Moriah Densley

by Song For Sophia

  A Bargain With The Devil … Or Worse — Lord Devon

  Sophia felt a prickle on her neck, intuition alerting her she was being observed. She closed the book and slid it onto the shelf, then gripped the railing of the ladder as she turned to look for Lord Devon.

  He sat so still her eyes passed over him at first. Then she spotted him: Apollo’s coarser, meaner elder brother lounged in a leather armchair between two tall bookshelves opposite her, not twenty feet away.

  “Vous faites des ravages partout où vous allez, madame.” You wreak havoc wherever you go, madam.

  Sophia smirked, then realized she had given much away. He assumed she spoke French, and she confirmed it with her expression. Or if he had exceptionally good eyesight he might have recognized Odes et Ballades by Hugo on the spine of the book she had been caught reading. She grasped the ladder with both hands as she teetered on the rung, mortified. Sophia had last dusted a book more than a half hour ago and spent the time reading instead.

  He straightened, looking up from his book with an arched eyebrow and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a sly smile. Not so patiently awaiting her response.

  “Lord Devon,” she greeted dryly, in the same tone she might say, You impish prankster. He shrugged one shoulder to mean, So you finally figured it out. Bravo.

  “The only havoc I see here is the dreadful cataloging. For one so meticulous, it strikes me as odd that the alphabet should be beyond you.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I organize them chronologically by genre.”

  “You have the Bible next to Homer.”

  “Fiction.”

  Sophia scoffed and made a show of looking up at the ceiling as though she expected lightning to strike him down.

  “Keep waiting, madam. If there is a god, he is busy punishing the righteous.” He laughed at her stricken expression. “Does blasphemy offend my lady?” he mocked.

  Sophia tried to stifle a rush of pleasure. A philosophical debate? Intelligent flirting? Do not take the bait, Sophia! She couldn’t help it. She mirrored his cocked eyebrow and lowered her voice, purposely making the tone a bit purring, “It is not my wrath you should fear, my lord, and I am not a lady.”

  He stood and walked with a swagger to the base of the ladder. He bent to retrieve her dusting rag from the floor and held it out. She had no choice but to climb down and take it.

  His storm-gray eyes narrowed. “Aber ich fürchte dich, Sie.” But I do fear you.

  German. He was testing her. What he really meant was, Are you a worthy opponent? Can you match wits with me?

  “Warum sagst du das?” And why do you say that?

  “Hai tentato due volte di uccidermi.” You have tried twice to slay me.

  Italian. Easy. Her mother was Italian, and Sophia grew up spending summers in Florence. Her smile warmed, not the coy version she saved for flirting. The one she gave Lord Devon came from genuine enjoyment. “On the contrary, when I set out to slay a man, there are no failed attempts. Tenga cuidado, señor.” There, take that. Spanish.

  One side of his mouth pulled into a flat smile, but his eyes beamed. “Theoro ton eafto mou proeidopoiimeno.” I consider myself warned, in Greek.

  “Sapiens tui.” Wise of you, in Latin. Sophia would soon run out of languages and hoped he would too, because she did not want to lose his little contest. “Where do you hide the novels? I missed the last Wilkie Collins.”

  “Not so fast. Let us bargain, you and I.” He leaned closer and her throat tightened. “You tell me why you call yourself not a lady, and I will surrender Oscar Wilde’s latest.”

  Throw in Trollope and you can have anything you want. Sophia bit her lip. This was not one of her mother’s decadent parties in Paris, and Lord Devon was no swain.

  “Shall I say, answer my query, and you can have your pick from my secret cache of novels?”

  “My lord, indeed you know how to tempt a bluestocking. I would have traded my soul for Trollope, alas you have surrendered the whole lot.”

  Lord Devon did something utterly beautiful: he tossed his head back and laughed in loud tenor peals. Sophia could not resist staring. His woodsy spice smell made her head foggy. Had he moved closer then, or had his scent drawn her in?

  Wake up, Sophia. Flirtation was a game only the rich could afford, and for now, Sophia was a housemaid. She stepped back and held up her dusting rag, keeping it between herself and the very tempting Lord Devon. “I forget myself, my lord. I have books to dust, and if I am waylaid by Wilde or Trollope, I shall never finish.”

  “You do as you please. And I allow you to do as you please.” He said this blandly, a statement of fact.

  “A grievance or edict?”

  He smiled. “Both, madam.”

  Well, what on earth could she say that?

  “I see no need to pretend our little game can sustain itself any longer.” He lowered his voice, “Perhaps you might ease my conscience. If you accept a more genteel position in my household, you may cease scrubbing and dusting, and I can quit agonizing over the sight of you doing so.”

  Ah, there it came. The choice to be a man’s mistress, or not. For the sake of being able to throw it back in his face, she blurted, “I am at your service, my lord.”

  “Ah, good. Because in two week’s time I will have need of a governess.”

  Sophia blinked, glad it was her only outward sign of shock.

  “I received word that my cousin, Sir Eldrich Cavendish has died. Since his son Philip is estranged and out pirate-hunting with the Royal Navy, I am left guardian of his three daughters. May I assume you are qualified in all the usual subjects?”

  “Do you mean needlepoint, piano, and polite conversation? Or are you referring to literature, politics, marksmanship and — ” Bed play, she swallowed before it came out. The more she studied his expression, she understood he was serious. He did not recognize her as a woman with the sensibilities of a courtesan, trained to spar with men as equals. He still thought her a lady despite her warning.

  “My nieces are precocious, with quaint French manners and neglected educations. You have your work cut out for you. I would be pleased to find your tutelage comprehensive in academic subjects, and defer to your judgment in other matters with the hope they will emulate your disposition.”

  If she had a mite less discipline, Sophia’s jaw would have fallen open. “Why, thank you, Lord Devon.”

  He chuckled, a private, maddeningly seductive sound. “Wilhelm,” he said softly. “And you must give me something to call you, other than madam. I tire of it.”

  “In private, Rosalie. In company, Mrs. Cooper.”

  He seemed disappointed. Had he expected to address her intimately before others?

  “Perhaps in time you will give me another name. Rosalie.”

  She went cold. Unsurprising he had seen through her disguise, considering how often he had caught her behaving suspiciously. But guessing she used a false name? That was dangerous.

  He touched her, his hand brushing the side of her arm slowly from elbow to shoulder. Not licentious, so she could not complain, but neither did it feel platonic.

  “You said before I may keep my secrets and I shall. I promise you would like me less without my mystery.”

  “I believe I warned you before about baiting me. Knightly quests, curiosity and cats, and all that.”

  It was her turn to laugh, and he stared. She flattered herself to believe he was transfixed.

  “Wilhelm? Oh, there you are.”

  When Lord Devon turned to look behind him, Sophia saw a regal middle-aged woman approaching. She did not appear pleased to find him flirting with the housemaid.

  “Hello, Aunt Louisa.”

  “I thought I heard you laughing a moment ago and came to your rescue. I have not heard such a frightening sound in years.”

  He pecked a kiss on her cheek, and the fond look he gave his aunt made Sophia like him a little more. “Aunt Louisa, may I present Mrs. Rosalie Cooper, our new governess for the
girls.”

  To her credit, Aunt Louisa managed a stiff nod in exchange to Sophia’s curtsey. She wore the proper expression for a lady greeting a demimondaine, silent disapproval and eyes slightly averted. Sophia knew she had the bohemian look about herself, even in the domestic uniform. Everyone except Lord Devon seemed to recognize it.

  “You are too kind, my lord, but I do not recall accepting the position.”

  “Of course you did.” Do not make me quote, “I am at your service.”

  You wouldn’t dare.

  Oh, but I would.

  As clearly as if they had spoken, they communicated with expressions.

  “You do me great honor, my lord.”

  “Aunt Louisa, please inform Mrs. Abbott that Rosalie Cooper’s new duties begin today. Now.” He took Sophia’s dusting rag then reached for the volume of Hugo she had shelved. Placing the book in her hands, he announced, “I shall show her to the Red Suite.”

  She didn’t miss Aunt Louisa’s look of horror as Sophia took Lord Devon’s arm.

  “Second floor study in the east wing. That is where I keep the novels. Have at it, but take care what the girls see you reading. I draw the line at excessive brutality and graphic sensuality.”

  “What sort of novels do you expect I read?”

  “I expect you read everything. It is not my business, I only ask for discretion.”

  My, oh my.

  “Ten o’clock at night, and bring a lantern. And the dogs, for protection.” At her puzzled expression he explained, “The bathhouse. Be out by eleven. Unless you want company.”

  Sophia hoped her blush was solely for the too-fresh memory of her debacle a few weeks past, and not for his joking innuendo. He made her feel warm. Too warm. “I declare I have no idea what you are referring to, my lord.”

  “Neither do I. Fritz whispered the suggestion to me earlier. I tried to tell him it was boorish, but he wouldn’t listen. And call me Wilhelm.”

  He reached across her shoulders, removed the pin holding her cap on and wadded the spinsterly abomination. Good riddance. But why did he stuff it in his pocket?

  “Say it.”

  “What?”

  “Rosalie. Call me Wilhelm.”

  “Wilhelm. You are strange. And I don’t think I am well-suited to be a governess.”

  “Why ever not?” Not a hint of irony. He was in earnest.

  She doubted she could train impressionable young ladies to be a man’s pet.

  “Perhaps I am a murderess. Or I might be the author of excessively sensual and brutal novels. Worse yet, I may speak my mind and offend my superiors.”

  “Then at the least I shall have some entertainment in this godforsaken house.” He slanted a wry smile at her.

  Bent on laying out all his terms, he went on, businesslike. “Meals with the family, as well as holidays and socializing when necessary. Whatever salary is marketable for a governess, I will triple it. More. You will have anything you want, frankly.”

  “Very generous terms, my lord.”

  “I am not generous. On the contrary, I shall demand a great deal from you.” His voice was pure seduction, but his expression looked innocent, and contrarily his thumb rubbing the top of her hand started a small fire low in her belly. He was driving her mad.

  “Lord De — Wilhelm. I cannot tell if you are employing my services in the schoolroom or the bedchamber. You will have to tell me plainly if you want me for a lover.”

  He laughed, and she wanted to slap the mirth off his face. Then she looked and saw coldness in his eyes. Was he mocking her?

  “Absolutely, to the latter. But wanting and having are entirely separate matters, are they not? I am rather accustomed to going without the things I want. No, dear Rosalie, against the advice of my baser self, I shall spare you those duties.”

  Sophia had never been so dizzy. Sincerity or sarcasm? She was so disoriented she belatedly realized she would not have to tell him to sod off.

  “I do not recall such an offer in the first place,” he mock-whispered, “And I would be a fool to presume.”

  “Your humility serves you well.”

  “I shall store your words away and savor them again in the future, perhaps at a time when you contradict yourself.” Then he winked and smiled, and it disarmed her.

  Sophia could not resist a wide smile; it was all she could do to avoid laughing outright again. No use letting him think he had thoroughly charmed her. “Then what is it you demand, aside from teaching your nieces?”

  “Your company, anytime I ask for it. And … an illusion.” He explained, “Surely you noticed I mean to give the impression you are my mistress. It is the simplest explanation to present to the household and the best way I can protect you.” He said it experimentally, but his eyes watched with a hawkish intensity. She was careful to show no reaction to his suggestion that she needed protection.

  “Fair enough.” Pretend to be a ladybird? Sophia was willing to do far worse than appear to behave wickedly for the sake of her safety.

  “Depending on the situation, I may introduce you as my paramour, fiancée, or even wife. And you will smile and play the part, something you do well.”

  A man who only wanted to appear attached to a woman? She could only think of one reason why, but she would never dare ask. Instead she teased, “You sound like a spymaster.”

  Wilhelm chuckled. “Clever female. Too clever, but that is why I like you.”

  His expression invited no argument. “My secrets in exchange for yours. Deal.”

  He ducked to kiss her temple and let silence hang between them until they reached the west wing. They passed the master suite, then Wilhelm halted and unlocked the next door. The Red Suite, the luxurious apartments of the non-existent Lady Devon. Sophia followed him inside, knowing there was no going back.

  Chapter 6

  Why Rum Is Henceforth Banned At Rougemont

  Lord Devon still had not said a word. He lounged in the window seat overlooking the west courtyard. Long minutes, perhaps a quarter hour — a long time for silence. It seemed he hardly blinked or even moved. Sophia reclined on a settee, studying the sitting room fit for a queen. Scarlet velvet drapes framed tall windows, marble tile veined in black and red shared the floor with Persian rugs like the ones she admired in the music room. Dramatic mahogany furniture gave the room its somber Rococo style. Elegant but serious, a space she could relax in. The enormous canopied bed called to her, feather stuffed — hallelujah!

  The painted friezes of Roman goddesses and their lovers chasing each other across the ceiling put her in a maudlin mood. Sophia was all too aware of the far door of the bedchamber connecting to Lord Devon’s — Wilhelm’s, she corrected herself — dressing room. Of course it would stay locked, but she would think far too often of who slept on the other side.

  Finally he turned and stared, and she felt conspicuous. His gaze raked over her, a slow study with a hint of erotic interest belying his even expression. Why did he do that? She stared back, blatantly studying him in return, but the brazenness seemed lost on him.

  Wilhelm looked striking, cast half in light and half in shadow. His coloring was subdued; as though God had not dared paint such a grim, ferocious man with frivolous colors. Storm gray eyes, sharp rather than brilliant. Careless waves of collar-length hair a sandy blond that had probably grown darker as he matured. And mature was the word. His thirty-some-odd years had not been kind. He looked excessively weather-beaten and scarred for a lord. He was essentially too much. Too handsome, domineering, far too interesting.

  “I feel wary of you as well, Rosalie.”

  “You see too much, Wilhelm.”

  “I am often told that, in variations.”

  “What were you thinking of just now? You seemed deep in concentration.”

  He shook his head. “We deal in secrets, you and I. Tell me one of yours, and I’ll tell one of mine.”

  “All right. Well, I once ran naked down Rue de Jardinet at midnight. I was drunk and lost
a wager.”

  Oh, that beguiling half-smile! One side of his mouth pulled up, carving a dimple in one cheek while the other side set in a smirk. It made him look like a mischievous pirate. She could grow accustomed to teasing that smile out of him.

  “Interesting, Rosalie, but it must be the one I ask for.”

  “What do you want to know?” His gaze bore into hers, and she felt as naked as she had that wild night in Paris, but painfully sober.

  “What sort of foe do I protect you from?” Before she could object he added, “The truth, please, or I will know. And if you won’t give names, at least tell me what we are up against.”

  We. We? Since when did they become we?

  Wilhelm unfolded himself and stalked to the settee, kneeling directly in front of her where she couldn’t escape the cold fire burning in the facets of his eyes. Up close he was mesmerizing.

  “You are hiding from the law … . No. You’ve been wronged. Betrayed. Ah, yes — a truth. By your husband? No. Someone else in your family.” His gaze scanned her face as though her entire history was written there. “And you are very, very frightened. But I see such ruthlessness in you. You are ready to fight. You expect it. And that resolve was instilled in you by a great deal of hardship.”

  Sophia turned away before he guessed everything else. “Stop that.”

  “I apologize.”

  “What, are you a gypsy fortune teller? How do you do that? I didn’t say a word.”

  “Your face did. Your eyes hardened when I mentioned betrayal. You swallow when you are angry. And your pupils dilate when I guess the truth, but you blink when I am wrong. Otherwise, you are admirably demure. Never fear, you would fool all but the best.”

  “And you are the best?”

  Wilhelm smiled, and she hoped he wouldn’t do it often — it was blinding. Wearing a true smile, he went from roughly handsome to devastating. “You said so, not me. Now your turn. Ask.”

  “Why do you offer me such freedom? To a stranger?”

  “Some reasons I may tell you later — I don’t wish to frighten you. But primarily, I like you. I suppose I trust you.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Instinctually — I am seldom wrong. Why, should I not trust you?”