The Sum Of All Kisses Part 23

"Lady Sarah?"

She looked up. He was watching her with a curious expression, and his eyes . . . How was it possible his eyes grew more beautiful each time she saw him? He wasn't smiling; the truth was, he didn't smile that often. But she saw it in his eyes. A glint of warmth, of happiness.

It hadn't been there that first day at Fensmore.

And it stunned her to her very toes how much she never wanted it to go away.

"Thank you," she said decisively, but instead of the cane, she reached toward his hand. "Help me up?"

Neither was wearing gloves, and the sudden burst of warmth on her skin made her tremble. His hand wrapped firmly around hers, and with a little tug, she found herself on her feet. Or foot, really. She was balancing on the good one.

"Thank you," she said again, somewhat alarmed at how breathless she sounded.

Wordlessly, he held out the cane, and she took it, curling her fingers around the smooth handle. It felt almost intimate, holding this object that had practically become an extension of his body.

"It's a bit tall for you," he said.

"I can make do." She tested out a step.

"No, no," he said, "you need to lean into it a bit more. Like this." He stepped behind her and placed his hand over hers on the handle of the cane.

Sarah stopped breathing. He was so close that she could feel his breath, warm and ticklish on the tip of her ear.

"Sarah?" he murmured.

She nodded, needing a moment to find her voice again. "I-I think I have it now."

He stepped away, and for a moment all she could feel was the loss of his presence. It was startling, and disconcerting, and . . .

And it was cold.

"Sarah?"

She shook herself out of her odd reverie. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Woolgathering."

He grinned. Or maybe it was a smirk. A friendly one, but still smirkish.

"What is it?" She'd never seen him smile like that.

"Just wondering where the wardrobe was."

It took her a moment-she was sure she would have got it instantly if she'd not been so befuddled-and then she grinned right back. And then: "You called me Sarah."

He paused. "So I did. I apologize. It was unconsciously done."

"No," she said quickly, jumping atop his final words. "It's fine. I like it, I think."

"You think?"

"I do," she said firmly. "We are friends now, I think."

"You think." This time he was definitely smirking.

She tossed him a sarcastic glance. "You could not resist, could you?"

"No," he murmured, "I think not."

"That was so dreadful it was almost good," she told him.

"And that was such an insult I almost feel complimented."

She felt her lips tighten at the corners. She was trying not to smile; it was a battle of the wits, and somehow she knew that if she laughed, she lost. But at the same time, losing wasn't such a terrible prospect. Not in this.

"Come along," he said with mock severity. "Let's see you walk to the library."

And she did. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't painless-truthfully, she shouldn't have been up and about yet-but she did it.

"You're doing very well," he said as they neared their destination.

"Thank you," she said, ridiculously pleased by his praise. "It's marvelous. Such independence. It was just awful having to rely on someone to carry me about." She looked over her shoulder at him. "Is that how you feel?"

His lips curved in a wry expression. "Not exactly."

"Really? Because-" Her throat nearly closed. "Never mind." What an idiot she was. Of course it hadn't felt the same for him. She was using the cane to get her through the day. He would never be without it.

From that moment forward she no longer wondered why he did not smile very often. Instead, she marveled that he ever did.

Chapter Thirteen.

The blue drawing room Whipple Hill Eight o'clock in the evening When it came to social engagements, Hugh never knew which was worse: to be early and exhaust himself having to rise every time a lady appeared, or to arrive late, only to be the center of attention while he limped into the room. This evening, however, his injury had made the decision for him.

He had not been lying when he told Sarah that his leg would most likely pain him that night. But he was glad she had taken the cane. It was, he thought with a surprising lack of bitterness, the closest he would ever come to sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety.

Pathetic, but a man had to take his triumphs where he could.

By the time he entered the large drawing room at Whipple Hill, most of the other guests were already present. About seventy people, if he judged the crowd correctly. More than half of the so-called caravan were being lodged in nearby inns; they frolicked at the house during the day but were gone in the evening.

He did not bother to pretend that he was looking for anyone but Sarah the moment he limped through the door. They had spent much of the day in quiet companionship in the library, occasionally chatting but most often just reading. She had demanded that he demonstrate his mathematical brilliance (her words, not his), and he had complied. He'd always hated "performing" on demand, but Sarah had watched and listened with such obvious delight and amazement that he hadn't been able to bring himself to feel his usual discomfort.

He had misjudged her, he realized. Yes, she was overly dramatic and given to grand p.r.o.nouncements, but she was not the shallow debutante he had once thought her. He was also coming to realize that her earlier antipathy toward him had not been entirely without merit. He had wronged her-inadvertently, but still. It was a fact that she would have had that first season in London if not for his duel with Daniel.

Hugh would not go so far as to agree that he had ruined her life, but now that he knew her better, it did not seem unlikely that Lady Sarah Pleinsworth might have nabbed one of those now legendary fourteen gentlemen.

He could not, however, bring himself to regret this.

When he found her-it was her laughter, actually, that drew him to her-she was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room with her foot propped up on a small ottoman. One of her cousins was with her, the pale one. Iris, her name was. She and Sarah seemed to have an odd, somewhat compet.i.tive, relationship. Hugh would never be so bold as to think he understood more than three things about women (and probably not even that many), but it was clear to him that those two carried on complete conversations with nothing but narrowed eyes and tilts of the head.

But for now they seemed to be having a jolly time, so he made his way over and gave a polite bow.

"Lady Sarah," he said. "Miss Smythe-Smith."

Both ladies smiled and greeted him in return.

"Won't you join us?" Sarah said.

He sat in the chair to Sarah's left, taking the opportunity to extend his leg in front of him. He generally tried not to draw notice to himself by doing this in public, but she knew that he would be more comfortable this way, and more to the point, he knew that she would not be shy about telling him how he ought to sit.

"How is your ankle feeling this evening?" he asked her.

"Very well," she answered, then wrinkled her nose. "No, that's a lie. It's fairly dreadful."

Iris chuckled.

"Well, it is," Sarah said with a sigh. "I reckon I overexerted myself this morning."

"I thought you spent the morning in the library," Iris said.

"I did," Sarah told her. "But Lord Hugh very kindly lent me his cane. I walked all the way across the house on my own." She frowned at her foot. "Although after that I did absolutely nothing with it. I'm not sure why it's being so wretched."

"This sort of injury takes time to heal," Hugh said. "It may have been more than a simple sprain."

She grimaced. "It did make an awful sound when I twisted it on the step. Rather like something tearing."

"Oh, that's dreadful," Iris said with a shudder. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Sarah just shrugged, and Hugh said, "That's not a good sign, I'm afraid. It's certainly nothing permanent, but it does indicate that the injury may be deeper than originally thought."

Sarah let out a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I shall have to learn to grant audiences in my boudoir like a French queen."

Iris looked at Hugh. "I warn you, she's serious."

He did not doubt it.

"Or," Sarah continued, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, "I could have someone arrange a litter to carry me about."

Hugh chuckled at her flamboyance. It was just the sort of thing that a mere week ago would have set his teeth on edge. But now that he knew her better, he could not help but be amused. She had a rather unique way of setting people at ease. He had meant it when he had said it before: it was a talent.

"Shall we feed you grapes from a golden chalice?" Iris teased.

"But of course," Sarah replied, holding her haughty expression for about two seconds before she broke into a grin.

They all laughed then, which was probably why none of them noticed Daisy Smythe-Smith until she was practically upon them.

"Sarah," she said rather officiously, "might I have a word?"

Hugh rose to his feet. He hadn't had a chance to talk with this particular Smythe-Smith yet. She looked young, still in the schoolroom but old enough to come down to supper at a family event.

"Daisy," Sarah said in greeting. "Good evening. Have you been introduced to Lord Hugh Prentice? Lord Hugh, this is Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith. She is Iris's sister."

Of course. He'd heard of this family. The Smythe-Smith Bouquet, someone had once called them. He could not remember all of their names. Daisy, Iris, probably a Rosehip and Marigold. He dearly hoped none were named Crocus.

Daisy bobbed a quick curtsy, but she clearly had no interest in him, for she immediately turned her curly blond head back to Sarah. "Since you cannot dance tonight," she said bluntly, "my mother has decided that we shall play."

Sarah blanched, and Hugh suddenly recalled that first night at Fensmore, when she had started to tell him something about her family's musicales. She had been cut off before she could finish. He never did learn what she was going to say.

"Iris won't be able to join us," Daisy continued, oblivious to Sarah's reaction. "We have no cello, and Lady Edith wasn't invited to this wedding, not that that would have done us any good," she said with an affronted sniff. "It was very unkind of her not to let us borrow her cello at Fensmore."

Hugh watched as Sarah threw a desperate glance at Iris. Iris, he noted, responded with nothing but sympathy. And horror.

"But the pianoforte is perfectly tuned," Daisy said, "and of course I brought my violin, so we shall make a duet of it."

Iris returned Sarah's expression with one of her own. They were having another one of those silent conversations, Hugh thought, untranslatable by anyone of the male s.e.x.

Daisy soldiered on. "The only question is what to play. I propose Mozart's Quartet no. 1, since we do not have time to practice." She turned to Hugh. "We performed that earlier this year."

Sarah made a choking sound. "But-"

But Daisy was brooking no interruptions. "I a.s.sume you remember your part?"

"No! I don't. Daisy, I-"

"I do realize," Daisy continued, "that there are only two of us, but I don't think that will make a difference."

"You don't?" Iris asked, looking vaguely ill.

Daisy spared her sister a fleeting glance. A fleeting glance, Hugh noted, that still managed to imbue itself with an astonishing degree of condescension and annoyance.

"We shall simply go forward without the cello or second violin," she announced.

"You play the second violin," Sarah said.

"Not when there is only one violinist," Daisy replied.

"That makes absolutely no sense," Iris put in.

Daisy let out a highly aggravated puff of air. "Even if I play the second part, as I did last spring, I will still be the only violinist." She waited for affirmation, then plowed on anyway. "Which therefore will make me the first violin."

Even Hugh knew it did not work that way.

"You cannot have a second violin without a first," Daisy said impatiently. "It is numerically impossible."

Oh no, Hugh thought, she is not going to bring numbers into this.