Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (26 page)

She frowned up at him. "Not even Aunt Agatha?" How could she go through these next two weeks without even one confidant? One friend?

"No one, Sophia. No one must guess. If they do, your reputation will be ruined and you will be forced to marry me. You do not want that, do you?"

She bit her lip, then finally stammered the response he seemed to expect. "No, I do not wish for that," she echoed hollowly.

"Then we understand each other." With that, he spun on his heel and left.

Chapter 12

Sophia remained where she was, staring at all the summer glory, her thoughts on tiny baby faces, little knitted booties, and sweet, sticky kisses.

"Do I detect from your smile that the major is gone?"

Sophia looked up as Reginald, Lord Kyle, stepped around the greenery. She had not heard him approach, but then she had not heard much of anything beyond the sound of the major's heavy footsteps as he departed.

"Hmm? Oh, the major has left for London." She could not keep the depression from her voice.

"Then you are well rid of him."

Sophia did not wish to answer. Her thoughts about the aggravating man were too confusing to focus on. She would much rather think of babies. But she could not do that with Reginald here. "Is there something you wanted?" she asked stiffly.

"Why, merely to see if all was well with you. You have been gone so long, we began to wonder if the major had spirited you away."

"After publicly denouncing me yesterday? I think not." Her words were heavy, her mood soured with the thought of the entire wretched incident. And now he was gone to London. Soon to find another wife.

"You know," Lord Kyle commented as he took her hand, "I have always stood by you as your friend."

Sophia turned to look at him, a sudden urge for honesty overcoming her usual tact. "No," she said softly. "I had not known."

Lord Kyle stiffened, as if her comment startled him. "Ah. Well, I have. I would like to think you could trust me to assist you, if necessary."

"Hmmm," she answered, her response noncommittal.

"Sophia," he began again, "I have always had the greatest admiration for you. I would not wish the major's schemes to harm you. Please, if you are in some sort of coil, I will do all I can to help you unravel it."

Sophia stood slowly, taking the time to look for the first time at her longtime acquaintance. His black hair and chiseled face were handsome in the dark, brooding way considered fashionable. His clothing was immaculate, his attitude one that reflected wealth and refinement. In short, he was everything the forthright and militaristic Major Anthony Wyclyff was not.

She ought to be attracted to the man. But for some odd reason, she was not. "We have been friends a long time, Reg," she finally said. "But I am not in a coil right now, thank you."

"Then why are you sitting here, staring at the plants? Why have you been attending cockfights and spending nights in gaol?"

"Night, Reg. One night." She took a few steps forward, wandering aimlessly through her aunt's garden. Naturally, he fell into step beside her, too tenacious to be dislodged so easily.

"No matter," he returned. "The entire affair is scandalous in the extreme and most unlike you." He grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. "Why, Sophia, you are the epitome of refinement. My sister is constantly harping on her children to act more like you."

"Oh, Lord," gasped Sophia. "Pray do not make me your model. Not only am I most unfit, but the poor children would hate me within seconds."

He shook his head. "Nonsense. You are everything I consider acceptable."

Sophia twisted in his grasp, her jaw growing slack with astonishment. "Reginald," she gasped, "are you proposing to me?"

For the first time ever, she saw Lord Kyle do something unfashionable. He blushed. It was a fiery red that seemed to burn in his cheeks. Then he released her arm as if she had scalded him. "Well, as to that," he stammered, "I actually considered it. But after five Seasons and your... um..."

"Lack of a dowry?"

"Your financial assets are not sizable enough. Your breeding is, of course, not to be questioned."

"Of course," she agreed, secretly amused by his unintentional double entendre. In actual fact, her "breeding" was very much in question. It
was
the question.

He continued, "If circumstances were a bit different and your recent scandal—"

"Enough, Reg," she cut him off with an absent wave of her hand. "I understand your position"

He suddenly frowned, once again hurrying to her side. "This is not going nearly as well as it ought."

"I have found that to be the case more and more," she commented, her thoughts still on babies, her feet wandering a twisting, curving path.

"Truly, I wish to be of assistance."

She took a deep breath, absorbing the floral scent in the air, the humid summer wind, even the feel of having a gentleman take hold of her hand, though he was not quite the gentleman she would have chosen. "Where did you go, Reg? You were my friend. My only friend, and suddenly, you were gone. We stopped talking about real things, we stopped really understanding each other." She could not keep the note of hurt from her voice.

He didn't respond at first, then when he did, he spoke haltingly as if searching for words. "I was not aware you needed me. Sophia, you have always seemed so competent. I cannot count the number of men who planned to marry you."

"Boys, Reg, they were boys. And it was because I was as fashionable as your cravat," she said, throwing a dismissive gesture at his dark blue necktie. "Easily picked up. Easily discarded." She stopped walking, turning to face him directly. "You were the only one who did not speak in trivialities, Reg. And then..." Her voice trailed away.

"Then I left."

She nodded. "And when you returned, you had changed. You became one of
them
, thinking of nothing but the cut of your coat."

She expected him to defend himself, to loudly proclaim the importance of fashion. Instead, his expression became undeniably sad. "I fell in love."

She gaped at him, startled beyond words. Of all the things she had expected him to say, this was absolutely the last on her list. She searched her memory for a name, a face, anything that would clue her in to the mysterious woman who had captured her friend's heart. Finally, a name clicked in place, bringing with it the memory of large brown eyes and a sweet heart-shaped face. "Miss Melissa Giant, Blakesly's niece." Then suddenly she frowned. "She ran off with a Scotsman."

Reginald shrugged, becoming suddenly interested in the petals of a tiny pink flower. "Do not throw away love, Sophia. It is too easily lost."

Sophia felt her chest squeeze tight at his words, her heart beating painfully against the restriction. "I am so sorry, Reg," she whispered.

She lay her hand on his shoulder, noting the tension there. But then it eased away, carefully erased as he assumed the breezy attitude she had come to hate. "Ah, but I came here to assist you, my dear. Tell me what I can do."

She knew better than to press him for details of his romance. He would tell her when he chose and not before. So she simply took his arm, strolling about her aunt's garden while silence like a suspended breath reigned about them. Eventually, she spoke, wishing she could say more, but mindful of her promise to Anthony to remain silent. "I am not in a coil, Reg. I am merely waiting."

"Waiting?"

For a baby
. She felt her expression shift into a dreamy smile. "I shall know in a fortnight."

He nodded, as if calculating the time. "Most of the scandal should die down by then."

Or rear up anew
, she thought with a grin. "Two weeks and my life shall return to some semblance of order," she said firmly.

"Well, then," he quipped, suddenly extending his arm to her, "I shall endeavor to be vastly entertaining for a fortnight."

Sophia smiled, as she knew he expected. "Always that. If nothing else, Reg, you have always been entertaining."

At last in accord, the two began to stroll the grounds.

* * *

Life continued for Sophia, despite all her unwanted guests. Reginald kept his promise of being entertaining, but Sophia was too distracted to do more than smile politely when required. She did rouse herself to restrengthen her friendship with Lydia, which was easy enough: All she had to do was encourage her friend to chat about plans for a nursery.

Every once in a while, Sophia would catch Aunt Agatha giving her a significant look. She had no idea what those penetrating stares were meant to convey, and truly she did not care. She supposed her perceptive aunt might have guessed the truth, but Sophia herself was too happy to do more than smile and return to her thoughts.

It was all rather exciting, this wondering about a baby. She had already chosen names, had special clothing created in her mind, even outfitted an imaginary nursery. In her mind's eye, her boy child had grown into a man, entered the military, and come out as fine as his father. Her little girl had grown into a beautiful, vivacious woman who charmed the
ton
during a delightful Season. She had not yet chosen a husband for her daughter, but then again, there were so many suitors it was hard to pick just one.

But in all that time, she had not once given thought to the children's father or their life together—or so she told herself. Certainly, she thought of his smile, for she'd given it to both boy and girl child. She remembered his gentleness and gave that to her daughter. To the son, she gave his nobility, his stern character, even his firm jaw and military bearing.

As for her other thoughts, the ones that appeared at night... Well, they were certainly not her fault, and she didn't spend time thinking about Anthony during the day!

All in all, she told herself, the major was quite distant from her thoughts. She absolutely did not miss him. And she would never dream of wishing he were with her. Except perhaps in a distant corner of her mind that once in a while whispered an evil word.

Love.

That is a horrible thought
, she screamed at that tiny part of her mind. She could not possibly love the major. Why, she had worked so hard to give him a thorough and complete disgust of her. He was in London, no doubt spying out the latest crop of beauties. She had all but thrown him there. She could not love the man. It would simply be too tragic.

That settled, she occupied herself with thoughts of their child and gave the other tiny corner of her mind no heed.

Until the day her monthly courses came.

It was there as clear as day on her unmentionables. A tiny spot, hardly worth mentioning. But she knew its significance. Knew her courses would follow.

And they did.

So, with a hand that shook with each word, she wrote to Kirby, the major's batman, who waited at the inn for her word. Her note was curt and to the point. It read:

Apply to my mother regarding a potential bride. I am sure she can direct you to many who fit your requirements.

She signed it, gave it to a footman, then promptly fell on her bed and cried harder than she had done in all her life.

* * *

It was well after midnight when Anthony arrived at his tiny room in the Staffordshire inn, but despite the late hour, Kirby was still awake, holding the door to the room open, a small piece of parchment folded in his hand.

Anthony paused on the threshold, his heart beating painfully in his throat. "Is it...?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Er, no. I mean, I don't know."

"The hell you don't." Frustrated and anxious, Anthony grabbed the note, pulling it out of the unsealed envelope. He read it once. Then twice. Then a third time.

Cursing, he threw it on the ground. "What the hell does that mean?" he fumed. "A lot of nonsense."

Kirby wisely said nothing. Anthony glared at him nonetheless. Seeing that he could not provoke his batman, Anthony turned, heading back for the door. "I will talk with her myself."

"In bed?"

The major spun around. "What?"