by Lyn Stone
“As we are now fairly well acquainted, I think you might call me Selwick. After all, I have seen your dashing blue stockings.”
She laughed. Here was the man she wanted to know—part naughty and part proper. A nice combination in a man. “Very well, Selwick. And you may call me…Miss Sophia. After all, I have been in your arms.”
He laughed, and she liked the sound of it. “You are not like your cousins, Miss Sophia. They are quite somber and contentious. I had thought they were in mourning but, if they did not know your uncle, I am left to think they are affecting it because they think it is proper.”
“Emma and Marjory have ever been sticklers on propriety. Jonathan…well, Jonathan is variable by the day. They all think I am a bit scandalous, and I suppose I am.”
He sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Do tell?”
She thought for a moment and then pointed out the obvious. “We are closed up in here alone—an unmarried man and an unmarried woman. I shut the door to keep the warmth from escaping, but they will be wondering what we are doing in here. So you see, I think I am sensible, but they will be thinking me scandalous.”
As if to punctuate her statement, there was a sharp rap at door. “Sophia?”
She lifted an eyebrow at Selwick and he grinned in return. “Come in, Emma,” she called.
The door opened cautiously and Emma peeked around it, her wide blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Oh, here you are. Georgie and I have been looking for you. You know how he likes to play chess with you.”
Selwick stood in deference to Emma’s presence.
“We have just taken a rest from inventorying Uncle Oliver’s things. Would you like to join us? I could ring Potter for another cup.”
“Oh, no, Sophia. Quite all right.” She touched the edge of a handkerchief to her eyes and sniffed. “These things must be settled, I suppose. So nice of you to take the burden for the rest of us.”
Selwick cleared his throat and Sophia noted the light of amusement in his eyes. “We shall be stopping to join you for lunch, Mrs. Grant. Miss Sophia will have time for chess then.”
Emma’s mouth formed an O at the familiar use of Sophia’s name and Sophia stifled a chuckle. Jonathan, Thomas and Marjory would know this development within minutes. Emma glanced toward the open trunk and the neat piles of items stacked on the dresser. “I see,” she squeaked.
Sophia stood and tucked the journal under her arm before she put her cup down with a mockingly reproachful look at Selwick. “I shall come now, Emma, if it is important to Georgie. You know I would not disappoint the boy.”
Emma flushed. “That would be…lovely.”
Sophia made a little curtsy to his lordship and could not resist one last scandal. “I shall see you at lunch, Selwick.”
He smiled at her as if he knew just what she’d done. She rather liked the idea that they had become conspirators.
Chapter Five
After her match with Georgie and an uneventful lunch, Sophia and Selwick went back to work, keeping their attention on the business at hand and sharing occasional self-conscious glances. The attraction between them was undeniable. In fact, Selwick was the first man she’d been drawn to since…the duke.
When they were done for the day, she pled a headache and escaped dinner for the privacy of her room. Once undressed, she dismissed Janie and climbed into the four-poster bed, retrieving her uncle’s journal from the nightstand drawer. She noted the date of the first entry, then flipped to the back. Heavens! Here was Uncle Oliver’s life in a single volume.
There were few entries in the beginning, as if he had no pens or ink—just a few words here and there about missing his brothers and hoping they were well. Then she came to a jubilant passage where Uncle Oliver recorded that he’d discovered gold. She was spellbound by the next entries of how he’d purchased the land, secured his claim and employed workers. The following years unfolded with barely a mention of family or England. Uncle Oliver was far too busy protecting his claim and reaping the rewards.
Then his entries became melancholy. He missed his home and family. He regretted not having returned sooner when each of his brothers died. He missed the pastoral grace of England, and the customs of civilization so absent in the gold fields of South Carolina. Then another Christmas came and went, with memories of holly and mistletoe, Christmas pudding and Yule logs, evergreen boughs and candles in the window to welcome guests. Then his account of employing an estate agent to purchase Windsong Hall and his intention to return one day. And then, in August, the entries stopped. Uncle Oliver had died without coming home.
Sophia’s heart ached for him, so far from home and everything he held dear. His brothers had died, and no one he knew was left at all. Oh, if only he had come home. If only she could have been his family. They could have found the connection they had both wanted so desperately.
She closed the journal, placed it in her drawer and turned the wick down on her lamp.
If only…
Sebastian prowled the lower rooms the next morning, looking for Miss Sophia. She hadn’t joined him in Pettibone’s room to continue the inventory and he was concerned that her headache had worsened. Her maid told him that she’d risen hours ago and dressed to go out. Cook said she’d eaten an early breakfast. Potter mentioned that she asked for heavy shears. And, when he came down for breakfast, Georgie said he’d seen someone trudging across the back lawns from his bedroom window.
The warnings of disaster following in Sophia’s wake echoed in his head. He was tired of waiting and fetched his greatcoat. He headed for the back lawns, thinking it odd that her cousins did not seem in the least concerned.
The grounds of Windsong Hall were vast, but it was easy to follow Sophia’s footsteps in the snow. The newly fallen blanket was deep enough to evidence the drag of skirts and the heels of small boots, not the sturdy ones she had worn for her trip. He would have to scold her for not dressing more appropriately.
Her footsteps led to the stables, then out again, heading in a line toward the cliffs. His heartbeat thumped as he imagined what could become of her there, and his own footsteps sped in her wake.
Through a gently falling snow, he finally caught sight of her. She was bent over the bushes surrounding a summerhouse that had been perched on a bluff to overlook a lake. Her back was to him and she was so caught up in her task that she did not hear his approach.
The heavy snowfall piled on the octagonal copper roof of the summerhouse began to slide, dropping a pile to the ground with a heavy plop. Sophia did not heed the warning and kept her attention trained on her task. Horrified, Sebastian watched as the entire section begin a rapid slide to the edge.
He ran for her at the moment of disaster but too much distance separated them. The full weight of the snow engulfed her, driving her to the ground and leaving a mound of white covering her.
Stillness settled over the scene and Sebastian knelt by the mound, scooping handfuls of snow away. “Sophia! Miss Sophia! Can you hear me? Are you injured?”
Layers of snow crumbled away as she struggled to sit up. He offered his hand and she took it with one hand and began brushing the snow away with the other. He was so relieved that she was uninjured that he laughed.
She sputtered and brushed the snow from her face. Framed by her worn red bonnet, she was a study in confusion. Snow glistened in the dark hair peeking beneath the bonnet and her lips were wet with it, too—full reddened lips that parted slightly in a smile. Thank the gods she was whole.
“Good morning, Selwick,” she said in a breathless voice.
He smiled. “Good morning, Miss Pettibone.”
The moment drew out and suddenly there was only one thing to do—the very thing he had dreamed of all night. He lowered his lips to hers, tentatively at first, savoring the cool moisture and soft plushness. He nibbled his way to one corner, then returned to take her mouth fully. She stiffened with the first sweep of his tongue, then lifted her arm to slip it around
his shoulder.
He could tell this was not her first kiss, but he also knew no one had kissed her like this before. She was shy, hesitant, but willing. Blissfully willing. He paused to whisper in her ear. “You are beautiful, Miss Pettibone. The most beautiful thing I’ve seen this morning.”
She smiled and offered her lips again. He did not make her beg. This time she wrapped both arms around him and held nothing back. Her eager inexperience was more intoxicating than anything he’d known before and he hardened in response. He wanted her. All of her. He wanted to take her here in the snow. Here, with nothing held back. He wanted to teach her how to make love and give herself with abandon. He wanted Miss Sophia Pettibone as he’d never wanted anything in his life.
He broke the kiss with a muffled groan and stood up, showering snow down on her. He offered his hand, and she took it. “We had best get back before they come looking for us, Miss Pettibone.”
“Y-yes. I have been gone longer than I intended.”
“What did you intend?”
She stood patiently while he brushed the remaining snow from her coat, then gestured to a pile of green stems with bright red berries attached. “I need a little holly.” She gave him a shy smile, gathered up an armful of the stems and berries, and started trudging back toward the hall with only the slightest limp.
Holly? She’d risked life and limb for holly? Why the deuce did she want holly?
Sophia perched on a stool at the kitchen table with scissors, ribbon and twine. She had worked through lunch to finish her sprays and garland quickly. Now she had simply to hang them and then join his lordship after tea to continue their inventory.
But only if she could purge her mind of that remarkable kiss in the snow.
The duke had importuned her for kisses, but never one such as Selwick’s perfect kiss—heated but tender, consuming but patient. Selwick, she gathered, was practiced in the art of seduction and she was undecided what to do about that. Avoid him? Encourage him? Ask him to behave himself?
If she were to be completely honest, she rather thought she might be in love with the man. From the moment she had looked into his eyes and he had swept her off her feet to carry her to his coach, she’d been alternately amused and annoyed by him, but consistently intrigued. Coup de foudre, the French called it. The thunderbolt. And though it could not go anywhere, Sophia had never felt anything remotely like it before.
Potter hovered while Mrs. Cavendish chatted happily about her family and how they were all grown and gone now. And how very fortunate she was to have been hired in London and brought to Cumberland where everything was so lovely.
Potter, however, was interested in what Sophia was doing. “If you do not mind, miss, may I ask what you are doing with those boughs?” he asked as he polished a silver teapot.
“I am making decorations for the hall.”
“Why?”
“Because it is Christmas, Potter. And I think this house could use a bit of cheer. Long overdue, is it not?”
He inclined his head with a small smile.
“How long were you with my uncle, Potter?”
“Since his arrival in America, Miss Pettibone.”
“Was he happy?”
“Happy?” The question seemed to confuse him. “I imagine he was. He never mentioned it, miss.”
“And yet he never married. He had no children. I think he must have been lonely, sir.”
A long silence ensued and Sophia finished tying the ribbon bow on the last spray of holly before she looked up. Potter was watching her intently. “We never had Christmas, miss.”
She smiled. “I know. But we are going to have one now.”
A glance at the case clock on the wall told her it was not quite noon. “Would you have someone bring a ladder to the great hall, please?” She had tested the chandelier rope in the hall earlier and found that it was hopelessly knotted.
“Miss?”
“These things will not hang themselves, you know.”
He gave her another of those little half smiles and went to find a ladder. She and two footmen gathered armloads of the sprays and the long garland and hurried to the great hall, stopping along the way to place a spray here and there.
The ladder was set up beneath the elaborate chandelier in the center of the hall and Sophia took one end of the garland and began to climb.
“Miss Pettibone,” Potter said as he stood back to observe the scene. “I believe you should allow me to place the garland.”
“Not at all, Potter,” she told him. Indeed, for all his sprightliness, Potter was still an elderly man. She lifted her skirt an inch or two to reach the next step.
“I do not think Lord Selwick would want you on a ladder.” Potter’s voice was stern.
“Lord Selwick is not here,” she pointed out. Someone cleared their throat and she looked over her shoulder to see her cousin Jonathan standing below her, his arms crossed over his chest and a look of disapproval on his face.
“But I am.”
“Excellent! Lend Potter a hand, will you?”
“What do you think you are doing, Sophia?”
“Why, I am adding a little Christmas to Windsong Hall.”
Drawn by the activity, Marjory, Thomas and Emma came from the parlor, followed by little Georgie. They all looked up at her as if she had lost her mind.
“This is a house in mourning, cousin!” Marjory reminded.
“Completely inappropriate,” Thomas agreed.
Emma sniffed and pressed a handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. “I hardly think this is proper at all, Sophia.”
But Georgie’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “May I help?”
She remembered how she had felt when she was younger, always wanting to be a part of things but never quite feeling as if she belonged. “Yes, Georgie. If you will climb the stairs and direct me, I would be ever indebted.”
Thomas harrumphed. “See here, Sophia, could you not be a bit more circumspect?”
“I believe I am, Thomas,” she said as Georgie climbed the staircase until he was level with the chandelier. She draped the first end of the garland over the iron frame and pulled another arm’s length up as she turned the chandelier. “Are we still even, Georgie?”
“Aye, cousin Sophia! It looks beautiful.”
Potter, she noticed, was smiling at the lad. Thank heavens she had two allies, though they were still outnumbered. She draped another length of the garland and turned the chandelier again.
Holding it in place, her back to Georgie, she asked, “And this? Is it even, Georgie?” When there was no answer, she turned to look at the stairway. Selwick was standing beside her little cousin, looking very stern indeed.
“May I ask what you are doing, Miss Sophia?”
“Why…decorating the hall for Christmas.” She saw that sensual smile again, so quickly gone she wondered if it had been there at all.
“Risking life and limb again,” he admonished.
As if his words had caused it, the ladder teetered and she released the garland to catch herself on a rung as it rocked to and fro. Jonathan made a dash for her, but by the time she looked around again, Selwick was waiting beneath her, steadying the ladder. “Come down, Miss Sophia, before we have to scrape you off the floor.”
She descended, feeling a bit sheepish. First the coach, then the snow this morning, and now the ladder. Was she cursed to look inept in front of Selwick? As she neared the bottom rung, his hands spanned her waist and he lifted her the rest of the way down. The heat and strength in that grip steadied her.
When she was on her feet, he went to the chandelier pulley anchored in the wall. Three good yanks had the knots loosened and he lowered the entire chandelier to the tiles. He turned to her and grinned. “Next time, Miss Sophia, send for me.”
The hall was silent as he began to climb the stairs again. Sophia couldn’t help herself. She began to laugh at the picture she must have made perched on a ladder when lowering the chandelier had been so simple
for Selwick. Georgie covered his mouth with his hand but could not contain his laughter.
Selwick did not pause, but he looked over his shoulder and she could have sworn he winked! Staid and somber Selwick?
She ruffled Georgie’s brown hair as the servants took the ladder away. “Come, Georgie. We had better finish this soon or Selwick will have our hides.”
Chapter Six
Sebastian had taken his lunch in Pettibone’s apartments. He wanted a few hours to organize the deceased’s more personal belongings. Miss Sophia, as a spinster, should not be subjected to handling such intimate items.
But even as he inventoried and packed the last article away, his mind remained on the sight of Miss Sophia swaying on the rickety ladder and the way his heart had jumped to his throat. The scene had given him a very bad turn, even though he’d thought her quite adorable trying to bring cheer to the solemn household. The blasted holly could have been the death of her! He would have to keep a close eye on her.
Fortunately, that would be fairly easy. Between working with her on Pettibone’s inventory and her family’s penchant for raised voices, he’d only lost track of her when she’d gone out this morning. He was beginning to feel like a nursemaid.
“Come,” he called, in response to a soft knock on Pettibone’s door.
The very object of his musings peeked around the portal and smiled that infectious smile of hers. “Am I too late to help?”
“Not at all. Your timing is impeccable,” he told her. “I have just now finished with your uncle’s personal items. We can move on to the crates.”
“Crates?” Her eyes widened. “How many crates?”
“According to the manifest, twenty-two. There are four in his dressing room, three in the cellar and fifteen in the attic.” A frown knit little lines between her eyes and he had the sudden urge to smooth them away.
“So many?”
“Windsong was to have been his home, Miss Sophia. Perhaps he purchased the things he wanted here from America, or perhaps he was merely sending on the items from his previous home.”