by Kim Bowman
She put half a dozen demanding pieces on the desk in turn before his shoulders slumped with fatigue.
“How bad is it?” she murmured, wondering if he was over the worst.
“Bad.”
Sophia wished she didn’t know the topic so thoroughly. “Are you nauseated? Does your head ache?”
“No, and always.”
“How about visions? Hallucinations?” She could fetch help if he became unruly.
He thunked his elbows on the piano keys and scoffed. “For me, that is not a symptom,” he answered darkly, “but a catalyst.”
She thought she understood that he was disturbed by what had happened to him in the war. “You blame yourself.”
“No,” he groaned. “I blame you.”
She felt it like a slap. Before she could storm out, he grabbed her wrist and drew her tightly against his chest. It didn’t matter that there was no smell of liquor to set her off; she reacted with panic at being restrained. She barely knew she thrashed and clawed, certain her arms were covered in blood. Her scars burned and stung as though raw. Where had her father’s cruel voice come from? She could hear him in her head, mocking and chanting, “Filthy whore!”
Lips smooth like marble on her temple, her brow, pressing her cheeks but carefully away from her mouth. “I’m sorry.” Strong but gentle, callused fingers stroked the back of her neck. Her mind cleared as she gasped for air. “Rosalie, I am so sorry.”
How long until she could be free of those awful memories?
Probably not until Lord Chauncey was cold and dead.
Wilhelm spoke with his face pressed in her hair. “Who did this to you?” His voice gentled, but she heard his sharp consonants and wasn’t fooled for a moment that he felt any more tranquil than she. “Tell me, Rosalie, and I will kill him.”
A chill made her bones feel hollow, intuition alerting her that he meant it. He wanted to do it. Was she such a villain to find it a heady, powerful revelation? For a moment she was tempted to tell him all and let him fight her battles.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to step away and let his arms drop from her back. It was all so horridly inappropriate, but even shame was no match for the residual heat of his hands and lips on her skin. He let her go, watching her with an intense expression that made her feel completely bare.
Poorly done, her falling apart when Wilhelm had a crisis of his own. He seemed so vulnerable, his wry gallantry replaced by a raw look in his eyes that frightened her a little.
“I will clear out your room, but first tell me where your secret stash is.”
He looked bewildered then resigned. “Between the headboard and the mattress.” She nodded and turned as he added, “Behind the red leather Bible on the writing desk. The flask in the bottom drawer of the bureau. In the folds of the north-facing draperies on the left side… Under the clock on the mantle.”
“Is that all?”
He exhaled in a gust. “Rolled in a towel in my shaving kit.”
She silently recited the six locations to check for his hidden cache of liquor, all new since she’d last cleaned his apartments. The least she could do was help him quit. “I am going to dump it all out,” she warned. “Then I will replace the decanters in the public rooms with something mild, like a sherry. No more cognac.”
He nodded tersely with his jaw clenched.
She stared at him and realized her omission. She walked back to stand before him and held out her hand with her eyebrow cocked. She gave him her best lady-of-the-house glower. It worked, because he groaned then surrendered a palm-sized metal flask from his trousers pocket.
“Wilhelm?”
“Hmm?”
“You are a better man than most.”
Chapter Ten
When Romance Rears Its Ugly Head
Sophia would have given anything to have a brother like Philip Cavendish. She watched him too often, not because he was charming and handsome, but because he sincerely cherished his sisters. Just now he was teaching the girls to play cricket, and they all frolicked about, laughing.
“He is a father to them, as well as brother,” came Lord Devon’s thoughtful voice from behind her. “Positions I flatter myself by filling when he is off swashbuckling. The fool.” He rested a hand on her shoulder.
“You fear he will get himself killed in battle and leave you without an heir.”
“The legacy of Rougemont was ruined long ago. I am a bastard and everyone with a memory as long as Aunt Louisa’s knows it. I am earl only because my brother is dead and my father was a coward.” His words rolled with lazy calm; at first she couldn’t believe what he confessed. “No, I fear Philip will waste his youth searching abroad for what he already possesses at home. He is too young and stupid to see it.”
Wilhelm had been rubbing circles across the back of her neck and shoulders. She became aware of how pleasing his masculine hands felt on her skin: warm, strong, the coarser texture of his palm stroking her with such gentleness. No wonder his horses adored him. She made no protest when his fingers ducked beneath the edge of her dress to reach more of her shoulders, so long as he avoided the scarred skin a little lower on her back.
“I was young and stupid once. Now I am old and stupid, according to my nephew.”
Sophia smiled, hearing the wry humor in his flat tone. “Wisdom is a farce and a mirage. There are only varying degrees of foolishness.”
Wilhelm’s chuckle brushed his breath over her neck, sending chills down her back. “Who said that?”
“A brilliant modern philosopher, too transcendent for you to comprehend.”
“You quoted yourself?”
“Perhaps I stole it from a dead Greek.” She hesitated before asking, “Have you considered making Elise heir of Rougemont?”
“I cannot entail the estate to a female.”
He misunderstood, and she refused to spell it out: No, but if you married her… Since Elise’s father was Wilhelm’s cousin, she wasn’t really his niece. And at age nineteen, eligible, by all accounts.
Instead she huffed and ordered, “Two inches southeast, if you please.” She leaned into his hand, hinting that she wanted him to rub out the itch burning just below the spot his fingers stroked.
“I doubt I can reach. Surely you don’t mean for me to disrobe you?”
“No, through the fabric, my lord. Of course.” She bit back a sigh of relief as his fingers rubbed just the right spot.
“A pity, my—” His hands stilled, and she feared he’d fallen into a trance until she felt him pushing aside the back seam of her dress. “What is this?” he muttered, trailing his fingers up and down.
It took her a moment to understand he meant the lengthwise tape of interlocking metal teeth hidden under the row of false buttons. “If you must know, it’s an automatic fastener. It has — Wilhelm!”
He’d found the slider and pulled down, opening the back of her dress to the waist with a loud zip.
“Brilliant!” Up and down, he opened and shut the fastener, ignoring her protests, holding her in place with his other hand pressed down on her shoulder. She squirmed and fought, desperate to escape before he saw the scars on her back. She knew they shone through the fabric of her chemise, still dark and puckered.
“What is this wonderful invention? Why is it not installed on clothing for gentlemen?”
“Because cavemen seldom appreciate innovation. Now please fasten my dress!”
The moment he righted her dress, she stood and whirled to face him, jutting her nose close to his. The effect worked better on average men whose height she matched, but with Lord Devon, the gesture framed them for a kiss.
Fortunately she was entirely too angry for that. “How dare you?”
Storm-grey eyes flashed amusement though his jaw clenched, rippling the little muscle in the corner. “I apologize, my lady. I forget myself.”
“A cheeky apology, if I ever heard one.”
Without breaking his stare, he reached for her hand and raised it to kiss he
r knuckles. Unbidden, images flashed through her mind, heated moments of Wilhelm’s mouth on hers: how slowly he dragged his bottom lip across hers, how his breath shuddered as though he teetered on the edge of control.
Raking his fingertips over her palm, he pried open her fist and slid his fingers between hers, clasping their hands together. The sheer intimacy of it made her swallow a gasp. His thumb rubbed up and down her wrist. More and more he dared touch her, and she allowed it.
As her anger dissipated, she acknowledged, “I suppose if I couldn’t open buttons, an automatic fastener might seem newsworthy.”
While she was forgiving Lord Devon, he turned her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest, resting his chin at her temple. He hummed faintly, undisturbed as he held her in a casual embrace. His husky tenor voice near her ear went straight to her loins, made her eyes close, and gave her essentially ill-advised notions.
The cricket game had ended. While his sisters fetched the wickets, Lieutenant Cavendish watched the terrace from the field, scowling at Wilhelm as he swung the bat behind his shoulders like a cat lashing its tail.
“Your skin smells like peaches and cloves. Unbelievably soft, like oiled silk. I find the texture addicting.” His lips trailed across her cheekbone — a display for Philip, no doubt — and he held tight against her effort to break free, whispering, “Remember our bargain.”
“Fiend,” she reprimanded, even as she relished the low, sensuous timbre of his voice. It affected her like an opiate.
“The post has arrived, my lord,” interrupted Martin, the butler. Wilhelm released her hand and accepted the small bundle of letters. Where ever did he find such a straight-faced butler? Martin didn’t even raise a brow at the inappropriate position he found them in.
“For you, my lady.” Lord Devon passed her a letter. He called her Rosalie less and less lately, and usually in sarcasm. She knew her disguise bothered him.
She took the envelope addressed to Mrs. Rosalie Cooper, recognizing Mr. Cox’s hand. Her solicitor sent news every few weeks, but this letter felt heavier and fatter than usual. She tucked it deep in a pocket hidden in her skirts.
“You will not read it?”
“Not with you looking over my shoulder.” She reminded him of his side of the agreement, that he allow her privacy and let her secrets lie. “Remember our bargain?”
~~~~
Dearest Sophie,
Do not be angry with Mr. Cox, I begged him to forward my letter. Chauncey found me in Edinburgh, his investigators followed servant gossip, according to Mr. Cox. Chauncey is livid, Sophie. Last time he wanted me to give up your location. This time I think he only wanted to gloat. He says he knows where you are and vows to make you regret your defiance. I wished him to hell. Mr. Cox assures me it was a bluff and that you are safely hidden. Wherever you are be careful, Sophie. I wish you were here—
Heavy knuckles rapped on the door, the one adjoining her apartments with Lord Devon’s. “Are you ready to go down?” He let himself in before she could answer.
Sophia hid the letter from her mother behind her back with one hand and held the loose bodice of her gown up with the other. “One day you might barge through that door and find me in flagrante delicto.”
“That would be the same day I commit murder.” His cold smile gave the impression he wasn’t joking.
“So, who am I this evening?” Sophia crumpled the paper in her fist as he approached.
“Aunt Louisa’s cousin from France, whom I appear smitten with. It is time to reveal you to the neighbors. According to my aunt, the parish is rife with rumors.”
“So you want me to pretend to be respectable and speak with a French accent?”
“If it’s not too much to ask, do that in addition to appearing smitten with me in return.” He closed the back of her dress and kissed the nape of her neck.
Sophia caught her breath, struck with how natural the gesture felt. If she didn’t take care, she would believe the false sense of intimacy between them. She reminded herself Lord Devon was improperly direct and she was desperate for protection, not elements of a genuine romance.
Sophia attached the ruby earbobs but put the matching necklace away in favor of appearing more modest. Her organza gown in a deep shade of burgundy wine was dramatic enough. She tucked the crumpled letter inside the box with the necklace to finish reading later.
Lord Devon studied her from head to toe and hummed in approval. “Perfect.”
It was the closest he had ever come to complimenting her appearance. Even if she resembled a hedgehog, was it not his duty as her escort to say something gallant? With nothing forthcoming, she took his arm and walked toward the first-floor drawing room.
He paused at the door and muttered, “This is Aunt Louisa’s idea of vital community leadership. I call it death by half-wits. Anything to keep the Old Dragon content. She has promised to support you this evening.”
“A truce? Very well.” Ah, so Lord Devon had agreed to socialize with the neighbors if Aunt Louisa painted on a smile for Sophia? This should be entertaining.
To her surprise, Wilhelm behaved with the utmost gentility as he introduced her. He seemed so relatively normal among company, she doubted anyone would suspect his limitations. To his guests, Lord Devon must seem hale and clever if they forgave him for being a bit dark and acerbic. The vicar suggested Lord Devon attend the parish bazaar the next Saturday. The balding owl-eyed man made the mistake of implying obligation, his tone scolding.
Wilhelm nodded thoughtfully and answered, “In a deterministic universe, there would be no use for probability if all the conditions were known, such as the current rate of my attendance in relation to the statistical feasibility of a future appearance. Multiplied with incentives applied by entities supernatural or divine, the result is the antithesis of expectation.” Wilhelm smiled and added cordially, “Of course you may count on financial support from Rougemont. Your service is duly appreciated.”
Sophia bit her lip to resist laughing out loud — Wilhelm had quoted Newton to insult a clergyman. The vicar seemed aware he’d been set down but had no idea how and could hardly protest Lord Devon’s pledge of funding.
Settled in a corner with Elise and the elderly half-deaf Miss Cloward, Sophia could hear every word from the group of young ladies and their mamas clustered in a circle by the mantel. They supposed they were whispering.
“Just look at the Honorable Miss Pomphrey! She is positively stricken with him.”
“She laughs at everything he says whether it is amusing or not.”
“For thirty-four-thousand a year, I would do anything on cue.”
They giggled, each shooting furtive glances in Wilhelm’s direction. He stood with a crowd of mixed company around the piano, looking dashing but distant with the blushing Miss Pomphrey.
Sophia’s brows raised in spite of herself. She had no idea Lord Devon was so outrageously wealthy. By all accounts, he didn’t seem to care, lacking the air of avarice most rich men reeked of.
Louisa sat at a table of whist, exchanging sideways glances with Sophia, who feigned interest in Miss Cloward’s ghost cat story.
“Well, he can have her if he pleases. It’s none of my business if he robs the cradle.”
“Thirty-and-five? Not too old to father an heir.”
“I would take Sir Cavendish just as soon. A pirate slayer!” The rustle of half a dozen crinolines meant they all turned to look at Philip.
“I should not like to be an officer’s wife. Countess, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Not me. Lord Devon is frightening. There is something not quite right about him.”
One of the mamas stage-whispered, “Do you mean his unspeakable proclivities or the torture?”
“Torture?”
The matronly voice lowered. “Oh yes, it was hushed up, but my housekeeper Mrs. Rutger came from Ashton Hall in Lancashire, which you know is the Tilmore estate. And Lord Courtenay and Lord Devon are the best of friends, not to mention Lord Courte
nay was Lord Devon’s commanding officer in the Russian war, only Lord Devon was a spy — my Mrs. Rutger heard it from Lord Courtenay himself, only he didn’t know she was listening—”
Sophia wanted to shout, “Mercy, woman, take a breath! And get on with the bit about torture.”
“And so Mrs. Rutger heard Lord Courtenay speak about how Lord Devon was a spymaster, or more like an assassin—” Her audience gave an appreciate ooh. “But he was betrayed and captured. Tortured. A ruined man, but at least they made him lieutenant-general for his trouble. Or perhaps to cover up the scandal.”
After the gasps, one young voice quivered, “That sounds rather heroic,” at the same time another said, “Ruined?”
“I hear he has fits. And worse, he is quite hideously disfigured with scars.”
“La! That cannot be true! Just look at him; he is a god!” Another collective sigh.
A nasal, wistful sigh. “He is a Michelangelo!”
“Girls, please.”
“Well, at thirty-and-five, it’s high time he married!”
“Don’t waste your energy. Lord Devon has never paid particular attention to a lady in all the time I have been his neighbor.”
“He must entertain himself in London, then.” The whispers turned to hisses.
“It cannot be true he prefers men? I will cast myself from a tower, I vow it, if such a—”
“I heard he keeps his mistress here, right in his own rooms!”
Sophia bit back a groan as she heard, “No!” and “Shameful!” and an indignant, “Well, who is she?”
“The cousin!”
The collective swish of petticoats meant they all turned to leer at her, and Sophia resisted the urge to give them a salacious wink that meant, Yours truly, girls.