CRANWELL WAS riding back to the house from the south. It was still early; he doubted that many of his guests had yet breakfasted, though he had been up for several hours. The harvest had started today, and he had gone to watch his laborers going to the fields to begin. It was always his favorite time of the year. He had itched to throw off his coat, roll up his sleeves, and join them. Instead, he had merely stood at the gate greeting each worker by name, listening good-naturedly to the teasing over his elegant attire. He was on good enough terms with his men that they felt at liberty occasionally to tease.
It was certainly not the right time to have houseguests. If he had been wise, he would have thought of this party as soon as the Bath scheme was suggested. By now, he would be free again to follow his own inclination. But then, he thought, if he had not gone to Bath, he would not have seen Sarah again.
And would that have mattered? Would it not be a thousand times better if he had never set eyes on her again? A few days before he would have answered without hesitation in the affirmative. Had things changed so much since? He was still waiting for the onslaught of guilt feelings over what had happened the afternoon before.
With his mind he could feel guilty. He had divorced Sarah four years before for behavior that could never be tolerated by any decent man. Even if she had changed, there were still basically those facts against her. And much of the evidence of the last couple of weeks suggested that she had not changed a great deal. She had defrauded him of a large sum of money and failed miserably to keep her side of the bargain. She had been attempting to seduce her betrothed two days before-and then had succeeded with him just yesterday. And even besides her character, there was the fact that she was betrothed, to be married within the next week or so.
And he was betrothed to a young girl who did not deserve to be deceived. She was here at his home with her parents and several of her relatives. And he had spent part of the previous afternoon up on the hill making love to another of his guests.
Yes, it was very easy to list all the facts that should make him feel guilty. The trouble was, he could not feel shame. Last evening he had not been able to withdraw his attention from Sarah. He had been consumed by jealousy when she had gone outside with Bowen, had sighed with relief when Lady Murdoch had suggested that more of the young people go outside too. He had been constantly aware of her all evening and had not been able to resist asking her to waltz with him once. And just to touch her again had been sweet agony.
He had expected the reaction to come sometime during the night. Then, surely, he would realize the enormity of what he had done. Instead, he had lain awake for half the night thinking about her, reliving their lovemaking of the afternoon. And he could not find anything ugly about what had happened. It should repulse him that he had slept with a woman who gave herself willingly to any man she fancied-or who had used to do so, anyway. But he could only remember how she had clung to him, surrendered herself to him, urged him on to the climax, and called his name as she reached what could not have been a feigned release.
He had spent so many years feeling humiliated by his memories of her. He had always persuaded himself that she had despised him from the start. There was nothing in his person, he had felt, to attract someone of Sarah's extraordinary beauty. She must have laughed at his devotion and passion. His pride had been restored yesterday. She clearly had been attracted by him. There was something about him, after all, that could arouse a very powerful passion in her.
And it had not been purely physical. He still could not quite explain it to himself, but he knew that there had been more than a meeting of their bodies. Perhaps the best way he could explain it to himself was to say that their lovemaking had been a marriage act. They had become one for the space of a few minutes.
He could not feel ashamed. And now he was riding homeward with an eagerness to see her again. How would she look at him this morning? Would she took with that bright-eyed expression she had had last night, the flushed cheeks? Would she look with the aloofness with which she had treated him for most of the last couple of weeks? Would she look with hostility, distaste? Would she avoid his eyes altogether?
Cranwell slowed the pace of his horse. He must think about this matter. He must not behave like an infatuated schoolboy. And he must definitely not act in a manner that would arouse anyone's suspicions. And he certainly owed Hannah more of his time than he had granted her in the last few days. He must force his attention away from Sarah.
It was going to be difficult to do. He wanted Sarah. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to show her more of his house. He wanted to be with her this afternoon during the trip into Salisbury that had been planned the previous evening. He would love to see her reaction to the cathedral, which must surely be the most magnificent in all England. He wanted to look at her, to watch the lights in her hair, her eyebrows which always seemed to suggest surprise, her green eyes and sensitive mouth. He wanted to make love to her again.
Damnation! Cranwell drew his horse to a halt so suddenly that the animal reared up and nearly threw him. He had not been mistaken the previous afternoon. He was in love with Sarah again. There was no denying it, was there? It was not just that he desired her. He wanted her again as his friend, his companion. He wanted her in his home, his life.
Had he completely taken leave of his senses? He was wanting to share his life with a woman who had been a whore just a few years before, a woman to whom money meant more than honor, a woman who had tricked him into marriage and then cuckolded him almost immediately afterward. What power she had! She could almost make one consider her an angel even when one knew perfectly well that she was more akin to the devil.
Dammit! He loved her.
Even as he admitted the thought to his conscious mind he saw her. She was sitting on the lawn south of the house, beneath a tree, her yellow dress spread around her like a ray of sunshine, her uncovered hair shining in the morning light. He felt his heart turn over and then noticed with some guilt that Hannah was there too, her arms clasped around the neck of her collie. He had not even seen her at first, though she sat right beside Sarah.
He rode toward them, intent on greeting them in an appropriate manner. He doffed his hat and smiled at them, Hannah first and then Sarah.
"Good morning, my love," he said. "Good morning, Miss Fifield."
Hannah looked up briefly, then lowered her head to her dog again. "Good morning, your grace," she said.
"Good morning," Sarah said. "You are out early, your grace. The harvest must have started. Are you not sorry that you cannot be out in the fields working yourself?"
He smiled. "There will still be plenty left to do next week when I shall be alone again," he said.
Hannah looked up, startled. "You do not work in the fields, your grace?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed," he assured her. "There is nothing more invigorating."
"But why?" she asked. "You have sufficient laborers, do you not?"
"Oh yes," he agreed. "It is entirely a personal whim, as you will discover for yourself."
He nodded to both of them, replaced his hat, and rode on to the stables. Well, he had discovered how she would look at him this morning. With wide-open eyes, flushed cheeks, and the whole of the sun behind her eyes.
Damnation!
"Do you think he noticed?" Hannah asked anxiously. "I shall die if he did, though he did not say anything, did he?"
"You are sitting in the shade," Sarah said reassuringly, "and the brim of your bonnet hides your eyes even more. I don't think his grace knew you have been crying, Hannah. He would have said something."
"I feel so stupid anyway," Hannah said. "It is just that out here with Argus it all came over me somehow. I know it is stupid, Miss Fifield. I have had a long time already to get used to the idea. And there is nothing I can do about it. I must just learn to be brave."
Sarah hesitated. Hannah's affairs were really none of her business, but the girl had been so obviously distressed a half-hour earlier when she had found her in this very spot, her arms around her dog's neck, sobbing her heart out. Somehow it was hard to keep oneself from interfering when another person seemed so helpless and so alone.
"Do your mama and papa know how you feel about Mr. Ferris?" she asked.
Hannah looked at her with startled eyes. "Oh no!" she said. "We never said anything. Donald wished to wait until I was eighteen before speaking to Papa. We were both foolish enough to imagine that there would be no objection to our marrying. But when his grace came to pay his addresses, Papa was so obviously set on the match that I knew there would be no use at all in telling him that I love Donald."
"And Mr. Ferris said nothing?" Sarah asked.
"No," said Hannah. "He is very aware that he is not a wealthy man. Even when his father dies-and he by no means wishes that event to be soon-he will have only a modest fortune. He felt that he would be standing in the way of my advancement if he tried to stop this marriage."
"I see," Sarah said. "And there is no chance, Hannah, that your feelings for Mr. Ferris are just youthful infatuation? You are very young, you know."
"Oh no," the girl said earnestly. "Donald and I have always loved each other dearly. We decided when I was twelve and he fifteen that we would marry when I was eighteen. Oh, Miss Fifield, I cannot bear the thought of never seeing him again. I still cannot believe that all this is happening."
"His grace is a kind and considerate man," Sarah said gently. "Is there no chance, Hannah, that you will grow to be contented with him even if you cannot love him as you do Mr. Ferris?"
"Oh," Hannah wailed, "I know he is kind, Miss Fifield. He is a good man. I can respect him. I think I could even like him if I did not know that I will have to spend my life with him. I do not know how I shall do it. I just cannot feel close to him. I think I am somewhat afraid of him."
"Hannah," Sarah said. "Why do you not have a talk with your mama? Perhaps it will not change matters at all, but perhaps too she will be sympathetic. After all, if she and your father do not even know the true state of your feelings, you cannot entirely blame them for urging this marriage on you."
Hannah was quiet for a moment. She scratched the stomach of her dog, who was lying on his back, legs waving in the air, in an ecstasy of sensual bliss. "I know it would not help at all," she said. "I must just force myself to get used to the idea." She laughed. "I am foolish, am I not? Most females would give a great deal to have my chance to be the Duchess of Cranwell."
Sarah watched the girl's bowed head for a minute. How incredible were human preferences. How could any woman have the opportunity to marry George and not be blissfully happy? How could any woman possibly prefer another man to him? Her own feelings were quite confused. Part of her felt elated. This was not a love match, clearly. If Hannah claimed that she hardly knew George, the chances were that they had spent very little time together. In all probability, then, he had chosen her because he felt the need of a wife and not because he loved her. Why that thought should be comforting, she was not quite sure. Did it follow that if George did not love Hannah, he did love her?
On the other hand, she felt unutterably sad. In just a few months' time George would be married to a girl who did not love him and who pined for her childhood sweetheart. He would never know love in his home. He would surely be lonely and ultimately unhappy. And she had so much love to give. She was just brimming over with it, so much so that she had not even been able to look at him a few minutes before without having to restrain the desire to get to her feet and rush to him. If only circumstances had been different!
"Perhaps we should go inside," Sarah suggested. "The plan is to start for Salisbury before luncheon, is it not? We should begin to get ready."
"Yes, you are right," Hannah said. "I had almost forgotten that mad scheme. I wonder what put it into Grandmama's and Lady Murdoch's heads last night. Salisbury is all of eight miles away."
"His grace suggested it when they asked where one might go on an excursion," Sarah said. "There is the cathedral to see. I have heard it is quite magnificent."
"Yes, I suppose so," Hannah said. "I just cannot get too excited about old buildings. Can you, Miss Fifield?"
They got to their feet and brushed grass from their skirts before returning to the house via the stables, where Argus had a noisy reunion with Cranwell's dogs.
All the members of the Duke of Cranwell's house party were to join the expedition and picnic to Salisbury. A veritable cavalcade of carriages and horses left Montagu Hall late in the morning, the duke's own carriage laden with food and drink for their luncheon. Sarah rode with Winston, Lady Cavendish, and Lady Murdoch in Lady Cavendish's traveling coach. Cranwell, Joshua Stonewall, and Captain Penny rode their horses.
Sarah was awed by her first sight of the cathedral. Its tall tower and spire dwarfed the city around it. The intricately carved stonework was breathtaking even at a distance. She sat with her face pressed to the window during all the time it took to wind through the narrow streets, while her companions continued to chat as they had during the whole journey. The ladies, that was. Winston, apart from a charming smile at the start and a comment about how fortunate he was to be traveling with three ladies, had been unusually quiet.
Sarah was delighted by the size of the grounds that surrounded the cathedral. The flat lawns and trees enabled one to have a good view of the massive building from some distance. It was truly a wonder. How could mere men have possibly built such a structure and decorated it with so much skill?
Most members of the party were happy to descend from carriages and horses to stretch their legs. Most of them thought immediately of the picnic baskets and discovered that they were ravenously hungry. Blankets were spread under the shade of some trees quite a distance from the cathedral, and the picnic baskets were lifted down from Cranwell's coach. Lord Tenby took charge of the wine bottles.
Sarah wandered off by herself. She wanted to see the main doors at the front of the cathedral. She was sure they would be suitably magnificent.
"Do you admire old buildings, Miss Fifield?" a man's voice asked from behind her.
Sarah turned to find that Joshua Stonewall had followed her. "Yes, indeed," she said. "I have not done a great deal of traveling in my life. I take full advantage of every opportunity like this."
"You would enjoy traveling around Europe," he said. "There is so much to see."
"Have you traveled there much?" she asked wistfully. "I would give a great deal to see Italy and Greece in particular."
"Yes," he said with a smile. "You would appreciate them, Miss Fifield. But perhaps you will do so very soon. Will Laing take you on a wedding trip, do you think?"
"Win?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "I very much doubt it, sir. He is not at all interested in art or architecture or books or anything else that I love." It was only after the words were out of her mouth that she realized how dreadful they sounded.
He walked beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. "I see," he said. "And what is the attraction, then, if I may make so bold?"
Sarah blushed. "Oh," she said evasively, "we grew up together, sir. We have grown fond of each other over the years!!"
"And is that enough?" he asked. "Fondness, I mean. Are you enough alike to be happy together for a lifetime?"
Sarah stiffened. "Really, sir," she said, "I think that is a matter that concerns only Win and me."
He looked suitably contrite. "I do beg your pardon, Miss Fifield," he said. "I am afraid I have been driven on by jealousy."
"Jealousy?" she said, looking at him, startled.
"I admire you greatly, ma'am," he said, flushing under her scrutiny. "And I cannot help feeling that you are wasted on someone like Laing."
"And what is he like?" Sarah asked quietly.
He smiled ruefully. "Pardon me," he said. "I am already biased against him because the lucky dog is betrothed to you. And I must admit that he is a handsome devil. But I think him a little shallow for you, Miss Fifield. Charming, yes, but I suspect there is very little character beneath the charm."
Sarah looked away from him and said nothing.
"And now I have really spoken out of turn," he said. "Most impertinent of me. Please forget everything I have said, ma'am."
Sarah smiled briefly at him. "I did ask your opinion," she said.
"May I escort you back to the others?" Joshua asked, offering Sarah his arm.
When they returned, everyone was sitting down eating, except Cranwell, who was standing against one of the trees, his arms folded, gazing at the cathedral-and at them. Winston and Fanny were in animated conversation. Instead of joining them, Sarah took the glass of wine offered by Lord Tenby, allowed Mr. Stonewall to heap a plate with food, and sat down with him on the only unoccupied corner of one of the blankets. Cranwell finally helped himself to some food too and joined Hannah and her parents.
The older ladies, although they had been the ones to urge the expedition, decided that they were well content to see the outside of the cathedral only. They would stay where they were and rest for a while. Several others decided that they would prefer to walk closer to Mompesson House that bordered the cathedral grounds than to see the cathedral itself. The house was reputed to have extensive gardens. Perhaps they would be allowed to walk in these even if they were not permitted to enter the house itself.
A few of the young people were contented to stroll in the grounds. Winston and Hannah made two of this number. Winston had made straight for her, in fact, when the meal was over, Sarah noticed. He had bent over her, smiled, and led her off a few moments later. They were walking now, quite apart from any other group, apparently quite engrossed in conversation. Sarah could make nothing at all of that particular friendship, but she would not worry about it. They were in a public place, and Win could really do no harm to Hannah. She was betrothed to George and in love with her Donald Ferris. She must surely be beyond the dangers of Win's charm.
Only Lord and Lady Fairlie, Joshua Stonewall, Fanny, Captain Penny, Cranwell, and Sarah wished to go inside the cathedral. Fanny took Sarah's arm as they walked across the grass toward the main doors, which Sarah had still not seen.
"I want to see what you think of the nave of the church when we get inside," Fanny said. "I do not know much about architecture, and usually I do not much care. But even I love this cathedral. It is the perfect setting for a wedding, Miss Fifield. Can you not imagine all the guests standing around on the lawns? And the inside is perfect. I have always been determined that this is where I shall marry. Would you not like to marry here too?"
Sarah smiled. "I really do not think the setting is of great importance if one's partner is the right man," she said. "One could be just as happy in the smallest of country churches." She was thinking of a certain church with only a vicar, her aunt and uncle present. And herself, of course. And George.
"I am surprised Hannah does not want to marry here," Fanny chattered on. "But the earl seems to have his heart set on holding the wedding at their own home."
"That is only natural," Sarah said.
"Of course," Fanny added in a rush, "I do not think Hannah really wishes to get married anywhere. Not to George, anyway."
Sarah did not immediately answer. "What makes you think that?" she asked.
Fanny shrugged. "I can tell," she said. "I have known right from the start. Perhaps it is because George is my brother. I love him dearly, you know, even though we are so different from each other and he is so much older than I am. I am sensitive to such things. Hannah does not love him or wish to marry him. And he does not love her, of course. I think Hannah probably loves what's-his-name-that neighbor she is always talking about. And I think George should wait until he can marry for love. He will not be happy without it, you see, though he does not realize it himself."
Fanny was considerably flushed, though Sarah did not turn her head to see. "It is so easy to criticize," she said. "Even if what you say is true, I do not suppose Lady Hannah has any choice in the matter. I suppose her father has pressed for this match because your brother can offer her position and wealth."
Fanny laughed briefly. "Position, perhaps," she said, "but hardly wealth. The Earl of Cavendish is easily as rich as George, and most of his fortune will pass to Hannah, as she is his only child."
Sarah said no more. But her mind had received a jolt. Did Win know? she wondered, and immediately hoped that the thought was irrelevant. Why was it that she had always assumed that the Earl of Cavendish was impoverished, that be had arranged this marriage for his daughter for that reason? She glanced hastily around her, but Win and Hannah were nowhere in sight. She and Fanny were approaching the cathedral by a circuitous route. The others had disappeared inside already.
Fanny was talking again. "Perhaps you think my concern for my brother unnatural," she said, "or perhaps you understand. You had a brother, did you not?"
"Yes," Sarah said. "He died."
"Poor boy," Fanny said. "I met him once."
"Did you?" Sarah asked, looking up in some surprise.
"Yes," Fanny said. "It was the dreadful day when that other boy was killed. What was his name?"
Sarah's arm had stiffened beneath Fanny's. "Albert Stanfield?" she said.
"Of course," Fanny said. "How could I have forgotten? For years I felt guilty about feeling hostile toward someone who was dead. I am sure he did not deserve to die, but at the time I felt that he almost deserved it."
"You were there?" Sarah was breathless.
"He was so horrid to your brother," Fanny said. "The poor little boy was sobbing and hugging a tree when I came riding by and decided to come to his defense. I called that boy some names in return for the ones he was calling your brother. When he started to back away, jeering at both of us, I saw his danger almost immediately. He was very close to the edge of the quarry. But I suppose he thought my screams all part of my fury." She shuddered. "I shall never forget the sound of… But I am sorry, Miss Fifield. I had not intended to speak of it. It must be painful to you to be reminded of that episode."
"Not at all," Sarah said faintly.
"For months I was convinced I had killed him," Fanny said. "I did not even tell anyone until we went home a few days later. George was very upset with me when I finally told him. I believe he wrote to the authorities immediately, though the case had already been closed. It was a dreadful time. George comforted me after his first anger was over and convinced me that I was in no way to blame. We always have the right and the duty to defend the weak against the bullies of this world, he said."
They were at the doors of the cathedral, and Fanny fell silent as they passed out of the sunshine between the massive stone doorways.
It was immediately apparent to Sarah when she and her companion had walked through the great doors what Fanny had meant about getting married in this cathedral. The nave stretching before her was entirely Gothic. Everything-high-arched ceiling, massive columns, richly decorated stained-glass windows-reached toward heaven. A mere mortal standing on the hard stone floor felt tiny and insignificant. But oh yes, a bride would feel very special indeed here.
Sarah sat on one of the wooden chairs. Fanny continued on down the nave to join Lady Fairlie and the men, who were down by the quire already. Sarah was not feeling anything yet. She was too utterly stunned to feel. She must sit here until what she had just heard had penetrated into her conscious mind.
Graham had not killed Albert Stanfield. Fanny had been there and witnessed what had happened. Win, presumably, had not. Her brother was innocent. Win's blackmail had been all bluff. All. Her virtue had been lost, her marriage destroyed, her life ruined, all because she had not seen through his bluff. And Win, whom she had for many years considered devilish, was worse than that. Far worse. Worse than the devil. What could be worse than the devil? Winston Bowen.
Her brother was innocent. Graham had not been a murderer. Sarah's head dropped into her hands, and she sank to her knees on the hard stone of the cathedral floor. She raised her head and gazed at the distant altar.
Later, Sarah began her own tour of the cathedral. It was cold and silent, heavy with an other-worldly atmosphere that she could not explain to herself. Was it possible that just beyond the windows and the stone walls were the lawns, the trees, their carriages and blankets? Here she felt totally cut off from everyday life. She sat again in Trinity Chapel, behind the great altar, gazing at the triple-arched stained-glass window. How insignificant one's own wishes and problems seemed in such a setting. She felt something like peace soothing her soul.
"I can remember being similarly awed during my first visit here," Cranwell said from behind her, "although I was only thirteen years old at the time. And I must confess, I am amazed anew each time I come here. It is always more magnificent than I remembered."
"One can almost feel the presence of God here," Sarah replied, her voice hushed. She did not turn her head.
Cranwell came and sat two seats away from her. "I have seen many cathedrals in Europe," he said, "but I do not believe there is one to match this. Milan Cathedral perhaps comes close. Of course," he laughed, "I am partial."
Sarah smiled at him and was immediately sorry for her involuntary movement. She felt as if a giant hand had grabbed her by the throat and was squeezing the breath from her body.
"If you have seen enough inside the church," he said, "perhaps I can take you out to the cloisters? They are lovely too. Not quite as awe-inspiring as the church itself, maybe. But there is too much in here to absorb all in one visit, is there not? You will have to see it many times before you will feel that you really know it. Or that you partly know it."
Sarah rose to her feet and he placed a hand at the small of her back to guide her along the side aisle, past the vestry, to the arched doorway that led out to the cloisters.
It was a different world again, as quiet, as beautiful, but more peaceful somehow. They strolled around the stone cloisters, looking out through the open archways at the grass and old gnarled trees that formed a quadrangle at the center. They did not talk. They did not touch.
"It is lovely," Sarah said at last. "Thank you. I think I would have missed this, left to myself. Where is everyone else?"
"Outside walking or sitting on the blankets," Cranwell said. "Most people are not as sensitive to atmosphere as you are, Sarah. A quick look at beauty and they are satisfied."
"I am sorry," she said, self-conscious again. "Did you wish to leave?"
"No," he said, "not at all."
He offered Sarah his arm and she took it hesitantly. They strolled on, silent again for a few minutes.
"Sarah," he said at last quietly, "do I owe you an apology for yesterday?"
She blushed painfully. "No," she said, "please do not say you are sorry."
"If I did," he said, "it would be only for having offended you."
"I was not offended," she almost whispered.
Cranwell was waging an internal battle as they lapsed into silence again. One part of him felt almost drugged, to the extent that he no longer cared what she was or had been. The whole of their divorce and the lonely years since had been a terrible mistake. He should have persevered four years before in his efforts to patch up their differences. He should not have taken her confessions so much to heart. The future was what should have mattered to him, not the past. He should have fought for her, fought with her if by so doing he might have turned her away from her craving for other men.
He might have succeeded. Certainly he could not believe her as depraved as he had once thought. It was true that she was beautiful and therefore attractive to many men. She must have been sorely tempted by their admiration. And perhaps it was not surprising that she had given in to that temptation to indulge her power over men. She had been left alone with a mentally handicapped brother at a very early age. Although she had loving relatives with whom to live, it must have seemed to a twelve-year-old that the security had dropped out of her world. She must have needed to reassure herself that she could hold other people's love by using her sexual attractions.
It was not a very pretty explanation of what she had done, but it was at least understandable. She had been very young, barely nineteen when he had married her. She had matured since. She had probably learned that no lasting satisfaction could be achieved by such casual relationships. If he had waited a little longer, he could have been there for her when she finally learned the truth. They might have put the past behind them and started again.
Perhaps. Certainly now he was feeling for her again that powerful attraction that had drawn him when he first knew her. He could easily allow himself to walk with her now, pretending that she was still his wife, that there was nothing but love and harmony between them. He could turn to her now so easily and kiss her lips. Not with passion. The setting was not conducive to such emotion. But with tenderness.
But beneath these feelings ran the thought that he was being a fool. He had been completely taken in by her once before, had he not? He would have wagered his fortune, his life even, on her innocence and sweetness at that time. He could not have been more deceived. He could recall now with terrible clarity his shock on discovering that she was not a virgin, and then in hearing her admit quite openly that she had performed the act more times than she could count.
Had he not had ample evidence in the past weeks that she had not entirely changed? There was the money first and foremost. Not that the sum mattered to him greatly. He had enough, and his estates brought in enough that the loss was almost insignificant. But she had asked him for it, demanded it really as a condition for removing herself from his life. And what had happened? The fact that he was walking with her here more than a week later was answer enough.
She apparently lived a respectable life now. At least she seemed to have done so for the past four years. But she had betrothed herself to a man of some charm and was apparently quite eager to give herself to him before the wedding night. She had made a slave of Josh. The two of them had been wandering around before luncheon, arm in arm, apparently quite oblivious of the presence of anyone else. Was she trying to ensnare him into her bed too?
And of course, she had succeeded with him. Despite everything, he had come under her spell again. He had kissed her when they were still in Bath. He had thought of little else except her since then. Yesterday he had actually made love to her. And since then his thoughts had been obsessed by her. Here he was, strolling with her as if they were still husband and wife. She had just admitted that she was not sorry for the day before. Yet she was to marry Bowen the following week. Was she walking beside him now, apparently so meek and contented, laughing at him, at her power to make such a fool of him?
"Do you give your favors as freely to Bowen?" this more negative side of his mood asked her.
"I beg your pardon?" Sarah looked full into his face, those eyebrows arched high above startled eyes.
"Do you sleep with him too, Sarah, and tell him that you are not sorry?" he asked. "Do you still need more than one man to make you happy?"
She was still looking at him. Her face was very white. They had stopped walking. "Don't," she said. "Please don't do this."
"Why not?" he asked. His voice was cold, the side of his nature that loved her noted almost dispassionately. "Never say that you have a conscience that can be bothered."
She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide and bright, though he could see no tears there. "Don't, George," she said. "Oh, please don't. This is all we will ever have."
"Nonsense!" he said, his voice a sneer. "You will be my guest for three more days, Sarah. I can arrange to be alone in the hills each afternoon of those days if you wish. Would that satisfy you?"
Her face had calmed, though it was still deathly pale. "And do you make love to Hannah and offer to apologize each time afterward?" she said, only a slight tremor in her voice.
Cranwell's face flushed with anger. "Only you could think of such a thing," he said. "You have only to look at Hannah to know that she is pure and innocent. That is a filthy suggestion, Sarah."
She nodded, her face hard. "Of course," she said. "I did not think of that. But then, you cannot expect me to, can you, your grace? We whores become so hardened in our depravity that we forget that such qualities as purity and innocence exist."
Cranwell blanched. He reached out a hand to her.
"Don't touch me!" she said. "You may become contaminated, your grace. In fact, it may already be too late for you. Who knows what dread disease I may have passed along to you yesterday? It would have been, wiser to wait for your pure bride than to pick up a whore, would it not? One never knows where she may have been. Or with whom."
"Sarah," he said, "listen to me. I am sorry. I don't know why I spoke as 'I did. I did not mean-"
"Oh yes, you did," she said. "And I know why you said what you did. You are like most men. You impose one standard on your own behavior and quite another on that of all women. On our wedding night you knew that you were not my first lover. How did you know, your grace? It I was your first woman, how did you know? There was a time when I believed that I had wronged you as much as it is possible for a woman to wrong a man. And I still know that what I did was very wrong. But was my past so much more immoral than yours? With how many women had you slept, George, and how many times? How would you have reacted that night had I asked you those questions?"
"Sarah," he said, reaching his hand out to her again.
"I have not finished," she said. "Yes, what I did yesterday with you was wrong. We are each betrothed to someone else and we wronged them by making love with each other, even if they never know about it. But we sinned equally, George. You did not sin the less just because you are a man. Why are men merely satisfying a need when they make love to women who are not their wives, while women are whores? Do you think I like that label? I do not, and I never did. And what is more, George, I have never-never! — done anything to deserve that name."
They stared at each other wordlessly when her tirade came to an end. She was shaking and almost panting with shortness of breath, Cranwell noticed.
He nodded. "You are quite right," he said. "I am sorry." He had not meant his voice to sound so curt.
She laughed harshly. "And that makes everything all right again," she said bitterly. "His Grace of Cranwell has just done the noble thing and apologized to a whore."
"Don't call yourself that, Sarah," he said wearily.
"I shall leave Montagu Hall in the morning," she said. "I should not have come here in the first place. I shall try to persuade Lady Murdoch and Win to come with me. I must talk to you about Win before I leave. But not now. And it will not take long." Her voice was flat. She no longer looked at him, but at the buttons of his coat.
He could think of nothing to say. His interior war was raging again. Part of him wanted to grab her, drag her against him, kiss her, plead with her not to leave him, now or ever. Part of him acknowledged that what she planned Alas the only sensible thing to be done. Once she was gone, he could put her out of his mind and his heart again and devote his energies to getting to know his bride.
He said nothing as she turned away and walked to the arched doorway that led back into the cathedral. He followed her with his eyes. He swallowed against a lump in his throat.