“Oh, Mama. Of course I will.” Sophie rose from her seat and hugged her mother tightly. Her cheeks were suddenly wet too. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
Several hours later, Sophie’s stepfather arrived home; her mother, still as giddy with joy as a schoolgirl, greeted him by throwing her arms about his tall, almost gaunt form and, to Sophie’s surprise, her stepfather kissed her on the mouth. In all her life, she’d never seen him demonstrate physical affection for her mother in that way.
She was also dragged into a hug with Mr. Debenham when her mother announced her publication news.
It truly was a day of miracles.
Everyone gathered in the drawing room, including Mrs. Peel and Mr. and Mrs. Hawley, Nettlefield’s butler and housekeeper. The elderflower wine was served and a toast was made to the family and good fortune. After the servants had quit the room, Sophie at last ventured the question that was burning the tip of her tongue. “Father, do you know the identity of our mysterious benefactor?”
“Yes, I believe it was Lord Westhampton’s son, Lord Malverne,” he said. His pale gray eyes regarded Sophie with a narrow-eyed speculative look. “The bank manager reported it was the viscount’s man of business who arranged for the deposit of monies into my account earlier this morning. Lord Malverne had written a personal banknote to the sum of two thousand pounds.”
All eyes turned to Sophie and her mother said, “Do you know why Lord Malverne would do such a thing, Sophie? I mean, how on earth did he know about the debt? He is Lady Charlotte’s older brother, is he not? Lord Westhampton’s heir?”
Sophie tried but failed to suppress a blush. Trying to ignore the sensation of heat flooding her entire face, she said, “Yes, he is Lord Westhampton’s oldest son. And as to why he has done this, I have no idea. And as to how he knows . . . I must confess, I did confide in Lady Charlotte about my concerns. I was frustrated that we were so beholden to Lord Buxton. And I was worried he would press his suit even though I was not receptive to it. I certainly didn’t expect her to share such information with her brother. But it appears that she did.”
“Lord Malverne is a most generous man,” her stepfather remarked, his gaze still considering. “And such a grand gesture is not one I’d expect from a young ton buck. How old is he again?”
“I . . . I could not say really.” Sophie’s face was burning. “Less than thirty perhaps . . .” Of course, she knew Nate was seven-and-twenty but she thought it best to prevaricate; it wouldn’t do to divulge how well she actually did know him.
“And he’s not yet married, is he?”
“No. But he’s very much a bachelor.”
“Well,” added her mother, “whether he’s a bachelor or not, we will be forever grateful to him, won’t we, Mr. Debenham?”
Her stepfather nodded. “Yes, we will. I shall write to him and thank him.”
Sophie remained silent, her cheeks still aflame, and sipped her wine. She would write to Nate, too, expressing her heartfelt thanks. But nothing more. He knew how she felt about him. There was no need to belabor the point.
She might be a lonely spinster for the rest of her days, but at least she had her writing career. And she wouldn’t have Lord Buxton breathing down her neck anymore.
And that was something to be grateful for indeed.
* * *
* * *
Brookfield Park, Suffolk
June 6, 1818
Nate watched Max, the Duke of Exmoor, putting one of Brookfield Park’s prize Thoroughbreds through its paces around the training track. His friend was in the market for a stallion for his own stables in Devonshire. While Nate enjoyed riding and racing, horse breeding wasn’t a passion of his. But it certainly was for Max.
The early morning mist wreathed a distant stand of trees in a soft golden glow, and on high, a hawk wheeled in the clear blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. Nate inhaled a deep breath of the cool, clean air and realized this was the best he’d felt in an age. Deep down he knew it wasn’t just the change of scenery that was doing him a world of good. Or the fact that his father had recently recognized that he’d mended his ways, and decreed he could move back to Malverne House if he wanted to.
It was because he’d done something worthwhile. Something that had helped someone he cared about in a most tangible, fundamental way.
Sophie Brightwell. Sophie was safe.
And he was nothing but relieved.
She’d written to him, thanking him for his intervention. Even though it was a short letter, it was nonetheless warm and sincere. And she’d signed it: Yours, Sophie.
Not yours sincerely. Or yours faithfully.
Just yours.
Yours . . . such a small simple word, yet one that spoke volumes. Because he knew exactly what she meant. She was his.
She loved him.
And he’d been such an idiot not to embrace her and never let her go.
He crossed his arms and felt the crinkle of paper. Sophie’s letter was folded and tucked neatly into his coat’s breast pocket, and Nate fancied he could feel it against his chest . . . as soft and featherlight as Sophie’s touch. Since he’d received her letter three days ago, he’d painstakingly deciphered every word and had read them over and over again until he’d learned it all by heart. Traced the neatly formed script with a fingertip, recalling the times he was privileged enough to actually touch her beautiful body.
Sweet Sophie. She’d never asked him for more than he was willing to give. Yet she’d also given of herself so freely, despite the fact that she was always the one who had the most to lose: her reputation, her virtue, her home. Everything.
Every single thing Charlie had said about him was true. He recalled the exact moment he’d laid eyes upon Sophie all those years ago. It was an icy December day in Hyde Park and she was wearing a plain dark blue pelisse. But nothing else about her had been plain. When she’d lifted her beautiful blue eyes to his face and gave him a shy smile, she took his breath away. He’d wanted her. Badly. But she was only eighteen then and she was Charlie’s best friend. So he’d tried to forget about her. But then she’d come to stay at Hastings House . . .
Nate sighed. He knew he was a coward at heart. He might have fought in His Majesty’s army and faced down Frenchmen on the battlefield, but for years he’d lived with a heart fortified against feeling any tender emotion for the fairer sex. And he’d furnished that cold, impenetrable stronghold in his chest with lies. Lies he told himself every single day. Love makes you weak. Love is your enemy. Love wounds far too much. You are a base creature incapable of love, and you are not worthy of it either.
Well, he was finished with lying to himself. And to Sophie.
Sophie was brave and loyal. Loving and giving. Everything that he wasn’t. But that was about to change.
He was going to change. Because Sophie was worth it.
He just prayed she would forgive him for being such a selfish, foolish ass for so long.
Max reined in the sweating gray stallion in front of him. “Well, what do you think?”
Nate reached out and stroked the horse’s muscular neck. “He’s a fine beast. I’m envious.”
“I’d warrant he’d even give Invictus a run for his money.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
Max slid off the horse. “Once I’ve settled making the arrangements to purchase Ghost here, why don’t we stop by that inn a few miles back at the last village?” He rubbed his flat torso. “I’m in the mood for lashings of something hot and filling.”
Nate shook his head. After he’d received Sophie’s letter, even before Max had announced he was journeying to Suffolk, he’d decided he needed to pay a visit to the county too. “I’m afraid I might have to leave you to it, old chap. I have another . . . appointment, you could say.”
Max threw him a quizzical look. “Has this been your plan
all along, Malverne? I was beginning to think you had suddenly taken issue with my personal hygiene when you insisted we take separate carriages.”
Nate cocked an eyebrow. “Well, now that you mention it—”
Max gave him a friendly shot to the shoulder. “Whatever it is you’re up to, I wish you good fortune, my friend.” He frowned. “Now, just wait a moment. Doesn’t your sister’s friend, that chit you’ve been mooning over, hail from Suffolk? Is this most important matter related to an affair of the heart, Lord Malverne?”
Nate snorted. “It’s none of your business, Your Grace.”
Max grinned. “Ha! I’m right then. At long last, one of the mighty has fallen. I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ve been bloody miserable for weeks. A right royal pain in the arse. I look forward to seeing you when you’ve got something to smile about again.”
Nate grinned back. “All going well, hopefully that will be within the next few hours.”
CHAPTER 23
Summer is upon us at last and with it comes the promise of long, warm halcyon days.
Garden parties and dining al fresco are clearly all the rage for Suffolk’s most discerning hostesses, but is your country garden ready to impress?
The Suffolk County Chronicle: The English Country Garden Horticultural Column
Nettlefield Grange, Monkton Green, Suffolk
June 6, 1818
Sophie scowled and then sucked at the drop of blood welling from her fingertip. A nasty thorn had just pricked her as she’d snipped off a yellow rose from the gnarled, ancient bush in Nettlefield’s front garden. Her mother had asked her to pick a basketful of blooms for an arrangement that would decorate the dining room table because—Sophie shuddered—Lord Buxton was coming to share their Saturday luncheon. Mrs. Peel had been roasting a joint of lamb for several hours, and there would be bowls of honeyed carrots, minted peas, and roasted potatoes, all followed by strawberry fool for dessert.
Sophie had been looking forward to it all until she heard Lord Buxton had been invited. Now she’d all but lost her appetite, despite the wonderful aromas emanating from the kitchen.
Her stepfather had proclaimed this to be a “reconciliation luncheon.” Why he’d forgiven the horrid man, given all the stress he’d put their family through, Sophie would never know.
With a sigh, she looked over the bunch of white, yellow, and apricot roses in the wicker basket on the grass at her feet; she needed a few more of the yellow blooms, otherwise the arrangement would look unbalanced. Reaching forward, she gingerly pushed aside one of the rosebush’s branches, then readied her pruning shears to cut another flower—
“Miss Brightwell! What a delight for the senses. A feast for the eyes. Fancy finding a rose among the roses.”
Blast and damn! It was Lord Buxton. How had he sneaked up on her like that? She hadn’t heard a horse or a gig on the laneway. He must have come on foot.
Odious man.
Sophie lowered her pruning shears, but as she turned, she let go of the branch she’d been holding much too quickly and it whipped back into place, scratching her upper arm and ruining the sleeve of her white muslin gown.
Double damn!
This morning was turning out to be vexing in more ways than one.
“Oh no, Sophie. Look at your gown. And your arm.” Lord Buxton stepped forward, one pudgy hand outstretched, and with prickly rosebushes at her back, Sophie had nowhere to go.
Even though her arm was starting to sting, she replied, “It’s all right. ’Tis but a scratch. And I’m sure my sleeve can be repaired.” She glanced meaningfully toward the house. “I’m sure Father is in. He would be most pleased to see you.”
“All in good time.” Lord Buxton smiled, exposing his yellowing, misshapen teeth. “I actually came a little earlier in the hope I might speak with you alone, Sophie.” He touched her forearm, and Sophie shivered as unease snaked down her spine. “And here you are . . .”
Unfortunately, a tall rhododendron bush obstructed her view of the drawing room window where Alice and Jane were currently ensconced. Which meant neither of them could see her either. Or the fact that she was trapped.
Sophie swallowed and tried to step sideways to maneuver around the baron. “Yes. But I must go back in. Mama is expecting me to arrange—”
“Tsk, tsk. Why are you always in such a hurry to get away from me, Sophie? We’ve known each other for so long. Years. Indeed, it seems like I’ve been waiting forever for you to come of age.” One fat finger slid along her arm toward the crook of her elbow. “What harm can it do if you and I linger a little longer here in the garden? It is such a lovely day after all.”
Ugh! Sophie almost lost the coddled egg she’d eaten for breakfast all over Lord Buxton’s Prussian blue waistcoat. “Lord Buxton, I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but I did try to tell you once before in London that your attentions are not welcome. At all. I could not be clearer or more certain.”
“Ah, but that was about the time you were being courted by Lord Claremont, was it not? And you turned him down. And I cannot help but wonder if that’s because your heart belongs to another.” Lord Buxton suddenly grasped both of her upper arms so tightly, Sophie gasped. His fingers pressed into the scratch, making it burn. “Someone like me, Sophie dearest? I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
With revulsion! “Lord Buxton, please step aside. At once.” Sophie still had the pruning shears in her hand, and while she did not wish to inflict bodily harm on the baron, she would defend herself if she absolutely had to.
“I know I was a little abrupt in London when I last saw you, but my passion for you runs so very deep,” murmured Lord Buxton, pushing closer. His large belly pressed against her, and she had the awful feeling that he was beginning to sport an erection in his too-tight pantaloons. His hot, stale breath wafted over her face, making her stomach pitch and roll in earnest. “Pray, do not be shy, darling Sophie. You have a scandalous past after all. I sometimes dream about all of the wicked things you must have got up to in London. Besides, what harm could one little kiss do? You know I’ll offer for you, despite your ruined reputation.”
The gall of the man! Anger sharpened Sophie’s voice as she spoke with every ounce of vehemence she could muster. “Lord Buxton, I wouldn’t accept a proposal from you if you were the last man on earth! Now, let go of me this instant, or so help me, I’ll—”
She got no further as all of a sudden Lord Buxton was yanked backward, away from her.
“You heard Miss Brightwell, you dog. Leave her alone.”
Nate! Before she could even think to say another word, he threw his fist, striking the baron’s jaw, and Lord Buxton’s head snapped to the side. He hit the ground in an inelegant heap.
“You bastard,” Lord Buxton groaned, spitting blood onto the grass. His lip was split and his small beady eyes were wild. “You’ll pay for this . . . this outrage.”
“I already have paid,” snarled Nate, flexing his fingers. “Two thousand pounds. This family owes you nothing. Miss Brightwell owes you nothing.”
Lord Buxton scrambled to his feet. “So it was you.” He swayed for a moment, then pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his mouth. His gaze darted to Sophie. “Have you been doing the viscount special favors in return for—”
Nate stepped forward and threw another swift punch. This time it landed squarely in the middle of Lord Buxton’s ample belly. The baron doubled over, wheezing. “Might I suggest you keep your mouth shut, Lord Buxton?” growled Nate. “I don’t take kindly to those who hurl insults at my future wife.”
Wife? Sophie gasped. Surely she was dreaming. Had Nate really come all the way to Nettlefield to ask her to marry him?
Lord Buxton straightened, clutching his middle. “You, sir . . . have gone too far. I should call you out.”
&nb
sp; Nate shook his head. “I served as an infantry captain in His Majesty’s army under Wellington. Do you really think you could best me in a duel, Lord Buxton?”
The baron’s fleshy face paled to the same shade as his white linen neck cloth. His gaze skittered to Sophie. “Please pass on my apologies to your stepfather, Miss Brightwell. I will not be sharing lunch with your family today. Or any day henceforth.”
With that, he turned around and walked a little unsteadily across the lawn, toward the path leading to the front garden gate.
Sophie released a shaky sigh of relief and dropped the pruning shears by the discarded basket of roses. “Thank you, Nate,” she said softly. “Thank you for everything.”
Her heart fluttered oddly in her chest. She was shaking and too nervous to turn around to look at him directly. The leaves of the old oak by the gate fluttered gently in the light breeze. Nate’s spicy cologne mingled with the scent of the roses, and she had to fight the urge to bury her face in his wide chest.
I don’t take kindly to those who hurl insults at my future wife. Did Nate really just say that, or did she imagine it? It was only the insistent sting of the scratch on her arm that convinced her that she wasn’t actually dreaming.
She could feel Nate’s gaze on her face, drifting over her body like a whisper-soft caress.
“Sophie,” he murmured, stepping closer. The heat of his large body seared her. Made her tremble all the more. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“I’m afraid to,” she admitted. Her voice was little more than a husky whisper. “I’ve tried so very hard to stop loving you. If I look at you, and I don’t see in your eyes what I’ve always longed to see . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Nate’s fingers were gentle beneath her chin. “What an absolute mess I’ve made of things. I’ve been such a fool. The king of fools. You have good reason to doubt me. When I think of how much I’ve hurt you . . .” His breath caught, and Sophie opened her eyes.
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 28