by Sylvia Day
“Lord Rothschild,” he greeted.
“An unexpected call,” Rothschild said, returning the avid scrutiny with narrowed green eyes.
“Though not unwelcome, I hope.”
“That remains to be seen, does it not? Grave matters are rarely pleasant.”
Fontaine smiled and sank into the nearest chair, a narrow settee covered in soft green fabric and backed with intricately carved wood. “I have come bearing honorable intentions toward Lady Sophie.”
The earl’s eyes widened. A brief shocked silence filled the room, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Bending down, Justin reached into the leather satchel he had set on the floor at his feet. He carefully withdrew the documents his solicitor had drawn up at his behest and passed them over. Rothschild’s amused gaze turned to one of bewilderment as he accepted the proffered packet and settled into the seat opposite.
For a time, the only sounds in the room where those of pages turning and the ticking of the clock. Justin waited out the earl’s reaction to his demands by studying the contents of the room, looking for any item that might match the articles mentioned in Remington’s file.
“Dear God. Who arranged this farce?” Rothschild asked finally.
“I beg your pardon?”
Lifting his head, the earl blinked in obvious confusion. “I would not have thought you likely to be involved in a mockery of this magnitude. What wager did you lose to be pressed into this?”
“I am entirely sincere,” Justin assured. “I wish to wed your sister and you shall make that possible.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
“Bloody hell.” An incredulous silence filled the room for a long moment, then the earl snorted. “Have her, if you so desire, but the stipulations you make in this agreement are the ravings of a madman. I am free of her as it stands. I’ve no need to part with anything of value in order to accomplish that.”
“True. I appeal to your gentleman’s honor.”
“You waste both of our afternoons with this nonsense.” Rothschild stood, tossing the packet onto the small table between them.
“I ask only for the items that belong to Lady Sophie. I’ve no desire for anything beyond that.”
“I will not simply hand them over to you, Fontaine, which will necessitate a lengthy courtroom drama while you attempt to prove ownership. You may have lost your head over Sophie, but I think there are limits to the amount of scandal you are capable of tolerating.”
Justin’s mouth curved grimly as he reached back into his satchel. He watched as the earl crossed the room to stand before the window. Rothschild appeared irritated, yes, but his frame also vibrated with a barely perceptible anxiousness that betrayed his concern. The earl was not ignorant. He would know that leverage of some sort was involved. The man was bluffing, as all gamblers were wont to do.
“I had hoped to keep this exchange on pleasant footing,” Fontaine said easily, leaning forward to set a sealed document atop the table. Although he was completely focused on the nuances of the earl’s physical reactions to his increasingly aggressive salvos, he kept his own exterior relaxed and innocuous.
Rothschild glanced over, his verdant gaze dropping to the tabletop. His hands were clasped at his back, stretching the dark broadcloth of his coat across his shoulders. Unlike many who found that addiction to gambling and the drinking of strong spirits went handin-hand, the earl was trim, fit, and known only as one who liked to wager on just about anything. Sadly, he wasn’t very good at it.
Sighing, Sophie’s brother returned to his previous seat to inspect the new offering and Justin turned his attention to a small statue that graced one of several artfully arranged bookcases. The many volumes that lined the shelves were displayed in every possible fashion—on their sides, spine outward, and front-facing. In between, various antiquities waited to be admired and coveted.
It was not long before the earl made some hideous noise that was something between a strangled gasp and a sob.
“By God!” Rothschild sputtered. “Where did you get this information?”
The marquess shrugged. “I have my ways.”
“You cannot prove any of this!”
“Do I need to?” Looking at the earl, Fontaine raised both brows in silent query. “What a deucedly nasty business that would be. Of course, it might be worth it. Your scandal might take some of the attention away from mine. Yours is decidedly more lurid, I think you will agree.”
Rothschild’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You do not understand my position.”
“Oh, I think I do. You and Sophie were bequeathed a modest collection of Egyptian antiquities by a French relative, and you are presently using them to guarantee your markers.”
“So, you see, I must retain them.”
“No, you must see that I do not care about your predicament. I might have been more accommodating had you shown even a modicum of support for your sister when she needed it most, but you did not, so I shall not.” The marquess rocked back on his heels. “Instead I shall drag you unwillingly up to my estate in Northamptonshire where you will dine with your sister and several highly esteemed members of the peerage who happen to have a fascination with antiquities. You will support her now, as you did not previously.”
A cold, hard edge entered Rothschild’s eyes. “You think you can make her suitable? You are delusional.”
“I think I can make her an Eccentric, and that, Rothschild, will make her acceptable to other Eccentrics. It is a beginning.”
What followed was a tedious hour of complaining, cajoling, and conniving that resulted nevertheless in Rothschild ordering his valet to prepare for a journey north. With such a disagreeable companion in tow, Justin anticipated a miserable trip, but as he watched the loading of the earl’s trunks onto the rear of his coach, he was grinning from ear to ear regardless.
* * *
“Dear heavens, he’s done it!” the dowager Lady Fontaine cried.
She lifted her gaze from the boldly slashed penmanship of her son, and smiled at her dearest friend. She had gratefully accepted the invitation to join the countess and Sophie on their return to their residence, despite her concern that her removal from Northamptonshire would delay word. She should not have worried. Fontaine had written directly to the Cardington dower property, having anticipated her inability to wait out news alone. “He has convinced Lord Rothschild to assist us.”
Lady Cardington clapped her hands, the tension that had gripped her slight frame upon the arrival of the post dissipating with a relieved smile. “His lordship has hidden depths. Of course, we both knew that.”
“Yes, we did.” The dowager refolded the short missive carefully. “But now we have work to do, Caroline.”
Blowing out her breath, Lady Cardington set her shoulders back. “What is required of us?”
“We are to arrange a gathering.” Leaning forward, the dowager passed the letter over. “I have no notion how we shall manage the guest list he has demanded.”
Caroline rose from her floral slipper chair and moved to the walnut escritoire in the corner where her spectacles waited. “We shall lie and elaborate.” She gazed out the window to where Sophie walked beside Thomas in the rear garden. “We need only to entice them to come. The rest we leave to Fontaine and Sophie.”
* * *
“Did you truly attempt to climb to the top of the pagoda?”
Sophie glanced down at her son with a sheepish smile. “I did.”
“I am glad I was not here to see it,” Thomas said, gazing up at her with Langley’s dark eyes. “I would have been frightened for you.”
“Then perhaps you can understand why I was so frightened when I found you attempting the feat yourself.”
“I thought you were angry.”
She set her hand atop his unruly chocolate brown waves. “No, not angry, darling. Terrified.”
Looking at the structure, she remembered fragments of the day w
hen Fontaine had caught her hanging from the roof’s edge.
“By God, you mad creature!” he’d cried, just before he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her free, spilling them both to the grass in a tangle of limbs.
He had been shaking with fury, or so she had believed at the time. Now she realized how he must have felt and her heart hurt. How could she have been so blind to his feelings for her?
She sighed. She suspected she knew why. Confusion at the loss of her parents and the lack of connection to her only sibling had made it difficult for her to perceive affection. She had been angry at the world, and therefore saw only anger returned to her.
“I have been invited to visit the Fontaine estate again,” Sophie said, dropping her hand to link fingers with Thomas’s grubby ones. They rounded the corner and she gestured to a crescent-shaped marble bench beneath a tree.
“I like Lady Fontaine.”
“So do I.” Although it was Justin who had requested her return in a short but sweet note that offered a chance at happiness. However, there was more at stake than her feelings. “Would you be upset if I went?”
Thomas appeared to consider the question carefully. “You have been sad since you returned.”
Sophie blinked, startled that he had been perceptive enough to notice. “I miss a friend.”
“Will you see your friend again when you go?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will not be upset, though I will miss you.”
With watering eyes, Sophie pulled Thomas into her lap and hugged him tightly to her. He wriggled and squirmed, protesting indignantly. And then he settled into her arms with an exasperated sigh.
“Thank you,” she said, when she had collected herself.
He squeezed her back and then climbed off her lap. “Since I cannot climb, can we catch insects?”
“I suppose.”
With a whoop of joy, Thomas led the way to the nearest bush. And for the first time in a very long time, Sophie felt hope.
CHAPTER 9
Sophie jumped when the knock came to the door of her guest chamber in the Fontaine manse. She was not high-strung by nature—energetic, yes, but prone to nerves, no—but on this occasion she could not help it. When she had arrived that afternoon she’d taken note of the Rothschild crest on the travel coach in the drive. For the first time in many years she was sharing the same roof as her brother. In fact, she was fairly certain it was the first time they had been in the same province since their parents had passed on.
She rushed to the door and pulled it open. “Lady Fontaine,” she greeted as she saw who called on her.
The dowager was already dressed for dinner, her slender figure encased in cream-colored satin skirts capped with a forest green bodice. Her blonde hair was artfully curled and her wrists, ears, and throat were adorned with brilliant emeralds rimmed with diamonds. Altogether, she presented a picture of elegant, affluent, mature beauty, and the care she displayed in her choice of attire was a vivid reminder of how important tonight would be.
“Lady Sophie.”
Dipping into a swift curtsy, Sophie hoped she hid her disappointment. As focused as she was on Rothschild, she was equally focused on Fontaine. To know that he was so close . . . to imagine him relaxed in his den, the place where he had loved her so ardently and so skillfully . . .
Her body thrummed in response to her yearning, and she released her breath in a rush. She had hoped to find him on the opposite side of the door, although she had known it would be far too risky an action for him to take with so many guests about. Her silly heart did not care about the reasonableness of its expectations. It cared only about its infatuation with Justin.
“Do not tax yourself worrying,” the dowager said with a reassuring curve to her lips, misunderstanding. “I am duly impressed with Fontaine’s arrangements and feel comfortable advising you to leave everything within his capable hands.”
Sophie nodded. “I trust him.”
“Of course you do. He is a most trustworthy man. He does nothing in half-measure. You can be certain that he has no doubts regarding the outcome of this evening. He would not risk your unhappiness.”
Sophie lifted her chin and smiled. The thought of her love for Justin straightened her spine and strengthened her determination to make the night a success, whatever he had planned. “I will make him happy.”
“I know you will.” The dowager gestured down the hall. “I offer you the use of my abigail and my rooms for dressing. Everything you need awaits you there.”
It was odd that the dowager would see to such a task herself, rather than sending her maid to Sophie, but Sophie didn’t question the offer, or how it was presented. She simply expressed her gratitude and followed Lady Fontaine down the gallery until they reached their destination.
Stepping into the lovely suite of rooms decorated in varying shades of gold, wine, and pink, Sophie was immediately arrested by the profusion of boxes set atop the chaise. Big and small, it appeared that every size and shape imaginable was represented.
“I took the liberty of peeking,” the countess confessed. “Fontaine has excellent taste. I hope you agree.”
The thought of wearing garments selected by the marquess caused a low quiver of excitement in Sophie’s belly.
“He also spent much of this afternoon upstairs in the nursery,” Lady Fontaine continued, “finding and setting aside his favorite toys from childhood for Master Thomas.”
Sophie’s eyes stung at the mental image those words evoked. The countess seemed to understand. After a gentle squeeze of Sophie’s shoulder, she departed the room in silence.
Riveted in place, Sophie allowed the tears to fall. She could not have foreseen that she would fall in love again, but there was no doubt. She was giddy with it.
The door reopened and then closed behind her. The sudden flare of awareness across her skin revealed the identity of her visitor.
She inhaled deeply, then turned to face him. Justin lounged against the closed portal in a sultry pose so rakish it aroused a hot, carnal longing. He had loved her body long and well, and she craved more of the same.
“My lord,” she breathed, dipping into a slow curtsy. She could not move any faster. The sight of him made her heart race until she felt dizzy. She stared, drinking him in, unable to do otherwise. He was different now than he had ever been. The infamous, chilly hauteur was nowhere to be found. He was warm and vibrant, the air around him charged with energy.
“My lady,” he returned, the corner of his mouth lifting as he straightened and came toward her. Dressed in tight breeches, white waistcoat, and artfully tied cravat, he was devastatingly handsome. The effect he had on her was so powerful that despite the gloves he wore, when he lifted her hand to his lips, her skin tingled.
“You mustn’t look at me in that manner in front of the others,” she whispered.
“In what manner?”
“As if you are besotted.”
The slow curving of his sensual mouth made her heart race. “I have always looked at you this way. After all these years, I cannot change it now.”
“Justin . . .”
“You must be unaware of how you look at me. I may look besotted, but your returning perusal is indecent.”
“Indecent?”
“As if you wish to lick me from head to toe, and nibble on everything in between.”
The scent of starch and bergamot teased her nostrils. He was so close, she could feel the warmth that radiated from him.
“I do wish to do that,” she admitted.
Her confession elicited a groan from deep in his throat, followed immediately by the banding of his arms around her and the lifting of her feet from the floor. Tilting his head, he took her mouth with a passion that stole her wits. Sophie could only cling to his broad shoulders and kiss him back with like desperation.
He pulled back with a deep timbral laugh, turning his head when she pursued him for more. “I did not come here for this, love.”
Sophie stuck her lower lip out in a pout, and he nipped it playfully with his teeth. “Did you miss me?” he purred.
“Sometimes.” He arched an arrogant brow and she wrinkled her nose. “Most of the time.”
Fontaine grinned.
“All of the time,” she amended, blushing.
“How lovely you are when you blush,” he murmured in an intimate, possessive tone that made her toes curl. He pressed his lips to the tip of her nose and then set her down.
“What have you planned?” she asked, studying him for signs of unease. She found none.
“In the family parlor, you will find Lady Cardington entertaining an elderly gentleman who is endlessly fascinated by a small statue, which I collected along with Rothschild from his London residence. In return for promised access to study the thing, he has agreed to school you on its finer points.”
“A statue?”
“Yes. A small part of a larger collection of valuable antiquities that belongs to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes.” His blue eyes laughed at her. “My darling, I adore you.”
Sophie shook her head with a smile. “You must.”
“Once you feel comfortable enough discussing the subject, the three of you will join us in the lower drawing room where your brother will greet you as if you are both fond of one another. Can you follow along with the ruse?”
“I can do anything if it means you will be mine.”
Justin reached for her again. In the decidedly feminine surroundings of his mother’s suite, his blatant masculinity was even more compelling. “I have waited a lifetime for you to want me.”
“I will want you for a lifetime.” She cupped his cheek, her thumb drifting across the cleanly shaven skin. “Will that make up for the delay?”
“Hmmm . . .”
“Something else, then?” Her hand slid around to cup his nape. There, the silky smooth ends of his hair curled around his collar and tickled her knuckles. She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “Some licking and nibbling, perhaps?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his body hard and tense against hers. “That might do it.”