The Prodigal Spinster

Joan Overfield

The Prodigal Spinster

Joan Overfield

Copyright 1988, 2014 by Joan Overfield

The Lesson at Hand

"Come, if we hurry we should have time for one private lesson." Brant's arm slid about her waist as he held her in the traditional waltzing position. "Show me what you have learned."

"That might be a trifle difficult." Sara laughed, her eyes going to the silent pianoforte. "Monsieur Dechamps's sister always provided the musical accompaniment for us. I'm not at all sure I can waltz sans music."

"Look upon it as a challenge," he ordered, his blue eyes bright with laughter. "Now, the most important thing you must remember is to follow your partner's lead. Usually he will signal his intentions by squeezing your hand so"—his fingers gently tightened around hers—"or by varying the pressure of his arm about you. If he wishes you to move a certain way . . . let us say forward, then he will do this." His warm arm pressed against her back, pulling her closer to his strong chest . . . and Sara trembled with an emotion that was half fear and half anticipation.

I AM A PART OF ALL THAT I HAVE MET.

—TENNYSON

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Chapter One

"We are ruined," Agatha Deverleigh, Lady Mallingham, announced, placing one hand over her ample bosom, "quite, quite ruined. And I should like to know what you intend to do about it."

Brant Deverleigh, the Earl of Mallingham, raised a dark eyebrow inquiringly, casting about in his mind for some new peccadillo of his which may have reached his aunt's ears. The opera singer, he decided glumly, shifting his athletic frame in discomfort. Like the rest of the ornate green-and-gold parlor done in the Empire mode, the chair was designed more for effect than comfort, and he mentally consigned its maker to the devil.

It wasn't just the chair which annoyed him. It infuriated him that he should have to answer to his late uncle's troublesome wife, and he wished he dared tell her so. His aunt was possessed of the uncanny ability to make him feel like a wet-nosed lieutenant being dressed down by a superior officer. It wasn't a feeling he cared for, and it took all of his control to answer her in a civil manner.

"Really, Aunt Agatha," he drawled, sprawling back against the lyre-backed chair, "surely you are doing it a shade too brown! I fail to see why you are so concerned. She is of little consequence after all, and Society isn't likely to . . ."

"She may be of little consequence," his aunt interrupted, her nose quivering in outrage, "but you are not. You're the earl now, as I am always forced to remind you, and you may be very sure that your every action is noted, your every association scrutinized. I shudder to think of the unpleasant speculation it would cause if the ton were to become aware of the minx's existence. You must do something!"

Brant's blue eyes darkened in anger. He had endured his aunt's vapors and silly passions out of respect for his uncle's memory and a grudging fondness for her. But he'd be damned if he would allow her to interfere in his private life.

"Indeed, ma'am," he said, adjusting his starched cuffs with a flick of his tanned wrists. "And pray, what would you have me do? Marry the creature?"

"Of course not!" Lady Mallingham was horrified.

"Well then?" He took a deep draught of the Madeira his aunt had provided for him, grimacing at its cloying sweetness. Perhaps if he got bosky enough he could survive the next hour without going mad.

"Have her move in with me. It's the only possible solution, and so I . . . good heavens, boy! Whatever is the matter with you?" Her sharp blue eyes widened in alarm as Brant choked on his wine.

"Move in!" he wheezed, gasping for air. "With you? My God, what on earth for?"

"Well," the countess acknowledged in a grudging manner, "we are related, although 'tis not something of which I'm particularly proud. Nonetheless I am willing to do my duty and sponsor her entry into Society despite her advanced years and dubious choice of occupation."

"You wish to introduce her to Society?" Brant asked, appalled. He wasn't ashamed of his golden Felicia by any means, but that didn't mean he would welcome her into his world. Good Lord, if such were the case he would be forced to marry her. "Aunt, you can't be serious about this," he said at last. "It would never do."

"And why not?" She tossed her head back, causing the large plume adorning her turban to bob dangerously. Like the rest of her ensemble it was a bright orange, a color which did little to enhance her sallow complexion. "I have always held a certain fondness for Katherine, and I should be only too happy to sponsor her daughter. That is what I told Sara, and you know what that impudent . . ."

"Sara?" Brant leapt to his feet, bumping the tea table with his knee and sending the empty wine-glass tumbling to the gold carpet. "Who in Hades is Sara? And what has she to do with Felicia?"

"Felicia?" The countess frowned in bewilderment. "Whoever is Felicia? Really, Brant, weren't you attending? We were speaking of your third cousin, Katherine Belding, and her daughter, Sara. And I will thank you, sir, to mind your tongue," she added in starchy tones. "You aren't on the battlefield now."

Brant shook his head as if to clear it. "Aunt Agatha," he said carefully, smoothing out the tails of his blue coat of Bath superfine and resuming his seat. "I have no idea what you are talking about. First you say we are ruined, then you dare to make mention of my personal life, and now you're prattling on about some unknown cousin and her brattish daughter. What is going on? How are we being ruined? And what has this Sara creature to do with anything?" His normally husky voice had risen with his confusion until he was all but shouting. He had to be drunk, he decided wildly. Either that or he had run mad. He had been accused of many things during his two-and-thirty years, but being a slow top wasn't one of them.

Lady Mallingham maintained an injured silence before sighing heavily. "Katherine was the eldest daughter of your uncle's cousin Waldo," she began in the patient tones of one explaining things to a not-overly-bright child. "You wouldn't remember him, of course, as he died when you were a lad. Well, Katherine fell in love with an upstart physician from Surrey. His birth was good enough, but he hadn't a feather to fly with. Naturally Waldo forbade the match, and when Katherine eloped to Gretna Green he cut her out of his will and never spoke her name again."

"Go on." Brant fortified himself with more wine, wishing his aunt would serve him brandy or some other strong spirit. Instinct warned him he would be needing it.

"Elias was a stiff-necked fool who might have done quite well if he hadn't been so proud," the countess continued once she was certain she had her nephew's full attention. "His family was well connected, and he was offered an excellent post in London. But he turned it down to act as a country sawbones. Poor Katherine, she died some twelve years later of the fever. Waldo was dead by then, and naturally the family offered to take Sara in. But Elias was very bitter and he refused to be parted from his daughter. There was a rather unpleasant scene, as I recall," she added reflectively, refreshing herself with a sip of tea.

"Now it seems Elias, too, has died," she continued. "And Sara, she must be all of two-and-twenty now, and not a quarter of the beauty her mother was, has come to London to make her way in the world. When she wrote me of her arrival I was quick to offer my assistance, and do you know the little minx refused me? Refused! She said she had made 'other arrangements' and didn't wish to bother me. 'Other arrangements' indeed!" she snorted. "Serving as a schoolmistress in some pokey little village in Cornwall!"

There was an expectant pause as Brant waited for her to continue. After several seconds had passed he stirred himself. "Is that all?"

"Is that all?" His aunt repeated incredulously. " 'Tis more than enough, I should think! A Deverleigh reduced to teaching fishermen's brats . . . why, it's not to be borne! Only think of the scandal it will cause when it becomes known that you allowed a relation . . . and an unprotected female at that . . . to earn her bread in so humiliating a manner."

"I'm not 'allowing' her to do anything." Brant rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "This is the first I have heard of it. Still, I don't see what is so shameful about becoming a teacher. It seems a fitting occupation for an unmarried female."

"Yes." His aunt leaned forward from her Chinese chair, causing her stays to groan in audible protest. "If she were to associate herself with a respectable school. Lady Tillingford's in Hampton, for example. That is where I went to school, and I'm sure if we asked them they could find something for her to do. Or she could become a governess; that has always been a suitable occupation for impoverished gentlewomen. At least then she would be associating with her own class; she might even make a decent marriage. But if she continues on her present course, she will be quite beyond the pale."

"What can I do about it?" Brant asked when his aunt paused for breath. "You say she's already rejected your assistance, and I don't see that I could do anything else. She can hardly stay with me."

"You could speak to her." Lady Mallingham ignored the last part of his remark. "Go to her, point out the folly of her ways, and urge her to return to the bosom of her family. You're the head of the family now, and she's certain to follow your counsel. And if she shouldn't . . . well, at least we may truthfully say you did your duty. If it comes to that, we can only hope no one connects her to us."

It sounded simple enough, he brooded, studying the shiny toes of his Hessian boots. And for once, Aunt Agatha was right. This was precisely the sort of thing the gossip-mongers thrived on. He could well imagine the stir it would cause.

"Where does Cousin Sara stay?" he asked, coming to a swift decision.

"I have her address here." She withdrew a slip of paper from the folds of her gown and handed it to him. "As you can see, she is living in Chelsea; in a public boarding-house if you will, where any creature with a farthing in her pocket might beg a room. She's such a willful little thing, I shouldn't wonder that she's unmarried. What intelligent man would wish to shackle himself to a shrew? And as I've said, she is on the plain side."

"You've met her then?" Brant glanced up in surprise. From what she'd said, he'd formed the impression his aunt had never seen this Sara.

"Only briefly." The countess was suddenly preoccupied with the contents of her teacup. "I called upon her shortly after her arrival."

"I see." Brant frowned. He had the oddest feeling he had missed something. Oh, well, he supposed it didn't signify. "Very well, Aunt Agatha," he said, pocketing the piece of paper. "I shall pay Cousin Sara a visit. But I make no promises," he added warningly. "If she is as stubborn as you say, then I shall wash my hands of her."

"Of course you shall," his aunt soothed, all sweetness now that she had won her way. "You're such a dutiful young man and so responsible. I've always thought so." She gave him a smile that revealed a row of yellowing teeth. "And now, since we are speaking of responsibility, there is another matter I should like to discuss with you. I've been hearing the most disquieting rumors concerning you and a certain blond opera singer . . ."

"I'm sorry, Miss Belding, but you must understand my position." Miss Minerva Larkin plucked nervously at the fichu adorning her plain gown. "I have the other tenants to think of, you know. Having a diseased person in residence seems so . . . unhealthy."

Sara Belding bit back an angry retort as she glared at the flustered landlady. "I am not 'diseased,' Miss Larkin," she told the other woman in clipped tones, her light brown eyes blazing in fury. "I have a cold, that is all."

"That might be true for now, but colds can lead to consumption, can't they?" Miss Larkin pointed out anxiously. She was a tall, raw-boned woman who wore her graying brown hair scraped back in a tight bun and had the timid, hesitant air of a startled mouse.

"Perhaps," Sara conceded, rubbing her hand across her throbbing temples. She had been lying down when Miss Larkin tapped on her door, asking if she might come in. Had Sara known what the dratted woman wanted she would never have admitted her.

"Well, then, you can surely understand that it would be better for all concerned if you were to seek accommodations elsewhere. Your rent is all paid up until the end of the week, but after that, perhaps you . . ."

"What?" Sara dropped her hand. "Do you mean to say you are evicting me!"

Miss Larkin jumped at Sara's strident tones, her eyes blinking rapidly in alarm. "I . . . well . . . the other ladies . . ."

"I am not a consumptive, Miss Larkin, I assure you," Sara said, her voice cold with displeasure. "You forget my father was a physician and I am not unacquainted with the symptoms of the disease." The look she flashed the landlady would have done her high-born kin proud. The poor lady was fairly quaking with fright.

"Oh, yes, I am sure you are," Miss Larkin stammered, her jaundiced cheeks darkening with color. "I certainly didn't mean to imply . . . that is . . . I was concerned for your health . . ." She began inching toward the door.

"Thank you for your concern." Sara rose to her feet, ignoring the waves of dizziness washing over her. Her legs trembled as she walked to the door and pulled it open.

"If that is all, Miss Larkin, I should like to rest now." Sara's small chin came up as she gave the landlady a pointed look. "I'm sure it would be best for us both if we were to forget this conversation ever took place."

"Certainly, Miss Belding." The other woman scurried past, her thin hands waving in apology. "You are quite right. Pray forgive the intrusion. If there is anything I can do to be of assistance . . ."

"You are too kind," Sara replied in a falsely sweet voice as she swung the door closed in the landlady's face. "Good day, Miss Larkin!"

After expending the last of her energy in a childish display of temper, Sara tottered back to her bed and collapsed upon the faded comforter in a boneless heap. Lord, I'm tired, she thought, closing her eyes to shut out the sight of the dreary little room. It seemed as if she had been sick forever, even though scarcely a week had passed since she had contracted the heavy cold. But a poor diet and the constant strain of worrying about her finances had taken their toll on her health. She had managed to salvage a few of her papa's medications from his medicine bag, but was too afraid to dose herself. The thought of her father brought weak tears to Sara's eyes and she crawled beneath the covers, too weary to remove her gown.

It had been a little over a year since his death, but she still felt his loss like a stunning blow. They had grown so close after her mother had died, often working together in his surgery. Had she been a man, nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to have followed in his footsteps. But since that was not possible, Sara contented herself with being his assistant. She knew the local gentry wondered that a gently bred girl such as herself should enjoy the grisly practice of medicine, but she hadn't cared.

She remembered how her mother's distant relations had descended upon her and Papa following her mother's death. One woman, Agatha Deverleigh, the Countess of Mallingham, had been particularly insistent that Sara make her home with her. It wasn't until Sara had threatened to run off and join the gypsies that the countess had finally relented. When she had turned eighteen Lady Mallingham had written her a lovely letter inviting her to London for the Season, but Sara had never answered. Now Agatha Deverleigh was once again intruding in her life, arrogantly assuming Sara would welcome her charity.

"You're rather old for a first Season," the countess had commented, studying Sara through her quizzing glass. "And you ain't the beauty your mother was. Still, I suppose we shall manage." She dropped her glass and gave Sara a satisfied smile. "Have the maid pack your bags. You'll be staying with me, of course."

The conversation had taken place in Miss Larkin's best parlor. The dear lady was so overwhelmed at having a genuine countess under her roof she had built a roaring fire in the grate. Sara had been standing in front of the fireplace, her chilled hands held out to the comforting warmth of the flames. When the countess's words pierced her thoughts, she had turned around in surprise.

"I . . . I beg your pardon, my lady," she stammered, staring at the older woman in confusion. With the exception of the cook and the scullery maid, the only servant was the housemaid, and she was too old to be packing trunks about.

"I said I wish you to live with me," Lady Mallingham repeated impatiently. "You can't stay here." She glanced about the tiny parlor with its threadbare carpets and faded drapes with obvious disdain.

Sara had bristled at the countess's words. To be sure, the boarding-house was not overly elegant, but it was clean. It was also respectable, and given the precarious state of her finances that was as much as Sara could hope for.

"That is very good of you, Lady Mallingham." Sara had managed a civil smile. "But as I have already explained, you needn't concern yourself with me. I have made other arrangements."

"If you are referring to that nonsense about becoming a schoolmistress, then I am afraid I must disagree," Lady Mallingham snapped, pulling her orange shawl tighter about her shoulders. "I stood godmother to your dearest mamma, and I refuse to stand idly by while her daughter suffers in poverty! Since your father is dead you are all alone in the world, and your rightful place is with your mother's family. I insist you abandon this folly at once and come with me."

They had quarreled violently after that, and the countess had finally stalked out, announcing to the eavesdropping Miss Larkin that she was washing her hands of the errant child. Sara had retired to her rooms and within hours she was down with the feverish cold.

Now as she lay in her unheated room shivering with the cold and the fever, Sara tried convincing herself she had done the right thing. Anything was better than acting the grateful poor relation, she decided. Besides, she had promised her father she would never go to her mother's high-born relations with her hat in her hand. He had never forgiven the Deverleighs for disinheriting her mother. As his illness progressed he became obsessed with the matter, making Sara give her word she would never take charity from a Deverleigh.

Sara closed her eyes wearily and snuggled against the lumpy mattress. Soon she would be well again, and then she would pack her bags and return to the country, where she belonged. It had been a mistake to come to London, she realized. But she had been running low on funds and a friend had told her it would be easier to find a position in London. It had taken most of what remained of her inheritance to pay for the journey and for her lodgings, but she had been desperate. When she had been offered the position in Cornwall it seemed an answer to her prayers. And then she had written to Lady Mallingham.

Sara smiled ruefully. She'd forgotten what an old harridan the countess was. Life with her would have been unbearable. Sara's last thought as she drifted into a heavy sleep was that she had finally settled the matter of her mother's family. The Deverleighs would never trouble her again.

Two days later Brant set out for Chelsea in his coach-and-four. He seldom used it in town as he considered the heavy black carriage with its ornate silver crest to be pretentious, but he thought his cousin would enjoy riding in it. After he'd left his aunt he'd written Cousin Sara advising her of his arrival. He knew his aunt to be notoriously poor-mouthed, and decided his tiresome cousin feared inflicting herself upon a penniless old woman. Well, he thought as he settled his broad shoulders against the plush squabs of his coach, she was better apprised of the situation now.

Miss Larkin's Boarding-House for Respectable Ladies was located in the less fashionable area of Chelsea. One look at its crumbling and faded facade and Brant found himself in total agreement with his aunt. No Deverleigh could stay in such a place. Cousin Sara would doubtless welcome him with open arms, tearfully proclaiming him her savior. He only hoped she would refrain from embracing him; he detested excessively emotional scenes. Pulling his curled beaver hat over his brows he stepped out of his carriage and set forth to rescue his cousin.

The parlor to which the ingratiating Miss Larkin guided him was a cluttered melange of faded and mismatched furniture. He was reluctant to expose his immaculate pantaloons to their dusty surfaces, and stood with his back to the door. He was studying a copy of a gory hunting scene when the door opened behind him.

"Good afternoon, my lord. You wished to see me?" A soft voice made scarcely discernable by a heavy cold brought Brant face-to-face with his cousin.

His first thought was that he had never seen a more remarkable pair of eyes. They were a bright gypsy gold, fringed with thick lashes and tilted at the corners like a cat's eyes. Her thick dark hair had been pulled back in an untidy bun, throwing the delicate bones of her face into sharp relief. She was dressed in a hideous, ill-fitting gown of black bombazine. His next thought was that she was thin, far too thin by half. Aware he had been staring, he stepped forward to greet her.

"Ah, Cousin Sara." He swept her painfully frail hand to his lips in a familiar salute. "How good it is to meet you at last. Aunt Agatha has told me so much about you."

Sara stared at the well-groomed man in front of her, scarce believing the evidence of her own eyes. With his blue coat of Bath superfine and intricately tied cravat, the earl looked as out of place in Miss Larkin's humble parlor as an Indian chieftain would have looked at a formal ball. She stared at the toes of his glossy Hessians, searching for something to say.

When the letter in its crested envelope had arrived by special courier yesterday afternoon, she had been more curious than anything else. She'd made her position quite clear to the countess, and she couldn't imagine what they would have left to say to one another. Her curiosity was laid to rest when she opened the envelope and read the letter inside.

The message—an order—really, commanded her to pack her things and await the Earl of Mallingham's arrival. The very tone of the letter was an affront to her pride and she could only wonder at the audacity of the man who had written it. Now, looking at the earl, she could easily picture him as the author of the arrogant missive. He was every inch the high and mighty lord, and Sara stiffened in resentment.

"I am Lord Mallingham," Brant continued, moved to pity at the stunned expression upon Sara's face. Poor thing, he thought with a softness quite foreign to his nature. She was so relieved to see him, she had been rendered speechless. He gave her an encouraging smile. "But I pray you will call me Cousin Brant."

Heavens, what a lofty popinjay! Did he really think she was some timid little female who would meekly do his bidding? Well, Sara thought as she straightened her shoulders in determination. She would soon set him straight on that score!

"Lord Mallingham." She stressed his title with hard-edged irony. "I fear you have made a mistake. I thought I had made it quite clear to the countess that I desired no part of her offer. I have no wish to live out my days as anyone's poor relation. Now if you will excuse me, I . . . " She broke off as a bout of coughing overcame her.

Brant was at her side in a moment, assisting her to one of the sagging chairs. Once he assured himself she was comfortably seated he stalked over to the door and bellowed for Miss Larkin.

"I want some tea, my good woman," he ordered when the landlady came scurrying from her hiding place. "Then send someone for a doctor. I wish my cousin tended to at once."

"No, no, that's not necessary." Sara had controlled her cough and was struggling for breath.

"Dr. Rivers has been treating Miss Belding," Miss Larkin provided eagerly, thrilled at being ordered about by a handsome lord. "Shall I bring him?"

"Please," Sara protested in a breathy voice, "I would rather you did not. I haven't paid him for his last visit and I . . . "

"Fetch him!" Brant's roar sent the landlady rushing out the door and down the front steps. She was almost to the street when she realized she had forgotten her cloak and had to turn back.

In the parlor Brant was kneeling before Sara, chafing her small hand in his. "This decides it, then," he said, gazing down into her flushed face worriedly. "Aunt is right, you can't continue staying here. You are much too ill."

"I am fine, sir." Sara stared up into the dark depths of Brant's blue eyes. His genuine concern for her well-being surprised her and she revised her opinion of him. Perhaps he wasn't so bad after all.

"Pray forgive me for my sharp tongue," she said, venturing a shy smile. "But truly, my lord, I am more than capable of caring for myself. I tried to explain this to Lady Mallingham, but she—"

"You're coming with me," Brant interrupted, his lean jaw hardening with resolution. He thrust a hand through his black hair and glared at her. "I'll hear no more of the matter."

Sara's goodwill vanished in a flare of temper. She had survived too much in this last year to allow some dandy to order her about. Her amber eyes narrowed in defiance.

"I am almost three-and-twenty, sir," she announced between clenched teeth. "And I have no use for a misguided guardian! I repeat, I am more than capable of managing my own life, and I will thank you to keep out of it!"

Brant's jaw dropped in amazement at the defiant anger in Sara's voice. He hadn't wanted her to grovel in gratitude, but that didn't mean he was averse to common courtesy. Her rude rejection of his assistance flicked him raw on his pride, and his own temper blazed in response.

"Capable!" He sneered, his azure eyes raking over her emaciated form. "Is this what you call capable? You're no more capable of caring for yourself than a babe is. You will accompany me to Aunt Agatha's, or I swear to heaven I shall strap you atop my carriage and carry you there!"

"Oh, you odious bully!" Sara refused to be cowed. She struggled to her feet and met Brant's glittering gaze. "If you think I shall allow myself to be carted off like a sack of grain, then you very much mistake my character! If you so much as touch me, I vow I shall—"

"Miss Belding, what is all this shouting?" A white-haired man hurried into the room, a black bag clasped in his hands. He moved quickly to Sara's side, his wrinkled face grave with anxiety. "I couldn't believe it when Miss Larkin told me you were out of bed."

"I am sorry, Dr. Rivers." Sara allowed the doctor to help her back into her chair. "But my idiotish cousin insisted upon seeing me and Miss Larkin doesn't allow male callers above-stairs . . ."

"You are feverish again." Dr. Rivers laid a skilled hand upon Sara's forehead. He picked up her slender wrist and held it between his fingers. "And your pulse is far too rapid. You have no business being out of bed, no business at all.

"Really, sir." He turned toward Brant in disapproval. "Have you no consideration for your cousin's health? Calling her out of a sick-bed and shouting at her . . . !"

That tore it. Brant had had enough of being treated as if he was a villain out of one of those silly gothics his aunt was forever reading. He was tired of being raged at by a willful little spinster and scolded by an impertinent physician. He crossed his arms across his chest and glared at the doctor.

"I am the Earl of Mallingham," he said in the voice he had used to discipline his troops. "I am Miss Belding's cousin, and I assure you, Doctor"—he spat out the word in contempt—"Sara's health is of the greatest concern to me. I am here on behalf of my aunt, the Countess of Mallingham, to fetch my cousin home so that she might live in more . . . agreeable surroundings." The look he cast about the parlor was eloquent with scorn.

"I shan't go with him," Sara insisted weakly. "Lady Mallingham made it embarrassingly plain that she regards me as nothing more than an object of Christian charity! Well, I told her, and so I shall tell you, sir, that I would as lief be dead than take charity from a Deverleigh! I shall stay here."

"Now listen to me, you little devil—"

"My lord, can't you see you are upsetting your cousin?" Dr. Rivers interrupted, gently assisting Sara to her feet. His wise gray eyes met Brant's hostile gaze. "Whatever your plans, I'm afraid they will have to wait until Miss Belding is better able to deal with them . . . and you."

Brant hesitated, reluctant to yield the field but equally reluctant to continue the battle. The doctor was right. Sara was in no condition for a fight.

"Very well, Doctor," he conceded harshly. "But I shall return later. I mean to remove my cousin to my aunt's house as soon as it can be arranged."

"I won't go with him," Sara vowed, her eyes closing in weariness. "I won't."

"Of course you won't," the doctor said soothingly, shaking his head at Brant. "Come, let's get you into bed. The parlor's no place for you in your condition." He began guiding her skillfully out of the room. "Ah, I believe I see Miss Larkin standing by the door. Perhaps she will be good enough to assist us. Miss Larkin, if I could trouble you but for a moment . . ." And the door closed behind them.

"Blast it all to hell!" Brant cursed furiously, bringing his fist down upon the mantel and toppling over the cheap bric-a-brac. "That stubborn little vixen!"

Whatever his feelings when he'd undertaken this mission for his aunt, Brant was now committed to the task. He would take Sara to Aunt Agatha's even if he had to drag her there by the hair of her head! He was damned if he would let a willful little spinster make a May game of him. He was the man here, and Sara would obey him. With that final thought he turned and went in search of Miss Larkin, determined Sara receive the care befitting a member of his family.

Upstairs Sara allowed Miss Larkin to help her into bed. She closed her eyes and dozed fitfully, only to be awakened by a light tap on the door. Dr. Rivers walked in, followed by a beaming Miss Larkin, who was bearing a heavily laden tray.

"Here you are, my dear," Dr. Rivers said after Miss Larkin had everything arranged to her liking. "With the compliments of your noble cousin. He left strict instructions that you were to eat every bite." His eyes sparkled in amusement at the expression on Sara's face.

She eyed the tray with resentment, determined to ignore the greedy rumblings of her stomach. Her mouth watered at the sight of Miss Larkin's carefully arranged cucumber sandwiches. But to accept charity from that man . . .

"Ah, Miss Belding." Dr. Rivers shook his head sadly. "You can be as stubborn as the very devil sometimes. Surely you wouldn't be so foolish as to reject his lordship's kind generosity?"

Sara lowered her eyes, plucking nervously at the quilt covering her. "It's just that I am not very hungry and I . . . "

"No, my dear," he interposed gently, moving to sit beside her bed. "I'm afraid I can't allow your pride to overrule your intelligence. You are ill and quite weak, and you need the nourishment." He eyed her sternly. "Have I your word you will be sensible about this?"

Sara capitulated with a heavy sigh. He was right, of course. It was silly to refuse the food merely because she was too stiff-necked to accept help. And she did need help, she admitted silently. She needed it very badly indeed.

Chapter Two

After withdrawing from Miss Larkin's, Brant went to White's to lick his wounds and plot a new line of attack. As it was still early in the afternoon the club was all but empty, except for an elderly gentleman dozing comfortably in a corner. Brant nodded a greeting to the majordomo and took his usual chair before the fireplace. Within a few minutes the efficient staff had provided him with a copy of the Times and a cigar, which he refused, and a glass of brandy, which he accepted.

He had to get Sara out of that dreadful place, he decided, taking a restorative sip of brandy The question was how, short of murder, he would accomplish it. His cousin was every bit the shrew Aunt Agatha had warned she would be. He'd been in Sara's company for less than half an hour, and they had all but come to blows. She was a sharp-tongued, headstrong, obstinate little fool, and he had no idea what he was going to do with her. He slouched lower in his chair and stared into the dance of the flames.

"Why the long face, old fellow? Bad run at the tables?" A warm hand clasped his shoulder, and he glanced up to find a familiar pair of brown eyes regarding him quizzically.

"Marcus!" Brant set his snifter of brandy aside as he rose to greet his friend. "What are you doing in London?" he asked, shaking the younger man's hand with obvious delight. "I thought you had retired to your estates."

"The life of a country gentleman palls after the first month," the Viscount Cherrington replied as he took the red leather chair beside Brant's. He was dressed rather casually in a jacket of bottle green velvet and buckskin breeches. His blond hair was brushed in the popular windswept mode and added to his boyish appeal.

"Besides," he continued, swinging a booted leg lazily, "my mother has been kicking up such a dust I thought it best to stage a timely retreat." His sherry-colored eyes flashed in amusement. "She has the fever, you see."

Such a lack of filial devotion struck Brant as decidedly callous. He'd always thought his friend to be devoted to his parent, for he was always writing her when they were on the Peninsula. Perhaps he had misunderstood. "Do you mean she is ill?"

"Aye," Marcus agreed, tongue-in-cheek, "with the worst illness that can befall a female: Marriage Fever. Mama has taken it into her head that it's time I took a wife, and she has been making my life a living hell. I have had every eligible female in the country thrown at my head, and a few not-so-eligible ones as well. When she hired some ripe young beauty as her 'companion' I packed my bags and fled to London."

"I hardly think you'll find things much safer here," Brant replied with a husky laugh. "London is hardly bereft of sweet young females and their matchmaking mamas. You may have fled the beehive only to fall into the hornet's nest."

"True, but at least in London I won't be the only target for the swarm. With so many available dukes and earls about I may escape the Season yet unstung," Marcus joked good-naturedly. A servant had brought him a glass of brandy and after partaking of a healthy swallow he said, "But enough of me. You still haven't explained why you're looking so Friday-faced. Haven't been gaming, have you?" He gave Brant a disapproving frown.

"No, Parson Cherrington, I have not." Brant accepted his friend's censure calmly. Marcus could out-drink and out-wench any man in the King's Army, but when it came to gaming he'd always been something of a prude. Considering his father had all but gambled the family into destitution, Brant couldn't fault Marcus for his caution.

"A woman, then?" Marcus pressed, leaning forward to study Brant's face with interest. "Never say you have fallen into the parson's mousetrap!"

"God forbid," Brant intoned piously. "I didn't spend all those years slipping out of Boney's ambushes only to be taken captive by some simpering chit." He stretched his long legs toward the fire and surveyed the glass of brandy cradled in his hand.

"Actually," he said, lifting the glass to his lips, "there is a woman involved. But I have no intention of marrying this one, I assure you."

"Ah." Marcus nodded in understanding. "Like that, is it? Well, what's the impediment? Is she already enjoying some man's protection? That's never stopped you before."

"She's not that sort of female." Brant chuckled at his friend's misapprehension. Any woman less mistress-like than Sara he had yet to meet. He grinned suddenly, envisioning her reaction if his offer had been what Marcus implied. She would doubtless have beaten him to death with her reticule.

"Well, what sort of female is she, then?" Marcus demanded. "There are only the two kinds that I'm aware of."

"She is my cousin," Brant explained. "That is, she is my distant cousin. Aunt found her starving in some wretched boarding-house and offered her the comfort of the family name. But Sara—that is her name—refuses to have anything to do with either Aunt or myself."