by Lyn Stone
“I am the executor of your late uncle’s estate.”
Sophia had received a letter from a Viscount Selwick with instructions to come at once to Windsong Hall for the reading of the will. This, then, must be the unknown viscount, but that did not help her with her dilemma in the least.
“Lord Selwick? Really, you needn’t carry me, and I must wait with Janie and the coach.”
“I have already assured myself that Janie is sound. If I have learned anything from my stepsisters, it is to ignore demurs. Save your breath, Miss Pettibone.”
She raised her eyebrows at his tone. “My reticule—”
“Your maid will see to it.”
She was not used to being commanded. In a household of women, she was often the one who took charge. Still, this could be interesting in a curious sort of manner.
Chapter Two
The viscount placed Sophia in his coach, pulled a fur throw over her lap and climbed in to take the seat opposite. He rapped on the roof and the coach took off at a stately pace.
“Now, if you will allow me, Miss Pettibone, I would like to have a look at your injury.”
“Really, that isn’t necessary. I just landed against the door latch when the coach overturned.”
But it was too late. He had leaned over and lifted her right foot to rest on his knee. She felt a heated blush rise to her cheeks when he pushed the hem of her gown up to midcalf. Her pale blue stockings were exposed along with her sturdy traveling boots.
“Good Lord,” he muttered without looking up at her. “I doubt you could sustain much damage through such sensible traveling gear, but we cannot leave it to chance.” He began loosening the laces of her boot.
This was a bit more than Sophia could endure. A retort rose to her lips. “My lord! You must not!”
He looked directly at her for the first time, the hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as he cupped her heel and tugged the boot off. “I shall close my eyes, Miss Pettibone, if that will preserve your modesty.”
Speechless, she watched as he closed his eyes and slid his hands, strong and steady, from her ankle up over her calf to her knee. She could have sworn there was something…seductive in the way his hand skimmed her leg. And did his hand go a bit higher than necessary? He flexed her knee slowly, almost as if he were waiting for a moan or gasp. She complied against her will when a sharp pain burst into life. His hand slid over a tear in her stocking, shocking her with the intimate heat of his hand against her bare flesh.
“I fear I shall have to take a look, Miss Pettibone. Your cry and the torn stocking tell me a vastly different story than your words.” And, very slowly, he opened his eyes—those chameleon eyes. His gaze dropped immediately to her exposed limb.
She looked down, too, and was surprised to see blood soiling the pristine blue of her stockings and a ragged gap exposing an oozing cut across her knee—neither too deep nor too long, but sufficiently painful. He removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and ripped it in two, folding one part into a pad, and the other into a twist to tie around her knee to hold the makeshift bandage in place.
“Wash that well with hot water when we have you home, eh?”
She missed the warmth of his hand when he withdrew it and a tiny shiver shot through her. She thought, from the set of his features, that he was a bit unsettled, too. Heavens, this would never do!
He reached for her hem and pulled it down over her legs in a quick motion, almost as if he’d just realized he’d seen too much. “I believe that will hold you until we have you back at Windsong, Miss Pettibone.”
And thank heavens for that! Much more of his handling and she’d have been incoherent. Living in a household of females, she was unused to a man’s touch, or the feelings it could evoke. Her cheeks burned when she realized this stranger had seen more of her than any man ever had. Even the duke.
He allowed a slight smile now that the danger was past. Sophia smiled back, the irony of the situation not entirely lost on her. Since he did not seem inclined to break the awkward silence, she cleared her throat and tried a neutral topic. “Am I the last to arrive, my lord?”
“You are. We expected you for luncheon.” He folded his arms across his chest and settled back against the cushions.
“I apologize. We were delayed in our departure this morning. A deficit of fresh horses, it seems.”
“Such inconveniences are not uncommon in the country, Miss Pettibone. One should prepare ahead for them.”
Was that a reprimand? The prig! She arched one eyebrow. “Or one could make allowances for them.”
He merely stared at her, his expression unchanging.
Well, if he could be taciturn, so could she. But while he had probably forgotten his veiled reprimand already, she had not. In fact, she was now contemplating ways to make him pay for that. Ways, in fact, to dig beneath that harsh, controlling veneer and see what really lay beneath. Ways to make him forget himself and smile. The man really needed a bit of Christmas.
As he was not inclined to conversation, she watched out the window until she saw their destination ahead.
Windsong Hall was a massive Elizabethan manor house that towered above the trees and looked mysteriously imposing against the icy-blue horizon. Lamps glowed in several windows, and a glass globe protected flames in the lantern stands on either side of wide stone steps.
As they drew up at the entry, the door opened and her relatives burst forth—her cousin Marjory with her husband Thomas, cousin Emma Grant with her son, little Georgie, and cousin Jonathan Arbuthnot bringing up the rear. How nice it would be to visit with them again. It had been far too long.
A footman opened the coach door and Viscount Selwick hopped down. He lifted her out and set her experimentally on her feet. Alas, she faltered again. Not as badly as before, but enough to evidence a limp.
Jonathan hurried forward with a welcoming smile. “What now, Cousin Sophia? Have you had another misadventure?”
She laughed. “Just a little coaching accident.”
“Lord! Never a dull moment with you, is there?” He reached to lift her in his arms, but the viscount preempted him by sweeping her up once again and casting a dark look in Jonathan’s direction.
“Potter, run ahead and be certain Miss Pettibone’s fire is lit. And tell cook to bring her tea and a bowl of soup.”
An elderly gentleman with gray hair and a slightly stooped posture hurried off, a concerned look on his face.
Sophia could barely keep from sighing. Lord Selwick was so hopelessly handsome and so determined. Indeed, she had rarely felt so unaccountably feminine but, next to his blatant masculinity, it was inevitable. Oh, this whole event was far too confusing. And when she settled into his arms as he carried her up the front steps and into the great hall, she was certain that God would smite her for her wayward thoughts.
Sebastian took the grand staircase two steps at a time, less to rush Miss Pettibone to her destination than to escape the family. Her arrival had elicited everything from relief and joy to snorts of disapproval and he was uncomfortable with such a high level of emotion.
Especially his own. When Mr. Arbuthnot came forward to assist his cousin, Sebastian found he did not want anyone else touching Miss Pettibone. Odd, since he barely knew her. Likely it was his banked physical needs caused by the fact that he’d dismissed his mistress fully six months ago and had not found a replacement. Not that Miss Pettibone would be a suitable replacement. Far from it! He never dallied with young women of the ton. That spelled trouble. And that spelled marriage.
Still, from the moment he’d seen Miss Pettibone looking up at him through the coach window, her red velvet bonnet askew, he’d been entranced. Her luminous soulful eyes coupled with her dark glossy hair were a startling contrast to her fair complexion. She had the sort of beauty that was termed “exotic”—the sort that painters strove in vain to capture on canvas. Sebastian thought of it as sultry, deeply sensual and lush.
She was quite unlike any
woman he’d known before. Most who’d been through a coaching accident would be swooning and demanding attention. She seemed rather annoyed with the fuss and impatient to get on. But she hadn’t lost her humor. Sebastian had rarely been so expertly teased and he suspected Miss Pettibone might be a flirt, a skill which he could appreciate but lacked entirely.
Add to that the fact that Miss Pettibone’s reputation was a bit daunting, and he was certain he’d be best served by avoiding her as much as possible.
He gave himself a mental shake and looked down into her face. She smiled at him and, in the bright light of the chandelier at the top of the staircase, he noted a bruise along one cheekbone and a scratch on her neck. His viscera twisted in response. “You said you were uninjured, Miss Pettibone,” he said in his most intimidating voice.
Her smile widened. “Indeed, I am.”
“I see evidence to the contrary.”
“Bumps and bruises are not cause for concern, my lord.”
He turned right along the south wing corridor, pleased that she would be lodged in the same wing as he. Now, if he could just think of some excuse to relocate Mr. Arbuthnot so he could have unimpeded access to her.
“What are you thinking, my lord? I can see the wheels grinding in your head. You are silent, but I collect your mind is never at rest for very long.”
He’d blush if he were capable of it. He could hardly tell her he’d been thinking how best to seduce her—to the contrary of his decision only moments earlier. Instead, he tried a self-serving evasion. “I am attempting to sort the family out, Miss Pettibone. How long has it been since you last saw your uncle?”
“I was a babe in arms, I believe, and have no memory of the occasion. He was a young man, just ready to leave for the gold fields in America, and he never returned. Well, but for now. Aunt Nora said—”
“His sister?”
“No, my mother’s sister. I was sent to Auntie Nora to be raised after Papa and Mama died. On Uncle Oliver’s side there were only my father and my uncles Edward and Oliver and my aunt Beth. Marjory is descended from Edward. Jonathan and Emma are descended from Beth and I was my father’s only child. Did Uncle Oliver ever marry, Lord Selwick? Shall I meet new cousins here?”
“Your uncle never married, Miss Pettibone.”
She glanced around the room they’d just entered, filled with costly antiques, paintings and the very best of everything. She quirked one eyebrow. “Though he did succeed in finding gold, it seems.”
He smiled again. He rather liked the way she probed right to the heart of the matter.
“And you, my lord?” she continued as he put her down on the edge of her bed. “Your father was Uncle Oliver’s partner?”
“More of an investor than a partner, since he never went to America himself. He profited nicely, though he had no more at risk than a few thousand pounds.”
She laughed and he liked the way those sultry eyes crinkled at the corners when she did. “Do not underestimate the power of a few thousand pounds, my lord.”
He never would again. Without thinking, he reached out and cupped her cheek, tracing the bruise with the pad of his thumb. No matter what she said, it must ache. She turned her face toward his palm and he felt the heat of her breath against his flesh. The sensation was warming. And disquieting. He dropped his hand and stepped back, changing his mind yet again. He could not dally with such a woman, and a dalliance was all he had to offer. He did not want a family, nor was he the marrying kind.
Potter had laid another log on the fire before he and Miss Pettibone arrived above stairs and Sebastian stirred the embers to release a bit more heat into the cavernous room. “I shall see that your maid comes to you as soon as she arrives. Meanwhile, is there anything else I can provide for your comfort?”
She untied her bedraggled red bonnet and dropped it on the bed beside her. “I think I can manage until then.”
He could not resist giving her back some of her own teasing. “If you would prefer not to wait for her, perhaps I could assist—”
“No! That is…quite all right, thank you.”
“Really, I would not mind in the least. Did I mention I have stepsisters?”
“I am fine, Lord Selwick.”
“Your injury should be seen to.”
“Janie will tend it when she arrives.”
“Do you propose to just sit on the edge of your bed until then?”
Her expression changed and he gathered she was onto him. Her eyes twinkled as she raised an eyebrow. “I shall put forth herculean effort and manage as best I can.”
He shrugged. “Very well, Miss Pettibone. I am just down the hall from you. I shall call for you when I hear the dinner bell.”
When he turned at her door to close it, she was wearing an expression of bemusement. He wondered if it would be too much to hope that he was having the same physical effect on her as she was on him. That would only be fair.
Chapter Three
When Sophia woke from her nap, it was fully dark. Janie stood across the room, opening the draperies to reveal a heavy snowfall. “Awake at last, miss?”
“At last? How late did I sleep?”
“Nearly suppertime, miss. Lord Selwick wouldn’t allow me to wake you. He said that, if you was sleepin’, you must need it. Said he’d like to see your knee again when you are up. He’s a familiar one, eh?”
She pushed herself up against the pillows, remembering Lord Selwick’s steady touch. “He seems quite experienced, Janie. I do not know what his training might be, but I collect he knows what he is doing.”
Janie lifted one sandy eyebrow. “You do? Well, I will trust you on that, miss. He seemed a right enough gent when I spoke with him earlier. He asked if there was anything he could do to make us more comfortable. He said to call him when you’re ready and he’ll come carry you down.”
As much as she’d enjoyed his attention, she could hardly spend the next fortnight expecting it. She swung her legs over the side of the tall bed and lowered herself experimentally. There was still a fair amount of pain and she winced as she hobbled to the nearest chair. “I’d rather you dress my wound, Janie. I do not wish to…impose upon Lord Selwick.”
Experienced in treating the ills of Aunt Nora’s household, Janie clucked, fussed and finished with her quickly. “Nothin’ so bad, miss. You’ll be right as rain in a day or two. Best get you ready for supper before his lordship knocks.”
“I shall wear my lavender gown.” That was her favorite, with a low scoop at the neck and trimmed with white lace. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulders and then fell in a slim line to a point at the middle of her hand—quite suitable for evening.
That thought brought a smile to her face. How nice it would be to visit with her cousins again and catch up on all the family news. They had not been close, as families go, but they were all that was left of the Pettibone family tree. And she was inordinately fond of them as only an orphan who yearns for connections can be. She was forced to acknowledge, though, that they did not harbor the same fondness for her. She hoped to remedy that before they all left Windsong.
Once she had donned her underpinnings and Janie had fastened her into her gown, she brushed her teeth, dabbed lilac water behind her ears and in the hollow of her throat and sat again to rest. As much as she wanted to walk, she had no desire to be subjected to another lecture from the straitlaced viscount. Really! How could such an appealing man be so stern? She must have imagined that last puckish exchange with him.
The sound of a distant bell ringing was followed by a knock on her door. Heavens! The man was punctual, as well as stern. Or had he been standing outside her door the whole time?
Janie curtsied and admitted him with a silly grin—one she understood when he turned to her. As handsome as Lord Selwick had been earlier, he was even more so in dark evening clothes. Janie was smitten. And, were she to be honest, she was a touch smitten herself.
He stared at her for one long moment, his eyes warming as he did so, th
en his gaze slid down her body to her knee. “I trust your knee is properly cleaned and bandaged?”
She stood and clasped her hands in front of her. The last thing she wanted was to give him an excuse to lift her skirts again. “Quite so,” she said.
He smiled and nodded. “Excellent. Are you ready to go down for dinner?”
“Yes, though I really think I can—Oh!” Before she could complete her sentence, he had crossed the room and swept her up in his arms. She could still hear Janie chortling as he headed down the corridor with her.
“Really, my lord, I think I can walk. Truly, I feel better already.”
“Tomorrow, Miss Pettibone, will be soon enough to test your leg. Until a new owner is named, I seem to be in charge here, and I would not like it if you were to sustain irreversible injuries during that time.”
“You would have no one to answer to but me,” she said breathlessly.
“And I warrant you would be quite stern with me.”
“Bearish,” she agreed.
“I would not want to face anything quite so fearsome as that, Miss Pettibone.”
When they entered the dining room, Thomas and Jonathan stood to greet them and Georgie scrambled to follow their example. Lord Selwick put her on her feet beside a chair between little Georgie and Emma. He held the chair for her, then took a seat across from her.
“Selwick has explained about your unfortunate accident, Sophia,” Jonathan said. “I gather we are fortunate that you were no worse injured.”
“I am grateful we only slipped off a rut instead of a mountain.”
“Your driver says the coach will be easily repaired. He has taken it to town and will stay with it until it is done.”
She nodded, hoping “easily” translated to “cheaply.” “Thank heavens Lord Selwick happened along when he did.”
“Selwick didn’t ‘happen along,’” Thomas growled. “He went looking for you when you failed to appear.”
Sophia tried to banish her unkind thought of her cousin’s husband and turned to the lad beside her. “My goodness, Georgie, you have grown so big since I last saw you!”