Song for Sophia (3 page)

“What have you done?” she gasped and retreated a step. Her eyes darted between the unconscious footman and Wilhelm, clearly wondering which presented the greater threat.

“Did you
kill
him?”

Wilhelm shook his head once, aware he had just made a lunatic of himself. He simply must wrestle himself under control.

“He will wake in a few minutes. And then he will be thrown out on his ear.”

“Oh, no! Sir, do not report the man, if you please.”

“I witnessed his insult to you, an unpardonable trespass.” She obviously didn’t know who he was. Out of some unfathomable desire not to alienate her, Wilhelm played along. “Lord Devon tolerates no misbehavior among his staff.”

“Indeed. However, I wish to avoid unpleasantness.” Such an enchanting, musical tone of voice. Perfectly genteel inflection.

He betrayed a hint of appreciation in his look. “I will see to it you are spared any unpleasantness.”

Oh yes, she understood, and he was pleased with the blush creeping over her cheeks and across her lovely collarbones. The small victory gave him a rush of pleasure; she unmanned him, but at least he could affect her in return.

“I thank you, sir, but — ”

Wilhelm nudged the idiot with his boot. “The man sank his career the moment he laid a hand on you.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Now kindly divulge the names of the others who have insulted you. Again I assure your amnesty.”

Her breath sped, and if he read her correctly, she reacted with anger. So he assumed right — other men had been harassing her.

“At the risk of abetting murder, I respectfully decline.
Sir
.” She tacked on the honorific, clearly as an afterthought.
Housemaid, bollocks
. An irresistible puzzle.

“Then you do not deny being accosted by the male staff here.”

She closed her eyes as she sighed. An imperious gesture, as though
he
was the one trying her patience. “I am unharmed, and I think it best to maintain the harmony.”

“Lord Devon would take exception, I assure you, Missus … .”

She smiled flatly in a clear refusal to reveal her name. “Lord Devon manages his affairs as he sees fit, I assure you.
Sir
.”

“And I assure you,
Madam
, he will be most displeased to hear of the situation. What I cannot understand is why an otherwise circumspect Mrs. Abbott hired
you
as a housemaid.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought there was a universal law that the female domestic help must be either homely or matronly, preferably both. The males are supposed to be hale and handsome, since it is women who oversee the hiring in a household.” Wilhelm bit back a smile at her cocked eyebrow. “You cannot be unaware you appear as conspicuous as a peacock in a henhouse.”

Her eyes shuttered at his compliment, and he was all the more fascinated that she did not seem pleased to hear pretty words spoken to her. What beautiful woman did not want adulation?

“Have I reasoned amiss, madam?”

“I merely wonder at your concern for Lord Devon’s domestic affairs, Mister — ” she trailed, fishing for his name.

“I prefer to follow your example of evasion, madam.”

“Very reasonable. In that spirit of elusiveness, I shall now fade into the scenery as I ought. Good day.”

She turned to escape, and he said lazily, “In theory, that dynamic functions properly between master and servant, but not if the latter is more masterpiece than background.” He loaded his expression with innuendo, and fire snapped in her autumn-hazel eyes. Finally, a crack in her prim façade.

She turned and closed the space between them in dance-like strides. “Sir. Neither your wealth nor station grants you such license. Your flattery, however amusing, does you no credit. Kindly desist.
Sir
.”

The sport was over. He watched her carefully, her wide eyes and quick breaths. “I have scared you. I apologize.”

They locked gazes, and — there it was. A softening of her eyes, the flush of her skin. The unmistakable force like magnetism warming the space between them: attraction. Hope unfurled in his heart.

She hardly noticed when he touched her, which meant she had already allowed the intimacy in her mind. He angled his shoulders to shield her from view, and a small movement brought his hand to cradle her elbow. He brushed down her forearm, holding her captive with his gaze. Subdued by the contact, she let him slowly rub over the delicate muscles in her arm, tight with strain from her labor. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting the urge to close. He was careful to convey comfort in his touch, adopting the utter stillness necessary to coax a spooked horse.

Wilhelm used a soothing tone. “This is a peaceful place. I vow you have nothing to fear. And you may keep your secrets, madam.” He brushed the underside of her wrist with his thumb as he said
secrets
.

He released her and stepped away, and he knew the moment she realized she had allowed a strange man to caress her arm, neither of them gloved. He gave her a shallow bow and retreated before she could work herself up over it. He savored the warm pleasure of victory as he strode away, a sensation far more pleasing than his usual cognac-induced stupor. Intoxicating.

• • •

Sophia could not bring herself to use the old copper hip bath in the kitchen. The very thought made her ill, thanks to the memory of drowned mites floating on the surface of congealed brown-colored suds after the gardeners used it. She would rather make the full-day journey to Bath for the public bathhouses, but she had a day off only every Thursday — too long to wait.

Twice she had brought soap and a bundle of fresh clothes to a secluded inlet of the nearby stream, but never managed to disrobe. She could stand the cold water but not the feeling of vulnerability, afraid of being watched.

An unfounded fear, since the groomsmen and footmen had mysteriously begun treating her like Saint Mary. It began the same day that horrible, fascinating gentleman with the hypnotic steel-grey eyes nearly strangled the footman. Apparently he had reported her plight to Lord Devon, who had taken it seriously. Clearly he had struck the fear of God in his men, because Sheba herself could not ask for more solicitous, groveling treatment. It was a blessed relief. Still, she could not quite bring herself to bathe in the stream.

Every day in her quarters she washed as best she could with a basin and rag while looking out the small window at the bathhouse. It seemed to beckon her with the promise of relief. The master’s sanctuary, reportedly an Italian marble masterpiece built over natural springs.
Steaming hot water.

Still four days until her free Thursday. The chambermaid helping Sophia fold sheets put her nose to the fabric and complained, “I’m wonderin’ if this didn’t quite wash clean. I smell somethin’ sour, you know.”

Sophia finally gave in.

She waited past midnight and stole out the east service door. The dogs came to her at once but didn’t bark when they recognized her. She greeted them with a few quiet words, and they escorted her, trotting alongside her in the dark to the bathhouse door.

No light shone from the windows, so she went inside. Sophia left her clothes on a bench near the door. She wound her way around the columns and partitions, treading carefully on the steam-slicked tile, following the luxurious sound of water bubbling in pools.

• • •

Wilhelm leaned his head back on a rolled towel and stretched out his legs, soaking in his favorite spot in the bathhouse, facing the window high on the wall where he could watch the moon. This evening the air outside was so cool and the water inside so warm it created a mist that obscured his view. The water relaxed his muscles and soothed his old battle injuries. He twisted his shoulder where it ached, sore from the long day’s ride on horseback. The heat worked its magic and his eyes slid closed.

The nerves on the back of his neck tingled — something was amiss. He opened his eyes and listened in vain for a long moment, then let himself tentatively relax. He was half-asleep and listening to the water rushing though the pools when he felt a set of toes on his thigh, then the soft flesh of ankles brushing his knees. He shouted in surprise the same moment another voice cried out in shrill soprano.

Hot water stung his eyes as he slipped, lost his balance and dunked under the water. His foot struck her sideways in the belly, and they tangled as she doubled over. Wilhelm thought he might pass out, overwhelmed by the indecent battle of twined limbs. In the chaos he became aware of her panic.
Her
being the woman Mrs. Abbott had said was Rosalie Cooper, his housemaid, whom he would recognize anywhere by her fruit-and-spice scent alone.

She thrashed like a hellcat when all he meant to do was grip her by the elbows and pull her out of the water. That is, as soon as he could pry her knee from his left buttock and dislodge her elbow from his aching ribs. He picked her up by the tops of her arms and set her on the edge of the pool, then dove backward out of the way as she flailed and scratched, snarling curses.

He shook his head, his face burning from the heat. In the weak moonlight he saw a streak of pale skin disappear through the thick steam and a flash of long dark hair. The uninvited vision paraded behind his closed eyes, wreaking havoc on both his mind and body. With great effort he slowed his breath and calmed his erratic pulse.

He heard a feminine squeal, then a sickening thud that meant Rosalie had slipped on the slick floor and collided with something. He heard her flesh slap the ground. A low-pitched crash echoed along the floor. He was already out of the pool and dashing to her aid before he heard her pitiful groaning.

He tensed to leap over the toppled marble statue lodged diagonally between two columns, relieved to find she wasn’t trapped beneath it.

She shot her hand out at him and spat, “
Stop
! You
fiend
! Get away from me!” She instinctively flinched at his outstretched hand; she gathered her limbs at her sides, protecting herself from a blow that wasn’t going to land.

Wilhelm twitched uncomfortably, averting his eyes and stepping back as she requested, but it went against his every instinct to stand by while she struggled to rise. Her legs shook from stunned nerves, and her lungs failed to draw in the air she needed to recover herself; she was injured, she needed help. Without permission his feet carried him forward.

“
Don’t touch me!
” She panicked again, and he understood it was worse if she perceived him as a threat. She hurled a white piece of the statue that had broken off in her hand; he guessed she had grabbed it as she tried to break her fall. He narrowly dodged the missile.

Her unreasonable distress gave him pause. He retreated with his hands held in a conciliatory gesture. She growled a feral warning and dashed away, whimpering with each painful step. Poor creature.

He made a connection. It was Rosalie who had stumbled upon him that night in the courtyard garden; she had reacted the same way then. He had only seen such disturbing psychological damage before in other soldiers who endured the unspeakable carnage of war. What had befallen her?

Wilhelm heard the dogs barking outside and recalled how they seemed to guard her. She would be fine.

He picked up the elliptical chunk of marble she’d thrown at him and couldn’t help his spontaneous bark of laughter. Resting in his palm was a marble penis. She had unwittingly castrated the poor Roman statue.

Through the still-open door, Wilhelm could see her retreating form, nymph-like in the moonlight. Then came the memory of her soft peaches-and-cloves-scented hair splayed across his chest, her clear and lyrical soprano voice, the wicked slant of her exotic autumn-hazel eyes. Assaulting him, tormenting him. At night he dreamed it in vivid colors and tangible sensations, and he could not say if it was worse or better than the ghosts who haunted him.

He needed a few fingers of cognac and a sound coshing up the side of his head.

• • •

Sophia stared at her shawl folded neatly on the bedstand. It had been missing since she had dropped it in the courtyard garden and ran away from the man whose scent assailed her now as she unfolded the fabric. Musky pine, leather and cognac. Her heart skipped a beat as she connected the familiar smell with the man she had argued with in the gallery and accidentally ambushed in the bathhouse — not a houseguest.

The same unmistakable masculine smell of wealth and virility thick in the air and branded in the linen of the master suite.

Lord Devon.

The ninth one. The eighth was the grizzled old lord whose portrait she had long assumed current, Lord Devon’s late
father
. Wilhelm, Lord Devon, did not have his portrait on display. She would have noticed.

She fingered the embroidery instead of pacing the room in a panic. He had left no note with the shawl, but the obvious message:
I have caught you
. Lord Devon had yet to pursue or dismiss her. Perhaps he meant to toy with her. His motives could not be benevolent?

Why the shawl smelled of
him
, she decided not to examine. She wished she didn’t know the fragrance so well. And she had certainly never drawn deep breaths of it while she bundled his sheets. Nor had she buried her face in his shirts to capture his wild but comforting essence, not ever. And she wouldn’t dream of doing so now with the shawl. Of course not.

Only days later she found Lord Devon’s unfinished letter to his aunt atop the desk again, the copy she had forged after ruining the original. Under the date and salutation she had copied, new ink had been scripted below.

Not too shabby an effort, for an addled female. By all means, finish the epistle. I am sure Aunt Louisa would never tell the difference. Do convey all due niceties; I am fond of the old dragon.

— WM

P.S. You missed a spot on the mirror. Kindly rectify.