The Scoundrel. Lisa Plumley

      It didn’t matter. Daniel was her husband now. He deserved her uncensored opinions. In fact, her freethinking sister Grace would have encouraged as much. Aside from which, Sarah felt certain that kissing and ale must both hold pleasures she’d missed until now. From here on, she was determined to miss nothing more.

      She shook off her reverie to reach, unsuccessfully, for her cup. “You’ve had four ales. That’s only my second cup. Next to you, I’m a paragon of sobriety.”

      “That might be true. I am a scoundrel.” Cheerfully, Daniel admitted the truth. “A slightly drunk one, in honor of the occasion.”

      He smiled at that, leaving her to wonder if he felt happy to be married or merely giddy at the prospect of not having to scrub behind Eli’s ears anymore. Probably the latter, Sarah mused. She frowned. Making a proper and loving husband of Daniel McCabe would prove a challenge, to be sure.

      “But I’m not the one who’s been dancing, now, am I?” An unaccountable glimmer lit Daniel’s brown eyes as he settled on the divan beside her. “With arm waving and skirt swinging and…what did you call that thing you were doing?”

      “A fan dance.” If he’d noticed that, she was making progress already. Heartened, Sarah leaned nearer. None too subtly, she whispered, “It’s used for seduction.”

      “Seduction?” Her new bridegroom nearly choked on his next mouthful of ale. “What in God’s name does a woman like you need seduction for? You’re a mother now. And a wife.”

      Daft man. As if that summed her up in any way.

      “I learned it from Molly.” Sarah gave a blithe wave. “She had plans to become a gypsy once, you know. Before she opened her bakery. She can tell fortunes, too.”

      Daniel seemed unimpressed by her sister’s versatility. “She doesn’t need any of that now. She’s a wife, too.”

      He said it as though that settled everything.

      “Marcus doesn’t mind Molly’s interests.” Offering Daniel a nudge, Sarah nodded to her sister and her husband. “He loves her just as she is. See?”

      At the other end of the Crabtrees’ parlor, Molly and Marcus engaged in conversation, smiling at each other. Unabashedly affectionate in spite of the family and friends gathered around, Marcus took Molly’s hand and cradled it to his chest. He listened, then laughed at something she said. They both fairly glowed with happiness.

      Seeing their togetherness, Sarah couldn’t help but feel wistful. What was the matter with her, that her sister could make an effortlessly perfect love match, while she…she endured spitballs at her own nuptials?

      Perhaps this was what came of marrying too quickly. And for all the wrong reasons. And to a man who did not know she was just the merest bit—desperately—in love with him.

      Contemplatively, Daniel also surveyed the newlyweds, a move that offered Sarah the perfect opportunity to retrieve her ale—and to observe him. She hadn’t been able to do so during their vows. Then, the sheer remarkableness of their marrying had occupied her every thought. Now, after a fresh gulp of ale, she peered dazedly at his dark suit, his necktie, his enormous feet in his laced-up dress shoes.

      She’d married a prince, she thought in an ale-woozy haze. A colossal-footed prince, wise and poetic and handsome.

      Daniel gave a dismissive sound. “We’re lucky to be clear of all that hogwash. Romance. Bah.” Companionably, he slung his arm over her shoulder. “Who needs it?”

      I do, Sarah thought plaintively. I need it. But what she’d gotten, it turned out, was a man who embraced her with all the seductiveness of a fisherman hooking a trout. Only with none of the attendant prize-winning demeanor one would expect in the event of a catch.

      She wanted to feel like a prize. Wanted to feel like a real wife, one who inspired conversation and smiles and tender touches. Not to mention proper kisses. Feeling overlooked—as Sarah sadly did now—was already familiar to her. It had worn out its welcome long ago, during her years growing up.

      “Daniel, I have a suggestion.”

      He glanced back at her, impossibly appealing and woefully ignorant of how strongly she felt drawn to him. His expression looked open, his eyes clear, his demeanor happy-go-lucky. At any moment, he seemed liable to burst out with a hearty, “Look! My very own trout!”

      Sarah stifled a sigh. Just then, she would have gladly sacrificed a month’s wages—no, her most treasured arithmetic text—to see Daniel regard her with one-tenth the romantic affection her brother-in-law had for her sister. But since that wasn’t likely to happen without some prodding, she knew she’d have to be clever.

      “Let’s dance.” She stood, her skirts swaying, to urge him to his feet.

      He resisted her efforts, his fist still curled around his ale. “You already have danced. After a fashion.” Another grin. “For a schoolmarm, you’ve got a fair amount of vigor.”

      “I mean a proper dance.” He owed it to her after that stingy peck of a wedding kiss. “A dance together.”

      Daniel eyed her suspiciously. “Are you turning sappy on me? Just because it’s our wedding day doesn’t mean—”

      “Don’t worry. I won’t let the sentimentality of the day go to my head.” Sarah rolled her eyes, then tugged his hand. “Just so long as you promise not to tread on my toes with those oversize feet of yours.”

      He grunted. “My feet go along with the rest of me.”

      “Yes. They’re sized to match your big, fat head.”

      “Careful, wife. People might think you’re not head over skirts for me.”

      Wife. At the careless endearment, her heart swelled. If only he knew….

      “Or perhaps you don’t know how to dance?” Pretending concern, Sarah propped her hands on her hips. She examined Daniel. “I’ve seen you flirt. I’ve seen you pour on your so-called charm with ladies visiting here from the States and beyond. I’ve even seen you parade through town with your britches split up the backside.”

      “A bachelor’s not supposed to know how to sew.”

      “But I’ve never, it occurs to me, actually witnessed you dancing. Hmm…”

      “Pshaw. I can dance.” He gulped his drink. “Everyone can dance.”

      “Prove it.”

      “I don’t need to. Sit, wife. Or make yourself useful and bring me another ale.”

      “Sweet heaven, I wouldn’t have believed it.” She gawked, shaking her head. “Grace was actually correct. Marriage truly is a step-and-fetch institution created solely for the benefit of men.”

      He scoffed. “What’s the benefit in your carping at me? I said I can dance. That’s that.”

      “Hmm.” Sarah glanced to the couples near the parlor window, most of whom danced to the piano’s tunes. She sighed. Elaborately. Then she nodded to another group. “Perhaps one of those kind gentlemen would partner with me.”

      “My cousins?”

      She clucked at him, holding back a grin. “There’s no need to turn red in the face. They’re my family now, too. I believe George would make a fine dance partner.”

      “George has two left feet and a laugh like a whinnying nag.”

      “Frank?”

      “Pickpocket. Leave your reticule with me.”

      “James?”

      “Only if you don’t mind his inviting you to pose nude for one of his ‘sketches.’ He claims to be an artist.” A contemplative pause. “Wish I’d thought up that one myself.”

      My, but his family was a veritable