Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (5 page)

In the warm, enclosed space behind the curtain, he became aware of her scent as he never had before. She smelled wonderful, really. She smelled like sensible soap and sun-warmed skin and something else, something girlish and sweet, as if incorruptibility had a perfume of its own.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Graham released her hair and straightened, closing his hand against the loss of that silken splendor. When she stretched and opened her eyes, he stood a proper distance away, grinning down at her in his usual affable way.

After all, it was only Sophie. He was simply overdue for a visit with Lilah, that was all.

“Gray? What are you doing here?”

He tilted his head instead of answering. “You’ve never cut your hair in your life, have you?”

Startled, she reached to feel that her hair had fallen. She reddened as if she had something to be ashamed of and sat up quickly. She seemed so discomfited that Graham politely pretended to be interested in the view from the window until she’d pulled herself together. Once her ginger-spiced locks were tightly wound onto her head, however, he had the inexplicable desire to pull it all down again.

He cleared his throat.
Don’t be a cad. She’d die of shock if you so much as hinted at such a thing
. His Sophie was completely unaware of the world and all its evils. He meant to keep it that way, even if he himself was one of those evils.

Now she was looking at him expectantly. That’s right, she’d asked him a question, hadn’t she?

Abruptly, he didn’t want to tell her about his family and the title. He wanted to pretend that nothing had changed, just for a few moments more. He’d been so very comfortable with Sophie just the way things were.

So instead of answering her—again—he reached for the first of the pages that rested on her lap. He blinked at the flowing, lovely script there. Had he expected something tight, cramped . . . repressed?

Before he had a chance to actually read what was written there in German, she’d snatched it back. “Don’t look at that. It’s only notes.” She glared up at him. “I don’t like my translations disordered. You’d know that if you ever did anything with your mind other than waste it.”

She was fussing at him now. He smiled, comforted by the familiar testiness of her tone. Most people were
charmed so effortlessly by his manner that he’d lost all faith in the world’s acuity. Only Sophie bothered to look closely enough to be accurately displeased.

He smiled at her fondly, so happy to be “Gray, the useless layabout” again that he quite forgot to mask his grin with the usual layer of irony.

She blinked in surprise, her eyes widening in wonder. Graham recovered quickly. He plunked himself next to her on the window seat, intentionally crowding her papers until she fussed further, safely distracted from his aberrant sincerity.

“Go on, Sophie. What are you working on? Tell me a story.”

She flicked him a suspicious glance while she rustled up her straying notes. “Are you serious or are you going to make fun?”

He leaned his head back against the window embrasure and closed his eyes wearily. “Lover, I’m too tired to make fun. I just want to sit here in your peaceful parlor and listen.”

Sophie hated it when he called her “lover” or “darling”—hated it because her ignorant heart tended to leap a little every time. And because it came too easily to him. A multitude of women had probably been called so by Lord Graham Cavendish—either playfully on the ballroom floor or playfully in the bedchamber.

She hated being one of the multitude.

Yet there was something different about Graham today. He was truly weary, and not in a “had too much to drink and stayed up all night seducing” sort of way. Sick and weary, as if his mind was too worried to rest.

Which was ridiculous, because Graham worried about nothing. Worrying implied caring.

Nonetheless, he was here and he wanted to know what she was working on. She shuffled her papers one last time. “I haven’t finished yet . . . but I think it’s my favorite folktale to date.”

He murmured something encouraging, so she took a breath and began to read to him. He listened silently, but she felt the tension easing from him with every breath.

“. . . and the rich man took a second wife, who brought along her two daughters. They had beautiful and fair features but nasty and wicked hearts . . .”

He snorted. She looked up. “What is so amusing?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “Why, in your fairy stories, are the beautiful girls always cruel?”

Sophie grimaced slightly. “Oh, that part is the simple truth.”

He opened his eyes. “Deirdre is beautiful, but she’s very sweet.”

Sophie shrugged. Her cousin Deirdre was a blond beauty of the goddess variety, statuesque without being overly tall and well versed in Society’s little nuances by Tessa’s sometimes cruel tutelage.

She was also willful, seditious and more than a little outrageous. Only a man as strong and self-assured as Lord Brookhaven could ever have tamed headstrong Deirdre. Sophie had become fond of Deirdre eventually, for her cousin’s heart was as warm as it was determined, but Dee wasn’t precisely “sweet.” Sophie certainly wasn’t going to argue about it, however. “Deirdre is merely the exception that proves the rule,” she said primly.

He rolled his eyes. “I hate it when people say that. What does it mean? Either something is a rule or it isn’t—exceptions don’t prove anything.”

Sophie opened her mouth to cast some aspersion on his reasoning ability, but then stopped. “I—I never considered that before.”

Having won his point, he then graciously demurred. “Then again, Tessa proves the rule enough for anyone.”

They both snickered at that. Tessa, being of venomous personality by sheer will and selfishness, was easy but satisfying game. As lovely as Deirdre but well-known for her spite, Tessa provided endless opportunity for derision simply by being herself.

Sophie found it doubly tempting to tell Graham of Tessa’s latest sexual exploits, but refrained. Tessa was rather disgusting, but she was also the only chaperone Sophie had. Without her, Sophie would be expected to return to Acton forthwith—and that could not be allowed.

Sophie changed the subject. “There are many truths to be found in these stories. I have learned a great deal about life in general.”

He uttered a disbelieving laugh at that. “Truths? They’re entertaining, to be sure, and it is reassuring to hear that the virtuous usually win the day, but they are nothing like real life.”

But I want the virtuous to win the day
.

No, Graham was right. Sophie put down her papers. “I am not so naive as that, Gray,” she said sternly. “I know perfectly well that the Tessas and the Lilahs will usually triumph.” Damn the Lilahs anyway. “But that
point doesn’t detract from my conviction that they ought not to.”

She expected him to laugh that argument off, as he usually might. Instead, he seemed to grow almost angry.

“Sophie, nothing really turns out the way we expect.” He stood, suddenly too agitated to sit. “You ought to expect nothing, from anyone!”

Even you?

Especially not from him. Ah, but she knew that already, didn’t she? Dented a bit by the reminder, she stiffened. “I see no reason to allow the grimness of the real world to interfere with a desire to make things as they should be.”

Graham was returned to the moment by the husky hurt in her voice. Damn it, he’d gotten lost in his own predicament there for a moment.

Tell her. She’ll understand
.

Telling Sophie would make it real. He didn’t want to make it real, not quite yet.

Desperation welled up in him—the need to escape like a surging tide. He retreated into old habits.

“That’s because I live in the real world and you live in your mind, Sophie.”

“I hardly think there is more than one world, Graham. I particularly find it hard to believe that a world of gambling and overindulgence could be classified as the ‘real’ world.”

He waved a hand. “I’m not talking about those. Those are only how I pass the time.”

Until when?
she wanted to ask, but he went on.

“I’m talking about the physical world. You spend all
your time in this house, or in some bookshop, and you never notice what is right in front of you.”

That was going a bit far, coming from Graham! She folded her arms and glared. “What am I missing? The bad London air? The stench of horse manure in the streets?”

“Yes, London can be a filthy pit sometimes.” Then he tilted his head as he gazed at her. “Yet . . . tell me, Sophie, what did you do in Acton? The air is good there, is it not?”

She’d spent all her time in the house, with her nose in her books, at least when her duties had allowed it. If she’d ventured out, she might have encountered someone of the male species. The need to converse might have arisen and then chaos would have ensued.

Still, there was no need to admit that to Graham. She lifted her chin. “I was the toast of the village. I had no end of callers.”

He smiled fondly. “Liar.” Then he leaned closer, his nearness and his urgency taking her breath away. “Sophie, there’s so much more to life! There’s beauty and passion and fire!”

“Oh.” She leaned back and gave a knowing scoff. “You’re talking about overindulging in spirits and coitus, aren’t you?”

His jaw dropped. “What?” Then he shook off his surprise. “Sophie, I’m talking about
living
.” He gazed at her for a long moment. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

Discomforted, she glanced away. “I like my life as it is.”
I hate my life as it is, but what am I to do about it?
She’d already risked everything to come to London in the first place, but the adventure had only exposed what would never be hers, in full color and graphic detail.

Graham’s brows drew together in thought. “All right,” he said slowly, “then close your eyes.”

She drew back. “No.” Then, “Why?”

He laughed softly. “Sophie, shut up and close your eyes.”

The room was still but for the breeze wafting through the partially open window sash. Sophie could hear wheels on the cobbles, and distant voices, but with her eyes closed, the noise blurred into the awareness of Graham near her—near but unobserved.

At that thought she opened her eyes again to see him reaching for her hand. “What are you doing?”

He sat back, clearly exasperated. “Can you not relax for a single moment?”

She scowled. “Not when I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

“Stubborn Sophie. I can see we’re going to have to start at the beginning.” He pulled out his handkerchief and rolled it quickly. She drew back when he started to put it over her eyes. He challenged her movement with an I-dare-you glint in his eyes. She gave a grumpy twist to her lips but complied.

“This is silly . . . a child’s game.”

She could almost hear him smile. “Precisely.” He took her hand—his skin seemed shockingly warm when
she was in the dark—and put something in it. It was cool and hard and circular.

“It’s a coin.”

“Ah, but what coin?”

She ran her fingers over the relief, then weighed it in one hand. “A guinea.”

He took it away and replaced it with something spherical and hard. His fingers were gentle and quick on her wrist, on her fingers. She could feel the faint horseman’s calluses—

“Sophie, what is in your hand?”

Brought back to the moment, Sophie cleared her throat. “Oh . . . an apple.” She took a bite, then grinned. “Most of an apple.”

He took it from her. She heard the crisp sound of his teeth biting into it—did his lips touch where hers had? When he put something else into her hand, she let it sit in her lax fingers for a moment, half-hoping he would close her fingers about it for her. When he did, she savored the touch, then scolded herself for such thoughts. Really, it was a silly game!

Then she realized that she could not tell what she held, not even when she used both hands, running her fingers over it again and again. “A . . . stick?” It was smooth but hard and branched twice. “Some sort of carving?”

“Hah,” he said, so close that his breath puffed on her cheek. “Sophie doesn’t know everything.”

She grimaced. “Neither does Graham.” Yet she couldn’t help rising to the bait. She concentrated, running
her fingertips over the pointed tips of the thing—not sharp, not really. She brought it to her cheek and ran it over her skin. “Polished . . .” She realized that it had warmed in her hand, the way wood might. It was lighter though, like . . . “Bone?”

He chuckled. She felt it all the way through her body, the deep masculine sound of it shivering through her belly, making her thighs press closer beneath her skirts.

“Close,” he said. “But no.”

She forced herself to concentrate on the piece and not on the fact that she could now feel the heat of his body on her skin, just where he leaned close to her side, not quite touching . . .

Then she had it. “Horn!” She brandished it blindly. “It’s a horn!”

He laughed aloud, though she felt him duck. “Indeed, although technically I think it’s an antler.” He took it from her. “I put in it my pocket last night at the house and forgot about it.”

“Ah. A trophy from the mighty hunters?” She waited, for Graham never let pass an opportunity to make jest of his brothers or father.

Another object, small and circular, warm from his hand or perhaps his pocket, landed in her palm. She closed her hand over it. A ring? She absently slipped it onto her finger. It fit.

She wriggled her fingers and laughed. “How does it look?”

Silently, his warm fingers took possession of her hand and slipped the ring off. Sophie had the feeling
she’d said or done something wrong. “Is it meaningful?” She hadn’t meant to make light, but then again, it was a game. Wasn’t it?

“Just something old,” he said slowly. Then, “Give me your hand again.”

His touch felt different this time. Less playful, more . . . forceful? Then he brought their hands up and lay her palm on his face.

She drew her breath in slowly. For all their hours of intimacy, they’d never touched more than hand to hand. Now her hand cupped his sculpted jaw, her fingers tentative on the unshaven stubble there. The bristly texture surprised her. She’d thought beards would be soft, like animal fur. Then she realized that his jaw worked beneath her hand.