A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11

by Ashley Jennifer

  “Can virtue be a puddle anyway?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never been virtuous, so I couldn’t say.” David’s voice dropped to a softness she hadn’t heard in him before. “But I can promise you, I would never, ever hurt you. I’d never be such a fool.”

  Sophie wrapped the words around her. She wanted so much to be treasured by him, the way she’d once believed men treasured their wives. Her own parents were happy, and she’d naively thought all marriage like theirs. She’d believed magic would happen when she married Laurie, transforming him into the perfect husband.

  She hardly believed now she’d been so innocent. A man like David Fleming would never have been let near her when she was a debutante, yet he was proving to have far more worth than the too-charming bachelor earl who’d been the correct man to marry.

  “We should go inside.” David’s voice remained low but took on an edge. “Lest I do something even more devilish.”

  Sophie shivered agreeably. “Perhaps I wish you to be devilish.”

  David kissed the bridge of her nose. “Do not tempt me.”

  “I wish …” She leaned into him, running her hand down his coat. The warm man beneath stirred, the rumble in his throat like a caress.

  “I know what you wish. I wish it too.” David cupped her cheek, turning her face up to his. “I want you, Sophie. Want you with an intensity that’s killing me.”

  His next kiss told her he’d been containing himself until now. He dragged her up to him, his mouth searing as he opened hers. Sophie’s head went back, David holding her upright as her knees weakened.

  She felt his hand on her backside then her thigh, teasing her legs apart. He stepped between them, his hardness apparent through her skirts.

  Here under the trees no one would see them. He could lift her, hold her against the bole of the large elm behind her, satisfy the ache that never let her rest.

  “Please,” she heard herself whisper.

  David answered with another kiss, grip tightening. He wanted it as much as she did—his mouth, touch, and body told her this as loudly as if he’d shouted it.

  The virtuous man he claimed he wanted to be would have pushed Sophie from him in shock, perhaps lecture her on propriety as he dragged her to the house. A bad man like David only kissed her harder, a groan in his throat.

  “Dear God.” David wrested his mouth from hers and stepped back, hands on her shoulders, fingers biting down. “Sophie, what the devil are we doing?”

  “Being consumed with need?” Sophie tried to speak glibly, but she trembled so she could barely form words.

  “Obviously. But if we do not walk sedately to the house, I will be carrying you back with our clothes in shreds, and your uncle will take a bullwhip to me. Never mind that he’s a kind man—he has the wrath of God on his side.”

  Sophie shook her head, her hair tumbling. “He would never …”

  “Perhaps not literally, but he would cast me out. I want …” David dragged in a breath. “I want everything to be right.”

  “The world isn’t right,” Sophie said sadly.

  “I know. But I want to stand with you and face it. Not with us looking debauched and depraved.”

  Sophie let out a little sigh. “I am finding virtue not worth the trouble.”

  “I agree. But …” David’s eyes held sadness and resignation. “I refuse to save you only to ruin you. It cuts at me to wait, but I will.”

  It cut at Sophie as well. She was already ruined—did he not realize that? In the eyes of the world, it no longer mattered what Sophie did. Because of Laurie, she’d been painted as a whore, and that was the end of it.

  David gently straightened her hat then put his arm around her and led her to the gardens, silence enveloping them.

  Only the breeze spoke, the rushing sound in the branches like water, but it couldn’t soothe Sophie’s fire or troubled spirit.

  * * *

  For the first time in his life, David enjoyed a sojourn in his own house. He’d spent most of his adult life avoiding it, the memories too thick.

  After his mother’s death, his father, in grief and pain, had filled the house with mistresses and rakes. He’d hosted lavish entertainments that ran between puzzling to frightening to a small boy, from drunken routs to outright orgiastic gatherings.

  David had found relief with school and friends, but he’d grown up surrounded by decadence and easily fell into that way of life himself.

  Now, viewing his home through Sophie’s eyes, he discovered the beauty in it. Though his father had been broken inside, he’d had unusually good taste in art and architecture.

  Keeping himself away from Sophie was more difficult. David wanted to seize her and kiss her at every turn, slide her against the wall and drink his fill. He wanted to rid her of her clothes, slowly, a button at a time, and touch the body the falling fabric revealed.

  Never in his life had he been so close to a woman he’d wanted, and yet neither of them removed a stitch. Madness.

  The presence of Dr. Pierson helped. Pierson knew full well how David felt about Sophie, and yet he chatted cheerfully about inane things like what sort of farming David did here and the history of the village church.

  David took Sophie and Dr. Pierson over the house, from the attics to the gallery of famous paintings, to the ballroom and parlors made to host kings.

  “It’s like you,” Sophie said on the last day of their visit. She and David lingered on the terrace, in full view of Dr. Pierson in the library—that is, they would be if Pierson bothered to look up from his books and maps. “The house, I mean.”

  “In what way?” David glanced at the walls behind him, the mansard roof high above. “Pray tell. I do like a good metaphor.”

  Sophie gave him the smile he’d grown to love. She’d softened since her first night here, when she’d been brittle, fearing to believe the troubles in her life could ever be over.

  But they would be. David would see to it.

  “Outwardly hedonistic,” Sophie said. “Bathing the senses in sumptuous luxury, promising delights. But solid beneath, comforting. Steady. Peaceful.”

  “Steady and comforting.” David huffed a laugh. “What every gentleman wants as his epitaph.”

  She gave him a look. “I know you are not offended, so do not pretend to be so.”

  “Nothing you do offends me, Sophie, love.”

  Their hands rested near each other’s on the railing, hers slender in dark brown gloves, his hard in black leather. Their arms were nearly touching but not quite.

  This waiting was horrible. And there was nothing to say that when Sophie found herself free she’d turn to David.

  All he could do was see what would come. When foolish and young, he’d thrown himself at a woman, and he’d fallen on his face.

  He refused to do that again.

  Sophie said nothing more, but what he saw in her eyes told him the waiting was difficult for her too. He moved an inch closer, still not touching her, but sharing her warmth. They stood so, in silence, drinking in the night and each other, before Pierson emerged to rattle on about ancient methods used in these parts to till the earth.

  The next morning, the Fleming coach pulled to the front steps to take Sophie and Dr. Pierson to the village station. David handed Sophie in.

  “I thought you were coming with us,” Pierson said in bewilderment as David stepped back once the vicar had settled himself. Sophie remained quiet—she, being more observant, had probably noted the footman loaded only the valise she and her uncle had brought with them. No bags for David.

  “Things to do,” David said. “Worry not, dear sir, I will turn up soon in Shropshire, clad in ragged tweed, ready to break my back for you once more. I have business to take care of. Trial to face and so forth.”

  Sophie sent him a worried look. “Mr. Griffin is still pursuing the suit?”

  David had deliberately not spoken of his impending trial or Sophie’s marriage since their first night. It had been pleasa
nt to talk about houses and gardening, archaeology and local history. Who’d have known such topics could be so entertaining?

  “He is, confound him.” David kept his voice light. “Do not worry, my friends. Basher McBride will shred the prosecution and have Griffin on his knees abjectly begging my pardon.”

  Pierson nodded, believing him. Sophie looked more trepidatious, but David shut the coach’s door, deliberately not touching the hand she lay on the windowsill.

  Sinclair’s last message had indicated that Griffin was out for blood. David had angered so many people in his life that he might well have to face the music now—Griffin had many supporters. David had confidence that Sinclair would win the day, but they might have to concede much to Griffin before the man backed off.

  But facing a trial that might end in David breaking rocks at Dartmoor did not gouge him as much as saying good-bye to Sophie that day. He folded his arms over his chest to contain his emptiness, watching dust rise as his coach carried her down the drive and perhaps out of his life.

  * * *

  Sophie went through the next weeks with difficulty. Dr. Gaspar had continued with the dig, unearthing a stash of pottery that excited him and Uncle greatly. No gold or treasure could have made Uncle Lucas happier than these everyday cooking pots.

  David remained absent. Sophie made herself cease scanning the road hopefully or rushing to the door of the vicarage when any cart rumbled by.

  Eleanor did not return either, though she sent the developed photographs to Uncle Lucas and promised to take more when the London Season let her escape.

  Sophie tried to shut out the world and concentrate on helping her uncle, but it was difficult. She found herself, during the tedious process of brushing dirt from the mosaic or the potsherds, thinking of nothing but David, how safe she’d felt in his arms, how decadent under his kiss.

  His voice, his deep laughter, the scent of smoky wool and brandy, the gleam in his eyes before he launched into one of his satirical speeches.

  He’d burned his way into her heart, and Sophie knew he’d not leave it soon.

  Within a week, Sophie decided to tell Dr. Gaspar about her circumstances. He deserved the truth, and she preferred to tell him her story before he learned it from the newspapers or whispers in the village.

  She explained to him over breakfast, with Uncle Lucas’s approval. Dr. Gaspar listened with confusion in his brown eyes, and then sympathy. She included the fact that David claimed the marriage would end in annulment instead of divorce, but both events were a scandal, though the annulment was the lesser of the two evils.

  Dr. Gaspar said little, to Sophie’s relief. That is, until later, when she bent over pieces of pottery in Uncle Lucas’s shed, trying to decide if any matched. The faint odor of cow lingered in the old byre, but it was faint enough to be a comforting, not off-putting, scent.

  Dr. Gaspar filled the doorway, cutting off what little light had filtered inside. “Miss Tierney.” He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable in the confined space. “I mean—I think—Lady Devonport?”

  “Miss Tierney will do well,” Sophie said, sliding from the stool to her feet. “I suppose I had better become used to it. Is Uncle asking for me?”

  She made for the door, wondering what task Uncle Lucas wished her to perform now, but Dr. Gaspar remained awkwardly in her way.

  “I am grateful to you for taking me into your confidence, Miss Tierney.” He cleared his throat again, agony in his eyes.

  Sophie shrugged as though none of it—her life, her reputation, her future—truly mattered. “Not at all. I knew you would hear the gossip before long.”

  “It must be difficult for you.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “A bit. But I hope it will be finished soon.”

  “When it is …” Dr. Gaspar removed his hat, wiped his forehead, and set the hat back on his head. He glanced at the pottery pieces, coughed, rubbed his hands together, and took off his hat again. “When it is, Miss Tierney, I hope that you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Chapter 14

  Sophie stilled in astonishment, uncertain she’d heard aright. But no, Dr. Gaspar had just asked her to marry him and now waited in anxious anticipation for her answer.

  “I beg your …” Sophie clutched the edge of the table. “Your wife?”

  Gaspar nodded, seeming to gather courage from his blurted proposal.

  “I know it is a surprise. But it distresses me to think of you ruined and pushed aside. You are a lovely woman, if you forgive my forwardness, and intelligent too—I haven’t met many ladies who know the difference between Ancient Babylon and Hellenistic Greece.” He gave a breathy laugh. “You would be handy when I return to the Near East—a man with a helpmeet who knows how to sort pottery would be …” He waved at the scattered pieces of clay. “Heavenly, I think.”

  Sophie felt the world spin beneath her, the walls of the shed wavering. “I don’t … I …”

  “I know I have sprung this upon you.” Dr. Gaspar’s lips quivered behind his thick beard. “But please contemplate my offer. You’ve declared you will be your uncle’s assistant, but I would hate to see you wasted as a spinster. You would regain respectability as a married woman—and a mother.”

  He averted his gaze and blushed painfully as he spoke the last word.

  Sophie opened her mouth to point out that he’d need to overcome his bashfulness if he wanted her to bear his children, but she shut it again.

  She could say such things to David, and he’d laugh. Tease her, yes, but he wouldn’t faint in mortification. Dr. Gaspar might.

  “You are very kind.” Sophie made her voice firm. “But I have not decided what I will do.”

  “Of course, of course. You must wait for the courts.” Dr. Gaspar paused, still anxious. “When the legal issues are behind you, you will give me your answer?”

  Sophie hated to hurt people’s feelings. Any idea that someone smarted inside because of her made her unhappy, but she understood that if she did not tell Dr. Gaspar the truth, he might persist for the next forty years. The archaeology world was small, and their paths would often cross.

  “Forgive me,” she said, standing as straight as she could. “But my answer must be no. As I say, you are kind …”

  Dr. Gaspar’s crestfallen look was difficult to bear. He removed his hat and turned it in his hands. “I see.” He chewed his upper lip. “You can give me no hope?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I am sorry, but no. I pray you can forgive me, and we can continue to be friends.”

  “Yes, yes.” He put on his hat again, pulling it down to his ears. “Beg pardon for disturbing you.”

  Dr. Gaspar turned to leave. Sophie was about to let out a breath of relief when he turned back. “When you are unmarried once more—though the words sound strange—I will speak to you again. I daresay you will change your mind when you find yourself alone.”

  He tipped his hat, though he had to scrape it from his head to do it, and finally slunk out.

  Sophie sank to her chair with a thump. She supposed Dr. Gaspar thought himself charitable, but he assumed that when Sophie found herself without a husband, she’d leap at his offer—any husband would be better than none. Blast the man.

  She wished David were here so she could tell him about the bizarre encounter. He would laugh, she was certain of it. He’d also understand why she’d turned Gaspar down. Though a woman in her situation might be tempted to marry a man who’d whisk her away from the condemning gaze of society, David would realize why she’d said no.

  Not that David, for all his kisses and declarations, had offered her marriage. He’d blatantly suggested he wanted an affair with her, wanted her in his bed, but he’d never said a word about matrimony.

  The potsherds blurred before her as tears filled Sophie’s eyes and spilled to her cheeks.

  * * *

  Dr. Gaspar’s proposal, and Sophie’s refusal, made the next day or so decidedly awkward. Dr. Gaspar never said a word, bu
t his gazes from his rather sad brown eyes conveyed much. Uncle, who knew nothing of the matter, spoke robustly about the dig and never noticed Sophie’s silence or Dr. Gaspar’s nervousness.

  A letter from the Duchess of Kilmorgan, which reached Sophie a few mornings later, came as a welcome relief.

  I would be grateful if you would be my guest in London, Eleanor wrote. The Season is reaching its height, and I’ve been abandoned by my sisters-in-law. Isabella has a large social calendar of her own with the art crowd, Ainsley has retreated to Berkshire with her husband for the horse season, and Beth lives a quiet life with Ian. My nephew Daniel’s wife often helps me, but Violet and Danny are tinkering like mad with a motorcar, determined to win the latest time trial, whatever those are.

  If you could see your way to aiding me in my desperation, I would be unceasingly obliged to you. I will also be able to finish my duties quicker so I can take more photographs for your uncle, and no, I am not above a little bribery to bring you to my side. Also it would do you no harm to be seen outside your marriage and under my protection. I speak bluntly because nothing will move forward if I am too delicate to point out your precarious position, which I am not.

  Most of all, I would enjoy spending time in your company. I find you refreshing, and my home rather over-runneth with gentlemen. They are fine fellows to be sure, but a female voice in the clamor is always welcome.

  Do say you’ll come. I will send my maid, who brooks no nonsense, to escort you, so that you will be saved the horrors of traveling in a train car by yourself. I have also sent the fare for a first class ticket enclosed in this letter, since I am demanding your presence.

  Yours in haste,

  Eleanor Kilmorgan

  * * *

  Sophie’s ride to London in the cushioned luxury of the first-class carriage, Eleanor’s prim maid to look after the luggage, proved to be soothing. The maid sat upright in the opposite seat, darning socks, for the entire journey. Eleanor’s sons ran through them quickly, it seemed.