As Luck Would Have It (11 page)

Alex abandoned her mouth to trail his lips down the side of her throat. She tasted like every sweet thing he had ever craved. His hand stole up and lightly brushed against her breast, teasing the both of them. She gasped and the soft sound sent a fierce wave of desire through him. “My God, Sophie.”

Sophie…Sophie Everton.

The name sent off bells in his head. They weren’t loud enough to stop him from kissing her again, but they were persistent. Little chimes that snuck past the lust.

Miss Sophie Everton, the woman he had been sent to watch. The woman whose cousin was a suspected traitor. The
woman who had
him
, the Duke of Rockeforte, scouring ballrooms, jumping off balconies, and acting like an overbearing, possessive…orangutan.

Alex broke away and used his last remnants of willpower to grab Sophie’s shoulders and set her at arm’s length.

Sophie stumbled a bit before regaining her balance. If the kiss had been unexpected, its conclusion was a complete shock. She wasn’t an expert on these matters, far from it, but…shouldn’t they have wound down a bit first? It all seemed rather abrupt. Her heart and mind were still whirling away, still lost in the kiss. And she realized—she wasn’t quite ready for it to end.

Alex, on the other hand, looked done in. He was bent over at the waist with his hands braced against his knees. She couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were shaking like…like he was laughing.

“Are you
laughing?
” she demanded, wishing the words had come out as something more than a horrified whisper.

Alex took a deep breath and straightened. “Sophie—”

“You
are
laughing!”
Good. God.

“No! Well, yes I am, but—”

“You heartless…foul…” Oh, how she wished her best curse words were in a language he’d understand. “I cannot believe—no wait, yes I can. Yes, I can! You’re despicable. You’re…you’re…”
Argh!

“Sophie, please, if you would just—”

“No! Don’t! Don’t touch me,” she hissed, seeing red. Absolute fire and brimstone crimson red. “Don’t ever touch me again. Don’t even come near me, or so help me God, I will
geld
you. Now, do I make myself clear?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heel and left.

Nine

Y
ou laughed at her?” Whit’s forkful of eggs was halfway to his mouth when Alex finished the retelling of last night’s events.

“I did not laugh at
her
,” Alex growled. “I laughed at the situation.” The excuse sounded even lamer spoken aloud than it had in his head.

Whit eyed him dubiously. “I’m sure Miss Everton was delighted to hear that.”

Alex cringed visibly. Sophie’s reaction could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have been described as one of delight.

Whit made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh and then finished cramming the eggs into his mouth.

Alex eyed his own plate with disinterest. He really wasn’t hungry anymore. He had woken Whit at the ungodly hour of eight this morning and bribed him into coming to White’s with the promise of a free breakfast and the loan of his matched grays. Whit was his oldest and most loyal friend, and would probably have agreed to accompany Alex without the extra incentives, but Alex had been unwilling to take the chance. He was that desperate for advice. Now, watching his friend alternately chuckling and wolfing down his breakfast, Alex was left to wonder why he had taken the time to bother.

Clearly, Whit was not going to be of any help.

“What ever made you do it?” Whit asked, stabbing a piece of ham.

“I’ve been asking myself that for the last eight hours.” Actually, he had asked himself that very question three times a minute, every minute, for the last eight hours.

“And?” Whit prompted, popping the ham into his mouth.

Alex groaned and set down his fork in disgust. “And I do believe I’ve come unhinged.”

Whit bobbed his head agreeably and kept on eating.

Alex really wished he hadn’t offered his grays. “I can only hope it’s not a lasting affliction,” he grumbled.

“Or catching,” Whit added, then shrugged. He swallowed and said, “Flowers, candy, and an explanation would be a damned sight better than, ‘it was the situation.’ Also, I’d advise you to seriously consider groveling. The sooner the better.”

“I’m certain you would.”

“Why don’t you call on Sophie this afternoon? No use letting the problem fester. I’ll come along, for moral support, of course.” Whit grabbed a scone and then by some means unholy, managed a truly evil smirk with a mouthful of food.

Alex briefly entertained the idea of pummeling his friend, but the man had just inhaled an entire plate of eggs and ham. The resulting mess wouldn’t be worth the satisfaction.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Alex snapped. He dropped his napkin on the table and stood. “Not one minute sooner.”

Whit gave him a jaunty one-fork salute and kept chewing. Alex glared, reconsidered the pummeling, then settled for a single vulgar epitaph and left.

Sophie watched the passing scenery from inside her carriage without interest. She really didn’t feel like shopping, but she had made the commitment to Kate and Mirabelle yesterday. They were delightful girls and on any other day Sophie would be eager for their company. But not today. Today she wanted nothing more than to lie in bed and indulge in a hearty wallow of self-pity and self-recrimination.

He should never have kissed her. That was all she could think about. And she should never have kissed him
back
. But
he had, then she had, and there was no undoing it. If she were to be completely honest with herself she’d have to admit she didn’t really want to undo it. She did, however, fervently wish that the interlude had ended with something other than Alex laughing at her.

It had been a wonderful kiss, at least from her inexperienced standpoint. Sophie frowned and slumped back against the seat cushions. Apparently, Alex viewed the interlude from an entirely different perspective. Specifically, from that of a rake. Probably, he had kissed scores of women,
legions
, and undoubtedly most of them were a great deal more versed in the art of kissing than she, but really, it had been unforgivable of him to be so cruel as to laugh at her lack of skill.

It had been humiliating. And it hurt, even more than she would have expected. She had truly begun to like Alex, and for one glorious moment, when he had wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips against her own, she had felt beautiful, cherished, and desired.

And then he had laughed. And she had run home, feeling every bit the gullible country girl, and cried.

Sophie was saved having to relive that painful memory, yet again, by the sound of the carriage door opening. She blinked twice at the footman, before realizing they had reached the Cole town house. She allowed herself to be handed down and then took a moment on the front steps to square her shoulders and clear her thoughts.

Rockeforte was a cad, a rake, a bounder and…several other atrocities that didn’t come to her at the moment. He was not worth the effort it required to be angry and definitely not worthy of her tears. In the future she would, quite simply, have absolutely nothing to do with the man.

“Sophie! What ever are you doing standing on the steps?”

It took a moment for Sophie to realize the voice was coming from Kate, who was leaning out an upper-story window. Sophie remembered the young woman’s propensity for clumsiness and cringed.

Kate seemed not to notice the precariousness of her position. “Do come in. Mira and I are most eager to be off. Oh wait!” Kate disappeared for a moment and then returned to the window, dangling half her body over the window sill. Sophie was relieved to see a hand dart out and latch firmly on to the back of her dress. “Don’t bother, Sophie,” Kate called cheerily. “We’ll be right down.”

In good time, Mirabelle, Kate, two maids, and two footmen were arranged in, on, and around the moving carriage.

It was hard to retain a bad mood in the company of Kate and Mirabelle. Kate’s natural buoyancy and Mirabelle’s quick wit had Sophie smiling, then grinning, then laughing before they reached the fashionable shopping district of Bond Street.

And then of course, there were the shops themselves. Sophie’s previous London shopping excursion had been rushed and purposeful, really much more of a chore. Ambling from store to store without lists or agenda was a world removed from trying to obtain an entire wardrobe in under a week.

The girls were a lively pair, far more interested in having a pleasant time than searching for that perfect bonnet or the newest muslin. By Sophie’s calculation, they had visited a dozen shops in under two hours and had, among the three of them, purchased two new ribbons and a quill.

The whole morning had been really quite wonderful, marred only slightly when Kate had tripped over what Sophie could only assume was her own feet and collided with a portly gentleman coming out of a bookstore. He didn’t seem the least put out by the incident. Kate had looked adorably sheepish during her apology and in the end, the man had somehow contrived to take the blame for the incident and walked off with a rather foolish sort of smile on his face. Mirabelle had looked like she very much wanted to roll her eyes, and Sophie barely contained her laughter until the hapless victim was out of earshot.

By the time they stopped for ices at a confectionary shop, Sophie was feeling remarkably better.

“Oh! Look, look it’s him,” Kate cried, nearly toppling over her chair and half the table in an effort to obtain a better view of a young man walking slowly down the far side of the street. Mirabelle steadied her friend’s chair with a practiced ease.

“Him who?” Sophie asked.

“Lord Martin,” Kate whispered reverently.

“She has a
tendre
for him,” Mirabelle explained.

Sophie moved an ice before Kate could knock it over as she leaned out even farther. “You don’t say,” Sophie replied dryly.

Turning her attention to the window, she eyed the young man with academic interest. She estimated Lord Martin near her own age, perhaps a year or two older. Tall and blond, with wide shoulders and narrow hips and waist, he was impeccably turned out in a green coat of fashionable cut, fawn breeches, and the requisite Hessians. He was also too far away for an accurate assessment of his facial features, but even from a distance she could tell he was handsome. Sophie could certainly understand Kate’s interest. Lord Martin seemed to embody every current standard of masculine beauty. Almost too well. She squinted. Then cocked her head.

“He pads,” Mirabelle supplied.

“What’s that?” Sophie asked.

“Mira!” Kate exclaimed at the same time.

Mirabelle turned to answer Sophie first. “The use of padding to enhance the shoulders or thighs is a fairly common practice among gentlemen these days,” she explained before turning to Kate. “So, I am not disparaging your Lord Martin. I was merely stating a fact.”

Kate gave a disbelieving snort before returning her attention to the view. “With what I wear to transform my natural shape, I would be the proverbial pot calling the kettle black to judge Lord Martin.” She watched the man until he disappeared
around a corner, then settled back in her seat with a sigh and gave Mirabelle a small smile. “I don’t doubt your sincerity, Mira,” she said sweetly. “Only your accuracy.”

Mirabelle shrugged. “To be honest, his legs may very well be…well
his
, but his shoulders are not. I noticed it when we waltzed. They’re not squishy exactly, but—”

“You
waltzed
with him?” Kate demanded. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me that you
waltzed
with him!”

Mirabelle’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t be silly, of course I told you. You insist upon hearing every detail of every occasion at which both his lordship and I have been in attendance. I tell you when we’ve danced together, or talked together, or even walked in the same room together.”

“Danced together, yes,” countered Kate. “
Waltzed
together, no.”

“Waltzing
is
dancing,” Mirabelle rejoined.

“A quadrille is a dance, a waltz is…is….”

“A serious of established steps set to music, therefore, a dance,” Mirabelle finished for her. “Like any other.”

“Except,” Sophie remarked, “that it’s possible to employ the word as both a noun and a verb.”

Kate and Mirabelle looked blank.

“It does seem notable that one may waltz,” Sophie continued, “as well as dance
a
waltz.”

Kate thought about that for a moment. “I waltz, you waltz, he, she, it waltzes…you’re quite right, Sophie.” She turned her attention back to Mirabelle. “It’s not as if one may say ‘I was quadrilling with Mr. so-and-so,’ or ‘Thank you, Lord Whomever, I enjoyed reeling with you.’ Not without sounding foolish anyway.”

“Oh very well,” Mirabelle conceded with a chuckle. “I’m not entirely certain it’s incorrect to refer to oneself as having been quadrilling, but I will grant that it’s highly undesirable.”

“And alter your future reports accordingly?” Kate inquired.

“If you insist,” Mirabelle sighed.

“Oh, I do.”

Mirabelle turned to Sophie with a rueful smile. “Kate’s been madly in love with Lord Martin since the tender age of eight,” she explained.

“I’ll not deny it,” Kate responded pertly. “And thank you, Sophie, for your assistance, it was very cleverly done. I so rarely win these arguments with Mirabelle and find I quite enjoy the sensation.”

“It’s not for lack of trying,” Mirabelle replied. “You would argue with a brick wall.”

Sophie laughed. “Perhaps you’d have fewer losses if you chose your battles more carefully.”

Kate snorted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

They finished their luncheon immersed in the same light sort of conversation. Sophie enjoyed every minute. She enjoyed the laughter, the closeness, the good-natured banter that never slipped anywhere close to the boundary of cruel. She enjoyed having friends. Yesterday she had enjoyed their company, but today she was enjoying their friendship.