Another noise filled the quiet room. It didn’t sound like vermin, but like a giggling child.
Gathering her skirts high, Sophia stepped off her perch, walked to the bed, and lifted the edge of the counterpane.
A young girl, wearing a white silk half-mask adorned with blue plumage, popped her head out from beneath the bed like a turtle emerging from its shell.
“Why did you jump onto that chair?” the child asked.
Sophia’s face warmed. The girl clearly thought her a lunatic.
“Hello,” Sophia said, ignoring the question.
The child, who looked to be about seven or eight, crawled out from the darkened space. “You’re not a maid. The maids sleep on the fourth floor, and the color of your navy dress is not as ugly as the gray ones they wear.”
“Thank you.” Sophia took no offense. She’d learned long ago, children were the voice of honesty. She dried her damp palms on her starched apron.
The girl cast her own clothes a dubious glance before she smacked the dust off the skirt of her yellow dress and white stockings, sending a flurry of dust motes into the air.
Sophia smiled and plucked a large dust ball out of the girl’s long brown hair and another off the blue plumes darting out from her mask. “Quite a pretty mask you’re wearing. Are you to attend a ball this evening?”
“Lawks, no. I found the mask while rummaging through some old trunks in the attic one day. I thought they belonged to my mama, but Mrs. Beecham says they belonged to my grandmama.”
This was obviously Westfield’s daughter.
“What’s your name?” The girl didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, “I’m Celia.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Celia. I’m Sophia, your father’s nurse.”
“I thought so. The last nurse was a man. He stayed in this room as well. I wouldn’t want to be a nurse.” Celia ran her small hand up one of the long feathers and bit her lip. “I don’t like blood. I saw lots of blood when my papa was shot.”
Who took care of the child? Why hadn’t they kept her away from seeing such mayhem? “Where is your governess, Celia?”
“Papa gave her the boot last week. Called her a narrow-minded old biddy.”
No wonder Lady Prescott offered such a generous salary; it appeared Westfield went through employees like most people went through coal in January.
“He called her another name too. I didn’t know what it meant, and when I asked Aunt Edith, she nearly swooned. Then she took out her Bible and prayed all afternoon. Aunt Edith says I shouldn’t eavesdrop. Do you know my aunt Edith?”
“I do,” Sophia replied, wondering how the religious Lady Prescott had ended up with such a rascal for a brother, and how he had ended up with such a lovely daughter.
“She and Papa are going to interview for a new governess as soon as he’s better. I’ve been staying at Aunt Edith and Uncle Henry’s. But Papa sent a missive saying he wishes me to return home. Aunt Edith doesn’t think it wise. She is talking to him right now.” Celia frowned.
“You wish to return?”
“Yes, I miss Papa when I’m away.” The child bit her lower lip again. “I know I shouldn’t be in your room, but when I went to my bedchamber to visit Albert, the little crumb was missing, so I’m searching the house.”
“Albert? Is he your cat?”
“No, he’s a fancy white mouse.”
Mouse? Sophia fisted her hands in her skirts and inched them upward. She didn’t care for mice either, though usually they had the decency to scurry away.
“Do you believe him to be in here?”
The child shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He could be anywhere.”
“Indeed.” Sophia scanned the floor.
The girl’s eyes lit up behind her mask. “Would you like to help me find him?”
Sophia suppressed the urge to shudder. “No, my dear, I have to check on your father shortly.”
Celia’s shoulders slumped. “Papa doesn’t like Albert to run willy-nilly about the house.” She sighed. “Great-Aunt Hortense gave him to me. Papa was not pleased. He said Albert is a country mouse and would be happier living with Great-Aunt Hortense in Kent.”
This tidbit shocked Sophia. She found it difficult to imagine Westfield gently trying to persuade his daughter to return the mouse. She figured him for the type to have one of the maids or footmen just squash the animal with a broom while the child wasn’t looking.
Celia pulled off her mask, and Sophia noticed the resemblance between Westfield and his daughter. Except Celia did not possess her father’s startling blue eyes. Hers were brown. “I might get a fancy rat instead,” Celia said, moving to the door. “They like the city.”
Sophia’s legs felt weak. “A fancy rat?”
“Yes, Lady Marley has one. She keeps it in a gold birdcage.”
Sophia’s breath tightened in her chest. “A rat?” she echoed again with more disgust and utter disbelief than she meant to show.
“Yes, I hear the queen has one.” The child’s voice radiated more than a modicum of excitement.
“I prefer cats myself.” Sophia opened the bedchamber door. She didn’t elaborate on the fact she had several as a means to control vermin. The child would think her heartless.
As they slipped into the corridor, Celia glanced at her father’s closed bedchamber door. Lady Prescott could be heard talking inside the room. “I like cats, but if I got one, I’d definitely have to bring Albert to Great-Aunt Hortense’s first.”
Celia skipped down the corridor. She placed her hands on her hips. “Albert, you little gadabout, Papa won’t be happy if he hears you’ve taken to roaming around the house.” She stopped to peer under a hall table before turning back to Sophia. “I’ll bring Albert back after I find him. He likes his tail petted.”
Sweat prickled Sophia’s palms again. She nodded, but as soon as Celia turned around, Sophia gave an involuntary shudder.
* * *
An hour later, when Sophia went to check on Lord Westfield, she found him sitting on the sofa in his private sitting room reading Beauty and the Beast to Celia. His lordship wore a sapphire-colored robe of rich velvet with silk lapels over his nightshirt. The child was nestled in the crook of her father’s arm while her stockinged feet were propped upon Lady Olivia’s back as if the dog were an ottoman.
From the doorway, Sophia surveyed them. The scene emitted peace and contentment. Such a stark contrast to the images she had formed with regard to Westfield and his relationship with the child—especially after Thomas’s conversation in the carriage.
But had not Celia’s own words implied a loving regard?
“Sophia!” Celia called. “Have you met Lady Olivia?”
The dog lifted its head and excitably slapped its tail against the ottoman Westfield’s injured leg rested upon. His lordship lowered the book and narrowed his eyes at the animal.
“I have.” Sophia tried not to laugh at the surly expression on Westfield’s face.
Celia stroked the dog’s back with her small feet. “Isn’t she darling?”
Westfield’s glower darkened.
“Yes,” Sophia replied unable to quell the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“I am to remain home tonight,” Celia said with exuberance. “And Lady Olivia is to sleep in my room.” She turned to her father. “Right, Papa?”
“Only if you wish, dear; otherwise she is going to warm Hawthorne’s bed.”
Celia giggled. “Oh, Papa, don’t be a silly goose.”
Sophia blinked. Had Celia just called her father a silly goose, and had Westfield smiled in response?
“Was there something you needed, Miss Camden?” his lordship asked.
“No, I wished to know how you are faring.”
He smiled down at his daughter. “Quite well.”
“Then I shall leave you both to enjoy your story,” she replied.
Westfield started reading to Celia, then glanced up. “Are you fond of books, Miss Camden?�
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“Yes, very much so.”
He motioned to a row of mahogany bookcases that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. They were crammed with novels, while two more stacks rose from the floor to nearly the height of Celia. The earl was obviously an avid reader. “You are more than welcome to borrow any of the books in this room or the library downstairs, if you wish.”
Without waiting for her response, he returned his attention to the child, and began to read again.
“Thank you.” Sophia strode toward the bookcases. Her eyes perused the leather bindings, stopping at a familiar brown cover with gold letterings. Robinson Crusoe. She blinked away the moisture blurring her vision, and drew the book off the shelf. Grandfather had loved reading this tale to her and her sister, Maria. For a brief moment, she clutched the novel to her chest. Feeling the heat of Westfield’s gaze on her, Sophia turned around. He peered at her over the edge of the book he held. Her heart fluttered. Was he looking for a crack in her armor?
“I appreciate the loan of the book, my lord.” Sophia moved toward the door.
“No, please stay, Sophia,” Celia called out.
“Yes, Sophia,” Westfield said, his voice as smooth as silk. “Join us.”
His lordship’s charismatic voice sent a shiver down her spine. His deep blue eyes held hers as he smiled warmly. This was the roué—the man who made the ladies of the ton behave so recklessly. Heat coursed through her veins. She prayed she was not blushing like a young schoolgirl.
She should offer an excuse as to why she could not stay. But somehow the words came out differently. “Thank you.”
“Sophia,” Celia said. “You may sit on the other side of Papa on the sofa.”
Next to his lordship? Goodness, no. Westfield’s gaze jerked to his daughter. He appeared as startled by the suggestion as she.
“Celia, because I do not wish to crowd your papa’s injured leg, I think it best I sit here.” Sophia walked to a navy velvet chair that faced them. She sat and opened the thickly bound edition of Robinson Crusoe. The leather binding creaked and a musty scent, common in old books, made her nostrils flare.
A soft tap sounded on the open door to the sitting room. The gray-haired housekeeper stood at the threshold. “Excuse me, my lord,” Mrs. Beecham said, “but Mr. Talbot is here for Lady Celia’s piano lesson.”
“Oh, Papa, do I have to have my lesson today? Mr. Talbot smells like dirty socks.”
Westfield laughed. “Really?”
Celia nodded. “I wish he smelled like Sophia. She smells nice, doesn’t she?”
His lordship peered at Sophia, a twinkle in his eyes. “Indeed, she does. Quite lovely.”
A spark of current burst in Sophia’s stomach. How silly to allow the scoundrel’s flattery to affect her so easily.
Westfield kissed the child’s forehead. “Sorry, dear. Today you will have to contend with Mr. Talbot’s less-than-gardenlike fragrance.”
Celia wrinkled her nose, but slipped off the sofa. She stroked Lady Olivia’s head. “Do you wish to come?” she asked the dog.
The Saint Bernard trotted to the door, its tail wagging in an excitable rhythm. Celia’s face lit up. “What a smart dog she is.”
The smile on Westfield’s face faltered. Obviously, the man realized the longer the dog stayed, the more his daughter’s attachment would grow.
“I will return after dinner, Papa.” Celia darted from the room.
Sophia closed the book and begun to rise from the chair.
“You don’t need to rush off.” He flashed a boyish smile.
How innocent he looked. Bears looked just as lovable—if one forgot about their claws. Did the man have something up his sleeve? Did he wish to ask her more scandalous questions about anatomy?
She tipped her chin high and sank back onto the thick cushion. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Yes.”
She braced herself for more of his wickedness.
“Of all the books I possess, I want to know why you chose Robinson Crusoe.”
The question startled her. Not at all what she’d expected. “It is the same edition my grandfather enjoyed reading.”
“Ah, that explains the expression on your face upon seeing it. You may keep it.”
“Keep it? Thank you, but I couldn’t.”
“I have another copy in the library downstairs.” As if the matter were settled, he picked up the leather-bound novel lying next to him on the sofa and flipped it open.
“You are too kind.”
He nodded, but didn’t look up.
As they read, a quiet, companionable silence settled over the room. A comfortable, momentary truce.
The story of the shipwrecked Crusoe caused echoes from the past to drift through Sophia’s mind. Grandfather’s deep baritone, reading English words in his heavily accented voice, and Maria correcting him when he would occasionally lapse into Italian. The memory tightened her throat. She lifted her gaze from the pages to Grandfather’s painting hanging on the wall. How odd that it was here in Lord Westfield’s house. Though not Grandfather’s largest painting of the River Thames, it was one of his best. He’d painted it standing on the Chelsea Embankment.
“Do you like it?” Westfield asked, peering at the painting.
“Yes, it’s lovely.”
“It’s a Gianni. Very few of his pieces come up for sale. I found this one at a dealer’s shop on the Strand. Are you familiar with his work?”
Very. “Yes, I’ve seen several of his paintings at the National Gallery.” She’d bestowed a collection to the museum.
“So you visit museums when not tending to the poor or infirmed?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else do you do for entertainment, Sophia? Play whist? Backgammon?” He grinned. “Visit Vinton’s gambling hell or dance on the tables at Morley’s Music Hall?”
Wanting to shock him, she lied. “The latter, but only on Mondays.”
He snorted, and her own laugh bubbled forth.
“Careful, Sophia, your wit is showing.” Slowly he lifted his legs onto the sofa and stretched out. He closed his eyes and draped an arm over them.
Sophia’s gaze drifted from his bare feet, over his robe and broad shoulders, and to his mouth. Ignoring the fluttering in her belly, she lifted the book and forced herself to read instead of gawk.
* * *
With his eyes closed, Hayden listened to Sophia as she softly turned the pages of the book she read. Every once in a while, she would make a small noise. A little sigh that somehow sounded musical.
After several minutes, the sounds ceased, leaving him feeling bereft.
Of course, this fixation with the woman must be due to his interminable boredom. Though he did enjoy their sparring and the way her lovely dark eyes flashed when she grew agitated, along with how easily her cheeks flushed. It had been a long time since he’d associated with a woman who blushed.
Why was she so quiet? He lowered his arm and peered at the chair where she sat. Sophia no longer wore her austere navy dress and starched apron, but a vibrant green gown that clung to her body like a second skin. The low décolletage exposed breasts so tightly corseted they almost spilled out of her bodice. His gaze lifted to her unpinned hair, absent her abominable starched cap. The dark, shiny strands flowed over her shoulders, a magnet to the light streaming through the sitting room windows.
Sophia looked breathtaking.
She stood and drifted across the room as if her feet floated on air. The corners of her wide mouth tipped upward as she surveyed him from beneath the veil of her lowered lashes. Without a word, she lifted a hand to the silk-covered buttons that lined the front of her bodice and started unfastening them.
His mouth grew dry. When was the last time he’d experienced such intense anticipation for the sight of a woman’s naked body?
Her bodice fell open to reveal the warm hue of her skin and a black, almost sheer corset. She wore no chemise, and the gauzelike fabric did little to
disguise the tawny color of her nipples. He’d seen dancers in the northern district of Paris garbed in such erotic clothing.
The little coquette leaned forward and lightly trailed her fingers over the swell of her breasts.
A quick rush of blood stiffened his already thickened rod.
Straightening, she gave a little wiggle and pushed the gown’s shimmering fabric off her hips until it pooled at her feet. She now stood before him wearing a sheer hourglass corset and black gartered silk stockings that encased her long slender legs—legs that seemed to go on forever. His taut bollocks drew almost painfully against his heavy shaft.
She stepped closer to the sofa. So close, he could smell the scent of lavender and lemon emanating off her warm silky body and hair.
“My lord,” she said, her voice soft and dreamlike. “My lord, it’s time to rise.”
If he rose a bit more, he’d cause irreparable damage.
He snaked an arm around her slender waist and pulled her body on top of his.
Chapter Seven
A jarringly unpleasant scream pierced Hayden’s ears.
His eyes flew open. Sophia flailed atop him, her face flushed, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and outright anger.
His gaze raked over her body. Where were the overflowing breasts, the impossibly long legs, and the erotic attire? And why was her horrid hat on a drunken slide over the left side of her face?
Christ almighty! Had he dreamt it all, then pulled her body onto his?
Obviously. What should he do now? Inform her he’d partaken in a lurid fantasy, featuring her as the most willing of coquettes, and then profusely apologize? He should. His actions appalled him. He’d never forced himself on anyone, let alone someone in his employ. Yet, he asked, “Sophia, might I inquire why you’re lying on me?”
Her mouth fell open. “My lord,” she responded, her tone surprisingly calm. “Shouldn’t the question be, why is your hand possessively planted on my derrière?”
He peered at his left hand. Indeed, it cupped her bum.
Well, stop gawking and remove it. Now! He slid his hand off her buttocks. With as much indignation as he could muster he replied, “Goodness, woman, how should I know? I was innocently sleeping and awoke to find you accosting me.”
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 6