Lord Will & Her Grace (14 page)

"Congratulate me, Jack, or perhaps offer me
your condolences, if you prefer, for I have followed the legions of
men before me and have finally found happiness in the hands of a
good woman."

"A rich woman."

"Good and rich," replied Will, cocking a
brow.

"Well, at least this will satisfy that nasty
little man, Mr. Derby," Jack replied. "I must say, I am tired of
the sight of him."

"Well, you should prepare yourself to see a
good deal more of him if I am to succeed in this venture, which is
precisely what I plan to do."

"Why you have to muddy yourself in
commerce—"

"By the by, have you put together the list of
nobility, military and gentry I'll approach in short order? The
future patrons?"

"I think I might have found the time between
cleaning your salty boots and ironing your—"

"Enough, Jack. Let us see the letter, now."
Will accepted the rose-scented missive and was surprised by its odd
shape and outer paper. He tore off the thick wrapping and a small
object fell onto the blue and gold Aubusson carpet.

His heart skipped a beat. The sapphire and
diamond ring lay just beyond his reach, gleaming before him. He
wondered if he was going to be ill. He felt paralyzed.

Jack scooped up the ring and studied it. "So
she accepted you, did she?" There was a cynical gleam in his
eyes.

"Don't say another word,
mon vieux
.
Get out of here if you know what's good for you."

Jack placed the ring on the table nearby and
shook his head. "I've never known what's good for me."

Will heard not a word. His hand shook as he
read the letter.

Dear Lord William,

Thank you for the
pleasant
evening
last night. I enjoyed your performance immensely on so many levels.
I particularly take pleasure in an experience such as the one we
shared when a gentleman can act so well the part of a besotted
fiancé. But all playacting must come to an end at some point, and I
do fear you forgot, in your exuberance, a most important prop from
the excellent betrothal scene.

I enclose it for your future use.

I do hope I am not leaving you at loose ends.
This was just an amusing interlude, was it not? However, if reports
are true, and you are in dire need of funds to preserve the safety
of your person, I feel obligated
as a friend
to tell you
that there is another possibility for your consideration. The
just-widowed heiress of the Marquis of Heathern might be an
excellent candidate for satisfying your pressing obligations. Of
course, there is the disadvantage that she is staring eighty in the
face, although knowing your—shall we say—
calculating
nature,
perhaps you may be willing to risk the odds that she will not
survive much past the wedding night.

I wish you much joy, then, Lord William, in
your forthcoming nuptials. And I must thank you for the education
of a lifetime. I only add, may God have mercy on your soul.

Sophie Somerset

William released all the air that he had held
trapped involuntarily in his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut,
trying to still the wild madness swirling in his mind.

"Do I detect a rebuff?" asked Jack.

Silence.

"By Jove, that's a first. My, but the Welsh
female has grown in my estimation—by leaps and bounds," Jack
continued.

Silence.

"That bad, is it, then?" Jack said, rising
from his seat. "I'll get the brandy."

"No," Will said, finally speaking. He could
feel his outstretched hand shaking. "Arrange for my horse to be
saddled."

"Don't you think you should let a little
time—"

Will's door opened without warning and
Charles Mornington entered, a dazed, pale look on his face. He held
a note in his hand. "They've left. Miss Owen and Miss Somerset have
left." He refocused his attention on his friend. "By God, if you
have had something to do with this, I'll wring your neck, I will. I
am sick and tired of your antics, Will. You should have stopped
your larking about years ago. Now you're just a lecherous old
fool."

"Where?" Will said, quietly but with
menace.

"I beg your pardon," said Mornington.

"Where have they gone?"

"I'll not tell you. I'll not let you near
them."

Farquhar stepped in. "Oh, go ahead and tell
him. Can't you see he's gone and fallen in love with her? And it is
painfully clear that you are suffering from the same ridiculous
condition." Farquhar began picking up the discarded nightclothes
and headed toward the door. "Now let us get a move on to town,
directly. For you don't have to tell me where they've gone, or what
they'll do. Let's hope by the time we get there that I'll have
talked some sense into one, if not both, of you."

Jack disappeared into the hallway to retrieve
the trunks and talked to himself under his breath. "Like I always
say, 'Ladies—can't live with them,
can live without them
.'
But do they listen?" He cackled to himself and began quietly
singing one of his new favorite tunes. "Yankee Doodle keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy. Mind the music and the step and with the girls
be handy…"

IT was late to be rejoining the Season in
town. But there were advantages to reentering the swirl of society
at the height of the bloom and bustle. Relatively new faces were
always sought after in the glittering ballrooms such as this one in
the Earl and Countess of Mayne's mansion. And faces such as
Sophie's, with the taint of recent scandal, were especially
desirable. For everyone who was anyone delighted in following the
potential for more gossip.

Sophie glanced down at her bodice. Delicate
lace rimmed the edges of the ice blue ball gown. It was her
favorite. She examined the display of bosom Mademoiselle Karine had
suspended with a most inventive style from the new mantua-maker on
Bond Street. Gone were the days when Sophie hunched her shoulders.
Now she stretched her neck and displayed her shoulders and form
proudly. It was a profound change.

It was only after discerning William's
fortune-hunting schemes, and the resulting fury that fueled her new
plan, that she had ruthlessly learned how to use her voluptuous
charms to her benefit. Now every gentleman in London from the age
of six and ten to six and eighty had a flicker of interest in his
eye when he greeted her. Gone were the furtive glances at her
covered bulk. Somehow, her proud stature and newfound confidence
naturally repelled vulgar comments. In four short weeks, she had
gained a hard-won acceptance by the
ton
, if the invitations
piled on her aunt's desk were any indication.

And tonight she was determined to make her
choice, and bask in the radiance of her success. She only wished
he
were here to witness her ultimate triumph in the face of
the almost insurmountable odds that she had encountered upon her
return.

"My dear Miss Somerset, don't break my heart
by refusing me the next set." Lord Drummond inched his way forward
through the throng of gentlemen surrounding Sophie.

She tilted her head and fluttered her fan at
the precise pace to indicate indecision. Her eyes sparkling, from
the reflection of the many candles bedecking a chandelier, revealed
her intention.

A chorus of protests broke out among her
court of admirers. "Her card is full," the Marquis of Dalrymple
said, much annoyed.

"She hasn't received permission to waltz,
Drummond," Mr. Hornsby continued.

"Hear, hear!" seconded three more
gentlemen.

Sophie snapped her fan closed and cleared her
throat. "Why, Lord Drummond, I had not thought to see you tonight.
Most of the more, shall we say,
refined
guests arrived hours
ago."

"My dear Miss Somerset," Lord Drummond
replied with a grin, "I was detained by my efforts to compose a
suitable verse describing your lips, your eyes, your very
soul."

"Oh, I say, most unfair," complained the Duke
of Isleton.

"I see. And?" Sophie affected a haughty
ennui, plying her newfound role with expertise.

"And I would request the pleasure of dancing
this waltz so I can litter your person with a plethora of pithy
adjectives," replied Lord Drummond.

Much as she had become adept at composing her
every emotion, Sophie could not swallow the gurgle of laughter that
escaped her. "Ah, well, we cannot have the verse molder so long
that you begin to insert adverbs, now can we?" She tapped her fan
lightly on his chest. "I accept."

Unhappy male voices followed the pair when
Sophie placed her gloved hand on the proffered arm of Lord Drummond
and they wove into the bevy of couples flocking onto the ballroom
floor.

Sophie looked into the blue eyes of Lord
Drummond as he splayed his hand on her back, and accepted her hand
in his other. He was her exact height and age and his light brown
hair was only a shade away from her dark blond locks. He was most
adept at amusing her and had been trying to tempt her for the last
month.

Lord Drummond was droll on occasion to be
sure. If only he had the intense intelligence in his expression
like… Sophie shook her head, willing her memories to disappear.

"I see you are intent on completely ruining
the last shreds of my reputation, my lord," Sophie said.

"Ah, but it is part of my plan, Miss
Somerset," he replied with an open countenance. "If it is wholly in
tatters you'll be left no choice but to accept my proposal of
marriage."

"Well, it has not escaped my notice that
you've been, let us say, most
diligent
this past week in
your efforts to tarnish my character," Sophie said. "I would call
you a blackguard, sir, if your efforts had not failed in an
extraordinary fashion. In fact, I do believe I owe you my
thanks."

He sighed in mock despair. "I suspected as
much. I'm afraid I was three sheets to the wind when I did it. How
many gentlemen have tried to kiss you in the past week?"

"Ah, a lady does not reveal all, sir."

Lord Drummond waltzed Sophie past a pair of
potted palms, through one set of doors to the terrace beyond. He
had the distinct look of a male poised to steal a kiss—the same
look Lord Coddington had on his face earlier in the Season.

Sophie arched a brow and deftly steered them
back through the second set of doors. "My, my, Lord Drummond, I
think you have had altogether too much of that, don't you agree?
You assume too much," she said, laughing. "Especially before you
have uttered even one line of promised verse."

Lord Drummond accepted defeat without much
grace. "My dear, I can't get our embrace from my mind. The touch of
your hands in my hair, your sweet lips, and what you did to my ear,
and, and"— he stared down at her décolleté—"well, you simply have
the most beautiful, divine
presence
that is perfection
personified."

Sophie delicately licked her upper lip and
smiled.

Lord Drummond's step faltered momentarily and
a sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow. "Right. Now let's
see… a poem. Right."

He was concentrating. "There once was a girl
from Wales, who was certainly not covered in scales. She kissed
like a siren, danced like a fairy, and frustrated all the wind out
of every poor boy’s sails."

Sophie laughed.

"I do believe I forgot a line about 'a
certain lady's tall tales.' Yes, I’m certain." He had a comical
expression on his face.

Lord Drummond really did possess most
everything she had been looking for—wit, charm, and most amazing of
all, he was rich. She had had three sources confirm the last point
before setting one of her slippers in his carriage bound for a tour
of Hyde Park during the social hour.

And he was completely entranced by her
carefully constructed façade—the unattainable and mysterious lady
she and Karine had painstakingly created over the last few
weeks.

There was no reason to reject him. And
yet…

"Have I earned my reward then?" he asked,
hope shining in his eyes.

"Undoubtedly," she replied.

"Righto then. Back to the terrace."

The music ceased, and Lord Drummond looked at
her. "You knew it was ending?"

She smiled and winked at him. "Your reward
was the waltz, and well you know it, sir. Lead me to my aunt, will
you? I fear from the look on her face I shall be departing
shortly."

And then she saw
him
as she scanned
the room for her party.
William
. Her gaze darted back. There
was no one there—just like last week at the theater. But she was
sure he had been partially visible, standing outside one of the
doors to the terrace. Her heart plummeted.

She suddenly felt exhausted from the effort
of embodying her new persona. The concentration required to enact
the bold pretense of wit, easy charm and beauty was an unbelievable
strain.

Sophie and Lord Drummond made their way
toward the disapproving gaze and tight smile of Aunt Rutledge, her
companion Mrs. Crosby and cousin Mari. A word or two later and the
females had agreed to depart despite the pleas of Lord Drummond.
Aunt Rutledge used her most haughty glare in response to the young
gentleman's request to escort Sophie and a party of his making to
Vauxhall two days hence.

Sophie said good-bye to her disappointed
suitor and for a quarter of an hour the quartet of females was
forced to wait in the great hall of the Mayfair townhouse for the
arrival of their carriage. Aunt Rutledge was glowering so intently
that Sophie knew better than to initiate conversation.

Sophie strolled to the gray marble
full-length statue of Caesar, bedecked in nothing but laurel and
grape leaves, and pondered the current state of affairs. These
visions were unsettling. She supposed they were due to her refusal
to see him when he had called on three separate occasions. She had
not wavered. If she had, Karine would have locked her in her
apartments. Her maid had wholeheartedly embraced her plan once she
had seen the outrageous amount of shopping it had entailed and the
inevitable castoffs.