnery, and we all know of Lady Rutherford’s predilections.”
Jane paused for another, “Oh, dear,” and a giggle before reading on. “She has knitted a cap for Humphrey. She says it is a bit lopsided, but she blames his ‘sadly diminutive ears.’”
Laughing, Victoria said, “Perhaps I shall paint a portrait of Humphrey and add a bit of flattering length to his—”
“You will do no such thing,” said Atherbourne.
“Whyever not?”
“Painting the dog means you will have to spend an inordinate amount of time in Lady Wallingham’s company. Which means I must do the same.”
Eleanor, watching the byplay, interjected, “I maintain Lady Wallingham cannot possibly be as bad you say. No one can.”
“No, you are right. She is worse.” Jane said.
“Yes,” agreed Victoria. “Very dragon-like.”
Even Harrison commented, “If visits are necessary, I recommend short durations. And, if need be, claim a sudden illness.”
Everyone laughed—everyone except Harrison. “I am quite serious. The only one who may be more disagreeable to me is Lord Dunston.”
Colin groaned. “Not this again.”
“He deceived me for years. I never knew the man at all. How can you trust someone of that sort?”
Shaking his head, Colin replied, “If you intend to continue this hostility, perhaps you can wait another month or two before launching a full-scale estrangement.”
“Why?”
Colin looked at Sarah for a long moment, then back at Harrison. “Dunston and I are in the midst of a … transaction.”
Not one to accept imprecision, Harrison snapped, “What transaction?”
Sighing, Colin again looked at Sarah, who frowned her confusion. “I was going to tell you, sweet.” Then he turned to Harrison and the others. “Yardleigh Manor. I am purchasing it from him. The sale should be final in a few weeks.”
Sarah’s astonished “Oh, Colin” was lost amid questions from everyone. He answered them in turn—yes, Dunston was the owner. The earl had intended the Devonshire house as a refuge for himself and those who helped him in his projects. No, Colin did not think Dunston would lie about this, as he had about everything else. Yes, he intended Eleanor should live there, as well. Yes, if Sarah were agreeable, he believed they could use part of the house to reopen St. Catherine’s Academy for Girls of Impeccable Deportment. And, yes, he concurred that the name of the school was both lengthy and majestic.
By the time he had finished answering their interrogation, Colin appeared dazed. At last, he smiled down at Sarah and asked the question that seemed to be most concerning to him. “Are you pleased, sweet?”
Instead of answering with words, she answered with a tearful kiss that lasted a bit longer than she had intended. When they finally separated, Sarah fanned herself with her hand. “Is anyone else a trifle warm?”
With cries of agreement, they all stood. Eleanor suggested music. Victoria insisted Colin take his seat at the pianoforte. “Oh, do, Colin,” she pleaded. “It has been much too long since I last heard you play.”
Colin glanced down at Sarah, a small smile beginning to curl his lips, a question in his eyes.
She nodded. “Please, husband. It would make me so very happy.”
He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I am ever at your service.”
Then, he sat before the keys, pausing for a breath, closing his eyes. He opened them and met hers. And began to play. It was similar to the song he had played the night of their wedding. But, if anything, it was richer, more complex.
With each passage, she could feel memories flowing through her veins, as warming as honey wine. Each note was a moment, a reason she loved him.
Rain upon a canvas. Waves upon a shore.
This man will seek to deserve you and when he falls short, he will seek your forgiveness.
Sunlight upon apples. Lips upon a mouth.
His mind will be strong so that he may attempt to equal yours.
Storm upon a roof. Pearls upon a neck.
His heart will be fierce and true for the same reason.
Snow upon a street. Blood upon a floor.
He will see your life as the only reason for his, and he will guard it accordingly.
Light upon a window. Hand upon a cheek.
You will see yourself in the mirror of his eyes, and you will be more beautiful, more precious than you were to me that early September morning.
Sarah looked into her husband’s eyes and saw herself there. Beautiful. Precious.
You see, my darling girl? Impossible.
*~*~*