Lord Harry's Daughter (12 page)

Chapter
19

Slowly Sophia made her way back to their quarters, skirting the edge of the camp, but keeping well within the picket line. Such a wild confusion of thoughts and emotions were jostling with one another in her mind that she wanted to sort them out before encountering anyone. First and foremost was an odd kind of joy that bubbled up inside her as she kept hearing him say,
I am most fortunate and most grateful that you shared it with me, but anyone will tell you that you have a superior gift.
However, Sophia could not decide what affected her more, the sense he had conveyed that he treasured the fact that she trusted him enough to share her hopes for the future, or the fact that he had seemed to think she had the talent to be another Angelica Kauffmann.

Sophia paused to gaze out over the far-off Bay of Biscay. She could not say which she wanted more, to share a special intimacy with Major Lord Mark Adair, or to command his admiration. A delicious shiver ran through her as she recalled the way his eyes had lingered on her lips and then bored into hers with an intensity that was almost palpable. For a moment she had almost thought he might kiss her. Her cheeks grew hot at the thought, and even hotter as she admitted to herself that she wished he had. He had seemed so solid and so strong as he had led her to the clump of trees, his arm around her so comforting that she had wanted to throw herself against his chest and cling to him, absorbing all his vitality and wiping out the image of Billy Barnes's face gray and lined with pain.

But, and Sophia was ashamed to acknowledge such a thing even to herself, the image of Billy Barnes had quickly faded, and so had her need for solace. Something else in her had ached to have his arms around her and his lips on hers, something very different from comfort, that made her breathless at the very thought of it. Without even knowing precisely what
it
was, she knew that she longed for
it
in a way that she longed for water after a hot and dusty ride. And
it
was not his admiration of her artistic skills or his approval of or participation in her dreams of becoming a professional artist that she longed for. No, it was purely and simply that she longed for him as a man, longed to trace the square jaw with her fingers, to run her hands through the thick dark hair, to be pressed against the broad chest, and to feel his lips on hers.

Sophia shook her head in frustration. She had thought she was immune to such things. She had lived her life among so many men that she saw them all as brothers. None of them had ever made a deeper impression on her than that, until now. Though female companionship had been rare in their circumscribed existence, Sophia had heard enough gossip among maids and the occasional conversation among the wives of people they knew in Lisbon to know how most women thought of men. In fact, most of them seemed to dedicate a good deal, if not all, of their time and energy trying to attract the attention of one man or another.

Such machinations had always seemed ludicrous and trivial to Sophia and she never could understand all the fuss over winning a man's admiration when it was so much more pleasant and so much easier just to be friends with one. She had felt rather superior to all these female conspiracies. So much for superiority, she thought grimly. It was turning out that she was no different from the rest of them after all; it had just taken her longer.

Sophia had almost reached their hut by now, but she was loath to enter until she had resolved this thing in her mind. Her mother was far too acute, and she would recognize in a moment that something was wrong.

No, she would take her sketchbook a little way on the other side of their quarters and sketch the scene beyond. The Pyrenees rising ever higher in the distance made a magnificent picture and she had been wanting to capture it. Sketching would take her mind away from the dangerous channels into which it seemed to be drifting. The mere act of committing the scene to paper, the feel of the pencil in her hand and the paper beneath it, would have a calming effect on her; it always had in the past.

Seeking out a comfortable boulder, she seated herself and pulled out her sketchbook and pencils. Her hand hovered over the paper for some minutes while she decided just where to begin. Then swiftly and surely she began to make the first broad strokes, but the outline that emerged was not that of the towering mountain peaks, instead it was the angular planes and the strong features of the face of Major Lord Mark Adair.

Sighing at her own weakness, Sophia gave in to her artistic imperative and continued to sketch, slowly at first, and then more feverishly as the image took hold.

How long she sketched, she could not have said, but the sky over the mountains had turned from blue to pink and now the deep sapphire of twilight. Her fingers ached and her knees, as she rose to gather her things, were so stiff they could barely support her, but her soul felt more at peace than it had since she and the major had parted that afternoon.

She picked up her things and turned back to the hut with a sense of relief. Perhaps she was not attracted to him after all. Perhaps the urge she had felt was only the urge to capture his image on paper.

Sophia studied the portrait again before putting her sketchbook in her satchel and smiled to herself. Yes, she had done him justice. She had captured the bold features, the energy that always seemed to emanate from him, the sparkle of adventure in his eyes, and the touch of deviltry in his smile. Satisfied, she closed the sketchbook and went to help her mother with dinner.

The weather grew appreciably cooler over the next few days. Several mornings they awoke to a ground glistening with a heavy frost. “They say that over at Roncesvalles it has snowed so hard that many a morning the Pioneers have had to dig the Thirty-fourth out of their tents,” Speen remarked to Sophia one afternoon as she was darning her stockings and he was brushing off the general's uniform.

“I do hope we march soon, for the last rain we had was so torrential that it was all over mud and we shall never be able to move if we have many more storms like that.” Sophia snipped the thread and laid another completed stocking on her pile. “I expect it will not be too long now. I heard the general telling Mama that the French were soundly beaten at Leipzig and a great deal of Napoleon's army destroyed."

“It is true. And what with Pamplona surrendering, Old Douro has only Soult and Clausel to contend with, and no Grand Aremee to come to their rescue. Mark my words, we shall be moving on soon."

Not very many days later. General Curtis announced to the women at breakfast, “We shall be moving out today. We mean to drive down the valley of the Nivelle, storm the French fortifications on top of the Petit Larroun and the Harismendia Ridge, and take Saint Jean de Luz. You two"—he frowned heavily at them—"are not to follow, but to wait until I send word that Saint Jean has surrendered. Then you may join me."

Recognizing that there was to be no argument this time, Lady Curtis agreed. “Very well, my dear. We shall stay here until everything is quiet and our army well established in Saint Jean. I only hope it does not take very long, for the rains we have had of late have swollen the rivers a good deal and the roads will be impossible."

“I believe that it will not be long. Wellington has said more than once.
Those fellows think themselves invulnerable, but I shall beat them out, and with ease. They have not men to man the works and lines they occupy. I can pour a greater force on certain points than they can concentrate to resist me.

They bid good-bye to the general and Speen and prepared themselves to wait for news of the capture of Saint Jean de Luz with as much patience as they could muster.

Sophia kept an eye out for the major, hoping to have the opportunity to wish him luck on the campaign, but she only caught sight of him once, and then it was the briefest of encounters. He was mounted on Caesar and was covered with dust. “Wellington has me hopping, carrying dispatches to Hope advancing against Urrugne, to Napier attacking the Petit Larroun, to Beresford who is to attack Clausel at Sare, and then to Hill over by the Harismendia Ridge and the country is rough, to say the least.” In spite of the dust and his travel-stained appearance, he looked more exhilarated than exhausted by his exertions and Sophia could not suppress a twinge of envy at the active role he was playing while she and her mother were forced to sit quietly by as the British gained a stronger foothold for themselves in France.

They did not have to wait long, however. The very next day Speen returned with the news that the French had abandoned Saint Jean and were retreating toward Bayonne. “The general says that I am to help you move and that he will have found quarters for you by the time we arrive."

“So soon?” Lady Curtis exclaimed. “Is it safe to travel?"

“Yes, my lady. We have those Frenchies on the run. Believe me, if there are any around, they are deserters and won't trouble us. Now that we are in their own country they have lost their nerve. Why they hardly put up a fight even behind the redoubts at the Petit Larroun."

“Good. I shall be glad to get out of the mountains, not that it is not lovely here, but the weather is growing colder and there is no telling when the rain that has fallen will turn to snow.” Lady Curtis began bustling about immediately.

Since they had not settled so fully into these quarters as the ones in Lesaca, the carriages were packed in very little time and were soon lumbering slowly down the rough mountain road to Saint Jean de Luz.

As she rode alongside the first carriage, her eyes sweeping appreciatively across the magnificent view of the plains before her, Sophia could not help comparing it with their last journey, reluctantly admitting to herself that she missed the major's companionship. The sight of that powerful figure riding ahead of them had made her feel as though nothing could go wrong.

Chapter
20

They reached Saint Jean just as night was falling. Speen led them to headquarters, where General Curtis greeted the ladies enthusiastically. “It was a magnificent operation, Wellington's finest so far. Our lads were absolutely unstoppable and the French lost heart completely. But come, I have found us a snug little house near the Eglise Saint Jean Baptiste. It is owned by a banker who was only too happy to retire to his country estate once the British arrived, but he has left some of his staff."

He led them to a spacious house whose balconies afforded a view of the ocean and whose reception rooms were spacious enough to please his wife. “Excellent, my dear.” Lady Curtis surveyed the dining salon with satisfaction. “Now we can entertain the duke himself without apologizing for our surroundings."

“Nonsense, my dear. Everyone enjoys your good company and Jorge's excellent cooking so much that they have not the least notion of their surroundings. However, I think you will find that there are considerably fewer fleas and flies here than in Lesaca."

They fell gratefully into their beds and awoke the next morning to the bells of Saint Jean Baptiste, refreshed and ready to establish the household to their liking. Lady Curtis was pleased with the two spritely serving girls who, once they had seen how ladylike and civilized the general's wife and daughter were, fell to their tasks happily enough and were delighted to recommend the local dressmaker to the two ladies.

“I feel certain that with winter setting in we shall be here for some time and if I know the duke, he will soon be entertaining. We would not wish our wardrobes to look as though we had spent the last few months in a small Spanish village,” Lady Curtis confided happily to her daughter.

“Even though we have.” Sophia turned to smile at her mother as she straightened the looking glass Luis had just hung in Lady Curtis's bedchamber.

“Jeanne assures me that this dressmaker is seamstress to the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna, who is extremely a la mode."

“A condesa, here in France?"

“She is the daughter of the Comte de Brissac. According to Jeanne, the de Brissacs are a noble Gascon family of ancient and illustrious lineage. During the revolution they fled across the border into Spain where the daughter, Diane, grew up and married the Conde de Gonsalvo y Coruna. When Napoleon allowed the émigrés to return to France, her father, then a widower, returned to claim their estates while his daughter remained in Spain with her husband. However, the conde was a good deal older than his wife and when he died several years ago, the condesa returned to France. I believe that the de Brissac chateau was destroyed during the revolution, but their hotel in Saint Jean was not, and it is here where the condesa acts as hostess for her father."

“And has her dresses made up by the seamstress you hope to patronize. You certainly learned a good deal of information in your quest for improvements in your wardrobe, Mama."

Lady Curtis smiled apologetically. “Well, it will be rather nice to be back in civilization again. The duke and his lads were fine fellows, and excellent company, but it would be nice if we were to enjoy some female society as well for a change."

Lady Curtis was not the only one among the British occupiers of Saint Jean to learn about the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna. The duke himself had met and been favorably impressed by the lady. True to form, the moment he had settled himself into headquarters, he set about extending dinner invitations to the most influential members of what constituted society in Saint Jean de Luz, explaining to Fitzroy Somerset, “If I am able to win the good will of the population, I shall need less of the army to hold the territory we have already gained and can put them to use gaining us more.” And among the first to be included in one of these invitations was the Comte de Brissac and his daughter.

Seated near the foot of the table headed by Wellington with the condesa on his right, the comte on his left, and numerous other aides de camp and staff in between, Mark had ample opportunity to observe the vivacious condesa. He was only one among many whose eyes strayed hungrily to the guest of honor.

Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna was at the height of her charms. Married very young, she had been widowed at an age not much more advanced than that of many young misses in their first Season. Deprived of the delights of any sort of society, first by her widowhood and then by the war, Diane had languished in Saint Jean, desperately hoping for some opportunity that would take her to the gaiety of the French capital or, failing that, even to Bayonne.

Starved for society, it was she who had urged her father to accept the duke's invitation. “Papa, you cannot refuse him. He is not one of these jumped-up bourgeois dukes that we have in our army like the Duke of Dalmatia.” Diane had not been impressed by Marshal Soult when he called on them. “He is a true member of the British aristocracy, and it is said that his staff is made up solely of men from the finest families."

“Very well, but we accept this invitation only to demonstrate to these English barbarians true politesse.” The Comte de Brissac grumbled, but he, too, was secretly pleased by the opportunity to dine with peers. Though proud of the French victories throughout Europe, the comte had refused to have anything to do with the
Corsican upstart
or his cohorts, with the consequence that he was nearly as starved for society as his daughter.

The young widow was as vivacious as she was beautiful and a table full of dashing well-bred young men offered the perfect opportunity for her to display her charms to their fullest extent. The comte enjoyed the company as well and on the drive home was forced to admit grudgingly to his daughter, the duke at least, appeared to have excellent manners, for an Englishman.

“Then, Papa, we must and show him the graciousness for which the French are so famous.” Though flattered by the duke's obvious admiration, Diane had been far more intrigued by the appreciative glances of some of the younger members of Wellington's staff and was already scheming to become better acquainted.

It was at the ball held by the mayor at the Hotel de Ville that Mark had the honor of being introduced to the lady. Still unsure of the English barbarians, very few of the wives and daughters of the town's leading citizens made their appearance so it fell to Diane, Lady Curtis, Sophia, and Lady Waldegrave, who was living with her husband at headquarters, to serve as partners for all the young men.

Diane was in her element, dancing and flirting with the officers crowding around her, but Mark, waiting for an opportunity to approach her when there was not such a crowd around her had caught her gaze straying in his direction more than once. He stifled a grin as, catching her eye, he sketched a bow. It appeared that the lady was piqued that one officer at least had not fallen under her spell. He had rather thought that might be the case and used his aloofness to attract her attention.

Caught in the act of looking at him, the condesa haughtily turned her attention elsewhere, but not before she had surveyed him appraisingly. Mark knew that look. He had ‘seen it in the eyes of several ladies of his acquaintance who had been starved for attention until he had come into their lives, and he had little doubt that sooner or later, the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna would find the opportunity to speak to him.

His predictions were entirely correct. Somehow, and Mark was not certain how she managed it, Diane materialized at his side as he gazed out the window at the moonlit town and the sea beyond.

“You find our provincial company so very dull that the empty streets outside are more to your taste than the people inside? We must do what we can to change that, Milord Adair."

Mark cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“It is the duty of every hostess, and as one of the few Frenchwomen present, I count myself a hostess, to make sure that our guests are well taken care of. Naturally, one of the first things one does as a hostess is to discover the identity of the guests.” The condesa's sly smile revealed pearly white teeth and an enchanting dimple at the corner of her full red lips.

“You mistake my actions, madame. It has been so long that I have been part of such a gay gathering and such delightful company that I find myself rather overwhelmed.” Mark's gaze drifted appreciatively from the tempting mouth to the expanse of soft, white skin revealed by her daring décolletage. She was delectable enough to turn any man's head, from the dark curls arranged in provocative disarray and threaded with pearls to the brown eyes fringed with long, dark lashes and set under delicately arched brows. Her mouth, with its full lower lip, invited passionate kisses, an invitation that was also reflected in her eyes.

As he drank in the condesa's magnificence. Mark welcomed the wave of desire that washed over him. Lately, he had begun to wonder about himself. His growing preoccupation with Sophia Featherstonaugh had shaken him severely and he had found himself thinking the most unlikely thoughts about her, thoughts such as wanting to help her fulfill her dreams, wanting to prove that not all men were as selfish and unreliable as her father, wanting to protect her from the discomfort and danger of campaigning, wanting to be with her, talk with her, share things with her.

Mark had never been so obsessed with a woman in his entire life and he found it to be disconcerting in the extreme. Much as he scorned his brother's and his father's passionless, rule-bound approach to life. Mark himself enjoyed a good deal of control over his emotions, especially with women, but his acquaintance with Sophia had more than once threatened that control and he had begun to wonder if he had become as weak-willed as his fellow officers, who fancied themselves in love with every pretty face.

He had always prided himself on never having been in love before, never having done things for a woman that were contrary to his character just to win admiration, and at this stage of maturity and with his vast experience, he had thought himself immune to such weakness until he had met Sophia. For some unfathomable reason, the self-sufficient Sophia had aroused feelings of protectiveness, tenderness, and concern in him that he had not felt since the disastrous day he had spoken in his mother's defense.

Running his eyes over Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna's enticing figure, Mark was relieved to feel only one emotion, desire—a desire that was purely and delightfully physical and not complicated by any concerns for her welfare or happiness. It was unencumbered by a wish to protect her from anyone or anything. He sighed with relief. He was himself again. As he had suspected, his feelings for Sophia had been just a momentary lapse after all.

“Would you care to dance?” Mark held out his hand. “You English are so arrogant.” The lady teased him, fluttering her dark lashes. “You are always so sure the French will capitulate immediately.” But she clasped his hand with a warmth that made Mark wonder who was doing the capitulating.