Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  Yes, if she didn’t show up, he would go to her Chelsea residence this evening after interviewing for Celia’s governess. He shook his head, tried to silence the voice that kept whispering, She’s not coming. Only a fool would marry a man branded such a heartless rogue.

  And Sophia was far from a fool.

  * * *

  As dusk settled, Hayden walked Edith to her awaiting carriage.

  “So, do you have a favorite candidate for Celia’s governess?” Edith asked. Light from a streetlamp illuminated her face.

  No, not a single one had impressed him. He wished he could’ve asked Sophia her opinion, but she’d not shown up. He grimaced.

  “Is your leg hurting you, dear?”

  He smoothed out his expression and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. “No. Perhaps we should interview another round of candidates.”

  “More?” Edith sighed. “It feels as if we interviewed an army of them today.”

  None right for the position. Too rigid. Too stern-faced. Too . . . Oh, blast it, who was he kidding? The problem was none of them made him think of Sophia—her caring nature, quick wit, her smile.

  “If you insist, I’ll set up more interviews,” Edith said.

  “Thank you.” He kissed her cheek.

  Edith climbed inside and Hayden closed the carriage door. “Drive on,” he told the coachman.

  The man tipped his hat, and the carriage moved up the dim street.

  Hayden hobbled back into his residence. Hawthorne stood in the entry hall. “Your dinner will be ready shortly, my lord.”

  He had no time for eating. He intended to call on Sophia. “Have my carriage sent around.”

  A short time later, Hayden found himself staring disbelievingly at Sophia’s housekeeper as she informed him her mistress didn’t wish to see him.

  She’d had a change of heart. He’d known it was possible. The life he’d led since returning to London after Celia’s birth made him a sad prospect for a husband. But he needed to speak with Sophia. He wouldn’t admit the truth about Celia’s parentage—he couldn’t cast that shame on the child—but perhaps if Sophia were in the room, he could convince her of his feelings.

  He brushed past the housekeeper and walked to the steps. “Tell your mistress I’m waiting for her.” He spoke loud, hoping if Sophia skulked at the top of the stairs she’d realize he wouldn’t leave until they spoke.

  Mrs. MacLean twisted her hands in her white apron. “I believe Dr. Trimble will be asking for her hand in marriage.”

  The thought of her with any other man made his jaw clench. He narrowed his eyes at the harridan.

  The woman stepped back. “Dr. Trimble cherishes her. He’ll give her a family she will be able to love and care for.” She tipped her chin up. “What will happen to her when ye tire of her?”

  “Is that what you think, Mrs. MacLean, that my intentions are not honorable?” Hard to blame the woman for thinking otherwise. The gossip columns tossed his name around like a shuttlecock during a badminton game.

  “Are they?” She didn’t wait for his response. “Milord, I’ve known the lass a long while. She has a pure heart. Better than most, but ’tis fragile. She has lost everyone she’s ever loved. After her niece died, she suffered a dire case of the blue devils. Aye, the good doctor saved her, he did. Told her he needed her help with his patients. He’s not only good to her. He’s good for her.”

  Silently Hayden damned the old witch to hell. She didn’t fight fair. Somehow, she comprehended his fears. Knew he was haunted over having failed Laura and worried he’d fail Sophia as well, yet he’d not leave until he spoke with her. He opened the double doors and stepped inside the drawing room.

  As if he was a recalcitrant puppy fond of piddling on the carpet, Mrs. MacLean followed him into the room.

  “Tell her if she doesn’t come down here, I shall go up,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes grew round. She darted out of the room and up the stairs. Her feet moved up the treads at a speed which seemed to defy her advanced years.

  The sound of footfalls descending the stairs perked up his ears.

  He took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets, and then took them out.

  Sophia stepped into the room. Unlike last night, she was dressed in one of her serviceable navy gowns, her hair pinned into a tight chignon, and her expression as tight as a clergyman’s giving a eulogy.

  “Sophia.”

  “Lord Westfield.”

  So she would not call him by his given name. Yes, he was right. She’d had a change of heart. Everything in her demeanor conveyed that.

  He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “May we speak?”

  “It appears I have little choice in the matter.” She glanced at the housekeeper, now standing at the threshold, and the woman moved away from the doorway. “I would offer you a seat, but I’m rather tired, my lord, so I hope our conversation will be brief.”

  He stepped toward her.

  She held up her hands. “You should pat yourself on the back. You really are quite adept at winning. Did you add a wager on this dare as well? Tell me, my lord, what value did you place on my virginity? A shilling? Five pounds? A bottle of wine?”

  The muscles in his shoulders tightened. “You believe I bet someone I could bed you?”

  “Lord Simon Adler, to be specific.”

  “The devil take him. Did he tell you that?”

  “No, I overheard you, so please do not deny it.”

  “Overheard?”

  “When I called on you today.”

  “You called at my residence? Hawthorne never informed me.”

  “He didn’t see me. I came up the servants’ stairs from the kitchen. That’s when I heard you and your vile friend talking about his dare to bed me.”

  “Believe me when I say, I didn’t accept Lord Adler’s foolish dare. Do you really have such a low opinion of me?”

  Her hesitation, along with the way she averted her gaze, answered the question. Her eyes centered on him again. “I believe you are a master manipulator who clearly knows what to say to achieve what you want.”

  Good Lord, she thought him no better than a snake in the grass. He’d earned his reputation with his fast and scandalous life, but he’d thought . . . What had he thought? That she’d seen through all of his tomfoolery? Thought him someone worthy of her tender companionship? Her love?

  Obviously not. He should go. The housekeeper was right. Trimble would give Sophia a stable life with a man she could trust. She deserved that and more.

  “Since you have me all figured out, we have little to discuss.” He walked to the door. “Good night, Sophia.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Beads of sweat prickled on Sophia’s forehead. Kneeling, she grasped the wooden edge of the commode with white-knuckled fingers and squeezed her eyes closed. She stiffened her jaw and fought her stomach’s churning rebellion.

  All in vain. A second later, she heaved her breakfast into the porcelain bowl. She drew the back of a hand over her mouth and moved to the sink. A splash of water on her face cooled her heated skin while brushing her teeth obliterated the vile taste that coated her tongue.

  She glanced at her pallid reflection in the mirror. Too pale. She was also . . .

  Don’t say it. If you do, you shall find yourself a weeping mess, and Thomas will be here shortly. She pinched her eyelids closed, waited until the burning desire to cry subsided. She spun away from the looking glass and stepped into her bedchamber.

  “Miss!” Mrs. MacLean tapped on the door and without waiting for a reply flung it open. “Dr. Trimble is here and looking rather fit, if I may be bold enough to say—”

  The housekeeper stopped her chattering and blinked.

  “Aye, ye poor lass. Been sick again, have ye?” With her apron bunched in her hand, Mrs. MacLean rushed forward and blotted Sophia’s damp brow. The elder woman shook her head. “Ye are normally so hale. Haven’t seen ye with a case of the collywobbles since y
e were a young lass. I’ll make a mixture of . . .” Mrs. MacLean’s voice faded, her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her dress at her bosom. “Saints preserve.”

  Ignoring the woman’s gaping mouth, Sophia moved to the armoire, removed her pale blue paletot, and slipped it on. “A touch of gastritis. I must have eaten something disagreeable.”

  “Oh, lassie dear. ’Tis the second time in less than a week ye retched yer morning meal.” The woman ticked off her fingers and counted. “Seven weeks since you let that blackguard into your bed, and I’m thinking he left more than his calling card.”

  Dashing an errant tear off her cheek, Sophia sat on the bed and stared down at her lap.

  “Miss—”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat halted the housekeeper’s words. Thomas stood in the doorway. “I know it’s in exceedingly poor taste to enter a woman’s bedchamber uninvited but . . .” He looked pointedly at her. “You are usually so punctual. I thought there was a problem. I called up. Neither of you answered.”

  Standing, Sophia glanced at him. Had he heard? She toyed with the tasseled fringe edging the bottom of her coat. “Sorry, Thomas, I’m ready.” She forced a small smile. “Did I mention how pleased I am you’ve asked me to accompany you to Mr. Philips’s architectural office? I’m sure the exterior perspectives of the new hospital will be fascinating.”

  He stared at her, but said not a word.

  She pressed her palms to her cheeks. I must look dreadful.

  Thomas stepped fully into the room. “Mrs. MacLean, would you be kind enough to give Sophia and me a few minutes alone?”

  The woman appeared hesitant, but exited the bedchamber.

  Tears pressed the backs of Sophia’s eyes, and she moved to the window. Several pedestrians walked along the embankment. Her gaze shifted to a shiny black carriage slowly moving past Thomas’s equipage. How many times had she seen that grand equipage rolling by her house and both hoped and dreaded it was Westfield? How foolish.

  “Thomas,” she said, not turning around, “shouldn’t we talk on the way? I’m sure you do not wish to be late for your meeting.”

  He moved to stand behind her and placed his hands on her upper arms. “I care a great deal for you.”

  He watched her reflection in the glass. She ducked her head.

  “Sophia.”

  A sob caught in her throat. He was going to propose—try to save her from her own folly. She couldn’t marry him. He deserved a woman who would love him unconditionally, and she had given her heart foolishly away, only to have it stomped on.

  “I’m with child,” she blurted out.

  He turned her so she faced him. “I am aware of your condition.”

  Ashamed, she dropped her gaze to one of the brass buttons on his wool overcoat. “You heard Mrs. MacLean?”

  “You wound my physician’s pride. Like you, I’m aware of the signs of morning sickness. I take it Westfield is the father?”

  She nodded.

  “I know several ways I could kill the man and not even leave a mark. An injection into his carotid artery of—”

  “Thomas, don’t joke.”

  “I’m not joking.” A lethal tone edged his voice.

  “He didn’t force me.” She dashed at a tear. “You must think me both shameless and half-witted.”

  “No, I think Lady Prescott sent a lamb to the slaughter.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket and dabbed at her cheeks.

  “I . . . we . . . just once.”

  “You are an educated woman. You know it only takes once.” His voice sounded free of condescension, but she sensed the anger it contained.

  She refrained from telling him that her education had been lacking. No book or person had ever informed her how overpowering desire could be or how rash one became under its spell, especially when stronger emotions gripped one’s heart.

  He placed his fingers under her chin and tipped her gaze up to his. “Sophia, will you marry me?”

  She swallowed. “I cannot. You deserve better than a soiled, foolish woman.”

  “I believe we could build a life together and be happier than most. I will be a good husband. And despite what I feel about Westfield, I’ll love the child as if it were my own. I give you my word on that.”

  She placed her forehead against his chest and Thomas wrapped his arms around her.

  “You do not have to accompany me to Mr. Philips’s office. You should rest. I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening for the hospital’s fundraiser, and you can give me your answer then.”

  Her heart thumped against her ribs. Over the last several days, she’d completely forgotten about Lady Prescott’s ball to benefit the hospital’s building fund. She could not attend. She would not risk seeing Westfield. She shook her head. “I cannot go!” Her voice came out shrill.

  “Westfield does not attend such functions.” He kissed her forehead. “Rest. I will see you tomorrow evening.” He had just reached the threshold when he turned around. “Have you told him?”

  Nausea rolled in her stomach. Tell Westfield his dalliance had created a child? He would not care. He’d been as reckless as she. He probably had an army of bastards throughout Britain. “He isn’t interested in me or the baby, Thomas. I believe he was bored, and I was nothing more than a game. A distraction to relieve his ennui.”

  Disgust twisted Thomas’s handsome visage. “Then he doesn’t deserve either of you, and you will both be better off without him.”

  * * *

  Edith had been adamant Hayden attend her benefit ball. He, on the other hand, had been adamant he would not. Yet here he stood in his sister’s entry hall, wondering whether he’d come to appease Edith or for another reason.

  He’d arrived well past the hour of being fashionably late, hoping the crowd would have thinned. However, the cacophony of laughter and raised voices floating down the circular staircase, along with the carriage-lined street, informed him he should have delayed even longer. He handed his formal cape to one of the footmen and moved across the patterned marble floor.

  Strange, he’d not seen Sophia in weeks, yet he sensed her presence as if the air that touched her skin had gained a tangible force. An unwelcome vision of her twirling about in Trimble’s arms to the strains of a Viennese waltz flashed through his mind.

  He should leave—haul himself to the Continent to call upon that German physician he’d read about in the newspaper. The one who studied the human brain. What was his name? Wundt. Yes, Wilhelm Wundt. The man would proclaim him a helpless sod. He spun around to snatch his cape back from the footman.

  “Ah, Hayden, so good to see you,” a familiar voice called.

  He forced himself to turn around. Hiding his agitation, he shook his brother-in-law’s hand.

  “Edith had resigned herself to the fact you wouldn’t attend. She’ll be exceedingly pleased.”

  “Henry, I was just leaving.” He withdrew a bank draft from the inside pocket of his formal evening coat. “Will you give Edith this along with my felicitations? Her gala appears a success.”

  His brother-in-law unfolded the check. “Ah, generous as always.”

  He may not care for Dr. Trimble personally, but the hospital the doctor was building in the East End would be a godsend and an economic boon for the residents who lived near.

  “Did you say you were leaving? It appears you have just arrived.” Henry clapped a firm hand onto Hayden’s shoulder. “You know Edith will be devastated if you don’t say hello before dashing off.” Henry handed the check back to him. “Why don’t you give this to her yourself?”

  * * *

  Even though Thomas had assured Sophia that Westfield wouldn’t attend Lady Prescott’s fundraiser, apprehension fluttered in her stomach. A murmur arose from the crowd, and the fine hairs dusting the nape of her neck prickled. She glanced about the ballroom. Her eyes homed in on the tall, dark-haired gentleman slicing through the throng as if it were an inconsequential field of grain and he a sickle-wielding f
armhand.

  By the time Westfield emerged from the swarm of brightly colored silk and dark formal attire, her heart thundered in her chest. Without a hitch to his step, he moved to the perimeter of the room, no more than ten yards from where she stood conversing with Thomas and the elderly Lord Pendleton, a supporter of the new hospital.

  Westfield wore a black tailcoat precisely cut and taut across his broad shoulders. She knew, firsthand, it was not padding that enhanced his physique. There was no denying his raw magnetism. Her palm settled over her abdomen. Certainly, she couldn’t deny that. She wanted to scurry from the room, return to the solitude of her Chelsea residence, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.

  With a formidable expression on his handsome face, Westfield surveyed the guests. A group of gentlemen moved toward him. He cocked a brow at them, and their progression ceased. It was like watching a white-breasted raptor tossed into a cage of doves.

  A moment later, Lady Prescott stood beside him. His stern expression evaporated as he kissed his sister’s hand before surreptitiously pressing a piece of paper into her fingers. Her ladyship unfolded the paper and smiled brightly. To Westfield’s obvious chagrin, she kissed his cheek. A donation? Yes, and sizeable judging by her ladyship’s exuberance.

  Westfield and his sister talked alone for several minutes until a few braver members of the assemblage joined them. He appeared unengaged in the conversation as he scanned the crowd as if searching for someone. If she had to endure watching him dallying with some other woman, Sophia might shatter into a million insignificant pieces.

  He turned his head in her direction and their gazes met.

  Immediately the bright colors and people within the ballroom faded to muted shades of gray and brown as if an artist took sepia to them, forcing them into the background to leave Westfield standing alone in the massive room.