Mr. Puddleford glanced uneasily from Sophie to Robert, shuffling his feet as if his dancing shoes had just shrunk a size.
“Mr. Puddleford. How nice to see you again.” Annabel shot a warning glance at Robert while extending her hand to the widower.
“The pleasure is mine, dear lady.” Mr. Puddleford bowed solemnly over her hand.
“The next set is forming, and I so long to dance. Robert refuses—it is so aggravating—and I see all the other men are engaged. Won’t you take pity on me?” When Annabel turned on her full battery of charm, no man—not even one bent on proposing marriage to another woman—could refuse her.
“Delighted, of course.” He gallantly offered Annabel his arm. With a lingering glance over his shoulder at Sophie, Mr. Puddleford allowed himself to be pulled into the set.
“Ain’t she magnificent, Soph?” The smile returned to Robert’s face as he followed his wife’s progress down the room. “She certainly pulled your bacon out of the fire, old girl.”
Sophie finally let her laughter bubble out. “You are fortunate, Robert. I truly don’t think you deserve her.”
“I don’t.”
At the earnest, almost reverent tone of his voice, Sophie’s amusement faded. Simon would never feel that way about her.
Almost as if her thoughts had conjured him up, Simon strolled through the double doors of the ballroom. Clinging gracefully to his arm, attired in a shimmering, cream-colored silk dress that clung—just barely—to her ample bosom, was Lady Randolph. Sophie blinked in disbelief. Only Lady Randolph would have the nerve to wear a color normally reserved for debutantes, and use it so well to magnify her astonishing sensuality.
Heads turned all over the room as Simon escorted the countess through the crowd. Many of the men wore expressions of avid appreciation and curiosity, while more than one matron’s countenance froze into lines of open disapproval. The unmarried ladies stared greedily at Simon, most of them not bothering to mask their envious resentment of the woman on his arm.
Sophie struggled to keep her fists from clenching into her skirts. Her chest grew tight with the effort to contain the hatred for Lady Randolph that pulsed through every vein in her body. She could hardly breathe, and for one moment she wondered if she might hate Simon too.
“That woman is a menace,” muttered Robert as he glared at the countess. “I swear I’ll never speak to Simon again if he marries her. I really thought he’d given her up.”
“But I thought…” Sophie broke off when her voice croaked.
Her brother cast her a guilty look, clearly having forgotten her presence beside him.
“Nothing, Soph. Spoke out of turn,” he said hastily. “Don’t listen to me.”
She gripped his arm, wrinkling the rich burgundy fabric of his sleeve between her fingers.
“Tell me.” She stared Robert right in the face. He flushed the color of old brick.
“Annabel would have my hide if I discussed such a thing with you.”
“Robert, I’ve been out much longer than Annabel,” she said through clenched teeth. “I need to know. Are Simon and Lady Randolph…are they still having an affair? All the gossips said it was over months ago.”
Her brother eyed her with a doubtful expression, then looked at Simon and Lady Randolph as they chatted with Lord Penfield. The countess stood on tiptoe to murmur something in Simon’s ear. He tilted his head to listen, a brief smile touching his lips.
“Doesn’t look like it’s over to me,” Robert said gloomily.
Sophie closed her eyes as the floor pitched beneath her feet. She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was the only person in the room whose ears were suddenly filled with a loud buzz.
“Sophie!” Her brother’s sharp voice recalled her to her surroundings. “What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you look like this.” His usual cheerful drawl was laced with worry.
She forced herself to speak past the lump in her throat. “Robert, why do you dislike Lady Randolph so much?”
He grimaced. “She uses people, without a care how it affects them. I can’t explain it, but I swear when she talks to me I can feel the ice dripping down my back. She’s like that crazy Italian woman from that dusty old history you made me read. You know which one I’m talking about.”
“Lucrezia Borgia?” Sophie blinked, astonished that her sweet-natured brother would compare Lady Randolph to such a monstrous woman. “Surely you can’t be serious?”
“That’s the one. You don’t know, Soph, and I can’t tell you some of the things I’ve heard. Not idle gossip, either, but from someone…” He cut himself off, then gave her a sharp look. “Just take my word for it. Stay away from her. And if Simon knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away from her too.”
“Oh, Mr. Dash! You do say the most amusing things.” Sophie swiped another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Don’t I just.” Nigel Dash eyed the glass in her hand. “Miss Stanton, don’t mean to throw water on your head, but don’t you think you’ve had enough champagne?”
“Absolutely not.” Sophie took a healthy gulp from the delicate crystal goblet. The bubbles didn’t tickle her nose nearly as much as they did two glasses ago. In fact, she was quite beginning to like champagne.
Almost as much as she liked Nigel Dash. She’d always been fond of him, but until just an hour ago she’d never noticed how attractive he could be. When she peered at him over the top of her spectacles, he really looked quite handsome. Perhaps if she drank another glass of champagne he might become almost as handsome as Simon.
Sophie gazed around the crowded ballroom, humming a little tune under her breath. For a night that had begun so poorly it had turned out rather well, especially after she decided to ignore Simon. She had danced every dance, and flirted with so many men she couldn’t even remember some of their names. Even better, her behavior had obviously infuriated Simon, although she didn’t really give a fig about that. Her supposed fiancé stood across the opposite side of the dance floor, scowling at her and everyone else, and generally looking as bad-tempered as a gouty old spinster.
As she took another sip of Lord Penfield’s excellent champagne, Sophie contemplated sticking her tongue out at His Royal Imperiousness, the starched-up Earl of Trask. Now that would give the old biddies something to gossip about. Besides Lady Randolph’s plunging décolletage, that is.
She had almost convinced herself to do it when she heard the first bars of the waltz. Spinning on her heel—which made her head swim—she grabbed Nigel’s sleeve.
“The orchestra is playing a waltz. Isn’t that marvelous? Mr.
Dash, please ask me to dance.”
“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Stanton.” Nigel plucked the champagne goblet from her hand. “But I’ve a feeling some one else has plans for you at the moment.”
She frowned at him. How dare he take her champagne from her?
“What plans? Lady Jane went home an hour ago. Robert and Annabel will be taking me to St. James’s Square in their carriage.” She peered around the room, looking for her brother and his wife. Not surprisingly, Robert had taken Annabel onto the dance floor.
She sighed. He never missed an opportunity to waltz with Annabel, no matter how unfashionable it was to dance with one’s wife.
“What did you do with my champagne?” she groused.
“I think you’ve had quite enough to drink tonight, Sophie.” Simon’s voice fell with a menacing growl on her ears.
She suppressed a shiver and spun around to face him.
Must remember not to turn so quickly.
“Simon.” She fixed a smile on her face, staggering against him. “How delightful. Are you done frightening everyone on the other side of the room? Mr. Dash, would you be so kind as to give me back my goblet? I’m feeling rather flushed from the heat.”
Simon glowered at Nigel, who bowed and slipped away through the crowd. Taking her champagne with him.
“Coward,” she muttered.
Simo
n must have caught her remark, for his lips pulled back over his teeth, rather like the feral dog she saw in the street just the other day.
“Oh, good Lord,” she huffed, “I suppose you’re going to deliver me another lecture. You can be such a bore sometimes, Simon.”
He grasped her elbow and began to maneuver her through the room toward the door. “Get ready to be bored, then. But not here. I’m taking you home.”
“What if I don’t want to go home?” As his big hand tightened around her arm, a reckless exuberance raced through her body.
“You’ll go home if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you.” His face told her the threat was not an idle one.
“Very well,” she grumbled, craning her neck to look at a passing waiter who carried a large tray of champagne goblets. “But I must say good night to Robert and Annabel. They were supposed to take me home.”
“I’ve already spoken to your brother.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” she said in a snippy voice. How thrilling that she could sound as nasty as Lady Randolph so often did.
Oh, good Lord. Speak of the devil.
Sophie suddenly caught sight of the countess talking to Mr. Puddleford, of all people. Lady Randolph gently waved an enormous white fan in front of her equally enormous white bosom. Mr. Puddleford’s wide eyes seemed riveted by the spectacle of so much exposed flesh. Perhaps Sophie should make a detour from Simon’s absurd rush to the door and warn the naïve widower of the terrible danger he faced.
Just then Lady Randolph looked directly at her and smiled, a smile so contemptuous that Sophie’s fingers itched to slap her. Sophie glanced up at Simon. He had obviously seen that look as well, for a dark flush suddenly glazed his cheekbones.
She looked back at Lady Randolph as the viperous witch slid her hand over Mr. Puddleford’s arm, causing the poor man to visibly gulp. Something must be done, and done immediately.
Thrusting her bosom up as high as she could, Sophie caught Mr. Puddleford’s eye and winked. The widower gasped and dropped his wine goblet, sending it crashing to the floor. Sophie heard Simon literally grind his teeth. She gave his arm a little squeeze and smiled to herself as he unceremoniously dragged her from the ballroom.
Chapter Ten
It took only a few minutes, thank goodness, for the hackney to carry them to St. James’s Square. Simon looked ready to throttle her. Not that Sophie cared about that, although it was a tad uncomfortable wedged up against his unyielding body while he was in such a nasty temper. Anger radiated from him, filling the space of the coach with the crackling energy of an approaching storm. It was a miracle, really, that he didn’t set her garments on fire with his fiery glare.
He took her arm in a firm grip as he handed her down from the coach. She should probably be nervous, but the thundering scowl stamped on his features only made her want to giggle. Just like she had giggled when he had hauled her from Lady Penfield’s ballroom under the scandalized gazes of half of Bath.
“I still think it very rude that we didn’t say good-bye to Lord Penfield,” she said. Her words sounded oddly slurred, as if her mouth couldn’t keep up with her brain. “He looked quite taken a back when we rushed by him without a single word. I so wanted to thank him for serving such delicious champagne.” She sighed as she thought of all those lovely goblets of sparkling nectar being consumed without her.
“Your drinking days are over,” Simon growled as he towed her up the steps of the townhouse.
“How dare you—” Sophie broke off her tirade when the door swung open and Yates stood back to admit them.
“Good evening, my lord, Miss Stanton. I hope you enjoyed the ball at Lady Penfield’s.”
“We certainly did.” Sophie smiled at the dignified older man. How odd she had never noticed before that Yates had quite a lot of hair growing out of his ears. “The ball was splendid, it truly was. Until his lordship,” she directed a scowl at Simon, “decided we had to leave. Quite before anyone else, I might add.”
Yates cast a startled glance at Simon’s thunderous countenance. His eyes popped wide for an instant before his usual mask of schooled indifference slipped back into place.
“I’m glad to hear it, miss. Would you like some tea in the drawing room? Lady Jane has already gone to bed, but I can have a tray brought up immediately.”
By this time Simon had shrugged out of his greatcoat and pulled Sophie’s cloak from her shoulders. He tossed the garments to the butler.
“No tea, Yates. That will be all.” He grabbed her hand. “See to it that we are not disturbed.” He herded Sophie up the stairs to the gold drawing room. She twisted to see Yates staring after them, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.
She repressed another giggle. Not that she had much breath left over to laugh with. Simon had been rushing her about ever since he ordered her home from Lady Penfield’s. It was beginning to make her head spin in the strangest way.
After pulling her into the drawing room, Simon closed the door with carefully restrained force.
“What are you snickering about now?” he demanded. His handsome features were set in lines as grim as she had ever seen. She stared at him as he deftly twisted the key in the door.
“Why are you locking the door, Simon?”
“I don’t want to be disturbed.” His face still looked stern, but the gleam in his hawklike gaze as it focused on her sent ripples of sensation dancing across her skin.
“Have you ever noticed Yates has hair in his ears?” Not that she actually wanted to discuss the butler’s ears, but she needed something to distract herself from those predatory eyes.
Simon muttered a few words she didn’t catch. No doubt one of his typically unflattering comments about her.
Turning her back on him, Sophie began to wind her way in slow circles around the old-fashioned pieces of furniture scattered about the room. Light from the lamp set on a pedestal table barely penetrated the shadows. As she drifted by Lady Jane’s harp standing next to the pianoforte, she trailed one hand across its strings. Ghostly echoes of long-ago music drifted through the air.
Simon muttered again and walked over to the fireplace, crouched down, and set a spark to the logs that had been laid in the grate for the morning. He straightened and then leaned his arm along the gilt-edged mantelpiece. A brooding expression marked the fierce angles of his utterly masculine face as he followed her progress around the room.
Sophie decided to ignore him. She still felt captured by that exuberant recklessness, and dancing around the room kept her from flying apart into a thousand shimmering pieces.
“Just how drunk are you, by the way?” Simon drawled in a polite voice. “I only ask because I want to know if it’s worth attempting a coherent discussion with you.”
Sophie spun on her heel and glared at him. “I’m not drunk at all, you insufferable beast. For once I decided to have some fun, and not sit in a corner and wait for you or any other man to notice me. Not that you were likely to pay any attention to me in the first place, what with Lady Randolph draped all over you like a…like a paphian!”
She winced. Yelling made her temples throb.
“Sophie, what the hell is the matter with you tonight? I ask you to marry me, and the next thing I know you’re inhaling champagne and flirting with every rake in Bath. No doubt the scandalmongers will be dining out on your antics for the next two weeks.”
“I’m sure I don’t care what a lot of vulgar mushrooms say about me,” retorted Sophie. “And you shouldn’t care either.”
“I care a great deal about the conduct of the next Countess of Trask, and how that conduct reflects upon me.” His eyebrows arched over his patrician nose. He resembled nothing so much as a statue of a Roman senator, if a statue could ever look to be in a towering rage.
“Well, perhaps I don’t want to be the Countess of Trask. Perhaps I don’t want to marry you after all.” The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
Silence d
escended between them, one so charged with menace that Sophie couldn’t suppress a shiver. Simon stepped toward her.
“That decision has been made, Sophia.”
His voice was soft, but the hint of steel clashing on rock made the breath catch in her throat. How dare he try to intimidate her?
“I can still change my mind.”
He took another step forward. “You will not cry off, Sophie. I forbid it.”
Simon’s brawny physique loomed large in the shadows cast by the fire, his hooded eyes barely concealing the ice in his midnight gaze. But ice could burn flesh and spirit almost as much as flame.
All that restrained menace sent tingling sensations racing down her spine—the same kind of shivers that happened whenever Simon kissed her. She sucked in a breath, suddenly craving the feel of his mouth on her lips and his hands on her body.
She was about to ask Simon to kiss her when he planted his hands on his lean hips, and shook his head in disgust. “I should have known better than to let you talk me into keeping our engagement a secret. If you think you can go about acting like a foolish chit you must be out of your mind.”
The delicious feeling in the pit of her stomach evaporated. “If you can flirt with Lady Randolph after you’ve asked me to marry you, then I can flirt with whomever I want.” She flounced back across the room and threw herself onto the settee.
“What the deuce are you talking about? I was not flirting with Bathsheba, I mean, with Lady Randolph.” Tugging impatiently at his cravat, he jerked it from his neck as if it were strangling him. He followed her to the settee, stopping at its foot to tower over her.
Sophie lay back against the cushions, dangling her foot over the edge, swinging it back and forth.
“You were. I saw you. She was draped all over you like—”
“I know. A paphian. Where you pick up such language is beyond me. I shall have to take a good look at your reading material—”
She sat bolt upright and glared at him. He glared right back.
Sex and the Single Earl Page 12