A light tap on the estate door stopped Sarah short in the hallway. "What a strange time of day to be calling," she murmured, turning toward the front hall. She paused to pass a critical eye over her image in the mirror above the mantel and pat a few wisps of her blond hair back into place. She turned when Jones, the butler, entered holding a silver salver to announce her visitor.
Time froze. Her polite smile faded, her glare focused over his bald head into the hall. Angry heat flooded her cheeks as Jones announced the one man on this earth who shouldn't dare be attempting to call.
"The Earl of Brockington, Your Grace," and Jones bowed low to offer the tray.
Sarah stalked across the room and scanned the name card. Verifying the name, she found a wave of satisfaction by ripping the paper to shreds before placing the desolated pile back on the platter.
"You may tell the Earl I wish to not see him," she seethed between her teeth. Jones stared wide eyed. "Ever!" she finished on a muted growl.
"Yes," Jones croaked before clearing his throat, "Yes, Your Grace." He withdrew.
Gathering a shaky breath, Sarah placed a hand to her pounding chest. She fisted her shaking hands in her lap as she sank onto the nearest settee. She had known, deep down, he would be back--looking disheveled, desperate, and dashing all in the same breath. Sarah pressed her eyes closed, hopeful he would leave without bruising her pride or her heart again.
She had no such luck.
The drawing room doors burst forth in a sharp retort to frame a wet, and very angry, Earl of Brockington. She stood to meet his assessment of her across the elegant drawing room. Sarah fought to stop the slow smile working across her features as Jones hurried behind the Earl, pewter candlestick held high, as if to whack the intruder.
Sarah's heart leapt in shock when the Earl shifted to dodge the blow and deliver one of his own.
"No!" She breathed, helpless as the Earl picked up the limp man. "Just stop," she cried.
The Earl, in a matter of seconds, had managed to rattle her usual calm demeanor. Her chest swelled as she paused to take a deep breath before again meeting the eyes of her former lover. "Oh, for God's sake, help the poor man to a chair."
The groaning butler's head lay limp to one side.
"Poor Jones," Sarah whispered, hovering nearby as Gavin shuffled the older man to the nearest chair. "You didn't have to behave like a barbarian." She took a step back when Gavin spun to face her, drops of water splattering her face.
"I would never have dreamed of being thrown from your home, Sarah," his eyes narrowed in rage. He took a step closer and Sarah inched backward until she hit the fireplace mantle.
"This is my home now, my lord, and I know you to posses better manners than barging in on a grieving widow and assaulting her butler." Sarah drew herself up, refusing to give any ground, "And I remind you to refer to me appropriately. I gave you no leave to use my first name."
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace," Gavin hissed, a cynical smile marring his lips. "But I thought I had leave to use your first name after bedding you."
The slap echoed around the room, Sarah stood clinching her burning hand in a tight fist. His expression eased, softening his features. They stood within a breath of each other, the delicious scent of him wreathing around her senses, smothering out everything else. Sarah willed her breathing to calm, praying her treacherous body to not reveal the longing now running through her. She stood prepared for the next round of insults when he brought his cautious gaze back to hers.
)
