What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1)

by Clee, Adele

  “I will speak to Sophie,” her brother James had said. “Every time I turn around she is nipping at your heels like an annoying little dog.”

  He spoke then and she remembered her tummy flipping somersaults. “That’s what country girls do, James. They are tedious and tiresome and will not rest until you die of boredom. I can picture your sister married to a vicar, listening to him drone on about the righteous and eating supper at six. She will sit with her hands in her lap and only speak when spoken to.”

  James chuckled. “What you desire is someone more seasoned.”

  “Precisely. Did I tell you about the lady I met in London recently? She had the sweetest mouth …”

  Sebastian Ashcroft broke her heart that day.

  And the irony of her current situation was not lost on her.

  With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

  Her long black curls were tied loosely at her nape as opposed to the ridiculous knots she wore as a girl. Her slender, shapely figure no longer resembled an over-sized dumpling. No one thought her weak and insipid; the whole village knew her to be strong and fiercely independent. The silly little girl had grown into a woman and she did not need to hide behind curtains anymore.

  With renewed confidence, she straightened her back, lifted her chin and threw back the velvet curtain. “The bonnet is divine, Emily,” she said striding out of the dressing room. “I shall call and collect it tomorrow.” As she approached the door, she could feel the heat of his gaze and he rushed forward to hold it open. She refused to look at him directly but decided to be civil. “Good day, Mrs. Potts. Good day, my lord,” she said, resisting the temptation to run all the way home.

  Chapter 3

  Sophie sat behind the large mahogany desk, staring at the crumpled pieces of paper scattered over its surface.

  James should have been home over a week ago. Despite writing numerous letters to his forwarding address, she’d still not received a response.

  She thought of writing to a great-aunt, but the lady never ventured as far as London. Then she wondered if James had met up with friends, but she didn’t know where to send her missive. They had a cousin in Kensington; though he enjoyed gloating over other people’s misfortunes and would turn what was no doubt a simple misunderstanding into something far worse.

  Then there was Sebastian Ashcroft, the Marquess of Danesfield, known simply as Dane to his male friends.

  She would rather walk the plank and dive into shark-infested waters than ask for his help. She would rather stand naked in a field dodging a shower of barbed arrows.

  A loud rap on the door broke her reverie.

  “There is a gentleman to see you, miss,” Rowlands said, struggling to hide his surprise. He extended his arm to offer the salver, the pristine calling card proof he spoke the truth.

  A visitor?

  Panic flared. He had decided to call.

  Her heart fluttered up to her throat forcing her to gulp as her mind tried to rouse a coherent thought.

  What on earth was wrong with her? Why wouldn’t the marquess want to visit an old friend? She did not have to invite him for dinner or partake in a lengthy conversation. Struggling to control the warm feeling blossoming in her chest, Sophie stood abruptly and snatched the card from the tray, expecting to see Dane’s pompous script.

  She stared at the crisp white card for a moment, bringing it closer until it touched her nose. “Who is the Comte de Dampierre?”

  “I have no notion, miss,” Rowlands replied, his expression somewhat vacant. “The gentleman did mention an acquaintance with his lordship.”

  Sophie’s hand flew up to rest on her throat. “He is acquainted with the Marquess of Danesfield?”

  A deep furrow appeared between Rowlands brows. “I was referring to your brother, miss, to Lord Beaufort.”

  Her face flushed. Of course he meant her brother. Since Dane’s return her brain had turned into a wobbly pile of mush.

  “Very well, you may show him in,” she said trying to hide her embarrassment. Perhaps the gentleman had come to offer an explanation for her brother’s absence.

  Sophie could not recall ever meeting a comte before, though she must have done. When her parents were alive, they were always throwing house parties with all sorts of interesting and flamboyant guests.

  Then a sudden sense of foreboding gripped her.

  She could think of only one reason why an acquaintance would take the trouble to travel such a long way. Yet the thought was too bleak to contemplate.

  Rowlands opened the door and stepped forward. “The Comte de Dampierre,” he announced.

  Sophie could hear the slow, methodical thud from his heeled boots echoing along the hall like a death knell. When he entered, he kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead before coming to an abrupt halt a few steps away from the desk.

  The gentleman was a walking monument to foppish fashion. The lapels of his green tailcoat were trimmed with black velvet, his cravat tied in a fussy, complicated style. The collars of his shirt finished just above his chin, creating a contradicting impression: one of flamboyancy yet utter rigidness.

  The comte gave a dandified wave while his other hand gripped the silver top of a black walking cane. “Miss Beaufort. It is a pleasure to meet you, finally.”

  His English was impeccable and while there was a hint of a soft French burr, his tone lacked the warmth his words implied.

  Fighting the urge to cower under the desk, Sophie walked around to greet him. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his small pointed beard brushing over her skin, sending a cold chill through her body. As he straightened, his gaze roamed over her loosely tied hair and one corner of his mouth curved up in amusement.

  Gently retrieving her hand from his grasp, Sophie gestured to the small seating area in front of the fireplace. “Would you care to sit? Rowlands will arrange for tea to be brought in.”

  Rowlands bowed gracefully and walked out into the hall, taking care to leave the door wide open.

  The comte’s dark gaze swept the room before settling on Sophie. “Your brother, he has told me much of your beauty, but I fear he has been modest in his appraisal,” he remarked, examining her body as though she wore the flimsiest of gowns and not a brown muslin dress.

  Sophie wondered if all Frenchmen were so bold.

  “You are too kind,” she replied taking a seat. “I must say, I am relieved to finally have news of my brother. In truth, I was beginning to feel a little apprehensive.”

  He sat down and continued to stare at her, running his fingers over his bearded chin, sculpting it into a perfect point. His eyes were so dark they were almost black and she felt them bore right into her soul.

  “Am I to understand that you have not heard from your brother?” he said. “That he has not … corresponded?”

  “No. I have not heard or received anything,” Sophie said shaking her head. “I assumed you had brought news of him.”

  The comte’s aquiline nose twitched and he ran his fingers over his chin once again. “Please forgive me for being the bearer of such news. But I fear the city does not suit him. A gentleman with such … weaknesses would be better served in the country, away from all temptations.”

  “Temptations!” She could not imagine James in any sort of trouble. He was so honest, so reliable, so dependable.

  “Do not worry that pretty head of yours. He has made his affairs known to me and I will assist him where possible.”

  “I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but it is difficult for me to believe that my brother could be in some sort of trouble.”

  He raised a brow and gave a look which suggested she was rather naive. “Men seldom confide in those they feel duty-bound to protect and I do not wish to cause you any further distress. However, your brother he has … how shall I say … exhausted his funds.”

  She felt a sharp pain in her chest. James had promised her he wouldn’t sell the necklace. He promised her he would only
obtain a valuation and then return it to the bank.

  The comte opened his mouth to speak but paused when Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea tray and remained silent until she’d left the room.

  “There is a gentleman who is interested in purchasing a certain family heirloom,” he continued, “which would, of course, greatly ease your brother’s burden. I would be happy to assist in such a task.” The corners of his mouth curled upwards into a contrived smile. Deciding to press his case he sat forward, resting both hands on his cane to support his weight. “You may place your trust in me, madame. You may be certain your necklace will be perfectly safe in my hands.”

  In using madame as a term of address for an unmarried lady, he conveyed respect for the aristocracy and Sophie wondered how long he had been in England. She had no idea how he knew of her brother or the necklace, but instinct told her he was not a man to be trusted.

  “I fear you’re mistaken if you believe I am in possession of such an item. I’m sure my brother explained our … situation.”

  Like Lucifer rising up from a fiery grave, the comte shot up. His eyes were piercing, the planes of his face as hard and as rigid as stone. “Do not play games with me,” he cried, raising his cane and thrusting it in Sophie’s direction.

  She wanted to scream. But she didn’t.

  This was exactly the sort of situation a woman of independence could expect to find herself embroiled in. What use would she be to anyone if at the first sign of trouble she turned into a quivering wreck? She was the mistress of the house and would stand strong, a figure of authority, of superiority. Suppressing her fear, she rose abruptly from the chair to face him.

  After all, what could he do? Murder her in her own home?

  “I am not the one playing games,” she said lifting her chin. “If you know my brother, as you claim, then you must be aware the necklace is in London. But rest assured, even if I had it in my possession, I would not hand it over to a man who professes his loyalty while trying to terrify me with his stick.”

  The comte glared at her for a moment and the room felt decidedly chillier. Then the corners of his mouth began to twitch and he laughed. Taking a step back, he grasped the engraved handle of his cane and with one swift movement drew the sword.

  Sophie heard the slicing sound before she saw the glint of the blade.

  Placing the sharp tip on her shoulder, he let it fall slowly, tracing a line over the front of her dress, over the curve of her hip and up around the outline of her breasts.

  Frozen to the spot, Sophie sucked in her breath as her cheeks burned.

  He lowered the sword and with his free hand grabbed her chin, the pad of this thumb following the outline of her lips. “I do believe you may turn out to be much more of a prize than some ancient necklace. You see, there is nothing I enjoy more than a fighting spirit.”

  Tiny drops of saliva hit her cheek and she suppressed the urge to flee the room and scrub her skin until it was raw. Never in her worst nightmares had she expected to deal with such a shameless rogue. This gentleman made the Marquess of Danesfield look positively saintly.

  The comte paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and stepped away. “But I am a fair man. So I will make it easy for you,” he continued in a less threatening manner. “Your brother no longer has my necklace. Of this, I am certain.”

  Sophie swallowed a gasp. His necklace? What had her brother done?

  “We were to make an exchange, a deal of sorts. The necklace for … well, for something I value greatly. Now, he has my treasure and has simply disappeared. I do not take kindly to betrayal and so seek … recompense.”

  “Recompense? But I cannot help you,” Sophie replied, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Oh, but you can.” He raised his sword to circle her breasts once more.

  Sophie shivered but then straightened her back in protest.

  He smiled at her reaction. “I am certain you hold the key to a whole host of hidden treasures, and I am most reluctant to leave without so much as a glimpse. But I am, after all, a gentleman and so will give you time to make the necessary arrangements.” With a sigh of resignation, he replaced the sword back in its sheath.

  Sophie swallowed deeply in an attempt to dislodge the lump in her throat. “I have nothing to offer in recompense.”

  There was a small flicker of excitement in his black eyes. “Ah, but you do, Miss Beaufort. It is simple. You will find the necklace and bring it to me. I have business on the Continent and my ship sails eight days, hence. You will come to me and hand over the necklace. Or I shall be forced to take you with me on what I am sure will be a most enlightening journey.”

  Sophie could hardly believe what she was hearing. Surely this must be some ridiculous dream and any moment she would wake up in a cold sweat, grateful it was all over.

  The comte took a few steps closer and the smell of stale tobacco filled her nostrils. He raised his hand and she flinched as he took hold of her chin, tilting her head from side to side as though looking for a sign of imperfection.

  “Exquisite!” He released her and stepped back. “I anticipate our next meeting will be far more … pleasurable. I shall leave you, madame, to consider your options. The comte strode over to the desk, straightened one of the crumpled pieces of paper, dipped the nib of the pen in the inkwell and began scratching away. He turned to Sophie and gestured towards the scrawled note. “Here are my directions. We shall meet at midnight.” He took a few steps towards her as his coal-black eyes explored her body. “I am somewhat shy, you understand, and prefer to examine my goods away from prying eyes.”

  “You forget yourself,” Sophie said trying to muster an ounce of courage. “My family will have something to say on the matter.”

  Rather than appear offended, he looked amused. “Ah, but you forget, Miss Beaufort. You have no family. But never fear. I shall take great pleasure in rectifying your position … personally.”

  Without uttering another word, he bowed gracefully, turned on his heels and marched towards the door. He stopped suddenly and swung around to face her, his unforgiving gaze searching her face. “Do not make me come back for you,” he said in a tone as lethal as his sword. “You would not like the outcome.”

  Sophie wrapped her arms around her stomach, as though reeling from a succession of brutal punches, and listened to the echo of his boots along the hall. Only when she heard his carriage rattle away down the drive, was she able to breathe a little easier.

  A whimper escaped from her lips when she imagined the comte returning. His threats made her more aware of her own vulnerability, but she could not think about that now. Perhaps the comte had no intention of carrying her off on some sordid journey. However, his eyes: cold black pools of nothingness, suggested otherwise.

  How on earth had James ended up in such a mess?

  She was grateful for one thing. If James had taken something belonging to the comte, at least he’d had the sense to disappear. All she needed to do now was find out where.

  Although there was a more pressing problem.

  What had happened to her mother’s necklace?

  Pacing the room, Sophie tried to imagine what she would do if faced with her brother’s predicament. Which proved to be a fruitless task for he had never in his life done anything she’d suggested; in fact he always did the opposite.

  Then inspiration struck.

  Sophie pulled on the cord and waited for Rowlands to enter.

  “Rowlands, I wonder if you can help me.” The butler simply bowed in response. “I know Mrs. Hudson likes to keep abreast of all the comings and goings in the village and I wondered what news she has regarding the return of the Marquess of Danesfield.”

  “By news, I suspect you mean gossip, miss,” Rowlands said respectfully.

  “Gossip, news, it is all the same to me,” Sophie replied with an impatient wave of the hand.

  “Forgive me. I must disagree, miss. The news is that the marquess returned home to Westlands three days ago
. It is a fact. The gossip, which supposedly came from one his lordship’s own staff, is that he has spent the last few weeks in London, enjoying its delights before returning home for spiritual recuperation.”

  “He has come home to revive his spirits?”

  “I cannot say, miss, as I do not believe gossip.”

  “No, of course. Thank you, Rowlands. That will be all.”

  Sophie walked over to the window, folded her arms across her chest and looked out over the manicured lawns.

  So, if one believed the gossip, Dane had spent time in London before returning home so suddenly. It could not be a coincidence and she knew James would trust the marquess with his life. Perhaps James had given him the necklace, knowing he was leaving London.

  The comte’s evil grin flashed before her eyes and she felt nauseous at the thought he may return.

  She would have to find a way of searching Dane’s house without arousing his suspicion, without having to partake in a conversation, without looking into those wicked brown eyes that always unnerved her.

  Chapter 4

  Sebastian had taken shelter in the garden temple: a Grecian-style building at the end of the lawn, watching the rain as it poured in torrents, whipping and splashing off the stone steps.

  The weather in England always amazed him. Minutes earlier, he had been basking in the sunshine and now he could barely see the grass in front of him.

  Indeed, the impulsiveness of it all made his senses jolt with excitement, a feeling that reminded him of his wild escapades in France.

  It took him a moment to hear the pounding of the horse’s hooves as it cantered up the drive, mistaking the sound for the faint grumble of thunder. He struggled to see through the heavy downpour and assumed the rider had misjudged the weather and simply sought refuge from the storm.

  When he narrowed his gaze, he could just make out the figure of a woman slumped forward, her arms draped loosely around the horse’s neck as it charged towards the front portico.