Song for Sophia (13 page)

• • •

Wilhelm took the stairs three at a time. He told himself he meant to tease her back to the party but knew he truthfully came to steal a kiss. Or two, hopefully dozens, whatever it took to douse the inferno boiling his blood. She would be the death of him!

Wilhelm had known the moment he saw her, and it only grew worse once he touched her, kissed her, sang with her: She devastated him. For a man accustomed to varying degrees of misery, the moments of respite she gave him only sank him lower when deprived of it. Addicting, worse than cognac.

He saw her walking toward her room with the dog, dressed for bed in a flimsy cream-colored lace peignoir and nightgown. He watched her waist-length hair reflect shades of scarlet and blue in the lantern light, then realized she was weeping but trying not to.

She is unhappy
. It didn’t matter whether he had upset her or if something else distressed her; either way it meant he had failed to please her. The sodding
dog
provided her comfort in his stead.

The crashing noise in his head was the sound of twelve days, six hours and forty-eight minutes of alcoholic abstinence collapsing like a burst dam. To hell with Aunt Louisa’s party. To hell and back with
her
inspiration — tonight he would escape it all.

• • •

Wilhelm stood at the wall in his room, banging his head into it.
Thud … thud … thud
. It felt better than when he stopped and unwelcome thoughts filled his mind.
Thud … thud
. It was the only sound in the sleeping house.

Her
voice had branded his mind, and he could still hear it. Still
feel
it. In such close proximity it hadn’t been merely sound but sensation, vibration, a pleasant friction his ears processed directly into desire. The siren woman called to his blood. And apparently he heeled; all he could do was moon over her.

THUD!

Desperately he checked himself with hard-won conviction. He must remember the two men he vowed
not
to emulate: Roderick, his deceased elder brother, who would have already conquered and discarded her; and his father, who was so weak he felt no passion, neither for love nor sin.

Someone knocked at the door. “Wilhelm, my dear?”

“Yes, Aunt Louisa?”
Thud
… .

“Are you quite all right?”

“Cannot a man strike his head on the wall in his own house?”

“Yes, Wilhelm.” A long silence. “
Oh, Wil
. I can smell the cognac through the door. Give me the bottle.”

“No.”

“You drank it all again, didn’t you?” He heard his bewildered aunt sigh through the door. “You will rot your liver.”

“Good. The sooner the better. Cavendish will make a fine lord of himself, and he will fill these rooms with fine Cavendish offspring.” Wilhelm felt a twinge of guilt at the vitriol in his voice. Why did he lash out at those who didn’t deserve his ire?

Louisa’s voice sounded gravelly through the seam of the door; she must have put her face to it, “You are my happiness, dearest Wilhelm. You saved me, when you brought me here. Do you know that?” She whispered, “I wish
you
happiness, Wil.”

Then she left him alone with his two empty bottles and a fresh tumbler of guilt.

Chapter 11

On The Hazards Of Entertaining Excessively Beautiful People

Sophia fixed her gaze on the chandelier hanging over the grand staircase of Lord Courtenay’s summer lodge in Dorset. How she had allowed herself to be bullied into attending a ball, she could not say. Couldn’t possibly have been the sight of Wilhelm in formal dress, or the way his voice purred when he said
Please
, with his lips brushing her neck.

Sophia didn’t imagine all the staring eyes in her direction. How long until she was recognized? “You should have escorted Aunt Louisa,” she whispered without moving her lips.

“But then you would be on Philip’s arm.” Lord Devon pressed her hand with his thumb and pulled her closer against his side. “And I do not share.”

Well, what could she say to that? If her daring scarlet satin gown and extravagant ruby necklace didn’t declare Sophia his mistress, his behavior did it clearly. He had yet to leave her side for a moment.

“Coming our way is Lord Courtenay from Lancashire, my dearest friend,” Wilhelm said in her ear, then beamed a grin and greeted in a booming voice, “Will!”

Lord Courtenay laughed and answered, “Wil!”

Without releasing Sophia’s hand, Wilhelm embraced Lord Courtenay like the prodigal son. Every eye in the room watched the two men as though their every gesture decided the fate of nations. Perhaps in the summer away from the London Season, two powerful lords at a country ball could be as exciting as royalty. It couldn’t be helped; they were to be the on-dits for the evening.

Lord Courtenay, named William, apparently, was darkly handsome with dramatic Gallic features. The silver streaks in his hair and the lines around his eyes and mouth only served to make him distinguished. She recognized him, an acquaintance of her mother. Unsettling how he still glanced her way long after Wilhelm had introduced her, under a false name, of course.

Dozens of faces watched her from over shoulders and behind fans, the low murmur of voices making the buzzing sound of gossip she knew well. So she did her duty, what she had been bred to do: she smiled.

• • •

“I must tell you, Wil, that is Anne-Sophronia Duncombe you brought in on your arm.”

Wilhelm hushed him. “I know, of course. But she doesn’t know that I know. Stop glancing at her, she will suspect.”

“Chauncey is looking for her. He knows she is in England.”

“Then send him my way. I have something in particular I wish to say to him with the business end of a dull sword.”

“A dangerous game of cat-and-mouse.” Courtenay regarded Wilhelm with a curled lip. “She is magnificent, truly, but you will pay a high price for a warm bed, old friend.”

For a moment Wilhelm feared he might cosh his
old friend
over the head, and the pressure of his jaw grinding shot a jolt of pain through his teeth. “She is a lady, and I don’t take what is not mine.”

Lord Courtenay raised an arrogant brow. “I see you still polish your honor with a spit-shine.”

Wilhelm snorted, then muttered his two-syllable reply under his breath, a phrase more suitable between soldiers than lords.

Courtenay chuckled, undaunted. “Well, damn yourself, Wil, you are not getting any younger. You are a fool to wait any longer for an heir. Marry the first woman who will not give you trouble, then be as particular as you please in choosing a mistress.”

Wilhelm followed Courtenay’s gaze to the staircase, where the stunning Violet Villier traded glances with Courtenay. The heat in the look the two shared made Wilhelm grimace. “Sorry, but I have seen how that philosophy treated you. Does your wife know you brought
her
here?”

“Of course. Lady Courtenay is over there holding court with the Comte d’Anjou.”

“Speak of a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse. You shall be caught in a trap sooner than I, old friend,” Wilhelm warned.

Wilhelm had observed one truth about the game people called love: it was damned messy business.

• • •

Sophia saw both men raise their eyes to the first landing on the stairway above them. On a silent cue they both looked at a striking violet-eyed woman, Parisian, and so inhumanly beautiful it seemed everyone should bow down in worship. The one and only Violet Villier, the sole woman on the continent who rivaled Sophia’s mother, the incomparable Helena Duncombe.

Madame Villier noticed Sophia and allowed a subtle look of surprise. She cocked her head and nodded minimally in greeting, then touched a finger to the tip of her fan,
May we speak?

Sophia raised her own fan to rest on her left cheek:
No
. She opened her fan with clasped hands,
Forgive me
. Then she twirled her closed fan in her left hand,
We are being watched
.

Mme. Villier drew her fan across her eyes.
My apologies
.

Sophia lowered her fan in a gesture of friendship. She looked sideways at Wilhelm then back up with a slight shake of the head, to indicate Wilhelm didn’t know her identity, implying she needed discretion.

Violet Villier rotated her wrist to place her fan behind her ear with a finger extended in the sign for farewell and winked in conspiracy. Neither Wilhelm nor Lord Courtenay seemed to notice the exchange, occupied with their quiet argument. A small commotion on her left prevented her from eavesdropping.

If there were any guests not ogling and whispering in her direction before, they did so now, because being introduced to Philip was Lord Courtenay’s young heir named Andrew Tilmore, Lord Preston, who was then introduced to Sophia. Lord Preston flashed a blindingly debonair smile, his eyes dark flames shadowed by the patrician slashes of his brows. He answered her greeting with smooth genteel manners, worldly beyond his years. The mysterious continental gentleman, as portrayed in the sensational erotic novels naughty ladies smuggled from France and hid at the bottom of a trunk.

Lord Courtenay’s son noticed Violet Villier on the staircase and caught her eye. The two exchanged warm smiles, but when father and son finally glanced at each other, they nodded coldly, the father exasperated and the son angry — antics which drew yet more attention to their corner of the room.

Sophia leaned to speak near Wilhelm’s ear, “I fear being recognized. This is too dangerous. Let me plead illness and — ”

“Trust me, events are unfolding just as I planned.”

“Who said anything about a plan?”

“Smile and be my doting mistress,
Rosalie
.”

Before she could reply, the orchestra played the introduction to the
Lustenau Waltz
. Wilhelm hastily excused himself from the
Beautiful People Club
and whisked her onto the dance floor, already clasping her in an indecently close dance position.

She tried to calm her attraction for him, but when Wilhelm watched her with that unguarded tender expression, she only became more aware of the way he made her heart race when he touched her. And now, with his hands deftly guiding her with subtle pressure, she felt warm. He moved with such grace she hardly noticed the steps. In perfect rhythm, a set of twirls intertwined their arms, bringing their faces close for a time. She wanted to kiss him again, but it would be even better if
he
kissed
her
.

His hand brushed down her arm as he turned her around, their steps in perfect synchronization. He drew her close, his chest pressed to her back and his jaw against her cheek, transferring the vibrations of his tantalizing ice-velvet tenor humming along with the music.

Easy to follow his steps with his thigh pressed against the back of hers in their tight embrace. It was just a dance, but these same motions in private would be called something entirely more scandalous. He twirled her around again with his hands trailing across her ribs as she turned. Lifting her by the waist, Wilhelm spun her in the air and set her on the ground so gently she barely noticed the floor under her feet, all in perfect time with the music.

She could not help looking at his mouth again and back to his smoky gray eyes, and the warmth on her skin turned to smooth fire. He leaned closer, she followed, and they lingered on the brink of a kiss, feeling each other’s quickened breath. Neither closed the empty inch between them even as the tension became unbearable.

The final chords sounded from the orchestra and Wilhelm twirled her once more, unraveling their pose back into the traditional closed position with their hands joined. Still it didn’t break the spell, leaving her elated, bewildered, dazzled. He didn’t release her hands, and she could not pull away. Seconds, perhaps minutes passed until she noticed the faces behind Wilhelm’s shoulder, staring.

Oh no. There could be no worse moment for him to fall into a trance. She shook his shoulder and he came to his senses and led her off the floor.

He wandered outside, past the courtyard and into a garden. He stopped at a bench in front of a fountain and gestured for her to sit. She felt no inclination for conversation, so she sat silently, and he stood behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder. His bare, warm hand; apparently he had lost patience with his gloves.

Her thoughts muddled, and she could not string them together as Wilhelm absently brushed his fingers back and forth along her shoulder. She thought of nothing other than the pleasant clamor of the water and Wil’s gentle, callused fingertips warming the fabric of her sleeve. A thrill stirred low in her stomach as he traced across her skin and back over the seam again. The muscles in her back relaxed and she leaned back into him, letting him support her weight.

The disembodied notes of the orchestra wafted through a march, quadrille, and a waltz, then he dropped his hand and came around to sit by her on the bench. He pulled on the cuff of his jacket sleeve, straightening it. She thought he meant to speak, but then he exhaled and said nothing.

She studied his profile outlined in shadow, strong rough-hewn features she had learned to see a wild beauty in. Unruly waves of hair over his forehead and a dusting of whiskers across his jaw gave him a poetic air. The scars marring his cheek and neck reflected silver in the unflattering light, and it made him more endearing than ever.

Charged silence accompanied the magnetic tension, and she feared she might do something foolish with her lips unless she found a distraction right away. “Wil? — ”

He turned toward her and interrupted, “Oh, so I am not
Old Man Montegue
anymore?” He leaned his head back. “Hallelujah.”

Sophia bumped his shoulder and smiled. Their familiar teasing dynamic had returned, but the subject she needed to address sobered her again. “I know I agreed to accompany you socially, but this is a foolish gamble.”