Sold to a Laird Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Late Spring, 1860
London, England
“Good afternoon, Simons,” she said, pulling off her gloves.
“Is my father at home?”
“I shall inquire of His Grace, Lady Sarah,” the majordomo
said, taking her gloves as well as the bonnet she removed. He placed them on a
table she recognized only too well. Two months ago, it had been in the Winter
Parlor at Chavensworth.
Lady Sarah surveyed herself in the mirror. She was
presentable.
“Never mind, Simons,” she said. “You know as well as I that my
father will probably refuse to see me.”
The majordomo didn’t respond. Simons was,
if nothing else, exquisitely tactful.
Without waiting for him to precede her, she
strode down the corridor. Her father was partial to emerald green and it was
obvious here in the dark carpet and the wallpaper. She felt as if she were in a
lush cave made of leaves, the smell not unlike that of forest undergrowth, dank
and dark. No doubt the result of the tobacco he smoked in his study.
“Lady Sarah,” Simons whispered, following her.
Deliberately ignoring the rest of what the man was saying, she
halted in front of the study door, then resolutely grabbed the latch and opened
it.
“If you send Mother to Scotland, she will die,” she said,
entering the room.
A second later, she halted, stunned into silence by the
presence of the man seated on the other side of her father’s desk, a man even
now rising from his chair. A look of surprise marred his features. The
expression was infinitely preferable to the frightening look on her father’s
face.
The words needed to be said, and even though they’d exploded
from her with none of the tact or grace she’d been taught, they were the truth.
“She is dying,” she said, ignoring the stranger in favor of
her father who, unlike the man opposite him, still remained seated. His square
face was florid, his blue eyes narrowed as they stared at her without a glint of
recognition. “She won’t survive the journey.”
He didn’t say a word, merely inclined his head, a gesture that
inspired Simons to put his hand on her arm. She shook it off, determined not to
be moved from the room.
“Why Scotland? Why now?” If she was going to be punished, she
might as well truly deserve it.
The stranger glanced at her father, then over at her. She
deliberately didn’t look in his direction. What on earth would she do if there
was pity in his glance? She’d dissolve into tears, pleasing her father and
shaming herself. So, she did what she always did in her father’s presence,
blocked out the emotions she was feeling. Instead, she concentrated on the
reason she was here, in London, in her least favorite place on earth – her
father’s home.
“She’s weaker each day. Why send her away?”
Nothing altered his expression – not sorrow, or regret or any
type of remorse. If anything, his expression steadied and solidified, human
flesh taking on the impression of stone.
He looked down at the papers in front of him, suddenly pushing
them away with one finger.
“You say you need investors, Eston?” he asked, addressing the
man standing in front of him. “But you believe this invention of yours to be
profitable?”
Was she being dismissed? With no word at all?
Sarah forced herself to remain in place, hands clenched
together in front of her. Simons stood behind her, implacable and silent.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her father stared down at the blotter, picking something up
between two fingers and stretching them toward the stranger. The other man
extended his hand, palm up, to receive something small and glittering in the
afternoon light.
“You can replicate it, then? And make them larger?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her father glanced at her then, and Sarah realized he’d not
forgotten her presence at all.
“You’ve asked for a great amount of money, Eston.”
“Not for the return, Your Grace.”
She took a few steps forward, toward her father's desk. Did
she imagine that the older man tensed the closer she came? She could not relent.
None of her letters had been answered. Nor had her father deigned to answer any
of the handwritten messages she’d sent with a footman. All she had left was
this, a personal appeal. If he wanted her to beg, she would. Her mother was
dying, what was a little humiliation?
Her father held up his hand as if to forestall her advance.
She halted, ever conscious of her father's temper. She’d learned several lessons
when dealing with her father, lessons that she’d never forgotten.
Don’t incite his anger. Never insist or demand. Never
tell him he’s wrong.
Today she was flouting all those lessons.
She remained where she was, determined that he would not
discover that she clasped her hands in front of her to still their trembling. Or
that her lips were clamped firmly shut for the same reason.
Her fear always seemed to please him in some horrid way.
He turned to the man who still stood in front of the desk. Not
a supplicant, merely someone who looked, strangely enough, like her father’s
equal. The Duke of Herridge was a formidable figure, yet the man who faced him
was as tall and as commanding in his own way.
If she hadn’t been so worried about her mother, Sarah would
have been more curious about him.
"How desperate are you for funds, Eston?” her father asked.
"Not desperate at all, Your Grace. If you decide not to
invest, there are other men who have made overtures. You’re the first I’ve met.”
"I have not said that I refuse to invest in your invention.
Instead, I propose that our venture be a more permanent one."
"And what permanent venture would you propose?" the stranger
asked.
Her father glanced over at her. "I have a daughter who insists
on remaining unmarried. Two very expensive seasons have proven what I’ve always
known. No one else can abide her. I will enter into a bargain with you, Eston,
but instead of money, I’ll give you my daughter.” His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t
married, are you?”
“No, Your Grace,” the stranger said.
“Then take her as your bride.”
Sarah was gripping her hands together so tightly she could
feel each separate bone. She was bruising herself, no doubt. Was this to be her
punishment, then? For daring to challenge the Duke of Herridge’s cruelty she was
to be sold to a stranger?
“I believe a special license takes a few days, but no more
than that,” her father said. “If you need somewhere to work, use Chavensworth.
In fact, I would prefer it, in order to have some idea of your progress.” He sat
back in his chair and regarded the stranger with some equanimity.
"You cannot be serious," Sarah said, carefully not looking in
the stranger’s direction.
She’d never been in any doubt as to her father's feelings for
her. He’d made his disdain for her perfectly clear. It was one thing to know
that he didn’t like her, quite another to share this moment with someone to whom
she’d not even been introduced.
The Duke of Herridge folded his arms across his chest and
looked impassively at the stranger. "Well, Eston? What’s your answer?”
Eston glanced over at her again, and this time she forced
herself to meet his gaze. He was absurdly handsome. His hair was black, his
features perfect, and his mouth reminded her of the statues in the Greek Garden
at home. His nose was a bit too long perhaps, and his chin too bluntly squared.
But it was his eyes that drew her attention more than the arrangement of his
features. His eyes were greenish blue, the color of a dawn sky.
What was a man doing with such eyes?
She wanted to tell him not to regard her with such
assiduousness. His intensity made her even more uncomfortable than her father’s
words.
Was he actually giving credence to her father's improbable
suggestion? It wasn’t the first time her father had said something shocking in
public regarding her. He seemed to choose a crowded ballroom, a highly attended
dinner party, a foyer filled with partygoers waiting for their carriages to
arrive in which to criticize her, illuminate her shortcomings. She’d grown
accustomed to his remarks and quite prepared for them.
Nothing could have prepared her for today, however.
"Very well,” Eston said. "I'll take your daughter, Your
Grace.”
"I would say that you’ve made a good bargain for yourself, but
I’ve no wish to lie to you, Eston. She’ll be a chain of rocks around your neck.
Still and all, being my son-in-law cannot help but do you some good in the
world.”
He was serious. He was actually serious. And so was Eston, if
the considering glance he gave her was to be believed.
“The arrangement will suit me as well,” the Duke of Herridge
said. “If your discovery is a good as you claim, you’ll make me a rich man. Not
to mention ridding me of a nuisance.”
"Have you lost your mind, Father?" Sarah said. “You cannot be
serious.”
He ignored her and spoke to Simons, still standing silently
behind her.
"I am ignorant of the procedure for obtaining a special
license. See that it's done." He glanced at Eston. “I’m certain you will do what
you need in that regard, Eston.”
“What makes you think I shall accede to this
preposterous plan of yours, Father?"
“If you do not, I’ll have your mother packed up for Scotland
in less than a day.” A smug, triumphant smile curved his lips. “It’s your
choice. Marriage or Scotland?”
For the first time, Eston spoke to her directly.
“What is your name?” he asked.
"My name?" She turned her head and regarded him, wondering why
she was suddenly incapable of answering that simple question. She did know her
name, did she not?
"If we are to be wed, then I think we should perhaps begin
with names."
"Sarah," she finally said.
He placed his right hand against his midriff and bowed slowly
from the waist. Not deferential enough to be servile.
“Douglas Eston.”
Her father appeared amused. She stiffened her shoulders and
inclined her head.
Not one word came to mind to convince him to change his mind.
All her father had to do was simply wave his hands in the air and she was
married, dismissed and banished with no more effort than it took to dismiss an
untrustworthy servant.
The Duke of Herridge turned his attention to Eston again. “Her
mother’s family lives in Scotland. If she becomes a burden, I suggest you send
her there. I should’ve done the same with her mother years ago.”
Sarah turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” the duke asked.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Back to Chavensworth,”
she said. “Mother needs me.”
“She’ll have to do without you,” her father said. “I’m not
letting you out of my sight until you’re well and truly wed.”
####
Douglas didn't need the Duke of Herridge's money, and he
certainly didn't need to be married. But something, an emotion he couldn't quite
name, held him rooted to the spot.
Sarah looked terrified, and he couldn't help but wonder if her
father was astute enough – or cared enough – to notice. He'd
had his own experience with fear, and attempting to suppress it. He saw the same
in Sarah now. Her hands were clenched tightly in front of her – to hide their
trembling? Her eyes were downcast – to mask the fear in them? Her lips were
pressed tightly together, to either still their quivering, or to hide the fact
that they were suddenly bloodless.
Douglas wanted to stand in front of her, to protect her from
the Duke of Herridge's cruelty. Or dispatch the man from the room altogether.
If they were alone, he might ask her if she loathed the idea of marriage
so very much. Or he might even press his suit, a thought that nearly had him
fleeing from the room.
He hadn’t known her fifteen minutes ago, hadn't seen her or
dreamt of her, or envisioned her being part of the world in which he lived. He
had not once thought to know a woman named Sarah, with her demeanor, with temper
fleshing in her eyes at the same time as fear.
That was the insanity of this meeting. Not the Duke of
Herridge's obvious greed and just as apparent cruelty. Not Sarah’s aversion to
her father. Not even the bargain Douglas was willing to make
– a bargain that ridiculously included marriage – but the fact that if Sarah
slipped away now before he’d spoken to her, before he had
known her, Douglas knew he would regret it for the whole of his life.
“I shall see about getting a special license,” Douglas said.
The duke simply waved his hand at him, as if to speed him on
his way.
One last look at Sarah, and he was reluctantly gone.
