Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Read online

  He smiled and followed the path of his merry daisies, the box of belongings still perched on his shoulder. Several villagers now observed his approach. Sydney Dovedale was not the sort of place to which people came unless they passed through on the way to somewhere grander, and the sight of a stranger would, no doubt, be cause for concern. So he kept his face merry, his stride confident. Let them see he came in peace.

  Just as long as no one gave him any trouble.

  He set down his box and leaned against a five-barred gate, squinting in the bright sun as the pink-cheeked, boisterous young girls circled the maypole.

  Now, which was the woman he came here to find?

  Moving along the hedge, he stood in the soft shade of a chestnut tree, where the grass was still wet and the dank earthiness tickled his nostrils. He’d just removed his hat to comb his hair back with the fingers of one hand, when something dropped on his head. One corner of it narrowly missed his left eye, and it bounced to the grass at his feet. A stifled curse trickled down through the branches, but when he looked up into the tree, all was very still. If it was possible to hear breath being held, he was certain he heard it. The fingers of a small hand slowly retreated like stealthy caterpillars through the leaves.

  “Good morning,” he called, holding his hat to his chest.

  Nothing but a low sigh. Might have been a breeze trailing through the leafy branches.

  When he stooped to retrieve the slender book that had fallen, the tree made a tiny, agitated mewl of distress. And no wonder. The pictures printed in this book were shockingly clear, detailed and instructive, not generally the sort of reading matter one expected to find a lady perusing on a sunny spring morning in the branches of a chestnut tree. Or anywhere, for that matter. He couldn’t read a word printed there, but the pictures spoke a universal language.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he shouted up into the tree even as he wondered why he apologized, since it was her indecent book that almost took out his eye. He knew it was a woman. Her presence rippled against his skin like the soft, sun-warmed waves of a calm but curious sea.

  The tree, however, stared down at him, haughty and proud. And silent.

  He ought to shake the wench out of her hiding place like a ripe chestnut.

  Snapping the book shut, he tucked it inside his waistcoat and turned back to watch the dancers around the maypole. His lips puckered in a careless whistle while he deliberately ignored the tree. His gaze now traveled over the other women.

  No. She was not among them. These girls were all too young.

  A wasp buzzed his ear. He batted it away and then, in his peripheral vision, saw a booted foot, followed by a long, shapely leg in a torn stocking, slide slowly down the tree trunk. When her skirt and petticoat snagged on a branch, she halted and cursed under her breath in short, irritable gasps. A second leg emerged.

  As did the intriguing sight of delicate lace drawers.

  He’d expected her to hide up there until he was gone, but apparently she wanted that book back, and badly enough to show her face—and her drawers.

  He should have looked away at once, but being a young man of lively humor and certainly no saint, turned his head to watch. She wore no bonnet, and her hair, the color of honey and sun-gilded wheat sheaves, spilled down her back, falling from a ladylike and ineffectual knot at the nape of her neck. He felt the instant stirring of interest.

  She was lucky—very lucky. Lazarus Kane was currently masquerading as a gentleman and on his best behavior.

  Her boots finally reached the safety of damp grass, and the ripped skirt dropped, covering her legs. Only then did she glance over her shoulder to be sure he hadn’t seen, and her eyes widened when she found him staring brazenly back at her, enjoying the view.

  Without a word, she held out her hand. She was an agreeably rounded creature, with delicate but well-defined features and a stunning pair of bright hazel eyes that shone full of stars, even in daytime and under the tumbled shade of the chestnut tree. He couldn’t guess her age, although by the shape of her, she was clearly no child, despite her obvious proficiency in climbing and hiding in trees. Something about the way she held herself, the proud chin and determined set of her mouth, made him stare—that and her stunning resemblance to a solemn-faced angel he’d once seen painted on a domed ceiling inside a grand house where he worked. Yes, she was an angel. Clearly, in this case, a fallen one. Perhaps the tree broke her fall, he mused. Mesmerized, he slid one hand into his waistcoat and withdrew the slim volume.

  There was no word of thanks. She advanced a step, her gaze on the book in his hand. With a second thought, regaining some of his playful wits, he brought the book back to his chest and held it there, daring her with a narrow-eyed challenge. She hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt, lips slightly parted. He imagined his own mouth on hers. He could taste those sweet, soft petals, could feel them shyly parting for him. The pink tip of her tongue darted out, sweeping left to right, dampening the lower lip. He was so absorbed in his imaginary kiss, he barely noticed the slender scar across her cheek.

  Then he saw it. And he knew he’d found her at last.

  Relief swept him until he was almost giddy. It was she. She wouldn’t know him, of course, but for ten years she’d been his guardian angel, bringing comfort in some of his darkest hours. Without her image engraved on his mind—that hope of one day finding her again—he would never have survived.

  He finally held the book out to her again, but when she reached for it, he forgot his newly adopted “gentlemanly” manners. So much for them. With his free hand, he captured hers and held it tight, drawing her closer through the long, shady grass.

  “A kiss, madam,” he muttered. “Is that not a fair exchange?”

  He expected her to struggle away, but she glanced anxiously over the hedge toward the merry revelers. She gave no shout of alarm, no sound but the smallest of startled yelps. It occurred to Lazarus she was more eager not to be seen there than she was to alert any of the villagers to her aid. The book, of course, he mused.

  What good fortune it fell upon his head this morning and none other. Lucky for her too, since he knew how to keep a secret. He had plenty of those himself.

  He tugged again, and she stumbled over a gnarled tree root, falling against him. Wide-eyed, she looked up at his face, and he felt those quick, anxious breaths ripple through her warm, generously shaped body. With every exhale, her breasts pillowed against his chest, and as she tried to settle her balance on the uneven ground, her hip inadvertently stroked his thigh. There was still no protest from her lips; instead, a curious light quickened in the sultry hazel depths of her unblinking gaze.

  Was the lady ready for a little practice to go along with the theory she studied in her wicked book?

  In that case, he would readily oblige. Lazarus ruthlessly cast aside all previous intentions of chivalry, recently acquired along with his new set of clothes, and reverted once more to the basic actions of a young man who’d learned most of his life lessons in the dark alleys and back streets of London.

  His mouth sought hers, claiming it with neither mercy nor apology. Somewhere a bird sang, and his skipping pulse soared along with those high notes. She tasted as sweet as she looked, and although this kiss was bartered, it was neither coldly offered nor resentfully given. It was tentative but surprisingly gracious. She bestowed it like a blessing. Or a forgiveness.

  How could she know, yet, she had anything to forgive him for?

  He was calmed by it, briefly humbled even. And then he wanted more.

  The delightful, teasing friction of her body against his had whetted Lazarus Kane’s appetite. He let his tongue slip between her lips, distracting her while he released her small hand and slid his arm around her waist to pull her more securely against him. He parted his feet for balance, ran his splayed hand along her spine, and let his tongue delve deeper. She shivered. Her lashes lowered, trembling against her cheek. Dappled sunlight fell through the trees gen
tly to dust the side of her face with verdigris and copper. When he felt her tongue touch his, growing bolder, he wanted to laugh, the joy taking him by surprise. His kiss turned demanding, his mouth slanted to hers, and his hand anchored at the nape of her neck.

  And still he wanted more.

  But she, it seemed, had given enough. He felt her pulling back. As much as he wanted to keep her, he knew better. For now, they were obliged to be civilized.

  She stepped back, took her book from his hand, and ran off, disappearing into the covert of trees.

  Lazarus laid one hand to his heart and felt the little bump beside it.

  His angel was even more than he could have hoped for, and certainly more than he deserved. Each new day was already a precious gift not to be taken for granted.

  His endangered heart pounded with a renewed burst of enthusiasm. Lazarus returned to where he’d left his box of belongings, heaved it up onto his shoulder, and continued on his way.

  ***

  His destination lay just on the border of the village, on rising ground from which he could see over the thatched rooftops and chimneys of Sydney Dovedale. In the opposite direction stood a somewhat forbidding stone fortress, moss clad and unprepossessing. His first impression, formed as he stared up at the dark, shadowy structure in the distance, was of a ruin, uninhabited and abandoned, so he turned his eyes instead to the house immediately before him. There, wedged into the flint-and-pebble wall by the gate, a carved sign proclaimed the name of the farmhouse—Souls Dryft.

  He set down his box and pushed on the tall iron bars of the gate. As he lifted the latch, there was a groan of despair, and the gate dropped from the rusted top hinge. The bottom opposite corner fell to the ground with a thud, nestling in a deep ridge carved in the dirt, where it obviously felt at home, for it stubbornly refused to move farther. He struggled a while then made up his mind to find another route.

  He climbed speedily up the rattling, protesting bars and leapt down into the yard. His mind, which was just as nimble as his body, had already taken note of the house’s potential. His smile remained unchallenged, even as he found the shutters at the windows rotted and wormholed, the roof falling apart, and the walls bowed at such an angle it was a miracle they still stood upright.

  Before he could fit his key in the lock, the door opened, and a wizened grey figure appeared, like a genie from a lamp. “Ye the fellow what leased the old place from the admiral, then, eh?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Heard the rattling and thought it was that tomcat leaping over the gate again after the new chicks.”

  Lazarus held out his hand and introduced himself.

  The old man’s prickly brows rose like startled bird’s wings, and he lurched forward on bowed legs. “Lazarus? Like him what came back from the dead, sir?”

  “The very one. But please call me Kane—not sir. And you must be Tuck.”

  “Aye.” He sniffed proudly. “Been here, man and boy, nigh on sixty winters. Served a dozen masters, and sixteen mistresses betwixt ’em.” He squinted. “Ye alone, then? No wife?” This last was uttered hopefully.

  “No wife, Tuck. At least”—he grinned—“not as yet.”

  “Better off without one. Wife means woe. Better off without ’em.” Seeing the large box sitting by the broken gate, his face gathered in folds of distress. “That’s yern, is it?”

  Lazarus laughed. “Worry not, Tuck. I carry my own luggage, but I’ll mend that gate first. I should be grateful for some luncheon and a mug of ale, if one could be found.”

  Sniffing again, Tuck lumbered back into the farmhouse and beckoned for Lazarus to follow. “Should ’ave come round the back. There’s a bit o’ broken wall in the orchard big enough to get through. Youngsters use it to scrump apples in autumn.”

  Ah, he thought, another item on the list of things to be mended. “Is that how you get in and out?”

  “Oh no. I use the gate,” the old man explained. “There’s a trick to it.”

  Lazarus nodded. Yes, there was a trick to most things.

  Rolling his shoulders to ease the soreness, he stepped down into the house and looked around eagerly. Mellow sunlight filled the musty interior, but the year was not yet far enough advanced for any real warmth to muster against stone much before noon. And although shafts of gold fell through the leaded windows, waking the house from its slumber, they lacked the steady heat necessary to touch that flagged floor. Tuck had begun cleaning the place for a new tenant, but despite the breeze through the open windows and the burning coals in the fireplace, the air was still thick with dust. Furniture was sparse and looked to be as old as the house itself.

  Lazarus stood at the window and ran a finger along the deep stone ledge, gathering a cobweb.

  “The admiral en’t been home in nigh on thirty years,” Tuck explained, shuffling off to the pantry. “He leaves everything up to the solicitors in Yarmouth. They take care o’ the leases, and I take care o’ the house and farm.”

  That explains it, then, thought Lazarus. He’d been somewhat disheartened by the sight of saggy-fleeced, depressed-looking sheep in the rough pasture, of fields overgrown with flowery thistles and tall, angry weeds. There was no activity such as he’d seen on other farms along the way, and a plow abandoned in the yard was too full of cobwebs to have seen much use in a few years. The hay cart he passed had oats and reedy grass growing between the planks where fallen seeds were left to do as they pleased. Rot and mustiness hung so heavily in the air he could bite it.

  Tuck reappeared, bearing a tray of bread, cheese, pickled onion, and ale, which he set before Lazarus with a disapproving sniff. “I don’t know why the admiral don’t sell the place and have done with it. Might be best for the village to have a constant fellow here—not just one stranger after t’other.” He wiped his nose with the back of one claw and gloomily surveyed the tray as if it might be the last supper for a man about to be hanged. “Folk here don’t care for strangers, and no one stays in this ’ouse long enough to make a difference.”

  Lazarus pounced on the hastily assembled luncheon, both arms on the table as he shoveled food into his mouth. “That old ruin up on the hill—is that part of this property too?”

  Tuck’s expression struggled between a scowl and a grin. “That ol’ ruin is the residence o’ Mr. ’Enry Valentine, but he won’t take kindly to ’earing it called such. And whether or not ’tis part o’ this property, well…” He finally conceded defeat in a dour chuckle. “That’s a matter in dispute. Mr. ’Enry Valentine’s father, God rest his soul, gave this house to the admiral to clear a debt. But Mr. ’Enry says it were only a temporary arrangement for the lifetime of his father and Souls Dryft should come back to him now old Mr. Valentine is dead and gone. The admiral reckons otherwise.”

  “Are there no records of the transaction?”

  “Oh, aye,” Tuck flung over his bent shoulder. “The solicitors ’ave fancy papers of all sort, on both sides. All of ’em as genuine as ’Enry Valentine’s lush head o’ hair.”

  Lazarus paused, ale tankard halfway to his lips. Then he laughed abruptly, shook his head, and continued his meal. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he gazed at the grimy window, eyes narrowed. With two work-roughened fingers, he rubbed a clear patch to look out and survey the cobbled yard.

  There was a lot to be done to get this place in order, and he wasn’t entirely sure where to begin.

  Perhaps with the acquisition of a little property of his own. Time to stake his claim. He’d waited long enough.

  Chapter 3

  Lavinia Valentine stretched out on the old Grecian couch and kicked off her slippers to free her stubby pink toes. “Stop it, Sophia,” she hissed at her sister-in-law. “I feel your bitter resentment burning holes in me even as I lie here with my eyes closed, trying to nap. No wonder my head hurts and my stomach churns, with you so miserable and bitter and glaring at me. And to think, I’m a well-brought-up lady from a fine family, yet I’m reduced to this…exiled to this dark, dam
p, dull place with no society of fashion. When I think of what I might have had!”

  She wriggled like a plump grub and adjusted her bosom—an appendage frequently in need of some handling, apparently. Sophie thought a well-brought-up woman from a fine family should probably not punctuate every small insult by plumping her bosom like two saggy pillows. But there was no point remarking upon it, for she would be reminded only of how she was once caught in flagrante with a young gentleman whose breeches were around his knees. So she was hardly in a position to question anyone else’s etiquette.

  In the cooler months of the year, the residents of the fortress spent most of the day and evening in the cookhouse for the sake of economy. The fire must be lit, in any case, to warm water and cook food, so the family gathered here too, saving all the coal otherwise required to heat the drafty tower keep with its dank walls and icy-cold stone floor. Lavinia had ordered this button-tufted couch moved into the cookhouse, because she found the other chairs and benches insufficient cushion for her delicate posterior. “At the very least,” she’d complained to her husband, “I might be permitted the comfort of a cushioned seat, even if I must be reduced to a life in the servants’ quarters.”

  This morning, Lavinia wore yet another ostentatious new gown, although she intended to do nothing in it but lie on her couch: a well-fed sow napping in the warmth of the fire, eyes closed, and multitude of chins trembling like a naughty child’s slapped buttocks.

  By midday—or sooner should it become stained—that gown would be changed for another similarly ugly garment, made with an excess of expensive material and trimmings. Sophie, having quietly observed this extravagance on several occasions, suggested the need to budget a little better, as well as consider the burden of laundry.