"Fichus are hopelessly old-fashioned." Sarah glanced around. "None of the other ladies are wearing them and my neckline isn't nearly as revealing as hers." She nodded toward a young lady wearing pale green, then to a young lady in blue and another in silver. "Or hers. Or hers."
"It is from my vantage point," he growled.
Frowning, Sarah glanced down and realized he was right. She'd never considered that a man as tall as Jays might be able to see more of her figure than she had intended. She shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't realize…"
"Don't!" Jarrod hissed through clenched teeth, fighting an almost primal urge to tug at the bodice of her dress. But he couldn't say which he wanted most. To tug it up? Or tug it down?
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that." He hissed a bit louder. "What?"
"Don't shrug your shoulders," he ordered, staring down at her bodice, studying its construction the way an engineer studied a bridge. "Or bend at the waist. Or lift your arms. Or sit beside any gentleman taller than you. Or dance…"
"Don't be ridiculous, Jays."
"Ridiculous? Me?" Jarrod glared at her. "You're the one wearing a scrap of silk that's within a hairsbreadth of revealing your bosom in all its lovely glory. I can't imagine how it stays in place as it is," he told her. But that was a lie. He knew exactly what kept her bodice in place and he also knew that if the room got any warmer, Sarah was in danger of exposing herself to the entire assembly. Heaven only knew what had kept it in place this long. "Blast it, Sarah! The nightgown you wore last evening was less revealing! And it was damp."
Sarah gasped. "Jays, there are people about! Someone might hear you!"
"Someone already has," Lady Dunbridge remarked dryly. "Fortunately, I am that someone." She pinned Jarrod with a look. "And you, sir, assured me at breakfast that Sarah had kept her traveling cloak on during her visit."
"She did," Jarrod hastily replied. "For all but a moment."
Lady Dunbridge arched an eyebrow. "A moment long enough for you to notice that her nightgown was damp…"
It had been impossible for him not to notice her nightgown was damp when he'd grabbed handfuls of it, shoving it out of the way so he could pull her against him and caress her bare bottom. But Lady Dunbridge didn't need to know that, so Jarrod kept that bit of information to himself. "It was raining quite heavily when she arrived and steam rose from her garments when she warmed herself by the fire. As velvet is not impervious to the weather, I assumed whatever she wore beneath her cape had to be nearly as damp as the outer garment."
"Nice recovery," Lady Dunbridge said. "It's all stuff and nonsense, but I commend you for being able to engage your brain and think on your feet." She smiled up at Jarrod. "Most men only think with that other part of their anatomy."
Jarrod's jaw dropped open at Lady Dunbridge's impudent reply.
"But you've just proven that you are not most men. Come now, Lord Shepherdston, don't look so surprised. You're a man of the world and far from innocent and I am a woman of three and forty who was married for ten years to a man who only thought with that part of his anatomy. We understand the nature of the beast and what is at stake here. Now," she said, taking advantage of Jarrod's continued silence, "say hello to our host and hostess and ask Sarah to dance."
Jarrod shook his head. "I don't think she ought to dance in that dress."
Lady Dunbridge bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the obstinate expression on his face. "Lord Shepherdston, the purpose of our being here is to show Sarah off to prospective suitors. Her dress is entirely suited to that purpose."
He drew his brows together in a mighty frown. "It is too well suited for that purpose."
"In your opinion," Sarah retorted.
"Yes," he answered. "In my opinion. And as I am a man, and might be considered a prospective suitor by some, my opinion is valid."
"Of course it is," Lady Dunbridge soothed.
"I came here to dance," Sarah told him. "And I intend to do just that."
Jarrod looked down at her nicely displayed bounty and made a command decision. "The only dancing you're going to be doing in that dress this evening is with me."
"Thank you for asking, Lord Shepherdston," Sarah replied, turning the tables on him by placing her hand in his and leading him toward the dance floor. "I'd be delighted."
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
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I feel again a spark of that ancient flame.
— Virgil, 70-19 B.C.
"That was nicely done."
"I thought so," Lady Dunbridge replied softly to the man who spoke from behind her right shoulder. "She handles herself well and I'm very proud of her."
"I was talking about you."
"Oh." It was all she could think to say, for his presence and the sound of his voice sent shivers up and down her spine.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I got your note, Henrietta."
She closed her eyes and savored the feel of his hands on her person. "I didn't know if you would come."
"Why wouldn't I come?" he asked. "When I've been waiting for you to send for me for years. Why didn't you?"
Lady Dunbridge turned around and looked at the man with whom she had once fallen deeply in love. She hadn't seen him except at a distance for years, yet he hadn't changed. Oh, there were a few wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, a network of fine lines surrounding his blue eyes, and a sprinkling of gray at his temples, but he was every bit as handsome as he had been twenty years earlier. He was still the man she loved. "I wanted to," she answered. "So many times. I struggled to keep from begging you to come to me in every letter I wrote you."
"You wrote to me?" That came as a surprise to him, for the only note he'd ever received from her was the one she'd written that morning asking for his help. "After your husband died?"
"And before," she admitted in a whisper. "I knew it was wrong. We were both still married, but I wrote to you anyway. I poured out my heart and soul to you. But you never answered my letters, and eventually I stopped sending them." She hadn't quit writing letters to him, but she had stopped posting them. "I thought you'd forgotten about me or that you'd reconciled with your wife. Before I knew it, one year faded into the next and twenty years had gone by."
"There was no possibility of reconciliation, Henrietta," he replied. "My wife didn't want it." Lord Mayhew ran his hands over her bare shoulders and down her arms.
Lady Dunbridge shivered at his touch as her nerve endings suddenly remembered the gentle caress of a lover's hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I had hoped that you could persuade her to reconsider…"
Lord Mayhew managed a smile. "I didn't want her to reconsider," he admitted. "Not after I met you."
Lady Dunbridge looked up at him. "But… " She had spent years trying to forget him, years praying for forgiveness for loving a married man — especially during the years that she remained married, but estranged, from her husband. In the nineteen years she'd lived with her niece and brother-in-law at the rectory in Helford Green, Henrietta Dunbridge had remembered Robert Mayhew in every prayer. And her prayer for him had never varied. "I prayed for you," she confided. "I prayed for us both."
"For what did you pray, Henrietta?"
"I prayed that we would both know love once again."
Lord Mayhew stared down at her. "Your prayers were answered, Henrietta," he whispered. "When I look in your eyes I know that I am loved. That I have been loved for a very long time."
"Oh, Robert… " Lady Dunbridge trembled on the brink of tears.
"Look into my eyes," he instructed, "and you'll see the love I have for you. It's been there from the start." He pressed his finger against her lips when she would have spoken, then tenderly traced the contour of her bottom lip. "I looked at you twenty years ago and suddenly, I knew love."
"What happened?" she asked. "If we love each other so much, why haven't we been together? Why didn't you answer my letters?"
"I never rec
eived your letters," he said simply. "And I'm quite certain you never received mine."
Lady Dunbridge frowned. "You wrote me?" she asked, in an echo of his earlier question.
"Nearly every day after you left London and returned to Somerset," Lord Mayhew told her. "But my letters were returned unopened."
Henrietta's eyes widened as suspicion dawned. "Calvin?" The house in Somerset was the Dunbridge county seat. It had been in the family for generations and staffed entirely by loyal family retainers who collected and sorted the mail.
Lord Mayhew shook his head. "His butler or secretary, most likely." He sighed. "I should have used my wife's name on the outside of the first letters instead of my own so there would have been less chance of them being returned to me. But I never dreamed your husband would object… " He shrugged his shoulders. "Still, I should have known better. A gentleman doesn't correspond with another gentleman's wife without permission and, apparently, Lord Dunbridge withheld his permission."
"Why?" she asked. "He didn't want me. He was living in London with his mistress."
"But you were Caesar's wife," Lord Mayhew said softly.
"And Caesar's wife must be above suspicion," Lady Dunbridge quoted bitterly.
"I didn't give up," Lord Mayhew continued. "I tried again when I learned that you were living in Helford Green taking care of your sister's family." He smiled down at her. "You inspire great loyalty in the men who care about you, Henrietta."
Lady Dunbridge closed her eyes and pictured her brother-in-law's face. "He didn't."
"He did," Lord Mayhew answered. "The letters I wrote you at the rectory in Helford Green were returned opened, along with a note advising me of the wages of sin — particularly the sin of adultery."
"We never…" she began.
"Literary adultery," he clarified. "For want of a better term. Although we had never physically consummated our 'adulterous' union, we had committed adultery in our hearts because our letters spoke of our passionate feelings for one another. And Reverend Eckersley warned me that by writing you and encouraging you to write me, I was putting your immortal soul at risk. For it was simply a matter of time before we sinned in the flesh." He stared down at her. "He knew my feelings, since he'd read my letters, and I think we can safely assume that he knew your feelings as well."
"I inspire something in the men who care about me," Lady Dunbridge remarked. "But I'm not certain I would call it loyalty."
"What would you call it?"
Lady Dunbridge thought for a moment before she replied. "Fear. My husband feared I would besmirch his name. My brother-in-law feared I would leave him to care for himself and his daughter alone." Lady Dunbridge glared up at the ceiling and stamped her foot. "Simon Eckersley, how could you?"
"Don't be too angry with him. In his own way, he was looking out for you."
"He was looking out for my soul," Lady Dunbridge snapped. "And there was no need for that once Calvin died. There was no danger of adultery. Calvin was dead and so was your wife. We were free."
"Yes, we were," Lord Mayhew agreed. "But losing you was what Reverend Eckersley feared most. And he was right to fear it because I intended to come for you after your husband died. Unfortunately, Serena's death had horrible unexpected and inexplicable repercussions. Within months of Serena's passing, my wife's sister and her husband were dead. I was left as guardian of their son, and Jarrod needed me. My life and responsibilities changed overnight. And although I desperately wanted to marry you, I knew in my heart that Jarrod wasn't able to absorb another upheaval in his life. He needed stability. He needed security. He needed my love. And he needed to know that I was constant. I owed him that. And I was determined to be available whenever he needed me. I was determined to give him my undivided attention."
"Perhaps it's just as well," Lady Dunbridge said at last. "Because Simon and Sarah needed me just as much as Lord Shepherdston needed you."
Lord Mayhew reached over and lifted her chin with the tip of his index finger. "Am I mistaken, Henrietta, or are you under the impression that I've given up?"
Lady Dunbridge held her breath. "Have you?"
"Not at all," he vowed. "The good reverend was right. It was simply a matter of time before we sinned in the flesh. I wanted you then, Henrietta, and I want you now. Body and soul."
"Robert, it's been twenty years," she murmured, suddenly shy and uncertain.
"Impossible," he said softly, "because you don't look a day older than twenty."
She smiled. "You said the same thing twenty years ago."
"It was true then," Lord Mayhew said. "And it's true now." He began to massage her shoulders in a slow, relaxing motion. "You're every bit as beautiful today as you were twenty years ago." He took a step forward, then leaned close enough to whisper, "So, my dear Henrietta, tell me how I can be of service."
"I want you to help me arrange a marriage."
Lord Mayhew lifted an eyebrow. Her answer wasn't quite what he'd expected, but he was willing. "Dare I hope that it might be ours?"
"After all these years?"
Lord Mayhew saw the hope in her eyes, remembered the girl she had been, and smiled. "I loved you twenty years ago. I wanted to marry you twenty years ago, but we were both married to other people. Now we're free and I find myself still hopelessly in love with you." He looked at her. "And if we wait much longer, we'll be too old to enjoy the honeymoon, so Henrietta, I'm asking if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Lady Dunbridge's eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "Oh, Robert…"
He looked down at her. "Shall I take that to mean yes?"
"Yes!"
Lord Mayhew thought his heart might burst from the joy. He hadn't realized how much he'd loved Henrietta Dunbridge, how much he'd missed her, and how much he'd longed to make her his until he'd walked into the Garrisons' ballroom and seen her again. And she hadn't changed. She was still the beautiful young woman with reddish blonde hair and light brown eyes with whom he'd fallen in love all those years ago. "Shall we make it a small and intimate wedding? Or would you like a huge society affair?"
"I should like to make it a small, intimate, double wedding," she clarified. "And soon."
Lord Mayhew frowned. "With whom would you like to share our nuptials?"
"Sarah." She smiled up at him. "I've waited twenty years to taste your lips and to feel your arms about me and I don't want to wait a moment longer than necessary, but I have to see Sarah settled first."
"I can secure a special license in the morning," he replied. "And we can make arrangements with your niece and her intended." He leaned down to whisper, "Tell me, Henrietta, where would you like to honeymoon?"
Henrietta blushed. "In whatever bed you call home."
"That's my darling girl." Lord Mayhew was fairly crowing with pride.
"I'm three and forty," she reminded him. "I haven't shared a bed with a man in two and twenty years or felt passion for much longer than that." She blushed again.
"Oh, my precious girl." Lord Mayhew reached out and smoothed a stray lock of hair from her face. The fact that they were at a public ball was the only thing that kept him from kissing her senseless. "I knew Dunbridge kept a mistress in a house on Portman Square, but I didn't realize that he had neglected his wife so entirely."
"I was barren," she answered succinctly. "Once he discovered that, there was no need for him to pay attention to me."
Lord Mayhew frowned. "Are you certain you were barren? Because I had heard it said that Dunbridge had been rendered barren by some childhood illness or injury and that his first wife's family threatened to sue when they learned of it. He'd married her in order to secure his fortune and her family felt that he had married her falsely by promising to make her not only his viscountess, but the mother of his heir."
"I had no idea," Lady Dunbridge breathed.
"None, Henrietta?" He gave her a crooked smile. "I think you're smarter than that."
"I had no idea when I married him," she said. "And he blame
d me, but I always thought he was at fault. After all, he had a previous wife and a mistress who had never conceived." She shrugged. "Of course, I couldn't prove it unless I produced a child and, well, that was impossible without breaking my vows and… " She looked up at Lord Mayhew.
"Breaking your vows was something you simply could not do," he replied gently. "Even for me."
"I wanted to," she admitted. "And I've regretted not doing so for more years than I care to count, but we met at the wrong time in our lives. Had we met a few years earlier or a few years later, things would have been different."
"Very different," he agreed.
"So, tell me, Robert, how do you feel about children?"
He lit up with pleasure. "Is that a possibility?"
She nodded. "I still have my monthly courses."
He frowned. "A minor nuisance well worth the bother if it means we might have children."
"I can't promise to give you a son," she answered, her brown eyes sparkling, "but I promise to try." She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
"A son. A daughter. Either. Both." His words tumbled out, one atop the other. "I'd be thrilled. And so would my current heir. He's always told me I should have been a father."
Lady Dunbridge paused. "Your current heir?"
Lord Mayhew nodded. "My nephew, Jarrod. The Marquess of Shepherdston."
"Shepherdston?" Lady Dunbridge pursed her lips and frowned. "Oh, dear…"
He leaned close. "Henrietta, darling, what is it?"
"I knew Shepherdston was your nephew and your godson, but I didn't realize he was also your heir…"
"My darling, Jarrod will be delighted at the news that we're getting married."
"Of course he will," she said. "It will solve his problem."
"What problem?"
"The problem of what to do about Sarah." Lady Dunbridge began twisting her handkerchief into knots and nodded toward the dance floor, where Lord Shepherdston and Sarah were squared off in the quadrille. "My niece."
Lord Mayhew followed her gaze to where Jarrod stood facing a slender red-haired girl in a bronze-colored evening gown and grinned. "Is that the marriage you wanted me to help you arrange?"