The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest

by Mary Campisi

  A tiny smile slid over Sophie’s lips as she confided, “I have full advantage of knowing exactly what to expect and will not hold onto any grand illusions. Ease of compatibility is the most I can hope for.” She sighed. “I shall surround myself with children and those who are most important to me.”

  Two hours later, Sophie wondered if she’d committed a fatal blunder in her husband hunting plan. While she’d resigned herself to marrying a man she did not love, she had not considered settling on a man who bored her to sleep.

  “And so you see, Lady Sophie, I will soon be managing all of my father’s estates. It is indeed a huge responsibility, but one which I am more than equipped to handle.” The young man beside Sophie droned on and on in self-importance. Lord Atherton was tall and slender, a verifiable dandy in a green satin jacket and matching pin-striped trousers. His pale skin and white-blond hair gave him a sickly appearance that did not speak of a strong constitution. He eyed her as a faithful pup would his master and asked, “Would you honor me with this next dance?”

  Sophie forced a smile and followed young Atherton onto the dance floor. What a disaster tonight had been. The men were either old as Croesus or just out of nappies. If she heard one more tale of inheritance and family lineage, she would truly strangle the man with his own cravat!

  One, two, three, one, two, three, turn, danced through Sophie's head as she moved to the steps of the waltz. Lord Atherton stepped on her slippers four times, blustering a string of apologies each time. She was never more pleased as when the music ended and she could hobble back toward the safety of her seat.

  She had taken but a few steps when a portly, middle-aged man blocked her path. He wiped the sweat from his bushy brow with an oversized crumpled handkerchief that had suspicious looking spots on it. His clothes were ill-fitting and she noted a few buttons on his burgundy jacket straining. The man’s faded blue gaze latched onto Sophie’s neckline as he announced, “I am Thomas Jameson and it is a delight to meet you, Lady Sophie. I’ve been admiring you all evening and couldn’t wait a moment longer for an introduction.” His mouth curved into a gape-toothed grin as his gaze slipped even lower.

  Thomas Jameson, oh yes, she had heard tales of the man. He was a widower twice over with five children who kept a tight rein on the purse strings. Rumor had it his first wife died in childbirth and his second grew so miserable living with him she swallowed a bottle of laudanum. It was also whispered he chased everything in skirts, including his servants and their daughters and was now on the prowl for wife number three.

  She would be well in her grave before she’d wed the likes of him. Sophie turned a dazzling smile on the despicable man and said, “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jameson. I do wish we could spend a few moments chatting, but I am otherwise obligated by a previous commitment, so if you will excuse me?”

  The odious man devoured her, licking fleshy lips as he bowed slightly and grasped her hand. His sour breath smacked her in the face, reeking of cabbage and port. “I do so look forward to seeing you again, Lady Sophie.” He lifted her gloved hand, turned it over and placed a wet kiss on her palm. Had he just licked her glove? Repulsed by this man and his bold actions, she jerked her hand away and buried it in the folds of her gown.

  His pale eyes sparked at the slight, even as his lips curved into a false smile. “Until we meet again.” Sophie breathed a deep sigh as he turned on his heel and strode away. Good heavens, pray she’d seen the last of him!

  ***

  From the far corner of the room, Holt Langford cursed under his breath. “Did you see that bastard pawing her? I’ll flatten him if he goes within twenty paces of her again.”

  He cursed once more as he watched the retreating figure of Thomas Jameson. He wanted to tear the man apart for looking at Sophie as though she were a puff pastry he was dying to taste. And then the bastard dared touch her. Holt had been watching Sophie from a discreet and as yet unnoticed distance since he and Jason arrived. His brother stood next to him, providing a veritable wealth of knowledge concerning each of her dance partners. Dandies, the lot of them.

  “Hol...er..I mean Gregory, can you not let it go? She’s unharmed and Jameson has left, most likely chasing another skirt. The man is filthy rich, though very tight with the coin, but I imagine there are women who may try to rest him from his purse.” Jason slid a glance in Holt’s direction and sighed. “Was this not to be a night of wenching?”

  Holt grumbled a reply. He would find Jameson and yank him from the soiree by his overstuffed cravat.

  “Since we arrived, you’ve done no more than play watchdog from a distance, and a lovesick one at that. Either make your feelings known, which by the by, you refuse to admit exist, or stay out of her affairs. Which is it to be?”

  “Lovesick? I would act the same toward any young woman who did not possess adequate protection or the good sense to know she needed protected.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Of course. Enough about the woman. She’s brought me nothing but trouble since the day I laid eyes on her.” Holt straightened his jacket and added, “I do believe the supper hour is upon us.”

  ***

  “Try the pork, Sophie,” Francie Bishop said. “It’s scrumptious.”

  “I haven’t taken two bites of the curried lamb you dumped on my plate seconds ago. Or the fish.”

  Her friend threw her a sidelong glance and grinned. “We’ve several more platters to sample. What about a scoop of creamed potato?”

  Sophie laughed and shook her head. “No, Francie. You may be eating for two but I have only one stomach to feed.”

  “Pooh.” She bit into a buttered biscuit and sighed. “I’ve been ravenous these past few months. Alexander says he’ll have to reinforce the bed if I don’t slow down.” She lifted her glass and smiled across the table at her husband who merely shook his head and went about forking a slice of roast beef.

  Sophie had known Alexander Bishop for years; he’d even been to Waverly Manor on occasion to see her father who said the man could make money multiply faster than King Midas. Had she ever heard him laugh? Even a small chuckle, perhaps? No. Never. One would not deem him a handsome man though Francie called him ‘exquisitely beautiful,’ a phrase Sophie rather preferred pinning on marble busts or Chinese vases, not a man with haunting silver eyes and rare smiles.

  “Darling,” Francie said, “you must taste this plum pudding.” She plunked a large spoonful in her mouth and sighed. “Exquisite. Perhaps better than Cook’s but we mustn’t tell her.” She took another spoonful and lifted it toward her husband. “Darling?”

  “There’s an entire bowl here, Francie. I’ll help myself, thank you.”

  “Best hurry,” she teased. “I’ll be after another helping soon.”

  Alexander Bishop met his wife’s gaze and darn it all, his lips twitched. Just a bit on the left side, but there it was. An inch of a smile. Perhaps somewhere inside this stone of a man was the one Francie told her about who warmed her feet at night with his hands and placed his head on her swollen belly to feel his child move. Perhaps men reserved their gentle side for the confines of the bedroom and the women they loved.

  Sophie certainly wouldn’t know about that.

  “See over there,” Francie whispered, leaning close to Sophie, “I’ve chosen the perfect husband for you.”

  “No, Francie, I’ll not even look.”

  “He’s the one.”

  “That’s what you told Lucinda Grosemond when you tried to pair her with Jeffrey Ballantine.”

  “A minor miscalculation, I assure you. One which I have corrected.”

  “I see.” Sophie hid a smile. “You’ll be certain the wife is actually dead before you try to marry off her husband.”

  “He said he was a widower.”

  “Hmmmm. I guess he forgot to tell his wife.”

  “I have it on good authority this one isn’t married.”

  “I’m not interested.” Tales of Francie Bishop’s matchmaking attempt
s were becoming legendary. Since her marriage to Alexander Bishop slightly less than two years ago, Francie had endeavored to make fourteen matches for friends and various acquaintances.

  All had failed miserably.

  “Would you please just look at the man. He’s right over there. The tall one.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake.”

  “Just one peek.”

  People were beginning to stare. What a sight they must appear; two women whispering at the supper table like two ninnies. “Oh, all right.” Sophie turned and stared right into Jason Langford’s gray eyes.

  “Jason?”

  “Who? No, silly, not him. Him.” Francie pointed to the man standing just inside the door frame.

  It was Gregory Thurston.

  “Isn’t he simply,” Francie paused, “dangerous?”

  Sophie swallowed and looked away, but not before he caught her eyeing him. “Barbaric is a more appropriate term.”

  “A guise, I’m sure. I’ve heard he’s a pirate.” Excitement coated her words. “I believe it could be true.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “No.”

  “Sophie, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “In the pages of the stories I read.”

  “Hah! I think he’s a great intrigue. Would you like an introduction?”

  “No.”

  “But why ever not?”

  “Francie.” Alexander Bishop regarded his wife with a raised brow.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Sometimes no really does mean no.” And with that he went back to his creamed potatoes and venison.

  Chapter 7

  “Why Mr. Thurston,” a throaty voice crooned nearby, “I’m delighted to see you here. Please do sit.”

  The woman who spoke was blond, blue-eyed . . . utterly perfect. Sophie cast a glance at Jason Langford who studied her, a small smile playing about his lips as though to imply he knew a very important secret. The simple gesture brought her back to childhood days when he would smile at her and Julia in just that very manner. He’d always been so very tolerant of their antics. Quite friendly, too. Unlike his older brother, Holt, who never smiled, and rarely spoke. Word had it his father had shipped him off to the West Indies to learn the sugar cane business, but some said that wasn’t the only reason. Some said the earl was embarrassed by his eldest son’s shy, awkward ways and sickly constitution and hoped the West Indies would turn him into a man fit to inherit an earldom. Apparently, Holt Langford had not earned that privilege because he’d never returned.

  “So nice to see you again, Lady Sophie,” Jason Langford said, his smile deepening.

  She should ignore him; he was after all, the enemy. But some shred of understanding in his eyes made her smile back. “You as well, Mr. Langford.”

  Of course, the men seated themselves across from Sophie and close enough to conduct a casual conversation without raising their voices. Of course, Gregory Thurston leaned in too close to the blonde beauty next to him who happened to be an extremely wealthy widow from the neighboring village. And of course, Lady Jessica Heathers, the so-named wealthy widow, spent the better part of the supper fawning over Mr. Thurston, her milk-white bosom spilling from her bodice as she leaned to tap his shoulder playfully with her fan or lay a slender hand on his jacket sleeve. And of course, the brute did not hesitate to slide her one of his faint, seductive smiles.

  Which of course, only made the whole scenario that much more disgusting.

  Holt remained attentive to the beautiful widow beside him but his real interest lay in the little minx seated across the dinner table. Sophie did her best to ignore him and it would appear she was succeeding. She chatted with everyone, himself excluded, and almost had him believing his behavior did not affect her until she happened to gaze in his direction.

  Once she did, her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched, but the most telltale sign was no matter what discussion she was engaged in, when she glanced his way, she couldn’t finish her sentence. She froze in the midst of a word and floundered for her next thought as though her mind had flopped into the dish of plum pudding next to her. After the second occurrence, Jason, gentleman that he was, rushed to her rescue and finished her sentence.

  “Mr. Thurston,” Jessica purred into his ear, “pray tell us more about your travels. I have always been fascinated by exotic places.” She ran her tongue across her full lower lip as she smiled. “I find them dangerous and utterly irresistible.”

  Indeed. He didn’t miss the double entendre she thrust out with that dainty tongue. If he had half an inclination, he could take her to the terrace and have her right now, without a moment's resistance. But that was the rub. As beautiful as Lady Heathers was, and she was indeed beautiful, and as much as she was fawning all over him, and she was definitely fawning with those heaving breasts and blue eyes, he felt not a hint of desire for her. Nothing. It perplexed him almost as much as it annoyed him. A few months ago, he would have thrown up her skirts and had her without a by your leave. But not now and he knew why.

  He turned his gaze on the subject of his ire, only to find her staring back. He wanted to reach across the table, pull her into his arms, and apologize for the hundred kinds of a fool he’d been. He wanted to kiss her senseless and lay her across the long dining room table, where he would worship her body. But he also wanted to protect her and promise to never hurt her again. God help him, he wanted so much more than her delectable body.

  Jessica Heathers’ next words jerked him back as she leaned into his elbow, her sumptuous breasts smashed against the arm of his jacket, “I do believe I am acquainted with your family, Lady Sophie.”

  Sophie blinked twice and tore her gaze from Holt. “You know my family?”

  “Ah, yes, but to be more exact my dear deceased husband, who of course was much older than myself,” she quickly qualified, “was friends with your father.” She paused and added, “Before the unfortunate accident. One can understand how a devastation such as the one your father suffered, might render him incapable of ever fully recovering to re-enter society. He is somewhat of a recluse, is he not? That’s why you’ve not had a proper season?” Her full lips formed a perfect moue. “But then, how could you gallivant about when you had to tend after a mute sister?”

  A few matrons listening to the conversation gasped at the ill manners of the speaker. Fortunately, the exchange went largely unnoticed as many of the guests had finished dining and were taking leave to the ballroom. Holt had a feeling an entire roomful of people would not have stopped Sophie from speaking her next words. “My sister is a beautiful, gifted child whose speech will one day return.”

  The widow Heathers’ delicate hand fluttered to her chest, as she drawled, “Of course I meant no slight to you or your sister. I merely desired to make it known I sympathize with the burden you carry attending a young sister who has the misfortune of being a mute. That is all, I assure you.” She bestowed an oversweet smile on her small audience but the woman could have cared less whether or not Sophie was offended by her remarks and most certainly would not have deigned an apology had there not been witnesses.

  Sophie stood and without another word, headed down one of the long corridors, in the opposite direction of the ballroom.

  “I think I should see to her.” The woman who’d been seated beside Sophie shoved her chair aside and stood.

  “Leave her be, Francie.” This from the man who was presumably the woman’s husband.

  “But Alexander, she might need me.”

  “Of course she’ll need you,” he said, his voice gentling. “But give her a few moments first, then go to her.”

  Holt turned to Jason and said in a low voice, “Why in hell’s name didn’t you tell me about the sister?”

  “Why would I?” Jason asked. “You and Sophie are merely business acquaintances. It shouldn’t matter whether she has a sister with five heads or a green face.”

  He was
challenging him to admit the relationship with Sophie was indeed personal. “Right you are.” With that, Holt pushed back his chair and headed toward the very same corridor Sophie had fled to moments before.

  ***

  After the disastrous confrontation with Jessica Heathers, Sophie sought comfort in a dimly lit salon far from the ballroom. Of all the vicious attempts to humiliate someone, this one was really too much. To aim at a poor innocent, whose worse fault was the grievous shock of losing her mother and her voice at the same time, was too hurtful to consider. The woman had flaunted her body all over Gregory Thurston at supper and when she thought he was paying more attention to Sophie, she’d set about to humiliate and disgrace her. Well, Jessica Heathers could have him on a silver platter and good riddance!

  “Ah, my lovely Lady Sophie, I am so pleased to have found you.” A figure emerged from the far end of the salon. It was Thomas Jameson, the lecherous widower who had intruded himself upon her person earlier this evening. He eyed her with an odd light in his pale eyes, his gaze wandering and fixing on her breasts.

  She inched away from the odious man and said, “I must ask that you leave. Surely you understand you can’t remain without benefit of a chaperone.”

  Jameson stepped closer, the odd shimmering light in his eyes growing brighter, glazing, as though her nearness ignited his senses.

  “Mr. Jameson, please.”

  He lunged at her and flung her to the sofa, pinning her arms behind her back. She kicked and tried to scream, but his sweaty palm clamped over her mouth. “Do not scream, my beautiful little one. Once I initiate you to the pleasures of the flesh, you shall beg for my touch.” He planted hard, wet kisses on the swell of flesh above her bodice, and ground his hips into hers. Sophie tried to dislodge his squat body but her movements only further excited him. When she stilled, Jameson relaxed his hand over her mouth and murmured, “Ah, my sweet, such infinite pleasure awaits.” Sophie opened her mouth. “Yes, let me see that tongue.” He inched his palm near her mouth. “Lick it,” he gasped, closing his eyes. She opened her mouth wider and clamped down on the tender flesh of Thomas Jameson’s palm. “Ahhhh!” He sprang off of her, grabbing his hand. “Bitch! You’ll pay for this.” He raised his uninjured hand to strike her. Too shocked to attempt escape, Sophie shielded her head in the cushions of the sofa, awaiting his blow.