Lord Sin

She gave him a mocking reprimand. “Do please discontinue this kind of talk. Your heart is safely locked in your chest, where I believe it will continue to reside, Ian.”

At his pained expression and declaration of “Now you’ve mortally wounded me,” she laughed, as he had meant her to.

After taking his coat with a quelling glance, Victoria handed it to another footman. She said, “John, please have Mrs. Everard send tea into the sitting room.”

“Very well, my lady.” The young, dark-haired serving man bowed to each of them respectfully and moved off across the marble floor.

Victoria then linked her arm through Ian’s and led him forward. “Now come into the sitting room and we’ll have tea. Jedidiah is off showing one of the tenants how to set up an irrigation system. He should be back shortly.”

As they moved across the foyer Ian could not help thinking again what a charming home Briarwood Manor was. In spite of its size and grandeur, it reverberated a feeling of comfort and warmth. Through the open doorways on either side of them he could see into rooms where the drapes had been drawn back to let in the light. He gained the impression of a pleasant mix of pale and vibrant colors that made each chamber seem to beckon a welcome.

Once more Ian could not help comparing it to Sinclair Hall. He tried not to acknowledge the melancholy that tugged at his heart on doing so. His own ancestral home he found lacking on every score. The rooms of that great house were kept dark and closed off, a fitting home for the ghosts that roamed its halls. And there were ghosts—not only the ghost of his mother, who had died giving birth to him, but also that of his brother, Malcolm.

The thought of his brother made his heart ache with loss. Ian had loved Malcolm with a devotion that was akin to hero-worship. Even Ian’s very early understanding that his father’s love for himself would never come close to that of his older son had not changed Ian’s feelings for Malcolm. He had been intelligent, loving and so full of life. How could anyone begrudge him anything, least of all Ian? Malcolm had been the sun they all orbited around. That was why his father had never been able to forgive Ian when he believed his younger son had caused Malcolm’s death.

It was a death that he had, in fact, not been responsible for.

Ian’s lips thinned as he pushed the painful thoughts away. It was surprising how difficult this was to do, especially when he had worked so diligently to forget in the intervening years. Nothing—not drink, not women, not horse racing—had made him forget for more than brief hours. Realizing that living as Lord Sin was not making him forget had made Ian wish to change his life. He had thought Victoria would be part of that new life, but that had not come to pass.

Victoria led him into the sitting room, where they seated themselves on a pale green settee. Immediately Ian turned to her, needing to concentrate on something beyond his hurtful thoughts. “It seems Jed is keeping himself busy with the duties of running the estates.”

She rested a hand on the swell of her stomach. Contentment and pride were clear in her tone and shining gray eyes. “Yes, he is. He never seems to resent the burdens marrying me has laid at his feet. He does in fact seem to thrive on the work and responsibility of looking after the welfare of so many.” She smiled ruefully. “And I am grateful for him for more reasons than I can say. Not the least of which is that his care for our lands has freed me to be a mother to my child.”

Ian heard her speak of Jedidiah’s pleasure in his duties as overlord with a trace of regret. He would not be averse to taking up the duties of running the Sinclair estates. He did in fact wish that his father had ever seemed the least bit interested in having him do so. The one thing he appeared to expect from his son was an heir, and on that score he had been quite blunt. When last they’d spoken, the elder man had reiterated his desire for Ian to wed his cousin Barbara and get her with child. Ian had no intention of falling in with his father’s wishes. He was not in the least attracted to Barbara, and would not have married her if he was. He would not allow the older man to rule his life. As long as he was earl Malcolm Sinclair had the power to keep Ian from having any say in how the estates were run. But he could not control the way Ian lived his own life.

As he replied, Ian could not help the unrest in his tone. “I’m sure the duties your husband performs offer more satisfaction than you know, Victoria. Seeing your own ideas implemented, improving conditions for the people who depend upon you. Those things would be reward enough to content any self-respecting man.”

Having confided more of his unhappiness to Victoria than anyone else, Ian was not surprised when she laid a hand on his arm. “Ian, perhaps someday your father will allow you to take up your own rightful position as his heir. I know it is what you desire most.”

Though he had told Victoria of his troubles with his father, Ian found he was somewhat uncomfortable with her concern. He gave a falsely bright smile. “I doubt the old fellow has any plans to do anything of the kind, but I shall not be losing any sleep over the matter. As you know, I have my horses and will continue to find satisfaction in that, for it does not look like I will inherit for many years to come. Not that I wish the earl any ill fortune. In spite of everything, he is my father.”

“Are things no better between you?” she asked, cutting through his attempted facade easily. It was a knack she had possessed since the very beginning of their acquaintance.

Unable to keep up any pretext with this woman, who seemed to read him as if she had known him all his life, Ian shook his head, allowing the smile to fade. “No, I am afraid not. He has remained unceasing in his insistence that I marry. His every letter is a diatribe on the subject. He did in fact come up to London some months ago to reiterate his demands in person.”

“Then why do you not marry, if only to make peace with him? You were prepared to do so some months ago.”

He could not explain to her his own continued reticence, and so replied dramatically, “The woman I wished to wed has taken another.” Ian cast a mock tragic glance her way.

Her only answer was a delicately arched brow.

He grew more serious. “In all honesty I have met no one else whom I would seriously consider spending the rest of my life with. And I have no intention of doing as he wishes by marrying my cousin Barbara. It is unthinkable.”

“If you made a real attempt, you might find someone of your own choosing,” she told him stubbornly.

Ian shrugged. “You know how I feel about the young debs who are paraded before the bachelors of London society. They dance and flutter their eyelashes well enough, but not a thought about anything more interesting than how many dresses they own or how many servants a prospective bridegroom might provide passes through their minds. To marry one of them would be to condemn oneself to a life of abject boredom.”

“Surely that is not true of all the young women you’ve met?” she said dryly.

Unexpectedly a vision crept into his mind. The vision had long golden hair and a pair of bewitchingly gold eyes, eyes like a hawk’s. “I did meet a woman today not far from Carlisle,” he told her with more uncertainty than he would have thought clouding his teasing tone. “She was…well…different.”

Victoria leaned closer to him, her gray eyes sparkling with interest. “Different. And not far from Carlisle. This is quite exciting. Ian, you must tell me all. What is her name?”

He was surprised at his own reluctance to talk about the woman he’d met. He pushed it aside. This conversation was after all occurring only for amusement’s sake. “I really know very little of her. The young woman seemed stimulatingly contrary and addressed me quite deprecatingly, in the manner of one quite accustomed to great deference. Though from her dress and the simple miss she attached to her name, she was certainly not of the nobility.”

So occupied was he in remembering how much he had enjoyed the exchange that Ian did not notice how very quiet Victoria had become. “She was quite beautiful and I must admit that I would not be averse to getting to know her better, possibly much better.” He glanced at Victoria then as he ended and found her biting her lip as she gazed down at her hands.

He finished with a dawning sense that something was wrong. “By the way, she said she knew you, and that her name was Mary Fulton.”

Victoria sat back abruptly, her whole body stiff, one hand going to the mound of her stomach. “Mary? I had feared as much.”

He scowled at her obviously unfavorable reaction. “I resent your use of the term fear.”

She looked at him then, her gray eyes grown grave with warning. “You must not speak of Mary that way, even in jest. I do in fact know her, and well. She is my dearest friend and has just lost her beloved father. He was the reverend of the church in Carlisle from the time I was quite small. Mary is in no way equal to your game, Ian.”

He felt as if she had slapped him, and a tightness gripped his chest as he looked away from her. So she thought he was not a suitable companion for her friend. His voice took on a condescending tone to cover his hurt. “I do hope I have misunderstood what you are trying to say. Are you implying that I would seduce your little friend? I had no such intention. Now that you have told me of your association, I shall put her from my mind.”

Victoria was completely frank with him. “Ian…forgive me, but you as well as anyone know of your reputation. You have never pretended otherwise, even when you were courting me.”

He continued to hold himself stiffly. “And I also recall telling you that I had had enough of living up to my own reputation as Lord Sin. I meant it.”

A look of chagrin came over her fine-featured face. She spoke softly. “When you said you would like to know her better…I simply assumed…” She drew herself up. “You know your father would never approve of your attachment to a simple vicar’s daughter. And I love her so, as if she was my own sister. I could not bear to see her hurt in any way, even if it was inadvertent on your part. Jedidiah and I have asked her to come and live with us, though she has not said yes.” Victoria paused before going on. “I will accept your assurances that she is in no danger from you.”

He glanced over to see that she was biting her lip again. Ian shook his head, meeting her eyes earnestly. “I told you when I asked you to marry me, Victoria. I am done with all that. I have no desire to seduce young innocents. And any that I might have gotten the credit for leading astray in the past were not as innocent as their families might have believed. Besides, you give me far too much credit.” He gave a forced laugh. “There is no reason to believe the young woman would succumb even if I was to press her.”

She shrugged with a rueful smile. “Do not underestimate yourself, Ian. Because your heart is so carefully guarded it is difficult for you to see that others are not so adept at protecting their own.”

He felt he must defend himself here. “I was willing to love you.”

She shook her head sagely. “No, Ian, you were prepared to like me, even to respect me. That is not love. Love is the total giving of yourself into another’s keeping. You did not love me.”

When he scowled, ready to deny what she had said, she held up her hand. “But enough of such talk. Forgive me. I believe you will act honorably. As I said, I spoke only out of my love for Mary and concern for the sadness and vulnerability she is feeling right now.”

Ian nodded. He was no more interested in carrying on this conversation than she. He had no wish to examine the discomfort he felt at hearing her say he had locked his heart away. He knew he had learned to avoid thinking about how deeply his father’s rejection of him hurt. That did not mean he could not love.

Just then the door opened and the maid entered with tea, effectively preventing any more such talk. And Ian was relieved. But as he watched the maid set the heavy tray down on the low table before them, Ian had a thought pass through his mind without his having called it forth.

He heard Victoria’s voice telling him that his father would not approve of Mary Fulton. Indeed, Ian thought as he nodded for three sugars, Malcolm Sinclair would likely very much disapprove of the young woman, Mary Fulton. And not only because she was a minister’s daughter. There had been an obvious measure of strength and determination in those direct golden eyes. She was quite unlikely to be led about by the nose. Which Ian believed was his father’s major reason for approving of Barbara.

Ian and Barbara had been thrown together on every possible occasion since Ian was twenty. It seemed she had been a guest at Sinclair Hall on each of his infrequent visits. Barbara, being only four years his junior, could not have been anything but aware of what was happening, especially after his father had gone so far as to move her into Sinclair Hall just over a year ago. Though she had never actually expressed any desire to marry Ian, she seemed willing to go along with their parents’ plans. Ian was not.

Again he saw Mary Fulton’s face in his mind. Ian now knew what had caused that trace of sadness in her golden eyes. He was assaulted by unexpected feelings of protectiveness.

He gave himself a mental shake. Ian knew he must put these unwanted thoughts of Mary Fulton from his mind. He had given his promise not to seduce her. And he really could not offer marriage to a vicar’s daughter even if he wanted to. It would be too far to go in his defiance of his father.

Any sense of protectiveness he was experiencing was brought on solely by his lack of compassion when he met her. It was regretful, really, that he had not known of her father’s death.

Chapter Two

As she made her way out to the garden, Mary hesitated beside the table in the front hall and picked up her widebrimmed straw hat. The last time she had seen Victoria, her friend had been adamant in telling her that she must remember to put the thing on her head when she was outside. She had then with affectionate admonition pointed out two light golden freckles on Mary’s nose.

Yesterday when Mary had met Ian Sinclair she had not been wearing her bonnet. She suddenly wondered if he had noticed those freckles. Being an aristocrat himself, Ian Sinclair would certainly expect any well-bred young woman to take great care with her complexion. Yet when Mary thought back, she realized he had not appeared to be concerned about such things at all. Even now she flushed when she remembered the way he had looked at her. It was as if…as if he wanted to…Well, Mary didn’t know what he wanted to do. Yet she did somehow know that the feeling of tightness in her belly was connected to that look.

In direct opposition to those feelings, Mary firmly told herself she did not care one way or another what the infamous “Lord Sin” thought of her. Then, in spite of her own declaration, she tied the bonnet ribbon securely beneath her chin as she made her way out the front door.

Mary had not done any work in her garden since before the funeral. There had simply seemed little point in tending plants that no one cared about. For some reason she had risen today with the overwhelming need to do so. Her mother had brought many of the seeds and cuttings here as a young wife and mother. Was it not Mary’s duty to honor her memory by looking after the things that she had loved? Especially since that love of gardening had been passed on to Mary. One of the few clear memories she had of her mother was of her reaching up to give her a bloom from one of her own roses as she tended them.

Besides, the task would certainly give her something to do with her idle hands. Not to mention her mind, which obviously needed something worthwhile to occupy it if the number of times Ian Sinclair had popped into it since she met him was any indication.

The garden lay at the back of the red brick house, surrounded by a four-foot-high picket fence. An enormous weeping willow spread its branches over much of the yard, offering a portion of shade to her lilies of the valley during the hottest part of the summer days. Beneath the tree sat the lawn furniture where she and her father had often come to spend a warm evening before he had become too ill. She tried not to let her gaze linger too long on the rattan chaise where he had rested, most times reading a book. But even a glance was enough to jar her aching heart.

Mary squared her shoulders, fighting the wave of grief, refusing to let the misery overpower her again. She must get on with her life. It was what her father would want.

For several hours she managed to think of little besides the young plants she tended, which seemed to respond to her ministrations by reaching eager young leaves to the light. The earth was moist and dark, smelling rich and pleasantly musty in her hands. The few clouds that had lingered from the previous day cleared and the morning sun shone down with determined good cheer.

After a time, Mary grew warm. Absentmindedly she undid some of the buttons at her throat and with the handkerchief from her pocket wiped the perspiration that had beaded on the back of her neck and down the front of her dress. As she reached down between her breasts, Mary felt an odd prickling along the base of her neck. She looked toward the walk that led from the front of the house. No one was there. She told herself she was becoming too edgy from being alone so much, but she did take her hand from the front of her dress.

Telling herself this did not make the sensation of being watched go away. It in fact became overpowering, and she found herself turning around to look in the direction of the back gate.

Then she stopped in horror, still as the statue of St. George in the churchyard. For leaning against the top of the fence was none other than Ian Sinclair himself, looking every bit as handsome, confident and compellingly male as she had remembered him.

It was impossible.

Mary blinked to see if she was conjuring him up herself. But when she opened her lids, there he was, still smiling in that infuriatingly sardonic way of his, his dark eyes regarding her with that strangely unsettling expression of the previous day. It was almost as if he knew a secret about her, a secret that even she did not know.

That, Mary realized, was completely ridiculous. Ian Sinclair knew no secrets about her, because she had none. For some unknown reason this did not soothe her. She drew herself up, raising her chin high. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his brows in what she could only believe was feigned surprise and regret. “Am I to take that to mean you do not want me?” he asked. “Why? What have I done to offend you so greatly? We have only known each other since yesterday.”

As he spoke his gaze drifted down to the open neck of her gown and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Mary had to resist the urge to look at what he might be seeing. With as much aplomb as she could manage, she drew the edges of the dress together with one hand, not at all pleased to note that her fingers were not quite steady.

Did not want him, indeed.

His smile widened as he watched her and she was even further chagrined, but she did not wish him to know that. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr.—Lord Sinclair?”

Unexpectedly his expression changed, growing decidedly more gentle, his dark eyes devastatingly intent with concern. “No, but there is something I wish to do. When I told Victoria of our meeting she informed me of your recent loss. It…I realized that you must have been somewhat distraught even before I came upon you yesterday. I thought I should…”

He indicated the black stallion, which she now saw he had tied farther along the fence toward the front of the house. “Well, I was out riding and decided it would only be common courtesy to come by and offer my condolences and apologize for upsetting you. It is the least I could do after giving you such a start.”

She looked down at the ground, then back at him, nodding jerkily. His apology was rendered so endearingly, almost as if he was a recalcitrant schoolboy. It would have been nearly impossible to remain aloof, but her reaction to his care was stronger than she would have imagined, for it called forth a glowing warmth inside her. “I…thank you, that is very kind of you. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. I was never actually in any danger. It’s just that it has been…so very difficult…” Mary halted, the lump in her throat preventing her from going on.

“And understandably so.” He reached down and flipped the gate latch. The next thing she knew Mary was no longer standing alone in the garden. Ian Sinclair seemed to fill the space with the potency of his presence. He was too alive, too compellingly attractive to be real in the midst of this quiet garden. She watched as he moved forward—with the same grace as a tightrope walker she had once seen at a fair—and reached for her hand.

If some mystical fairy godmother had previously appeared and told her this would be happening, that this devastating man would so gently take her earth-stained hand in his, Mary would not have believed it possible. As it was, the event occurring without any hint of warning, her sense of unreality was numbing. She felt as if she was submerged in some thick fluid that hindered thought and speech.

She could only feel.

His hand was large and warm on hers, sparking a tingling current in her icy fingers. His dark eyes studied her with obvious concern as she looked up at him, not able to breathe properly around the tightness that gripped her throat as their glances grazed.

Mary looked down and found herself no more able to control her reactions to the rest of him. The dark brown fabric of his coat was molded perfectly over his wide shoulders and her fingers itched to trace them, to see if they were as hard as they appeared. Her gaze dipped lower, running over a paisley print vest that lay smoothly over a starched white shirt. His dark brown trousers were without even the slightest unwanted crease on his long legs. Again she realized that Ian Sinclair was indeed the embodiment of her every girlhood fantasy.

And that was what brought Mary to her senses. She was not a girl, but a grown woman of twenty-three, long past the age when most young women married. She was far too mature to allow a man’s physical presence to so overcome her own natural reticence.

She suddenly became infinitely conscious of her own disheveled state, her faded dress, her tousled hair beneath the old straw bonnet. A man like Ian Sinclair could not be serious in his intentions toward her. She was the daughter of a country vicar, he the son of a peer of the realm. Though she could not fathom the reason for his interest, she must not take his obvious concern to heart. It was only her own vulnerability over her father’s death that was confusing her. Pride made her fight the tears that threatened to spill at this thought.

Ian stood looking down at Mary Fulton and was surprised at the depth of compassion he felt as he saw the tears glistening in her golden eyes. He’d not been able to get her out of his mind since seeing her yesterday, and he’d convinced himself it was because of his having frightened her. He had decided that the preoccupation would go away if he came and apologized, offered his condolences on the loss of her father.

But as he studied her delicately lovely face now, Ian had the strange feeling that there was something different about Mary Fulton. That there was an unnamable force drawing him to her. His gaze lingered on the pale curve of her cheek as he watched her fight for control. For some reason her battle for dignity moved him more than he dared admit to himself.

He spoke gently. “Is there something I can do?”

She looked at him then, her expression bleak. “No. There is nothing anyone can do. I must simply learn to bear it.”