Sophia had accompanied the Duke to the stables where he had decided to give the grey stallion an exercise before himself departing. Her initial consternation had been soon dispelled. Vaille was a superb rider and handled the fiery animal with ease. He had ridden off at a full gallop, the grey soaring over a low hedge, Vaille leaning forward in the saddle, his hair flying, looking a man much younger than his years.
Irritated by her continuing inability to talk with Hartwell, Sophia determined to seek him out as soon as she had thanked Damon for coming to her rescue in the catacombs. Whatever the Marquis' motives may have been, his actions had most assuredly saved her. Certainly, he had made no attempt to protect himself but had used his own body to shield her. Her brow wrinkled as she sought to equate this behaviour with the fact that when faced with an incipient tragedy involving his beloved cousin, he had acted the craven. Little wonder Vaille had stalked past him with such cutting contempt. She could well imagine what Papa would have said had Stephen behaved in such a fashion when a lady was in peril.
Pondering thus, she crossed the terrace and entered the house. It was cool inside after the rather muggy warmth of the gardens. She could hear the harpsichord and was intrigued by the poignant sweetness of the unknown melody. Horatio was not with his master, and Sophia entered the music room without announcement. She had only listened for a few seconds, however, before the Marquis tensed and jumped to his feet, turning to face her. As she drew nearer, something in his eyes shrank, and she was seized by the knowledge that he was ashamed and in this moment completely vulnerable.
She felt strangely disoriented and, forgetting what she had come to say, was silent as she moved to the harpsichord. A sheet of half-completed music was on the rack, and she looked at it curiously, wondering if this was the melody she had just heard. His hand fairly shot out and covered it with another page. Sophia drew back in embarrassment, and Damon removed all the music from the rack, his manner clearly implying that she intruded.
Obviously, he had regained his self-control. He met her startled gaze with one of ice and said, "You wished something, ma'am?"
'I wish your haughty nose may drop off,' she thought furiously but managed to keep her eyes as cold as his and say formally, "I have come to thank you for helping my cousin and for—rescuing me in the catacombs last night."
"Had I followed my natural inclinations, ma'am, you'd have been spanked instead of 'rescued'."
He looked quite capable of performing such a deed, and it was with difficulty that Sophia maintained her aplomb. "Whatever your natural inclinations, my lord, you contrived to rise above them. For that, at least, I am grateful."
Damon granted her an ironic bow and turned back to his horrid harpsichord.
"Excuse me, your ladyship…"
Sophia wrenched her glare from the Viper. Mrs. Hatters stood in the doorway, addressing her, but with an anxious gaze fixed upon her employer. "Miss Hilby sends her compliments, ma'am, and might she have a word with you at your convenience?"
Wearing a dark-blue riding habit, Miss Hilby was as lovely as ever, but there was a haunted look behind her smile. "I know that Philip would be relieved to see you safely home," she said as they sat together in the pleasant bay of her bedroom window. "Can I not prevail upon you to accompany us?" Sophia thanked her but reiterated her conviction that Stephen was on his way and that she must be here when he arrived. Miss Hilby nodded, moved to her dressing table, and placing a small blue velvet hat on her curls, expressed the conviction that, without Nancy's deft attentions, her hair looked a fright. "I am a little worried, Sophia. I would have allowed her to see her father at once, of course. Still"—she adjusted the large pale-blue feather so that it curled down beside her face—"it is not at all like her to leave without telling me. She is a very good…girl…" The words trailed off, her wistful gaze fixed upon a wall plaque on which was carved the coat of arms of the House of Branden.
Her heart touched, Sophia crossed to put a hand on her shoulder. "My dear, do not grieve so."
Those liquid green eyes flew to meet her own. A wave of scarlet warmed Sophia's cheeks, and she stammered, "I—I overheard you talking with the Duke this morning." Miss Hilby gave a gasp, and Sophia admitted wretchedly, "I was in the library. I tried to reach a book on an upper shelf and it fell on my head and knocked my hair all askew… and then I trod on the hem of my gown and the waist tore. I was so terribly embarrassed… and I heard you coming. And you are always so—so elegant. It was deplorable. But I had to hide my tattered self… and…" She gave a little gesture of helplessness.
"Of course." Recovering, Miss Hilby patted Sophia's hand kindly. "I quite understand. We have all had such horrid moments, have we not? And how very unfeminine it would be not to shrink from them! Now don't look so grieved, my dear, for, indeed, everybody knows my secret."
"I did not know. I might have suspected, perhaps. But a woman can usually sense heartbreak in another woman, do you not think?"
She had spoken sympathetically but had not expected her companion to suddenly bow her head into her hands and burst into tears. Sophia offered her handkerchief, sat beside her, and patted the bowed shoulder through the storm. And in a very little while, Miss Hilby blew her classic but rather pink nose, wiped her eyes daintily, and sniffed, "Forgive me, I beg of you. I… I do not usually give way like this. But—oh, I love him so! And have waited such… such a very long time. But it is useless. I must accept that he will not offer for me. And I'll… oh, I'll never find a husband… now!"
"What nonsense! I vow, Charlotte, if you so much as showed your face at Almack's, the men would be flocking—"
"Oh!" wailed Miss Hilby damply. "That horrid marriage mart—at my age?"
"Tush and a fiddlestick! Your age, indeed!"
"Thank you for the kindness. But it's true—my salad days are long past. I should have accepted another offer years since. Damon insists he… loves me. But—oh, Sophia—it's our ages, you see. He—he feels there is too large a gap."
'He would!' thought Sophia, striving rather unsuccessfully to feel indignant and succeeding only in wanting to burst into tears. "Was there never anyone else?"
"Not that I cared a fig for. I had so many beaux when I first met him. It was at Almack's, in fact…" Haunted by memory, she looked extremely lovely despite her tear-stained face. "I shall never forget it as long as I live. He came straight across the room to me—and I thought him the handsomest, the most elegant gentleman I had ever beheld. He looked at me with those splendid eyes of his, and—I was lost, Sophia. And so I refused all others. And although I knew how he felt, because he has never lied to me, I waited. I have begged him." She gave a forlorn little shrug and, looking at the younger woman with shamed eyes, admitted, "That's how desperate I am, you see. But he won't hear of it. And so, I just wait… and hope… and pray." She bowed her head again, and Sophia stood and walked to the windows.
The Marquis was in the courtyard below them, hands on hips, talking with two grooms. He looked every inch the aristocrat, and, noting the proud tilt of the head, the carriage of the shoulders, the respect with which the men attended his every word, her heart ached. A hand slipped through her arm, and Charlotte stood beside her, a humble smile on her face. They hugged one another, and struggling for composure, Sophia forced a smile. "No matter what you say, you could have any one of dozens of men with just a snap of your fingers. But if you feel it must be him—or no one, why it's better to have known such a love than to endure a mariage de convenance with someone else. Or so I should think." And she sighed, knowing drearily that very few marriages these days had anything whatsoever to do with love.
The maid said her name was Patience, that she came from the village daily—when there was a bridge to cross—and that the Marquis begged the pleasure of her company in the library, adding with an envious sigh, "At your convenience, my lady."
Sophia thanked her and hurried past the rosy-cheeked lass, her heart leaping with hope. If Patience could have come across, surely it would
be safe for Stephen…
Damon was standing before the library windows, scowling down at a paper in his hand. When she entered, he folded it hurriedly and thrust it into his pocket. "A message from the landlord of 'The Wooden Leg.' Whitthurst came—and has gone. You would do well to accept—"
"Gone?" she interposed, aghast. "What do you mean— gone?"
"What the deuce should I mean? Your brother arrived at the inn not an hour after you had left. When he learned the bridge was down, he at once returned to Kent—quite the worse for wear, I am informed. I've no doubt he needs you at—"
"Is that what the note says?" she demanded angrily, and when he gave an exasperated gesture and nodded, she asked if she might read it.
"Gladly, ma'am. However, there is also a personal message for me. And our innkeeper is, I fear, a crude individual at best." His eyes were bland and empty. "Since my father has already offered to—"
"To be taken many miles out of his way? And before you tell me that he will be glad to change his plans for my sake, I have no doubt of it." Her lip curled. "Surely, sir, you can restrain your impatience. Directly my cousin returns, we shall leave you to your precious solitude."
Two hours later, however, she was beginning to repent her decision. Clay was still among the missing, and Vaille and Miss Hilby had departed better than an hour since. Now, beginning to be really worried, Sophia went downstairs.
In the music room, the maid Patience stood beside the harpsichord, her fingers touching the keys gently. She looked up, her eyes dreaming, and, seeing Sophia, started and gave a small scream. "Oh, ma'am! Oh, my stays! I am that sorry! I clean forgot, and it do be almost a hour, too! Sir Amory, ma'am. He do be waiting for'ee down by the fountain!"
"Twelve thousand… pounds?" Sophia's voice squeaked a little. "But—the agreement I signed said two thousand!"
Hartwell sprang up from the wrought iron bench in the rose garden, bowed theatrically, and handed her a bank draft. "I bullied the old curmudgeon into coming up a trifle! And— was ever a man so fortunate as to complete his lady's errand and win so glowing a look in return?"
He watched her adoringly, his handsome face reflecting his love. And she was desolate. Why, oh, why had she begged him to handle the transaction for her? Why had she decided to borrow against the land? She'd had no right—not without consulting Stephen… no right at all! At the time, it had seemed—
"… is wrong?" Hartwell was asking anxiously.
She gathered her wits. "I just do not understand. They do realize I am just borrowing against the land? It… it was not a sale, Amory?"
"My dear, when I brought you the preliminary agreement you said— You did ask Whitthurst, or your man of business to look it over, as I urged you to do?"
"Yes—well, I did, of course," she lied. Amory had arrived at Singlebirch one rainy afternoon, soaked to the skin, and with a preliminary agreement form requiring her signature. "May not be able to get the old chap to sign it, even now," he said cheerfully. "But you and Stephen look it over m'dear and see what you think. If it appeals to you, sign on the bottom line and I'll rush it back to him with the Deed. Must go and change now—have to be back in Devonshire first thing in the morning. Strike while the iron is hot, y'know! Don't want Prendergast to change his mind!"
After he'd left she had begun to struggle through the voluminous pages of crabbed writing, much in Latin, with endless clauses and long words. She'd deciphered the fact that Prendergast Associates were willing to loan the sum of two thousand pounds against the properties, the amount to be repaid in full within twelve months. She had also noted that they were willing to halt any building currently under way upon said properties, and to prohibit any additional construction prior to the termination of the agreement. But this was as much as she had been able to establish before Amory returned, eager to be upon his way once more. She had longed to be able to turn to one of her uncles, or the family solicitor for advice, but it had been more than she'd dare do. Even if they agreed not to discuss the matter with Stephen—which seemed unlikely—they were sure to mention it to their wives. The word would have swept the family like a forest fire, returning inevitably to her ailing brother's ears.
Amory had assured her that "old Prendergast" was true blue and sound to the backbone. "Never one to hand you over to the cents-per-centers," whatever that meant. He looked weary, but denied it with cheerful vehemence. He had worked so hard in her behalf and been so delighted to think he had helped her in this emergency. Grateful, she had signed, and he'd left promising to return with the bank draft as soon as possible.
Now, watching her narrowly, he exclaimed, "Oh, Lord! I pray I've not caused you to be worried? I'm the last one to understand all that legal flummery. If anything goes amiss, Whitt's liable to think I've been up to some skullduggery!"
"Indeed, he will not! You have been a true friend, Amory. As if we could ever entertain such wicked doubts!"
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Had you only allowed me to be of greater assistance than merely arranging a fribbly loan for you… it would have made me the—the very happiest fellow in all England."
"You are too good." She gave his hand a slight squeeze before removing her fingers from his clasp. "But it would not be at all proper, you know."
"Then let me make it proper! Dash it all, Sophia, I shan't let one turndown stop me! I love you! My lovely lady, won't you allow me to start planning the biggest ball, the grandest wedding, the most delightful honeymoon money can buy?"
She looked into his eager face and felt a deep liking. She looked into those wide grey eyes and knew herself the veriest fool among fools, for here was total devotion. And she did not love him. Her glib advice to Charlotte came back to haunt her. 'Better to have known such a love than to endure a mariage de convenance…' "Dear Amory…" she said haltingly, "I—I am most… deeply honoured and truly thank—"
He gave a muffled sound of despair, leapt to his feet, and turning from her, began to stride down the slope.
"Amory!" She ran after him. "Wait! Please wait!"
The grass was still slippery from the rains and the soles of her slippers somewhat worn. She slipped, tumbled, and gave a small cry as she sprawled with a revealing display of petticoats and ankles. Hartwell turned with a shocked gasp and, running back to her, slipped also and went to his knees; Heedless of his immaculate breeches, he crawled up to ask breathlessly, "Sophia—are you all right?"
Laughing, she said, "A trifle muddy, but—" Horatio shot through the trees and flew at her with a hiss and a flap of wings. Amory pulled her close, waving his arm menacingly. She shrank against him, and the goose trundled on past.
Damon, bursting from the trees, cried, "Is something wrong? I—" He halted abruptly, looking utterly taken aback. Then a fierce glare travelled from Sophia's bare ankles to the arms that Hartwell clasped about her. Two spots of colour appeared high on his cheekbones. "I do apologize," he said acidly. "Pray forgive the interruption of such a… pleasant pastime." The contemptuous curl of the lip, the lift of those dark brows, relegated Sophia to the status of Haymarket ware.
"The devil!" Amory spluttered indignantly. "I vow you're becoming positively caper-witted, Damon! You go beyond the line—the lady fell, merely!"
But noting how his arms gathered the stunned Sophia a little closer, the Marquis bowed and was gone, sauntering gracefully back through the trees, Horatio squawking grumpily after him.
Chapter 13
When Sophia entered the house, the harpsichord was crashing in a furious boil of music. She recognized Bach's tempestuous "Toccata and Fugue" as she flung the door wide. The room was, as usual, almost dark.
"Excuse me," she snarled. Her plea went unnoticed. She stepped closer. Damon's head was bent, his supple fingers flying over the keys. "Your pardon, my lord," she enunciated, loud and clear. His head went back, the thick hair tossing. One slim hand shot up, poised, and then he was leaning forward, the notes rippling out again.
"Viper!" she hissed. Bach
enveloped her and was her only response. Marching forward, she threw the drapes open.
A crashing chord terminated Mr. Bach's music. Damon stood, scowled at her, then went to the mantle and began to ram tobacco into his pipe. "I do apologize, my lady, for bursting in so rudely upon your little… tête-à-tête." And, again, there was the insinuating, offensive smirk.
From earliest childhood, the Lady Sophia Drayton had been schooled in the arts of grace and graciousness, but never had her reputation been so impugned. Her many beaux variously worshipped, admired, or desired her. To be blatantly insulted was something so foreign to her experience she could scarce comprehend it. And thus it was that, facing him, she was all but panting with rage. And very lovely.
"If it is any of your business, my ignoble lord," she half sobbed, "I had fallen. Sir Amory was merely—"
He gave a tiny shrug, a gracefully deprecating wave of the hand. "I beg you will not fatigue yourself with explanations. I, in fact, owe you my felicitations." His eyes glared suddenly. "Since Hartwell is the man of your choice. At least, one must assume so, in view of your—er—torrid embraces."
She stamped closer and thrust her small chin at him, her eyes blazing with wrath. "Oooh!" she choked. "How I wish I were a man!"
Damon's eyelids assumed a bored droop. "That, dear lady, is a desire you can scarce expect me to share."
"I expect nothing from you, sir! Nothing!"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 14