Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (10 page)

As if he sought to prove the inexactness of his mistress’s words, Duke bound ahead. His short legs pumped furiously as he climbed the stairs.

Good Lord. Sophie groaned. “Duke, no!”

Apparently God was not inordinately busy that day, for Duke stopped, and raced back to Sophie’s side.

“Ah, that is a lovely idea.” The note of hesitancy in Nurse Whiting’s eyes belied her words. “Lady Emmaline tells me you play pianoforte.”

Sophie’s cheeks warmed. “Uh—I…” Not one comfortable discussing her own accomplishments, her response went unspoken.

“She says you are quite remarkable,” the nurse continued.

“She is just being kind,” Sophie murmured, as they walked down the long, stark white halls.

Nurse Whiting cast her a sideways glance. “My lady mentioned in her note that you would say as much.” She stopped and opened a door, allowing Sophie to enter first. Sophie glanced down the row upon rows of hospital beds, her heart squeezing painfully at the sight of so many men forever wounded for their heroic deeds. Nurse cleared her throat, calling Sophie’s attention. “However, she must have a good deal of appreciation for your skills, for she and Lord Drake purchased this,” she motioned to a pianoforte at the center of the room, “for you to play when you visit.”

Sophie froze, and took a step backward. Emmaline had mentioned nothing of Sophie playing pianoforte for these men. She didn’t perform for audiences. “I can’t,” she said, around the lump in her throat.

Just then, a ray of sun filtered through a narrow windowpane and settled upon a vase filled with vibrant dahlias, nerines, and the purplish-pink fuchsia. The fragrance of the buds wafted throughout the otherwise cheerless space and filled Sophie’s lungs with the sweet, Spring scent.

Nurse Whiting cut into her musings. “Lady Emmaline has flowers delivered each week.”

Sophie sighed. She should have seen her friend’s hand in this. Emmaline possessed a level of skill with flowers and shrubbery that would make most gardeners throughout England green with envy.

Her gaze strayed to the sea of curious looks trained upon her.

“Miss Winters?”

And because it seemed like a very small sacrifice in light of everything these men had given to their country, Sophie lied through her teeth. “I’d be honored to play.”

Nurse Whiting clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Just wonderful!”

Duke barked in agreement.

Sophie leaned down and rubbed the top of his head.
Little traitor.

“Do you intend to play?”

Sophie started and looked around for the person who’d uttered the question. A big, burly fellow with red hair smiled at her.

Nurse Whiting performed introductions. “Miss Winters, this is Lieutenant Woods. Lieutenant Woods, this is Miss Winters, a very dear friend of Lady Emmaline.”

Sophie smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The man’s eyes went round in his pale cheeks. “Lady Emmaline?” Murmurs from nearby beds met his question.

“Yes, the very one,” she said. Based on the warmth and awe in the soldiers’ eyes, it would appear Emmaline had earned their eternal admiration. Sophie’s heart tugged as she shared a connection with these men. Her days in London had been so very lonely since her friend had wed Lord Drake.

“I gather I have very large slippers to fill. That isn’t to say that Lady Emmaline has large feet, but rather…”
Be silent, Sophie.
She closed her mouth. And then because it seemed to need explaining, “Not that I’ve ever really considered Lady Emmaline’s feet. I’m sure, however, they are remarkably daint…”

Nurse Whiting and Lieutenant Woods stared at her as though she’d sprung two or three heads. Sophie felt herself coloring. She glanced down at her slippered toes. “I would love to play the pianoforte,” she finished lamely. And this time, she found herself meaning it.

Nurse Whiting escorted her over to the instrument.

Duke trotted along and lay down with his head upon his paws. Sophie eyed the pianoforte for a long moment.

“Ahem.”

Sophie jumped. Then taking a deep breath, sat. She studied the ivory and black keys, considering her music selection. Long a favorite of Beethoven’s sonatas, her mother and all Polite Society thought his music nothing more than noise.

Of course, Charles Dibden’s,
Tom Bowling
was quite popular.

She peeked around at the men who stared at her with expectant looks on their somber faces.

Then, the song written about his brother’s passing at sea was hardly the stuff of cheer.

“Miss Winters?” Nurse Whiting rested her hand upon the top of the pianoforte.

Sophie tapped a single key. The chord reverberated and echoed around the still room. She straightened her shoulders, and played.

“The moon on the sea

So bright and free

A reminder of my sweet, lass Lady Tindley

With our love so strong

No storm will part us

No dangers await us

In each other’s arms, we’re free

When wartime is over

We shall meet in the clover

And celebrate my love for Lady Tindley!”

She lost herself in the lyrics, her fingers dancing upon the keys, until the song ended in a triumphant crescendo. Breathless, Sophie looked up. Her stomach curled at the thick silence that had fallen over the room. All her oldest insecurities came rushing back. Her palms grew damp and she shoved back her seat. This was utter foolishness. She should have never…

The room broke out into resounding applause that echoed off the walls, and windowpanes.

Nurse Whiting dashed tears from her eyes. “That was just…just…splendid, Miss Winters.”

“Please say you’ll play another,” a young man with a thick black patch across his right eye called from several beds away. Similar requests came from those around him.

Sophie smiled, her heart lifting. “It would be my honor.”

And she continued to play.

Sophie played until the minutes blurred into hours. She sang until her voice grew hoarse from overuse and the tips of her fingers ached.

“Just one more,” an older man cried when she fell silent.

Nurse Whiting held a hand up. “We must allow Miss Winters to rest.”

Her pronouncement was met with a chorus of groans and protests.

“I promise to return,” Sophie said, rising to her feet.

All the reservations she’d carried with her that day faded as she made her way through the hall with Duke at her heels, returning fare thee wells to the soldiers. Nurse Whiting accompanied her to the foyer. A servant rushed over to open the door.

Sophie made her goodbyes to Nurse Whiting and had a foot outside when someone called, “Miss Winters?”

Sophie spun around, and a smile formed on her lips. The Duke of Mallen stood at the center of the marble foyer, a glimmer in his emerald green eyes. “Your Grace,” she said and dipped a curtsy.

He bowed. “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Winters.”

Sophie tipped her head to the side. Well, that was remarkably insulting. Granted she’d only just come to London Hospital for the first time, but that was neither here nor there.

The duke must have realized he’d offended her for he sketched another bow. “My apologies.”

She waved him off. “This is only my first trip to the hospital.” She reached into her front pocket and pulled out the note from his sister. “Emmaline encouraged me to visit.”

“Ahh.”

She dropped another curtsy. “Good day, Your Grace.” Sophie stepped outside.

She paused at the top step. Her eyes struggled to adjust from the darker interior of the hospital to the sun-filled, cloudless sky. She peered around for her carriage. Drat. Where had Lucy and her driver gone off to? Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth.

“Are you in need of assistance?”

Sophie’s shriek blended with Duke’s flurry of barking. Her arms flew out in desperate attempt to keep from tumbling down the steps of London Hospital.

The Duke of Mallen moved with a speed Apollo himself would have applauded, righting her before she humiliated herself right there on White-Chapel Road.

Duke growled up at the tall, powerful noble, clearly taking offense with the gentleman’s hand placement upon his mistress. “Thank you,” she said, as the duke removed his hands from her person.

He grinned. “No thanks are necessary. I could hardly leave you to fall, even if you did manage to do so with great grace and aplomb.”

Sophie snorted. She imagined such high praise would have set many a-ladies hearts aflutter. After two Seasons, however, Sophie had no grand illusion as to any gentlemanly interest in her. “Yes. Grace and aplomb, indeed,” she said, with a little wink.

The duke tossed his head back and laughed.

At the Duke of Mallen’s explosion of amusement, her dog barked incessantly up at him. “Enough, Duke,” she scolded.

The Duke of Mallen frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

Duke knelt into a crouching position, and she groaned as the little devil pounced on the Duke of Mallen’s immaculate, black Hessian boots. “Sit, Duke.”

“Wha—?”

She bent and retrieved Duke. “I’m sorry. His name is Duke.”

His lips twitched with what she thought was amusement. “You named your dog Duke?”

She nodded, hugging the dog close. “He is a commanding, arrogant little thing and so it seemed perfectly appropriate…” Sophie swallowed the remainder of her words as she realized the insult she’d dealt the powerful peer. She clamped her lips tight, and looked at her toes. Then at the sky. And out in the street. Anywhere but at His Grace. “Ah, well, I see my carriage. If you’ll excuse me,” she said her voice higher pitched than usual. Sophie dropped another curtsy and fled.

Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

Miss S.W. and her ill-behaved dog wrought havoc upon a riding path at Hyde Park, nearly unseating the respectable, Earl of W.

~8~

From within the overly warm, crowded ballroom, the orchestra thrummed the opening strands of a quadrille. Christopher curled his mouth around the flute of champagne dangling from his fingers. He eyed the couples as they completed the intricate steps to the dance around Lord and Lady Cavendish’s ballroom floor. “A single dance should do. A waltz would be even better. Of course if you are feeling very generous then two dances would sufficiently quiet the viscountess.”

The Duke of Mallen glared at him from the corner of his eye and then redirected his attention out around the ballroom floor. “If I’m feeling very generous? I’d say in having agreed to aid you, my actions constitute extreme magnanimity.” A servant materialized with a tray of fresh champagne flutes. Mallen deposited his empty glass and retrieved another. “You’re fortunate my mother is off in the country with Emmaline and Drake, else you’d find yourself on your own with this foolishness.” A shudder wracked his frame. “I don’t even want to consider what my sister will say when she comes out of confinement.”

A momentary twinge of guilt stabbed at Christopher but he pushed it aside. Mallen was his closest friend in the world. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the other man. “Someday I shall return the favor,” he promised.

“I’ll not have any need of such an outlandish plan as the one you’ve concocted. Nor for that matter would I ever require intervention on your part.”

Christopher grinned. Mallen was entirely too cocksure of himself. Christopher had little doubt that Mallen’s mother was fast tiring of her only son’s marital state. He chose to let the matter rest. Instead, he returned his attention to the crowded ballroom. “Where is she?” he muttered.

Mallen tipped his head toward the corner of the room where a row of wallflowers sat. “The young lady just found a seat.”

Christopher followed Mallen’s focus. Sophie Winters stifled a yawn behind the floral fan in her fingers, and with her bored expression, appeared a good deal less than interested in the evening’s festivities.

Then his gaze fell to her ankles. Her feet tapped to a lively little beat atop the marble floor, effectively ending the lady’s attempt at detachedness.

He told himself the desire to cross the room and secure the next set had nothing to do with the wistful expression he read in Phi’s eyes and yet…even though they had been childhood nemeses, he still did not care to see her forlorn and forgotten along the wall. “Join me, will you?” Christopher murmured to Mallen.

Christopher started out across the room, pausing when he reached Sophie’s side. “Hullo Miss Winters,” he said with a bow.

Sophie peered at him like he’d sprouted horns. She seemed to remember herself and scrambled to her feet. “My lord,” she said with a curtsy.

“Miss Winters,” Mallen said. Sophie’s gaze moved from Christopher to the duke who claimed her hand and placed a kiss along the top of her wrist.

“Your Grace,” she murmured. A rush of pink infused Sophie’s cheeks and damn if she didn’t look fetching with that delightful hue of pink on her skin.

Christopher frowned. And damn if he didn’t abhor that captivated way in which she studied Mallen. The bright-eyed gleam in her eyes as she studied the duke was not part of the plan Christopher had concocted. He told himself that the interest in her cornflower blue gaze could only complicate things for all of them.

He cleared his throat.

Sophie returned her attention to Christopher. The pale pink in her cheeks deepened to the red hue of a deep, summer sunset. For what reason? At being caught studying Mallen? Something hot and volatile stirred in Christopher’s chest.

“I trust you and Duke made it home from London Hospital without incident?” Mallen said, grinning at Sophie.

London Hospital?
What is this about?

“We did, Your Grace. Thank you.” Her husky tone possessed a honeyed warmth that made Christopher grit his teeth.

What business did Sophie Winters have at London Hospital? And why had she seen to that business with Mallen? The burning sensation in his chest grew. A growl started deep inside his chest, it worked its way up his throat.

Sophie cocked her head at an endearing, little angle. “Are you all right, Christo…my lord?”