* * *
It was a long, tiring ride back to London. Sara was intensely grateful that the prince chose to ride Siva rather than join her in the small hired carriage. Spending two hours in close proximity, where every jolt might knock her against him, would have been more than she could bear. Even so, it took all of her strength to maintain her composure.
When they arrived at Haddonfield House, he behaved with impeccable politeness, returning Pansy to the stables, escorting Sara into the house with a strong impersonal hand under her elbow, and taking his leave after thanking her for her invaluable assistance. Even the stiff-rumped Haddonfield butler, who watched, did not notice anything amiss.
Sara had just enough endurance left to climb the stairs to her room without aid, though it was a slow, painful ascent. Thank heaven her father was out for the evening. Sara's sour-faced maid, Hoskins, made several acid comments about having warned her ladyship not to try to ride, and only subsided when Sara forcefully told her to hold her tongue.
Blissfully free of her riding habit and corset, Sara would have preferred to lie down and fall into exhausted slumber, but from experience she knew that she would feel much better in the morning if she soaked in a long, hot bath. Besides, there was something else she must do.
After sending Hoskins off to draw the bath, Sara seated herself at the dressing table and stared at her reflection as she drew the pins from her hair, freeing it to fall around her shoulders. It was time to face some unpleasant facts, and looking at the mirror would make it harder to be dishonest.
For she had been profoundly dishonest; from the moment she had seen Prince Peregrine, she had lied to herself over and over and over, denying how much he fascinated her. She had believed herself impervious to his dangerous allure, and that self-deception had led her to today's humiliating scene at Sulgrave.
She ran her fingers through her thick hair, loosening it and easing the tension in her scalp. A pity that her mental tension could not be eased so simply. The cheapest trollop in Covent Garden would have been more honest than Lady Sara St. James had been.
Ignorance was no excuse, for she had made a point of educating herself about what happened between men and women, her best teacher being an uninhibited cockney maid. Yet in spite of her knowledge and worldly experience, she had walked straight into a situation that could have ruined her, because in her secret heart, she had wanted passion more than honor.
Sara had assumed that she was too refined, or too cold, to succumb to such folly. Obviously she had been wrong, though she could not blame herself for wanting to yield to passion now that she had experienced its awesome power. If she had felt such desire for Charles, she would have welcomed it as an extra blessing for their marriage. But instead, on the eve of her wedding, she had become infatuated with another man. And, humiliatingly, he was a man with no special interest in her.
Though Peregrine had said that she was the only woman he wanted, she discounted that as the tactful lie of an experienced seducer, in the same league as the fool's gold compliments he had given her. "Gold and silk and ivory, warmed to wondrous life," indeed! As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she saw a small female of unremarkable appearance, over-serious and—she forced herself to think the word—crippled.
Oddly, she had believed Peregrine when he said that he did not want to ruin her, and that he was not interested in her simply as a conquest. The thought made her smile faintly, for there was nothing simple about him. But she could think of only two other reasons why a handsome prince would choose her above the beautiful, experienced women he had met in London society, and neither reason was flattering.
Possibly it was her rank that attracted him, making her more alluring than her modest physical attractions warranted. Far more likely, her real appeal was that she was fool enough to make herself available. She had put herself in a position where the Kafir had reason to believe that she would accept his advances. Then, after acting like a wanton, she had retreated like a nervous schoolgirl. He could have humiliated her at the least, ravished her at the most, and she was grateful for his restraint.
No doubt she had Ross to thank for that, because the friendship between the men seemed the most likely reason that Peregrine had not taken advantage of her foolishness. Pray God that Ross, Charles, and her father never learned what had happened today. Her cousin might understand, or at least be tolerant of her weakness. But her father and her betrothed would be profoundly, and justifiably, appalled by her behavior.
Convulsively Sara buried her face in her hands, no longer able to face her image in the mirror. Even if the men in her life never learned what she had done, she could not escape the worst punishment of all: the knowledge that she had failed to live up to her own standards of right and wrong. She had thought herself a virtuous woman, but clearly her virtue was merely a result of never having been tempted.