Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (22 page)

This time, however, she wanted to see him lose control. He'd watched her surrender helplessly, and now she would do the same. When she resisted his hand, tightened her hold, and continued the motion, he grunted, part laughing and part angry. But she was a determined, stubborn woman, and today she was on a mission. He gave up. Under her firm strokes, he swelled, expanded. Then his head fell back. He arched, grabbed her shoulders to steady himself, and at last he jerked, spilling in a rapid rush, her hand still clasped around his shaft.

Minutes later, he looked down at her, distraught. “I've ruined your frock.” He groaned and fell back to the moss, one arm across his forehead. “I shouldn't have done that. I promised myself I wouldn't spend until…” The words fell away in a sigh.

She watched his lashes pulsing against his cheeks and thought him the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. How many women had he known, she wondered, savagely jealous. “When was the last time you had a woman?” she blurted as she sat up.

His answer was coy. “A while ago.”

She pouted. He laughed and raised one hand to stroke her warm cheek. “Not since I saw your lacy drawers climbing out of that tree. I've been a good boy since then, ma'am.”

“That's a matter of opinion.” They both chuckled, and she slowly spread one hand over the hard planes of his chest. She reached inside herself for the courage and finally said it, releasing the words into the air, just as he once freed the bird trapped in her schoolhouse. “Make love to me. I want all of you.”

His breath stilled. “No. Not yet.”

What was he waiting for? Did he want her to beg?

“It has to be just right,” he added softly, thoughtfully.

“When will that be?”

“Soon.” He grinned. “I hope. That depends on you.”

She didn't understand. He lay before her, stretched out with his arms behind his head, his manhood finally at ease but no less inspiring.

Sometimes when she stopped to consider the intimate things they'd done together, her face was so hot she felt certain other folk would look at it and read all her guilt. But despite these “lessons,” what did she know about Lazarus Kane?

He could drop dead at any moment. He'd killed a man with his bare hands.

He'd killed a man with his bare hands.

She'd marveled often at the strength in his hands. From the very beginning, she'd sensed their restlessness, the dangerous capability that thrummed through those thick, powerful fingers.

This dark, dangerous warrior had come for her at last. As a foolish, harebrained girl, she'd never realized exactly what that meant. But a dangerous man—a true warrior—did not suddenly become tame and harmless overnight. A man-eating tiger could never become a kitten.

The air seemed too thick and still suddenly, overbrimming with things that ought to be said, questions that should be asked and answered. But the pleasures of that afternoon still lingered in her warm bones, and she didn't want to spoil them.

Back to practical matters. “I'll wash my skirt in the stream,” she said.

When they finally emerged from the emerald hollow, riding again side by side, the sky was aglow with melting sunset that slowly covered the last, lingering, forget-me-not innocence of a cloudless afternoon. They didn't speak. What was there to say?

All the way home, they left the conversation to Chivers, Ellie, and Aunt Finn. But little glances passed between them as the small cart rumbled gently along and the little grey clopped neatly behind. They shared his secret now. Soon they would have a past to talk about; for now they had only a few shared moments to recall, but it was building, and they learned new things about each other every day.

So what else did she know about Lazarus Kane?

Despite his unconventional, bold, “improper” ways, he was, underneath it all, a man of generosity, tenderness—when he chose to use it—and boundless courage.

And fatal secrets.

James was waiting by the gate with two horses harnessed to a brand-new phaeton. In all the excitement, she'd completely forgotten tonight was the evening at Lady Hartley's. Aunt Finn certainly hadn't bothered to remind her.

“Oh, Lord!” the lady now exclaimed, all innocence. “Mr. Hartley appears a trifle sour, Sophie.”

He must have ridden up to the fortress to fetch her, and then, finding her gone, his suspicious nature took him directly to Souls Dryft. Lines of anger were etched deeply across his usually smooth brow.

“Yon milksop's here again,” Chivers confirmed sourly under his breath.

Ellie snorted with laughter until Sophie threw her a look. The last thing she needed was James being even more furious than he clearly was already.

“I shan't go,” Finn resolutely declared. “I have better things to do with my evening. Chivers promised me a game of cards here.”

“Aunt Finn, you must come. Henry will expect—”

“Henry can expect until the cows come home and go out again.”

If James wasn't standing there, waiting, Sophie, too, would gladly have missed the evening—made some excuse.

She held her bonnet in her lap, and the frayed ribbons twisted around her fingers. She didn't think she could stand up, let alone climb down from the cart. In her current state, everything was thrown askew, inside and out, and she wanted to curl up and hide. It was unfair of these wretched men, she thought, to pull her about like this. Or was she the one pulling them about? It was, after all, her advertisement that started this.

A few feet away, James glowered at her and made twitchy gestures. He took a step closer, but Lazarus was there first, his arms reaching up to her. Her hair, now without ribbon or bonnet, cascaded over her shoulders and across his face while he let her slide down his body until her toes met the ground.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her hands lightly pressed to his shoulders. When he didn't immediately release her, she heard James complaining about the time. Still, those hands remained around her waist, reluctant to give her up. Her pulse skipped like a spring lamb, and when she raised her eyes slowly to his, what she saw there made her want to run away. His desire was savage, even brutal. But what else should she expect from her flesh-and-blood warrior? He was no fantasy she could control with her imagination. He'd come to find her—to carry her off over his shoulder. What had she expected to happen next, after he rode off with her into the horizon? For him to sit her down and make daisy chains, or let her sketch his silhouette? No. There was only one thing he had in mind when he came to steal her away. It was what conquering knights did.

“Don't…” she gasped in a frantic whisper, “don't kiss me.” She had a real fear he would do it just to incite James. The touch of his strong, unpredictable hands made her tremble. His breath warmed her temple, and when she blinked slowly, her lashes brushed his jaw. Much too close. What did her warrior care? He'd killed a man with those same hands. He could do it again.

In the corner of her eye, she saw James waiting, growing steadily more irate. She felt the tension in the air, the unspoken aggression, and turned quickly to slip out of those dangerous hands and step gingerly across the rutted lane to James and his carriage.

***

Lazarus escorted Miss Vyne back to her aunt's cottage in the village, and she obligingly filled him in on Sophie's history with Hartley.

“He's been in love with her for fifteen years,” she'd said with a pert sigh, “or at least he thinks he has. James Hartley is accustomed to getting what he wants, because he's filthy rich, as well as handsome as the very Devil.” Then, after a short pause, she threw him a shred of comfort. “But he's also the stupidest man alive if he thinks he can get Sophie by forcing her into a corner. That's the very worst thing he can try. A wild animal, when cornered, will strike. I hope he's prepared. Of course, I could have told him he's wasting his time on Sophie, but he'd never heed my advice. Pity, really. I have much advice to give, and people so seldom follow it.”

He looked at her warily. “How did you become so clever and fearless at your age?”

“Out of necessity,” she chirped. “Same as you did, I suspect.”

He said good evening, saw her into the cottage, and then rode home.

When he entered the farmhouse, Chivers and Finn Valentine were in the midst of a game of cards.

“Why did you let her go with Hartley?” Finn wanted to know at once.

“I'll let her make her choice. I won't force her decision.” He tried to make light of it, remembering what her friend had just told him. He shrugged in a lazy, careless fashion, which was far from what he felt. “She'll do what's best for her.”

The lady sighed dramatically and got out her gin flask. “Now you'll just have to wait and see if she comes back, you young fool.”

Lazarus slumped in his chair, one hand to his chest.

Chivers watched his friend thoughtfully. “You all right? You look done in.”

He shook his head and winced.

Chivers pushed, “Did you tell her?”

“Some. Not all. But soon I will.”

“You must be head over heels in love with that woman, you bloody fool.” Even as Chivers cursed his friend, it was with a soft, chiding care, like that of an impatient older brother.

But Lazarus gave a sheepish grin. “I want her to know the truth. All of it. Whatever happens.”

“Then I was right, and you are in love,” Chivers grumbled. “Or mad as a March hare.”

“Perhaps both.”

“But, Mr. Kane,” Finn cried, “my Sophie has been waiting for you all her life. And now you've let her go off with James Hartley.”

“I think your niece has had enough people telling her what to do. It's time she made her own leap of faith.”

Finn exclaimed, “She did that once before, and look what happened.”

“Yes. It brought me to her when I would otherwise never have known her.”

“I don't mean her advertisement. I mean the balcony, Mr. Kane, when she jumped from it.”

“So do I.” He stood abruptly, walked to the window, and looked out on the ink-splotched evening sky. He wished her back again in his embrace, but he knew he had to let her go. She had to be there by her own choice, or he'd never have the courage to tell her the whole truth about his past. Today he'd told her a great deal, but he had yet to tell her the most important detail of his life—the first moment he saw her.

It happened on one moonlit night almost eleven years ago, when he was an under-gardener who stayed out late, trimming ivy. He'd seen her on that balcony and stared up at her, bewitched. If he hadn't been so distracted that night, watching the beautiful girl on the balcony above, he would never have left his ladder out.

But he did. When she jumped, she hit her face upon a rusty nail that protruded from that ladder. He was promptly dismissed from his post, and if it hadn't been for his sister, he would never even have known her name.

It was all his fault she was scarred.

He felt certain she could never forgive him for that mistake, but he'd come there to make amends in any way he could. If only she'd let him.

Aunt Finn knew none of the turmoil in his heart, declared him a fool of the highest order, and refused to speak to him for the rest of the evening. Eventually, before it was full dark, Chivers took her back up the lane to Henry's fortress, and Lazarus sat alone with his head in his hands, past mistakes preying heavily on his mind.

***

James said little as they rode into the dusk. He was plainly angry, and she wished he'd let it out rather than keep it locked away.

“We had a picnic,” she said, “for the schoolchildren.”

She caught the quick, sharp flick of his furious gaze as it lashed sideways like a whip.

“I forgot the time,” she added. “I should have gone home to tidy my hair, at least.”

“At least,” he snapped.

She sighed and brushed at the damp grass stains on her skirt. “I suppose even my best frock wouldn't compete with the famously elegant Misses Sadler's, whom we shall meet this evening. Certainly won't meet your grandmama's standards.”

He rested his forearms on his knees, the reins slack between his fingers. “Sometimes, Sophia, I think you deliberately like to upset my grandmama.”

“It's easier than meeting with her approval.”

His lips pursed and then snapped open to mutter a curt, “I don't like your running about the countryside like a stray cat. Like that Vyne girl.” He sat up straighter. “And I agree with Henry. That school is a waste of your time.”

“You've discussed me with Henry?”

“Of course.”

She turned her face away and remarked softly, “I think I liked it better when you hated each other.”

And
I
think
I'm in love with Lazarus Kane.
She couldn't quite reconcile herself to the idea. After all, he was a mere boy, impetuous and probably attracted to things that weren't good for him.
Was
it
love
or
lust? Or both?

“If I see you with Kane again, Sophia…”

“There is no harm in it. The children like—”

“…I
will
put a stop to it. I suggest you act with decorum in future and don't encourage that man. He ought to know his place.”

She sighed and looked at her hands in her lap. She didn't want to bring Lazarus trouble. He must be made to understand the peril he courted by pushing James's temper and overstepping his “place.”

The Sadlers—their eight daughters, two maids, a valet, a butler, two footmen, and a coachman—had arrived that week in Morecroft. Mrs. Dykes had taken it upon herself to show them the sights and entertainments, such as they were, and soon found herself fully utilized in this and many other, less-gracious capacities: shepherding the listless daughters about and standing ever ready to demean herself as necessary in the task of carrying boxes, finding lost bonnets and gloves, walking lapdogs, and disposing of the little gifts those lapdogs left behind on the pavement.

Tonight, she took the greatest of simpering pleasure in providing, through her own “connections,” this social coup of an evening's company with Lady Ursula Hartley—the most consequential person in Morecroft.

Sophie expected nothing more from the evening than a few grim laughs and possibly a generous measure of humiliation, but she was curious to meet the Sadlers, especially those eight daughters who were supposedly so fine and well behaved.

In the drawing room, as soon as they entered, James was whisked away to be introduced to the Misses Sadler—the five that were present this evening—and Sophie was escorted to the couch. She was obliged to sit between Sir Arthur Sadler, who had a habit of reaching for his knee and finding hers instead, and her sister-in-law, who worried constantly about her new gown being crushed by the proximity.

Their late arrival caused quite a stir. Her sister was already certain they'd had a fatal accident in James's new phaeton, and Sophie's bedraggled, windblown appearance did nothing to dispel that fear immediately. Lady Hartley's piercing grey eyes quickly assessed the dirt on her shoes, the grass stains on her skirt, and her unbound hair, but no one mentioned it. Sophie took her seat on the couch with as much grace as she could muster and silently lamented her bare arms as she took note of all the long white gloves. Even if her gown and shoes had been clean and her hair pinned up, she was hardly dressed for an evening party. But she had to make the best of it.

For the first half hour, Lavinia and her mother were too awestruck for much conversation. To dine in the company of Lady Hartley was the sort of achievement for which they lived and breathed. Sophie knew anecdotes of this evening would pepper their speeches for the next ten years, and they would find any cause to throw in a tidbit about the pattern on Lady Hartley's china, the luster of her pearl earrings, even the “charming” tricks of her yappy, ill-tempered pug.

The Sadlers evidently considered themselves on a near equal footing with Lady Hartley and far above Valentines. Lady Sadler was a slight, shrunken creature with a head that never seemed quite upright, and skin so pale it was almost transparent, like thin paper. The lady bore a shocking resemblance to a corpse, Sophie mused. As for her daughters, Sophie had seldom seen such a dull group. All were tall and reed-thin with sallow features and despondent shoulders. The Misses Sadler looked as glad to be there as Sophie felt inside. The eldest daughter was very elegantly attired and very straight, as if set in strengthening plaster to correct a twisted spine, but she had an empty prettiness—the same that must once have graced her frail mother's face. The three youngest daughters had not come out that evening but remained home with the servants.

Maria made some attempt to engage the young ladies in conversation, prying for details about fashionable trends in Norwich, but it was usually Lady Hartley who shouted across the room to answer her questions. Since Maria was always rather scared of that lady, she soon gave up. After that, the conversation was left almost entirely to Lady Hartley and Sir Arthur, both of whom had a fondness for their own voices.

Sir Arthur was a stout fellow with a large, fleshy nose, bristling eyebrows, and yellowed teeth. His booming voice, abrupt as a foghorn, curled Lady Hartley's hand-painted wallpaper, and his breath singed the falling curls on Sophie's head when he suddenly boomed in her ear, “So you're the little lady causing all the trouble, eh?”

Her stomach clenched like a fist. Every eye, including those of the mostly disinterested Misses Sadler, swung in their direction. She opened her mouth, but only a very tight sigh escaped.

Mrs. Dykes spoke up in her softly menacing voice, “We're most grateful to you, Sir Arthur, for your hassistance in this matter. We're quite done in with worry about poor, dear Sophia. Hain't we, 'Enry?”

Lady Sadler looked up, her pale eyes red rimmed and always, it seemed, on the verge of tears. “Something dreadful about an advertisement…for a
husband
?”

Mrs. Dykes apologized to Lady Sadler for the sad state of her son-in-law's family. She explained the regrettable Sophia's unfortunate habit of causing mischief, and her complete carelessness regarding the consequences. “The sooner she's safely far away and put to good use in some capacitry or other, the better off we'll all be. Especially dear Sophia.”

Sophie toyed with the idea of thrusting a cushion into Mrs. Dykes's mouth and wrestling her to the ground.

“I hear you're the wayward gel who caused Lord Grimstock a hernia.” Sir Arthur's voice rattled the candelabra.

It was the first time she'd been accused of that, but she supposed she might as well be blamed for this too. Why not?

“And you're the gel that got caught in a compromising position with that young fellow. On a billiard table, no less. I'd have tanned the young blighter's arse if I found it sticking up in the air, make no mistake.” He roared in Sophie's ear, “And yours too, missy.”

Across the room, his daughters flinched delicately. In the process of averting eyes from their father, they succeeded only in meeting one another's shocked, startled glances, so there was very nearly a nervous giggle or two among them. Lady Sadler moaned softly and tipped forward, as if she might be sick upon the carpet, while Mrs. Dykes rapidly fanned her face for her, and James's grandmother suddenly became enthralled by the diamonds on her pug's collar.

Lavinia, being familiar with that story but not with the name of the young gentleman involved—certainly unaware of his presence in that very drawing room—smugly assured Sir Arthur, over Sophie's head, this was indeed the same hoyden who continued to bring shame on the family and cared not one jot about it.

Now the young Misses Sadler stared at Sophie with the sort of morbid fascination reserved for an exhibit of Egyptian mummies, but she was glad to provide them with some entertainment, since they could get none elsewhere that evening. If she was in their shoes, she would be equally enthralled by the scarlet hussy in their midst.

The very improper subject of Sophia's behavior was soon raised again…most particularly, the solution for it. Now it was revealed that, since the Sadlers recently lost their old governess, Mrs. Dykes had persuaded Sir Arthur to let Sophia fill the vacancy immediately. It seemed the Sadlers planned a move to Bath, where Lady Sadler's poor health might benefit from the cures. And they meant to take Sophia with them.

Much to her bemusement, every minutia of the trip was already sorted. For the journey itself—Sir Arthur informed her in an ever-increasing octave—Sophia would sit behind the carriage with the luggage, and there was more than enough space for her living quarters in a very small box room in the attic of the house they'd purchased. Sir Arthur went on to add that the window of her room couldn't be opened, but if she required additional airing, she might leave her door open, and it wouldn't cause much bother. She would not require coal in that room, for it was so high up in the house it would surely capture all the rising heat. They were concerned about the expense of an extra mouth to feed, but he thought that, with some creative measuring, an adequate portion from each meal might be eked out for a governess, especially one who—according to Mrs. Dykes—ate like a bird and was very small.

For five pounds a year, plus room and board and two half days off a week, Sir Arthur thought Sophia should be excessively thankful.

Mrs. Dykes closed her fan with a snap. “I do 'ope I hain't exhumed my place in making these arrangements on your behalf, 'Enry, but something hought to be done. For Sophia's sake.” Her mean little eyes were downcast in an attempt to seem demure, but her lips were thin and very tight, her claw-like hands curling, ready to snag the fur of her prey and drag it off to feed her young.

Lavinia chirped, “She should be grateful, mama, but she won't be. She never is. She's surly, rude, and extremely quarrelsome.” She bounced about in her seat, untethered bosom almost hitting her on the chin. “Since the stranger came to Sydney Dovedale, she's been worse than ever.”

“Eh?” Sir Arthur turned his quizzing glass to that plump and restless bosom. With his free hand, he reached for a pear on the console table behind them. “Stranger? What stranger?”

“A gypsy with no manners or breeding, Sir Arthur. And since he came to the village, it has upset everything and injured my husband Henry's health quite dreadfully.”

Henry and his now-dolorous expression were swiftly examined through Sir Arthur's quizzing glass, which was, with little delay, returned to Lavinia's generous bosom.

“The stranger,” she squawked, delighting in the attention, “came in answer to Sophia's advertisement for a husband, and now we cannot be rid of him.”

James joined in, sitting forward on his chair. “Indeed, Sir Arthur, we wondered if you might be able to help uncover the fellow's background for us. I suspect there is some criminal history, for he is most reluctant to talk about himself.”

Sophie felt her teeth turn to sawdust in her mouth. She looked at James, but he avoided her gaze and continued. “We don't like to have any man among us who is dangerous and likely to cause trouble. Clearly this man, Kane, does not belong in Sydney Dovedale.”

“A criminal, eh?” Sir Arthur's voice boomed out, shaking the wood paneling around the walls. Even soot, dislodged by the sound, spattered down the chimney in loosened chunks and darkened Lady Hartley's ostentatious statuary mantel. One eye gleamed at Sophia through the quizzing glass he held in place with a lopsided squint.

“He's dark as a devil, Sir Arthur,” Lavinia exclaimed. “One only has to look at him to know exactly what he is.”

They all agreed fervently for several minutes.

When the murmuring finally died down, Sophie offered a quiet suggestion to the room in general. “Shouldn't every man be given the benefit of the doubt?”

Sir Arthur reared back. “I see you're a mouthy wench, madam.” He took a loud bite of his pear and instantly cried out in agony. “Damned tooth!”

His wife looked vaguely interested but offered no solace for his pain. That was left to Mrs. Dykes, who passed him her handkerchief, which had a little clove oil on the corner. “One's a martyr to the tooth-hache oneself, Sir Arthur,” she explained.

Muttering low curses, he pressed the handkerchief to his sore tooth, and no more was said about criminals and wenches with too many opinions. For the time being.

***

Later, when they were all standing about on Lady Hartley's tiled foyer, waiting for carriages and fussing over coats and mantles, Sophie realized she'd left behind her shawl. Rather than bother one of the staff, she slipped back to the drawing room to find it. The door was ajar, and James was already discussing their guests with his grandmother.

“Good Lord, what wretched women—the Dykes woman and her daughter! Thank heavens I'm hard of hearing.”

“But you were entertained, Grandmama, were you not? I knew you would be.”

“And that's why you invited the organ grinder and her monkey?”

“Couldn't resist.”

“It seems Valentine no longer blames you for what happened to his sister.”

“We have an agreement to put all that aside for Sophia's sake.”

“Surely you're not still pining for that indecisive creature?” she snapped. “As I told you before, you were far better off when she broke the engagement. And all this latest business about an advertisement for a husband!”

“Yes. Indeed.”

“I hear Henry's so deep in debt they threw him out of his club. I caution you, boy, never lend him any money.”

James made no reply, but Sophie heard the gentle chink of the brandy decanter.

“Henry Valentine is a shifty blighter,” the old lady continued, “and I suspect it wouldn't be the first time a woman in that family was sold for coin. Look at the demirep aunt, a notorious concubine and not in the least repentant. As for Sophia, I've seen chimney sweeps in smarter attire. And a brush seems curiously absent from her possessions.”

“Well, all that will change, Grandmama…soon.”

“Surely you don't plan to renew your attentions to that hussy! After what she did before.”

“I won't lose her again, especially not to a man like that! With Sir Arthur Sadler's help, I'll soon be rid of that young devil at Souls Dryft. That'll teach him not to get above his place.”

“Henry Valentine is after your money!”

James answered with a slurred confidence, “I prefer, Grandmama, to think of it as an investment. For my future happiness. And for Sophia's.”

“Do be wary, James. That girl has very sinister eyes. Cunning. Reminds me of a tinderbox waiting for a strike.”

“Don't worry, Grandmama. Sophia will realize I am the right choice for her. She must.”

Deciding to forfeit her shawl—hot enough without it now, in any case—Sophie returned to the foyer.

Lady Hartley lent the services of a coachman and her barouche box for the journey home. Sophie was crammed in between Lavinia and Henry, with Maria and Mr. Bentley seated across the carriage, but she suffered the discomfort rather than risk injury or worse along a dark, bumpy road in a phaeton driven by James in his cups. For the first two-thirds of the long journey home to Sydney Dovedale, Maria chattered eagerly about the events of the evening, the gowns of the Misses Sadler, the decoration of Lady Hartley's drawing room, and the elegance of her menu, as if none of the others were there to see it for themselves.