The Sum Of All Kisses Part 9

"And yours has not." He did not phrase it as a question. It was a statement, and an unsympathetic one at that.

She clamped her mouth shut.

"Tell me," he demanded, because b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, it was time they got to the bottom of this. "What, precisely, have I done to you? Not to your cousin, not to your other cousin, but to you, Lady Sarah Whatever your other names are Pleinsworth."

She glared at him mutinously, then got to her feet. "I'm leaving."

"Coward," he murmured, but he stood as well. Even she deserved the respect of a gentleman.

"Very well," she said, the color in her cheeks rising with barely restrained anger. "I was supposed to make my debut in 1821."

"The year of the fourteen eligible gentlemen." It was true. He forgot almost nothing.

She ignored this. "After you chased Daniel out of the country, my family had to go into seclusion."

"It was my father," Hugh said sharply.

"What?"

"My father chased Lord Winstead out of the country. I had nothing to do with it."

"It doesn't matter."

His eyes narrowed, and with slow deliberateness he said, "It does to me."

She swallowed uncomfortably, her entire bearing rigid. "Because of the duel," she said, rephrasing so that the blame could be put back squarely on him, "we did not return to town for an entire year."

Hugh choked back a laugh, finally understanding her silly little mind. She was blaming him for the loss of her London season. "And those fourteen eligible gentlemen are now forever lost to you."

"There is no reason to be so mocking."

"You have no way of knowing that one would have proposed," he pointed out. He did like things to be logical, and this was . . . not.

"There is no way of knowing that one wouldn't have done," she cried. Her hand flew to her chest, and she took a jerky step back, as if surprised by her own reaction.

But Hugh felt no sympathy. And he could not stave off the unkind chuckle that burst from his throat. "You never cease to astonish me, Lady Sarah. All this time, you've been blaming me for your unmarried state. Did it ever occur to you to look somewhere closer to home?"

She let out an awful choke and her hand came to her mouth, not so much to cover it as to hold something in.

"Forgive me," he said, but they both knew that what he'd said was unforgivable.

"I thought I did not like you because of what you did to my family," she said, holding herself so rigid that she shook, "but that's not it at all. You are a terrible person."

He stood very still, the way he'd been taught since birth. A gentleman was always in control of his body. A gentleman didn't flail his arms or spit or fidget. He did not have much left in his life, but he had this-his pride, his bearing. "I shall endeavor not to press myself into your company," he said stiffly.

"It's too late for that," she bit off.

"I beg your pardon?"

Her eyes bored into his. "My cousin, if you recall, has requested that we sit together at the wedding breakfast."

Apparently he did forget some things. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. He had promised Lady Honoria. There was no getting out of it. "I can be civil if you can," he said.

She shocked him then, holding out her hand to seal their agreement. He took it, and in that moment when her hand lay in his, he had the most bizarre urge to bring her fingers to his lips.

"Have we a truce, then?" she said.

He looked up.

That was a mistake.

Because Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was gazing up at him with an expression of uncommon and (he was quite sure) uncharacteristic clarity. Her eyes, which had always been hard and brittle when turned in his direction, were softer now. And her lips, he realized now that she wasn't hurling insults at him, were utter perfection, full and pink, and touched with just the right sort of curve. They seemed to tell a man that she knew things, that she knew how to laugh, and if he only laid down his soul for her, she would light up his world with a single smile.

Sarah Pleinsworth.

Good G.o.d, had he lost his mind?

Chapter Five.

Later that night When Sarah came down for supper, she was feeling a bit better about having to spend the evening with Hugh Prentice. The row they'd had that afternoon had been awful, and she could not imagine they would ever choose to be friends, but at least they'd got everything out in the open. If she was to be forced to remain at his side for the duration of the wedding, he would not think she was doing so out of any desire for his company.

And he would behave properly as well. They had struck a bargain, and whatever his faults, he did not seem the type to go back on his word. He would be polite, and he would put on a good show for Honoria and Marcus, and once this ridiculous month of weddings was over, they would never need speak with each other again.

After five minutes in the drawing room, however, it became delightfully clear that Lord Hugh was not yet present. And Sarah had looked. No one was going to accuse her of s.h.i.+rking her duty.

Sarah had never much liked standing alone at gatherings, so she joined her mother and aunts over by the fireplace. As expected, they were nattering on about the wedding. Sarah listened with half an ear; after five days at Fensmore, she could not imagine there was any detail she had not yet heard about the upcoming ceremony.

"It is a pity the hydrangeas aren't in season," her aunt Virginia was saying. "The ones we grow at Whipple Hill are just the shade of lavender-blue we need for the chapel."

"It's blue-lavender," Aunt Maria corrected, "and you must see that hydrangeas would have been a terrible mistake."

"A mistake?"

"The colors are far too variable," Aunt Maria continued, "even on a cultivated shrub. You would never have been able to guarantee the shade ahead of time, and what if they did not match Honoria's dress perfectly?"

"Surely no one would expect perfection," Aunt Virginia replied. "Not with flowers."

Aunt Maria sniffed. "I always expect perfection."

"Especially from flowers," Sarah said with a little chuckle. Aunt Maria had named her daughters Rose, Lavender, Marigold, Iris, and Daisy. Her son, whom Sarah privately thought might be the luckiest child in England, was called John.

But Aunt Maria, though generally kindhearted, had never had much of a sense of humor. She blinked a few times in Sarah's direction before giving a little smile and saying, "Oh yes, of course."

Sarah still wasn't sure if Aunt Maria had got the joke. She decided not to press the matter. "Oh, look! There's Iris!" she said, relieved to see her cousin enter the room. Sarah had never been as close to Iris as she was to Honoria, but they were all three almost the same age, and Sarah had always enjoyed Iris's dry wit. She imagined the two of them would be spending more time together now that Honoria was getting married, especially since they shared a profound loathing for the family musicale.

"Go," her mother said, nodding in Iris's direction. "You don't want to stay here with the matrons."

She really didn't, so with a grateful smile to her mother, Sarah made her way over to Iris, who was standing near the doorway, quite obviously looking for someone.

"Have you seen Lady Edith?" Iris asked without preamble.

"Who?"

"Lady Edith Gilchrist," Iris clarified, referring to a young lady neither of them knew very well.

"Wasn't she recently engaged to the Duke of Kinross?"

Iris waved this off as if the recent loss of an eligible duke was of no consequence. "Is Daisy down?" she asked.

Sarah blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Not that I have seen."

"Thank G.o.d."

Sarah's eyes widened at Iris's rather fast use of the Lord's name, but she would never criticize. Not about Daisy.

Daisy was best in very small doses. There was simply no getting around that.

"If I make it through these weddings without murdering her, it will be a small miracle," Iris said darkly. "Or a large . . . something."

"I told Aunt Virginia not to put the two of you in a bedchamber together," Sarah said.

Iris dismissed this with a flick of her head as she continued to glance about the drawing room. "There was nothing to be done about that. Sisters will be put together. They need to conserve rooms. I'm used to it."

"Then what is wrong?"

Iris swung around to face her, her pale eyes large and furious in her similarly pale face. Sarah had once heard a gentleman call Iris colorless-she had light blue eyes, pale strawberry blond hair, and skin that was practically translucent. Her brows were pale, her lashes were pale, everything about her was pale-until one got to know her.

Iris was as fierce as they came. "She wants to play," she seethed.

For a moment Sarah did not comprehend. And then-terrifyingly-she did. "No!" she gasped.

"She brought her violin up from London," Iris confirmed.

"But-"

"And Honoria has already moved her violin to Fensmore. And of course every great house has a pianoforte." Iris clenched her jaw; she was quite obviously repeating Daisy's words.

"But your cello!" Sarah protested.

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" Iris fumed. "But no, she's thought of everything. Lady Edith Gilchrist is here, and she brought her cello. Daisy wants me to borrow it."

Instinctively, Sarah whipped her head around, looking for Lady Edith.

"She's not here yet," Iris said, all business, "but I need to find her the moment she gets in."

"Why would Lady Edith bring a cello?"

"Well, she plays," Iris said, as if Sarah had not considered that.

Sarah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Well, almost. "But why would she bring it here?"

"Apparently, she's quite good."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

Iris shrugged. "I expect she likes to practice every day. Many great musicians do."

"I wouldn't know," Sarah said.

Iris gave her a commiserating look, then said, "I need to find her before Daisy does. Under no circ.u.mstances may she permit Daisy to borrow her cello on my behalf."

"If she's that good, she probably wouldn't want to lend it out. At least not to one of us." Sarah grimaced. Lady Edith was relatively new to London, but surely she knew of the Smythe-Smith musicale.

"I'm apologizing in advance for abandoning you," Iris said, keeping her eyes on the open doorway. "I shall probably bolt midsentence the moment I see her."

"I may have to bolt first," Sarah told her. "I have been a.s.signed duties of my own for the evening."

Her tone must have belied her distaste, because Iris turned to her with renewed interest.

"I'm to be nanny to Hugh Prentice," Sarah said, sounding rather burdened as the words clipped out of her mouth. But it was a good kind of burdened. If she was going to have a dreadful evening, at least she could boast about it in advance.

"Nanny to- Oh, my."

"Don't laugh," Sarah warned.

"I wasn't going to," Iris clearly lied.

"Honoria insisted. She thinks he won't feel welcome if one of us doesn't see to his happiness and inclusion."

"And she asked you to nanny him?" Iris gave her a dubious stare, always an unsettling expression. There was something about Iris's eyes, that watery pale blue and the lashes so fine they were almost invisible. She could be rather unnerving.

"Well, no," Sarah admitted, "not in so many words." Not in any words, to be truthful, and in fact, Honoria had specifically denied those words, but it did make for a better story to call herself a nanny.

At functions such as these, one had to have something good about which to complain. It was rather like those boys at Cambridge she'd met last spring. They only seemed happy when they'd been able to moan about how much work they had to do.

"What does she want you to do?" Iris asked.

"Oh, this and that. I'm to sit with him tomorrow at the wedding breakfast. Rupert's taken ill," she added as an aside.

"Well, that's good, at least," Iris murmured.

Sarah acknowledged this with a brief nod as she continued. "And she specifically asked me to entertain Lord Hugh before supper."