Lord Margrave's Secret Desire (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 4)

by Samantha Grace

  “Since then,” Octavia said, “I’ve received the occasional distracted nod from you, as well as your blessing to use the ribbon to tie Lord Ramsdell’s hands behind his back if he cannot keep them to himself at the ball tonight.”

  Sophia laughed. “I said no such thing.”

  “Perhaps I’ve embellished a bit.” Her friend grinned and tucked the ribbon back in the display before sliding her finger over a yellow one. “The idea has merit, though. Discouraging the rogue seems to have no effect.”

  “If you were not smitten with your betrothed,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose, “I might be alarmed.”

  “I truly am. I cannot believe we will be wed in two weeks. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  Octavia’s reminder was akin to a blow to the gut for Sophia, followed by a rush of guilt for feeling anything other than joy for her friend. Sophia was happy for Octavia—truly she was—but the quarrel with Crispin that morning left her tender and feeling hopeless about her own future.

  “Oh, dear.” Octavia’s smile fell from her pretty face. “I did not intend to flaunt my happiness. I am a horrible friend.”

  “You are the most loyal person I know. Pay me no mind. I had a visitor this morning, Lord Margrave. I’ve been in a temper since he left.”

  Octavia clicked her tongue in sympathy. “Did you argue again? Honestly, I am beginning to believe the rogue is right. You deserve better than him. Are you certain you should not make a match with another man? You still have suitors in the wings eager to earn your notice.”

  Their numbers had dwindled, however. Many gentlemen were in need of a wife, and with Uncle Charles remaining abroad, the uncertainty of a match with Sophia had driven them to seek out other ladies—not that she cared about bringing any of those men up to scratch, despite her efforts to lead Crispin to believe otherwise.

  “It seems unkind to encourage them when I love another.” Sophia plucked a spool of ribbon from the rack. “What is your opinion? Does this color suit me?”

  Octavia curled her lip in disgust. Sophia plopped the ribbon back in place. “Never mind.”

  “It is the color. It’s hideous,” her friend said. “You are beautiful.”

  “It does not matter.” Sophia did not need another frippery. Crispin was immune to such trappings anyway. “With Regina and Evangeline away, I am considering abandoning this charade. I see no reason to pretend I am excited about the marriage mart, and Aunt Beatrice knows my heart is not invested in the endeavor.”

  She had kept the kiss and her feelings for Crispin secret from her sisters. Regina and Evangeline would never understand how she could view him in such a way. Regina had trained alongside him in Uncle Charles’s gymnasium, and Evangeline had recruited him to dig through the dirt for Roman coins at Hartland Manor. To them, he was like a brother.

  Sophia had been too young to be his companion. Therefore, he had remained a mystery. A world of secrets churned behind his penetrating hazel eyes, and on the rare occasion when his guard slipped and he allowed her to see a glimmer of vulnerability, her heart filled to bursting. He was much more than he allowed anyone to see. She longed to unravel him.

  “I, for one, refuse to allow you to give up on love,” Octavia said as she compared two spools of ribbon. “Furthermore, I do not believe you are prepared to give up on Lord Margrave either, so you will continue to attend balls, have a merry time dancing, and show the viscount what he is missing by denying his feelings for you.”

  Sophia smiled. Her friend was as fierce and commanding as her mother. She shrugged off her depressing musings and silently repeated Uncle Charles’s mantra. Fall seven times; stand up eight. Or ten or twenty or however many times it took.

  “You are correct, Tavi,” she said. “I am not a quitter.”

  “Excellent.” Sophia’s friend dropped the spools on the counter and turned to her. “It is clear the viscount is smitten with you also. Ramsdell said the man is incapable of holding his tongue at the club. He talks of you incessantly.”

  Sophia snorted. “Ramsdell has mistaken someone else for Margrave. He prides himself on being the strong and silent sort.”

  “Perhaps, but the viscount is forever interrogating this gent or that about what you discussed during the waltz or over dinner.”

  “He is likely gathering ammunition to use against me. All he does is grumble and boss me about when he should mind his own affairs.”

  Octavia hummed as if his behavior made sense. “Ramsdell reassures me that is how a gentleman acts when he does not want to get caught in the parson’s noose, but the outcome is inevitable. One feels he is in control if he is allowed to bluster a bit and make commands. It is best to allow him to believe he has the upper hand. Lord Margrave does not yet realize what he wants, but he will.”

  “I see.” A reluctant chuckle slipped from Sophia. Her friend spoke with such authority. “You seem to have gentlemen all figured out. Did I miss a pamphlet?”

  Octavia smirked. “Mama is better than any pamphlet. She advised me to show Ramsdell what he wanted by making myself useful to him, and she was right.”

  “How did you accomplish the task?”

  “My uncle is allowing Ramsdell first pick of the litter from his prized hound. There is quite the list of gentlemen waiting for a pup, but Uncle Gunnar has never been one to deny me.”

  “Lord Margrave would not be swayed by a puppy,” Sophia said. He and her great-aunt’s poodle had a tumultuous relationship at best. Cupid loved Crispin, and Crispin preferred his attire free of dog slobber and teeth marks. Besides, he was not much of a hunting man. “I suspect Margrave should have his own pamphlet.”

  “Then we must put our heads together,” Octavia said. “I could enlist Ramsdell’s assistance at the ball tonight. Perhaps he could uncover Lord Margrave’s weakness.”

  Crispin had no weaknesses, but Sophia did not want to appear argumentative in the face of Octavia’s generosity. “Thank you, and I would happily accept Lord Ramsdell’s assistance. However, Margrave will not be attending the ball this evening.”

  “It must have been quite the row.”

  “Yes, we had words”—Sophia smiled sheepishly—“and I had the last one.”

  Five

  With a nod from Crispin, his coachman returned to his post at the back of the carriage while Crispin assisted Sophia’s great-aunt on the steps. Beatrice gripped his forearm for balance as she disembarked from the carriage and thanked him before idly strolling toward Mr. and Mrs. James Hillary’s front door.

  Sophia didn’t budge from her spot on the carriage bench. When Crispin proffered his hand to her, she gawked as if he was thrusting a hot poker in her direction rather than extending a courtesy.

  “Shall we go inside, Miss Darlington?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do you intend to treat me to silence after I volunteered my evening to play escort?”

  She bristled on the carriage bench. “How dare you arrive at our door tonight,” she hissed then craned her neck to see around him to the outside. Apparently satisfied no one could overhear, she continued to upbraid him.“I made it clear this morning your services for the ball were neither wanted or needed.”

  “Ah”—he grinned—“the cat hasn’t stolen your tongue after all.”

  She snorted softly. “Indeed not, and if we had more privacy, you would receive the proper dressing down you deserve for disregarding my wishes.”

  “Regretfully, I cannot allow your wishes to dictate my actions. I promised your sister I would watch over you while she and her bridegroom are on their honeymoon, and I honor my word.”

  She notched her chin, forever challenging. “But not your unspoken word, do I understand the situation correctly, my lord?”

  He sighed. The truth was irrefutable. As a gentleman, he should have offered for her hand after their kiss, but the most honorable action was to let her go. A typical woman would harbor hatred for him after he had misused her, but Sophia claimed to love him still, which made her th
e most stubborn woman he had ever known. Her persistence both vexed and warmed him through to the bone.

  “You must know you deserve—”

  “Stop! I cannot listen to this drivel one more time.”

  Her aunt turned back toward the carriage, catching Crispin’s eye but speaking to her niece. “Sophia darling, is something wrong?”

  “No, Auntie.” Sophia plopped her hand in his and climbed from the carriage. Her expression softened when her gaze landed on Beatrice. “I misplaced my fan for a moment, but I have it now.”

  She flicked open the mother of pearl fan for proof, which only served to prove she was a poor liar. One typically did not feel the need to present evidence when telling the truth. In the line of duty, he had grown accustomed to dealing with liars and cheats. He found her lack of skill in this area refreshing.

  When it seemed she might sweep past him, he linked arms with her. “The fan suits you. Do you like it?”

  It had been a gift from him last Christmas, discovered at a bazaar in Valletta on the island of Malta. The iridescent shimmer of mother of pearl possessed a magical quality, reminiscent of a fairy’s wing. As soon as he had laid eyes on the piece, memories of Sophia skipping through the gardens at Charles Wedmore’s country estate, her laugh like the tinkle of bells, had washed over him. He’d realized she wasn’t a little girl any longer when he purchased it, but nostalgia had driven him to select it.

  “My lady’s maid chose it,” she murmured, refusing to look at him. “I barely gave it a thought.”

  Another poorly told lie.

  “Margrave,” a voice called from the drive. He tore his gaze away from Sophia to discover Ben and Eve Hillary standing with Sophia’s aunt. It appeared the couple had just arrived.

  “How nice of you to attend your mother’s ball,” Crispin said with a hint of humor and led Sophia toward the couple. “It is about time you joined decent folk again.”

  “I would never describe you as decent, Margrave.” Ben smiled at his wife. “Would you, dear?”

  “Oh, he has grown on me.” Eve greeted Crispin warmly with kisses to his cheeks before extending her best to Sophia and her aunt.

  “Good evening, Miss Allred.” Ben accepted Beatrice’s outstretched hand and placed a chaste kiss on her glove. “What a happy coincidence to cross paths with you. Eve was telling me on the ride here you are hard at work knitting blankets for the children at the foundling hospital. Did my ears deceive me, or have you finished twelve already?”

  Sophia’s aunt beamed at Ben. “I completed fifteen as of this afternoon, Mr. Hillary. Your sister-in-law will send someone around to collect them tomorrow.”

  “How wonderful,” Eve gushed. “The Mayfair Ladies Charitable Society believes every child at Woodmore Foundling Home should have a knitted blanket of his or her own, and Miss Allred has been instrumental in helping us come close to fulfilling our goal.”

  Sophia’s aunt tittered with pleasure. “I do love a good cause.”

  Ben offered his free arm to Sophia’s aunt. “Miss Allred, will you allow me the honor of arriving to the ball with two lovely ladies?”

  “How could I refuse such a charming offer?” Beatrice linked arms with him and flashed another brilliant smile in his direction before continuing her discourse with Eve. Ben led the women inside, leaving Crispin and Sophia alone on the drive.

  Muffled laughter and music spilled from the upper floor ballroom. Sophia exhaled slowly and glanced up at Crispin. When the full strength of her stunning topaz blue gaze focused on him, his heart collided with his breastbone.

  “Forgive me for being surly,” she said. “You should have respected my wishes, mind you, but I should not have dismissed you this morning. I do not enjoy crossing swords with you.”

  He chuckled, caught off guard by her apology. “I think you do, Miss Darlington, at least a little.”

  “Perhaps a little,” she agreed. The corners of her lush mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “Nevertheless, I prefer when we get on well. As you said earlier today, we were once friends.”

  “I still consider you a friend, Sophia.”

  She shrugged and made a vague noise in her throat that did not quite sound like agreement.

  “Like you,” he said, “I prefer when we get along. Is it possible to start over with a clean slate?”

  “That is a difficult question to answer, my lord.” She tapped her closed fan against her cheek as if thinking. “I believe I am capable of allowing bygones to be bygones if you promise me a dance this evening.”

  Wariness crept up his spine. The wisest course would involve him politely declining, but Crispin had never followed the easiest or most sensible path—especially where Sophia was concerned.

  “Very well, Miss Darlington. I would be honored to stand up with you for one dance this evening.”

  “Splendid, I will mark your name beside the supper dance.”

  Crispin flinched. The supper dance would require him to escort her to the table and dine next to her. Although the prospect was greatly appealing, it was risky. She looked exquisite this evening. Her apricot silk gown complimented her ivory complexion and made her eyes appear bluer, while snowy white lace on the bodice gently hugged her willowy body. He would have a devil of a time maintaining an air of friendly indifference throughout the meal.

  Before he could form a response, she interjected, “Your glower deserves a rest, Margrave. Besides, no one else will want to claim the supper dance with you here. You’ve earned an alias, did you know?”

  He blinked in surprise. “An alias?”

  “That is correct.” She flicked open her fan and whispered behind it, even though they were alone, save the matching pair of footmen at the door. “Lord My Grave. They say you dig holes for sport and hunt bachelors to fill them.”

  He laughed. “You minx, I almost believed you.”

  “Just because no one has spoken it aloud does not mean they have not been thinking it.”

  “Are you able to read other’s thoughts, Miss Darlington?”

  “Perhaps.” She tipped her head to the side, studied him for a bit, then aimed an innocent smile in his direction. “Thankfully, it appears you cannot, my lord.”

  “Yes, thankfully,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “I can imagine the creative insults you are storing away for me in that brilliant mind of yours.”

  “Rest assured, any insults I concoct I will make you privy to immediately.”

  “I am sure you will.” He ushered her inside before she had a chance to charm him into a second dance.

  After seeing Sophia safely delivered to her aunt’s side, he excused himself to search for the card room. Having Sophia near and knowing she would always be out of his reach created a strong undercurrent of frustration he didn’t relish enduring longer than necessary. He would save his strength for their dance.

  At a set of massive oak paneled doors, he stopped to ask a footman for directions to the card room.

  “Through here, sir.” The servant tugged one of the polished brass handles and indicated he would find a game of loo in the drawing room at the end of the long corridor.

  As the door closed behind him, the sounds of merrymaking and a lively violin solo diminished. Intricate gold leaf wall sconces lit his way; candlelight undulated on crimson wall coverings as a warm breeze floated through the bank of open windows to his right.

  As was typical, the evening’s host and hostess had selected a room far away from the ballroom to provide male guests with a sanctuary free of husband-hunters—not that Crispin ever worried about such matters. He had worked hard to cultivate a reputation as an unredeemable rake, which discouraged most marriage-minded ladies, as well as providing an effective cover for espionage. One might be shocked by how freely men of dubious morals could roam wherever they pleased without raising questions.

  A floorboard creaked close behind. Reaching into his jacket for the small knife he always carried, he spun on his heel. The blade flashed in the candlelight. A la
dy yelped and jumped back, banging into the wall.

  It took him a moment to recognize her in the dim lighting and mourning attire. Tension drained from his body. “Forgive me, my lady. I was not expecting to encounter a member of the gentler sex in this part of the house.”

  Baroness Van Middleburg, second cousin to Perry Walsh, the current Duke of Stanhurst, regarded him with wide eyes. To the lady’s credit, having the life frightened out of her didn’t dull her sharp tongue. “Is it customary for blackguards to attack innocent, unsuspecting gentlemen outside the card room?”

  “Innocent men rarely sneak up behind me.” He returned the folding blade to his pocket.

  She sank against the wall; her hands were trembling. “I was not sneaking. I tried to catch you in the ballroom, but you were too quick.” Perhaps the chase and fright had been too much for her.

  “Do you require a doctor?” he asked. “Perhaps smelling salts?”

  “Smelling salts!” Her mouth puckered. “What do you take me for, young man? I am not an empty-headed debutante prone to swooning.”

  This was true. As a mother of six grown sons and a daughter, she was a seasoned lady. She should have enough sense not to accost a man when he was woolgathering, not that she could have anticipated his state of mind.

  He gentled his tone, thinking of Sophia’s great-aunt and how she occasionally became turned around in unfamiliar places. “Are you lost, my lady? Should I retrieve your husband?”

  Flames blazed in her nearly black eyes. “I know where I am, you deplorable arse,” she spat. “I do not require smelling salts. And if you can find which harlot’s bed my worthless husband is warming tonight, tell him to go to the devil and to take you with him.”

  Crispin fought back a smile. “Duly noted. No smelling salts required.”

  His mirth was like tinder tossed on a fire. An angry blush flooded her face, fists formed at her sides, and a stream of extremely unladylike insults aimed at him, his manhood, and his mother poured from her. It seemed she had inherited the Stanhurst temper like her deceased cousin. Crispin waited for her tirade to die down, his patience waning.