by Lyn Stone
“Hush, and let me finish, Sophia.” He took her hands and drew her close. “Yes, families are a great deal of trouble but, in the end, they are the only lasting thing we have. The only thing that will never fail us. And worth any amount of trouble. You taught me that, Sophia. For that much, at least, I am grateful. And, should you need it, my offer stands.”
Should she need it? She supposed he meant that, if she found herself enceinte, he would marry her. Noble, but unnecessary. She disengaged her hands, afraid he might feel her yearning through her fingertips. “I appreciate the offer, Selwick, but I—”
“Ahem.”
They spun toward the head of the stairs. A red-faced Potter stood there, his hands clasped behind his back in an attitude of waiting.
Her heart raced. “Did you find Georgie?”
“I am afraid not, miss. But I thought you should know…that is, cook mentioned that someone has been pilfering in the kitchen.”
“Pilfering?” Selwick repeated. “Have you questioned the kitchen staff?”
“Aye, my lord. No one will admit to it.”
“Thank you, Potter. Please continue the search.”
Potter nodded and returned the way he’d come.
“How odd,” Sophia mused. “Why would he bother us with such a thing now?”
Selwick smiled and touched her cheek briefly before turning to scan the long attic from dormer to dormer. “Well, Miss Pettibone, I suppose it is time for us to resume the search for Master Georgie, eh?” he said in a louder than normal voice.
“Plainly the room is empty, Selwick.”
He laid his finger over his lips as he moved toward the tipped-over crate. And then she understood.
“Before we leave, shall we right this crate?” He gripped the edges of the wooden crate and began to shake it.
A frightened squeal preceded Georgie’s tumble from the open end. The boy had come here for sanctuary. He had somehow evaded the search, had lit the candle in the window and had pilfered in the kitchen for food—likely sweetmeats.
“Georgie!” She threw her arms around him and squeezed until he wheezed. “Whatever were you thinking of to frighten us so?”
“I…I didn’t mean to, Cousin Sophia. But, last night at supper, when Lord Selwick said there were empty crates, I thought I could make a fort.”
She bent over to look into the crate. He’d spread a fur to sit on and a plate heaped with gingerbread and iced biscuits sat in one corner. He’d spread his toy soldiers into battle lines and must have been playing war. “But why did you not come when you were called? Why did you hide from us, Georgie?”
He looked shamefaced. “I was watching from the window when the wagon came and I remembered that Mama said we’d go home as soon as we put Uncle Oliver in the ground. But I…I did not want to go. I like it here, and it’s ever so much more jolly when we are all together.”
Selwick took his hand. “I know just how you feel, lad. Come, let’s go tell the others you are safe.”
Sophia wanted to be stern but she laughed instead and hugged him again. “Do you know that Uncle Jonathan is out in the snow looking for you? You will have to polish his boots to make up to him.”
Chapter Twelve
Another late night with the family safely abed. Another talk with Pettibone over another glass of brandy. Selwick waved him to a chair by the library fire. “Tomorrow morning, Pettibone. No more delays.”
Pettibone gave him a wan smile. “I will honor our agreement. But I confess grave misgivings. They will be angry. Feel cheated of their inheritance. Ah, but I have memories, do I not?”
Memories. Is that all he’d have of Sophia? Last night in the attic, when he’d renewed his proposal, he’d hoped…“I gather you did not send word to the vicar?”
“You gather correctly, Selwick. Tomorrow, when they are all congregated in the back sitting room, I shall speak with them. No doubt we shall be supping alone tomorrow evening.”
“No doubt.” Selwick gave him a crooked smile. “But there’s always the possibility that they might accept you.” He thought Sophia, of all of them, would understand her uncle’s need to belong and his fear that he wouldn’t. Perhaps she would stay. And that thought gave rise to another question.
The old man’s expression was wan and a bit harried. For the first time, Sebastian realized the depth of Pettibone’s loneliness and fear of rejection. “Was it worth it, Pettibone? Risking their anger and rejection just to see them as they really are?”
Pettibone sank into a chair by the fire and stared into the flames, all traces of the butler fading away as the real man asserted himself. “Every moment of it. I’ve seen them for who and what they are, and I am exceedingly fond of them all. I’ve lived most of my life alone, Selwick. They are all I have, and if they leave me now, if they want nothing to do with me, at least I will have had these days with them.”
Sebastian sighed. There was an unreachable melancholy in Pettibone’s answer. A deep sadness and isolation. The man had lived in self-imposed solitude for his entire adult life. And Sebastian recognized himself in Pettibone—years from now, alone, a shadowy figure in other people’s lives. He grew numb, unable to comprehend such emptiness now that he’d known Sophia.
“I intend to offer Emma and Georgie a home with me, if they will have me,” Pettibone continued. “They need someone to look after them. Marjory and Jonathan do not need me, but I will offer them whatever they will take.”
“And Sophia?” Would she have her “belonging” now? Would it be everything she wanted?
“Ah, well, I thought you’d be taking care of that, Selwick.”
Sebastian drank deeply, wondering how much Pettibone knew and how much he merely guessed. “I offered. She refused.”
He quirked an eyebrow in surprise. “She’s all pride, that one.”
“She rejected a duke. I am a lowly viscount.”
“She is not holding out for a king, Selwick. But marriage will have to be on her terms. Did you meet her terms?”
“I…” He thought back to their conversation about the duke. He’d asked her what she’d wanted from the duke and she’d said something that he hadn’t understood then. What was it?
“What, precisely, did you offer?” Pettibone persisted.
“My name and protection.”
Pettibone snorted. “I can imagine her reply. Do you intend to settle for that answer?”
“You’re a fine one—”
“You are right.” Pettibone took a deep drink from his brandy glass. “All my life, I’ve settled for the easy way. The safe way. I’ve protected myself from hurt and trouble. I have shirked my responsibilities to those who depended upon me. And you can see what I have to show for it. But you, Selwick, have a talent for trouble. I’ve watched you manage my troublesome family, rally them and solve their problems without so much as turning a hair. I’ve seen the way you look at my Sophia, too, and the way she looks at you. You’d be a greater fool than I if you walk away from that.”
Was he a fool? He did not want to spend empty years yearning for something he never had. He wanted Sophia Pettibone. He wanted her to take his name, bear his children and wake up beside him every morning. He wanted to shelter her from harm, protect her and smooth her path through life. He wanted her to belong to him…belong…
Bloody hell! He had been a fool She’d given herself to him, body and soul—a gift she’d given no other man. He’d satisfied her and taught her the pleasure of giving and receiving such a gift. He’d felt her fondness, if not her love, in what she’d given him, and he’d returned her gift with equal ardor. And he, blind fool that he was, had not understood what she needed most from him.
He raised his glass to Pettibone as he stood. “She has rejected me twice, Pettibone, but I believe I may just have one last chance to persuade her.”
Sophia had dressed in black bombazine and a black woolen shawl to shield herself from the cold in the back drawing room. She sat on a straight-back chair, hugging herself, giv
ing herself the comfort she could not find elsewhere.
Emma took a seat beside her, her lips moving as she read from her little prayer book. Georgie was somber and kept his hands clasped and his head down. Marjory and Thomas sat together on a small settee, and Jonathan stood beside Selwick in front of the meager flames of the only fireplace in the room.
They were ready to begin, but for the vicar.
Potter entered the room and closed the door behind him before coming to stand by the coffin and rest his hand upon the smooth polished surface.
“Potter, are you certain you informed the vicar when we would be expecting him?” Marjory asked, breaking the tense silence.
“No, Marjory, I did not.”
Marjory’s eyes widened at the familiar address, but she regained her aplomb quickly as she stood again. “Then we are gathered here for nothing. I shall send for him at once, and we shall have this finished by sunset. With a bit of luck, we can leave for home tomorrow.”
“Sit down, Marjory,” Potter said. “I have some things to say that concern the family.”
By now Sophia was thoroughly intrigued. She rather liked Potter, but this new man before them was quite mysterious. A little tingle of anticipation traveled up her spine and she sat a bit straighter. A quick glance at Selwick made her think that he knew what was coming.
“Here now!” Thomas rose to stand beside his wife. “You cannot speak to my wife like that.”
A quelling glare was all it took to put Thomas back in his seat. “I know you are expecting a funeral, but you shall be disappointed. I would like to give you the news more gently, but I have been unable to think how. So I shall say simply that Oliver Pettibone is not dead.”
“Wha—” Emma quickly covered her mouth with both hands.
“I say! Is this some sort of joke?” Jonathan came forward and stood across the coffin from Potter.
Sophia took another glance at Selwick. He did not seem in the least bit surprised. When she looked back at Potter, understanding began to dawn. She stood, too, tears of joy rushing to her eyes. Potter nodded at her, as if he had heard her silent revelation. “Uncle Oliver?”
Georgie sprang from his chair with a whoop. “Uncle? You are my uncle, Mr. Potter?” When the man nodded, Georgie ran to him and wrapped his arms around the butler’s waist.
Marjory and Thomas looked stunned and incapable of speech for the first time in Sophia’s memory. She dashed her tears away with the back of her hand and stepped forward. “Why did you not tell us?”
“I was afraid you would not stir yourselves to attend an old man you did not know. Or that you’d only come for what you might gain. You were strangers to me, after all. I did not want to risk your scorn.”
Selwick moved to the bank of windows and began closing them, one by one. How like him to think of practical matters when everyone else was witless. Heavens! How he must be congratulating himself on a narrow escape from becoming a part of her eccentric family.
Thomas shook his head as if unwilling to believe this turn of events, then came to the coffin and lifted the lid. “Books…”
Marjory covered her mouth to stifle a sob as she went to stand beside their uncle, tears of joy in her eyes. Gone were her efficient manner and severe expression. She looked like a child again, eager for answers.
“I want to thank you, Sophia, for making a bit of Christmas for me. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you wanted to give me that, even though you thought I was dead.”
She took his hand, her heart too full to speak.
He looked about the room again and sighed. “I suppose now you’ll all be wanting to go back to town,” Uncle Oliver said, looking a bit shamefaced.
“No!” Georgie cried.
Emma clung to Marjory’s sleeve and shook her head. “No, Uncle. Georgie and I shall stay for the entire season.”
“I’d like to hear about the gold fields in America,” Thomas added.
Sophia kissed his leathery cheek. “I want to stay, too, Uncle. We have so much to catch up on. And we shall make a proper Christmas now.”
Jonathan laughed outright. “By God, I did not think there were any surprises left for me! Glad I was wrong, Uncle.”
“Selwick is gone?” Sophia’s heart sank. She hadn’t really expected him to stay after his duty was done, but she had not thought he would escape within mere hours, and without even saying goodbye. Oh, but she should have known. He’d made it quite clear how he felt about obligations.
“Aye, miss.” Janie made a fancy bow in the red ribbon holding Sophia’s curls in place. “Just took up and left without so much as a by-your-leave. Closed up in the library with business matters while you and Mrs. Cavendish were preparin’ a grand celebration all day, and Lord Selwick just slipped out while everyone was busy.”
Sophia looked at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her white gown, trimmed in red and white velvet, had been for naught. She had meant to dazzle Selwick, and now he was gone. The low décolletage would not command his attention, and the bright flashes of red would not cheer him. While she’d been in the kitchen, finishing the tarts and mince pies, Selwick had been stealing out the door.
She chided herself for the tightness in her chest. If she meant so little to him that he could not spare her a farewell, she could not wish him back.
“Oh, miss! You look just like a Christmas fairy,” Janie exclaimed as Sophia stood. “The maids say Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Grant are taking special pains tonight, too. This will be the first time Mr. Potter—I mean, Mr. Pettibone—sits at the table with you, eh? How odd that will be.”
“Odd, but very welcome.” Sophia forced a smile as she turned toward the door. “We shall let nothing spoil this celebration, Janie. It is far too important for Uncle Oliver to have a Christmas with family.”
“Aye, miss. You go on then, and join them in the parlor for a bit of wassail.”
Sophia hurried downstairs to the parlor and found she was the last to arrive. The last but for—“Where is Georgie?”
Emma’s face lit up. “Changing. He will be down in a moment.”
Uncle Oliver grinned. “The rascal has been out trudging through the snow with Selwick half the afternoon.”
Sophia’s heart raced as she accepted a cup of wassail from Jonathan. Selwick? He was here? He hadn’t gone back to London yet? Thank heavens she would have a chance to talk to him before they encountered each other at a ball or soiree back in London. She did not want there to be any awkwardness between them, nor did she want him to think there was any need to avoid her.
Jonathan grinned. “Uncle Oliver has been regaling us with tales of the gold fields and red Indians. Makes me want to visit America someday.”
“Red Indians? Georgie will want to hear about them. He has a book with illustrations and told me how fierce they look.”
Her uncle came forward and took her hand. “You look especially lovely tonight, Sophia. I daresay you would turn heads in London with that gown.”
She laughed, feeling a bit giddy now that she knew Selwick had not run off. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Georgie came thundering into the room. “Red Indians? Have you seen them in real life, Uncle Oliver?”
“Georgie, where are your manners?” Emma reminded.
He halted and gave sober bows in the ladies’ direction. “Good evening, cousins.”
Thomas ruffled the hair on Georgie’s head, one of the rare signs he ever gave of his fondness for the lad. “Are you old enough for wassail, boy?”
Georgie’s eyes grew round with delight when his mother consented. “Half a cup, and that is all, mind you.”
“What were you up to this afternoon, Georgie? You and Selwick were quite mysterious.”
“Oh!” He turned to Sophia and gave another bow. “Lord Selwick begs me to convey his desire that you attend him in the library, Miss Sophia.”
She chuckled at his formality, obviously coached by Selwick. “Now?”
“As soon as may be.”
“Very well.” She bobbed a quick curtsy to the gathering and left the parlor.
Selwick adjusted his cravat and took a deep breath. For better or worse, his future would be decided in the next few minutes. Everything hinged on Miss Sophia Pettibone—eccentric, walking disaster, jilt. Was he mad?
Since the day he’d met her, Sophia had him reversing his decisions hourly. Changing his mind twice as often. Rethinking his entire life at every turn. On reflection, he decided that she had him at a loss in almost every respect but one. In making love, at least, he had the advantage. And he would use that advantage if necessary.
The library door opened and Sophia entered, a vision in white and red. She was stunning, her dark sultry beauty set off by the pristine white of her gown. Her full lips parted in a dazzling smile.
“You wished to speak with me?”
He held out his hand, hoping that she would come to him, and she did. “Do you see what I see, Sophia?” he whispered as he looked up at the ball of mistletoe hanging just above them.
“You…you and Georgie were out looking for mistletoe? That is not like you, Selwick.”
His heart twisted at the simple wonder in her voice. “What Christmas would be complete without it?” But why should she be surprised? She had him doing things he’d never dreamed he’d do. Indeed, he was not the same Selwick who’d arrived at Windsong Hall less than a week ago.
He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her rather more thoroughly than he should, given the audience gathering at the library door. Blessed, responsive Sophia forgot to protest when his lips parted and begged an answering heat from her. She gave it, tightening her arms around his neck and molding against him until he could not tell her heartbeat from his own. And he kept kissing her until he felt her complete surrender. Yes, he was ruthless in wielding his only weapon—Sophia’s deep passion.
Her eyes were still heavy lidded when he lifted his head moments later. He knew what she needed to hear, and he was not in the least surprised that he meant every word of it. “You, Sophia Pettibone, are my greatest and only passion, my best friend, my whole world. You belong to me, with me, and I belong to you. I love you, Sophia. Marry me, and save me from a dull and empty life.”