Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow. Anne O'Brien
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house that were out of bound to him—and how difficult that was to a child of nearly six years!—John still saw the new arrival as an object of endless fascination and a possible playmate.
Sarah joined him, grabbing hold of his hand. There was indeed bustle and noise on the pavement. Luggage was being unloaded. But no child emerged from the carriage. She clutched her son’s hand harder.
‘It is not Celestine. It is Lord Faringdon!’
Why had the man not sent word to warn them? Well, why should he? Swallowing against a sudden brush of panic along her spine, Sarah made a hasty dash to the servants’ quarters to gather up and send as many staff as possible to the entrance hall, where they might formally greet their new lord. They lined up just as the front door was flung open by a young and self-conscious footman. Sarah, the last to arrive, took a place at the end of the line, twitching her skirts and cuffs into place, thinking that it really would not do for her to meet her first employer in a state of disorder. Then realised that John was still watching the arrival in a frenzy of excitement. She should have banished him to the kitchens—this was no place for her child—but too late. Quick as a thought, she pulled him to stand beside her.
‘Stand still, John.’ Sarah managed to smile down at him, as nervous as the youngest scullery maid. ‘Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. Silent as a little mouse, mind!’
Eyes wide, John nodded and grasped his mother’s skirts.
Up the flight of shallow steps and into the entrance hall walked a lady. Tall with a slender, willowy figure, she was immediately the centre of attention. A glorious brunette with dark eyes under dark brows and dark lashes that could only have benefited from the careful use of cosmetics. And with a richly painted mouth that smiled, unlike her eyes, which did not. Rather they looked and assessed and discarded with elegant disdain as if used to better things. She took up a position—posed, Sarah decided—just inside the door as if to draw all eyes to herself. There was no difficulty here.
She was dressed, as Sarah supposed, in the height of Parisian fashion in a delectable shade of lavender. Row after row of ribbon and lace trimmed the hem, the same detail drawing the eye to the pleated yoke above the high waist. The sleeves were long and close fitting into pleated cuffs with little puffed oversleeves. The brim of the satin-straw bonnet was trimmed with similar pleating, the crown with flowers and curling feathers, its long satin ribbons fluttering as the lady glided across the tiled floor in matching satin shoes.
Sarah could not prevent a silent sigh of envy, immediately conscious of her own plain gown fashioned of dark blue silk, high necked, long sleeved, not a hint of decoration. As for the lace cap that she had reluctantly pinned to her rigidly controlled curls…all perfectly suited to her standing, demure and understated and of excellent quality. She had never felt quite so dowdy in all her life.
Sarah surveyed the visitor beneath lowered lashes, understanding at once who she must be. The Countess of Wexford, no less. Judith’s barbed comments came instantly to life and Sarah could well believe the truth of them. Her ladyship said not a word, not condescending to notice such lowly creatures as servants. Drawing off the softest of kid gloves with casual grace and perhaps a touch of impatience about her lovely mouth and a faint line between her brows, she surveyed the entrance hall, the rise of the staircase to the first floor, the side tables and hall chairs—almost as if she were looking for dust. Definitely impatience, Sarah realised, as the Countess tapped one foot, then swept her luxurious skirts out of the way to move back to the doorway to look out. But she smiled, her petulance swiftly disguised. Lord Faringdon was now here.
For Sarah, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon was a far more attractive subject for her conjecture. She repressed a nervous smile as he came to a halt in the doorway, the sun at his back, casting his features into shadow but rimming him in gold. What would he say if he knew that she was a close friend of his sister, a less than discreet and loyal sister who had seen it in her way to pass on all manner of interesting information. But Sarah had no intention of allowing him this knowledge and had warned Judith of her desires. To Lord Faringdon, she would simply be Mrs Sarah Russell, his newly appointed—if most inexperienced—housekeeper.
It was immediately obvious as he approached the doorway that Lord Faringdon had suffered a number of recent and far from trivial injuries. He moved with a slow and agonising stiffness, using a cane to help him mount the steps, holding himself as if his ribs and one shoulder flared with pain with every unwise movement. Perhaps there was a tightness, a hint of strain around his mouth. But that, although she recalled in some moral indignation Judith’s confidences on the cause of the damage, was not what took Mrs Russell’s attention. From the moment that his lordship set foot inside his own hall, when he turned so that the light could fall full on his face, for Sarah the glory of the Countess of Wexford became a matter of irrelevance, as tawdry as pinchbeck beside fine gold.
She recognised the Faringdon features, familiar as they were, immediately. Beautifully carved features, all firm planes and interesting hollows cast into relief by the bright sunlight that shone directly into the room. A thin, imperious nose and firm lips. But here there were arresting differences. Dense black hair she had expected, but not with the lustre of dull silver. And his eyes were neither disturbingly dark gray nor intensely blue. As Judith had so casually informed her, they were light, silver even, devastating as polished metal, clear as cut glass. As piercing as the gaze of a hunting hawk as he cast an eye over his assembled staff. And at this precise moment, Sarah decided, they were full of an intense irritation, although with whom or what she could hardly guess.
For Sarah it was an uncomfortable instant of shock and inner revelation. She took a deep breath as her heart gave one heavy beat, then sighed and tensed against a little flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach, a shiver of longing that spread its warm heat from her breast to the tips of her fingers. A delicate flush mantled her cheeks. Capable, sensible, practical—unworthy—Sarah Russell, who asked nothing more in life than forgiveness for the part she had played in her brother’s malicious plotting, and the chance to carve out a quiet life for herself and her son. Who wanted never to be dependent on the whim of any man ever again. Sarah Russell, who had lived in the same house with both Henry and Nicholas Faringdon, admiring both, acknowledging the charm of both, but without any danger of losing her common sense where they were concerned—or her heart.
And here, in this one blinding moment, her love for John Russell, although it could never be denied, paled into insignificance as the intoxication of longing swam through Sarah’s blood.
Why did it have to happen now? And with this man?
She took herself instantly to task, in typical stern fashion, despite the hectic beat of her pulse at throat and wrist. How foolish she was to allow so immediate a reaction to simply the sight of the man. Of what value was a handsome face if the owner lacked honour and respectability? Of course it was impossible to fall in love so instantly, so completely with someone of whom she had no knowledge, apart from the most damaging of gossip, and who was so far above her as to make the situation patently ridiculous. With a man who had arrived in the intimate company of the Countess of Wexford, who was certainly expecting to take up residence in the house, with no attempt to disguise her relationship with Lord Faringdon. How scandalous indeed! Of course Sarah could not have lost her heart!
But Sarah’s silent lecture did not at all seem to have the desired effect.
‘Joshua.’ The voice of Lady Wexford, although rich and sultry, could slice through flesh and bone. ‘At last.’ She allowed no recognition of his injuries, placing her hand on his arm in a possessive little gesture that merely confirmed all Sarah’s presumptions concerning their relationship. ‘If you would dismiss your staff, I can discover if there is a suitable room for myself and my maid. That is, if such has been made ready for me.’
‘One moment, Olivia.’ A flicker of some emotion in those remarkable eyes—far keener than mere irritation—was quickly banished. Sarah, watching carefully, was not even in the end sure of its existence. But Lord Faringdon turned from the lady and her demands with slow deliberation to make his halting way along the line, speaking one by one to the servants appointed to run his home. Sarah found herself listening to his voice. Soft, low. A masculine edge