LITMIR.BIZ

      Sarah rose early after a night with almost no sleep at all. Amelia had left her with a kiss after spending a fruitless half hour trying to persuade her cousin to change her mind. The more Sarah thought about it, the more her conviction grew. The misery she had felt at Guy Renshaw’s stark contempt was hardening into anger now, humiliation turning into a burning fury. She was angry with herself for falling into his arms and confirming his opinion of her, but she was even more angry that he should ever have doubted her virtue. In the dark shadows of the night she had painfully admitted to herself just how much she had liked him. So much had been built upon so little: the roses, a couple of conversations, one waltz. And now she would have to learn to forget him.

      With a heavy heart, Sarah dragged her bags to the bedroom door. If she was lucky, she could avoid Amelia, who always got up late on the morning after a ball. She could not bear another scene. She would take a hack down to the Angel and get the coach to the Old Down Inn and from there…

      Sarah went out onto the landing, intending to tiptoe downstairs and find herself some breakfast before she left. She averted her gaze from the spot at the top of the stairs where she and Guy had had their encounter the previous night.

      Far from being quiet, the house seemed very noisy. The shutters were flung back and servants were scurrying about in a frenzy. As she descended the stairs Sarah could see two large trunks, neatly bound with red rope, standing by the front door. Chisholm, looking as harassed as Sarah had ever seen him, was taking down what seemed like an endless list of instructions from his employer. Sarah stared in disbelief.

      ‘…and cancel my attendance at Mrs Chartley’s breakfast, if you please, and the card party at Colonel Waring’s and any other invitations I have forgotten!’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      ‘And make sure that any invitations from Mrs Bunton and Mrs Clarke are returned unopened—’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      Amelia, looking fresh and radiant in a coffee-brown travelling dress and matching hat, turned to see her cousin watching her in amazement from the top of the stairs.

      ‘There you are, Sarah! At last! Hurry and take some breakfast! Oh, and Chisholm—’ her voice hardened ‘—if Sir Greville Baynham calls, pray tell him that I have left town and that his friends are not welcome in my house again—’

      ‘Oh, Milly, you cannot do that! It is not Greville’s fault!’ Sarah recovered the use of her voice and hurried down to her cousin’s side.

      ‘No matter!’ Amelia’s chin was set defiantly. ‘Sir Greville is to blame for having such poor taste in his friends! Now, are you almost ready, my love?’

      Sarah watched bemusedly as two footmen threw open the main door and staggered out to the carriage under the huge weight of Amelia’s baggages.

      ‘Yes, but…what…?’

      ‘I knew that I could not persuade you to change your mind,’ Amelia said, seizing her arm and steering her towards the breakfast parlour, ‘so I have changed mine! Dearest Sarah! I am coming with you!’

       Chapter Four

      ‘Seems to me you’ve made a dashed mess of things, Guy,’ Greville Baynham said frankly, helping himself to a large plate of devilled kidneys. ‘Didn’t even give the poor girl a chance to explain!’

      Guy stared gloomily out of the breakfast-room window. He had spent the best part of the night playing high and drinking deep, and this morning was left with a vicious headache and a feeling of sick disgust. At the back of his mind was the thought that Greville was very probably correct.

      In his salad days he had tumbled into love several times with females who were either unsuitable or ineligible or both. It had not mattered then; his suffering was usually of short duration and there were plenty of ladies willing to help him recover and move on to the next conquest. As he had grown older he had seen that love rarely had much to do with these transactions and was quite content for this to be the case. The fact that his father wished him to settle down and provide an heir for Woodallan he viewed as a completely separate issue. Or, he had viewed it as such until he had met Miss Sarah Sheridan.

      Guy shifted in his chair. He had told Greville about the rumours that were circulating about Sarah and a little of the scene between them, though, naturally enough, he had not imparted the whole tale. Greville had been frankly incredulous.

      ‘Sounds all a hum to me,’ he said judiciously. ‘The Bath tabbies usually prefer fiction to fact! They find it so much more scandalous. Ten to one the whole thing is nothing more than a Banbury tale!’

      Guy pulled a face. ‘I would like to agree with you, Grev, but Miss Sheridan practically confirmed it! When I asked her if it was true she was visiting Blanchland, she did not give a convincing denial! What was I to think?’

      Greville waved his fork about descriptively. ‘That she was visiting her old nurse? That Ralph Covell wanted to hand over some of her father’s paintings? I don’t know—anything except what you clearly did think, old chap!’

      Guy did not deny it. Now he said, ‘I suppose…I may have been a little hasty—’

      ‘Seems to me you should think about why you reacted as you did,’ Greville said drily, demonstrating his disconcerting habit of hitting the nail on the head. ‘I believe you must owe Miss Sheridan an apology, Guy. Do you care to accompany me to Brock Street this morning? I was intending to call on Lady Amelia anyway.’

      Guy hesitated. He sincerely doubted that Sarah would either offer an explanation or give him the chance to apologise. It seemed most likely, in fact, that she would never speak to him again. He thought again of the previous night, of how Sarah’s initial resistance to him had melted into response and how he had taken ruthless advantage of it. Much as he would have preferred to deny it, her willingness had raised an echo of genuine passion in him that had transcended the blind fury that had first prompted him to punish her. He had been as shaken as she was—or as she had appeared to be.

      Guy paused. Supposing—just supposing—Sarah had been the innocent he had always thought her to be? How must she have felt to have her inexperienced reactions construed as calculated passion? How would she be feeling that morning, confronted with the discovery

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