The Lover (46 page)

Afterward Sabrina found herself in great demand as a dance partner; she was not allowed a moment’s rest. It was a heady feeling, in truth—and yet she found herself yearning for the simple honesty of the Highlands. This company seemed too civilized, too pretentious, too frivolous, with its preoccupation with banal chatter and physical beauty.

And then her triumph was nearly spoiled by her cousin Frances. When the music paused and Sabrina’s partner left to fetch her a glass of punch, Frances approached her, swathed in a gown of stiff pink brocade.

“Brina, there you are. I could not get near you, what with the crowd fawning around you. I would never have credited it, you making a byword of yourself, wearing a gown that calls such provocative attention to yourself. Mama is shocked, let me tell you.”

“You need not tell me,” Sabrina murmured wryly. “I am well aware of my aunt’s subservience to fashion. How is my aunt, by the bye?” she asked to change the subject.

“Well enough, not that you care. I hear you have been in town more than a sennight, yet you have never called on us.” Her cousin frowned petulantly. “I cannot think why not. It is not like you to be so self-centered.”

“Oliver said you were unwell.”

Frances’s gaze narrowed sharply. “You have seen Oliver?”

Sabrina stared, surprised to think her beautiful younger cousin might be jealous of her. She had never provided Frances the least competition, but blended in harmlessly with the rest of the wallflowers. Even with Oliver, who had professed to love her, there’d been no contest once he’d spied Frances. The girl had the petite delicacy of a porcelain doll, with an animated charm that was warm and real—a charm that seemed to be entirely missing tonight.

“We met by chance on the street,” Sabrina replied lightly, “when my husband was escorting me to the shops. Oliver told me the happy news then. You are pleased by the coming child, are you not?”

“Yes…I suppose so.”

“I did not think to see you here tonight if you are feeling poorly.”

“We are not so high in society that we can refuse an invitation by the Duke of Kintail. I cannot attach the title of milady to my name. I am only plain Mistress Irvine.”

Sabrina raised her eyebrows in astonishment. She had never seen Frances in such a mood. Usually her cousin displayed the sweetest of dispositions, even if she was perhaps a trifle spoiled. But it seemed Frances somehow blamed her for wedding a Highland laird. Perhaps she’d forgotten the true course of events; if Frances had not vanquished Oliver with a smile, Sabrina would have wed him herself.

“But then,” Sabrina murmured consolingly, “you were fortunate enough to marry for love.”

To her astonishment, Frances’s lower lip trembled. “Oh, Brina, I do not mean to act the witch. It is just that I am so unhappy.” Her pretty features turned bleak. “There…are other women.”

“Surely you are mistaken.”

“No. Oliver has a…a mistress. I’ve seen her. She is uncommonly beautiful. And he spends a fortune on gifts for her.” When Sabrina’s expression remained slightly doubtful, Frances said insistently, “How else do you explain how Oliver has managed to run through so much of my dowry in so short a time?”

“His wardrobe is a bit more spectacular than I recall.”

“He buys the latest fashions in order to impress that
woman
. At least she dares not show her face in polite company. She is an
actress
, Brina.” Her lower lip quivering, she raised a hand to her brow.

“Frances?” Sabrina asked, concerned.

“No, I will be better presently.” Fumbling in the pocket of her skirt, Frances withdrew a vile of sal volatile and breathed deeply, wincing at the pungent odor.

“I do not know how you manage to remain so unaffected, Brina. But then I imagine you are accustomed to such betrayal, wed as you are to a celebrated libertine. How I envy your fortitude. How do you bear it?”

“Bear what?”

“Your husband’s infidelities.”

She was fortunately spared a reply when a gentleman approached. Frances stiffened, while Sabrina found it difficult not to stare.

She scarcely recognized Oliver. Resplendent in a coat of yellow satin, he sported a full white wig, gold-buttoned cuffs, and high-heeled, gold-buckled shoes. The gentle suitor she’d known had been scholarly, serious, personally ambitious. This man was a stranger to her.

He bowed deeply before them, though he appeared to ignore his wife. “I am enraptured to greet the bonniest ladies at the ball.”

His gaze drifted down Sabrina’s bosom, making her overly aware of her exposed flesh. Frances apparently noticed his wandering eyes as well, for she sent her husband a withering look that was at once murderous and verging on tears.

When she stalked away without a word, Oliver leaned close to whisper gravely in Sabrina’s ear. “I must speak to you in private. Will you join me in the library in a few moments’ time? ’Tis along the main corridor to the right.”

He gave her no time to reply, but bowed again and turned away.

Puzzled, Sabrina waited for a moment and then followed.

She found the library with little difficulty, but entered warily when she saw that only a single lamp had been lit. Oliver startled a gasp from her when he appeared from the shadows.

He closed the door behind her and took both her hands in a warm grasp.

“You came,” he murmured, gazing at her intently.

Sabrina felt ill at ease with his inexplicable fervor. Yet Oliver seemed not to notice as he launched into what was evidently a prepared speech.

“I can scarcely credit how greatly you’ve changed, Sabrina.”

“I might say the same about you.”

“
You
cannot claim to have acted the fool. Seeing you again has made me realize what a terrible error I made.”

“Error?”

“In forsaking you for Frances.”

“Oliver, you shouldn’t…”

“No, I must say this. I should never have left you. Oh, my dearest, my life has been empty without you.”

“Surely…you mistake your feelings.”

“No, indeed not. My feelings for you have never been stronger.”

Highly discomfited, Sabrina managed to withdraw her hands and move away, to a safer distance. She had never seen him behave this way. “Oliver, you have a wife.”

“Frances does not understand me the way you do.”

“I am not certain I understand you.”

“Then I must speak plainly. I miss you, Sabrina. I want you. And I cannot see why we must endure the misery of being apart. Say you will be with me, cherie.”

She stiffened. “What are you proposing? That we commit adultery?”

“Do not look at me that way, my dear. You are a woman of the world now. How could you be less—wed to a libertine whose affairs are legion?”

He moved toward her purposefully, startling her with his aggression. Was this the same Oliver who had always been gentle, solicitous, respectful in his behavior with her? His glittering eyes just now made her wonder if he was foxed.

Slipping an arm around her waist, he bent his head to kiss her. Stunned, Sabrina could only stand there as his lips pressed hotly against hers.

At her silence, Oliver tightened his embrace, but it was another instant before Sabrina marshaled her shocked senses. She struggled in his arms for a moment, but he was stronger than he appeared, and he refused to release her, only becoming more passionate.

When finally she managed to pull free with a jerk, she drew back her hand and delivered a resounding slap.

Oliver stared at her, rubbing the offended cheek. His gaze held astonishment and admiration.

Sabrina was surprised to find herself trembling. “I will forget this incident ever occurred, Oliver. Now I strongly suggest you return to your wife, while I return to my husband.”

Oliver’s mouth curled scornfully. “Your husband is otherwise engaged at present. Only moments ago I spied him with his English mistress, making an assignation to meet. Why else would I suppose I could find you alone?”

“His mistress?” Sabrina asked, her voice fainter than she would have liked.

“Yes, Lady Chivington.”

She shook her head, unwilling to credit his claim. After all Niall’s protestations of love, he would not openly pursue another woman…Would he? Perhaps she simply did not wish to believe.

Whatever the troubled state of her marriage, though, she realized how fortunate she was to have escaped a union with her former suitor.

“I pity my poor cousin,” Sabrina said, her disdain for Oliver apparent in her expression. “She does not deserve you. Now I bid you good evening.”

Escaping the library, she paused in the corridor to smooth her disheveled skirts and to allow her flushed cheeks to cool. Shortly she found herself in the ballroom, searching the crowd for her husband.

After a moment she spied Niall’s tall figure across the floor, near the French doors, which had been left open against the heat of the myriad candles and press of perfumed bodies. Beside him stood Lady Chivington, smiling like a cream-filled cat.

Sabrina felt her heart wrench.

When Niall bent to whisper something in the lady’s ear, eliciting a gay laugh, Sabrina’s hands curled into fists. She watched in dismay as Lady Chivington turned and slipped through the doors to the garden terrace.

Niall did not immediately follow, but seemed to be searching the crowd. It would not be the first time he had made an assignation to meet his paramour in a garden, however. If so, he would doubtless wish to avoid being seen by the lady’s husband, or by his own wife.

Fury, sharp and piercing, assaulted Sabrina. Never had she felt such a vicious urge to do violence, to Niall most of all, but to the English witch as well. She would have raked the lady’s beautiful face with her nails if she could have managed two minutes alone with her.

She was not alone, however, Sabrina realized regretfully; she was in a crowded ballroom, with several hundred onlookers who would be highly titillated were she to cause such a scene. Whatever action she took would best be effected in private.

Clenching her jaw, Sabrina made her way through the crowd toward the terrace doors. The last time she’d discovered her philandering husband in a compromising position, she had fled in wounded mortification.

But she had no intention of abandoning the battlefield now. This time she would fight for Niall, to prevent him from pursuing his favorite sport in some other woman’s arms.

    Chapter    
Nineteen

He was conversing with a footman when Sabrina reached him. When the servant nodded and moved away, Niall turned to her, his eyes lighting with quick warmth.

The smile Sabrina sent him was brilliantly lethal as she stepped close enough to slip her fingers beneath his elegant frock coat. He had not worn a rapier to the ball, but had belted a dirk at his waist as usual.

When she drew the blade from its sheath and stepped back, his eyebrows shot up quizzically.

“Pray excuse me,” she murmured, the sweetness of her tone belied by her sparking eyes. “I have need of this for a moment.”

Spinning on her heel, she marched through the open doors and out onto the terrace.

She was trembling with rage when she came to a halt. Allowing her gaze to adjust to the dim light, Sabrina spied the English noblewoman near the balustrade overlooking the garden.

“Lady Chivington.”

Arabella turned, her expression one of eager anticipation. “Ni—”

Her welcoming smile fractured when she recognized Sabrina. Then her eyes grew huge as she saw the gleaming blade in Sabrina’s grasp. “W-What…do you here?”

“I came to offer you a warning, my lady. Niall McLaren is my husband. I strongly suggest that you keep away from him.”

The lady eyed the dirk with alarm. “Are you
mad
?”

“Perhaps,” Sabrina replied tightly. “I doubt you would wish to put it to the test.”

Behind her she heard Niall’s incredulous chuckle.

Sabrina spun around, her features fierce as she brandished the dirk. “I’ll not share you with her. Do you ken me?”

He raised a hand to his brow, but his shoulders were shaking. “Thank God…” he murmured. “I feared you would never relent…” He shook his head, unable to contain his relief, a relief so profound he knew it as joy.

“I am entirely serious, sir!” she exclaimed, furious at his apparent amusement. “I’ll not abide your affairs any longer, with this lady or anyone else.”

Niall took a deep breath. “I am all gratitude, my bonny Highland warrior, but an affair with this lady was the last thing I intended.”

“You arranged an assignation with her—”

“No, sweeting,” he replied, all seriousness, all laughter. “For once you greatly mistake the matter.”

Just then a stalwart, ruddy-cheeked gentleman garbed in a scarlet military coat stepped out onto the terrace.

“My dear, what—” Colonel Lord Chivington faltered when he saw the McLaren and his lady. “Beg pardon, milord, I understood my wife was here.”