If she were perfectly honest with herself, Sophia would admit to doing the same thing to him. Not initially, of course, but now that she knew him… she would take every advantage she could.
Sophia paused a step as the thought struck her.
She would have done the same thing.
Oh, all right, she wouldn’t have removed all of the artwork from his wing of the house just for the sake of it. But she had given him a distinctly feminine and poorly constructed desk for his study. And then there had been the lamb tapestry, the flower crowns on the suits of armor, painting the stables a peculiar shade of blue, and expressing concerns to the local farrier about the health of Larkin’s goat, Calliope, which inevitably led to Larkin’s being called out to see to her as well.
Larkin did not care for Calliope; she was scrawny, scraggly, wall-eyed, and bleated like a screeching child. Her tongue usually hung from her mouth at a strange angle, and one horn was quite larger than the other. And she was extremely affectionate.
Sophia had seen only one instance of their interacting, and she had never seen an animal more catlike in her entire life. Including every cat she had ever known.
She wasn’t sure that Larkin’s valet had been able to get all of the matted brown hairs from Calliope’s coat from Larkin’s jacket and trousers, but that information could not be verified.
The memory made her smile, as did every other occasion he had been forced to spend time with the goat, and she imagined what each visit would entail.
Then the smile faded. Was she any better than Larkin when she stooped to such antics? How could she expect him to treat her with respect or decency when she played the same game that he did?
Just because he had played a rather excellent hand and she had nothing to return fire with did not give her license to find offense and outrage beyond her reason.
Or to pretend she was in any way superior.
Completely deflated now, Sophia’s steps became more natural and almost heavy, and she wandered with less energy until she happened upon an almost completely dilapidated wooden gazebo. Once painted white, as evidenced by the few chips of color still clinging to the wood, it now bore no color at all saving those spots, and some of the beams had been almost completely rotted out or eaten away. It was ugly, unsightly, and not at all secure, but it still drew her in as though it were in pristine condition and draped in heavenly wisteria.
The wood floor creaked ominously as she stepped onto its surface, and some boards even wobbled under the pressure of her weight, which didn’t give her much by way of confidence. Still, there was something captivating about a gazebo, no matter its state. Something that called to wandering souls and gave them respite.
Sophia moved about without much pattern or pacing, not completely aware of herself. The entire structure could fall at any moment, and yet there was safety within. The wet smell of the place wrinkled her nose from time to time, and she dared not touch the wood itself, as splinters by the dozens would likely imbed themselves in her fingers.
She turned in the center and caught sight of Rosennor itself in the distance, partially obscured by the voluminous rose gardens that were somehow not visible from the front of the house. But here, the red, yellow, and white roses seemed to spring from the ground in perfectly trimmed groups, carefully cultivated walls of green protecting them from being marred with anything else in the garden. She’d wandered among them several times since taking up residence, but this view of them provided the sort of display they ought to have had.
The rose gardens were rather majestic, actually.
Was that where the name of the estate had come from? It had never occurred to her before, but it certainly could have been the inspiration. Wild roses dotted the landscape around them, bringing a breath of wildness to the scene, but these carefully crafted and pristine roses in the gardens…
Those were glorious.
Smiling with a touch of delighted surprise, Sophia turned again, this time her back to the house.
Her smile vanished in the face of absolute amazement.
The vista before her was incomparable. The expanse of the countryside was rich and green with its rolling hills, their lands dipping with just the right attitude to provide the perfect view. She could see the stretch of the local village, whose name currently escaped her, and it looked perfectly quaint and picturesque. Exactly as one imagined an English country village to look, nestled in among the Hampshire hillsides.
White clouds rolled across the sky, contrasting with the brilliant and bold colors of the fields and the sky itself, and Sophia felt, for a moment, that she might be settled in the midst of perfection.
In a forsaken gazebo. On an estate she only half owned.
With a man she could not stand.
Perfection?
She snorted a laugh to herself and turned away from the view that gave her such a ridiculous feeling.
There was absolutely nothing perfect about Rosennor, about this gazebo, or about Larkin Roth.
And, she was honest enough to admit, nothing perfect about herself.
Humbled, disappointed, and somehow a little hopeful, if resigned, Sophia stepped out of the gazebo, and headed back towards the imperfection that was her life.
There was something markedly unpleasant and unsettling about a squelching sound that accompanies every step one makes. Generally speaking, a firm tread is much preferred from a gentleman, as it gives him airs and commands respect. If nothing else, it enhances his masculinity.
The sound effects Larkin was currently emitting every time his foot touched the ground were the least masculine thing he had ever heard in his entire life.
“Oh dear,” a wry feminine voice chimed, making his lip curl instantly. The voice could have been attractive, had it belonged to a different personage.
Or if that personage weren’t created with venom in her veins.
She was perfectly attractive. Perfectly.
Until one got to know her better.
Or lived with her.
Larkin paused his step and turned to face the would-be attractive voice. “Yes?”
Sophia stood in the dining room, though meals were long past, and was leaning over the table looking at something. Or had been, at any rate. Now she was staring at Larkin with a frankness that might have intimidated some.
Larkin only raised his chin at her, daring her to comment.
She looked him up and down, her crystal-clear eyes seeing everything.
Only when her eyes came back to his, and he’d felt his cheeks color, did she speak. “Whatever happened to you, Larkin?”
How she managed to keep any hint of amusement out of her tone was beyond him, but if she would pretend at politeness, he could respond in kind. “I was assisting a tenant on his farm. I’ve been doing so the past few days, which you would have been aware of, if you’d been paying any sort of attention. Trying to force relationships with them and establish camaraderie. Today there was a loose tile or two on the roof we were mending, and I met up with an unfortunately placed collection of mud.” He gestured to the whole of the front of him, drenched from head to foot in mud, while the back of him was mostly untouched.
Mostly.
Sophia nodded slowly at his tale and looked him over again. Then, as he expected, she began to laugh.
At first it was just a simple giggling, restrained by a delicate, fair hand. Quite a pleasant sound, actually, and he could almost imagine such a sound from a maiden at a ball. But then Sophia let out a snort, followed by a few snickers. Then silence reigned for a moment.
Only a moment.
Then, like a dam bursting as it held back a cascade of water, laughter exploded. Full belly laughs, her arms wrapped around her stomach, and moments of silence as her laughter robbed her of breath. Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she gripped the table for balance.
Larkin watched and listened for a moment, unamused, then made the sort of harrumphing sound his grandfather used to make. “It’s not amusing,
Sophia.”
A particularly unflattering gust of boisterous laughter danced from her mouth, her full lips gaping wide to accommodate every syllable of every laugh she emitted.
“I said,” Larkin told her, raising his voice, “it is not amusing.”
Sophia squeaked, sighed, and gave him an utterly pitying look, laughter rampant in her features. “Oh, Larkin,” she managed, still giggling, “it’s bloody hilarious.”
He frowned at that, though somehow, he found himself actually wanting to laugh with her.
At himself.
“You’re rather vulgar for a lady,” he pointed out, as if it were some revelation.
Sophia was not intimidated in the least and cocked her head to one side. “You’re rather filthy for anyone.”
She had a point there, and he hated to admit it. But there was no saying he had to admit such a thing out loud, so he merely grunted and stormed away up to his rooms to clean and change.
And silently rage about the infuriating woman living under his roof.
Cleaning, changing, and raging done, Larkin strode back through the halls of the suspiciously silent Rosennor. There was usually some sort of hustle and bustle about, what with the number of servants they had and Sophia’s tendencies towards redecorating. But for now, there was nothing.
Not even the usual warbling chirps of his mother when she was particularly bored.
He frowned and began to explore as much as he dared, though he did have a few more interviews to conduct to find someone to be his mother’s companion. Maxwell had given him several names, and the last of them would be here this afternoon. He hoped to introduce some of them to his mother and actually witness the interaction between them. He was getting tired of replacing companions because they did not suit the task, or lacked the patience or the fortitude, or simply because his mother had grown weary of them.
She seemed to be doing that a lot more of late.
He feared she might soon grow weary of this place, of being here, and of his inability to be with her continually.
What would he do then?
“Mark the shade of that wing, Sophia. You must get it right. I shall be most affronted if you do not.”
Larkin stopped in his step and turned at the sound of his mother’s tone. She sounded rather firm today, which was usually a good sign. It was only when she turned airy and aloof that he had true cause to worry.
“No, not like that! For pity’s sake, girl, have you no artistic ability?”
Oh, good. His mother was a tyrant for the present. Yet another persona she could adopt, and he would have to deal with. Much as it pained him to save Sophia from anything, this was one obstacle he really did need to intercede on.
His frown deepened as he made his way towards the terrace, one of the few neutral spots in the house, and saw, as expected, Sophia sitting at an easel with pencils and watercolors, his mother practically perched at her arm.
“Yes!” his mother praised, rapping Sophia on the shoulder with enough force that Larkin could see the resulting motion of Sophia’s frame from it.
He found himself chuckling at that.
“Beautifully done, Sophia,” his mother said, looking up at the bird on the nearby terrace ledge that Sophia was attempting to capture. “A lovely tribute to such a lovely bird.”
Sophia smiled to herself, and an echoing jolt of something or other tugged at Larkin’s navel, of all places. “Thank you, madam,” Sophia replied without any hint of derision, scorn, or sarcasm. She looked up at her critic, her smile just as warm. “Did I get the shade of the wing right?”
His mother leaned close to the drawing, her face screwing up in observation. “Hmm. It bears some rendering, but it is close. Allow me to examine the subject for you.”
She strode towards the bird with single-minded purpose, her hands already reaching out.
Larkin began to head for her, sensing they were about to venture into the ridiculous, but Sophia surprised him by getting their first.
She took his mother’s elbow gently, but with firmness. “Oh, Mrs. Roth, do look. I fear our subject has departed from our sight.” She pointed towards the now vacant ledge.
“But… but why would he do such a thing?” His mother’s emotional whimper was almost child-like.
Sophia turned his mother back towards their chairs and Larkin retreated back into the shadows of the house to watch them unobserved.
“I daresay he is a shy creature,” Sophia soothed, rubbing his mother’s arm. “Not entirely comfortable with portraits, I expect. But no matter. I can recollect well enough for my drawing.”
Larkin’s mother huffed and sank into her chair, touching her brow. “I do so hate associating with birds. Never quite agreeable, all told.”
Larkin winced at the ridiculous statement.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sophia answered in the same tone Larkin usually employed as a response to such statements.
“But you know, the robin is very conversational. Quite bold by comparison, and one can barely get a word in edgewise.”
“Indeed?” Sophia murmured, now situated in her own chair with her attention on the drawing. There was nothing dismissive in the way she responded, and could, in fact, be considered encouraging.
Without actually encouraging.
Masterful tone, that.
His mother suddenly gasped and turned her attention towards some nearby trees. “Hark! A swallow, Sophia! Do you hear her? Oh, what sweet singing!
Larkin watched as Sophia sighed, just a little, and put down her pencil, her hands going to her lap as she turned to face his mother fully. A gentle smile crossed her lips as she considered the older woman. “No, Mrs. Roth, that’s a wren.”
“But… but she’s singing an aria!” his mother protested, her brow wrinkling in confusion and outrage.
Sophia reached out and took her hand. “I hear her song, but not the words. And it is the song of a wren.”
Larkin’s mother huffed and flicked her skirts. “Wrens don’t sing arias, only the lark!”
With a reluctant grin of amusement, Larkin shook his head. Never mind that his mother could not agree on which bird she heard singing, the swallow or the lark, but to claim it as an aria? This was a new imagination, that was for certain.
Sophia’s smile seemed to have the same edge to it that Larkin currently felt. “I wouldn’t know,” Sophia allowed. “I cannot say I have much experience in the aria of birds.”
His mother nodded sagely. “That is why we named my son Larkin. He sings like a lark.”
Now Larkin coughed discreetly. He did not sing, and never had.
“Does he?” Sophia mused, her lips curving in a wry way he wanted to inquire after.
“Most beautifully,” his mother insisted.
“Arias?”
Larkin would have kicked her chair for that one, but he settled for grinning to himself.
“Naturally.” Then his mother sighed heavily, slumping in her chair. “But he doesn’t sing to them anymore.”
Sophia turned to the nearby tea set and began to pour for them both. “To whom, Mrs. Roth?”
His mother’s expression turned a perfect shade of indignation. “The other larks, of course!”
The pouring of the tea paused. “Larkin is not a bird, ma’am.”
“Well, not now!” his mother retorted hotly.
Sophia resumed her tea making. “I see.” She added just the right amount of sugar and cream for his mother, then handed the cup to her. “I am sorry he does not sing anymore.”
Larkin’s mother looked at her askance. “Sing? Who? Larkin doesn’t sing, Sophia. Not at all musical.”
“No, Mrs. Roth,” Sophia replied without so much as a hint of hesitation.
Larkin backed away from the conversation, bizarre as it was, and headed for his study, thoughts awhirl.
Not a great day for his mother’s state of mind, then. Sophia had no need to entertain her, and certainly no responsibility to, and yet she was taking tea with her
and indulging her more maddening whims. More than that, she was doing it well. She continued to be engaging and obliging despite being faced with completely ridiculous comments from a woman fast on her way to being completely addled. No sign of displeasure, let alone one of impatience, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was actually enjoying herself.
Was that even possible?
Sophia was the most irritating, enraging, impossible woman he had ever met, but if she could bear with his mother with such grace, perhaps she was not entirely bred from Hades.
Perhaps.
His thoughts continued to swirl as he sat in his study, looking over ledgers without actually seeing any of the figures he ought to have been reviewing. He’d never met another person who tolerated his mother without some ridicule or disapproval. What were the chances that the one woman he was inevitably tied to for some time would be able to do so?
He didn’t like finding admirable qualities in Sophia Anson, but he would have to grudgingly admit that this was a rather significant find indeed.
For him, anyway.
“May I borrow one of your horses?”
Larkin looked up to find Sophia standing in the doorway of his study, which meant she was in his part of the house without invitation. More than that, she had changed into a riding habit, which meant her tea with his mother had ended, which meant he had sat in his office for a long period of time doing nothing at all.
Not good.
“No,” he replied simply, shifting the hand at his jaw to say the word as clearly as possible.
Sophia’s fair brow wrinkled. “May I remind you that I own the stables where your horses reside? And it would be only too easy to evict them.”
He smiled at the rebuttal. "But the saddles are all mine."
The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3) Page 10