Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 51

"They'll have to make do with our typical fare," she grumpily complained. "They're so hoity-toity. How will they bear it?"

"You don't like the company that's coming?"

"I've never met them, but I'm sure I won't care for them a bit."

Mildred was in a veritable flurry about the visit, the house in an uproar of preparation, and Mildred's excitement only dampened Sarah's enthusiasm. The more Mildred fussed, the more Sarah groused. They were like oil and water.

At Sarah's peevishness, the man chuckled again and held up the bottle. Seeing that there was a sip or two in the bottom, he swallowed the dregs, then pitched the decanter into the forest.

"It's delicious," he said. "Your stepmother definitely knows how to impress."

"Yes, she does."

Sarah still hadn't pushed herself to her feet. Her back ached, her knees ached, and her head was pounding. She was feeling inordinately glum, and if he hadn't ridden by, she might have sat there all day.

"Can you stand, cherie?" he asked.

"Probably. I haven't tired yet."

"Let me help you."

She should have declined his offer, but she was weary, and he was being very kind. And he was French. His looks, clothes, stallion, and accent provided a foreign flare that was fascinating.

Why not permit him to a.s.sist her?

She couldn't remember the last time a handsome fellow had paid her any notice, and she relished his courtesy. Their estate, Bramble Bay, was on the coast and not near any large towns or main thoroughfares, so there were few chances for bachelors to cross her path.

At age eighteen, she'd been engaged to Patrick, but he'd joined the army and promptly gotten himself killed. He'd been a neighbor and childhood friend, and after he'd died, she'd lost interest in matrimony. Her father hadn't pressed her to choose another beau, and she was regretting his lack of foresight.

If he'd urged her to wed, if he'd found her a husband, she'd be established in her own home. Mildred-with her rages and disagreeable temperament-would be naught but an unpleasant memory.

Sarah's gallant companion clasped her arm and lifted her. He was very strong, so the move required very little effort on his part. With a swift tug, she was on her feet, the rapid motion carrying her into him so that, suddenly, their bodies were touching all the way down.

She'd never previously been so close to an adult male, and the abrupt positioning rattled her. She could feel his broad chest, his flat stomach and hard thighs, their proximity so thrilling that b.u.t.terflies swarmed in her belly.

He was very masculine, very virile, and she was extremely aware of him on a feminine, instinctual level. He smelled so good, like fresh air and horses, and it was all she could do to keep from rubbing herself against him like a contented cat.

He was very tall, six feet at least, and she was only five-foot-five in her shoes, so he towered over her. She gazed up at him, held rapt by the green of his eyes. They were a deep emerald hue, enhanced by the surrounding foliage of the woods. The sky was very blue, puffy clouds floating by overhead, and as she studied him, she was dizzy and unnerved.

She didn't know how to interact with someone like him, didn't know how she should behave.

"Pardon me." Her cheeks blushed bright red, and she stepped away.

As she put weight on her ankle, she winced in pain. He noticed at once and reached out to steady her.

"Ah, cherie, it appears you have injured yourself more than you claimed."

"It's just a sprain. I'm fine."

"You're walking home?"

"Yes."

"Let me give you a ride the rest of the way."

"That's not necessary."

"I insist."

Although he seemed cordial and charming, the manner in which he voiced the word insist was disconcerting. Beneath his layers of French allure, there was a steely core. He wasn't the type to brook refusal or disobedience, and she wondered who he was.

What purpose had brought him down her rural road? If she declined his a.s.sistance, what might he do?

She peered over at his horse, at him, at his horse again.

In her boring, monotonous life, there were very few surprises. It would be quite an adventure to climb onto the large animal and proceed to Bramble Bay. But she couldn't imagine prancing up the drive in such a scandalous fas.h.i.+on. What would Mildred say? What would the servants think?

"I'd better not. Thank you, though."

She bent down to retrieve her basket, and as she spun to go, the turn wrenched her foot even more. She took several hobbling steps, glad her back was to him so he couldn't see her grimace.

"Mademoiselle?" he said from behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"You are not walking."

Before she realized what he intended, he strode over and picked her up. In an instant, she was cradled to his chest. The shocking move jerked the basket from her hands, the contents spilling on the ground again.

"Put me down!" she huffed.

"No."

"Put me down!"

"Don't argue with me, cherie. I don't like it."

"You can't just...manhandle me."

"I already have." He grinned, looking like the very devil.

"You're a brute."

"Yes, I am, and I always have been."

"You can't stumble on a strange female and treat her however you please."

"Can't I?" he sarcastically retorted. "Mon Dieu! I didn't know."

He whistled to his horse, and the animal pranced over. The man lifted her onto the saddle, her bottom perched on the smooth leather, her legs dangling over the side so she faced him. He scooped up her basket and thrust it at her, then he leapt up behind, settling himself on the horse's rear.

She was confused over what to do with herself. They were crammed together in a very small s.p.a.ce, her side resting against his front. With him so near, she felt young and defenseless and out of her element.

"I don't want a ride," she fumed.

"I don't care."

"Would you listen to me?"

"No. I never heed foolish women."

"I'm not being foolish."

"You're not?" He slipped an arm around her waist and snuggled her closer. "Be quiet and be gracious, cherie. Accept my ride."

"I don't wish to."

"So? Accept it anyway."

"What if someone sees us? My reputation will be in shreds."

"Why? Because you are injured and I'm helping you?"

"Yes."

"You British have the most peculiar rules. I doubt I will ever figure them out." He frowned. "Where are we headed?"

She pointed down the lane. "This way."

"Is it far?"

"No, not far."

His horse began to walk-though she couldn't discern that he'd given it any visible command-and they continued on in a strained silence. Each clop of the horse's hooves s.h.i.+fted her about, so she kept b.u.mping into him. Her shoulder and arm were in intimate contact with his chest. She'd lurch away and stiffen her spine, but immediately be thrown into him again. Separation was impossible.

"Relax, cherie," he murmured. "I won't let you fall."

"I didn't imagine you would."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes."

"I don't bite."

"You might."

"You're too pretty," he said. "I would hate to leave any marks."

She was fl.u.s.tered by his flattery.

He's French, she told herself. He probably spews compliments like candy. Yet she couldn't stop the rush of delight that swept through her.

Her father had always claimed she was pretty, and her fiance Patrick had thought so, too. But Mildred insisted she wasn't, and Mildred's cutting insults had been hurled for so many years that it was difficult to discount them.

Secretly, Sarah knew Mildred was wrong, that she was jealous. Mildred was very plain and unexceptional, while Sarah resembled her mother who had been renowned as a great beauty. She'd inherited her mother's lush auburn hair, her bright blue eyes, merry dimples, and curvaceous shape. She looked fetching and smart-at least when she was attired in a halfway decent gown-and she wasn't vain in her a.s.sessment.

She had a mirror in her bedchamber and could clearly see herself in it. Her father's opinion had been the correct one. Not Mildred's, and it was refres.h.i.+ng to be reminded of the truth by a very handsome, very das.h.i.+ng stranger-even if he likely said the same to every female he encountered.

"What is your name, cherie?" he asked.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I am a very friendly person, and I'm making friendly conversation."

For an eternity, she considered his request, trying to decide if she should oblige him. Ultimately, she couldn't think of a reason not to reveal her ident.i.ty.

"I am Miss Sarah Teasdale."

Oddly, her name riveted him so thoroughly that even his horse seemed to freeze in mid-stride.

"Teasdale?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

She s.h.i.+fted to peer up at him, which was a mistake. He was very captivating, very mesmerizing, and she was sitting much too close. Quickly, she glanced away.

"You must be related to Bernard and Mildred Teasdale," he mused, more to himself than to her.

"Bernard was my father, and Mildred is my stepmother."

"And Hedley?"

"Hedley is my half-brother." She scowled. "How do you know my family?"

"Oh, I don't," he casually said. "I've just heard of them."

She was positive he was lying but as to what facts?

"Why are you out alone?" His tone was scolding. "Why don't you have a driver and carriage?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time to listen to it."