Which is probably just as well, thought Sophie, steadfastly refusing to look at him. If he had the slightest inkling of where my thoughts were leading me, I cannot begin to imagine what his reaction would be!
‘Come,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Mrs Bellamy tells me that she has laid tea in the pavilion—it seems a pity not to take advantage of the sun while it is still shining.’
A pavilion too? Sophie could hardly believe it. Was the man supernatural?
‘I didn’t see a pavilion when I was looking out of the window,’ she said, as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and allowed him to lead her out of a side door onto a path that led through the abundantly stocked flower gardens down towards the lake.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he explained. ‘It is hidden away on the other side of the rose arbour—I found that the trellising helps to ward off the wind.’
‘You designed all this yourself?’ Sophie could not conceal her astonishment.
‘Not all,’ he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he registered her incredulous expression. ‘Just a few minor improvements here and there. Do you approve?’
‘I’m utterly overwhelmed—it would be difficult to imagine anything more perfect. It is so kind of you to allow me to see it all.’
Kind! Marcus blanched. Kindness had been the last thing on his mind when he had drummed up this idea. Total seduction of Sophie’s senses had been his original intention, followed by…
Grimacing, as the only too familiar ache in his groin assailed him once again, he bit back a groan. Take it easy, he rebuked himself. Slowly does it—it wouldn’t do to frighten the lady away entirely! Apart from which, he found himself admitting there was something oddly refreshing about Sophie’s refusal to bend herself to his will—a distinct change from his many past conquests, who had been only too eager to bestow whatever favours he required in exchange for some paltry bauble or other. Sophie, on the other hand, had even made a point of turning down his offer to pay for that damned atlas of hers, insisting that she would somehow find the money and reimburse him! Having managed to scotch that plan by getting Broomfield to exchange the tattered copy for a much newer version, Marcus was surprised that Sophie had not yet tackled him over that particular subterfuge. Probably saving it up to attack me with it when I least expect it, he concluded ruefully, as he attempted to ply her with the various sumptuous dishes that Mrs Bellamy had laid out for them.
‘But there is far too much food here for just the two of us!’ she protested, laughingly waving away his offerings. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat that amount of veal pie—you must cut that slice in half, at the very least!’
‘But you’ve taken scarcely enough to feed a kitten,’ he complained. ‘Do try some of this chicken. It is utterly delicious, I swear. We can’t have Cook thinking that we don’t appreciate her culinary arts—good cooks are very hard to come by.’
‘Well, just a little, perhaps,’ conceded Sophie, holding out her plate in order that he could serve her a slice of the succulent meat. ‘But I really need to save a little space for those delicious-looking strawberries—I can’t remember the last time I had any and I do enjoy them so.’
In fact, her enjoyment of the whole afternoon was such that she had all but ceased to be chary of him. After all the deprivation that she had suffered during the past few months, she was finding the Viscount’s dedicated attention to her every need so very heart-warming. Not only that, but the sheer beauty of her surroundings was threatening to dazzle her entirely, making her uncomfortably aware of the fact that, should Helstone happen to choose this particular moment to launch another one of his amorous assaults on her, she very much doubted that she would be able to find either the strength or the willpower to resist his advances.
Fortunately for her peace of mind, the Viscount’s thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.
‘You’ve led a most unusual life, haven’t you?’ he asked, reaching forward to pass her a generous helping of the ripe red fruits. Then, repositioning himself comfortably against the stone bench’s fat cushions, so that he could indulge himself in witnessing Sophie’s sheer delight in what was, to her, yet another unexpected luxury, he murmured, ‘Care to tell me about it?’
‘Our life was no different from any other family who chose to follow their loved ones to war,’ replied Sophie, somewhat evasively. ‘My mother travelled with my father when his unit was sent to Ireland back in ninety-two, and we always accompanied him thereafter—that is,’ she amended, ‘Mama and I did. Roger, my brother, was sent away to school when he was eight. When Papa was killed, of course…’ Her voice trailed away and her eyes were suddenly filled with desolation. Biting back the tears that threatened, she attempted a mocking laugh. ‘The rest you know—lack of finance required me to seek some sort of position, but, since I had nothing to show in the way of references, I was obliged to settle for the Crayfords’ offer.’
Although he was tempted to remind her that his own proposition far outweighed the Crayfords’ in terms of generosity, Marcus held his tongue, having just recalled the chance remark made by his brother the previous day.
‘Your father,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘He must have been an officer to have been allowed to have his family travel with him. What rank was he, may I ask?’
‘He was a Lieutenant-Colonel,’ responded Sophie instantly, her chin held high. ‘He died attempting to move his unit to higher ground and was awarded for his bravery—not that such an accolade is a great deal of help to us now,’ she added bitterly. ‘But I am still immensely proud of him, nevertheless.’
‘And rightly so,’ returned the Viscount, much moved. ‘He was clearly a credit to his country.’ He paused, slightly unsure of how to phrase his next question. ‘My brother once spoke to me of a Lieutenant-Colonel Pendleton-Flint,’ he then said. ‘He wouldn’t have been your father, by any chance?’
‘Yes, he was,’ she replied dully. ‘And if you are wondering why I do not use my full name just ask yourself how many people would wish to employ a companion or governess with a double-barrelled name. The employment agency advised me to discard the Pendleton, on the grounds that it might give prospective employers the idea that I had ideas above my station!’
‘But that’s nonsense!’ protested Marcus angrily. ‘Surely everyone is entitled to use their given name, no matter what their walk of life?’
‘It would appear not, my lord,’ rebutted Sophie, as she rose from her seat. ‘Needless to say, I would appreciate your discretion in this matter—I already have enough with which to contend after your claiming to be a cousin of mine, without having to explain my reasons for not using my full name.’
She paused and then, fixing him with an angry glare, went on, ‘Which reminds me—I believe I am in your debt for an even greater amount than the three shillings and sixpence we originally agreed upon. Perhaps you would let me know the exact figure and I will do my best to see that you—’
‘Heaven preserve me from idiotish females!’ exploded Marcus, jumping to his feet and cutting her short. ‘You know perfectly well that you haven’t a hope in hell of being able to pay me back this side of Judgement Day, so will you kindly desist from mentioning the subject again?’
Sophie’s face whitened. ‘Was the book so very expensive then?’ she persisted, quite resolute in her determination to refund the Viscount the full amount of her indebtedness, regardless of how long it might take.
‘What does it matter what the damned thing cost?’ he cried, clapping his hand to his brow. ‘I shan’t accept a single penny from you and that’s final! No!’ he ordered, as she opened her mouth to protest. ‘I won’t hear another word on the subject! If you imagine that I’m going to stand here arguing over a paltry ten shillings, you are—oh, damn it to hell!’
As the sound of Sophie’s barely suppressed chuckle filled the air, a rueful smile spread across Helstone’s face. ‘Rolled up, lock, stock and barrel!’ he groaned, as he threw himself back onto his seat.
&nb
sp; ‘Don’t fret, my lord,’ cooed Sophie gleefully, reaching forward and patting him on the hand. ‘I was bound to have found out eventually—I had it in mind to ask Mr Broomfield had you refused to tell me!’
Marcus stared at her, shaking his head in self-disgust. Then, as the seed of an idea planted itself in his brain, ‘How much do these Crayfords actually pay you, then, Miss Moneybags?’ he asked carelessly.
‘Twelve pounds a year, all found,’ replied Sophie, caught off guard by his casual tone.
‘Good God!’ The Viscount was visibly shocked. ‘The miserable skinflints—even my sister’s governess gets twenty pounds a year and her husband is the most tight-fisted clutch-purse known to man! How, in God’s name, do you manage on such a pittance?’
‘There are plenty of people who survive on a good deal less,’ she retorted dryly. ‘I have more than enough for my own needs and I even manage to put a little aside every quarter to send to my mother.’
‘And you would rather live like that than…?’ he asked, eying her wonderingly. ‘Hardly the most flattering thing I’ve ever been told!’
Sophie shrugged. ‘It’s just a question of self-respect, my lord. That and—’ She stopped, her cheeks flaming.
‘And what?’ he prompted, impatient to know her true reasons for continually turning him down.
Blinking rapidly, she turned away, so that the Viscount could not see her face.
‘I’ve always supposed that I would—give myself to someone that I loved and who loved me in return,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘And, even though marriage is denied me, I see no reason to relinquish my principles.’
Marcus stilled, his eyes focussed on her back. Then, ‘In what way is marriage denied you?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘You are quite lovely.’
Turning to face him, she gestured impatiently. ‘I am a dowerless, impoverished governess, and the only gentlemen who cross my path are those whose inclinations are as far removed from thoughts of marriage as are your own, sir!’
He stiffened as hot colour mounted his cheeks, struck silent by her damning words and heavily conscious of the fact that the charge was impossible to deny. In fact, no one knew better than he that his recent behaviour in regard to this chestnut-haired siren had been well outside his normal code of conduct, and the disquieting awareness of which, it had to be said, had caused the Viscount a good many sleepless nights of late. From the very first moment he had set eyes on her, he had felt himself drawn to her in a way that was both compelling and yet at the same time quite mystifying. Sophie’s departure from the tavern had left him feeling so bereft that he had, unaccountably, badgered his brother into helping him search for her, and now that he had found her again he knew that his life meant nothing unless she agreed to be part of it. Now, however, since she had made it quite clear that the final objective was to be denied him, regardless of anything he might say or do, any attempt on his part to continue with his carefully thought-out plans to persuade her to succumb to his desires now seemed totally pointless.
Apart from an offer of marriage, of course, he allowed, with an inward grimace, supremely confident in the knowledge that should he, as heir to the Bradfield earldom, ever care to cast his hat into that particular ring, he would have the pick of the Season’s debutantes scrambling to take up his offer. Should I be mad enough to venture into that hornets’ nest! thought Marcus scathingly. No, thank you! I’m more than happy to leave the question of succession to Giles—let him put his head into the parson’s mousetrap, if he must. Marriage is most definitely not on the cards, as far as I’m concerned!
At his continued silence, Sophie returned to the table and, holding back a disconsolate sigh, picked up her discarded napkin and proceeded to fill it with random scraps of food.
‘With your permission, I shall go and feed the ducks,’ she said, casting a questioning glance at the Viscount’s scowling visage.
‘As you wish,’ returned Marcus, with a careless shrug. He was beginning to regret his decision to bring Sophie to Laurel Cottage. From now on this peaceful bolt-hole would be forever tainted with tantalising images of her walking down the stairs, strolling through the gardens admiring his designs, daintily sipping champagne in the pavilion—his very favourite spot of all—and now…
Against his better judgement, he let his eyes drift over to where Sophie now stood at the water’s edge. Having leaned forward to toss a handful of crumbs towards the flock of ducks now heading swiftly in her direction, she had let out a loud peal of laughter and was clapping her hands in delight as the comical antics of the noisy jostling birds captured the whole of her attention.
At the sight of her laughing face Marcus felt his stomach give a violent lurch, and it was all he could do to stop from hurling himself across the grass and dragging her into his arms. His entire body ached to feel the soft roundness of her curves pressed against him and to taste the incredible sweetness of her lips again. God, but it’s going to be difficult to give her up! He groaned inwardly, steeling himself to descend the pavilion steps and walk towards the water’s edge with a modicum of dignified composure.
‘Watch out for the swans,’ he advised, as he approached. ‘They are apt to go for the hand, if one isn’t careful.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’ she said, turning her attention to the far side of the lake, from which she could see two majestic-looking swans making a graceful approach. ‘I didn’t think that they would come while there were so many ducks squabbling for my offerings and now it has all gone!’
Rising to her feet, she shook the final few crumbs into the water, setting off another clamour, as the flapping, squawking waterfowl jostled one another witlessly in their frenzied attempts to get at the offerings.
‘There’s plenty more back there,’ offered Marcus with a light laugh, jerking his head towards the plates full of untouched delicacies still sitting on the table in the pavilion. ‘Enough to satisfy even the most voracious of their appetites, I should think.’
‘Thank you, but I fear that I really ought to be thinking of leaving now,’ returned Sophie, casting a last regretful look at the swans, now drifting in aimless circles in search of long-gone provender. ‘Mrs Crayford distinctly said “afternoon drive”, as I recall, and it must be getting close to five o’clock by now, I should think.’
‘A quarter to,’ supplied the Viscount, after pulling out his watch and flipping open its lid to check the hour. ‘I’ll have the carriage brought round.’
Probably for the best, he told himself sternly as Sophie gave a swift nod and turned to make her way back to the house. I’ll just have to accept the fact that she means what she says and let her go to get on with her own life.
‘I trust that you’ve had no further attacks on your person since our last meeting?’ he then added, as if by afterthought.
‘No, of course not,’ she replied, with a vehement shake of her head. ‘I should have mentioned it had I done so. Apart from having to clear up my room after all the mess that my dear pupil caused, my life has gone on much as usual.’
‘Your pupil ransacked your room?’ Marcus bit back his anger. ‘When did this happen?’
‘I discovered it upon my return yesterday afternoon,’ she said in reply. ‘I must confess that I found it a trifle dispiriting at the time.’
Hardly surprising, reflected the Viscount, with a wry grimace. Coming on top of my boorish behaviour as it did! The perfect ending to a perfect day!
‘Does the boy make a habit of that sort of thing?’ he asked.
‘Not as such.’ She sighed. ‘He did set a host of frogs free in my room shortly after I arrived, and is inclined to be somewhat insolent at times, but he has never before gone to such a spiteful extreme.’
‘You administered a suitable punishment, I imagine?’
‘No, I refuse to give him the gratification of thinking that it bothered me. I have learned that, in Henry’s case, at least, children are apt not to repeat things that fail to have the effect they had hoped for. He won’t do it
again.’
‘You’re quite certain that the lad was the culprit, I suppose?’
Faced with this latest piece of information, Marcus was seriously beginning to doubt that Sophie’s errant pupil had been to blame for the ransacking of her room. Since the unwitting governess had already been the unfortunate victim of two-bag snatches in a matter of hours, it was hardly a long shot for him to infer that the retrieval of the misdirected cipher had been the real purpose for each of these robberies. If so, and rather more to the point as far as Marcus was concerned, it was not difficult to deduce that the ransacking of her room could be laid squarely at the feet of whoever had been responsible for the bag snatching. A cold trickle of unease ran through him as it then became clear that what he had vaguely suspected all along was no longer open to any doubt. One or other member of the Crayford household was behind all three attacks! And, much as the Viscount would have taken great pleasure in being the one to apprehend the craven individual and teach him a much needed lesson in civility, he had sufficient sense to appreciate that such things were best left in the more competent hands of Giles and his team of experts. He could only thank God that Sophie no longer had the damned invoice in her possession!
A slight furrow appeared on Sophie’s brow as she pondered his question.
‘Reasonably so,’ she replied cautiously. ‘I admit that I did, at first, suspect Arthur Crayford, but, having seen him leave the house just before I myself left, I was obliged to discount him. Apart from which,’ she added, her tone more scathing, ‘I cannot imagine him going to so much trouble for so little return—his methods are far more confrontational.’
Not any more, they aren’t, reflected Marcus with a certain amount of satisfaction. But then, bearing in mind his brother’s remarks regarding the sometimes dual personalities of hardened criminals, he realised that it might be unwise to dismiss the coxcomb entirely.
‘You always keep your bedroom door locked, I imagine?’ he then asked, as they were about to re-enter the house. ‘An open door is often regarded as an open invitation, in certain quarters.’
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