“My sister is not for sale!”
“She neglected to mention any price in her advertisement, but I suppose I should’ve known…Well”—Lazarus stroked his chin, assuming a thoughtful pose—“I do like the look of her. Fine bones, bright eyes, good hair, and, I assume, she’s hearty breeding stock, although untried.”
“How dare you!”
“Yes, she’ll suit me very well. I’m not averse to the challenge. If what you tell me of her wayward character is true, the sooner I take her in hand the better.” He laughed, a hollow sound that echoed around the farmhouse.
“If you persist in this matter, you will regret it!” Henry sputtered.
“But I want a woman, and she’ll do nicely. You’ve convinced me.”
“I warn you, Kane! You will not lay one finger on my sister, or I’ll call you out.”
Abruptly, Lazarus stopped laughing, the tendons in his neck and jaw held tight. He’d fought one too many battles in his life and came here to get away from all that, but if this fool continued to push his temper…
He stretched out his back, slowly and carefully, giving his anger another moment to cool. “As you wish it,” he said quietly. There was no elaboration. He’d let Henry Valentine interpret that however he preferred.
The man cursed under his breath and almost dropped his cane.
“Behind you is the door, Valentine. You fit through it well enough one way without an invitation. I daresay you’ll fit through it quicker going out again with my boot up your backside.”
Henry gathered another lungful of arrogance, took one last scornful sweep of the house interior, and then strode out the door, his hat almost knocked off his head by the low lintel.
Lazarus kicked the door shut behind him.
Evidently, the lady had changed her mind and sent her ridiculous brother to warn him off. He looked down at his rough hands. No amount of fine clothing, it seemed, could cover all his worn edges, although he’d imagined they shared a spark of understanding when they met. That kiss under the tree yesterday had surely lit her flame as much as it did his. Her tongue had not withdrawn from his, and when he felt her move against him, it was not to push away. She was ready to explore. Perhaps, he thought grimly, it was merely wishful thinking on his part. The way she launched into him this afternoon for carrying her across a puddle would suggest she regretted giving him that kiss. Perhaps she didn’t yet know what she wanted. Her brother plainly meant to stop her from marrying him, and if she already wavered…
He glanced at the window, caught his frowning reflection there, and felt the heat of deep, fathomless anger bounced back at him. His time was running out. Hadn’t he overcome enough obstacles to get here? His Maker clearly thought not.
“Nothing stays secret long in this village, ye should know.” Tuck chuckled softly. “’Tis an odd place for a feller to come, if he means to hide. Ye can’t do that here.”
Lazarus rounded on him. “Hide? Who said anything about hiding?”
Tuck nodded and smirked. “That’s ye real name, is it, then?” he croaked wryly. “Lazarus?”
He had no reply to that.
Tuck got on with his work, and Lazarus returned to his outside.
***
Her basket overflowed with wallflowers and anemones from the garden. Sophie moved quickly through the gate, the hem of her gown dampened by the dewy kiss of meadow grass. She took the long footpath to the church that evening, enjoying the sweet promise in the air and the low, comforting call of the wood pigeons. Her earlier bad temper had melted away. In fact, her thoughts were unusually merry, her spirit several pounds lighter that evening, so she even hummed a tune as she walked along the shady pine grove amid the bluebells. The countryside was at peace as it settled in to embrace the evening, like a mother with her arms around a play-weary child.
She entered the church from the vestry door and stepped down into the cooler shade. Her nose twitched at the clammy odor of old stone. Time had its own scent here. All was peaceful, and she had no expectation of meeting anyone inside the church. But when she rounded a fat stone pillar, she discovered she was not alone.
The stranger sat in one of the front pews and was staring up at the tall, arched stained glass window above the pulpit. Luckily, she was walking along the strip of worn carpet that led from the vestry, so he hadn’t seemed to have heard her steps yet. Her breath hitched in her chest, and she backed up a few steps, pressing her shoulders to the pillar. Once she’d gathered her wits, she peered out again and saw him there still, recognizable by his thick black hair and broad shoulders. Usually, when people were at prayer, they bent their heads and knelt. But not him. He was gazing at the bejeweled colors of the tall, sun-drenched window, apparently absorbed in them.
While she watched, he scratched his left ear, revealing those rough hands again. Maria and Lavinia agreed he couldn’t be a gentleman with hands like those, but at least the hands of Lazarus Kane wouldn’t fumble with naïveté.
Instantly, she admonished herself. Stop it, you wanton hussy. What would the Grimstocks think? Had she not already made up her mind to keep that man at a distance?
She peeped around the pillar and watched him examine a prayer book found on the pew beside him. He turned it over in his hands, flipping through the pages. Then he stopped and raised it. Although his pose was that of a man quietly reading, he held the book upside down. Sophie watched as he turned another page, pretending to read. Finally, he tossed it down in a frustrated gesture.
Gripping her trembling basket of flowers ever tighter, she straightened her shoulders and aligned her spine with the cool stone of the pillar. She would walk up the aisle. She really should apologize for being rude to him in the lane today, when he’d tried only to help her. Although really, it was all his fault for coming in answer to her silly advertisement, forcing her to face the consequences of her mischief.
Suddenly, he stood, and she ducked back behind the pillar. His footsteps echoed down the aisle. Her breath blew hard and fast, her heartbeat uncontrollable as she tried to think of a suitable greeting. They still hadn’t been formally introduced. Was there any etiquette to observe when dealing with a man procured through an advertisement? A man who introduced himself with a kiss?
“Miss Valentine.”
He’d seen her, or part of her, protruding from the shadows of the great pillar. Too late to run away now.
She swallowed hard and walked fully into the stream of sunset that gilded the aisle. “Mr. Kane.” She could barely get the name out. Would he try to kiss her again?
Probably. He didn’t seem the sort to unduly trouble himself with rules.
“You bring flowers?” he muttered inanely as his dark eyes swept her basket.
She nodded. Speak, fool. Say something.
His rough hands hung at his sides, fingers flexing. “They are quite lovely.”
Who cares about the dratted flowers?
A moment passed…and then another. There were so many things she needed to say, and yet she couldn’t think where to start. An apology. Yes, that was it. Apologize for her terrible, unladylike temper.
Her gaze fluttered over his waistcoat buttons. Just as she thought she’d found the right words, he reached out with one hand, swept a lock of hair back from her cheek, and tucked it under her bonnet and behind her ear.
“Your brother tells me you changed your mind, Miss Valentine. Is this true?” His words echoed softly around the stone walls of the church.
“I…yes…I’m afraid I could never…It was a mistake.” Her face was hot, her tongue thick and sluggish, resenting the words she made it form. He didn’t appear to hold any bitterness for the things she’d said earlier by the puddle. Most men would have commented sternly on her display of bad temper, but it seemed he had thicker skin.
“A mistake?”
“I could never marry a stranger.” There. That was better. Sounded bolder.
He considered her thoughtfully, his head on one side. “We can become better acquain
ted.”
The touch of his fingertips still resonated on her skin, although his hand was at his side again, as if it had never moved. Her heartbeat thumped so hard she was sure even the pigeons plumping their feathers in the belfry would hear it.
“Take a leap, Miss Valentine,” he said, “and I’ll be there to catch you.”
She couldn’t breathe. Copper sunset kissed his face, dazzled her eyes. Yes, he would catch her. She had no doubt he was strong enough. He had carried her across that puddle today as if she weighed no more than a lamb.
“I’m too old to jump,” she muttered.
“But not too old to climb trees?” A slow smile bent his lips. Leaning closer, he whispered, “Very nice drawers, by the way.”
She licked her lips. Her cheeks were very warm. “French lace,” she muttered. It was the only extravagance she ever allowed herself: frilly underthings ordered from Norwich. To know that she had them under her clothes where no one else could see was another clandestine indulgence cherished—like the naughty book.
“Not very patriotic, is it? French lace?”
She sighed, rueful. “I suppose not.”
“Well, I won’t tell. Your secrets, Miss Valentine, are safe with me. All of them.”
She suddenly heard another voice approaching from her right. It was the rector, Maria’s husband, coming through the vestry and softly muttering little reminders to himself. Confused, Sophie didn’t know which way to turn. They were standing far too close. Lazarus Kane was discussing her drawers and looking at her mouth as if he would kiss it again, regardless of who saw.
Mr. Bentley would tell Maria he’d seen them together—or have it wheedled out of him. Maria would never be able to keep it from Henry or the rest of the village.
This man was a complete stranger and could be a murderer, for all they knew. Look how he had already put his hands on her…and his lips.
But in that moment, even with all her doubts, she wanted him to do it again. And he seemed of the same mind.
He raised his hand once more and let his fingertips trail along her jaw, lifting it as he bent his head.
“Marry me, Miss Valentine. Don’t tell me I came all this way for naught.”
She felt his breath on her lips. Any moment now good, gentle, quiet Mr. Bentley would catch them being wicked together. And what of her promise to Henry—her vow to behave and cause him no further trouble? Look what happened the last time she leapt into the unknown. She raised one hand to the scar on her cheek.
“No,” she gasped. “It is quite impossible.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Yes.”
His lips still hovered above hers. “Then I’ll just have to make you change it, won’t I?”
“You’re wasting your time.” She shook her head, hand dropping from her scar.
“I’m not going away, Miss Valentine. I came here for one thing only, and I won’t rest until I have it. I’m very”—he drew a finger across her lower lip—“very determined.”
“Are you, indeed?”
He nodded slowly. “And perhaps it works to chase other men away, Miss Valentine”—he stroked upward along her jaw with the backs of his fingers—“but all the temper tantrums and insults in the world won’t work this time. Not now you’ve tempted me with those lovely lace drawers.”
“Please…Excuse me.”
She was ashamed of the way he made her feel, afraid of what he might do, and wary of the latent strength in his hands. She made a dash for the church door, leaving him standing alone in the glow of sunset.
She hurried back through the graveyard, angry with herself and the world in general. Even with her fondness for French lace.
Chapter 8
He stared at the great arched door through which his future bride had just disappeared. He wanted to go after her, but he knew he couldn’t. She needed time, yet. Unfortunately, he didn’t have all the time in the world to woo her properly. He pressed a hand to his heart again, thoughtfully running a finger over the small bump. He might have years, months, or only days. No one knew.
Hearing footsteps, Lazarus turned to see a man in a black coat rounding the stone pillars. “Aha! You must be Mr. Kane.” The rector smiled warmly and extended a firm hand. “How glad I am to see you here. Please…do not let me chase you out. The church is especially beautiful at sunset, with the light through the stained glass.”
Lazarus agreed. In fact, he’d studied the window for some time and felt a little guilty not to be at prayer. He’d been too distracted by the angel depicted at the top of the arch, who looked down on him with her wings uneven and her halo oddly askew. “I was reminded somewhat of Miss Sophia Valentine,” he explained, gesturing toward the window as they walked up the aisle together.
“Really? I had not noted the resemblance, but I suppose…Yes, there is a likeness.”
“When I first saw Miss Valentine, there seemed to be a halo of light around her…” He stopped, feeling foolish. “In any case…”
The rector sorted through books on the lectern but still smiled distantly, letting Lazarus know he was listening.
“I came here to marry her. Did you know?”
A Bible almost fell to the floor, but the rector caught it. “Marry? Sophia? Ah yes…the advertisement. My wife mentioned—”
“I fear she’s changed her mind, however.”
The rector sighed. “Women are changeable creatures.”
“So I see. I hoped you might advise me, Rector. You know the lady well, I presume?”
“Indeed. I am married to Miss Valentine’s sister. My name, by the way, is Bentley.”
“Then perhaps you can advise me, Mr. Bentley. I’m sore in need of good counsel in the matter of Miss Valentine.”
The rector hesitated. “Surely, sir, you know as much about the fairer sex as do I. Probably a great deal more.”
“Yet you’re married to a Valentine.”
“And that, sadly, does not make one an expert. There is much I shall never understand about women, and being married to a Valentine introduced me to just as many mysteries as it uncovered.” Mr. Bentley struggled to explain. “When I married my wife, it was really her idea. I merely went along with it.” He paused, smiling wearily. “I find it easier to let the lady take the upper hand. I strive for a life of peace. That is my aim.”
Suddenly, Lazarus burst out, “Do you believe a man might find an angel on earth, Mr. Bentley? That an angel might come to fetch a dying man up to heaven?”
“A dying man?”
“Well…we are all dying men, Mr. Bentley. From the day we’re born. We must make the most of every day we have.”
The rector nodded. “Indeed.”
“That’s why I’m here—to achieve something good with my life before it’s too late.”
“I see. Then I wish you every good fortune in your quest.” The rector was solemn, but his eyes were kind. “I should like to see Sophia more happily settled, but my wife and I were resigned to the idea of her remaining unwed.”
“I’ve not yet had the chance to discuss the matter at length with Miss Valentine,” Lazarus admitted. They’d had only a moment just now in the aisle, and she seemed to have trouble with her tongue. Yet earlier, when he’d carried her across that puddle, she’d had plenty to say. There apparently were two sides to Miss Valentine: one very proper and circumspect, the other full of hot, passionate temper and considerable mischief. With the former, she tried to quell the latter. It wasn’t working, he mused as he glanced again toward the arched doorway through which she’d vanished so speedily.
“Her brother and I have not begun on the best of terms,” he murmured.
“Ah.” Mr. Bentley’s smile turned sympathetic. “Yes. Mr. Henry Valentine is a force to be reckoned with. Yet his sisters are equally stubborn in their own way. Don’t let Miss Valentine’s quiet manner deceive you. She knows her own mind.”
Quiet manner? Oh no, he was not deceived. If the real Sophie Valentine thought she could h
ide from him behind her tightly laced corset, she was very much mistaken.
***
Tonight, Sophie couldn’t settle her mind to anything. Instead, she paced about, opened and closed cupboard doors, picked up books, only to toss them aside again, pushed food about her plate at supper, and fussed with her fingernails. One she discovered unforgivably chipped and so nibbled away at it with unladylike ferocity. Finally, she retrieved her sewing and flopped into a chair by the hearth to attack a torn skirt as if her very life depended on it. For once, she had no argument with Lavinia. She completely forgot her existence.
Aunt Finn inched forward in her chair and whispered, “Would you partake of a little gin, my dear? I find it calms my nerves very well.”
Lavinia stirred slightly, smacked her lips, and repositioned her weight on the creaking, protesting couch. Her snores resumed almost immediately, her breath unsettling the stiff ringlets that fell across her drool-encrusted cheek.
Sophie managed a slight smile. “Thank you, Aunt Finn, but I think I should keep a clear head.”
Finn chuckled, her eyes bright with mischief, not unlike those of her niece. “I’ve never found much benefit in a clear head. I prefer my edges softly foggy. It makes everything look so much nicer, and I appear younger when I look in the mirror.”
Sometimes Sophie felt much older than her aunt. She envied the lady her ability to be so completely without care for what anyone thought of her. At what point, she mused sadly, did all her caution and anxiety set in? Whenever it was, Aunt Finn had apparently skipped that year. Not that anyone knew with any surety exactly how old she was. The lady not only lied about her age but frequently forgot what she last said it was.
Sophie sighed heavily and glanced over at Henry, who sat in the corner and was going over his accounts by the wavering light of a candle stump, trying, no doubt, to make the numbers grow by some magical means.
That evening at supper, he’d told her Lazarus Kane did not want to marry her. According to Henry, the stranger came there only because—hearing the name Valentine—he expected a good dowry. Now he knew there was only a very small one to be had, he’d rejected her.
Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Page 6