by Wendy Vella
She wished for someone to share this burden with and a pair of dark, all-seeing eyes slipped into her head, but she pushed them aside. After how shamefully she had behaved when last they met, Sophie doubted Lord Coulter would speak to her again. She winced as she remembered his groan when she had lifted her knee into his groin. No, confiding in the earl was something she would never do.
* * *
Patrick watched as the grooms led the matching blacks out of their stall. He had one shoulder propped on a wall and appeared relaxed. To anyone looking, he was merely enjoying the male environment of equine smells mingled with the scent of excitement that was always on offer at Tattersalls. His eyes, however, were another story entirely—they were alive with the fire that always heated his blood before he made an acquisition. After inspecting the pair upon his arrival, he had known they would be an excellent investment.
“Do you know what that bloody Timpkins just said?” growled Stephen as he joined Patrick on his wall.
“Any chance you can hold your tongue for five minutes?” Patrick said as he felt his heartbeat increase when the first bid was called. The tougher the haggling, the more he liked it.
“He inferred that she had thrown herself at his feet, and that she was …”
Ignoring Stephen, Patrick nodded his head to indicate his interest; out of the corner of his eye, he could see two other men bidding..
“A woman of loose morals, and he, the pious little bastard …”
Patrick nodded again. “Shut up!” he said softly to Stephen, who was rabbiting on about Timpkins and some woman.
“Anyone can see she is hardly that.” Stephen ignored the warning and continued on with his story. “ ’Tis my belief she tweaked his pride and rebuffed him, but of course the others will believe his word and the story will be bigger than Lady Toon’s knickers before sunset.”
Patrick always fixed a purchase price in his head and never advanced beyond that.
“Poor countess, the woman is faced with enough …”
“What!”
Stephen hid his smile as Patrick roared in his ear.
“Speak, man.” Patrick said, this time in the soft voice that was far more threatening.
“I say,” Stephen said, looking at the horses that were being led around the pen before him. “Aren’t those the ones you wanted?”
“Sold! Congratulations your grace.”
Patrick ground his teeth as he watched the Duke of St. Brides wave at him with a huge smile on his face. Spitting out a chorus of oaths, he then pinned Stephen with a stare that would have felled a lesser man. “What about the countess?” he gritted out.
“Timpkins was surrounded by his usual pack of mealymouthed cronies,” Stephen said, looking suddenly very serious, which instantly put Patrick on alert. Stephen never looked serious about anything.
“He said that your countess had made several very suggestive remarks to him about entertaining him in her rooms, and then commented on your closeness to her over the last few weeks. However a reliable source told me that it was he who approached her and that she turned him down, and that is why he is blackening her name with this foul story.”
“Is he still here?” Patrick asked, looking over the groups of men still attending the horse sales.
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
To Stephen’s mind, Patrick was most dangerous when he was still. When he hissed or growled out foul language, then he was mildly angry, but when he was quiet it was a very bad sign.
“Perhaps it would be prudent to wait before seeing him.”
“You know me better than that,” Patrick said as he started striding away from Stephen.
Stephen followed, beginning to wonder if he should have kept his large mouth shut and hoping like hell that Timpkins had left the sales.
* * *
Lord Timpkins, Timpy to his intimates, was happiest when he was surrounded by his cronies and boasting about his latest feats. He was not a handsome man; passable, but not handsome. Perhaps he was a trifle short in the leg and round in the shoulders, and one of his past mistresses said he had a weak chin—after he had given her a very nice parting gift of a ruby necklace—yet on this beautiful sunny day he could find no fault in his world. He was wearing his favorite jacket of pale salmon, which worked well with his complexion. His friends were still humming over his tidbits about the countess and soon they would retire to their club for a long luncheon.
“I say, is that Coulter coming this way?”
Timpkins looked up and straight into the expressionless features of one of the most handsome and powerful members of the ton. He felt a momentary qualm at the thought that both Coulter and Lord Sumner were coming his way. Of course that was not likely, he thought bitterly; they never spoke with him.
“Timpkins!” Patrick growled.
“I say, Coulter, steady old man, anyone would think you were angry with old Timpy,” said Mr. Tweetie, one of Timpkins’s friends. Then he brayed loudly and fluttered his hands in a nervous gesture that the earl completely ignored.
“N-not purchasing today, my lord?” Timpkins said and was dismayed to notice his voice had risen a couple of octaves.
Stephen muffled his laughter at the look of panic that Timpkins now wore on his chubby face. Patrick, however, was far from laughing; in fact, he had the look of someone who wanted to have a good milling.
“Your gossip to date, Timpkins, has never bothered me. It is something done by bored men who have little or nothing to recommend them to either their peers or women.”
Stephen groaned as a round of horrified gasps greeted Patrick’s words. By sunset everyone would be gossiping about the altercation between Timpkins and Patrick.
“I say, …,” Mr. Tweetie spluttered.
Patrick ignored everyone else; his eyes were still on the man before him as he took a step closer. “You will never speak of the countess again, is that understood?”
“Y-yes,” Timpkins stuttered, wiping his brow with his cuff.
“Your malicious words are the result of her refusal to take up the insulting offer you issued her two nights ago, and I will not have your petty wounded pride blackening her reputation.” Patrick’s tone was like a distant roll of thunder. “Do I make myself clear, Timpkins?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” Timpkins squealed as he looked into the black eyes before him. He was sure they were not dissimilar to the depths of hell.
A few men in the crowd started to clap and a few started to defend their friend. Patrick just turned on his heel and stalked away.
He wanted to hit something; unfortunately, Stephen was closest. After collecting their horses, they began to wind their way through the streets of London.
“Shall we go a few rounds at Jackson’s boxing saloon?” Patrick inquired in a deceptively mild voice.
“I think you have caused enough scandal for one day,” Stephen said, “and I for one quite like the shape of my nose,” he said, running one finger down the long aristocratic length.
“Coward,” Patrick grumbled, but here was no heat in his words.
“Of course you realize that your defense of the countess, while very heroic, will now give rise to further speculation about your relationship with her,” Stephen said, lifting his leg clear of the stirrup as Patrick’s big, black beast of a horse tried to nip him in the calf.
“Good boy.” Patrick felt himself smiling for the first time that day.
Nothing further was said as they headed back to Patrick’s town house, though both men had plenty to think about.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You can only run so far, Countess.” Patrick watched Sophie climb into a boat with Viscount Dinsdale.
“Stop brooding, Colt!” Stephen said. “I came to flirt and frolic, yet your black countenance is scaring every young lady away, and plenty of the older ones, too,” Stephen added, watching Lady Margin’s smile falter as she looked at Patrick and swiftly changed direction.
“I do not brood!” Pat
rick snapped, then cursed because he never snapped either. Bloody woman; she was destroying his equilibrium.
“For pity’s sake, just throw her over your shoulder and be done with it!” Stephen snarled as he walked away, glad that Patrick couldn’t see his smirk. This was just getting to be too much fun, he thought, heading for a bevy of beauties who were all standing around giggling. Never had he seen his friend so tied in knots over one woman. It was really very enjoyable, Stephen realized, tweaking his cuffs, then coming to a standstill as he noted Miss Pette several feet to the left. Turning, he walked in the other direction. Something about that woman made him feel like he was wearing a hair shirt.
Sophie tried not to look to the left as Lord Dinsdale pushed the boat from land. She could feel the smoldering heat of Lord Coulter’s eyes following her as they had often done since that day in his carriage. So far she had managed to avoid his company, and his frustration and anger. Appearances suggested he was the polite, aloof peer, yet Sophie knew better. Lord Coulter was furious with her for continuing to avoid him and she knew that eventually she would feel his wrath.
Letty had assured Sophie that she must attend Lord and Lady Shubert’s garden party. Apparently it was the event of the season. The couple was known for their extravagances and outrageous themes and this year Lady Shubert had outdone herself. Everything was Egyptian, right down to the giant pyramids made of satin surrounded by half-naked men wearing small loincloths. Each wore a long dark wig and gold bands around their biceps. Many of the women present were gazing at the men with undisguised adoration, which made Sophie giggle. It was not often that half-dressed men were in attendance at a society gathering.
Sophie smiled at Viscount Dinsdale as he told her in melodic tones that her eyes reminded him of the moss that grows on damp forest floors. Sophie thought about that for a moment. Not your typical ode to green eyes, yet surely he deserved something for originality.
She looked at the bank that was festooned with brightly colored tents, all housing different exotic treats. The array of food was simply staggering; it was unlike anything Sophie had ever seen and the servant in her felt outrage over such excesses when others starved. The guests wandered around in groups or pairs, talking, gossiping, giggling, and flirting.
Removing a glove, Sophie trailed her fingers in the water, enjoying the cool feeling against her skin. Her bonnet kept most of the sun from her face. Letty would have conniptions were she to freckle, yet she enjoyed the warmth on her limbs.
It had been five days since Timmy’s bonnet had been handed to her in the park and her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. When would she receive another message? What was he waiting for and, more important, what did he want from her? Sophie was terrified that Letty or Timmy would in some way get caught up in the blackmail and would be placed in danger and she could do nothing to stop it from happening. Every day she would watch them, making sure they were never alone. If they left the house, Sophie was constantly on alert, checking faces, looking for danger. It was exhausting. She wanted to tell Letty and she would, soon, but first she wanted to know what the blackmailer’s demands were.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate …”
Sophie smiled encouragement as Lord Dinsdale, with the assistance of the Bard, earnestly compared her to a summer’s day. He was really rather sweet and yet awfully young, she thought, noting the small gathering of spots on his chin. His shirt points were ridiculously high and his jacket too tight. Sophie had taken pity on him when he invited her to go rowing; he was a nice young man with an atrociously bossy mother. She looked at the sweat beading his brow; perhaps all this exercise in the sun was a little too taxing.
“I will disembark first, my lady, and then I will assist you.”
“Oh thank you,” Sophie said as they drew near the small dock. She had not even realized that the boat trip had ended; had she been too preoccupied? One quick peek at Lord Dinsdale assured her she had been a good companion, as a smile filled his youthful face.
Taking Lord Dinsdale’s hand, Sophie climbed from the boat and shook out her skirts.
“Dinsdale, your mother is asking for you. I will escort the countess back to Lady Carstairs.”
“Of course, Lord Coulter, thank you.”
And with those few words, Sophie lost every hard-won ounce of calm she had gathered. Suddenly her legs were filled with some sort of wobbly pudding. She watched in disgust as Lord Dinsdale ran from her side to find his mother. Really, the man had to cut his leading strings at some stage, and now would have been a perfect time.
“Take my arm, Sophie.”
Knowing that there were too many eyes watching her to make a stand, Sophie placed the tips of her fingers on Lord Coulter’s sleeve. It was a deep forest green today, not his customary black.
Patrick did not try to get her to talk straightaway. He walked for several minutes until she drew a deep breath and relaxed slightly.
“Are you well, Sophie?”
“A … yes, my lord,” Sophie said, then clamped her mouth shut. He could not make her speak if she did not wish it, although she also knew it was past time she apologized for her behavior at the theater.
“I must apologize for the other night, my lord,” Sophie quickly added. There, that was done, now she need never speak to him again.
“I have just today stopped limping and the doctor assures me the blackness and swelling will ease over time. Thankfully, it seems I will still be able to father a child,” Patrick said with a straight face.
“No!” Sophie gasped, then stopped to look up at him. His dark eyes twinkled with wicked humor. “I suppose I deserved that,” she added, offering him a small smile of her own as once again they started walking.
“I believe you are being signaled,” Patrick said with reluctance. It was hard enough getting her alone, but keeping her was proving even more difficult.
Sophie looked across the long expanse of lawn before her and found Amelia waving frantically. Mrs. Pette was admonishing her daughter for behaving in such a demonstrative manner in a public place, but of course Amelia continued waving. Lady Carstairs, who was also in the small gathering, seemed to be speaking sternly to Mrs. Pette.
Since Letty and Sophie’s visit to the Pette household, Mrs. Pette had seemed even more frigid with her old friend. Whenever they were together there was a continual silence, punctuated only by a waspish comment from Mrs. Pette. Letty usually answered with a cutting rejoinder. Sophie was surprised by her sister in-law’s behavior, as Letty, for the most part, was mild-mannered. Sophie sometimes suspected that Letty was merely trying to get her old friend back to the woman she had once been, and if she sometimes questioned her tactics, she understood them.
“Please, my lord, if you would not mind escorting me to Miss Pette,” Sophie requested, relieved that Amelia had signaled to her. Lord Coulter would have started questioning her again and Sophie had a feeling that eventually he would be able to draw the truth from her.
“Of course.” Patrick smothered a sigh. Hell, he was turning into a brooding, sighing male, he thought in disgust. Next he’d be padding his shoulders and wearing rouge. He watched Miss Pette rush toward Sophie as they drew near; she seemed very excited about something and Patrick wondered what.
“I have something to tell you!” Amelia gasped as she grabbed one of Sophie’s hands, completely ignoring Patrick as he bowed elegantly before her.
Amused rather than slighted, Patrick released Sophie and moved toward Mrs. Pette and Lady Carstairs.
“Amelia!” Mrs. Pette said in shocked tones, as she tried to recover from her daughter’s ill-mannered behavior toward one of society’s most eligible peers.
“Oops, pardon, my lord,” Amelia smiled and bobbed a quick shallow curtsy, then turned straight back to Sophie.
Patrick was sure he heard Mrs. Pette groan.
“I have found a place where you may find a house for Rory and Lillia, Sophie,” Amelia whispered lo
udly.
Who the hell are Rory and Lillia? Patrick thought as he chatted with both Lady Carstairs and Mrs. Pette while unashamedly eavesdropping on Sophie and Amelia. Small talk did not take much concentration, after all.
“Oh, Mellie, you are so sweet, I have not thought about a house for them lately; indeed I am quite happy with them at the bottom of my bed.”
Who and what were Lillia and Rory, and—more important—why were they at the bottom of Sophie’s bed? Patrick wondered, feeling anger rush through his body with uncontrollable and totally irrational speed.
“Is there a problem, my lord? You, ahh, appeared to growl.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pette, something in my throat,” Patrick said, lying through his teeth and then grinding them because he never lied.
“Well, when you are ready, we will have a day trip to visit this man who will house them,” Amelia said in the loudest whisper Patrick had ever heard. He prided himself on his intellect and ability to think on his feet, yet was at a complete loss as to what the hell Amelia and Sophie were discussing.
“We were going to watch the archery, Sophie,” Lady Carstairs said.
“Excellent.” Sophie quickly slipped her hand through Amelia’s arm before Lord Coulter could offer his. “I love archery,” she gushed, then blushed as the earl raised one sardonic eyebrow before he offered his arm to Letty. He knew she was lying and merely eager to make sure she spent no more time alone with him.