Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Page 27

  Yet there was a veil between them. Still she hid secrets behind those watchful, hazel eyes. He knew she’d been prying through his trunk, and she’d written a letter to London. When he asked her about it, a guilty pink had instantly covered her face, and even when she said she’d written to a relative, he didn’t know whether to believe her. She was holding something back.

  “Why did you leave the market today without me?” he demanded.

  “I had a headache and couldn’t stand the noise.”

  He ground his jaw. “Or couldn’t stand to hear what’s being said about me?”

  “What is being said?” Now she pretended to be unaware of it.

  “That your friend Hartley has uncovered my past and means to chase me from the village.”

  There was a still, breathless pause. She stopped sketching. “Will you have to leave now?” she asked quietly. “If James…I don’t want you to leave, but if you’re in danger…”

  “I’m not leaving. I’ve run too long and too far already.” He leaned one arm on the mantel, and his finger rubbed the bars of the little birdcage. “He won’t chase me off. I told you that.”

  “Then we’ll fight him together.”

  He turned his head to look at her again, amazed once more at his good luck in finding her—afraid he didn’t truly deserve all this. Perhaps it was selfish of him to keep her, to cause her all this trouble. “James Hartley is filthy rich, is he not?” he demanded gruffly.

  She sighed, agreeing he was.

  “Handsome too.”

  “Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye.”

  He walked across the chamber, put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face so her eyes couldn’t hide. “You think him handsome?”

  “I think you’re far handsomer.”

  “He’s much better dressed.”

  “You’re much better undressed.”

  ***

  Much to Sophie’s relief, he took the hint and finally stripped off his breeches and shirt. She returned to her sketch, and eventually he came up behind her again to look over her shoulder. “Is that me?” he asked, sounding bemused.

  “No,” she replied dryly. “It’s some other man who works on the yard with his shirt off.”

  Suddenly he touched her hair, and she realized he had her brush in his hands. “May I?” he asked very quietly.

  She said nothing but bent over her sketch, and after a slight pause, he drew the brush down gently through her hair. She closed her eyes. The brush strokes were firm and steady, that soft sound the only noise in the room apart from her own heartbeat fluttering in her ears. With one hand he briefly caressed the back of her neck before lifting her hair again for another pass of the brush. She could smell the warm night air and fresh-cut wood as if it permeated his skin and seeped out with his sweat.

  Now he put down the brush and used his fingers. He ran them slowly back from crown to nape, gathered her long hair into a tail, held it and then let it fall, like a child mesmerized by a new toy. She exhaled at last and turned to look at him.

  Before she could speak, he pressed a finger to her lips, and she tasted his salt. “May I?” he said again.

  She waited. He sat astride the bench, his front to her back. Her silence, apparently, was acquiescence, and the sketch drifted out of her hands to the floor. He tugged gently on the sleeves of her chemise until they slid down over her arms, and then she felt the air on her breasts, her nipples already taut with the anticipation of his touch. His tongue traced a pattern on her neck, tasting her in a slow, meticulous fashion before moving slowly along her shoulder.

  It was almost like a man enjoying his last meal, she realized.

  The chemise crumpled to her hips, and slowly he freed each of her wrists from the fallen sleeves. His body shifted closer, pressing against her so she felt every part of him, the heat and strength, the hard maleness. When she shivered, he didn’t ask if she was cold; he simply put his arms around her, wrapping her tightly, his lips in her hair and his inner thighs enclosing her hips. And between them—his bold erection. She felt it through her thin chemise like a ridge of hot steel pressed to her lower back. She writhed a little as his fingertips gently circled her nipples and his lips continued along her shoulder. Each kiss lingered longer and a little wetter. Then one hand moved down to her belly, pausing there a few tantalizing breaths, fingers spread, before it slid lower, under her chemise. Pleasure flooded her veins and her limbs. He curled his torso to her back, and a soft growl shuddered out of him and against her hair.

  “Bear my child.”

  In response to those three words, her body throbbed with need. She sensed this night it would serve that special service, an anointed vessel for his seed and his life. Biting her lip, she rubbed her bottom against him, wanting him desperately. She felt the dampness on her chemise from his arousal and her own. He suddenly scooped her up, one arm around her waist, and bent her forward while he positioned the pulsing head of his erection against her slippery sex and pulled her chemise aside impatiently. His breath seared her skin in quick waves as he urged her to kneel before him on the bench, and in the next moment, she was filled.

  He rocked forward, his feet on the floor. She flexed under his arched body and gasped as his thighs bent, shifting muscles pushing against her legs. One arm held her firmly around the waist as he thudded into her. It was a primitive coupling, a need they both had that night, simply two creatures with the same basic desire under the silent, silver moon. She opened to him, welcomed him with tearful gladness, and he spent lushly, hotly as he ground onto her, the possession complete.

  She might not know how long they had physically together, but that night they made their own forever.

  He lay down with her in the bed, his arms tight around her body, her head cradled in the powerful embrace of his warm chest. She listened anxiously for his heartbeat, and whenever she thought she heard it falter, her eyes opened wide, staring into the moonlight until that steady rhythm returned again and finally rocked her back to sleep.

  Chapter 34

  A few days later, Sophie heard the bell at the front gate and went out to find her brother standing there.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the yard with a wary step. “Why have you come, Henry? To give me another lecture and remind me I’m a fallen woman who cannot be saved? Or just to get out of the house and away from Lavinia? You must have a bee in your unmentionables again to bother coming here.”

  “You may find all this highly amusing, but your behavior, Sophia, has caused great outrage and upset.” He sounded breathless, and he clutched at the bars of the gate, wincing. “Might I come in and sit?”

  She wanted to refuse, but the look on her brother’s face was such, she thought he might collapse there and then, so she opened the gate. Worried, she led him inside out of the sun’s heat, where the stone walls and floor of the house kept the inside temperature cool even at the peak of summer. She fetched him a mug of ale from the pantry, for which he muttered his thanks and drank thirstily. Once recovered enough to speak again, he surprised her with the following: “We’re invited to dine with Lady Hartley on Saturday.”

  “I don’t care to go.”

  Henry clasped the ivory knob of his cane in both hands and leaned heavily on it. “Nevertheless, it will do you good to be among elegant company for a change. Perhaps you forget how to behave now you live among crooks and degenerates. Your wild behavior at the market, I hear, was something to behold.”

  “I take it Lazarus is not invited to—”

  “Certainly not. He’s not fit company for Lady Hartley. He will never belong in our world. You may as well face that fact.”

  She picked up a corner of her apron and nervously began cleaning the windows. “I know you told James about the advertisement. You brought him back here.”

  “I did what I thought was best.”

  She sighed. “But, Henry, I won’t change my mind. Not this time.”

  He was reflected in the small,
crooked panes, and she watched him irritably fiddle with his hat. “Obdurate, belligerent woman,” he mumbled. “I hope you realize James Hartley is quite determined to save you from this mistake. He has uncovered some interesting facts about your Mr. Kane.”

  Sophie faced him bravely. “I don’t care a tinker’s damn what he and Sir Arthur find with all their prying. They might look to their own lives before they seek to destroy his. And the same goes for you, Henry.”

  Red-faced, he stumbled to the open door. “How do you think it affects me to walk down the street with everyone knowing my sister lives here in sin with a man? Housekeeper, indeed! Ah, but perhaps you do not care how it affects me. You never did care about anyone but yourself.”

  “Henry, that is unjust.”

  “Is it, Sophia? Whom were you thinking about when you made this decision? Certainly not me. Not even Lazarus Kane, for whom you will bring only more trouble.” He carefully negotiated the step up into the yard, ducked his head below the crooked lintel, and then he was gone, cursing at the hens to get out of his way.

  ***

  The barley was waist high, a silver mass of heaving, rippling waves that gleamed under the sun. Lazarus liked to sit on the wavy roof of his house and gaze out over the fields to see the results of all that hard work finally coming to fruition. Beyond the acres of barley, wheat, and cut hay, there was pasture where the sheep, which once struck him as so mournful and defeated, now roamed about with as much cheer as sheep ever roamed. The cows had coats like velvet and placidly cropped away at rich grass, swinging their tails at the impertinent flies. In the paddock, the new farm horses enjoyed a rest before it was time to be put to harness again. And in the orchard, on the southerly side of the house, fruit trees bloomed in such great abundance he wondered why he ever fixed that hole in the wall. There was more than enough fruit to go around.

  Aunt Finn, strolling among the fruit trees, gathered wind-fallen bounty and sang ribald songs, daydreaming of a long-ago love affair. Throaty doves echoed her tune as they flew between the dovecot and the chimneys of the house, and Tuck, shoveling dirt out of the loose-boxes in the yard, whistled along through the gaps in his teeth.

  The chestnut trees in the distance, where Sophie once dropped a book on his head, were at the peak of their green glory, and spiked fruits ripened in clusters between the leaves.

  And there she was, sitting on the flint wall below his high perch, reading a letter that came for her that day all the way from London. He’d wanted to ask her about it, but she took it off immediately to be alone while she read it, and he let her have that privacy. He couldn’t think whom she might correspond with in London, but it made him anxious.

  Now she’d finished reading her letter, slid it away in her apron pocket, and began to watch the little grey mare who, despite her diminutive size, skipped about among the great farm horses without the slightest fear, teasing them with flicks of her proud tail.

  The wedding was now a few days away, and neither of them spoke of it anymore. It hovered there, waiting, slumbering like a moth in one corner of the window, undisturbed until someone swiped at it viciously with a broom.

  It was almost as if they were waiting for something to come along and spoil it.

  He knew, then, as he watched her sitting on the flint wall, he loved her more than his own life. The thought of losing her worried him more than one day being recaptured.

  ***

  “I’m dining in Morecroft tonight with Henry,” she said as she watched him harness the cart horses.

  He said nothing, busy pulling the horse’s tail through the crupper and then hunkering down to fasten the girths.

  “I’ll be back by morning, but I expect it will be very late, so you’d best not wait up.”

  For a few moments his mind was empty, as if she had pulled a cork and all his thoughts splattered out onto the cobbled yard. “Don’t go.”

  “What?”

  He swallowed. If she went through that gate with her brother, he’d never see her again. They’d keep her away from him. But he didn’t repeat his request. He reminded himself, again, it must be her choice if she stayed.

  “I have to go,” she said softly. “It’s important, Russ.”

  “Is it something to do with that letter from London?” He was angry she still kept secrets—even after he told her all his.

  “Yes,” she admitted finally. “But I can’t tell you more than that, so please don’t ask me.”

  He straightened up slowly and patted the horse’s hindquarters, looking at her.

  “I will be back by morning,” she repeated.

  He turned away and muttered, “You’d best not stay out in the field too long today, then, or you’ll be tired.” He couldn’t keep her prisoner, could he? They must learn to trust each other.

  But don’t go. Stay. Please.

  He’d never been afraid of anything in his life, but he was afraid now; he feared losing her.

  Sophie stepped back and ran a hand over her long braid. “Going to be a hot day.”

  He nodded, unable to speak without betraying his shamefully weak emotions, and got on with his work.

  ***

  She decided to wear the gown Maria had altered for her. It would be a shame to waste it, and she must look her best tonight. Had she any armor, she would have worn it, but muslin and lace would have to suffice. Around her neck she wore a string of coral beads that once belonged to her mother, and with Finn’s help, she managed to get her hair tamed into the reasonable facsimile of a ladylike coif, complete with a few ringlets over the ears and the last-minute addition of forget-me-nots picked from the verge by the gate.

  When Lady Hartley’s open barouche arrived in the lane that evening, Henry looked out and exclaimed, in some begrudging surprise, that she was “almost beautiful.”

  She smiled wryly and told her brother to stop flattering her or she might think him ill, or possessed.

  Maria, seeing her gown finally put to good use, remarked in excitement at how well she looked, and even Lavinia was moved enough to say that, if she were not so dreadfully tanned by the sun, she might actually be presentable. If she wore a little powder. And darkened her brows.

  Mr. Bentley asked quietly after her aunt’s health. Sophie assured him Aunt Finn flourished like the crops in the field.

  “And Mr. Kane?” he asked. “He is well, I hope?”

  “Yes.” Her voice quaked, but no one seemed to notice. She knew what they were all thinking: she’d dressed up tonight for James Hartley; she’d “come to her senses” at last.

  Well, they were right about the latter, wrong about the former. Now she had all the pieces put together in her mind, there was no more doubt and no more fear. But it was all up to her.

  She kept her small beaded purse in both hands, because it contained the most important accessory of all. Tonight was the decisive battle in this war, and she would fight to the bloody end for the man she loved.

  When they arrived at Lady Hartley’s, Sophia was unpleasantly surprised to see so many other guests, where she’d expected only her family. Mrs. Dykes was there in her gloomy black widow’s weeds, with Sir Arthur Sadler beside her. His wife and the battalion of daughters were also dragged out again—a row of sallow, unhappy faces. There was still not one expression of animation among them. Wooden puppets might have shown more life.

  Sir Arthur already held court in his booming voice, and the moment she appeared in the drawing room, he glared at her through his quizzing glass, as if she were an insect retrieved from his port.

  James was drinking heavily. He greeted her with a bow that leaned slightly to the left, and his lips almost missed her gloved fingers completely. “Sir Arthur has much to tell us that I think you will find interesting, Sophia.”

  “Oh?” Her hands tightened around the little beaded purse she carried.

  Of course she knew what this was about. The very moment she saw them all gathered there, she recognized this dinner party as an ambush.

 
; Dinner was served almost immediately, and James took her arm, steering her wildly so they almost bumped into the elegantly carved acanthus scrolls of the door frame. “Sir Arthur has made enquiries regarding that man Kane. He has quite a tale to tell.”

  “Really? With eight daughters and a sickly wife, he has nothing else—?”

  “You will listen to what he has to say, Sophia.”

  She looked at his fingers biting into her upper arm. “I’m disappointed in you, James. I thought you above scrabbling in the dirt.”

  He released her arm and held out her chair, eyes downcast, lips dry.

  Lady Sadler had very specific requirements for food and seldom ate anything too brightly colored or highly seasoned. Her meat had to be cut up in very small bites, and nothing of a rounded shape or unpeeled could be set upon her plate without causing her undue alarm and severe palpitations. Sir Arthur, on the other hand, ate everything in sight, peeled or unpeeled, skinned or unskinned, and left his wife’s ministrations to whomever else was at hand. In this case, it was Mrs. Dykes who assumed the responsibility of Lady Sadler’s digestion. She sat beside her at dinner and pressed the lady to take only the softest and palest of foods, and even occasionally lifted the fork to the lady’s lips or offered her a sip of water.

  Once the first course was served, Mrs. Dykes prompted Sir Arthur. “Do continue your story about that man named Kane.” She glanced quickly at Sophia. “It was most fascinating.”

  Sir Arthur eagerly obliged. “A wretched creature of innumerable depredations…”

  Sophie toyed with the purse in her lap, one finger running over the beads.

  “…born into poverty and he embarked on an early life of crime…”

  She stared at the little hairs protruding from his nostrils, and his yellowed, leering teeth.

  “…a thief, a brawler, a confidence trickster, a cheat, and a blackguard of the lowest order. In and out of prison all his life…”