Sleepless at Midnight (9 page)

“I’d have to disagree with you on that last one. Personally, I find it refreshing that you’ve yet to mention the weather.”

Sarah looked at him to see if he was joking, but he looked perfectly serious. “May I then say that I’m delighted it’s not just me? I cannot understand why anyone would wish to discuss the weather. Ever.”

“Precisely. What is the point?”

“It’s not as if you can do anything about it. The weather ”

“Is what it is,” they said in unison.

Sarah blinked. Then smiled. “Precisely.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth, and an arrow of heat shot through her. Then he looked up, met her eyes and asked softly, “So in what other ways are you unlike other ladies?”

“Well, I suppose in most ways as I’m not a ‘lady.’”

“Perhaps, but I meant figuratively, as in you’re a female. Do you not like to visit the shops?”

A small, feminine sigh escaped her. “Actually, I adore the shops. Especially bookstores. I just love the smell of them. The leather, the aged paper.”

“Any other sort of shops?”

“The confectioner’s shop has always held a special appeal. And the haberdashery. I fear I have something of a weakness for bonnets.”

“Bonnets? You mean the sort you wear on your head?”

“I know of no other kind. Do you?”

“No…’tis just that I haven’t seen you wear one.”

“I was wearing one when I came outdoors but I removed it to play with Danforth.” She reached up one hand and skimmed it self-consciously over her hair. “I’ve found that shoving my hair beneath a bonnet is the only real way to tame the wayward mess.”

His gaze shifted to her hair. He studied the strands for several long seconds, then frowned, and she barely refrained from clapping her arms over her head to thwart his unimpeded view. Finally he said, “I thought your hair was brown, but here in the sunlight…it’s more, um…colorful. It looks curly.”

Based on his scowl, it was clear his words weren’t a compliment. Even as she inwardly cringed, she had to press her lips together to keep from telling him that she already knew her hair was a disaster of spirals in an unfortunate hodge-podge of every shade of brown, thank you very much. It was therefore unnecessary for him to point out the flaw.

“Horrendously curly,” she agreed with a philosophical shrug. “When unbound it resembles a mop. I fight with it on a daily basis, but sadly, it always wins.”

“Does your mother have curly hair?”

“No. My mother is beautiful. Carolyn looks just like her.” Anxious to change the subject, she decided it was time to put him to a small horticultural test.

“Tell me, my lord ” Her words cut off when his shoulder bumped hers, shooting a legion of heated tingles down her arm. She inhaled sharply and caught a whiff of something very pleasant and very masculine…a heady combination of sandalwood and freshly starched linen. Her gaze flew to him but he continued strolling along as if nothing were amiss.

When she remained silent, he looked her way and asked, “Tell you what, Miss Moorehouse?”

Dear God, she’d done it again. Completely lost the thread of the conversation. How utterly vexing. With a frown, she forced herself to concentrate and her faulty memory kicked back to life. Ah yes, his horticultural quiz.

“Tell me, my lord, is your straff wort in the shade or in direct sunlight?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your straff wort. In your garden. Do you have better results when it’s planted in the shade or in direct sunlight?”

He pondered for several seconds then asked, “Which tends to work better for you?”

“Shade. I find that too much sun turns the leaves brown.”

“Yes, I experienced the same thing. Nothing worse than brown, shriveled leaves.”

“Oh, I agree. And your tortlingers? Do they shrivel as well?”

“I’m afraid I’d need to consult with Paul. He’s in charge of all the tortlingers.” They rounded the corner and came within view of the group on the terrace. “Shall we join the others?”

“Actually, I’d prefer to explore the gardens some more, if you don’t mind. I’d like to locate your night bloomers.”

“I don’t mind at all. Enjoy yourself, Miss Moorehouse. I’ll see you at dinner.”

They parted ways, with Lord Langston heading toward the terrace while Sarah struck out for the nearest path leading into the garden. The instant she was certain she couldn’t be seen through the thick hedges, she halted and narrowed her eyes at her host through the concealing foliage. So your straff wort requires shade, does it? Your head groundskeeper is in charge of the tortlingers? “Well, you fell into that trap, didn’t you, Lord Plant Expert,” she murmured to herself.

“Didn’t know there was no such thing as straff wort or tortlingers, did you?”

Which meant two things: Lord Langston was definitely up to something. And she needed to discover what that something was.

Chapter 5

At dinner that evening, Sarah was once again seated at the opposite end of the table from her host, this time placed between Lord Berwick and Mr. Logan Jennsen. Lord Berwick, whom she judged to be in his early thirties, possessed the sort of dazzling blond handsomeness that guaranteed him an abundance of female attention wherever he went. He offered her a polite smile, politely inquired about her health, made a polite comment regarding the weather, then promptly turned his attention to Carolyn, who sat on his other side.

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. Now she could concentrate on the delicious meal and not be forced to make awkward conversation. She tasted a spoonful of the creamy soup, and as was her habit, savored the flavor for several seconds before swallowing, mentally identifying the ingredients as they slid over her tongue. Fresh cream, broccoli, parsley, thyme, a hint of tarragon

“Do you attend these often, Miss Moorehouse?”

She hastily swallowed at the sound of the deep, male voice coming from her left and turned her head. And discovered Mr. Jennsen’s dark-eyed gaze resting upon her. From her observations at several parties, Sarah knew the mysterious, fabulously wealthy American mostly remained on the fringes of the room, watching the crowd. Whether this was by his own choice or because the members of the ton held him at arm’s length or a combination of both she wasn’t sure. They invited him to their soirees he was far too rich to ignore yet kept him at a wary distance. As if he were an exotic beast they suspected might bite them. And of course, he was an American. And in trade. Either reason was enough for Society’s elite not to get too friendly. Although they hadn’t been introduced until yesterday, on the two occasions she’d seen him at London parties, she’d felt a sort of kinship with him from one outsider to another. Mr. Jennsen was as dark as Lord Berwick was blond; a tall, muscular, robust man. His sharp, angular features and a nose that most likely was broken at one time would prevent anyone from calling him classically handsome. But with his keen, intelligent eyes and commanding presence, he was without a doubt extremely compelling.

Clearly, since he’d said her name, he was speaking to her, a fact that surprised her, especially since Emily, who looked beautiful in her pale green muslin gown, sat directly across from him. After dabbing her lips with her napkin, she said, “I’m not certain what you mean by ‘these,’ Mr. Jennsen.”

“These country house parties.” He leaned a bit closer, affording her a whiff of fresh linen and soap. In a voice only she could hear, he said, “These deadly dull dinners.”

A gurgle of surprised laughter rose in her throat at his outrageous but heaven help her, she had to agree with him comment. She coughed to cover the sound. “You’re not enjoying the soup?”

He glanced down at his bowl. “It’s green.”

“Broccoli normally is, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well therein lies the problem. I do not like broccoli.”

“Pity, as I understand tonight’s menu features it prominently. Broccoli soufflé, broccoli stew, followed by sautéed broccoli, broccoli in cream sauce, and even a broccoli flambé for dessert.”

He looked absolutely horrified. “You’re joking.”

“Yes, I am.” She grinned. “But your expression was priceless.”

He stared at her for several seconds then laughed. “I knew it.”

“That I was joking?” She shook her head. “I think not.”

“No, I mean I knew you were…different.”

Sarah stilled then heaved an inward sigh. Apparently today was her day for having gentlemen point out her flaws.

Something must have shown on her face, for he said, “I assure you I meant ‘different’ in the most complimentary way, Miss Moorehouse. You have a sense of humor. And aren’t afraid to speak your mind.”

“It appears you suffer from the same affliction, Mr. Jennsen.”

“Yes. Which is why I’m delighted to find myself sitting next to you this evening. Last evening I sat between Lady Julianne’s matchmaking mother and Lady Emily’s matchmaking aunt a lady who is half deaf, by the way. I’m praying you’ll save me from another meal spent talking for hours yet saying absolutely nothing. Blah blah blah, weather weather weather, marriage marriage marriage, blah blah blah.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you British do it talk in those never ending circles.”

“It’s an acquired skill, drummed into us from infancy. By the time we’re adolescents, we can blah blah blah about the weather and marriage all day long.”

“I see. Then how is it that you escaped such drumming?”

She debated how honest she should be, but then decided she had no reason to hide behind platitudes with this self-confessed plain-speaking man. “My parents didn’t care if I mastered the fine art of the weather discussion, as all their marriage hopes were pinned upon my sister. I therefore spent my time doing other things.”

He nodded in an approving fashion. “Good for you. Things such as playing with dogs and walking through the gardens, I presume?” When her brows shot up, he added, “I saw you today, during tea time on the terrace. You and that monstrous dog were enjoying yourselves.”

“Yes. You weren’t?”

“Not nearly as much as you were. Not only was I once again seated between the chaperones, I don’t particularly care for tea.”

“Broccoli and tea?” She made a tsking sound. “Is there anything you do like, Mr. Jennsen?”

“Asparagus. Coffee.” He picked up his wineglass and contemplated her over the rim. “I like the unusual. The unexpected. People who possess a sense of humor and aren’t afraid to speak their mind. What do you like?”

“Carrots. Mulled cider. People who, like me, are…outsiders. People who possess a sense of humor and aren’t afraid to speak their mind.”

A slow smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “It seems I’ve discovered a kindred spirit. Thank God. I thought I was going to have to suffer through listening to Thurston and Berwick discuss fox hunting all evening.”

“It is what gentlemen do during these house parties. Ride, eat, sleep, hunt, tell embellished stories of their exploits and gambling successes.” She grinned. “There’s always piquet and whist with the chaperones.”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Thank you, but no.”

“Then you might enjoy those games with Lady Julianne and Lady Emily. Both are skilled card players, as is my sister. And although they may not have yet had the opportunity to prove it, I assure you, all three of them are capable of discussing more than the weather. ’Tis just that that’s the first topic most ladies discuss. One must wade through the weather chatter in order to reach more scintillating topics.”

“Such as?”

“Shopping. Fashion.”

“God help me.”

“The opera. Hunting.” Her lips twitched. “Or marriage at which time the chaperones will join you.”

“You’re killing me, you know.” He picked up his spoon and idly circled the silver utensil through his soup. “I meant no offense to your sister and friends. It’s actually Thurston and Hartley who are the dead bores. Even the chaperones aren’t as bad as they are. Your sister and friends have been very charming.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment. They’re all very beautiful.”

“Undeniably. Your sister, especially.”

Sarah smiled. “Yes, she is. On the inside as well.”

“Then she is indeed a rare beauty. And lucky to have a sister who thinks so highly of her.”

Sarah shook her head. “I am the lucky one, sir. Carolyn has always been my champion. And very best friend.”

The footmen cleared away the soup bowls, then followed with a course of thinly sliced ham and creamed peas.

“More green food,” Mr. Jennsen whispered, cutting his gaze pointedly toward the peas.

“Don’t worry,” Sarah whispered back. “There are only nine more courses and then the meal is done.”

A low groan escaped him, and she couldn’t hide her smile.

“Remind me why I’m here and not in my London town house, eating food that isn’t green?” he said.

“I’ve no idea. Why did you come to Langston Manor?”

“Langston invited me. I’m not certain why, as we’re not well-acquainted. My guess is that he wishes at some point to discuss a business proposition. Since that is my favorite type of conversation, I’m willing to temporarily tolerate green foods.” He shot her a sideways glance. “I gather you came to Langston Manor as a bride candidate?”

Sarah nearly spewed her mouthful of creamed peas across the table. After swallowing, she said,

“Bride candidate? Heavens no. I’m nothing of the sort.”

“Why not? Are you already spoken for?”

She stared at him, certain he was jesting, but incredibly, nothing in his eyes or his expression indicated he was teasing. “No, I’m not.” She added in an undertone, “You’ve heard that Lord Langston is looking for a wife?”

“A rumor to that effect is floating about London. When I arrived yesterday and saw the array of beautiful, unattached houseguests, I figured the rumor must be true.” Then he smiled, a very attractive smile, she decided, that was just a bit lopsided and showed even, white teeth. “So you aren’t already spoken for. In spite of the green food, this meal continues to improve at a rapid rate.”