The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (3 page)

“No, not that—though it was rather rude. I’m referring to the fact that you all but admitted that we trespass upon Lord Weston’s land on a regular basis.”

“Actually, I did admit to that.”

“Exactly!”

Nigel kicked at a rock in his path. “Is not honesty the best policy?” he queried, using his sister’s words against her.

“This is hardly the time to become virtuous, Nigel,” she answered, her words laced with amusement.

Titus lunged for the rolling rock and grasped it within his powerful jaws.

“Lord Weston seemed a reasonable man.” Nigel leaned over to pry the rock out of Titus’s mouth, with little success. “I hardly think he’ll alert the parish constable.”

Sarah was loath to tell Nigel precisely what was needling her about the interlude with Lord Weston. Though any human being with a modicum of sense could have guessed that the entirety of their introduction was beyond acceptable.

She was speaking to Nigel, though, she reminded herself. Twelve-year-old boys, in her experience, embraced a different view of the world and the niceties of society’s rules.

Actually, more often than not, Sarah seemed to agree with Nigel on this very topic. But in the short amount of time she’d spent in Lord Weston’s company, Sarah had recognized that he was … Well, Lord Weston was different, though she could not put her finger on exactly why.

“I do not fear our arrest,” she began, pulling upon the lead until Titus protested with a loud whine. “It’s simply that as introductions go—”

Titus gagged loudly. The rock flew out of his mouth, landing in the grass just beyond the path.

“Well,” she continued as if there had been no interruption, “it was hardly ideal.”

Titus instantly recovered and pulled Sarah forward.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nigel replied, running to catch up. “I’d say that we made quite an impression.”

Sarah shook her head. But Nigel’s smile had a way of warming her heart.

And, in truth, she couldn’t tell him why she was so upset.

Because she herself didn’t precisely know the cause.

Making “quite an impression” was nothing new to Sarah Tisdale. Since leaving childhood behind, she’d suffered through countless introductions to eligible bachelors. Her physical clumsiness and alarming tendency to say whatever might be on her mind had resulted in a profound lack of interest on the part of said bachelors.

At first, their reactions had upset and saddened her. And then, they angered her. And now? Well, now she simply did not care. Or did she?

Sarah attempted to rein Titus in as they approached Tisdale Manor.

Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, had, beyond a shadow of a doubt, met Sarah at her worst. She had to give him credit for exhibiting only mild horror at her appearance and disarray.

Sarah released Titus from the lead and allowed him to run into the yard of Tisdale Manor, his enthusiastic barking alerting the entire household to their return.

“No hiding from Mother now,” Nigel declared, nudging Sarah in the ribs before loping after Titus.

Sarah squared her shoulders and sighed. Lord Weston was remarkably handsome, even when covered in mud. His golden hair brought to mind long, lazy summer days spent out-of-doors. Titus’s attack had helped to outline the man’s physique, his sodden shirt and breeches molding to an expansive set of shoulders that tapered to a trim waist and well-muscled legs.

Yet, she reminded herself, despite his good looks, he was a man, and as such, could only be relied upon for one thing: disappointment.

If trespassing on his grounds had not been enough to drive him off, surely her tripping over the tree root must have convinced him that the opinion held by the entirety of England’s male population had been correct: Sarah
Tisdale was simply more than any man should—or could—take on.

“Bollocks,” Sarah muttered.

She delighted in swearing. Borrowing from Nigel’s supply of inappropriate terms secretly thrilled her.

And putting Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, in his place, if only in her mind, was endlessly satisfying.

He was handsome. And charming. And he’d failed to lose his temper and take a stick to Titus, even though most men in his position would have done so.

And the heat of his gaze lingering on her damp skin had nearly done her in. Her toes had curled, she was sure of it.

But curled toes or no, Sarah would not entertain any further thoughts of Lord Weston.

“Sarah!” Her mother’s hysterical shriek carried from inside the house. Titus howled and ran to hide in an outbuilding.

“Coward,” Sarah grumbled at the dog, walking reluctantly into the house. Nigel must have already shared the news of Lord Weston’s arrival with the family.

“Sa-Rah!”

She sighed with resignation.

This would not end well.

Sarah entered the sun-filled foyer and hesitated, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the midday heat.

“Do not keep me waiting, child.”

Sarah’s eyes popped open at the demand. One more moment of delay and she’d have to sacrifice Titus to appease her mother.

Pulling a twig from her curls, Sarah walked down the hall, her ruined kid boots leaving mud in her wake.

Think, Sarah, think
.

She’d bested her mother in less time before, though her current state of disrepair would prove an impediment.

She turned into the parlor, her mother’s appalled gasp too loud to ignore.

“Really, Sarah, do you wish to frighten me to death?” Lenora Tisdale exclaimed, gesturing for her daughter to come nearer.

Sarah looked across the room. Nigel stood at the tall windows, fidgeting with the umber drapery sash. His guilt-ridden expression told her without words that their mother already knew of Lord Weston’s presence in the district.

She gave Nigel a reassuring look and one quick wink before answering. “Come now, Mother, it would take far more than fright to fell the likes of you,” she answered, the sarcasm in her voice nearly hidden.

Her mother eyed her with reproach, clearing her throat. “Sarah, am I to understand that you—”

“Though, I am sorry to say,” Sarah continued over her mother’s words, “there is a bit of news that you, in all likelihood, will find most distressing.”

Managing the direction of a conversation was a maneuver that usually worked well with Lenora Tisdale. The myriad disparate bits of information residing in her brain were easily toppled and confused by the lure of interesting news.

“What are you telling me, girl?” her mother asked, her brows knitting together briefly as she smoothed the skirt of her primrose-patterned day dress.

Sarah drew nearer, sinking to her knees and settling herself on the Aubusson carpet with her damp muslin skirts pooling about her. “Oh, yes, Mother. Quite distressing indeed,” she answered with a foreboding tone. “The Earl of Weston has returned to Lulworth Castle,” she proclaimed with dramatic effect.

Lenora faltered, and then found her footing. “Am I to understand that Nigel speaks the truth? You have met
the Errant Earl? In such a state?” she asked, her eyebrows rising to meet her hairline.

“Can you imagine the impertinence of such a man?” Sarah answered, schooling her countenance into offended lines. “He has returned to Lulworth Castle unannounced—a social faux pas, if there ever was one. And as if that were not bad enough, he insisted on an introduction when I was clearly neither prepared nor inclined to acknowledge him! The presumptuousness of the man knows no bounds!”

“Indeed. He is no gentleman—but we knew this already,” Lenora agreed quietly. Her eyes narrowed, her mind clearly working to rearrange the facts of the situation so as to suit her needs.

Sarah held her breath as she watched the emotions play across her mother’s face. The truth was quite simple: Since being put on the shelf at the age of two-and-twenty, Sarah had enjoyed an uncomplicated life, relatively free from the machinations of her mother. The moment her last remaining prospect, Sir Reginald Busby, proposed to Lilith Mackam nearly three years before, it was as if she no longer existed, at least to Lenora.

It had been, in a word, bliss.

Lord Weston’s return could ruin everything. The gossip over the years had made it clear enough that the Errant Earl held no special place in the villagers’ hearts, including her mother’s. But Sarah suspected that his title and all that came with it would give Lenora cause to reconsider.

Sarah believed with grim certainty that she was not meant to be the wife of an earl, as well the entire county knew. Men did not want a woman. They wanted a wife who would fawn over them. And a mother to bear their children. And a dressmaker’s dummy to look the loveliest at social events. But not a woman with a mind. Or
spirit. Or independent tendencies. And especially not one who could hardly manage walking—never mind dancing—without maiming herself.

In short, not her.

Was it too much to hope that Lenora would agree?

“Yes indeed. Not a gentleman,” Lenora repeated, though this time with markedly more enthusiasm and disdain. “Really, one should be able to expect more of a titled man, though Weston has proven himself in the past to be quite undeserving of his station, so I do not know why I would hope for improvement.”

Sarah wanted to point out that Lenora had not even met the earl, at least not since he’d been in short pants. But she curbed the desire to do so and instead nodded in solemn agreement, then rose from the carpet. “Yes, quite,” she offered, slowly backing toward the door.

“Just let the man attempt to make amends. I will give him the cut direct.”

“Of course.”

“And if he thinks for one moment that we may be obliging,” Lenora continued, indignation rising. “Really, to force an introduction with you looking like
that—
”

“Absurd!” Sarah nodded before exiting the room, breaking into a run the moment she was out of sight in the hall and dashing toward the stairs.

Brava, Sarah
, she commended herself with a satisfied smile, though she’d failed to include Nigel in her escape, she realized.
Ah, well, serves him right. He is the one who wanted to go fishing
.

“Did you capture the smugglers all on your own, then?” Sully asked, regarding Marcus’s appearance with a raised eyebrow.

Marcus tossed his ruined coat at the valet, hitting him squarely in the head. “I applaud your restraint, Sully. We’ve walked the length of Lulworth Castle to reach my rooms and you’ve kept your gob shut until now.”

“Is the leg bothering you?” Sully inquired, pulling the coat from atop his head and dropping the sodden garment to the floor.

Marcus eased himself into an armchair near a large window. “Don’t go changing the subject.” His leg throbbed and he winced, shifting to ease it.

“Bloody martyr,” Sully said under his breath as he knelt and carefully pulled off Marcus’s boot. “The doctor ordered you to rest.”

“This was hardly of my doing,” Marcus informed him.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” Sully asked, eyeing the muddy Hessians with disgust.

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Marcus replied.

Sully turned to drop the pair of dirty boots by the door. “I was right to begin with, was I? The smugglers surrendered after a brief but doomed resistance?” He returned to stand by the window, eyeing Marcus with interest.

“Hardly, though I suspect a boatload of smugglers would be far easier to catch than Miss Tisdale.”

“Miss Tisdale? A woman did that to you?” Sully asked, not bothering to smother a laugh.

“Not precisely,” Marcus began, but the discomfort caused by his wet breeches urged him upright. “No, it was her mongrel.”

Sully laughed out loud. “A lady’s lapdog did that—to you!”

“Hardly a lapdog. The thing was a mass of fur and claws. And the slobber. Oh God, the slobber. I assure you,” Marcus answered, unbuttoning his linen shirt, “the size of a full-grown man and just as strong.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sully replied, attempting to rein in his mirth. “And his name? Precious? Or Lord Knickerbottom, perhaps?”

Marcus balled up the shirt, tossed it, and hit Sully in the chest. “Titus.” He walked to the chest of drawers, where a porcelain bowl and a pitcher of warm water sat. Sluicing his fingers first, he cupped both hands and lowered his head, dousing his face and hair.

“And the woman? Was she a mass of muscles and claws as well?”

Marcus almost answered in the affirmative. Sarah Tisdale certainly possessed canine qualities, though one would not know it to look at her.

The epitome of an English rose, Miss Tisdale sprang to Marcus’s mind immediately, despite the fact that he’d never before been intrigued with such countryside offerings. Her fresh complexion perfectly complemented her mass of auburn hair. That hair had swung seductively back and forth as she walked, the length of it nearly reaching her rounded backside.

And those green eyes. The color of the lush banks of Loch Ness. They spoke of wildness. Of passion as yet unrealized.

Marcus splashed himself again and let the water drip down his neck and bare chest.

His tastes had always run toward the polished. He supposed that had everything to do with Lulworth and, to a lesser extent, Inverness. The local girls in both towns had feigned interest only when their mamas had thought of his titles and financial worth, leaving Marcus with the feeling that he fit neither in their world nor his.