Lady Disdain Read online

  Chapter One

  If ever there was a fish out of water, Sarah Draper reflected, it was she. Dressed in borrowed finery, her hair properly styled for the first time in years, and surrounded by a society she’d long since given up, Sarah clung to the wall and watched as her cousin’s engagement was announced.

  She couldn’t be happier for Eleanor. Her cousin was the sweetest, most caring person Sarah had ever met in spite of, or perhaps because of the heartbreak she had suffered. Though Eleanor had been born into nobility, she treated everyone with compassion and genuine interest. And while Sarah rejoiced for her cousin, she recognized that her own life would soon be growing lonelier. Surely once Eleanor was wed, her new husband wouldn’t approve of her working with Sarah in their charitable aid organization in one of London’s most notorious slums. In fact, she realized with a frown, Eleanor’s time was sure to be taken up immediately with wedding plans, for it wasn’t every day that an earl’s daughter married a bastard-turned-legitimate-heir-to-another-earldom.

  With a sigh, Sarah resigned herself to the solitary life she’d lived before her stunning cousin had hurtled into her life two years ago. She’d managed to run her aid kitchen by herself before Eleanor had joined her; surely she could do so again. The only problem was that now she knew what it was like to have someone to share the load, someone with whom to share frustrations and victories alike. She had not realized how lonely she’d been before Eleanor had joined her, but she certainly would recognize it now.

  Sarah’s morose thoughts were distracted by the boisterous laugh of a man standing a few feet away. She blinked several times, her ruminations dispersing. Glancing over, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man still grinning with mirth. His hair was a riotous mass of gold and honey and champagne, worn loose and uncontained by pomade as was the fashion. His face was stunning, with eyes so intensely blue Sarah could discern their color from several feet away. The strong lines of his face and sun-kissed complexion distinguished him from the fashionably pale faces of the other men standing next to him and when he spoke—more loudly than was seemly, the nasal tone of his accent gave him away as an American, bold as brass and confident as they came. He was exactly the sort of man who would glance at her dark hair and eyes and drab gown and see right through her to the dazzling debutante behind her.

  Sara glanced down and fingered the rich dark blue satin of her borrowed gown. Well, perhaps not everything was so drab about her this evening. Eleanor’s friend Juliette had loaned her this gown and it had taken very little alteration to make it fit like a glove. The regal swish of the heavy fabric made her walk more slowly and the nearly off-the-shoulder cut of the neckline caused her to stand up straight lest the gown slip. While she wasn’t completely comfortable out of the familiar coarse broadcloth of the gowns she normally wore, it felt rather nice to know she could still appear presentable when the occasion called. Tonight, she felt like a different person than the woman who arose before dawn every day to feed and tend to hundreds of people.

  She allowed herself one more glance at the golden Adonis when he laughed aloud again. He was too handsome by half. Or perhaps handsome wasn’t exactly the right word when one compared him to the well-groomed men of the ton surrounding him, but there was something undeniably attractive about him nonetheless. He was exactly the sort of man she scorned if for no other reason than he was clearly the type given to frivolity and excess. One who lived only for pleasure. She had no idea why she was so certain about the American’s character, but she knew it as absolutely as she could see that he was as at ease in his skin as she was uncomfortable.

  As if feeling her gaze upon him, the Adonis looked over at her and she quickly turned her head, affecting interest in the crowd of people who were still congratulating her cousin and her new fiancée.

  Eleanor appeared a bit dazed, and glancing at Eleanor’s future husband, Lord Reading, Sarah realized he had the same bemused expression. Sarah wondered if either had known of the Earl of Southampton’s plan to announce their betrothal less than twenty minutes before.

  “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one you scowl at,” a deep voice to her left said.

  Startled, she turned to find the Adonis smiling at her. Crinkle lines around his eyes suggested he smiled a great deal. Or squinted from near-sightedness, she thought uncharitably.

  “I’m not scowling,” she replied sourly, but as she felt the muscles of her forehead relax, she realized she had indeed been frowning. “You’re American,” she said, trying to change the subject.

  He held up both hands and said, “Guilty as charged. But what did she do to you?” he nodded in Eleanor’s direction. “She seems as English as they come. Did she steal your fellow?”

  “What?” Sarah asked, suddenly flustered. “No! She’s my cousin. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”

  “Uh huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced, and Sarah realized her eyebrows had drawn together again. She reached up to smooth them with a gloved finger.

  “It’s just—I shall miss her, is all. We have grown very close in the last few years and I suspect I will not see her as much once she is wed.” Or at all, Sarah thought, but she forced herself not to frown at the idea. She wondered why she felt the need to explain herself to this man. She certainly was unaccustomed to sharing any such personal feeling with people.

  She was surprised when he simply nodded in understanding, a shuttered look in his eyes. “A feeling I can well relate to,” he murmured. Then, in a quicksilver change of mood, he said, “What is it about you English and food?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, trying to figure out how that related to their conversation.

  He lifted up his glass in demonstration. “You do spirits very well, I’ll grant you, but would it kill you to put out some finger sandwiches?”

  “There will be a large dinner later,” Sarah explained.

  “Yes, at midnight. Who wants to eat at midnight?”

  Though she said nothing, Sarah agreed with him. She knew the answer was, “people who don’t arise early to work,” and wondered if this American worked. If so, she wondered that he found himself at a duke’s party. Perhaps he was as much a fish out of water as she was. Except he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the notion, she thought sourly. He exuded the confidence of one who felt at home anywhere.

  “And who are you to be here at the Duke of Andover’s ball?” she asked sharply, turning her discontent against him.

  He executed a slightly mocking bow. “Forgive me. I forgot I’m not supposed to be speaking to a lady without a proper introduction.”

  She almost told him she was no lady, but realized in time just how that would sound and bit her tongue and said instead, “That is only at public events, not at private ones such as this.”

  He nodded. “In that case, I am Samuel James. American, as you so astutely pointed out.”

  She narrowed her eyes at this, but he didn’t appear to be mocking her.

  “Though I suppose if I looked hard enough I could find a distant relative here in England. My great grandfather was from Surrey. Say, you don’t suppose I might be related to royalty, do you? That would be awfully useful now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Er, I’m sure if your great-grandfather was related to the royal family, he would not have emigrated to America.”

  “Hmmm. Good point,” he conceded. “Still, if there was even an off chance of my having a drop of royal blood, it would mean my sister’s future mother-in-law would have to welcome, me, wouldn’t it?”

  Sarah frowned, trying to follow his rapid-fire dialogue. It had been so long since a man had simply conversed with her, she felt a bit out of her element. Then there was the way he was looking at her, as if she was, well, beautiful—something she had not felt in
many years. Finally unraveling his last statement, she said, “Your sister is to be married, then?”

  “Oh yes, that’s the reason I am here in jolly old England and why I was invited to this foodless soiree. She’s to be married to Lord Treason.”

  “Lord Treason?” Sarah was not familiar with the London social scene, but the name struck her as distinctly odd.

  “That’s just what I call him. Trowbridge is his name, but I rib him that he’s a traitor to his country for marrying a Colonial.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, a bit overwhelmed at his overall volume and strength of personality, even as his invigorating dialogue awoke a part of her brain that had been long dormant.

  “Of course, marrying a dollar princess to fill the family coffers may be considered a noble sacrifice to his kin, but who am I to judge.”

  “I beg your pardon. A what?”

  “Dollar princess. No blue blood to speak of, what with all of our American-ness, but plenty of money in the bank to ensure we’re tolerable. I’m given to understand dowries are the easiest way to save failing estates these days.”

  Though his tone was still humorous, Sarah saw a hardness in the bright blue eyes when she hazarded a glance at them.

  “But who are you to judge?” she asked slyly.

  He stared at her for a moment before bursting into that boisterous laugh that had first drawn her attention. She noticed people glancing in their direction and felt herself physically shrinking, trying not to draw attention to herself. Realizing what she was doing, she deliberately straightened her shoulders and refused to meet the wondering glances. She looked back at Mr. James and found him looking at her in a manner that made her feel positively fascinating.

  “Disdain fairly drips from your tongue,” he said, making it sound like the highest compliment. “You’re a sharp one, my lady.”

  “I’m not—“ she’d started to say again she wasn’t a lady. “You do not address me as ‘my lady.’”

  “Why not?”

  “I am not the daughter or wife of a nobleman.”

  “I thought everyone at these parties was a lord or lady. Except for we wealthy Americans, of course,” he added.

  She overlooked that acerbic comment and continued, “My parents are members of the gentility and so I am only addressed as ‘Miss.’”

  “Not ‘Mrs.,’ then?”

  He seemed surprised and Sarah felt her chin raise defensively. She was old enough that were she active in the London scene, she would be considered a spinster, the most piteous position in society.

  “As I am unwed, no.” she said tersely. She pretended to study the crowd and noticed that her cousin and Lord Reading were nowhere to be seen.

  “So what is under gentility?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, turning back to him.

  “If you have nobility and then gentility, what comes next?”

  “Royalty,” she replied.

  He grinned. “Royalty is beneath gentility?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, unaccountably flustered. “You forgot royalty. Royalty, nobility, gentility.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, I suppose you would simply say ‘everyone else.’”

  “We commoners, eh?” he said with a grin. “Unless, of course, I turn out to be related to the Prince.”

  In spite of herself she felt her lips quirk at his irreverent humor and strove to suppress the smile, forcing herself to think of the struggles of the people she tried to help every day through her aid society. She supposed they were common enough problems—trying to find food, shelter, security.

  At his expectant look, she realized she hadn’t responded. She also realized that for one evening she didn’t want to think of her work. She wanted to enjoy herself, enjoy a spirited conversation with an outrageous and handsome man.

  “Oh I can assure you, you do not have a drop of noble blood.”

  His tawny brows rose in surprise even as a smile tugged at his mouth. “Do tell. Is there some secret test? Shouldn’t you need a sample of my blood to verify your assertion?”

  “Not at all. It is simply evident in your carriage, your mannerisms, and the way you hold your liquor.”

  He looked a little taken aback and she wondered if she had overplayed her jest.

  “I thought the Prince Regent was considered to be an abysmal drunk.”

  “Indeed,” she said primly.

  A sly smile curved his lush lips. Lush? She asked herself. Why on earth should she notice such a—

  “And as I can stand erect without the aid of a corset, don’t spend myself into the poorhouse and do not engage in public drunkenness, I clearly have not a drop of royal blood?”

  She gave him a brief single nod, tilting her head a bit to the side so she could watch him beneath her lashes.

  “And here I thought you English considered it perfidious to criticize your royal house.”

  “Perfidious?” she asked with a smile.

  “Treasonable,” he clarified.

  She shook her head sadly. “Yet further proof you are not English and therefore cannot be related to the prince.”

  He grinned and his gaze roamed over her face with a look that made her feel as if she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne. “Please explain.”

  “We consider it a point of honor to malign the Prince Regent. After all, we’ve received little other recompense for the hundreds of thousands of pounds we’ve provided to redeem his profligate debts.”

  “So you verbally abuse him amongst yourselves in return?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She could not remember the last time she’d had this much fun.

  He cocked one eyebrow and stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked nothing less than piratical. A golden, bronzed Adonis-like pirate.

  She took a breath to deliver a further witty set down on the chances of him being related to royalty when a petite blonde strolled by in the company of an elegant redhead and Mr. James’ appreciative gaze followed them.

  Instantly Sarah felt her skin go cold and she drew back, wrapping her arms protectively around her waist. Ire replaced any charitable thoughts she had been developing for Mr. James. Ire and no small amount of hurt. Very well, a large amount of hurt. They’d been having such a lively conversation, and the way he’d looked at her made her feel interesting, almost…desirable. She should have known he was fickle, should have known she was poor company for one such as him. Ignoring her hurt feelings, she focused on anger as it was a far less debilitating emotion. This American was no different than any privileged nobleman. She pressed her lips into a disgusted line. He was a typical man, she thought scornfully, and reminded herself this was only one of many reasons why she didn’t attend society functions. She turned to leave but felt a hand on her arm.

  “You didn’t tell me your name. Miss…?”

  “I didn’t, did I?” she replied before turning again and weaving her way through the crowd.

  “Lady Disdain!” she heard him call out. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

  Her shoulders hunched as people turned at his loudness and she barreled out of the room as quickly as possible, only stopping when she found a quiet hallway.

  Leaning against the wall, she willed her heart to slow from its furious pace. The horrid man! He was exactly as she’d known he would be, crass and overly confident. The only unanswered question was why he’d even approached her in the first place. Her mind’s eye replayed Mr. James’ gaze as it found more appealing women to ogle. Drat the man! And she’d been feeling rather lovely tonight. It was the first time in more than five years that she’d worn anything beautiful. She looked up and was startled to find a reflection of herself in a mirror across the hall. The deep blue satin of her borrowed gown draped in elegant folds. Her exposed shoulders and décolletage allowed more skin than she’d ever shown, having been but a shy debutant in Aylesbury Vale years ago.

  The most daring outfit she’d owned back then had bee
n an off-the-shoulder pink gown, but a heavy lace fichu has covered her to the neck. This gown, with its extravagant display of skin, was worth more than her entire wardrobe. And the meager furniture in her flat. Perhaps even the very building in which she lived. She took a breath and closed her eyes.

  For five years, Sarah had been running a charitable foundation in one of London’s poorest slums, an area in Southwark called The Mint, so named for the currency mint that had operated in the time of Henry VIII. Two years previously, her cousin Eleanor had joined her, giving up a life of noble luxury to help Sarah feed and clothe Southwark’s poor and provide what medical aid they could.

  Sarah had long suspected Eleanor’s arrival did not stem from a heartfelt calling to help her fellow man, but she had never pushed Eleanor to explain her arrival, fearing her cousin might then wonder at her own reasons for leaving her family and working in a charity. Sarah had only recently learned of Eleanor’s heartbreak and resultant scandal, which had prompted her to seek a new life. Her cousin’s story, though not as dire as Sarah’s past, had struck similar chords to her own. However, she herself would not be receiving the same absolution and happy ending as Eleanor, hence her awkwardness in conversing with Mr. James—or anyone, really. She was acutely aware that most in society would look down their nose at her, though if they knew what had preceded her move to Southwark, she would have been shunned altogether.

  Sarah stared at her reflection, willing her eyes not to water. The urge quickly passed as she knew it would. She never cried anymore, for what good would it do? Her thoughts returned to her rumination. The three years before Eleanor had arrived had been ones of arduous work, toiling from dawn until long after dark, desperately trying to win the trust of the people she was trying to help. While rewarding work, it had been incredibly isolating and lonely. The residents of The Mint initially saw her as another privileged socialite looking down upon them. It had taken her months to gain their trust and even as they took the food and medicine she offered, it had taken over a year before she felt like a part of the community, when she was finally invited to one family’s humble home for an even more humble meal. Despite that acceptance, however, Sarah felt separate from the residents of Southwark. It was not because of their poverty or social class—she knew it was some inherent flaw in herself that prevented her from connecting to other people.