Kasey Michaels (33 page)

Miss Waverley colored prettily to the roots of her hair—probably the first time color had ever invaded those lovely, porcelain cheeks. “Lud, Miss Winstead, you embarrass me. I did nothing. It is the same with you as it would be with these four dear young ladies. The beauty, the sweetness—all the materials are there. It is just that I can help to mold, to shape, to instruct. And it has been delightful. Truly delightful. Lud, can there be anything more satisfying than to see another lovely young girl properly launched?”

“Really, Miss Waverley?” Lord Anston asked, looking at her thoughtfully. “So many women would run, screaming, from the prospect of, say, popping off four motherless daughters over the next decade.”

“Then the more fools them, my lord,” Miss Waverley stated firmly, reaching down to tuck an errant curl behind little Mary’s ear. “That’s better, dear. Now stand up straight, so that everyone can see your wonderful posture and marvel at what a well-brought-up child you are. Lud, how I tremble as I remember my long days spent wearing a horrid back board, until I’d learned my lesson about posture.”

“You know, Miss Waverley,” Lord Anston began, still looking at her rather intently (“measuringly” might be too strong a word for a gentleman Sophie hoped to see tumbling into love in the middle of Hatchard’s). “You might not remember, as I was nearly trampled in the crowd of eager gentlemen seeking your kind attention during your first Season, but I was one of your most devoted admirers before you became betrothed to Lord Coulbeg, may he rest in peace. But I felt my status as a recent widower, lined up against the dashing earl, put me sadly out of the running, if I might be so bold as to speak freely.”

There was that blush again, Sophie noticed, realizing that pink cheeks made Isadora Waverley much more humanly beautiful than did the icy coolness with which the young woman accepted Bramwell’s equally cool kiss on her hand. She doubted that either Lord Anston or Miss Waverley would ever fall madly, deeply, passionately in love—as she was beginning to see the emotion—but they were definitely suited to each other. Definitely. And they’d be happy with each other. Content. She sighed, feeling quite content herself.

“But I
do
remember you, Lord Anston,” Miss Waverley was protesting prettily even as Sophie was congratulating herself. “Very well, indeed. Lud, I believe you were called back to your estate just as we were getting to know one another. Why, I had all but fallen in love with your tales of your estate, as I do so love the countryside as you described it. Anston Manor, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling and nodding. “Ruth Ann here broke out in spots, and Sarah right after her, so that I had to return there. To Anston Manor, that is.”

“Oh,
Papa
!” Miss Anston exclaimed in youthful high dudgeon, turning to Miss Waverley. “Papa just doesn’t understand that he shouldn’t speak of such things as
spots
.”

“Papas are like that,” Miss Waverley said, nodding in agreement. “Lud, I remember the time, one evening during a small dinner party, when mine was about to tell the vicar about my—well, lud, never mind what it was. Mama stopped him before I could perish of embarrassment, thankfully.”

“Mamas do that,” Ruth Ann said sadly. “Except we don’t have one anymore. Not in ever so long, since little Mary was born.”

“Oh, you dear, sweet thing!” Miss Waverley exclaimed, giving the child an impulsive hug as she looked to Lord Anston. “Lud, my lord, but I can see that you need some lessons in the sensibilities of gently nurtured young girls like your sweet daughters.”

Lord, but it was simple, this making people happy. Almost laughably so. And so very satisfying. Sophie gave Sir Wallace a sly nudge in the ribs with her elbow and then took his arm as if wandering off to inspect another table of books—this one dedicated to naval tactics. “Where were you?” she asked in a whisper. “I had about given you up, you know.”

“Miss Waverley insisted I take tea with her before we came here. Never ate so fast in m’life, I swear it. Now, what the devil are we doing? Something’s havey-cavey here, I can feel it. You’re up to something, aren’t you? All this business about leaving you and Miss Waverley here and loping off like some Johnny Raw who doesn’t know gentlemen don’t ask ladies to Hatchard’s, then abandon them there. I like you, Miss Winstead, I truly, truly do. But sometimes you make me want to start carrying a flask about with me again, I swear you do.”

“Oh, you dear, sweet thing!” Sophie said in imitation of Miss Waverley as she patted his cheek, then winked at him. “As things are going even better than I had dared to hope, let’s see if this helps to give you some idea of what I’m about, all right? Here’s a hint. Do you care to wager on just how long it will be before Lord Anston comes up to us and offers to escort Miss Waverley home? I’ll give him ten minutes.”

“What? Is
that
what this is about? Oh, it is, it is! I’ve seen matchmaking before, and this is just the sort of thing matchmaking people do. You’re throwing Miss Waverley at Anston’s head, aren’t you? Straight at it—
wham
! And you stuck me smack in the middle of it, too. Why, of all the sneaky, devious”—he looked over his shoulder at a smiling Lord Anston—“five’s more likely, I’ll wager,” he then ended confidently, shaking his head as he grinned at her. “Yes, five minutes, no more. Do you think he knows Miss Waverley is Bram’s intended?”

“Do you really think he cares?” Sophie countered, picking up a thick tome having to do with Nelson’s strategies at Trafalgar. “Or that Miss Waverley cares?”

Sir Wallace turned so sharply, throwing another look toward the place where Lord Anston and Isadora Waverley were now deep in conversation, that Sophie had to pull on his neckcloth to bring him back to attention. “Never be obvious, Sir Wallace,” she warned. “Now, as it probably isn’t in the least ladylike of me to wager anyway, I should consider it a kindness if you were to step on my hem as I move away. Aim for the lowest ruffle, just here, on my left side, if you please. I’m never without a second plan, you understand, in case the first should prove unwieldy.”

“But—but I’ll rip your gown,” he protested, clearly still not understanding what she was about. Which was quite all right. He was a man, and not accustomed to subtlety. Personally, she believed Nelson might have survived Trafalgar, had he a woman on board to assist with tactics.

“Yes, you will, won’t you. It’s already held in place by little more than a single thread, Desiree being quite good with a needle, so that you won’t have to step all that hard. And then I’ll have to go straight back to Portland Square, leaving Lord Anston either to say good-bye to a woman he is just beginning to most happily know, or offer to take her up with him when he leaves, yes? You see, I’ve decided I should totally leave her orbit for the remainder of the afternoon. Miss Sarah Anston already likes me entirely too much, and I believe I want her concentrating quite solely on Miss Waverley’s much-more-deserving charms.”

Sir Wallace took out his handkerchief and mopped at his suddenly perspiring brow. “I don’t know, Miss Winstead. Bram might not like this, even it if does seem a good idea. Never could see him and Miss
Lud
making a match of it. Lorimar, neither. Gave her that name, Lorimar did. But this is rather underhanded, ain’t it?”

“Oh, most definitely underhanded, Sir Wallace. But with all of the best intentions. For His Grace. For Miss Waverley’s happiness. Now, are you up to the game, or not?”

He gave one last, quick look over his shoulder, then sighed. “You haven’t been wrong yet, Miss Winstead, I’ll say that for you.”

“How true,” she said, smiling. “And, please, call me Sophie.”

“Sophie it is,” he agreed, then screwed up his courage, closed his eyes, and stepped down hard on her hem.

Sophie was holding up a length of ripped flounce as she stood in the foyer, thanking Bobbit for all his help in settling Sir Wallace, among his other courtesies to her, when she felt a hand close around her arm just above the elbow.

“Come with me, Miss Winstead,” Bramwell ground out behind her from between clenched teeth, unceremoniously pulling her about and all but dragging her down the hallway toward his private study.

She raised her eyebrows questioningly to Bobbit as she looked over her shoulder at the butler, but he just spread his arms and shook his head.

She allowed herself to be very nearly flung into a leather wing chair as Bramwell swung around to give the door a hard shove closed with his outstretched arm, then plop himself down on the desk, glaring at her.

Goodness, but he was being masterful, although Sophie was fairly certain he hadn’t dragged her in here in order to kiss her again, more was the pity. Because she really very much would like to have him kiss her again, tell her again how he might, just might, be in love with her. She remembered Desiree’s warning to behave herself, sighed once in regret, then succumbed to an urge to tease Bramwell anyway. “I suppose asking if you’d like me to pour you a glass of wine would be the height of folly, yes? And a kiss, I’m nearly convinced, is totally out of the question?”

“Don’t be dazzling, Sophie, if you don’t mind,” Bramwell warned tightly even as he looked at her with what she assured herself was more than a smidgen of longing. She watched, smiling, as he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it quite adorably even as he bit out, “We’ve got bigger problems at the moment.”

“Bigger than the fact that you, a betrothed man, kissed me last night? Really, Bramwell? And I had thought—” She broke off, shrugging, feeling very much in command of this situation, which was a pleasant change from their interlude the previous evening. “Then last night meant nothing to you, yes?
I
mean nothing to you?”

“Ah, you mean something to me, Sophie,” he responded, his expression fairly bleak, and yet curiously amused—a very confusing mix. And doubly adorable. “You mean that I haven’t had a comfortable night’s sleep since I first learned of your existence. You mean that I have drunk more wine in these last days than I have in the past six months. You mean that I’m looking at my life and learning things about it and my friends that both enlighten and infuriate me. You mean that I have found myself in the position of being both the happiest and most hopeful of men while at the same time believing I might have been better off to have drowned when my second-to-last ship went down off the coast of Spain. But that isn’t why we’re, here.”

He was happy? Hopeful? Happiness and hope flared in Sophie as well. Hearing Bramwell so close to incoherent gave her confidence yet another small boost, and she settled herself more comfortably into the chair. Maybe, as she was beginning to believe, as he had told her last night, there was such a thing as true love. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t entirely confined to the female of the species—perhaps the odd gentleman or two were capable of the emotion. Like Bramwell Seaton. “Then you’re glad you kissed me?” she asked, unable to keep the womanly satisfaction out of her voice.

“It has always amazed me how a woman will push and push at a man when the man obviously doesn’t want to discuss something. Glad, Sophie? How could I be glad about it? I’m not
glad
about it, no,” he answered flatly. “It was the wrong thing to do. Definitely.”

“Oh,” Sophie said quietly, her new confidence not quite up to surviving such a deflating statement. “I see.”

“No, damn it, you
don’t
see! I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to throw you onto the carpet in front of the fire and make love to you all the night long. I wanted it more than I would have believed I could ever want anything!” Bramwell all but shouted. “I still do, God help me. But I was stupid, wrongheaded. I put the cart before the horse.”

“Really?” Sophie considered this for a moment, even as she fought a sudden impulse to leap to her feet and break into song—or spread her wings and fly about the room several times. As she was exquisitely aware, as Desiree had told her, timing was everything. He’d had the kiss right, he’d just had the timing wrong. That was what he was saying, wasn’t it?

Happy tears pricked behind Sophie’s eyes as she gave up all the teachings of a lifetime, turned her back on them joyfully and walked away—and figuratively stepped forward into the arms of trust, of love. She loved Bramwell Seaton. She’d probably loved him forever, even before she’d set foot in Portland Square. And she trusted him to love her back.

Which didn’t mean she could entirely forgive him for saying she wasn’t perfect. It was true. She wasn’t. But a man in love really shouldn’t say such things, should he?

She decided another small bit of teasing was in order. “And which am I, then, Bram? The cart, or the horse? I imagine I’d be the cart, yes? Miss Waverley would be the horse. I don’t think that’s flattering to either of us, to be truthful about the thing. Perhaps, if you think hard on it, you could find another way to say what you mean?”

He put his palms on the desk on either side of him and leaned toward her as she grinned up at him, even went so far as to waggle her eyebrows at him. “You’d try the patience of saint, Sophie. You know that, don’t you?”

How wonderful this was! To feel so free to be herself, to know that she was loved, to know that she loved. How happy she and Bramwell would be, for all of their lives. “Yes, Bram,” she agreed, feeling rather full of herself, this new power, this dizzying confidence. “I do know. Do you want to kiss me again? You might have placed too much importance on the ones we shared last night. And I might have a few reservations of my own, yes? Perhaps if you kissed me again...” She raised her chin another fraction, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes.