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  “Mama, Amalie . . .” Words failed her. Lady Sarah Ainsworth picked up her skirts and fled.

  The Most Honorable the Marquess of Rotherwick was a solid gentleman still on the sunny side of sixty, who took more interest in his hopeful family of five than most men of his acquaintance. A survivor of thirty-some years of a congenial, if not passionate, marriage, he was sympathetic with his youngest child’s desire to enjoy several Seasons before taking up the responsibilities of marriage. Nonetheless, it was a coup, a veritable coup. A babe of seventeen, snabbling Davenham. Though there were times his Sally had an odd kick to her gallop, he mused. She was quite capable of whistling the viscount down the wind. Amalie now . . . there was a girl with her eye ever on the Championship Cup. But Sally?

  The marquess stood as his daughter swept through the door, head high, shoulders back, as regal as a queen. She paused, scanning the room, obviously looking for her noble suitor. Her shoulders slumped.

  “Davenham’s in the Blue Salon. I wished to speak with you first, don’t you know.” Lord Rotherwick waved his daughter to a bronze leather bergère chair near the fireplace, flipped up the tails of his dark superfine jacket, and seated himself in a matching chair across from her. He proffered an indulgent smile. “Sly puss. Davenham! I can scarce believe it. Still waters run deep, eh?” A frown creased the marquess’s noble countenance. “Did I hear weeping and wailing upstairs? I was certain your mama would be aux anges.”

  “I believe she was merely surprised, Papa,” his daughter responded calmly. “I fear it was Amalie who fell into an attack of the vapors.”

  “Egad, what more does the chit want?” Rotherwick fumed. “She has Parkington in her pocket.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Lord Rotherwick examined his youngest, sitting there, the very pattern-card of maidenly virtues—quiet, demure, obedient. Amazing what actresses females were. “Well, puss, do I send you into the Blue Salon to receive Davenham’s addresses, or shall I send the fellow packing?”

  To his surprise, Lady Sarah giggled, blue-green eyes dancing above the hands she clapped over her mouth.

  “And what is so amusing, pray tell?” Rotherwick demanded, though this more lively chit was far closer to the Sally Ainsworth he knew so well.

  His daughter’s shoulders heaved one last time. She schooled her features, thrust her clasped hands back into her lap. “If you send Lord Davenham packing, then mama’s vapors will make Amalie’s seem a mere bagatelle.”

  Lord Rotherwick paled. “Indeed,” he agreed. He regarded his youngest with a modicum of hope. “Then you will allow Davenham to speak?”

  Lady Sarah rose, curtsied . . . then as if by magic, right before his eyes, she transformed herself back into the noble daughter of a marquess, to whom a lowly viscount might raise his eyes only with the greatest daring.

  Strange creatures, females. A wise man never expected to understand them. There she went, his little Sally, sailing across the room toward the Blue Salon, opening the door. Closing it behind her with a decisive click.

  Little Sal, being thrown to the wolf.

  Or was it the other way around?

  Chapter Two

  Lord Davenham had twice attempted to sit in one of the Blue Salon’s elegant Chinese Chippendale chairs, but it was impossible to be still. Devil it! How did any man manage such a delicate business as a proposal of marriage? It was torture.

  Perhaps he was to be sent packing, without ever speaking his piece . . . ?

  A spark of hope, that. Freedom was more precious than wealth. To the devil with Aunt Portia’s fortune.

  Her consoles, gold, gemstones, priceless paintings and objets d’arts . . .

  The matter was moot. He’d already placed his head in the noose. Received Rotherwick’s permission to pay his addresses. Fiery hell! Might as well be tossed in a cart and trundled off to be hanged. His life was over.

  Perhaps the chit would say no. Dickon had admitted Lady Sarah was not as understanding as they had hoped. The viscount brightened. The outcome of this mad moment might still be in doubt.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand quid gone for a shelter for stray cats and dogs.

  A click . . . the soft swish of a door over the thick Aubusson carpet. Harlan Dawnay, spinning round from his gloomy contemplation of Grosvenor Square, stared at the alleged object of his desires. Confound it! He had twice engaged in duels in his callow youth, yet never experienced the attack of nerves he was suffering now.

  Lady Sarah. He had stood up with her only a sennight ago at the Coyningham’s ball, yet, suddenly, she was different. More . . . far more . . . Blast it! Today, she was a pocket Venus instead of the sparkling-eyed hoyden he recalled. Should he be shocked or pleased?

  She was walking toward him, dropping into a graceful curtsy, her face a blank, cold as marble. Must be a disease she caught from the older sister.

  “You wished to speak with me, my lord?”

  Lord Davenham, known throughout the ton for his ability to deal with any social situation, gulped, straightened to his full height—a good eight inches above his prospective bride—and waved a languid hand toward an S-shaped sofa designed to facilitate intimate conversation. And surely an offer of marriage was about as intimate as one could get in the Marquis of Rotherwick’s Blue Salon!

  When they were both seated, their toes pointed in opposite directions, their heads only inches apart, Harlan regarded his about-to-be-betrothed in silence. He could see only her profile, the tightly controlled strawberry-blonde curls, a small nose, long pale eyelashes shading her eyes. The corner of two nicely shaped lips . . . a chin rather firmer than he liked.

  He drew a deep breath. “Lady Sarah, I believe your brother has explained the difficulty of the situation regarding my Aunt Berrisford’s will?”

  “Indeed.”

  “He . . . we . . . I was rather hoping you might be willing to assist me. That is, there was no one else . . .” Devil a bit! “Truth is, of all the young ladies I know, you are the only one I could picture myself leg-shackled to.” The only one who wouldn’t chatter through his perusal of the Gazette. The only one whose escort he could fob off on friends . . .

  “You thought me young enough to be conformable?”

  Dance with the devil, and the truth will out. “To be blunt, Lady Sarah, I thought you a good-natured girl who was young enough to wish to enjoy a few more carefree years before settling down to the responsibilities of marriage.”

  When she did not reply, Davenham ventured, “Dickon explained the lot, did he not? That we would each go our own way? You will have the freedom of a married lady, the freedom of my purse—”

  “And you will have your mistress.”

  While Harlan goggled, Lady Sarah added graciously, “Miss LeFay is even more beautiful than Amalie—but of course she is allowed to paint her face. I have seen you with her in the park and at the opera. It is perfectly understandable why you would prefer her to a wife.”

  Lord Davenham shot to his feet, cleared his throat . . . paced round the sofa’s S-curve to face his prospective bride full-on. He opened his mouth . . . closed it. What could he say? Young ladies were not supposed to know of such things, and if they did, their mamas were supposed to caution them never, ever, to speak of their husband’s peccadillos.

  “You are angry,” Lady Sarah said, regarding him serenely. “With three older brothers I can always tell. But you must recall it is you who is in need of a favor, while it is I who is being asked to be accommodating. Surely I may speak freely when being asked to countenance such an—ah—unusual alliance?”

  Seventeen going on seventy-seven. Lord Davenham ground his teeth, acknowledging Lady Sarah’s hit with a slight bow. “If the arrangement does not suit . . . ?”

  The aquamarine eyes hit him hard, a facer more powerful than any he had ever taken while sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s. “I am suited to setting up my own establishment,” declared Lady Sarah Ainsworth. “I am suited to spending your money, to cutting the dash onl
y a married lady may do. And . . . I am very much suited to marrying before my sister.”

  Lady Sarah’s eyes glittered with an emotion he could not quite identify. He should have been wary, but the scent of victory was too sweet. “Then I shall procure a Special License. We shall be wed immediately. Old girl could pop off at any moment.”

  “I believe,” said Lady Sarah, whose clenched hands were white-knuckled in her lap, “that it is customary to make an offer before dashing off for a Special License.”

  Lord Davenham, who was already half way to the door, skidded to a halt. Hell’s hounds, but the chit was difficult. A good sort, Dickon had said. Little did he know.

  Too late now. The little termagant was about to become the Viscountess Davenham. If he could get his tongue around the words.

  Harlan returned to his place directly in front of his almost-betrothed. He made a bow worthy of Carlton House. “Lady Sarah, I have held you in high esteem since the moment when Dickon and I were fishing at Ainsworth Abbey and the only fish we caught was you, as sodden as a wet rat after you tumbled into the stream.” Hah!—her lips twitched, a spark of remembrance kindling in the depths of the cool sea-green glitter. “We have, in short, known each other for years. Not well, perhaps . . . but surely longevity counts.”

  “We have stood up exactly six times since I made my come-out,” the young lady retorted, “and only once for a waltz.”

  “I fear,” Davenham confided apologetically, “I have never been one who dangled after young ladies.”

  “Only married ones . . . and barques of frailty.”

  “Alas, I am unable to deny it.” Six times. She’d been counting.

  Lady Sarah was still looking up, regarding him expectantly. Dash it all! The devilish little chit was exacting her pound of flesh. “My lady, I am exceedingly grateful that you would consider rescuing me from the awkward situation in which I find myself. I assure you that the—ah—arrangement we have agreed upon will not last forever. In due time I trust we will both be ready to settle down, set up our nursery, and become sterling examples of marital bliss—”

  “There’s no need to overdo it, Davenham.”

  But she was blushing! Her sharp tone was a vain attempt to steer his gaze away from the heat staining her cheeks at mention of setting up their nursery. Lady Sarah was, after all, still a child herself. A petite, fresh-faced seventeen, who could pass for years younger. In a more conventional marriage of convenience he would have found himself bedding a member of the infantry. Appalling!

  Nonetheless, he enjoyed the blush. The little minx deserved to be put out of countenance after all she had put him through this day.

  Best to get it over with. “Lady Sarah, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Silence. She had ducked her head, her hands steepled over her mouth. “Lady Sarah?”

  She sat up straight, squared her shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “My lord, we both know I’d be a fool to reject your offer. And Ainsworths, I assure you, are no more foolish than Dawnays. I had hoped for something more romantical, of course—I suppose every girl dreams of the idyllic even if it is her lot to be granted the pragmatical. So, yes, I suppose I must now say I am honored that you would consider me a suitable partner for your romp around the laws of matrimony. Goodness knows three older brothers should be sufficient preparation for such a task.”

  Lady Sarah stood and offered her hand—a matter of business well concluded. “You may now run and tell my dear brother and Mr. Chumley that they may wish you happy. And wealthy. Though I am not at all certain they should mention wise.” The prospective bride proffered an ever-so-polite curtsy. “Good-day, my lord.”

  Dismissed, by God! Harlan Dawnay, the dashing Dandy Davenham, had accepted his hat and gloves from the butler, mounted his curricle, and was tooling down Upper Brook Street before the truth fully insinuated itself into his brain. His goose was well and truly cooked. His seventeen-year-old bride of convenience was going to lead him a merry chase.

  “You fiend!” Lady Amalie wailed as her sister entered her bedchamber. She clutched her patrician forehead and fell back, with utmost drama, against the silk damask of the graceful scroll-back chaise longue that occupied one corner of the room. Lady Amalie’s maid hovered, attempting to apply cold compresses to her brow, while her mama, the Marchioness of Rotherwick, paced the carpet, occasionally pausing to shoot a glance of disgust at her elder daughter, whose sobs had increased their hysterical pitch on young Sarah’s confirmation of her betrothal to Lord Davenham.

  Lady Sarah, standing just inside the door, looked from her sister to her mother, and back again, unaware that her face reflected a nice mix of stubborn pride and grim determination. “But, Ami,” she protested, “you have never done more than flirt with Lord Davenham. You told me he was too racy by half and that I should not sully my reputation by dancing with him. And you have been flaunting Parkington before the world, your very own pet duke, so how can you possibly begrudge my betrothal to Davenham?”

  “You will be married before me!” Amalie bawled. “Unless . . .” She sat up abruptly, casting the damp linen on her brow aside. Her reddened eyes narrowed. “You must have a long engagement, Sal. Perhaps a year or so. Papa can insist on it, say you are too young. Is that not right, Mama?”

  Lady Rotherwick regarded her pride and joy, her exquisitely lovely Amalie, with newfound skepticism. “With every beau in the ton panting after you, my dear, I cannot imagine why you should demand to be first to the altar. Yet it is true that wedding arrangements take time. Did you and the viscount discuss a date, Sarah?”

  “Immediately, Mama. By special license.”

  “Immediately? Outrageous! The gossips will spread every kind of scandal.”

  Once again, Lady Amalie fell back on her chaise, her wails loud enough to echo throughout the house, where servants hovered just beyond the L of the upper corridor and at the foot of the grand staircase and dingy servants’ stairs. There hadn’t been such a fine dust-up in the house since Lord Michael broke his arm after a reckless jaunt down the banister.

  “Just what has been going on behind my back, young lady?” the marchioness demanded. “Tell me at once. Does the young scoundrel owe you marriage? Did he compromise you? Out with it at once!” Lady Rotherwick sagged into a chintz-patterned chair. “The rakehell, the cur . . . if only Wycliffe were not off in Greece or Egypt or wherever he is at the moment. I would have him call the dastard out, for ’tis certain Rotherwick cannot go out with Davenham, else he’d find himself dead before breakfast—”

  As would her eldest brother—Lord Wycliffe, the Heir—Sarah thought, if he were mad enough to enter into a duel with Davenham! Nonetheless, the marchioness’s concern was gratifying. At times it seemed as if all her thoughts were reserved for Amalie.

  “Mama!” Lady Sarah marched to her mother’s chair. Arms akimbo, she leaned down, enunciating each word with care. “Mama, I assure you Lord Davenham has done no more than stand up with me for six dances. I have seen him from a distance driving in the park, at the theater, the opera, and occasionally on Bond Street. He is Dickon’s friend, but I barely know him. Nonetheless, he has done me the honor of asking for my hand—”

  “He is the handsomest man in England!” Lady Amalie cried. “My only proper consort—”

  “Consort! Are you mad?” Sarah retorted. “Who do you think you are—Princess Charlotte?”

  “Parkington’s old. And stiff as a poker.”

  “Amalie!” Cordelia Rotherwick regarded her darling daughter with genuine shock.

  Lady Amalie drew a ragged breath. “Harlan Dawnay is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. We would make a stunning couple. Even if he is only going to be an earl.”

  “Merciful heavens,” Lady Rotherwick murmured.

  “And you,” Amalie declared, turning a baleful eye on her sister, “pray what will you do with a dasher like Davenham? He’ll give you the go-by in a flash, leave you coughing in his dust.” Scornfully, Lady Amalie examined her sis
ter from head to toe. “You’re a child, Sal. Harlan Dawnay has no taste for the infantry. Like as not, he’ll tuck you up in a corner and never notice you’re there.”

  Lady Sarah sought in vain for a suitable retort. Alas, Amalie was right. Being ignored with good cheer was a basic tenet of her infamous agreement with Lord Davenham.

  “Immediately?” the marchioness repeated faintly.

  “As soon as he obtains the Special License,” Sarah confirmed.

  Using both hands for support, Lady Rotherwick pushed herself to her feet. “The notice to the Morning Post. I must be certain Rotherwick sends it immediately.”

  “Why not wait and simply give notice of the wedding?” Amalie’s words reeked of sarcasm, but her mama was already out the door, scurrying down the hall toward the staircase.

  Lady Sarah, knowing full well she was being childishly naughty, turned and smiled sweetly at her sister. “You look quite green, Ami, but jealousy will get you nowhere. According to Dickon, Lord Davenham said I was the only single female he wouldn’t strangle within a week of the wedding.”

  “Obviously, Sally, dear child, you did not lie to mama when you said the viscount does not know you well.” Lady Amalie draped an arm over the back of the chaise, returning her sister’s false smile with interest. “May heaven help you both.”

  “You what?” Amaryllis LeFay—born Mollie Wiggs to an accommodating chambermaid at a posting inn on the Great North Road—bounded out of bed and stood without a stitch, glaring down at her well-sated lover.

  “Stubble it,” said Viscount Davenham, tempering his words with one of the lazy smiles he knew drove females wild. “I am getting married. I said nothing about giving you your congé.” He settled his arms beneath his head and examined his prime courtesan’s exposed flesh from head to toe. “Damme, Ryl, but you’re a beauty. No need to fly into a pelter. Nothing’s changed. Nor will it.”