Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (6 page)

He scratched his head. “You
were
standing there looking desperate.”

“Desperate?
Desperate?
” Something about that word raised her temper another notch. Whatever had put her in a bad mood already, his sudden appearance in the lane had done nothing to appease it. “I'll thank you to know, sir, I am quite capable of finding my own way around a small obstacle. I am twenty-nine years of age and managed to survive quite well on my own all these years. Do you suppose I was waiting all this time for you?”

He said nothing but rubbed his jaw slowly with one hand, taking her in from muddy feet to the wayward straggle of honey-colored hair.

“I might not have wanted to cross the puddle,” she added. “I might not be going this way. You didn't even ask.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“Why do you look at me in that manner?” the haughty madam demanded.

“Miss Valentine, may we—?”

“Don't speak to me!” She held up her hand, palm in his face. “I cannot converse with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's most improper. You're a single man and a stranger.”

“But you're speaking to me now,” he pointed out.

“Indeed I am not,” she exclaimed boldly with the aplomb of a woman accustomed to telling fibs.

His gaze swept down to her feet again. “You've got mud on your gown.”

“I know that, for pity's sake. Don't you think I have enough people to point out my faults already?”

“Well, I—”

“If there's one thing I do not lack, it's other folk trying to direct my life.”

“I only pointed out the mud—”

“I may be a woman, but that does not make me an imbecile. Neither am I crippled. I am perfectly capable of negotiating a puddle. Things may be different wherever you come from, sir, but here in Sydney Dovedale, gentlemen don't sweep ladies off their feet.”

He smirked. “I'm sorry for the ladies, then. Good thing I'm here, ain't it?”

“That is not what I meant, and well you know it.” Her cheeks darkened another shade. “They do not put their hands all over ladies without permission.”

“I'll ask first next time, then.” And one of these days, he mused, his blood roused, he'd make her beg for his touch. “
Ma'am
.”

“Well, you are refused—”

“I didn't ask yet.”

“—in advance,” she sputtered, wrapping her bonnet ribbons around her fingers. “Besides, your hands are dirty,” she added with a grand flourish, as if she'd been searching for more insults. “Dreadful, impertinent man.”

His hands were dirty? Was that the best she could do?

He gave her a moment, and when that produced no further comment, he took matters into his own filthy hands.

Bending his knees slightly, he scooped her up again, this time vertically, with his arms around her hips, and carried her back across the puddle. He set her down again, doffed an imaginary hat, and left her there as he walked onward down the lane. He had no doubt the ungrateful wench watched him go, so he kept his gaze forward and resumed his merry whistle.

As the day wore on, the sky brightened, not a cloud in sight. Then, slowly, it began to soften, like a watercolor painting that became too wet and crinkled the paper. By late afternoon, Lazarus's view of the horizon from the roof of the farmhouse rippled with merging, fuzzy layers of blush-pink, cobalt blue, and burnished copper. The busy birds still chirped, but less frantically now, their notes dampened and warped like the sun.

Lazarus was taking a short break and sitting astride the peak of his roof, when he spied Henry Valentine arriving at his gate to yank impatiently on the bell rope. He'd expected this visit yesterday, but evidently, Valentine had decided to make him wait. Fine. If that was the way he wanted to play. Lazarus would let Tuck deal with him first. He'd finish his work and then go down. Mr. Henry Valentine could take his turn waiting.

In answer to repeated clangs of the bell, Tuck finally emerged from the house, his ambling, crooked gait in no hurry.

Henry bellowed through the iron bars of the gate, “I haven't all blessed day. Where is he?”

“Hold yer horses,” Tuck exclaimed, moving no faster, plainly careless of Valentine's noble pretensions.

Lazarus smiled as he felt the hot blast of Henry's frustration even from that distance. Tuck unlocked the gate, and Henry barged ahead into the house, leaving the old man to hobble after.

Almost half an hour later, Lazarus strolled leisurely through the farmhouse door, a jolly whistle on his lips. He saw Henry seated by the window, gripping his cane in both hands and rattling on about his time being very important. At the sound of the door opening and Lazarus's careless whistle, Henry stiffly turned in his seat. Shock and horror quickly consumed his features, and Lazarus wondered if it would have been proper to put his shirt on before he came in. It hadn't occurred to him. He tried to keep that shirt as clean as possible, so he never wore it when working around the house and farm.

Henry's gaze fell to the small bump on Lazarus's bare chest before it swept back upward. Recognition must have slapped him hard and quick when he realized this was the man he'd recently encountered lurking under a lantern outside Morecroft Gentleman's Club. The man who knew he was in debt.

He rose quickly. “Kane, I presume!”

Still wiping his hands on an old rag, Lazarus nodded his head. “And who might you be?”

Henry tapped his stick indignantly upon the flagstones. “I, young man, am Henry Valentine.”

“Ah,” Lazarus said slowly. Of course he knew who it was standing in his house, but he made the man admit it this time. “Please forgive my state of undress…” He extended a hand toward Henry, the great bulk of muscle in his arm and shoulder making the gesture rather more menacing than welcoming.

“I've waited here long enough,” Henry snapped. “I have many other matters of business today, so I shall tally no longer and get directly to the point.”

Lazarus retrieved his unaccepted hand. “I'm grateful for your haste, Valentine. I, too, am busy.”

Henry's face grew redder with every breath. “I understand you came here with plans to marry my sister. Had you consulted me first, I could have saved you the trouble. Sophia will not marry. I must ask you to forget you ever read that advertisement.”

“Oh?”

“My sister is prone to whimsical ideas, all in the purpose of her own amusing sport. The advertisement was merely a result of that same regretful impulse for mischief, which has, in the past, caused us similar trouble. Sophia is a difficult, contrary creature, her temper as changeable as the wind. That advertisement, written in one mood, she now already wishes retracted.”

A sharp pain stabbed his chest. Lazarus caught his breath, placing his hand over the little bump there. “Why does she not tell me this herself?”

“It is not fitting for a well-bred lady to speak with a bachelor like yourself, in any matter.” He paused. “I regret you came all this way for naught. You've traveled a great distance?”

Lazarus gave no answer but walked to the window and turned his back to Henry, trying to get his thoughts in order, his temper under control.

“You were a soldier, Kane?”

“I've been many things.” He looked back at the red-faced man, who seemed to inflate further with every angry breath. “The lady changed her mind, is that it? Perhaps I don't suit her fancy.”

“My sister has no wish to marry. She's resigned to spinsterhood.”

“'Tis an odd thing for a young woman like that to be so resigned,” Lazarus replied steadily. “I'll talk to the lady myself.”

“You certainly will not approach my sister,” Henry exclaimed, breathless and perspiring. “I warn you to let the matter rest.”

Lazarus stared at the flagstones under his feet and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Every sore muscle in his shoulder heaved then settled. He should have known there'd be trouble. Nothing worth having in life was easy. “I see how it is,” he said finally. “How much do you need to pay off your debts? What will it cost me?”

“You misunderstand, sir, and willfully, I suspect,” Henry blustered, almost exploding out of his waistcoat.

“Oh no,
sir
, I understand you perfectly.” Lazarus looked up again, smiling slowly. “You're disinclined to give your sister away for free. Can't blame you for that. I'll buy her from you.”

“My sister is not for sale!”

“She neglected to mention any price in her advertisement, but I suppose I should've known…Well”—Lazarus stroked his chin, assuming a thoughtful pose—“I do like the look of her. Fine bones, bright eyes, good hair, and, I assume, she's hearty breeding stock, although untried.”

“How dare you!”

“Yes, she'll suit me very well. I'm not averse to the challenge. If what you tell me of her wayward character is true, the sooner I take her in hand the better.” He laughed, a hollow sound that echoed around the farmhouse.

“If you persist in this matter, you will regret it!” Henry sputtered.

“But I want a woman, and she'll do nicely. You've convinced me.”

“I warn you, Kane! You will not lay one finger on my sister, or I'll call you out.”

Abruptly, Lazarus stopped laughing, the tendons in his neck and jaw held tight. He'd fought one too many battles in his life and came here to get away from all that, but if this fool continued to push his temper…

He stretched out his back, slowly and carefully, giving his anger another moment to cool. “As you wish it,” he said quietly. There was no elaboration. He'd let Henry Valentine interpret that however he preferred.

The man cursed under his breath and almost dropped his cane.

“Behind you is the door, Valentine. You fit through it well enough one way without an invitation. I daresay you'll fit through it quicker going out again with my boot up your backside.”

Henry gathered another lungful of arrogance, took one last scornful sweep of the house interior, and then strode out the door, his hat almost knocked off his head by the low lintel.

Lazarus kicked the door shut behind him.

Evidently, the lady had changed her mind and sent her ridiculous brother to warn him off. He looked down at his rough hands. No amount of fine clothing, it seemed, could cover all his worn edges, although he'd imagined they shared a spark of understanding when they met. That kiss under the tree yesterday had surely lit her flame as much as it did his. Her tongue had not withdrawn from his, and when he felt her move against him, it was not to push away. She was ready to explore. Perhaps, he thought grimly, it was merely wishful thinking on his part. The way she launched into him this afternoon for carrying her across a puddle would suggest she regretted giving him that kiss. Perhaps she didn't yet know what she wanted. Her brother plainly meant to stop her from marrying him, and if she already wavered…

He glanced at the window, caught his frowning reflection there, and felt the heat of deep, fathomless anger bounced back at him. His time was running out. Hadn't he overcome enough obstacles to get here? His Maker clearly thought not.

“Nothing stays secret long in this village, ye should know.” Tuck chuckled softly. “'Tis an odd place for a feller to come, if he means to hide. Ye can't do that here.”

Lazarus rounded on him. “Hide? Who said anything about hiding?”

Tuck nodded and smirked. “That's ye real name, is it, then?” he croaked wryly. “Lazarus?”

He had no reply to that.

Tuck got on with his work, and Lazarus returned to his outside.

***

Her basket overflowed with wallflowers and anemones from the garden. Sophie moved quickly through the gate, the hem of her gown dampened by the dewy kiss of meadow grass. She took the long footpath to the church that evening, enjoying the sweet promise in the air and the low, comforting call of the wood pigeons. Her earlier bad temper had melted away. In fact, her thoughts were unusually merry, her spirit several pounds lighter that evening, so she even hummed a tune as she walked along the shady pine grove amid the bluebells. The countryside was at peace as it settled in to embrace the evening, like a mother with her arms around a play-weary child.

She entered the church from the vestry door and stepped down into the cooler shade. Her nose twitched at the clammy odor of old stone. Time had its own scent here. All was peaceful, and she had no expectation of meeting anyone inside the church. But when she rounded a fat stone pillar, she discovered she was not alone.

The stranger sat in one of the front pews and was staring up at the tall, arched stained glass window above the pulpit. Luckily, she was walking along the strip of worn carpet that led from the vestry, so he hadn't seemed to have heard her steps yet. Her breath hitched in her chest, and she backed up a few steps, pressing her shoulders to the pillar. Once she'd gathered her wits, she peered out again and saw him there still, recognizable by his thick black hair and broad shoulders. Usually, when people were at prayer, they bent their heads and knelt. But not him. He was gazing at the bejeweled colors of the tall, sun-drenched window, apparently absorbed in them.

While she watched, he scratched his left ear, revealing those rough hands again. Maria and Lavinia agreed he couldn't be a gentleman with hands like those, but at least the hands of Lazarus Kane wouldn't fumble with naïveté.

Instantly, she admonished herself.
Stop
it, you wanton hussy
.
What
would
the
Grimstocks
think?
Had she not already made up her mind to keep that man at a distance?

She peeped around the pillar and watched him examine a prayer book found on the pew beside him. He turned it over in his hands, flipping through the pages. Then he stopped and raised it. Although his pose was that of a man quietly reading, he held the book upside down. Sophie watched as he turned another page, pretending to read. Finally, he tossed it down in a frustrated gesture.

Gripping her trembling basket of flowers ever tighter, she straightened her shoulders and aligned her spine with the cool stone of the pillar. She would walk up the aisle. She really should apologize for being rude to him in the lane today, when he'd tried only to help her. Although really, it was all his fault for coming in answer to her silly advertisement, forcing her to face the consequences of her mischief.

Suddenly, he stood, and she ducked back behind the pillar. His footsteps echoed down the aisle. Her breath blew hard and fast, her heartbeat uncontrollable as she tried to think of a suitable greeting. They still hadn't been formally introduced. Was there any etiquette to observe when dealing with a man procured through an advertisement? A man who introduced himself with a kiss?

“Miss Valentine.”

He'd seen her, or part of her, protruding from the shadows of the great pillar. Too late to run away now.

She swallowed hard and walked fully into the stream of sunset that gilded the aisle. “Mr. Kane.” She could barely get the name out. Would he try to kiss her again?

Probably. He didn't seem the sort to unduly trouble himself with rules.

“You bring flowers?” he muttered inanely as his dark eyes swept her basket.

She nodded.
Speak, fool. Say something
.

His rough hands hung at his sides, fingers flexing. “They are quite lovely.”

Who
cares
about
the
dratted
flowers?

A moment passed…and then another. There were so many things she needed to say, and yet she couldn't think where to start. An apology. Yes, that was it. Apologize for her terrible, unladylike temper.

Her gaze fluttered over his waistcoat buttons. Just as she thought she'd found the right words, he reached out with one hand, swept a lock of hair back from her cheek, and tucked it under her bonnet and behind her ear.

“Your brother tells me you changed your mind, Miss Valentine. Is this true?” His words echoed softly around the stone walls of the church.

“I…yes…I'm afraid I could never…It was a mistake.” Her face was hot, her tongue thick and sluggish, resenting the words she made it form. He didn't appear to hold any bitterness for the things she'd said earlier by the puddle. Most men would have commented sternly on her display of bad temper, but it seemed he had thicker skin.

“A mistake?”

“I could never marry a stranger.” There. That was better. Sounded bolder.

He considered her thoughtfully, his head on one side. “We can become better acquainted.”

The touch of his fingertips still resonated on her skin, although his hand was at his side again, as if it had never moved. Her heartbeat thumped so hard she was sure even the pigeons plumping their feathers in the belfry would hear it.

“Take a leap, Miss Valentine,” he said, “and I'll be there to catch you.”