“I told him to picture the person he is talking to as having a body that is part human and part the funniest-looking animal he could think of.”
“I don’t understand how that helps him to not stutter.”
“It puts his concentration on the picture in his head and off the words,” Nathan said simply.
“Did you know that would work because you once had a stutter?” Sophia asked, hoping he’d open up to her about his past.
“Harry told you?”
Sophia nodded.
“Yes.” He grew very still for a moment before continuing. “As a child I became so nervous that I would say the wrong thing to my mother and spoil her good mood or set her on a tirade. Every time I talked, I worried so much about each word I uttered that I stuttered all the time. Eventually, it became so bad that I did it with everyone, and not just when I was nervous.”
“And you recognized that Harry had the same problem?”
“I knew the minute I met your father that he was Harry’s problem. So I did what I could to help him.”
“Nathan, will you tell me what your mother was like?”
His face, which had been open and smiling, drew immediately closed and dark. “She was beautiful with a black heart. There is nothing else to say.”
It was more than he’d revealed previously, so she accepted the little bit with the hope that he would reveal more and more of himself over time, and heal by doing so. “Are you still planning to leave me here with your aunt?”
Or for good, she thought silently.
“Don’t look so worried,” he said, tugging on a curl of her short hair. “I am going to London, but only for long enough to tie up some loose business ends. I never thought I’d be here this winter—it’s not my usual style—so I have some things to attend to there.”
She desperately wanted to ask him what his usual style was, but she suspected he was not yet ready to tell her. “How long will you be gone?”
“It shouldn’t be much longer than a week. But I wanted to ask you how you felt about me taking Harry with me? I can take him to Eton and show him around so he will be comfortable there.”
Sophia frowned. “How do you know they will grant him a spot?”
“Because they want my continued generosity, my dear, and I will cease to be generous if they do not take Harry as a pupil and treat him just like any other boy there.”
Sophia kissed Nathan, cutting off his words. “Thank you for helping my bother.”
Nathan grinned. “Do you know I rather like the way your eyes sparkle when you’re happy? It positively lights your face.”
She beamed, feeling happier than one person probably had the right to feel. Suddenly, she was struck with a wonderful idea. “Nathan, I’ll come with you to London and to take my brother to school, and I promise not to do a thing to embarrass you. I’ll stay inside at the house in London if you wish it, and―”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “I want you to come, but you cannot. The roads are rough in winter, which makes the ride jostling. I wouldn’t want you endangering your health.”
Sophia frowned. “I’m perfectly healthy. Are you sure you’re not simply saying that because you don’t want to admit you’re embarrassed of me?”
“I’m sure,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose and then laying his hand, palm open, over her belly. “You may not have considered that you could be carrying my child, but I have.”
A baby! A baby they had made to care for and lavish with love as neither of them had ever been lavished. She smiled as she looked at Nathan. “Do you really think I could be?” She laid her hand over his much larger one and intertwined her fingers with his.
He curled her fingers inward until they grazed his palm. “It’s definitely a possibility, and I refuse to put you or the future duke in danger.”
“Scarsdale!” His aunt’s shrill voice resounding through the room made Sophia jump.
“In here, Aunt,” Nathan drawled.
Sophia turned just as Lady Anthony strolled into the room and eyed Sophia with coldness before smiling at Nathan. “There is a rather large group of your tenants here who wish to pay their respects to Miss Vane.”
Nathan smiled wryly. “You mean the Duchess of Scarsdale,” Nathan said in an unbending tone.
“Yes, of course, how silly of me to forget.”
“It was rather silly of you. See that it doesn’t happen again.” With that, he led Sophia past his gaping aunt and back through the house toward the cacophony of murmuring voices awaiting them.
The entire day was spent among Nathan’s tenants, who thought him a very generous employer based on all the stories they’d told her, though none of them seemed to really know him. A few of the older women had made references to different scrapes Nathan had gotten into when he was younger and what a precocious and lighthearted child he had been, but all the stories ended much the same. The women would make some statement or another regarding how the late duchess had made Nathan into a cold, withdrawn youth who barely spoke to anyone.
By the time Sophia retired to dress for bed, her heart ached for Nathan. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and make him somehow understand that it was all right to be open with people and not regard everyone as a potential enemy. Mary Margaret was waiting for Sophia in her bedchamber, and she had laid out three night rails—all of which looked nothing like proper night rails—that the seamstress had sent over for Sophia to chose from to wear on her wedding night and the nights that followed.
Sophia slowly approached the bed and picked up the first one. It was made from the finest material, if the feel of it was any indication, and was adorned with pearls and silk ribbons, but the gown had holes where holes ought not to be. Sophia flushed looking at it, and quickly laid it down and picked up the next one. Each gown had the same problem.
She could feel Mary Margaret watching her expectantly, so she turned to the woman. “The seamstress is mad,” she said in a low voice.
Mary Margaret smiled while shaking her head. “No, Your Grace. This is the latest fashion from France. They are meant to entice His Grace.”
“Entice him!” Sophia scoffed. “He’ll be angry when he sees how he’s paid for a dressing gown that has a giant triangle cut out of the chest, and here, look at this one!” Sophia grabbed another gown off the bed. “This one has two holes in it! One on each side!”
Mary Margaret giggled and picked up the third gown, which was a sheer pink one. It didn’t have any holes but you could see straight thought it. She ran a finger over one of the pearls. “This one is my favorite and the one I think you should wear.”
“Do you really think Nathan will like it?”
Mary Margaret nodded. “Mama says passion runs hot in the blood of the Dukes of Scarsdale.”
With trembling fingers, Sophia took the night rail from Mary Margaret. She’d wear it, but the idea of doing so made her embarrassed and nervous. She didn’t know why she should be suddenly shy. It wasn’t as if Nathan had not seen her naked. But this was different. In this gown, she felt as if she was putting herself on display, and frankly, she knew she was not much to look at. After Mary Margaret helped her out of wedding gown, Sophia went behind the screen to change. And as she slipped on the skimpy night rail, she called out to Mary Margaret that she could go once the gown was hung up. She certainly did not want her lady’s maid to see her in this revealing creation and she didn’t see a wrap to go with it.
When she emerged from behind the screen, she noticed that another wine goblet stood on her nightstand, and she rushed over to it and gulped the contents down to calm her nerves. As she set the goblet back on the table, she frowned. She’d had a dull headache ever since coming to Whitecliffe and it suddenly was pounding. Goose flesh covered her arms and legs, so she padded over to the fire and stoked it until it roared in the grate and sent heat wafting through the room.
When her chill persisted and her head started to swim, she pulled back the coverlet from her bed and sat in
the center of the bed and wrapped herself in it. As she tried to settle herself, the dizziness didn’t decrease but increased instead, and a sharp pain stabbed at her stomach. Suddenly, she felt as if she was going to be ill. She scrambled to the side of the bed and stood to retrieve the chamber pot. The room tilted violently, bright specks of light peppered her vision, and a searing heat overwhelmed her from her scalp to her bare feet.
She bent down, blindly searching for the chamber pot, and lost her balance. She hit the floor with a thud, and the air whooshed out of her lungs. The idea of Nathan finding her sprawled on the floor so ungracefully mortified her, but when she tried to push herself up, her limbs trembled violently. She crumbled back down and closed her eyes as another wave of blackness and nausea stole her thoughts and beckoned her into unconsciousness.
“Sophia?” Nathan called impatiently, tapping on her door for the third time. He hadn’t wanted to simply barge in, but when she failed to answer again, he opened the door and stepped into the bedchamber. Shadows and flickering candlelight danced on the walls, and a warm coziness filled the room. He closed the door behind him and glanced toward the dressing screen. “Sophia?”
Irritation rose up in him that she wasn’t in here, but he forced it down. Whatever Sophia was doing, he was sure it was important. It wasn’t as if she was avoiding him or playing games. Or was she? his mind taunted. He shoved the thought away. Looking around the room at all the portraits of his mother, he knew he didn’t want to spend the night in here. When Sophia did return they would retire to his bedchamber.
In fact, he would have the chamber adjoining his prepared for her use so they wouldn’t have to traipse up and down the halls when he was in residence and they wanted to see each other. When he was in residence. The thought smashed around his head. Did he want to stay here at Whitecliffe with her? There was a part of him that did, but there was another part that taunted him, as if staying here meant he was weak and meant he needed her. The idea of needing anyone unsettled him. The decision didn’t have to be made tonight.
He was walking toward the dressing screen when a groan reached him. He stopped in his tracks and turned around. “Sophia?”
Another groan came from the opposite side of the bed. Striding across the room and around the bed, he spotted her immediately, crumpled on the floor in a sheer pink negligee. Her eyes were closed but she was clutching her stomach. His pulse exploded as he knelt down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Sophia,” he whispered near her ear.
She turned her head toward him, and her eyes fluttered open for a moment before closing again. “I feel awful,” she murmured. “I-I’m going to be sick.”
Laying her gently on the bed, he located the chamber pot and watched helplessly as she retched into it repeatedly. When it seemed she wasn’t going to stop, he pulled the bell cord to summon her lady’s maid. Perhaps she would know what to do.
Within minutes, the woman was there, leaning over Sophia and cooing at her, but Sophia continued to retch until what came out of her stomach was nothing but clear liquid. She lay back suddenly, pale, damp, and shaking. Mary Margaret stood and motioned to him.
“Might I fetch my mother? She knows about different herbs to help calm the stomach.”
Nathan nodded. “What shall I do while you’re getting her?”
“Perhaps you could hold a wet rag to Her Grace’s head?”
He nodded. “Go quickly.” As the maid hurried out of the room, he rushed over to the washbasin and dampened a rag, then hurried back to Sophia and pressed it against her head. Her eyes fluttered open again, but the unnatural film that clouded her eyes made Nathan curse inwardly. “Sophia, we’re going to get you some herbs to help your stomach.”
She nodded, and without opening her eyes said, “Water.”
He glanced around, located a water pitcher, and saw a wine goblet on her nightstand. Raising it to his nose, he sniffed it and frowned. Sophia had been drinking? Sourness filled his mouth. His mother had spent more days foxed than sober. He was damned sure he would not tolerate Sophia doing the same. A drink was one thing but so many that she became ill was another.
“Sophia,” he snapped. When she didn’t respond, he shook her shoulder. After a second, she opened her eyes and this time he attributed the cloudiness to the wine. “How much did you drink?” he demanded.
“Water,” she whispered.
He poured a glass of water and thrust it at her. “How much did you drink?” he asked again, not making a move to help her. But when she didn’t lift her head or answer, he raised her up and held the goblet to her lips. She took a swallow, sputtered, and immediately rolled over and retched it up.
“Damnation,” he swore as Mary Margaret came into the room with her mother, Mrs. Cooke. Before they could utter a word, he motioned to Sophia. “She’s foxed. When you’ve sobered her up, come get me in my bedchamber.” He stalked to the door and then paused. He turned and pierced the lady’s maid with a scowl. “How much does she drink?”
“What?”
“How much?” he said through clenched teeth.
“Water?”
“Wine, damn it all!” he roared.
Mary Margaret flinched and exchanged a long look with her mother before facing him again. “I have no knowledge of Her Grace drinking any wine,” she said in a hushed voice.
“If you continue to cover for her you will find yourself out of a position. Do you understand?” The woman nodded, and he turned on his heels and stormed out of the room.
He released the tenuous tether he had on his temper the moment he stepped into his bedchamber. The heavy wood door slammed behind him and rattled in its frame. With a vicious rip, he tore his cravat from his neck, then yanked off his coat and shoes. The shoes hit the wall one by one.
Damn her to hell and back for getting under his skin. He slid a crystal glass across the wood of the dressing table and then tilted the decanter to pour a drink. He stared down at the glass without seeing it. He saw his mother too drunk to stand time and again. Liquid wet his hand and he blinked, hurriedly turning the decanter upright and grimacing at the mess he had made.
He swiped his hand across his trousers and stormed across the room to slump into the chair in front of the large marble fireplace. Staring blindly into the flickering orange flames, he cursed as images of Sophia intertwined with images of his mother. He would have never thought Sophia to be the sort of woman to imbibe in too much spirits.
His heart twisted, and he gripped the glass, feeling the sting of the crystal cutting into his skin but not caring. She was in his head. This was what became of letting down one’s guard. One began to feel things, to be hurt by others. He didn’t want her in his head. He didn’t want her there. Damn her. He downed the contents of his drink and made his way across the carpets.
An almost-crazed feeling was taking hold of him. He stared at his bed, the immense expanse of it, and he could see her there. In it. With him. Laughing, smiling, her blue eyes sparkling. Goddamn her. It had taken a good deal of effort to make himself numb and she’d swept into his life and thawed his heart. Growling, he threw his empty glass on the bed and trod through the door to his study that connected to his room.
Grabbing the first book he came to, he settled in to read. He forced himself to the task, but he realized after a while that he could not recall one damned word he’d read. Yet, he could recall whole conversations he’d had with Sophia. Snarling, he threw the book against the far wall and stalked out of the study, back into the main bedchamber, and over to the large stained glass window that overlooked the acres of parkland on which his home was situated. He placed his hands against the cold glass and heaved a disgruntled sigh. She’d cracked the lock on his heart, and he hadn’t even realized it. Hell, he’d even contemplated the notion of love for her.
Before his tirade could really commence a scratch came at the door. “Come in,” he bade in a clipped tone.
Mary Margaret entered the room on her mother’s heels, and the young lady
stayed there, hovering. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t make a move to be friendly. So the girl was afraid of him now? Good. She needed to be scared witless after lying to him. “Don’t tell me my bride is already sober?” he sneered.
Mary Margaret stepped out from behind her mother. “She’s not foxed,” the lady’s maid said in a rebuking tone. “She’s ill.”
She glanced at her mother, and Mrs. Cooke, who had been his mother’s lady’s maid, nodded. “I’d recognize someone in their cups immediately. Her Grace is sick. You need to fetch the doctor at once. I’ve done all I can, but she’s still retching.”
Something inside him tingled with fear, but he ruthlessly beat it back. He refused to care. “Mother used to retch up a storm.”
Mrs. Cooke shook her head. “Not like this. Your wife cannot stop. She’ll die if she goes on in this manner, and if you refuse to send a servant to fetch the physician, I’ll send Mr. Cooke and you can let us all go. I’ll not have that innocent young woman’s death on my hands.”
“Let you go?” he asked, surprised, despite the fact that he’d given Mary Margaret that exact ultimatum. “You’ve worked for my family for as long as I can remember.”
Mrs. Cooke nodded. “Exactly. You are wrong about this. Please send for the physician.”
“We’ll see,” he said, sure he was not mistaken. He’d seen his mother in the same state hundreds of times. He strode out of his room and down the hall to Sophia. Outside the door, the sound of her violent sickness filled the halls and set fear in his belly. He shoved through the door and cursed. She lay in a small, pitiful ball in the center of the bed, shaking. Her dark, short hair was slicked back with perspiration, and her eyes were closed but moving violently under her lids. Her skin had an odd ashy tint to it.
Mrs. Cooke was right. This was worse than anything he’d ever seen. This was a great deal more than simply being foxed. Every part of him wanted to go to her, but he sensed there wasn’t a minute to waste. “Don’t let her die,” he commanded and hurried out of the room to the staircase.
My Seductive Innocent Page 17