A Dream Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер
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figure, set off to perfection by an elegance of tailoring seldom found in conservative Bath society. London polish, Sarah thought immediately, remembering Amelia’s description of her years in the capital and the intimidatingly handsome gentlemen who had flocked to her balls and soirées. This gentleman had thick fair hair ruffled by the winter breeze, its lightness a striking contrast to the dark brown eyes that were appraising her so thoroughly. A slight smile was starting to curl his firm mouth as he took in the angry sparkle in Sarah’s eyes, the outraged blush rising to her cheeks.
‘I can only apologise again, madam,’ the gentleman said smoothly. ‘I was so taken in admiring the beauties of this city—’ the amusement in his eyes deepened ‘—that I was utterly engrossed!’
Sarah felt an answering smile starting and repressed it ruthlessly. There was something here that was surprisingly hard to resist; some indefinable charm, perhaps, or, more dangerously, an affinity that was as disturbing as it was unexpected. The gentleman exuded a careless confidence and a vitality that seemed to set him apart. Bath was full of invalids, Sarah realised, and it was almost shocking to meet someone who seemed so very alive.
The strangest thing of all was that he seemed vaguely familiar. The combination of fair hair and dark eyes was very unusual and definitely stirred her memory. She paused, unaware that she was staring and that the quizzical twinkle in the gentleman’s eyes had changed to thoughtful speculation.
‘I beg your pardon, but have we met before, sir?’ Sarah frowned slightly. ‘There is something familiar—’
Too late, she realised just how he might misinterpret her question. She had been thinking aloud and bit her lip, vexed with herself.
The gentleman’s dark eyebrows rose fractionally and there was a certain cynicism in his drawl as he said, ‘You flatter me, ma’am! I should say that we could be very good friends if you so choose.’
The colour flooded into Sarah’s cheeks. She stopped dead, regardless of curious glances from the other shoppers in Milsom Street.
‘That was hardly my intention, sir! I would scarcely attempt to scrape an acquaintance in so ramshackle a manner, particularly with a gentleman who is an undoubted rake! Your assumptions do you no credit! Good day to you, sir!’
He was already before her as she turned on her heel to leave him standing there.
‘Wait!’ He put out a hand to detain her. ‘Forgive me, ma’am! It was not my intention to offend you!’
Sarah looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm, and he removed it at once. ‘I should have thought that that was precisely what you intended, sir!’
‘No, indeed!’ He would have seemed genuinely contrite were it not for the glint of amused admiration she could see lurking in his eyes. ‘I intended quite otherwise—’ He broke off at the furious light in Sarah’s eyes. ‘You must allow me to apologise for my deplorable manners, ma’am! And for the roses…’ He gave a wry smile to see the drooping posy in Sarah’s hand. ‘I hope it is a simple matter to procure some more?’
It was said in the tones of someone who had never had any difficulty in finding—or paying for—two dozen red roses for his latest inamorata. Sarah, who was finding it extraordinarily difficult to remain angry with him, managed a severity she was proud of.
‘I fear that these were the last roses to be had, sir,’ she said frostily. ‘They were grown especially. And even if they were not, I can scarce afford to go around Bath buying up flowers in an abandoned fashion! Now, you will excuse me, I am sure!’
The gentleman appeared not to have heard his dismissal, although Sarah suspected that he had, in fact, chosen to ignore it. He fell into step beside her as though by mutual consent.
‘I trust that you were not injured at all in the accident, ma’am?’ The undertone of amusement was still in his voice. ‘It was remiss of me not to enquire before. Perhaps I should escort you home to reassure myself that you are quite well?’
Sarah raised her eyebrows at such flagrant presumption. She wondered just how blunt she was going to have to be to dismiss him. It was difficult when a part of her was drawn to him in such a contrary fashion, but she was not accustomed to striking up a conversation with strange gentlemen in the street. Besides, no matter what her errant senses were telling her, such behaviour was dangerous. This man was definitely a rake and had already shown that he would take advantage.
‘It is quite unnecessary for you to accompany me, sir. I am indeed well and will be home directly!’
‘But it is not at all the done thing for a lady to wander around unattended, you know,’ the gentleman said conversationally. ‘I am sure that Bath cannot be so fast as London; even so, the worthy matrons would not approve of such behaviour!’
Once again, Sarah was almost betrayed into a smile. He was outrageous, but surprisingly difficult to resist.
‘I am sure that you are aware, sir, that it causes less speculation to walk around unchaperoned than to be seen in company with a complete stranger! That being the case, I shall continue alone and wish you a pleasant stay in our city!’
So saying, she gave him a cool nod and walked away, every line of her body defying him to follow her.
Guy, Viscount Renshaw, watched the slender figure walk purposefully away from him. A faint, rueful smile curved his lips. He saw the lady reach the corner of the street, saw her pause to exchange greetings with a gentleman coming the other way and noted with quickened interest that the gentleman was his good friend, Greville Baynham. Reflecting that it was fortunate that Bath society was proving to be so close-knit, Guy strolled across the street just as Greville took his leave of the lady.
‘Sorry I was so long, old fellow!’ Greville gave his friend an amiable grin. ‘Saw a pair of Purdeys that took my fancy. I hope that you found enough to amuse you in my absence!’
‘Oh, I was well entertained,’ Guy said lazily, watching Sarah disappear out of sight. She had a very trim figure, he thought, good enough to challenge any of the accredited London beauties. Those hazel eyes, set in the wide, pure oval of her face, were magnificent…He realised that Greville had addressed another remark to him and was waiting patiently for his response.
‘I merely asked whether you would care to take the spa waters?’ his friend said with a quizzical look. ‘Though perhaps you have found other attractions more to your liking? Bath is a slow place these days, especially out of season, but—’
‘But not as slow as all that!’ Guy turned a thoughtful look on his friend. ‘Tell me, Grev, who is the lady to whom you were speaking just now?’
Greville frowned, pushing a hand through his ruffled brown hair. ‘The lady?’ His brow cleared. ‘Oh, you mean Miss Sheridan? Save yourself the trouble if you thought to strike up a flirtation there, Guy! She don’t give rakes the time of day!’
Guy laughed. ‘I believe you, although she did claim an acquaintance with me! Thought I had mistaken her quality until she gave me the coolest set-down I’ve ever experienced!’ Guy frowned a little. ‘Sheridan, did you say? The name is familiar…Why, yes, I remember her! Well, I’ll be damned!’
Greville burst out laughing. ‘Doing it too brown, Guy! I don’t believe you’ve ever met the lady before!’
‘No, I assure you!’ Guy looked triumphant. ‘Miss Sheridan is the sister of the late Lord Sheridan, is she not? She is also my father’s goddaughter and, though I have not seen her for an age, it must be the same girl! We were practically childhood friends!’
Greville’s shoulders slumped. ‘Devil take it, Guy! Of all the cursed luck!’
Guy gave his friend a pained look. ‘Surely you mean it is a charming coincidence! And, as you evidently know the lady, you will be able to furnish me with her direction—’
Greville groaned. ‘Don’t do it, Guy! Miss Sheridan is Lady Amelia Fenton’s cousin and Amelia will string me up if you