by Erica Vetsch
Charles released Sophie’s hand and bowed deeply. “A pleasure, Lady Rothwell.”
Her grin shot heat through him. She dipped a low curtsy, her hand at her neckline. “An honor, Lord Rothwell.”
Thea snorted on her way out.
Before Mamie rose from the pianoforte, she said, “Please, just one more. You haven’t shown Penny the waltz.”
“Surely they won’t waltz at a country dance. And in any case, Penny’s too young to waltz,” Sophie objected.
“Perhaps not, but you make such a lovely couple, and I know you waltz beautifully.” Mamie began a three-quarter-time tune. “Please, for me?”
Since they both made a practice of not refusing Mamie anything that was in their power to provide, Charles didn’t argue. He offered his hand to Sophie, and she shook her head, placing her fingers once more into his. He barely admitted to himself how he wanted this moment.
Penny and Miles moved to the edge of the dance floor.
“It’s a shame young girls aren’t allowed to waltz, though I understand why. It’s the easiest step to master, I think.” Charles drew Sophie in and put his hand at the small of her back, trying to keep his voice casual. Counting off two measures in his head, he swung her into the one-two-three rhythm of the song. The lemon scent of her perfume drifted into his nose, and he studied her face from this new angle. She had long lashes, and her cheeks curved youthfully. He was reminded of the gap in their ages. He was an old seadog married to a stunning young woman.
She was the relic of his best friend. He had been charged with taking care of her.
What had seemed a sensible plan, this marriage of convenience, now seemed absurd. He’d bound her to himself with promises that he would not often be at Gateshead, and she had accepted on those terms.
He moved to the music, exerting slight pressure on her spine, but leading lightly. She might have been a bit of thistledown, she was so airy. She had been made to waltz.
Desire caught him amidships, and he missed a step. Pivoting to cover the mistake, he tried to bring reason to bear on his emotions. The regard in which he had held her up to this moment blossomed into something much stronger, and he realized he wanted nothing more than to stop and cup her face between his hands and taste those rose-colored lips.
Realizing where his thoughts were leading him, he stopped dancing, letting his hands fall away. Sophie’s momentum carried her a few more steps, and a startled look crossed her face.
“What’s wrong?”
He felt a fool. For all he had been on his guard against his feelings for her, they had ambushed him.
“Nothing. I do apologize. I just remembered something I need to do. Don’t wait on me to have your tea.” He bowed and made his escape, retreating from the scene like a coward.
His study beckoned, and he made for that personal sanctuary. He ignored the piles of papers on his desk in favor of going to stand at the windows in the alcove.
What a cake he’d made of himself. He needed a brisk walk and a stern lecture. The sooner he had a commission the better. If he didn’t hear again from the Admiralty soon, he’d be forced to swallow his pride and apply at a merchant company for a job. For the first time, staying at the estate had a strong pull, possibly stronger than that of the sea. Was his heart going to be a traitor to his calling?
He couldn’t stay at Gateshead if he was going to be foolish enough to fall in love with his wife.
It would somehow be disloyal to Rich, wouldn’t it? He was tasked with looking after Sophie. Just as he was the girls. He should think of her only in those terms. She might be married to him, but she was like a ward, and he was like a guardian. Right?
In love. What twaddle.
Going away to sea under those circumstances would be both a relief and pure torture. How had Rich managed to keep an even keel, loving Sophie and yet being parted from her for such long stretches?
He pounded his fist on the windowsill. What an idiot he was.
Well, he wasn’t going to let it happen. It was a matter of disciplining his mind and heart.
Perhaps a bit of tedium with the estate books would sort him out. There was nothing so unromantic as ledgers. He would be glad when Alastair Lythgoe arrived to take the position of steward. Charles would gladly foist most of the paperwork onto Lythgoe’s desk.
The leather of the most recent of his uncle’s account books creaked and cracked as Charles pressed it open. In a final protest, the spine gave up the fight, breaking at the hinge and exposing the spine’s interior. A small puff of dust rose up, and Charles swatted it away.
What was this?
A roll of paper had been shoved down the spine and now lay on the marbled endpaper. Charles picked it up, mildly curious. His uncle had been a long ways off being in his right mind, and Charles had found similar documents tucked here and there in the old earl’s rooms. Spidery notes that made no sense. He’d thrown them into the fire-starter bin each time he’d found one.
Unrolling the paper, which was in remarkably good condition—the hiding place must have sheltered it from wear—he noted that this one was different. It hadn’t been written by his uncle.
It was a letter addressed to the former earl.
Rothwell,
The money has been deposited in your account. Your share of the haul was 30 percent, as agreed. The next load will leave Calais on the ninth. See that your boat is on station to receive it on the eleventh. We can’t hang about waiting for you. The Revenue cutter has been doing sweeps, and the last thing we want is to get caught in that net. This time light the signal lamp. The flag was of no use to us in the dark.
P.
Charles read the note again, hoping, praying he had misunderstood. But no. There could be no other explanation.
His uncle had played some part in smuggling goods.
Fire burned along his veins. He’d spent the greater part of his life defending England, protecting her borders, manning the blockade, and here his own uncle had been subverting the law and bringing in contraband.
Which meant at least some of Charles’s inheritance had been funded by illegal activity. The fat bank account his uncle had amassed had come through breaking the law.
He examined the note again. No date. No way to tell when it had been written or when it had been received. The paper hadn’t yellowed or cracked, nor had the ink faded. It looked as if it could have been written yesterday.
His uncle’s boat had been used in the crime. Which meant that someone else knew about it, because his uncle, as old as he was, hadn’t been running the Shearwater out into the channel to pick up contraband alone.
Miles?
Grayson?
Someone else?
Who was “P”? Pembroke, the girls’ father?
Two questions were paramount: Was the smuggling still going on, and what should Charles do about it?
He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He would need to deal with this before he took up a captaincy. Lawbreaking had no place at Gateshead, not while he was in charge.
At least this new problem had gotten his mind off Sophie.
CHAPTER 11
THE NIGHT OF the assembly, Thea stood by the front door, face reproachful. “I don’t see why I can’t go.”
Sophie checked her appearance in the mirror one last time as the carriage pulled into the circular drive. She had to stand on tiptoe and crane her neck, because Penny primped and tried different expressions before her reflection, taking up nearly all the space in front of the looking glass.
Without turning around, Penny scolded her sister. “You’ve done nothing but poke fun and chide me for being excited to go, and now you want to come?” She made a little pout at her reflection, lowering her chin and batting her lashes.
Thea crossed her thin arms. “I don’t like being left out. I’ll miss everything if I have to stay here. I don’t see why you got invited. You’re not that much older than me.”
“Nearly five years, darling.” The eldest P
embroke sister was too consumed with her own excitement to worry about how her middle sister was faring.
Going to Thea, Sophie cupped the child’s cheek. “I know. I felt the same way when I was your age. But you’ll get to go soon enough. And I promise to tell you everything tomorrow morning.”
“Can I come to your room first thing?”
“Absolutely.” Sophie hid her wince. Thea was known for rising before the rooster, and tonight they would be late returning. She would jump into Sophie’s bed at first light with questions and wiggles and opinions galore. Still, one night of short sleep in exchange for making Thea feel safe and loved? A bargain.
Mamie waited patiently in her dark gown with the jet-bead trim. Sophie had styled her hair in pretty curls and loaned her a bandeau of black velvet to wear. Sophie wanted to hug her, she looked so sweet.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“A village dance, Mamie. There will be food and music and new friends to meet.” Sophie spoke with confidence, but a tickle of unease went through her. Today hadn’t been a good memory day for Mamie, and she’d needed reminding several times about tonight’s event. Here at Gateshead, her good days had outnumbered her bad, but the bad ones hadn’t disappeared altogether.
Charles hurried down the stairs. “Sorry to be late. Are we ready?”
Feathers of excitement brushed Sophie’s skin. He looked so distinguished in his formal attire. Though she liked his naval uniform, Charles Wyvern in civilian tailoring with snowy linens was enough to take a girl’s breath away.
She covered her surprise by checking that her reticule and fan hung just right from her wrist.
When had she begun to think of him as handsome? Austere, yes. Commanding. Even a touch dashing, as Cilla had commented … but handsome?
Her tastes lay in a different direction, didn’t they? Charles looked nothing like Rich. Rich had been shorter, stockier, with chestnut hair. More blunt of features with a strong jaw and broad brow. And in Sophie’s eyes, perfect.
And yet the captain’s appearance made her heart bump against her stays in an odd manner. Careful, Sophie. You would be unwise to take more than a bit of notice of him. Don’t let your head be turned. Yours is a business arrangement only, and the last thing you want is to be attracted to a man who will never be content at home. You had enough of that with Rich, forever waiting for him to return to you.
Charles offered his arm. “I’ll be the envy of every man there, escorting such beauties.” His words were proper and flattering, but he had a distracted look, as if he had much on his mind. Something had put him on edge ever since they had waltzed together a few days previously. He’d been reticent, and he’d taken a long walk at dusk every evening, refusing company, even Sophie’s.
Was he getting restless about not hearing anything more from the Admiralty? He had been so disappointed when the blockade of Elba had fallen through. They hadn’t spoken of what his plans would be, though she recalled him saying a captaincy of a merchant ship would be a last resort.
Once inside the carriage, excited tension radiated from Penny and she flicked open her fan, then clicked it shut, fidgeting and unable to sit still.
Mamie hummed quietly to herself, content enough to be with them, though Sophie wasn’t certain she fully grasped where they were headed. Sophie only hoped the villagers would be kind.
Sophie smoothed her skirts and tried to lighten the mood. “I haven’t attended a dance in a very long time. When I think of the dances we had at Haverly House, the weeklong party we had to celebrate my brother Neville becoming engaged to Cilla, we danced every night. I wasn’t much older than Penny is now. I met Rich that week. Do you remember, Mamie?”
“I remember that night.” Mamie’s voice had a faraway quality. “You were everywhere, chatting and laughing, and Rich couldn’t take his eyes off you. He came home that night and declared he was going to marry you someday.”
“That’s so romantic. And tragic.” Penny sighed. “But look how things turned out. Now you have the captain, and you’re a countess. You got a happy ending after all.”
Sophie nodded, and Charles shifted on his seat. She wouldn’t … couldn’t … explain to Penny the true nature of their marriage. But it was an answer to prayer, for both of them, she hoped.
Almost as if Mamie had read her mind, the older woman said, “I prayed very hard for you, Sophie, when Rich died. I was afraid you would mourn him until you were old and gray like me. You loved him very much, but he would never have wanted you to stop living. I’m glad you two made a match of it. Your marriage was the answer to my prayers.”
Sophie had thought so at the time, but how she wished she could talk to Rich just once more, to get his blessing, to explain her reasons.
“I’m grateful that you pray for me, Mamie.” Sophie leaned across and patted her hand. “I only hope that Marcus and Mother think this marriage a blessing when they arrive. I did tell you they were coming? Marcus first, and then the dowager will descend. I feel Gateshead should brace itself as if for inclement weather.”
“You do talk a lot of nonsense, child. You love your mother, and she loves you. Beneath all that bluster is a woman who cares for her children so much, she doesn’t realize how forceful she sounds. I’ve always gotten along with Honora Haverly, in spite of her being a duchess and putting on airs.”
The carriage stopped before the public house, and Penny could barely contain herself. Light spilled from the windows, and people arrived on foot all around them, chattering and laughing.
When they climbed out, a path opened for them to the door. Men bowed, and women curtsied. Charles took Sophie’s elbow, herding Penny and Mamie before him.
Inside, they were led upstairs to the assembly room. A long table stood at the far end, laden with food. Miles, who had driven the carriage, came in behind them and placed Mrs. Chapman’s contributions to the feast, jugged hare and apple compote, with the other dishes.
When Reverend Dunhill spied Sophie, he smiled, coming to her side. “Lady Rothwell, you’re looking very well tonight. I see you brought your charges, young and old.” He favored Penny with a smile and Mamie with a brief handclasp. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in our rather provincial entertainments.”
“I’m sure we’ll have a delightful time,” Sophie said.
“We’ll begin soon. The musicians come from Lyme Regis, and they’re quite good.”
A fiddler, a flautist, and a harpist gathered in one corner, and the publican, Mr. Barker, brought a small table to set near their chairs. Mrs. Barker followed him, holding three pewter mugs and a pitcher. Sophie smiled. The musicians would be well lubricated this evening.
Penny had eyes for everything, bouncing on her toes, tapping her fan into her palm. “How are they going to fit everyone inside?”
A good question, since the room was nearly full, with more people arriving each minute.
“I imagine a large number of the gentlemen will head to the taproom.” Charles tugged at his cravat, his eyes narrowed as he looked from one face to the next, as if weighing people up.
“Mamie, let’s get you settled.” Sophie guided her to where some pillows had been placed on benches along the wall. Several older ladies in lace caps had gathered there.
“You go and enjoy yourself, Sophie. I’ll be fine here. I’ll see you when they take the supper break.” Mamie seemed to have gathered herself and to be aware of her surroundings again.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, assemble for the promenade.” A stout little man with a shiny bald head and fringes of hair sticking out over his ears stood on tiptoe. His voice was strikingly loud for such a short fellow.
“I forgot to find a partner for Penny. I’ll be back to check on you, Mamie. If you need anything, I’ll be nearby.”
She hurried through the crowd, but she needn’t have worried about Penny. The girl was surrounded by young men, and Charles was at her side, frowning. The reverend was making introductions, and Penny looked flushed and overwhelmed.
“This is Ulrich Fields. His father is the blacksmith here, and Ulrich helps out in the forge.” Reverend Dunhill drew forward a sturdy young fellow with blazing-red hair that would rival Thea’s. “I can vouch for his character.”
Charles gave a short nod, and the transaction was done. Ulrich bowed, held his hand out, and led Penny away like a prize.
The rest of the potential partners drifted away. The reverend chuckled at their dispirited looks. “You will find yourself besieged with men asking to partner Miss Pembroke tonight. The young men will flock, and the other young ladies will pout and glower.”
Charles took Sophie’s left hand in his left. “We’ve been asked to lead out.” He put his right hand on the small of her back. “I’m told it’s a simple promenade, twice around the room.”
A ripple of heat radiated on her skin at his touch, traveling up her arm to her chest. If she closed her eyes, she could feel each of his fingers spread on her back. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way, was she? Not for the captain. A flush gathered momentum, surging into her cheeks. She prayed he wouldn’t notice, and that those looking on would think her merely feeling the heat from the crowded room.
She and Charles stepped out together, and the onlookers clapped along to the lively tune. Some folks stared and whispered behind their hands as the earl and countess went by, but Sophie kept her chin level and a pleasant expression on her face. It was to be expected that they would be the objects of curiosity. That was part of the reason they’d come, to make the acquaintance of their new neighbors and settle some of the questions the villagers would no doubt have about the new residents of Gateshead.
Charles matched his steps to hers, but he still seemed distracted. His hand was firm against her back, maintaining contact, but she might have been a stranger for all the attention he paid her. His composure irked Sophie. How could his mere touch have her at sixes and sevens, and he remain unaffected? And yet he was in the right, wasn’t he? Maintaining an even disposition, keeping things on a formal, business footing as agreed. She didn’t want to feel like this, did she? Especially if she was the only one.