Song for Sophia (11 page)

“Oh, hey — Thor,
no
!” He startled her with a sharp whistle.

Sophia turned to see Thor nipping at Sadie’s flanks. The mare stomped and nickered in warning. Wilhelm ducked down to grab a pinecone and hurled it at Thor’s flank, finally distracting the stallion.

“Time to leave. I fear for your reputation as much as Sadie’s.” He winked and handed over her gloves.

By the time he separated the horses and bridled them, she had lost all courage for asking about his motives. He circled his hands around her waist, kneaded with his fingers, then ducked down for another kiss before lifting her into the saddle.

“I know I am not at liberty to do that whenever I please. That was just one more for good luck.” He scrubbed his jaw with his hand. “I would feel much better about this whole affair if you would slap me and get it over with. I know you want to.”

Yes, in fact she did. “That was not your first kiss.”

“No.”

“You pretended to be a novice so I would take the bait. Allow you liberties.”
To prove your masculinity
.

“Yes.”

Sophia surprised them both by drawing her hand back and smacking him hard on the cheek. Perhaps harder than she meant to, judging by the mark already blossoming on his skin.

“Much better.” Improbably, he smiled and winked again.
Rascal
! He mounted Thor and waited for her to join him on the trail, ignoring her shaking her head at him. Impossible man.

The party of horses and riders seemed to have exhausted their appetite for racing, so they made their way home at an easy trot. What had seemed like minutes of racing to reach the pond turned into an hour or two journey home, and little was said. Lord Devon looked thoughtful, probably lost in a trance, and Sophia fumed at herself.

She, the master of social maneuvering, had been manipulated. And loved every moment of it. Even now she could not muster much angst toward Lord Devon. She had experienced twenty-and-four kisses in her lifetime stolen by gentlemen, bohemians, even royalty from all the continental nations, men who could not kiss without trying to maul her. But number twenty-five — Wilhelm — had set her aside despite his obvious arousal. Rather chivalrous, in a way.

Sophia could only save face by swearing she would never let him do it again, but that giddy feeling lingered, riding her nerves, making her pray he would, and soon.

“You shall have your chocolate strawberries and peaches,” he said finally, with a sly smile that reminded her he was still her friend.

• • •

Sophia browsed the back of the library, searching out a book to use for the girls’ geography lesson when she heard the doors slam shut and Philip and Lord Devon’s raised voices. They were in the middle of a heated argument in the central seating area, and Sophia could not sneak out of the library without being seen. She hoped they would not spot her there, uncomfortable eavesdropping on their private conversation.

“You sound just like my
father
!” Philip fumed.

“I only want you to understand the realities of what you profess to want for your life.”

“Not everyone comes away from war disenchanted and damaged, Wil. Plenty of men distinguish themselves and earn their fortunes.”

“You
have
your fortune and distinction, Philip. You will even have mine, if you wait a little longer for it.”

“Don’t speak of it!”

“Be reasonable, Phil. If you join the Foreign Legion so you can boast fighting in combat, you may be sorry, or, more likely, not even live to regret it.”

“You think you are the only one in the family who has potential to be a great soldier?”

“Philip! You demonstrate your ignorance as you speak. I would give it all back — I would walk through fire to purge the blood on my hands. War is not adventure, and killing is no sport. You know nothing about it! Do what you will, but I cannot give my blessing for it, and I want to be remembered as
begging
you not to throw your life away!”

Philip had no answer to this.

Lord Devon’s voice came gentler, “Take advice from a man who returned from war disenchanted and damaged, Phil. Do not choose a course that will only bring you horror and death.”

Then she heard the door open and slam shut.

“You may come out now, Miss Rosalie.”

Sophia squeaked and lost her balance. Lord Devon stood only a few paces behind her.

She took in his rumpled hair and tempestuous expression. Expecting a reprimand or a burst of temper, she took a tentative step backward.

“Tell me I was right.” His voice sounded hoarse. Now that she noticed, he looked not only in severe
déshabillé
, but miserable. And oddly, he was not drunk.

“You were right,” she agreed, returning his intense stare evenly so that he would know she meant it. “What happened — ”

He shook his head sharply. “I will not discuss it.”

“All right, then.” Didn’t men love to tell their battle stories?

“Just distract me, please.”

She didn’t dare gainsay him. Then she noticed he gripped a shelf white-knuckled and the other hand trembled. He didn’t smell of alcohol
at all
, but his eyes kept darting to the tray on the buffet holding a decanter and snifters. Ah, he was trying to quit. Why now?

Sophia didn’t force him to explain. “Where can we go?”

“The music room.” He turned and she followed silently.

She went straight for the box by the piano and fished out a turbulent Chopin piece. She set it on the desk and prompted, “Play for me.”

It was positively maddening that his music was only more exquisite through his torment. The seven-foot long strings washed the room with mighty sound that vibrated in her chest. For a long while she stood at his side turning his pages, watching his head bent over the keys, his hair and face damp with sweat.

She put half a dozen demanding pieces on the desk in turn before his shoulders slumped with fatigue.

“How bad is it?” she murmured, wondering if he was over the worst.

“Bad.”

Sophia wished she didn’t know so much on the topic. “Are you nauseated? Does your head ache?”

“No, and always.”

“How about visions? Hallucinations?” She could fetch help if he became unruly.

He thunked his elbows on the piano keys and scoffed, “For me, that is not a symptom,” he answered darkly, “but a catalyst.”

She thought she understood that he was disturbed by what happened to him in the war. “You blame yourself.”

“No,” he groaned, “I blame
you
.”

She felt it like a slap. Before she could storm out, he grabbed her wrist and drew her tightly against his chest. It didn’t matter that there was no smell of liquor to set her off; she reacted with panic for being restrained. She barely knew she thrashed and clawed, certain her arms were covered in blood. Where had her father’s cruel voice come from? She could hear him in her head, mocking and chanting,
Filthy whore!

Lips, smooth like marble on her temple, her brow, pressing her cheeks but carefully away from her mouth. “I’m sorry.” Strong but gentle, callused fingers stroked the back of her neck. Her mind cleared as she gasped for breath. “Rosalie, I am so sorry.”

How long until she could be free of those awful memories?

Probably not until Lord Chauncey was cold and dead.

Wilhelm spoke with his face pressed in her hair, “Who did this to you?” His voice gentled, but she heard his sharp consonants and was not fooled for a moment that he felt any more tranquil than she. “Tell me, Rosalie, and I will kill him.”

He meant it. He
wanted
to do it. Was she such a villain to find it a heady, powerful revelation? For a moment she was tempted to tell him all and let him fight her battles.

Why was it so difficult to step away and let his arms drop from her back? It was all so horridly inappropriate, but even shame was no match for the residual heat of his hands and lips on her skin. He let her go in silence.

Poorly done, her falling apart when Wilhelm had a crisis of his own. He seemed so vulnerable, his wry gallantry replaced by a raw look in his eyes that frightened her a little.

“I will clear out your room, but first tell me where your secret stash is.”

He was bewildered then resigned. “Between the headboard and the mattress.” She nodded and turned as he added, “Behind the red leather Bible on the writing desk. The flask in the bottom drawer of the bureau. In the folds of the north-facing draperies on the left side … . Under the clock on the mantle.”

“Is that all?”

He exhaled in a gust. “Rolled in a towel in my shaving kit,” he blurted, exasperated.

She silently recited the six locations to check for his hidden cache of liquor, all new since she had last cleaned his apartments. The least she could do was help him quit. “I am going to dump it all out,” she warned. “Then I will replace the decanters in the public rooms with something mild, like a sherry. No more cognac.”

He nodded tersely with his jaw clenched.

She stared at him and realized her omission. She walked back to stand before him and held out her hand with her eyebrow cocked. She gave him her best lady-of-the-house glower. It worked, because he groaned then surrendered a palm-sized metal flask from his trousers pocket.

“Wilhelm?”

“Hmm?”

“You are a better man than most.”

Chapter 10

When Romance Rears Its Ugly Head

Sophia would have given anything to have a brother like Philip Cavendish. She watched him too often, not because he was charming and handsome, but because he sincerely cherished his sisters. Just now he was teaching his sisters to play cricket, and they all frolicked about, laughing.

“He is a father to them, as well as brother,” came Lord Devon’s thoughtful voice from behind her. “Positions I flatter myself by filling when he is off swashbuckling. The fool.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You fear he will get himself killed in battle and leave you without an heir.”

“The legacy of Rougemont was ruined long ago. I am a bastard and everyone with a memory as long as Aunt Louisa’s knows it. I am earl only because my brother is dead and my father was a coward.” His words rolled with lazy calm, at first she could not believe what he confessed. “No, I fear Philip will waste his youth searching abroad for what he already possesses at home. He is too young and stupid to see it.”

Wilhelm had been rubbing circles across the back of her neck and shoulders. She became aware of how pleasing his masculine hands felt on her skin; warm, strong, and provoking with the coarser texture of his palm stroking her with such gentleness. No wonder his horses adored him. She made no protest when his fingers ducked beneath the edge of her dress to reach more of her shoulders, so long as he avoided the scarred skin a little lower on her back.

“I was young and stupid once. Now I am old and stupid, according to my nephew.”

Sophia smiled, hearing the wry humor in his flat tone. “Wisdom is a farce and a mirage. There are only varying degrees of foolishness.”

Wilhelm’s chuckle brushed his breath over her neck, sending chills down her back. “Who said that?”

“A brilliant modern philosopher, too transcendent for you to comprehend.”

“You quoted yourself?”

“Perhaps I stole it from a dead Greek.” She hesitated before asking, “Have you considered making Elise heir of Rougemont?”

“I cannot entail the estate to a female.”

He misunderstood, and she refused to spell it out:
No, but if you married her
… . Instead she huffed and ordered, “Two inches southeast, if you please.” She leaned into his hand, hinting that she wanted him to rub out the itch burning just below the spot his fingers stroked.

“I doubt I can reach. Surely you don’t mean for me to disrobe you?”

“No, through the fabric, my lord. Of course.” She bit back a sigh of relief as his fingers rubbed just the right spot.

“A pity, my — ” His hands stilled, and she feared he had fallen into a trance until she felt him pushing aside the back seam of her dress. “What is this?” he muttered, trailing his fingers up and down.

It took her a moment to realize he meant the lengthwise tape of interlocking metal teeth hidden under the row of false buttons. “If you must know, it is an automatic fastener. It has —
Wilhelm
!”

He had found the slider and pulled down, opening the back of her dress to the waist with a loud
zip
.

“Brilliant!” Up and down, he opened and shut the fastener, ignoring her protests, holding her in place with his other hand pressed down on her shoulder. She squirmed and fought, desperate to escape before he saw the scars on her back. She knew they shone through the fabric of her chemise, still dark and embossed.

“What is this wonderful invention? Why is it not installed on clothing for gentlemen?”

“Because cavemen seldom appreciate innovation. Now
please
fasten my dress!”

The moment he righted her dress she stood and whirled to face him, jutting her nose close to his. The effect worked better on average men whose height she matched, but with Lord Devon, the gesture framed them for a kiss.

Fortunately she was entirely too angry for that. “How dare you?”

Storm gray eyes flashed amusement though his jaw clenched, rippling the little muscle in the corner. “I apologize, my lady. I forget myself.”

“A cheeky apology, if I ever heard one.”

Without breaking his stare he reached for her hand and raised it to kiss her knuckles. Unbidden, images flashed through her mind, heated moments of Wilhelm’s mouth on hers: how slowly he dragged his bottom lip across hers, how his breath shuddered as though he teetered on the edge of control.

Raking his fingertips over her palm, he pried open her fist and slid his fingers between hers, clasping their hands together. The sheer intimacy of it made her swallow a gasp. While his thumb rubbed up and down her wrist, she wondered how more and more he dared touch her, and she allowed it.