Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine

by Jayne Fresina

  “I wear what I please, thank you very much! I shall be glad when I’m treated with the respect I’m due in this house! Never have I been so put upon. If Henry had any care for my comfort, he would be rid of you once and for all! Scratching at me with your scornful comments. It’s jealousy, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to poison me, and that’s why I feel so ill today. Henry ought to send you away.” Her mean little eyes caught sight of Aunt Finn giggling under her quilt. “And that wretched, old crone can go to the workhouse with you!”

  Sophie bowed her head to hide her expression and continued her sewing. She should have known better than to raise the subject of economy, for any advice she tried to give Lavinia dropped into small, ineffectual ears muffled by ringlets and attached to a very small brain incapable of understanding any will but its own.

  “To be thus attacked and criticized in my own home. Me, a married woman of consequence and property, from good family and well brought up! To be lectured daily by a tight-lipped spinster who’s here only on my husband’s charity. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I am outraged that you think to tell me how to behave!”

  The wisest course of action would be to ignore her. After all, Sophie should be accustomed to it by now. It was apparently her lot in life to always be in the way, unequal to anything and unwelcome to everybody. But even as her conscience politely reminded her she was almost thirty and ought to be darning stockings by the fire with her aunt, only occasionally discussing the ins and outs of her health with no one who cared, she simply must relieve her anger somehow.

  She was supposed to be a reformed character these days. Alas, the same naughty, rebellious imp that once urged her to leap from a balcony, not knowing how far she had to fall or what lay directly below, thrived inside her still. It would not sit in a corner and be quiet.

  She stood quickly, set aside her sewing, and walked out into the yard and round the corner. There she waited a moment, fists at her side, gaze darting back and forth.

  “Put upon,” she muttered. “Put upon?”

  She turned in a tight circle, bristling with anger.

  Aha! There were two large sacks of chicken feathers and goose down against the wall, waiting for the pillowcases she and her aunt were sewing. Grabbing a stick from the woodpile, she ran up to the sacks and began beating them, imagining they were her sister-in-law.

  “You should be put upon and often,” she hissed. “And if your husband dislikes the duty, I’ll gladly do it!”

  A cloud of feathers flew up as the first sack burst open, and she found the sensation so satisfying she turned her wrath on the second sack, until the air was full of feathers. She swung that stick so wildly she heard the stitches ripping at her shoulder, but it felt too good to stop. When she tossed the stick aside, she picked up the sack and emptied the last of the feathers, shaking it hard overhead. “One of these days,” she gasped, “I’ll clap the side of your big head with the bacon kettle!” Dropping the sack to the ground, she stamped on it, grunting.

  “I beg your pardon, madam, I tried the bell by the gatehouse, but there was no reply.”

  She spun around and found him right behind her, his hat under one arm, a pair of darkly curious eyes studying her in part bewilderment, part amusement.

  Goose down drifted all around her, and her hairpins were falling loose, but she was frozen to the spot.

  It was he: the man who’d stood under her tree earlier and undressed her with those same sinister eyes—the eyes of a barbarian. The man who’d made her kiss him. Shocked by it, she’d tried to put it out of her mind, as if it never happened. Now here he was again to remind her.

  She puffed out a breath of surprise, along with several small feathers. When his fierce gaze moved to the torn shoulder of her gown, she felt the heat on her exposed skin, as if it were burned by the sun. She quickly placed her left hand over the tear, and her fingers fumbled to cover the ripped stitches. He’d made her kiss him before; what would he make her do next?

  As if he’d read her mind, his smile widened.

  She scowled, blew another chicken feather from the tip of her nose, and backed up a step. Face to face, yet again, with this black-haired, gypsy-eyed stranger, Sophie Valentine—the reformed version—sensed trouble. The untamable creature was still very much alive within her, however, and it scented something else. Something new and exciting.

  Lavinia must have spied the stranger crossing the yard, for she finally ventured from her couch to see what he wanted. “I am Mrs. Valentine, sir,” she chirped as she waddled around the corner. “Can I be of assistance?”

  He was still looking at Sophie, holding her trapped in his steady, thorough regard. “Then you are Miss Sophia Valentine?”

  She held up her sleeve and backed away with as much dignity as her bedraggled appearance could allow. He followed her, smiling slowly, and she knew he too thought of earlier, when they’d met under the shade of the chestnut tree. He’d seen her book, her legs, and the Lord knew what else. If she was of a more ladylike constitution, she supposed she might have fainted. Instead, because she was a widely acknowledged, wicked hoyden, she felt remarkably well. Her heart was beating only a little faster than usual, because twice now he’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t.

  Had he just winked at her?

  ***

  She wore a stained apron over a blue gown, which had the appearance of something well loved, oft worn, and long past new. Her face was heart shaped, her eyes bright as a buttercup-sprinkled meadow, the two brows above them curved upward. When he looked into those eyes, he was pulled forward, every nerve and tendon in his body drawn to attention. Then she looked down at the cobblestones, dampening the hot spark that glowed under her lashes, and, for the first time in his memory, Lazarus Kane was unable to read a woman’s mind. Challenged, he searched her small, prim face for the clues that were usually so abundant, but she closed herself off like a hedgehog retreating under its prickles.

  Earlier, when he kissed her under the tree, she had not been so defensive. But then, of course, they were alone, witnessed by no one. And she evidently enjoyed her secrets.

  The other woman lifted on tiptoe, creeping back into his view. “Did my husband expect you, sir? He said nothing of any visitor.”

  He looked down at her, vaguely irritated she was blocking his path. This one wore no apron. Her frock was arrayed lavishly with ruffles and bows. As if unable to choose between the many trimmings, she’d settled for all at once. Her dark hair was curled into ringlets so tight they shot out sideways from her head, their only movement a slight vibration when she twitched nervously.

  “No, madam, I doubt your husband would mention me. I’m the new tenant of Souls Dryft. But it’s Miss Sophia Valentine I’ve come to see.”

  “What on earth do you want with her?”

  He looked over her head at the feather-strewn woman who, like a child knowing she’s about to be punished, tried slipping away around the corner. “I come in answer to her advertisement.”

  “Advertisement?”

  “For a husband,” he said calmly. “I’ve come to marry Miss Valentine.”

  ***

  Sophie had written that advertisement in a very foul temper after another quarrel with her sister-in-law, who took every opportunity to remind her she was in the way and a burden on her brother’s finances. Throughout the writing, blotting, sealing, and posting, her fury remained in high heat, but as soon as the letter left her hands, she regretted it, as she did many other rash decisions before this. When her temper had cooled, she wished the entire thing undone, but it was too late.

  If only she could prevent herself from these reckless actions, but the ideas popped into her head always when she was at her most desolate. Even the advance of years failed to dampen the urge for mischief, much to her chagrin. Thus it was with a mixture of feelings, none cordial, she looked at the man who had come that morning.

  Was he actually so desperate for a wife he sought one in a newspaper? H
e did not look as if he should have trouble finding women. He saw too much, pried inside her with those dark eyes, and had thought nothing of bribing her for a kiss earlier. At her age, she was quite done with the sort of misadventure he offered. At least, she should be.

  She’d backed up all the way into the cookhouse, but he continued walking forward, eyes agleam with amusement. Strands of her hair slowly tumbled to her shoulders. Her ladylike hairpins had not been enough to withstand the force of her violent tantrum, and she felt those ill-behaved tendrils curling wistfully against the throbbing pulse in her neck, whispering and slithering over her hot cheek.

  He was swarthy, with a tumbled mess of coal-black hair falling almost to his shoulders, which appeared to span beyond the width of the door. Only their sheer breadth probably prevented him from stepping over Lavinia and following his quarry into the cookhouse. Sophie’s gaze traveled downward, and she noted four things in quick succession: the scarred knuckles of his hands, his snug breeches, his filthy, scuffed boots, and then his snug breeches once again, just for good measure. Her brow quirked. Very Good Measure.

  But then she already knew that, having been thrust up against his body earlier that morning. Again, it was something she’d tried to put out of her mind, in case she might be obliged to admit it happened. That she’d allowed it to happen.

  Finally she forced her attention back to his face. A warm, satirical spark broke through the wariness in his steady gaze, and suddenly his eyes were devilishly enigmatic, drawing her in and whirling her about until she was dizzy.

  Her pulse scattered like spillikins.

  Perhaps she could…

  But she really shouldn’t.

  Lavinia was squawking and flapping, something about his coming back later when Henry was home. As the stranger watched Sophie slip farther away into the shadows, he gave her a quick bow and departed in haste. She went immediately to the nearest chair and sat before her knees gave out under the strain. If she’d had a fan, she would have used it, but the little puffs of breath shot out from the curve of her lower lip would have to suffice as a cooling agent instead.

  Once, years ago, her heart palpitated for the sight of a broad-shouldered warrior riding to her rescue. Now here he came, and the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for,” ran giddily through her mind.

  Chapter 4

  “I shall faint, Maria, I’m sure of it! Of all the things your sister has ever done, this is the very worst. We shall never recover from the shame of it.”

  “What has she done now?” The rector’s wife, Sophie’s younger sibling, had arrived for her usual morning tea and gossip.

  “Your sister has procured a husband from an advertisement! Oh, my heart races. I’m giddy. I cannot breathe!” Lavinia fell back onto the groaning couch, where the imprint of her broad posterior was already worn into the upholstery after three years of constant contact. “Dark as the Devil, he is. Eyes that looked right through me, and a smile…a smile, Maria, that was surely the wickedest I’ve ever seen.” Clearly she would have crossed herself had she the energy and required strength in her limbs at that moment. “We are all undone.”

  “An advertisement?”

  “She wrote one and sent it to the newspaper.”

  “Oh, Sophia,” Maria exclaimed, “I thought Henry confiscated your writing box, ever since you wrote all those protests to our local member of Parliament.”

  Sophie hid a smile behind her book. “Someone had to point out that man’s inertia and incompetence.”

  Her sister barely heard. “Now, once again, you put pen to paper and cause trouble. This is surely the matter to end all. What will Henry say?”

  Sophie said nothing and studiously turned a page.

  Unable to sit still, Maria declared she would run down to the oak at the crossroads and wait for the mail coach, which passed through the village soon on its way between Yarmouth and Norwich. Henry was due to return on it from Morecroft that day. “I’d better meet him there…otherwise he might hear of this from someone else first.”

  She hurried off on her mission, while Lavinia resumed her loud lament, which was by turns mournful and irate but never comprehensible.

  ***

  As it turned out, Henry was already aware of his sister’s latest scandalous prank. While in Morecroft, he’d heard about the advertisement, and when he entered the cookhouse with Maria at his heels, he threw a copy of the newspaper across the table, ignored his wife, and demanded Sophia read it out for all to hear.

  She picked it up and read quietly, “Wanted, one husband, not too particular. Age and size not an issue. Must have patience for recalcitrant females. Small dowry, several books, sundry furnishings, and elderly aunt included. Idlers, time wasters, and gentlemen with other attachments should not apply. All enquiries, Miss Sophia Valentine, Sydney Dovedale.”

  Lavinia promptly melted into the next stage of hysteria, moaning and swaying, her ringlets vibrating. Next came apparent exhaustion, at which she fell down—always onto something conveniently comfortable—and required the application of smelling salts. It usually had the desired effect of returning all attention to her, but today no one was very interested in her antics. She realized this and recovered enough to make tea, or at least to supervise Maria in the making of it, while Sophie quietly explained why she chose to place her advertisement in the Norwich and Morecroft Farmer’s Gazette, among the livestock for sale. “It is surely the most appropriate venue. I thought you’d be pleased, Henry. With Aunt Finn and me gone, that is two less burdens on your hands. And I’m under Lavinia’s feet. Daily she reminds me…”

  Henry’s teaspoon tapped angrily against his china teacup, waking Aunt Finn from her nap.

  “We shall all be murdered in our beds!” the lady cried, clutching her patchwork shawl to her chin and looking around with wide, frightened eyes. “Bonaparte has come—he has come!”

  Sophie gently reassured her Napoleon Bonaparte had not invaded the village, no French soldiers had come, and they were all quite safe.

  “But, Sophie dear, I heard gunshots.”

  “The war is over, Aunt Finn. Remember Waterloo? I’ll pour you some tea.” She tucked a blanket around the lady’s knees and fetched another teacup from the dresser.

  Henry folded his arms. “I don’t like the sound of this fellow. Not one bit.”

  “He must be an oddity,” Lavinia exclaimed. “By answering such an advertisement, he proves himself a lunatic. You ought to pay him a visit, my husband.” Her eyes gleamed with spite. “Find out what he’s up to. I daresay he needs to be told the lay of the land, and who better to tell him than you? I suppose he thinks by marrying into this family, he might get a foot up on the social ladder.”

  Always amused by Lavinia’s overinflated view of Valentine importance, Sophie let out one low chuckle, which, as she tried to prevent it, turned into an unladylike snort.

  Henry turned stiffly in his chair and observed her with a cold eye. Nothing could cause such a wintry chill as her brother’s dour, disappointed expression. “I think, Sophia, you’ve had your fun. You would do well to remain silent and show repentance for such a foolish prank.”

  But in the innocent, everyday act of pouring her aunt’s tea, Sophie pondered the stranger’s face, the darkness of his hair and eyes, the square jaw held without fear.

  She couldn’t marry him, of course, a complete stranger. The idea was patently ridiculous, yet he came all this way—wore down the heels of his boots—to find her. And that was her fault.

  Her family assumed the advertisement to be another prank, and, in the beginning, she might have confessed it was so. But now that someone had actually come in answer to it, she was forced to take stock of her circumstances.

  There was only so much loneliness a soul could take. Surely even a scarred woman with scandal in her past was entitled to a companion and partner. She didn’t expect anything more than that. Or she shouldn’t.

  There seemed to be an excess of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts�
�� in her life lately. The wayward, opinionated creature that still dwelt inside her, just below the ladylike surface she’d carefully cultivated over the last decade, had begun to bristle at the sound.

  Every day, for almost eleven years, she’d gone through the motions, doggedly following the same routine, and for the last three of those years, she did it all to the accompaniment of Lavinia’s whines. Today, however, someone had thrust a pin in the clockwork mechanism, and all the cogwheels were stuck…jammed. Finally, something new had happened. A man had come out of nowhere and kissed her. Kissed her like no other man ever had.

  “Sophia! The tea!”

  She’d almost overpoured.

  Maria, exhaling cake crumbs as rapidly as they were previously inhaled, exclaimed indignantly, “As if my sister would truly entertain such an idea! Marry a complete stranger?”

  “Our sister’s temper has once again got the better of her,” said Henry, “and, as always, it falls in my lap to undo the damage.”

  Sophie’s lips tightened. She gingerly carried the very full cup to where her aunt sat, then she picked up her sewing to mend the skirt she’d torn that morning. But her eyes couldn’t concentrate on the stitches; she was too distracted by the restless pacing of her heart. She could hardly blame Aunt Finn for thinking Napoleon Bonaparte had invaded the village, for everything was turned upside down, and her own nerves spun about like tumbling maple seeds.

  Now her family, with no input from her, were discussing the stranger and his motives.

  “I’ve never seen such coarse hands on a gentleman of means,” said Maria, crumbs falling from her busy lips as she stuffed cake into her mouth with more greedy alacrity than one might expect from a rector’s wife, especially one who so frequently lamented the tightness of her stays.