by Wendy Vella
Amelia’s room was like the rest of the house, stark and dreary, but the doll’s house was quite simply the most beautiful thing Sophie had ever seen. “Oh my,” she whispered, sinking to her knees, completely oblivious to her long lemon skirts.
The little house came to Sophie’s waist when she knelt and it had white walls and blue trim. The small windows were curtained, and Sophie could see that each room was painted in a different color.
“It even has kitchens,” Sophie said, pointing to a small room on the lowest of the four levels and laughing.
“Tell me what is going on, Sophie.”
Grabbing Amelia’s hand, Sophie tugged her onto the floor beside her and began to tell her some of what Letty had related that morning. Of course, she left out the parts about Lady Pette’s abuse at the hands of her husband; it was not her role to tell Amelia what sort of man her father had been.
“You can open the front like this,” Amelia said, absently showing Sophie a latch.
“Ooooh.”
Amelia snorted at Sophie’s excitement. “So my mother and Lady Carstairs have not spoken since I was born?”
“Yes.” Sophie lifted a small man doll out of a chair. She knew that jacket—it was the one Amelia had purchased when Sophie had bought her own doll, which she had named Rose.
“That is sad; perhaps if Mama and Lady Carstairs had remained friends she would have been happier.”
Sophie’s heart went out to Amelia. Obviously, Lady Pette had carried her grief and anger deep inside and her daughter had suffered as a consequence.
“Look at us,” Sophie said, trying to lighten the mood. “Both respectable members of society and here we are playing with dolls.”
“During my childhood, they were my salvation,” Amelia whispered.
“And for me, the one I purchased just the other day was my first.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Sophie nodded.
“Well, Countess, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
* * *
If Patrick wanted something, he pursued it with single-minded determination until it became his. He had learnt the art of patience the hard way, yet did not take rejection well, in any form, and truth be told it was something that he had not had much experience with over the past few years, until now.
He watched as that simpering fool Edgeware led Sophie out onto the dance floor.
For three nights she had avoided him. Whenever he drew near, she threw herself at the nearest male and begged that he dance with her. The recipients of her attention were more than happy, because Sophie was not usually so demonstrative. Patrick, however, was not pleased. In fact, smoldering anger was burning low in his stomach and he was about to stalk across the room and grab her and to hell with the consequences.
“So it is to be pistols at dawn, my friend?”
“Go away, Sumner,” Patrick growled.
“Why don’t just throw her over your shoulder and be done with it?”
“I will plant my fist in your highly prized face if you do not desist in this line of provocation.” Patrick’s tone was fiercely polite.
“If I must.” Stephen sighed theatrically.
Patrick rolled his eyes, but kept them on Sophie, who was now dancing with Stepforth, an idiot who was almost drooling on her.
“Do you know I just danced with Miss Pette, and the woman has a decidedly waspish tongue considering her unassuming appearance,” Stephen said, searching the room for Amelia.
“A woman of great sense, it would seem. I must compliment her on her ability to see past your face to the empty cavern behind.”
“She said that a man is only as intelligent and witty as a woman allows him to be,” Stephen added, ignoring Patrick’s insult.
For the first time in days, Patrick felt his lips twitch. Not many women stood up to Stephen; most just gazed adoringly into his eyes and smiled idiotically.
Both men lapsed into silence, Patrick still brooding over Sophie and Stephen looking at Miss Pette and wondering how such a dowdy mouse had captured his attention.
“Cards?” Stephen asked sometime later.
Patrick grunted his acceptance and followed Stephen from the room before he did something scandalous—something no woman but that bloody raven-haired temptress could entice him to do.
* * *
“Of course there are rumors; some say she forced him to wed her on his deathbed.”
“I heard he was delirious and she paid a priest to do the ceremony as he drew his last breath.”
“Yes, and that the boy is not the late earl’s, but a by-blow from one of her lovers.”
Sophie’s balance was good, but the window ledge was a trifle narrow and she was hindered by the long skirts of her evening gown. Moving slowly, she tried to wiggle closer to her goal. Surely if she jumped she could reach the balcony several feet below.
“Lady Hamilton told me the countess has taken several lovers since arriving in town. That poor little boy, to have such a mother, why it breaks my heart.”
Ha, Sophie thought, what heart? They were all the same, these society ladies; never had she encountered such a group of gossip-mongering harpies. To her face they were all that was sweet, but behind her back they were nothing short of Machiavellian.
“I have tried in vain to see the supposed beauty some profess she has. Alas, I have yet to find any evidence.”
“Indeed, very overrated. Why, that hair cannot be natural and those lashes …”
“Perhaps her charms are of a more base nature and not so evident …”
Sophie ground her teeth at the chorus of high-pitched laughter the suggestive words provoked. The women who now occupied the retiring room had all the subtlety of a runaway carriage.
Wiggling further along the cold surface, Sophie knew her gloves would be beyond repair when she finally reached her destination. Her actions were, of course, extremely foolhardy; climbing out the window to avoid the gaggle of ladies who were intent upon tearing her to shreds did seem a little excessive. Sophie knew she outranked all of them, but she had panicked. She had been leaning out the window in a darkened corner, gulping in fresh air, when the women had entered, and suddenly could not face their false words and simpering smiles. So she had run. Well, climbed actually.
“Cold as ice, the coldhearted countess they call her. I wonder sometimes if she is not aloof but merely witless and unable to converse on any topic, as she has little or no understanding of our ways.”
“Yes, it makes one question if her reasons for not entering society sooner were indeed true.”
“A sick relative,” someone sneered and Sophie clamped her teeth together to stop herself from shouting several foul words back through the window.
The laughter faded as she edged farther away, and soon Sophie was relieved to finally move out of hearing. “Harpies,” she hissed, sure in the knowledge that only she could hear her words.
Extending one leg, Sophie pointed her toe and felt the reassuring solidness of the wide stone balustrade below. She could jump down onto that easily. Pushing herself upright she clutched the edge of the building and looked down. Faint light from the windows showed she was in no danger of landing on another guest, so she let go.
“I fear you will break your pretty neck if you jump, Countess. Or was that the plan?”
CHAPTER FOUR
The deep drawled words made Sophie shriek, then grasp the downpipe as she swayed toward the edge. With her heart pounding wildly, she squinted down into the Earl of Coulters’s handsome face. She could not see all his features, but there was little doubting that he was amused by her predicament.
“If you were not planning to end it all on that ledge, Sophie, then perhaps you were taking air?”
Sophie felt her temper rise and for once could not find her habitual hauteur. Well really, could one display hauteur to any great effect when seated on a ledge, several feet above the ground? Still … how dare he make fun of her?
“If I wish t
o sit on this ledge all evening, my lord, then that is my choice. And I … I did not give you leave to call me by my first name, sir.”
The deep rumble of laughter from below had Sophie gritting her teeth.
“Ah, but remember, Sophie, I have seen your lovely satin knickers. Surely that gives me some rights,” the earl said.
Sophie pressed her lips together. She would not speak to him.
“I am afraid I cannot let you perch on the ledge a minute longer, my little bird. You see, you are in imminent danger of falling.”
As if to strengthen his argument, Patrick watched one of the countess’s dainty feet move closer to the edge. What the hell was she doing up there? It was only by chance that he had chosen this small balcony to find some peace from the matrons, who were firing their daughters into his path with all the finesse of a drill sergeant. It also gave him the opportunity to think about the irritating shrew now perched above him. Had he not looked up then and there, he would have missed her completely. It was almost beyond belief that the haughty Countess of Monmouth was sitting on that ledge like a naughty child.
“I can manage quite well on my own, my lord, so please leave and allow me to … ah …”
“Dismount?” Patrick suggested helpfully.
Sophie ignored him and once again turned to jump. How was she to talk her way out of this one? Surely he would tell everyone of her escapade and then Letty would be both mortified and furious with her, and her reputation as the ice maiden would be ruined.
“Take my hand,” Patrick offered.
“Get down at once, my lord!” Sophie was horrified as the earl climbed nimbly onto the edge of the balustrade, where he balanced himself and then held both his hands out toward her.
“Take my hand, Sophie,” Patrick said again, this time with a little more force, which the little baggage noticed because her eyes widened fractionally.
“No!”
Heaving a very loud sigh, which the woman above him could hear quite clearly, Patrick folded his arms and waited. He knew that it was a long drop to the ground, but he felt no fear. He had grown up scaling balconies and anything else he could climb. Patrick had felt free, away from the control his parents had upon his life. Only when he was soaring above the earth did he believe that one day he would escape the life he was forced to live. The countess, however, did not know that.
She looked so small, sitting on that ledge. Several ringlets had escaped their pins and trailed over her shoulders. Her eyes were huge in her pale face and she looked like a cornered doe. Patrick had the feeling it was not just his presence that was to blame for her condition. He wondered again which was the real countess—the one who did handstands and stuttered or the cool ice maiden? He had a feeling it was the former, and that made his insides twist, which in turn made him angry, for no woman had ever made his insides twist. From his vantage point he could see the gentle swell of her breasts as she bent over and the primitive male in him was not immune to such a display. Lust bolted through his body like forks of lightning, leaving him hungry for her.
“What the hell are you doing on that ledge?” he asked, because suddenly he needed to know.
“I … I cannot tell you, my lord,” Sophie whispered. “Pray do not ask me again, and please hold on to something,” she added. Seeing him standing on that small ledge—seemingly at ease with a drop of some sixty feet below him—was making her feel very unwell.
Patrick could see her gloved hands shaking as they struggled to clutch the downpipe.
“Cannot or will not?” he questioned softly.
“Cannot.” Sophie shivered. It was cold and she was clad in a very thin gown.
“Come, enough of this nonsense. You are shivering and in imminent danger of falling, now place your hands in mine, I will bring you down safely.” His tone was deeper, words clipped, but he was still surprised when Sophie lowered both her arms toward him. Before she had a chance to withdraw them, he had swung her off the ledge to safety and onto the balcony below. Nimbly, he followed.
For Sophie, reaching the safety of solid ground presented a double-edged sword. She was relieved to be safe, yet uncertain what the earl would do now. Straightening her skirts, she made a fuss of brushing off any dirt and repinning her hair. Finally, she could find nothing else to repair and was forced to lift her eyes. She met the intensity of his gaze and took several steps back until her bottom collided with the railing.
Manners dictated she thank him. She would do that and leave … quickly. “Thank you, my lord, f-for you … your assistance.”
Patrick had waited patiently while she arranged her skirts and tidied her hair. He had even enjoyed the small graceful movements. Now, however, he wanted answers. Taking the two steps necessary to bring her closer, he caught and held her glance.
“Why were you on that ledge, Sophie?”
Oh lord, he was close; she could smell his scent, the spicy essence that was his alone. She could also vividly remember the touch of his lips and how his hands had felt on her bottom, and … Oh this was not good, not good at all. She had nowhere to run, she was trapped. Although he was not touching her, she could not move or breathe. Where was the armor she could usually pull around herself when someone or something threatened her?
“Please, my lord, I wish to g-go back into the ballroom; Lady Carstairs will have missed me.”
“When you have answered my questions, madam, I will let you return.”
“You have no right t-to hold me here.”
“Answer the question, Sophie,” Patrick said gruffly, because he was running out of patience, and being this close to her was making his body ache. Her subtle scent was teasing him, the hint of roses casting a spell over his senses.
“I … I gave you no leave to speak so freely, my lord.”
He did not speak, just stood there all dark and dangerous, looking at her with those deep, fathomless eyes.
“I … the ladies …,” Sophie blurted out, and then clamped her lip firmly between her teeth to stop any further outpouring of words.
“The ladies what?” Patrick prompted, placing both hands on the balcony railing, effectively caging her inside his arms.
“Please,” Sophie begged, her words almost a sob, “let me go.”
“The ladies what?”
Sophie knew she would have to speak or risk staying here all evening. She could see the determination in his eyes; he would hold her here until dawn if necessary. Why could she not just chill him into silence like she had done with others? Why was he the man who could reduce her to a senseless idiot?
“They were saying things I did not want to hear.” Sophie kept her eyes focused on his lips. She would tell him what he wanted and then she would leave.
“And you care what they say?” God, she was sweet. She was nibbling her bottom lip and the gesture nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Y-yes.”
This vulnerable countess was at such odds with the façade she usually presented him that he felt his defenses slip further. Damn, she was a confusing bundle of womanhood.
“Why?” he questioned looking at her mouth. She had tortured her bottom lip until it was full and rosy.
“They do not like me.”
“Did they threaten you?” Patrick questioned, relieved as he watched her shake her head. “Then why did you end up on that ledge?”
Sophie felt his breath brush her lips.
“I … I did not want to face them and listen to their vicious words. They often insult L-Letty as well and I will not tolerate that.”
“Why do you care what they say?” Patrick leaned further forward to breathe in her soft scent, the essence of Sophie.
“I … I.” Sophie swallowed as his lips brushed her hair. “I usually do not care, but tonight I did not have the strength to face them.”
“No doubt you used all your strength avoiding me and throwing yourself into the arms of the nearest male.”
“I did not!” Sophie gasped, then blushed as he lifted one e
yebrow, because that was indeed what she had done.
He had to taste her again, just one touch, a brief kiss. Lowering his head, he placed his mouth softly on top of hers and knew instantly that one touch would never be enough with this woman. Nectar was his first and last thought before he deepened the kiss.
At the touch of his lips, Sophie felt her knees tremble. He might appear ruthless, but once again his touch was soft; he was coaxing a response instead of demanding one. His tongue traced her lips, its heat searing through her.
“Open for me, Sophie,” Patrick whispered, his breath stroking her face.
Sophie could do little else but obey, remembering the delicious feel of his tongue in her mouth.
Patrick slipped his arms around her waist and she came willingly as he pulled her closer.
“You want this, Sophie,” Patrick growled as he placed heated kisses on her smooth skin.
“Please.” Sophie shivered as his kisses reached the rise of her breasts above the neckline of her gown.
Patrick cupped their fullness, then traced the swell, scraping one nail over a taut nipple.
“Ohhh,” Sophie sighed, as the most exquisite sensation rippled through her body.
“Of course, she will probably take him to her bed, Coulter is impossible to resist when he puts his mind to something … or should I say someone,” a high-pitched voice said from somewhere above them.
Both Patrick and Sophie stiffened as the voice drifted to where they stood. Sophie moved first. With a small cry, she wrenched herself free and ran across the balcony into the shadows.
Patrick cursed. Those women were nothing but gossip-mongering bitches.
“No!” Sophie lifted her hands to ward him off as he followed her.
“Never again, my lord,” Sophie vowed as she walked backward until her hands encountered a door handle. “I will never again be in a position where you … ah.”
“Can ravish you?” Patrick said, a wicked smile playing about his lips. “Where I can lick your breasts, and kiss your lush mouth and make you mewl those sweet little sounds into my ears?”