The Sum Of All Kisses Part 4

Hugh could not imagine what, but she was the bride, and if she wanted to ask him to stand on his head, it was his understanding that he was obligated to try.

"My cousin Arthur has taken ill," she said, "and he was to sit at the head table at the wedding breakfast."

Oh, no. No, she wasn't asking- "We need another gentleman, and-"

Apparently she was.

"-I was hoping it could be you. It would go a long way toward making everything, well . . ." She swallowed and her eyes flicked toward the ceiling for a moment as she tried to find the correct words. "Toward making everything right. Or at least appear to be right."

He stared at her for a moment. It wasn't that his heart was sinking; hearts didn't sink so much as they did a tight panicky squeeze, and the truth was, his did neither. There was no reason to fear being forced to sit at the head table, but there was every reason to dread it.

"Not that's it not right," she said hastily. "As far as I am concerned-and my mother, too, I can say quite reliably-we hold you in great esteem. We know . . . That is to say, Daniel told us what you did."

He stared at her intently. What, exactly, had Daniel told her?

"I know that he would not be here in England if you had not sought him out, and I am most grateful."

Hugh thought it uncommonly gracious that she did not point out that he was the reason her brother had had to leave England in the first place.

She smiled serenely. "A very wise person once told me that it is not the mistakes we make that reveal our character but what we do to rectify them."

"A very wise person?" he murmured.

"Very well, it was my mother," she said with a sheepish smile, "and I will have you know that she said it to Daniel far more than to me, but I've come to realize-and I hope he has, too-that it is true."

"I believe he has," Hugh said softly.

"Well, then," Honoria said, briskly changing both subject and mood, "what do you say? Will you join me at the main table? You will be doing me a tremendous favor."

"I would be honored to take your cousin's place," he said, and he supposed it was the truth. He'd rather go swimming in snow than sit up on a dais in front of all the wedding guests, but it was an honor.

Her face lit up again, her happiness practically a beacon. Was this what weddings did to people?

"Thank you so much," she said, with obvious relief. "If you had refused, I would have had to ask my other cousin, Rupert, and-"

"You have another cousin? One you're pa.s.sing over in favor of me?" Hugh might not have cared overmuch for the myriad rules and regulations that bound their society, but that did not mean he didn't know what they were.

"He's awful," she said in a loud whisper. "Honestly, he's just terrible, and he eats far too many onions."

"Well, if that's the case," Hugh murmured.

"And," Honoria continued, "he and Sarah do not get on."

Hugh always considered his words before he spoke, but even he wasn't able to stop himself from blurting half of "I don't get on with Lady Sarah" before clamping his mouth firmly shut.

"I beg your pardon?" Honoria inquired.

Hugh forced his jaw to unlock. "I don't see why that would be a problem," he said tightly. Dear G.o.d, he was going to have to sit with Lady Sarah Pleinsworth. How was it possible Honoria Smythe-Smith didn't realize what a stupendously bad idea that would be?

"Oh, thank you, Lord Hugh," Honoria said effusively. "I do appreciate your flexibility in this matter. If I sit them together-and there would be no other place to put him at the head table, trust me, I looked-heaven only knows what rows they'll get into."

"Lady Sarah?" Hugh murmured. "Rows?"

"I know," Honoria agreed, completely misinterpreting his words. "It's difficult to imagine. We never have a cross word. She has the most marvelous sense of humor."

Hugh made no comment.

Honoria smiled grandly at him. "Thank you again. You are doing me a tremendous favor."

"How could I possibly refuse?"

Her eyes narrowed for a hint of a moment, but she seemed not to detect sarcasm, which made sense, since Hugh himself didn't know if he was being sarcastic.

"Well," Honoria said, "thank you. I'll just tell Sarah."

"She's in the drawing room," he said. Honoria looked at him curiously, so he added, "I heard her speaking as I walked by."

Honoria continued to frown, so he added, "She has a most distinctive voice."

"I had not noticed," Honoria murmured.

Hugh decided that this would be an excellent time for him to shut up and leave.

The bride, however, had other plans. "Well," she declared, "if she's right there, why don't you come with me, and we will tell her the good news."

It was the last thing he wanted, but then she smiled at him, and he remembered, She's the bride. And he followed.

In fanciful novels-the sort Sarah read by the dozen and refused to apologize for-foreshadowing was painted by the bucket, not the brushstroke. The heroine clasped her hand to her forehead and said something like, "Oh, if only I could find a gentleman who will look past my illegitimate birth and vestigial toe!"

Very well, she'd yet to find an author willing to include an extra toe. But it would certainly make for a good story. There was no denying that.

But back to the foreshadowing. The heroine would make her impa.s.sioned plea, and then, as if called forth from some ancient talisman, a gentleman would appear.

Oh, if only I could find a gentleman. And there he was.

Which was why, after Sarah had made her (admittedly ridiculous) statement about dying if she did not marry this year, she looked up to the doorway. Because really, wouldn't that have been funny?

Unsurprisingly, no one appeared.

"Hmmph," she hmmphed. "Even the G.o.ds of literature have despaired of me."

"Did you say something?" Harriet asked.

"Oh, if only I could find a gentleman," she muttered to herself, "who will make me miserable and vex me to the end of my days."

And then.

Of course.

Lord Hugh Prentice.

G.o.d above, was there to be no end to her travails?

"Sarah!" came Honoria's cheerful voice as the bride herself stepped into the doorway beside him. "I have good news."

Sarah came to her feet and looked at her cousin. Then she looked at Hugh Prentice, who, it had to be said, she'd never liked. Then she looked back to her cousin. Honoria, her very best friend in the entire world. And she knew that Honoria (her very best friend in the entire world who really should have known better) did not have good news. At least not what Sarah would consider good news.

Or Hugh Prentice, if his expression was any indication.

But Honoria was still glowing like a cheerful, nearly wed lantern, and she practically floated right off her toes when she announced, "Cousin Arthur has taken ill."

Elizabeth came immediately to attention. "That is good news."

"Oh, come now," Harriet said. "He's not half as bad as Rupert."

"Well, that part's not the good news," Honoria said quickly, with a nervous glance toward Hugh, lest he think them a completely bloodthirsty lot. "The good news is that Sarah was going to have to sit with Rupert tomorrow, but now she doesn't."

Frances gasped and leapt across the room. "Does that mean I might sit at the head table? Oh, please say I may take his place! I would love that above all things. Especially since you're putting it up on a dais, aren't you? I would actually be above all things."

"Oh, Frances," Honoria said, smiling warmly down at her, "I wish it could be so, but you know there are to be no children at the main table, and also, we need it to be a gentleman."

"Hence Lord Hugh," Elizabeth said.

"I am pleased to be of service," Hugh said, even though it was clear to Sarah that he was not.

"I cannot begin to tell you how grateful we are," Honoria said. "Especially Sarah."

Hugh looked at Sarah.

Sarah looked at Hugh. It seemed imperative that he realize that she was not, in fact, grateful.

And then he smiled, the lout. Well, not really a smile. It wouldn't have been called a smile on anyone else's face, but his mien was so normally stony that the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips was the equivalent of anyone else's jumping for joy.

"I am certain I shall be delighted to sit next to you instead of Cousin Rupert," Sarah said. Delighted was an overstatement, but Rupert had terrible breath, so at least she'd avoid that with Lord Hugh at her side.

"Certain," Lord Hugh repeated, his voice that odd mix of flatness and drawl that made Sarah feel as if her mind were about to explode. Was he mocking her? Or was he merely repeating a word for emphasis? She couldn't tell.

Yet another trait that rendered Lord Hugh Prentice the most aggravating man in Britain. If one were being made fun of, didn't one have the right to know?

"You don't take raw onions with your tea, do you?" Sarah asked coolly.

He smiled. Or maybe he didn't. "No."

"Then I am certain," she said.

"Sarah?" Honoria said hesitantly.

Sarah turned to her cousin with a brilliant smile. She'd never forgotten that mad moment the year before when she'd first met Lord Hugh. He had turned from hot to cold in a blink of an eye. And d.a.m.n it all, if he could do it, so could she. "Your wedding is going to be perfect," she declared. "Lord Hugh and I will get on famously, I'm sure."

Honoria didn't buy Sarah's act for a second, not that Sarah really thought she would. Her eyes flicked from Sarah to Hugh and back again about six times in the s.p.a.ce of a second. "Ahhhhh," she hedged, clearly confused about the sudden awkwardness. "Well."

Sarah kept her smile pasted placidly on her face. For Honoria she would attempt civility with Hugh Prentice. For Honoria she would even smile at him, and laugh at his jokes, a.s.suming he made jokes. But still, how was it possible that Honoria didn't realize how very much Sarah hated Hugh? Oh very well, not hate. Hate she would reserve for the truly evil. Napoleon, for example. Or that flower seller at Covent Garden who'd tried to cheat her the week before.

But Hugh Prentice was beyond vexing, beyond annoying. He was the only person (aside from her sisters) who had managed to infuriate her so much that she'd had to literally hold her hands down to keep from smacking him.

She had never been so angry as she had that night. . . .

Chapter Two.

How They Met (the way she remembers it) A London ballroom, celebrating the engagement of Mr. Charles Dunwoody to Miss Nerissa Berbrooke Sixteen months earlier "Do you think Mr. St. Clair is handsome?"

Sarah didn't bother to turn toward Honoria as she asked the question. She was too busy watching Mr. St. Clair, trying to decide what she thought of him. She'd always favored men with tawny hair, but she wasn't so sure she liked the queue he wore in the back. Did it make him look like a pirate, or did it make him look as if he was trying to look like a pirate?

There was an enormous difference.

"Gareth St. Clair?" Honoria queried. "Do you mean Lady Danbury's grandson?"

That yanked Sarah's eyes right back to Honoria's. "He's not!" she said with a gasp.

"Oh, he is. I'm quite sure of it."

"Well, that takes him right off my list," Sarah said with no hesitation whatsoever.

"Do you know, I admire Lady Danbury," Honoria said. "She says exactly what she means."

"Which is precisely why no woman in her right mind would want to marry a member of her family. Good heavens, Honoria, what if one had to live with her?"

"You have been known to be somewhat forthright yourself," Honoria pointed out.

"Be that as it may," Sarah said, which was as far as she would go toward agreement, "I am no match for Lady Danbury." She glanced back at Mr. St. Clair. Pirate or aspiring pirate? She supposed it didn't matter, not if he was related to Lady Danbury.

Honoria patted her arm. "Give yourself time."

Sarah turned toward her cousin with a flat, sarcastic stare. "How much time? She's eighty if she's a day."

"We all need something to which to aspire," Honoria demurred.

Sarah could not forestall a roll of her eyes. "Has my life become so pathetic that my aspirations must be measured in decades rather than years?"

"No, of course not, but . . ."

"But what?" Sarah asked suspiciously when Honoria did not complete her thought.