Lord Will & Her Grace

by Sophia Nash

  It was obvious they were looking for her. Sophie edged closer to the evening shade of a large tree bordering the terrace. Charles and Mari returned their attention to the gentleman, while he continued to search the room. His gaze swept past her, then returned to her for the merest moment before returning his attention to the affianced pair.

  Her heart in the pit of her stomach, Sophie rushed to the stairs leading down to the pebbled walkway separating the mansion from the gardens. She could swear he had winked at her.

  Several lanterns, hanging from the low branches of trees nearby illuminated the front section of the garden. Sophie ran beyond them, choosing to hide behind the trunk of a mature oak tree. The rough bark dug into her upper back as she leaned into it.

  She wasn't hiding, really. She just didn't want to have to talk to anyone at the moment. Especially not that gentleman. Several long minutes passed.

  She was behaving like a child. Perhaps she could just creep around the side of the property, reenter through the front doors, and retire to the ladies' withdrawing room. Yes, that was it.

  Rolling her spine off the oak, she stepped into the long dim light cast by a lantern.

  A man cleared his throat.

  Sophie stopped.

  "Mademoiselle Somerset?"

  She breathed in sharply. The voice was not the same but the seductive accent was. She drew herself up and pushed back her shoulders, staring into the darkness from whence the voice had come.

  The sound of a deep chuckle rumbled through the air, sending a shiver up her spine. Oh yes, the laughter was exactly the same. They had probably practiced it in their cradles.

  He emerged from the shadows and paused. "Magnificent." His heavy-lidded gaze rested on her face quite properly, leaving her no retort. "Mademoiselle, I understand now why my brother was so insistent I find you."

  "Indeed," she replied, tilting her chin up and moving past the ray of light into the darkness where the large black shadow of the gentleman appeared. "I find you have the advantage, sir. I've not had the pleasure of an introduction." Her frosty tone was designed to wither.

  It did the opposite. "Oh come, come, my dear. There is no need to be so formal. We are alone, and if anything, you have the advantage. If you know my brother as well as I think you do, you have a fair idea of who I am." He chuckled again, then bowed slowly and courteously, grasping her hand in his large warm one and bringing it to his lips. "Alexander Barclay, Viscount Gaston, your servant, mademoiselle."

  "A pleasure, my lord."

  "Why were you hiding from me just now, chérie?" He reached for her face, and before she could move, he had stroked the curve of her jaw with his index finger.

  She didn't flinch. "I would prefer you didn't use that endearment, sir." She didn't have to see his mouth in the darkness to know he was smiling.

  "My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not intend to offend you in any way." He paused and cocked a brow. "Most ladies of my acquaintance enjoy hearing that particular endearment from my lips."

  They were as alike as croissants and brioches, two half-French men of the world intent on seducing females at every opportunity with their buttery-smooth powers of seduction. But she did not have to stay to endure another round with this new snake charmer. She turned and strode toward the terrace. A chuckle flowed from the light evening breeze behind her.

  "I have a message for you from my charming brother. He asked me to deliver it to you."

  She kept walking, only turning her head so he could hear her response. "I do not accept letters from gentlemen who are not related to me, sir."

  "Mademoiselle, I beg of you to give me a moment to explain." His tone had turned more serious.

  Her curiosity got the better of her. She stopped, forcing him to stride up to her.

  "I believe you misunderstand the mode of my brother's message. You see, he told me you would probably tear any letter from him into shreds before my face. He entrusted me to explain his absence to you instead."

  The urge to escape the presence of this man was overwhelming, but the curiosity to know what he would reveal was stronger. She turned more fully toward him, inviting him to proceed.

  "My brother finds himself, most unwillingly I must add, confined to a dismal northern hamlet attending to the concerns of the Tolworth family, a name my brother said you would recognize. There was some sort of misunderstanding or something very like entrapment and—heaven knows why—William, it seems, has gained a conscience and has decided to restore the girl's reputation." He shuddered. "A frumpy, freckled thing if there ever was one from all reports. My brother is to be pitied, mademoiselle. He was not in any way at fault, only the dupe of a family hell-bent on marrying off their unappealing daughter. Such a misfortune. A waste if you ask me.

  "In any case, he asked me to tell you he regrets he's unable to attend the wedding and therefore the opportunity to fully explain certain circumstances of the past. He wanted me to convey to you that once you are familiar with key incontrovertible facts"—he put the palm of his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes—"you will… hmmm… how did he put it? You will have a change of heart? Or was it a change of clothes? Whatever."

  "I refuse to—" she started.

  He put up a staying hand. "Really, Miss Somerset, do take pity on me and allow me to finish. My head is throbbing from the most foul tainted ale consumed at the last inn during a revolting meal that passed for dinner. I shan't get this right if you interrupt me. Now let's see, where was I?"

  She sighed. "Something about a change of—"

  "Quite right. He asked for one word from you."

  "And this one word would be?"

  "Why, it would be to reassure him that you still adore him, still cherish him, will still receive him when he waits on you after this vile marriage is concluded in Yorkshire." He gently brushed a tendril of her hair from her face. "I promise you he has no intention of decaying in the boggy north for long."

  She became light-headed at the mention of William's sudden contracted marriage. Clenching her hands so tightly behind her until the nails bit into her palms, she forced herself to remain composed. "Lord Gaston, I have never adored or cherished your brother as you suggest." Sophie knew God was just and would understand the necessity of this one small lie.

  "Really? Is that so?" He arched his eyebrow exactly as William had always done.

  Impossible. Both of them were not fit for the devil's notice. The conversation had become a farce of epic proportions.

  "No, or rather, I mean yes, it is so."

  "I find the depth of your sensibilities most revealing, mademoiselle."

  Lord Gaston smiled and unwittingly revealed dimples on his cheeks that were almost like—oh, botheration—at least they did not have the same effect on Sophie at all. Like brother, like brother, apparently. "I must go, sir. I bid you good night."

  He lightly grasped her arm. "But your answer, mademoiselle. I need an answer, remember?"

  "You may tell him that I haven't changed my mind since last I saw him on Primrose Hill. And furthermore, I shall never change my opinion of him and what he represents." Before he could utter another word to detain her again, Sophie picked up her skirts and hurried into the ballroom. The man was impossible. At least he served to remind her of all the reasons why a match between William and her would've been impossible.

  To be fair, she must at least give William credit for returning to Yorkshire to do right by the young girl he had ruined. But that credit became negated when he'd fully intended on quitting Yorkshire as soon as he could to have a romantic interlude of some sort with her.

  Surely, Lord Gaston had not relayed William's words properly. William knew her well enough to know that she would never receive him again after his marriage, except for any joint visits he might make with his wife, if they ever visited the Morningtons. She would be sure to arrange trips to London on those occasions.

  So he was to be married. To save Miss Tolworth from ruin. At least his conscience had caught up wi
th him. Her heart constricted just a fraction. Surely it was her new corset that caused the sensation.

  She was glad he was doing the moral and right thing. She was happy she would live out the rest of her productive life in Burnham-by-the-Sea filling her time with works of charity, and overseeing the villa. She really, really was.

  Mother Nature smiled on Mari and Charles on the morning of their wedding. An occasional puff of white cloud drifted across the expanse of blue sky. Four and fifty guests filled the small yet formidable St. Andrew's church fronting the sea. The fourteenth century tower noticeably leaned to one side.

  The pastor appeared nervous facing the large crowd. Indeed his hands shook as he asked the happy bride and groom the all-important questions that would serve to bind them forever as man and wife. Mari and Charles played their parts to the letter except perhaps the vows had been sealed a tad too exuberantly.

  Viscount Gaston stood in what would have been William's place across from Sophie. He barely smiled during the whole of the wedding and the wedding breakfast at Hinton Arms. Perhaps Sophie had imagined the whole horrid scenario last evening. But of course she hadn't for he insisted on a private word with her in the mansion's small music room before his leave-taking after the breakfast.

  He bowed over her hand, correctly. "Do I owe you an apology, Miss Somerset? I suppose I must if the size of my head this morning is any indication. Between the foul ale and food from the atrocious inn and the heat in the carriage, well—"

  "There is no need for you to feel remorseful, sir." Sophie led him to the pianoforte's bench, the only seating in the deserted room that had been ransacked of all its chairs for the breakfast party. "Perhaps the conversation we shared last night was best performed in your state of… mind "

  He was very ill at ease. "Did I remember correctly that essentially you required me to tell William that—" He paused, searching her face.

  She helped to refresh his memory. "That I never want to see your dear brother again," Sophie said quietly, firmly.

  "Right," he said, scratching his head. "Well, at least he is still dear to you."

  Perhaps it was the lack of sleep she had endured of late, or more likely the familiarity she felt toward Lord Gaston due to the extraordinary rsemblance between the two brothers. Whatever the reason, Sophie's usual grace snapped. "No, Lord Gaston. He is not dear to me at all. He will always be nothing more to me than a deceiving scoundrel, a fortune hunter, a seducer—a know-nothing, vain nodcock interested more in the design of his waistcoat"—she glanced at the intricate paisley design on Lord Gaston's same article of clothing— "than the needs of those less fortunate. In short, the exact opposite of any gentleman with whom I would care to be acquainted. In fact, you may tell Lord Will that I consider his unwillingness to accept my refusal to see him as more evidence of his conceited, overbearing male behavior, which, you will forgive me for noticing, seems to run in the family."

  Lord Gaston narrowed his eyes, and raked his gaze over her dazzling décolleté. "You don't know me at all, mademoiselle. And if I may be allowed to say, you seem to know even less about my brother."

  Sophie could see a cold, hard fury building in the brother's expression.

  "You call him a deceiving scoundrel. Perhaps he is. But have you never wondered what made him such? If I remember correctly, it all began right here—during a long visit, when he met a lonely female bent on excitement. Someone who appreciated young talent."

  "I am not surprised to hear Lord Will seduced a lady here. He seems to have a penchant for music rooms." Sophie's face burned in anger and embarrassment. "You have said nothing to dissuade me from my judgment of his character."

  Alexander Barclay's face drained of all color. He spoke softly, "Then perhaps I should disclose that this occurred when my brother was just fifteen— here on holiday after being half orphaned and left to rot in Eton's barbaric Collager program where they starve them on one meal a day and lock them in the dormitory at night where the older students prey on the younger. He was invited here to experience what he most craved—the affection found within a family circle. And when he was lulled by the warmth and security he encountered, he was then seduced by his best friend's calculating mother, who lied to him, telling him her husband tormented her physically and mentally. Will's tender sensibilities were thoroughly engaged and he even went so far as to beg her to allow him to kill her husband—his best friend's father—in a duel." He covered his brow and eyes with his hand. "This selfsame ladydiscarded my brother a year or so later upon the death of her husband. The poor boy couldn't comprehend why a woman of four and thirty wasn't willing to tie herself to a penniless orphan of sixteen now that she had inherited a good portion of her husband's fortune."

  Sophie thought she might very well be ill. She fought back the bile that rose in her throat but could not stop the room from spinning. She reached out to grab the pianoforte's edge, and misplaced her hands, causing hideous crashing notes to fill the air. She closed her eyes and all at once felt Lord Gaston's hands grasp her shoulders.

  "Miss Somerset, lower your head to your knees. Oh, don't faint." He positioned her head then paused before gently cradling her against him. "Please forgive me. I don't know what I—well, I should never have spoken. And I've broken William's confidence, after all these years. But then, he never could rely on me. It is perhaps why Farquhar is…" His voice trailed off as she raised her head from her knees. Silently, he offered his handkerchief to her which she quickly refused by shaking her head.

  Sophie didn't dare speak. It would only allow the sobs to escape from her throat. She refused to burden him with tears or meaningless words that would not remove the guilt he would endure for revealing such a horrid episode. She just wanted this awful discourse to end and for him to leave her.

  He seemed to read her mind. "Miss Somerset, I pray you will forgive me in time. I'm sorry my words distressed you. It is just that so many have misjudged my brother. I could not bear for the one woman he has finally come to regard to not see him for who he truly is. But, I'm not used to playing the go-between. And I daresay we both agree I am no good at it." With a guilt-stricken expression, he continued. "I dare not leave you this way, mademoiselle. Shall I fetch you some water—or something stronger? Perhaps some wine?"

  She shook her head again and finally forced herself to speak slowly, with a minimum of pauses. "Please, sir… I will be all right. I think it best if you go. I bear you no ill will, and I thank you for confiding in me. Forgive me for insulting you and your brother. I'm most ashamed and earned your chastisement." She paused before continuing. "But, I'm sure you will understand that I'm still unable to agree to see William ever again—for obvious reasons."

  He gave her a long steady look then nodded. He rose from the bench and led her to the door. They parted in the hallway. "I am the one who must be ashamed, Miss Somerset. I should be horsewhipped." He turned abruptly to meet his waiting carriage beyond the outer doors of Hinton Arms.

  Sophie entered her apartments in Villa Belza and stumbled across the Aubusson carpet before collapsing onto her embroidered chaise lounge. The long walk from Hinton Arms through the tall grasses edging the cliffs had failed to sooth her disordered sensibilities.

  Within moments, Karine entered the chamber carrying a pitcher of steaming water. "So it was a success then, the wedding?"

  Sophie forced a frozen smile to her lips. "Yes. It was all so very lovely."

  "And Miss Owens? Did she not look like perfection in the gown I designed with Madame Roussy?"

  "Yes, Karine—perfection…"

  She could feel Karine staring at her. "Miss Somerset, are you all right? You look quite ill."

  She forced herself to hold a calm expression. "I'm fine, Karine. Just a bit exhausted and sad to see everyone off. I think I shall have a lie down. You deserve the same after all your hard work."

  Sophie could see Karine was about to badger her with further questions when inspiration struck.

  "Karine… you've had s
o many long hours of late, I've been thinking you've earned a holiday. I know how much you long for a visit to town. Go then, for a fortnight, with my blessings."

  Her words were like magic. Karine babbled with happiness and stayed just long enough to remove Sophie's delicate lace gown and assist with unpinning the intricate hairstyle so painstakingly constructed a few hours before. Sophie stared at herself in the looking glass when she was alone and fully expected—no, looked forward to—the luxury of a good cry. But, oddly, the tears would not come.

  After several long minutes, a slight breeze from the open window beckoned her. She gazed at the sea, and deeply inhaled salt air into her lungs.

  It all made sense now. All the pieces of William's life fit together in a sordid, soggy mess. He had once been a sensitive, honorable, passionate young boy. But harsh and evil circumstances had altered him irrevocably.

  Mrs. Mornington had, obviously, been the worst influence of all. After lying to him, and seducing him, she had discarded him like the chimney sweeps left urchins, grown too ill to perform their labors, in the streets to fend for themselves. She had been a monster.

  It was easy to understand why William had become the man he was. He had been forced to accept the rules of a cruel world and had therefore shown selfless loyalty to a select few—such as Mr. Farquhar and Charles Mornington. And he had learned well the lesson that no female could ever be trusted. Instead, he used them for pleasure, never investing his heart to any degree.

  And was she not guilty to a smaller degree of acting in the same deplorable fashion? Had she not gone to London after he had broken her heart? Had she not become an infamous flirt, inflaming the desire of many good gentlemen in her zeal to pretend William meant nothing to her?

  Due to her aunt's kindness, she could be thankful her foray into the land of coquetry hadn't lasted longer than a few weeks. But William had not had someone to lift him from despair and so dissolution and deception had become a permanent way of life.