A Rake by Any Other Name (15 page)

A word, once spoken, can never be recalled. But it doesn't hover in the air like the Sword of Damocles. A blade slices too cleanly to be compared to the devastation a word can cause. A wound from a sword may scar, but it will likely heal. A word doesn't play so fairly. Once a harsh word is loosed, it burrows deep, like a worm into an apple, to gnaw upon the heart of the hearer.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Looks as if the rosebush is trying to make a recovery.”

Sophie straightened from her weeding around the new tendrils curling from the plant's woody stalks and turned toward the sound of his voice. She knew it was Richard, knew seeing his damnably handsome face would be a fresh lance to her insides. She couldn't help herself. It had been over a week since she'd seen him last, but despite what she'd promised herself about being remote and untouchable, she craved the sight of Richard Barrett more than she craved her next breath.

Even if it hurt, seeing him was so much better than not.

She was no better than a moth that beats itself to death on a glass lamp chimney trying to get at the flame.

Richard was just beyond the gate of Barrett House, mounted on a bay stallion and holding the lead reins of a chestnut mare. He removed his hat, and his hair was dark with sweat after his brisk ride. When he leaned on the pommel with his knowing gaze sweeping over her, she could almost imagine he was a centaur come calling, powerful, untamed, and undeniably male.

Repugnant
, she reminded herself.
He
might
want
to
dally
with
me, but he finds the notion of marrying me
repugnant.

“Roses are more resilient than their delicate fragrance might suggest,” she said, careful not to let any of the flutters she felt creep into her tone.
And
so
am
I.

She'd never expected their relationship to warm as quickly as it had. After that first kiss in the gallery, they'd been allies against their parents' machinations. Then they'd had that surprisingly naughty interlude on her blanket in the castle ruins. She still woke with a blush of pleasure when snippets of that memory found its way into her dreams. Against her will, she'd admired Richard. She'd been impressed by his desire to find a way to save Somerfield Park and the people who depended upon it, without forcing the pair of them into a marriage neither of them reputedly wanted.

But not wanting to wed because they were total strangers and she would not be bullied into it was entirely different from finding the notion repugnant.

However, she couldn't let him see that everything had changed between them. If she did, he might demand an explanation, and she would never admit to eavesdropping.

“It's a beautiful morning,” he said. “Would you like to ride with me, Sophie?”

“You've brought no groom to protect my reputation, and I employ none here.”

“Do you think you need protection from me?”

“No.” That was a lie. The way her insides cavorted about meant she was definitely in danger, but she wasn't concerned about her reputation. It was already spotty enough that an unchaperoned ride would be the least of her worries. She was more concerned that she couldn't control the way her stomach fluttered at the sight of him. “Doesn't Lady Antonia ride?”

“As a matter of fact, no. She's rather afraid of horses, actually. I've tried to coax her out of it, but she's adamant.”

“That's because she doesn't realize that for all their size, horses are very silly creatures, and a nice biddable mount would let her control it.”

He nodded. “Maybe that's why you're not afraid of anything. You never met anyone or anything you couldn't control.”

Except
you.

She wished he was right and she could control him. Obviously, his family couldn't. Even her father's bottomless purse didn't bring him to heel. But if she held his strings, she'd make Richard Barrett beg. She'd make him repent in sackcloth and ashes, wishing he'd never said such a hateful thing. She'd make him fall helplessly in love with her and then stomp his heart to bits. She'd—

No, she wouldn't.

If she could control the man, there'd be no joy, no truth in having him care about her if it were forced. That was one of her main objections to her father's plan to buy a titled husband for her—as if all the wealth of the gorgeous East could buy a heart.

And Richard was wrong about something else. There was something of which she was very afraid.

She feared no one ever would really care for her. So long as she had her father's money hanging about her neck, she'd never know for certain. Never know if a man wanted her just for herself.

“Well, what about it?” he said. “Are you game for a ride, Sophie?”

“Give me a few minutes to change.” She walked sedately to the front door and disappeared inside. Then once the latch clicked behind her, she bolted up the stairs to her room, taking the steps two at a time. She fully intended on making him wait, but the more time she could give Eliza with her hair, the better. The girl seriously needed the practice.

***

Richard dismounted and looped both sets of reins around the iron gate in front of Barrett House. The chimney bricks might still need repointing, but the garden had improved out of all knowing under Mrs. Goodnight's and Sophie's care. The roses weren't out of the woods after the scalping Sophie had given them, but even they showed promise.

As did nearly all his plans. He still wasn't sure it was wise to come calling on Sophie, but there wasn't anyone else he'd rather discuss them with than her. Antonia's eyes glazed over if he started explaining what he'd learned about the timber market and how best to implement his scheme to build a working lumber mill at Somerfield Park. He didn't want to bore her.

But Sophie wouldn't be bored. After all, this was partly her idea. She'd be excited to hear about his progress.

Then she stepped out the door of the house and all thoughts of timber contracts and construction deadlines flew right out of his head. Dressed in a peacock blue riding habit that hugged her figure to her hips before spreading in a broad skirt, she fairly took his breath away. Then she walked toward him, the gentle sway in her step a mesmerizing motion that left him slightly light-headed.

Why
was
it
I
resisted
a
match
with
her
again? Oh, yes. Antonia,
he thought guiltily. He wished he was more like Seymour. His friend transferred his affection from one lady to the next as easily as he changed his socks. And nearly as often.

But Richard was not that sort of man.

Or was Sophie Goodnight turning him into that sort?

He laced his fingers together and bent over, offering to help her mount. She breezed past him. Lifting her skirt in a dazzling display of ankle and pantalets, she put her neatly shod foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself into the sidesaddle in one fluid motion. Once she hooked her right knee around the upper pommel and her left thigh under the leaping head, she arranged her skirts modestly.

But the damage was done. After that flagrant display, he could imagine all of her in long-legged detail. Of course, he hadn't actually seen more than a couple inches of bare skin between the top of her half boots and the lacy edge of her pantalets, but he could picture the rest. The curve of her calves, her lean thighs, and then the pantalets would end in an open crotch. Seymour frequently blessed the modiste who came up with that conveniently enticing bit of feminine frippery. Richard grew hard imagining the softness of her tender folds and—

“Well, are we going to ride or do you intend to stare like a halfwit all morning?” Her blunt words shook him out of his waking dream.

Lord, she was lovely, but her tongue was sharp as a lash. His cock settled enough to allow him to mount without discomfort.

“I thought we'd ride to the eastern border today. There's a trail on the bluffs overlooking the sea.”

“Lead on,” she said. “I have no place else to be.”

Then, before he could chafe under her seeming indifference, she surprised him by asking after his father.

“His lordship is quite recovered physically,” Richard said. “Though he continues to have no memory of the events that led to his falling off the roof.”

“Perhaps that's just as well. I wouldn't want to remember that either. Must have been the shock of the pond water that brought him back the use of his limbs and tongue.”

Richard wasn't about to tell her that his father had been shamming his debility as a way to coerce him. She'd only be more insulted by the knowledge that he resisted marrying her even with that level of skullduggery behind the plan. As they started into the village, it occurred to him that she hadn't smiled once. He was coming to need those smiles of hers more than he wanted to admit. “Mother says you missed supper at Somerfield Park all week. I trust you haven't been ill.”

“No, just not in the mood for company.”

Had she wondered why he hadn't come to see her sooner? Had she even known he was gone? She'd been in his thoughts while he was London, and not only when he was working on the mill project. Traces of Sophie came to him unbidden in a soft whiff of roses or the sight of a dark-haired woman on the other side of the street. He'd thought, perhaps if he saw less of her, she'd fade in his consciousness as an unwelcome dream from which he was fortunate to awake. But far from expunging her from his mind, she'd become even more firmly ingrained.

She was like a tune that played over and over in his head.

Of course, if she kept up this brooding silence, it might drown out that song.

“I was in London all week,” he said.

“I know.” She slanted him a quick glance and then looked away. “Eliza let slip some of the servants' gossip from the ‘big house' about Lord Hartley going to Town. Pity you didn't take your valet with you. You might have saved him from a nasty knock on the head. How is Mr. Abbot, by the way?”

No other lady of his acquaintance would ask after the health of a servant. “He's fine. A glancing blow, Dr. Partridge says, or it might have been a different story. Abbot is recovering nicely, but it was quite a surprise for us all.”

“As I heard tell, only poor Mr. Abbot was the one who was surprised.”

“I mean we were stunned that something like this could happen in Somerset-on-the-Sea.” He drew a deep breath of the sea-washed air. It was a scent he'd always associate with home. “In London, yes. There are plenty of unsavory places there, but Abbot was accosted in a lane off High Street, for pity's sake.”

“People are the same wherever they are. The place has little to do with it. Obviously, whoever struck down your valet would be an unsavory person no matter where he was.”

“I suppose you're right.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I usually am.”

He decided not to challenge her on that when she added a wisp of a smile.

“My maid was a bit fuzzy on some of the details. Do you know why Mr. Abbot was attacked?” Sophie asked.

“It seems he recognized a fellow in the Hound and Hare as the same man who was with my father the day he fell off the roof,” Richard said. “Naturally, the felon is no longer in the village, but Mr. Abbot was able to give us a name, and we've engaged a Runner to locate him. He'll be brought to justice.”

“For what he did to Mr. Abbot or to your father?”

“Both,” Richard said firmly. “And before you get onto your republican high horse, yes, I'd have seen the man was tracked down even if he'd only accosted my servant.”

“Good, though how you guessed my political bent when women aren't even allowed the vote is beyond me,” she said. “Back to your London trip. The word below stairs is that you were meeting your man of business about some ingenious plan to take care of what they call ‘the troubles.'”

“I don't know about the ingenious part, but they seem surprisingly well informed.”

“You're too modest, Richard. I think your forestry idea is brilliant.” Her words warmed a part of his heart he hadn't realized was cold. “But don't reproach your servants for telling tales. Did you think to keep secrets in a great house like Somerfield Park?”

“No, but I do expect a bit more discretion from the help.”

“Can you blame them?” Sophie said. “They're worried, so they piece together what information they can and talk about it amongst themselves. Is that so bad? It's not as if they were making speeches about it in the common room at the inn.”

“I suppose not.” Still, his father would be livid if he discovered the servants were even aware of the family's present difficulties.

“After all, the financial health of the estate affects them too.” When they reached the edge of town, Sophie broke into a comfortable trot. “Probably more than it does you.”

That wasn't fair. He was shouldering the burden of the welfare of every soul attached to the estate. No one was more affected than he.

“Well, Richard, I hope you don't start lopping heads and giving people the sack over a few indiscreet—”

“Now just a moment. I never said anything about letting anyone go,” he interrupted. “I'm not some sort of medieval tyrant, you know.”

“No, I'll grant you that. You'd never do something you found…
repugnant
.”

His gaze cut to her sharply. She said the word with such venom she obviously meant something more than face value by it. But before he could ask her what, she changed the subject.

“Are you going to tell me how it went in London?” she asked then, her tone turned testy. “Or do you subscribe to the notion that women should be kept in ignorance about monetary issues as if we were mushrooms and needed only darkness and dung to thrive?”