A Regency Match (29 page)

Her pulse thumped in her ears. A couple of weeks ago! Before he'd come to Edgerton. Good Lord, had he come to tell her … to ask her …? She didn't dare pursue the thought. Her knees were turning to water. What had he intended, that night in Wiltshire? Whatever it was, he'd discovered her dangling at the end of a twisted sheet. Oh, God! She had frightened him off with another
calamity
! On an impulse, he'd come to see her … perhaps even to … make an offer! But she'd confronted him with another disaster, and it had been one too many.

Bertie was looking at her uncomfortably. “What's the matter, Sophy? You're shaking!”

“Bertie, you're my dearest c-cousin in the w-world, but … g-go home.”

“Go home? Why?”

“Because, fond as I am of you, I d-don't want an audience right n-now. You see, I th-think I'm g-going to c-cry!”

Two long days passed. In those two days, she learned that Marcus had indeed been jilted, and that he was in residence in his London townhouse. But he did not come to call. The reason for his absence was plain—he'd found her incorrigible. He'd been able to forgive the debacle over Dilly's break-in, but the incident at Edgerton had undoubtedly ruined her last chance.

Those were her thoughts in moments of rational calm. During other moments—times of real misery and self-loathing—she told herself that there had been nothing at all significant in his visit to Edgerton. Perhaps his mother had sent him there to make certain she was safe. Lady Charlotte was like that. Sophy had blown up the importance of the entire matter. She'd refined on it too much. Just because Marcus had forgotten himself one day and kissed her was not reason enough to suppose … to suppose …

Sophy didn't cry or take to her bed or make any sort of scene. She didn't even speak about the weight she carried in her chest. Only late at night, alone in her bedroom, she would take out from under her pillow a little book in which she'd pressed a pink rose.

Her grandmother watched for three days while her granddaughter moved through the house in a fog of pain. It hurt her to watch the girl valiantly trying to behave in a rational and orderly way while her dreams fell completely apart. This, then, was the disaster Alicia had predicted. Sophy was paying the price for her flaws, and the only place where the wreckage showed was in the girl's eyes.

Alicia could not bear those haunted eyes. She had to do something, and quickly. Before another day had passed, she took her pen in hand and poured out her heart in a letter to her friend Charlotte.

Marcus did not go back to Wynwood after he took Sophy to her grandmother. He returned to his London residence and tried to resume his normal life. The impulse that had led him to seek out Sophy in Wiltshire he now recognized for the foolish whim it was. He must have been deranged to have believed that a match between a wildly impulsive creature like Sophy and a staid, precise prig like himself was possible. It was best to put the entire matter out of his mind.

But returning to his former way of life was not easy. He found himself brooding, losing his concentration when he worked at his desk, and losing his temper with the servants. He forgot appointments, found his mind wandering in the middle of serious conversations with his friends, and, one evening when at his club with Dennis, he even became so cast away on brandy that he'd made a
scene
! Dennis had told him later that
he
, Marcus Harvey, had stood up in front of everyone at the club and recited something from Shakespeare at the top of his lungs. Marcus didn't need to be told what he'd said:

“
Love is a spirit all compact of fire
,

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire
!”

Those lines had been running through his head for weeks.

Somehow, these signs of the disintegration of his character didn't even trouble him. Compared to the pain that had manifested itself in his chest when he'd given up the idea of declaring himself to Sophy and was always with him, the rest was nothing. And if he was changing, what was wrong with that? If Sophy could get wind of the story of his making an ass of himself at the club, she couldn't very well call him a prig any more, now could she?

One day, two letters arrived for him addressed in female hands. One was a typically cheerful letter from his mother, who, after rambling on for two pages about insignificant nonsense, mentioned some news about Sophy. The name seemed to leap out at him from the page.
You will be glad to learn
, she wrote,
that Alicia has noticed a profound change in her Sophy. Since her return from Edgerton, the girl has been behaving in a remarkably sensible, orderly and well-controlled manner. Since you seemed to find her so disquietingly impetuous, I'm sure you'll be glad to learn that her character has so improved
.

His reaction to those casual sentences was a wave of extreme irritation. Her character improved? What rubbish! He wasn't glad at all! Didn't his mother realize that he liked her just the way she was?

The other letter, by some strange coincidence, was from Lady Alicia.
Please forgive me
, she wrote,
for the long delay in writing to you, but it has been much on my mind that I have not properly thanked you for your service to my dear granddaughter on her departure from Edgerton. I would like to thank you in person. Is it possible for you to call tomorrow morning at eleven? It would give great pleasure to your affectionate friend, Alicia Edgerton
.

Marcus paced the floor with the letter in hand. It was not an invitation he could easily refuse without being considered uncommonly rude. But what if Sophy were present? Could he bear to see her again? Just the thought of it set his fingers trembling. What was happening to him? Had he so far fallen into the sickness of love that his character was completely destroyed? Certainly not, he assured himself. He could surely pay a simple call without disintegrating into mush. He would pay his respects to Alicia, offer a polite greeting to Sophy, and take his leave, thus proving to himself that he was still the self-controlled, sensible man he had always been.

The following morning, when Alicia and Sophy lingered over their morning coffees in the breakfast room, Alicia remarked casually that she'd sent a note round to Lord Wynwood requesting that he drop by this morning.

Sophy froze. “Grandmama!
Why
?”

“I have not yet had the opportunity to thank him for his kindness in rescuing you. I don't think it right to procrastinate any longer, do you? After all, it's been almost a month since he restored you to me—”

“No … only three weeks …”

“Three weeks is quite long enough. At any rate, he should be calling at any moment,” Alicia said composedly.

Sophy jumped up frantically. “Then, Grandmama, I hope you will excuse me. I must leave at once. I can't—”

She ran to the door as she spoke, but she was too late. Escape was cut off by the appearance of the butler at the door. “Lord Wynwood, my lady,” he announced. And Marcus walked in.

Chapter Twenty-One

S
OPHY STOOD ROOTED
to the spot, her face drained of color. Neither she nor Marcus looked at one another. But Alicia rose from the table and crossed the room with a warmly welcoming smile and arms outstretched. “Marcus, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, “so good of you to come at the request of an old lady.”

She embraced him and kissed his cheek. “I'm always delighted to be at your disposal, Lady Alicia,” Marcus said, “although I assure you it is not at all necessary for you to … er … thank me …”

“Perhaps not for you, but it is for me. You know, you rescued my dear girl from virtual imprisonment, and it is not something I will take lightly or easily forget.” She smiled at him benignly, and then, to Sophy's extreme dismay, she headed for the door, adding blandly, “No doubt Sophy will wish to add her thanks to mine. I'll leave you two in private so she may do so properly.”

They were alone. Sophy could hardly breathe. She had been able to behave naturally with him in the past because she'd believed him safely rivetted to another. Now, however, her discomfort was overwhelming. And Marcus was doing nothing to ease her mortification. He merely stood there in the middle of the room, turning his hat in his hand and looking irresolute. “I … er … do most sincerely thank you, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I don't know … what would have become of me if … if you hadn't come along.”

He made an impatient movement of his hand. What was the sense of these polite, meaningless exchanges between them? “That was most politely expressed,” he said curtly, “but quite unnecessary, since you thanked me quite adequately when we said goodbye at your door.”

Stung by his tone, she turned away, moving blindly to the window and leaning on the sill. “It would have been more gracious of you merely to have accepted my thanks without criticism,” she said quietly.

There was a pause. “Yes, you're quite right. I … I'm sorry. I don't seem to know how to speak to you lately.”

She turned and looked at him curiously. “No? Why not?”

“I'm not sure. I seem to have lost my … courage.”

“I shouldn't think you'd need courage to talk to
me
,” she remarked in surprise.

“No, I don't suppose you see yourself as … er … formidable.”

“Formidable?
Me
?” She couldn't help smiling. “How silly! You didn't seem to find me so at Wynwood.”

“No, not at Wynwood. You became formidable at Edgerton.”

“Really? To be called formidable cannot be a compliment, can it?
Is
it a compliment? I cannot imagine what I did at Edgerton to make it difficult for you to speak to me. What did you want to say to me there?”

“The same thing I want to say to you now. It's something I never said before to … to anyone. I'm finding it deucedly difficult to tell you that … that I love you.”

Sophy felt the floor lurch beneath her feet. There was a sharp constriction in her stomach, and she swayed slightly and closed her eyes. “
Sophy
!” he said sharply, tossing his hat on a chair, crossing the room in two strides and grasping her shoulders. “Sophy, if you faint now, I'll wring your
neck
!”

She had opened her eyes and was gazing up at him with the most dazzling, breathtaking look of wide-eyed wonder. “I have no intention of faint—” she murmured dazedly.

But he gave her no chance to finish. The joy in her face had given him all the courage he needed. He crushed her to him and kissed her with the ruthless ardor of a passion long delayed. Sophy, who wanted to hear more of these delightful revelations, felt for a moment that she didn't want to be kissed. She waved her arms about in feeble rebellion, but soon the rebellion ceased. This outrageous behavior, she realized, was exactly what she'd dreamed of for so long, so she closed her eyes, let her arms find their way around his neck, and surrendered.

After he'd released her, and the floor had steadied beneath her feet, she opened her eyes. He was smiling down at her, the most disconcerting warmth shining from his eyes. “
Marcus
,” she asked breathlessly, “are you sure you know what you're
doing
?”

“No, my love, not at all. I'm quite besotted. Love, you know, has a way of making even the most orderly people behave like zanies.”

“But … but you
can't
love me! Bertie says you don't even
l-like
me!”

He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “He's quite right. I dislike you excessively. But not nearly as much as I love you, it seems.”

She shook her head. “I don't think one can love someone one dislikes, can one?”

“Yes, quite easily. You see, my sweet, I've learned to my surprise that liking and loving are two very different and unrelated emotions.”

“I don't believe that at all,” she said dubiously.

“Why not? I think you feel the same way yourself. Didn't you tell me that you disliked me, too?”

“
I
? Never!”

“I remember it distinctly. You called me a pompous Prig.”

She was about to argue the point, but even if she'd never said it, she'd certainly thought it. She lowered her eyes to the uppermost button on his coat and began to twist it nervously. “Well, I didn't mean it. Not a word. The truth is that I like you very much. I only said it for … for …”

“I know,” Marcus cut in drily. “For dramatic effect.”

She flicked her eyes up at him and lowered them again. “Yes, I'm afraid so.”

In the silence that followed, she continued to twist the button until it was in danger of coming loose. “I know you don't … like me. And I'm not at all likely, no matter how hard I try, to make myself as … self-possessed and … even-tempered and well-behaved as … as Miss Bethune,” she admitted painfully.

Marcus lifted her chin and forced her to look at him. “If I'd been able to love Miss Bethune even a fraction as much as I love you, we would still be betrothed. She sensed, however, that I had completely lost my heart to a hysterical little madcap, and she gave me my freedom. It took me some time to understand myself, Sophy, but I now realize that you—just exactly as you are—are the very girl I want.”

“Marcus, really?” His words were so delicious to hear that she almost couldn't believe them. “Do you mean that you won't
mind
my getting into scrapes and causing calamities and falling into all sorts of terrible disasters?”

He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. “You are asking a bit much of me, aren't you, Sophy? Of course I shall mind. I fully expect to give you daily scoldings and weekly thrashings. But if you always have the assurance that I love you whatever you do, and that I shall be there to pull you out of your difficulties, perhaps you won't get into them quite so frequently.”