When You Wish Page 13

  Sarah was instantly on her mettle. Emma was the finest, dearest person she had ever met, and she would defy anyone to say otherwise.

  “Nonsense. Only the veriest widgeon would not desire you as a companion.”

  Emma’s smile twisted. She was clearly not as confident. “We shall see.”

  Sarah tilted her head to one side. She sensed that there was more troubling her sister than her upcoming interview with Lady Hartshore. “Is there a reason you wished to speak with me, Emma?”

  Surprisingly, a flush of color stained Emma’s face as she awkwardly set aside her cup. Sarah felt a twinge of unease as she waited for her sister’s confession.

  “Yes . . . I ...” Emma twisted her hands in her lap. “Actually, there has been some talk.”

  Sarah’s unease deepened. Good heavens, did someone suspect that the Devilish Dandy had returned to London? “About Father?” she demanded in anxious tones.

  “No.” Emma swallowed heavily before lifting her head to meet Sarah’s gaze. “About you.”

  Sarah gave a startled blink. Then, before she could help herself, she was chuckling in disbelief. “Goodness gracious, the rattles must be desperate to turn to me for their source of gossip. What have you heard?”

  “Just that Lord Chance has been often seen in the company of a beautiful maiden with chestnut curls and blue eyes. It is also said the lady wears a sapphire pendant.”

  Sarah shook her head. She might have known any interest in her movements could be directly laid upon the shoulders of Lord Chance. Until he came into her life, the ton was thoroughly and thankfully unaware of her presence in London. “And you suspect me?”

  Far less amused by the current gossip than Sarah, Emma thinned her lips. “Is it?”

  “I am currently attempting to help Lord Chance with a family difficulty,” she confessed.

  “It is being whispered you are his current mistress.”

  Sarah stiffened at the blunt words. Although she was frankly indifferent to the rattle mongers, she did care that her sister could think so little of her morals.

  “And you’ve come to inquire if the rumors are true?” she demanded in low tones.

  Emma’s eyes widened with shock at the question. “Certainly not. I would as soon believe that cows could waltz.”

  Sarah’s heart warmed at the fierce tone. “Thank you, Emma.”

  “I was merely concerned,” Emma said. “As of yet, no one seems to know who you are, but it is only a matter of time.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I suppose it was bound to occur. Lord Chance is too prominent among the ton not to be a constant source of interest to others.”

  Emma abruptly leaned forward, her expression somber. “You must not see him anymore.”

  Although it was a tempting thought, Sarah had already dismissed the notion. “I have promised him my help,” she said firmly.

  A frown touched Emma’s brow. “But surely with the gossip you will reconsider?”

  “I have never concerned myself with what others might say.”

  Emma was far from satisfied with Sarah’s glib response. “You cannot wish your name to be bandied about in such a fashion.”

  Sarah could not halt her wry smile. She desperately wished her only concern was what others were saying. It would be far easier to dismiss than the realization Lord Chance was swiftly becoming a vital part of her existence.

  “No,” she admitted slowly, “but then I cannot halt vicious tongues from wagging, and I certainly will not allow my life to be ruled out of fear that my actions might raise a brow or two.”

  Emma sat back in an abrupt motion. “You are not the only one affected,” she informed her sister in stiff tones.

  Sarah heaved a small sigh. She would never wittingly hurt her sister. Emma had endured enough. But while she could sympathize with Emma’s fear of scandal, she could not change who she was. “I am sorry, Emma, but I must follow my heart,” she said in firm tones. “I cannot turn my back on those in need, whether it is a child or Madame Vallenway or Lord Chance. It is who I am.”

  A stricken expression suddenly descended upon Emma’s countenance at the low words, and she reached out to grasp Sarah’s hand. “Forgive me, Sarah,” she pleaded in a husky voice.

  Sarah smiled as she patted Emma’s hand. “There is nothing to forgive. I am not indifferent to the discomfort you must endure.”

  “I had no right to come here and criticize,” Emma admitted, her gaze filled with regret. “You are such a very good person.”

  “Poppycock,” Sarah instantly denied. “I am opinionated, bossy, and often act without thinking.”

  “You are the kindest person I know,” Emma loyally argued. Then, after a brief pause, she regarded Sarah with a hint of curiosity. “What of Lord Chance?”

  Sarah found herself caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “What is he like?”

  “Opinionated and bossy,” Sarah promptly retorted.

  “As opinionated and bossy as you?” Emma demanded with a faint smile.

  “Even more so.”

  “He is very handsome.”

  Sarah grimaced. Yes, he was handsome. And intelligent and charming enough to steal the heart of the most elusive maiden. But it was his unexpected kindness she found most unnerving.

  How could she remain impervious to his thoughtful gifts for the school? Or his vulnerable delight in sharing his collection with her?

  And as for his kisses . . . well, she tried her best not to even think of his kisses.

  Why could he not have been a hardened rake or a misogynist, she thought ruefully, or even a pompous fool like most gentlemen she encountered? It would have made her life far simpler.

  Of course, a tiny voice whispered, deep down she was not certain she entirely regretted meeting Lord Chance. Her life might have been simpler, but it would have been far duller as well. “Yes, he is very handsome,” she at last conceded.

  Easily sensing her sister’s reluctance to discuss the nobleman, Emma narrowed her gaze. “Do you not like him?”

  Sarah paused before she met her sister’s gaze. “Sometimes too much.”

  Emma gasped at the unexpected confession. “Oh, Sarah.”

  “Do not fear.” Sarah briskly sat straighter, her expression determined. “I am a very sensible young maiden and I never forget he is a gentleman quite beyond my touch.”

  “Do you think it is wise to continue to see him?”

  “It is only until Christmas,” Sarah said, as much to reassure herself as her sister. “After that I shall never see Lord Chance again.”

  Never again . . .

  Her heart twisted.

  * * *

  With a sense of relief, Sarah heard the gong sound for lunch. With a loud cheer, the children rushed from the room to take their places in the kitchen. Alone, Sarah ruefully regarded the large room scattered with holly, evergreen branches, and decorations the children had painted.

  When she had awakened that morning, the day had appeared so gray and dismal she had been determined to find some means of entertaining the children. Preparing for the holiday season had seemed a perfect means of lifting their spirits, and she had to admit it had been an unqualified success. Still, it was nice to enjoy a bit of peace before finishing the greenery that was to be hung on the walls and draped on the fireplace.

  Absently gathering the branches that had been discarded, Sarah had just placed them in the bin when the sound of the door opening had her turning about.

  Her breath caught at the sight of Lord Chance. It had been nearly a week since she had last seen him, and her gaze eagerly lingered on the deep jade coat that was fitted to his firm body and the glossy Hessians topped by buff breeches. For days she had dreaded his arrival. She had been certain she would feel awkward and embarrassed after their last encounter. But now that he was actually standing before her, she felt nothing but a warm flood of pleasure.

  She remained silent as his own gaze roamed over her woolen gown and untidy curl
s. A brief regret that she was not elegantly attired was banished as a slow smile curved his lips. “Miss Cresswell,” he said with a slight bow.

  “My lord.”

  “How very festive the school appears,” he complimented as he strolled to stand close beside her.

  She wrinkled her tiny nose. “It is far too early to hang the holly, but the days have been so gray that I hoped to lift the children’s spirits.”

  He glanced over the pile of decorations. “I applaud your efforts.”

  She gave a teasing curtsy. “Thank you, sir.”

  His dark gaze stroked over her upturned countenance. “You have a gift for making life better for others,” he said in soft tones. “A rare gift.”

  Her heart faltered at his compliment. It was perhaps the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

  “Was there something you needed?” she demanded in an effort to distract him.

  He took a long moment before a rueful smile twisted his lips. “I am uncertain.”

  Sarah gave a startled blink. Lord Chance uncertain? She would have thought the sky would fall before this utterly confident gentleman would admit to being uncertain of anything.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He crossed his arms over the width of his chest. “I awoke this morning with every intention of examining my latest crate from Greece, followed by lunch with Lord Grayson and an afternoon reviewing the accounts from my estate. This evening I had planned to attend two soirees and a ball.”

  Sarah discovered herself decidedly puzzled by his smooth retort. “It appears you are quite in demand.”

  “And yet I awoke this morning, dressed, and without even bothering with breakfast, I called for my carriage to drive me here.”

  Sarah discovered her breath eluding her as she met his dark gaze. “Why?”

  He stepped even closer, his hand reaching up to tease the curls about her forehead. “That is what I am attempting to determine.”

  She knew she should step away, but her legs refused to cooperate. Indeed, it took all her effort not to sway even closer to his large frame.

  Thankfully, her shocking weakness was never discovered as a short, heavy-set woman with iron-gray hair bustled into the room. Sarah awkwardly turned as the woman walked directly to the table beside her and placed an armful of greenery on it.

  “Here we go, dear.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sparks,” Sarah murmured, about to suggest to Lord Chance that he return to his previous plans when he slowly reached out to pluck a tiny bit of greenery with white berries.

  “Well, well. What have we here?” he drawled.

  “Mistletoe, my lord,” Mrs. Sparks promptly retorted.

  A devilish grin touched his handsome features. “A most intriguing plant, do you not agree, Miss Cresswell?”

  There was a flutter in her lower stomach, but she managed to shrug. “No more intriguing than any other plant, my lord.”

  He gave a teasing click of his tongue. “Come now. What of you, Mrs. Sparks?”

  Surprisingly, the older woman gave a pleased chuckle. “Well sir, I must admit to a mite of fun beneath the mistletoe when I was a lass. Now I fear I am too old for such nonsense.”

  “One is never too old,” Lord Chance denied. Then, with a languid motion, he raised the mistletoe and placed a chaste kiss on the older woman’s cheek.

  Mrs. Sparks blushed with pleasure, clearly bewitched by the charming gentleman. “Ah, what a rascal you are,” she said. Then she flashed a coy glance at the silent Sarah. “I suppose I should return to the kitchen and ensure the young ones haven’t emptied my larder.”

  With a satisfied smile, the woman hurried out of the room, leaving behind a distinctly wary Sarah. She did not trust Lord Chance in this teasing mood. More importantly, she did not trust herself.

  Waiting until Mrs. Sparks had firmly shut the door behind her, Lord Chance held out the mistletoe.

  “Now, Miss Cresswell, I believe it is your turn,” he said, smiling in anticipation.

  Sarah took a firm step backward. She had spent far too many sleepless nights because of this gentleman’s kisses. She had no need for more. “Certainly not.”

  He promptly followed to stand close enough for her to smell the sweet warmth of his skin. “It is tradition.”

  “Why do you not take it to your soirees and balls?” she suggested in dry tones. “No doubt there will be a clutch of hen-witted maidens anxious to oblige you.”

  “No doubt,” he readily agreed. “However, I have no interest in hen-witted maidens.”

  “Perhaps you should, sir.”

  “Now you sound like my mother,” he complained with a grimace. “How she can possibly expect me to reveal an interest in chits who never open their lips except to giggle defies comprehension.”

  Sarah felt a stab of distaste at his casual reference to the numerous debutantes that filled London. Absurd, of course. She had never desired to gad about Society, and certainly she possessed no wish to be bartered off to the highest title. But somehow the knowledge that this man would soon be choosing his countess from among such maidens left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “They cannot be so bad,” she forced herself to retort.

  “No.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “The drawing rooms, of course, are filled with intelligent, well-read young ladies, but for all their numerous charms, not one has lingered in my thoughts.”

  She wished he would not gaze at her in that manner, she thought as her heart gave a leap. As if there was no one else in the world but her.

  “One is bound to, eventually.”

  “How is that possible when my thoughts are filled by you?” he asked softly.

  A poignant warmth flooded her body at his words, but Sarah battled to maintain her composure. “Very charming, my lord.”

  His brows knit together at her determinedly light tone. “You believe I am flirting with you?”

  “Are you not?”

  There was a long pause before he at last heaved a sigh. “I wish I knew.”

  Sarah was not comforted to discover he was as baffled as she by the tug of attraction between them. What did it matter that he desired her as a woman? This time together would soon come to an end, and he would return to his proper debutantes.

  “I should be returning to my work,” she stiffly retorted.

  His hand reached out to gently cup her chin. “Do I not get my kiss?”

  Sarah shivered. “I do not think it is wise.”

  “Sarah.” His expression softened, his voice husky with need. “For once can we not be wise?”

  No, a voice firmly warned her from the corner of her mind, but it was no match for the bittersweet ache that clutched at her heart.

  “I ... yes . . .”

  With exquisite care, his dark head lowered. She braced herself for the branding heat of his kiss, but instead his caress was feather light, barely brushing her lips. She shuddered, swaying to lean against his chest. His mouth moved to press against her closed eyes, her wide brow, and down her cheek to the curve of her neck.

  “You have bewitched me,” he murmured against her satin skin.

  Sarah sucked in a shaky breath, inhaling the scent of his soap and the pungent odor of evergreens. She felt intoxicated, as giddy as the first occasion, she had secretly sampled her father’s brandy. And just as on that occasion, she knew deep down she was bound to regret her impulsive behavior.

  “Please . . .” she at last managed to croak. “You must go.”

  She felt him still before he was reluctantly pulling away to regard her with a somber expression.

  “I will go, but we both know I shall return. I cannot help myself.” His head swooped down for one last, lingering kiss. “Good-bye, my dear.”

  Twelve

  When Lord Chance arose the next morning, he was wise enough to resist the urge to seek out Miss Cresswell. He had been absurd to think that a week away from the enticing minx would put an end to his simmering desire. Of course, in his own
defense, he had never before encountered a female who had captured his attention past the initial thrill of attraction.

  There had been the beautiful countess who had warmed his bed last year, the actress who had caught his fancy during the summer, and the delectable widow who had shared her favors throughout the pleasant autumn. None had managed to stir his interest once he had placed them out of his thoughts for a day or two.

  But it had taken only a moment in the company of Miss Cresswell to convince him of his error. Nothing had altered in the long week he had forced himself to avoid her company. She was just as fascinating and just as damnably desirable as ever. And he was just as anxious to pull her into his arms and drown in her sweetness.

  It was a wretched mess, he told himself.

  Even had he wished to pursue his interest in Miss Cresswell, it was utterly impossible. She was neither respectable enough to become Countess of Chance nor disreputable enough to become his mistress. And so he was left to battle a desire that could not be satisfied, as well as the guilt of realizing he had done precious little to retrieve the missing diamonds.

  Knowing he was far too restless to devote his attention to his studies, Chance called for his carriage and made his way the short distance to his mother’s town house.

  He was relieved to discover her at home. In short order, he was escorted to the private parlor at the back of the vast house.

  Not surprisingly, Lady Chance regarded his entrance with a hint of curiosity. He rarely intruded without notice of his impending arrival.

  “Good morning, Mother,” he murmured as he crossed to kiss her offered cheek.

  “Oliver, what a delightful surprise,” she smiled, patting the cushion of the settee. “Shall I order tea?”

  He shook his head as he settled his long frame on the cushion, careful not to wrinkle the unfashionably full skirt of his mother’s figured silk gown.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Have you heard from Ben?” she demanded in an anxious tone.

  Chance was relieved that he had received a message from his brother only that morning. His mother always fretted when her youngest son was not beneath her watchful eye. Not that her watchful eye ever managed to keep his scapegrace brother from plunging into disaster, he wryly acknowledged. But if it brought Lady Chance comfort, that was all that mattered.