A Regency Match (15 page)

By the time she and Lord Wynwood returned, dinner had ended. The guests, the butler informed them, were all gathered in the drawing room awaiting them anxiously. Sophy tried desperately to steel herself to face them, but the prospect sent a tremor all through her body. “Would you prefer to go right up to bed?” Lord Wynwood asked with what Sophy felt was most unusual concern.

“Do you think … would that be too cowardly?” she asked. “I daresay I … ought to face them and explain—”

“There's not the least need for you to do so. You can leave the explanations to me. I'll send for your abigail at once and have her take you right upstairs.”

He turned to say something to the butler. She threw him a quick, dubious look. Would it be better, she wondered, to face them all now and get the matter over with, or to do as his lordship suggested and postpone the ordeal for the next day?

As if he read her mind, Marcus smiled at her reassuringly. “You have my word that no one shall plague you about this. You may trust me to set everything right.”

The tears which hovered just beneath the surface threatened to spill over. “Th-Thank you, my lord. You are v-very k-kind.”

“That's not quite how you described me earlier, is it?” he reminded her ruefully. “I came to my kindness a bit late, I'm afraid.” He took her hand in his and fixed his eyes on hers. “Can you forgive me?”

Accustomed to expect nothing but polite disdain from Lord Wynwood, Sophy was thrown off balance by this gentle and self-effacing behavior. Her tears spilled down her cheeks. Humiliated by this display of emotionalism when she specifically wanted to be able to control it, she snatched her hand from his grasp and ran to the stairs. Halfway up, she met the relieved and overjoyed Miss Leale, who clasped her in an affectionate and completely uncritical embrace and led her off to her room.

Murmuring endearments, Miss Leale bathed and undressed the girl. Just as she was tucking her into bed, there was a tap at the door. It was a footman, bearing a tray. His lordship had sent his compliments and would be pleased if Miss Edgerton would partake of this bit of supper. On the tray were five covered dishes and a silver vase containing a single pink rose. “Thank his lordship for me,” Sophy said, “but I'm not hungry.” The footman bowed and was about to withdraw when Sophy stopped him. “One moment,” she said, padding across the room to him. She took the rose from the vase and waved him off.

Under Miss Leale's curious eye, she casually tossed the flower on her nightstand. But in the darkness, after the abigail had withdrawn, she cupped the bloom in both her hands, sniffed it tenderly and placed it on the pillow beside her. Then, with a sigh of self-pity, she snuggled down into her pillow and fell into an exhausted sleep.

But even in sleep, the events of the day wouldn't leave her mind. She dreamed she was on the back of a sluggard horse, riding over the downs. Far in the distance was a tall church spire which she was trying to reach. But the horse would scarcely move, and the spire kept disappearing and re-appearing in unexpected places. She turned the exasperating animal hither and thither, but the spire remained agonizingly distant.

Then there came a rumble of thunder, and, in a rush of wind, an enormous roan horse came galloping over the hill, ridden by a tall, shadowy figure she knew to be Lord Wynwood. Without slowing his pace, he snatched her up to his chest. She had to cling tightly to him to keep from flying off into the wind, so great was the speed of his animal. She could feel Lord Wynwood's heart beating. There was a slight tremor in the arms he clasped tightly around her. His lips were on her hair, and she imagined (although the noise of the wind was so great she could not be sure) that he was murmuring “Thank God” over and over into her ear. She drew back her head to look at his face. In a flash of lightning, she saw that he was grinning in hideous sarcasm. “Well, you hysterical shatterbrain,” he asked cruelly, “how do you like the ride?”

She woke to find that a storm was brewing and that the rain and wind were blowing into her open window. A flash of lightning recalled to her mind the pale, sardonic dream-face of Lord Wynwood, and she shuddered. She jumped out of bed and slammed the window shut. Shivering, she crawled back under the bedclothes and tried to drive that face from her mind. Another lightning flash illuminated the room, and she saw the rose still lying on the pillow where she'd so lovingly placed it. What a silly fool she was, to be sure. Lord Wynwood was absolutely right in his assessment of her. Angry at herself, she reached out, grasped the little flower and threw it across the room, sticking her finger with a thorn as she did so. “
Confound
him!” she muttered, sucking the blood from the stinging wound.

She flung herself down on the pillows, drew the coverlets up to her neck and shut her eyes. If she was to get any rest that night, she had to banish him from her thoughts. But the lightning continued to crack and the thunder to growl, and she couldn't fall asleep again. Unbidden, the memory of her return to West Hoathly came flooding back to her. She had ridden into the village in frightened hesitancy, not sure she'd come to the right place. Everything had looked so nightmarishly unfamiliar in the faint moonlight. And then, miraculously, she'd heard him calling her name. She'd slid down from the horse into his arms with a feeling of such joyful relief it had felt like … well, like love. Or at least what she imagined that awesome, mysterious emotion must be like. And when he'd clasped her to him with what had seemed to her to be the same feeling of relief, the same joy she was feeling, her heart had leapt into her throat in amazement. She'd given no thought to the significance of any of it, but had simply clung to him in a blissful fog. She'd felt his heart pound and his arms tremble as they'd tightened around her—the always-so-cool, always-so-critical, always-so-aloof Lord Wynwood! His lips were on her hair, and she heard him murmuring, “Thank God, thank God …”

But she would really be the fool he thought her if she attached any significance at all to the incident. She rolled over on her back and opened her eyes. She didn't at all like the direction of her thoughts. “Get hold of yourself, my girl,” she muttered aloud. “This sort of emotional indulgence will not do,” she said in a perfect imitation of her grandmother's voice. But in this case, her grandmother would be perfectly right. Anyone with sense would say the same. This kind of thinking would not do … it would not do at all.

The following morning the storm had passed, and the beautiful June sunshine tempted many of the guests to stroll out of doors. Breakfast was served on the terrace, a game of quoits was organized on the south lawn, while on the east slope, Dennis gave instruction to Bertie, the oldest Maynard boy and the ever-present Fanny on the method of hitting a ball with an oddly-shaped stick. This was to prepare them, he explained, to play a fascinating game which he'd learned in Scotland—a game he called “gowf.”

In none of these activities was Sophy taking part. She'd sent Miss Leale with a message to her hostess, in which she assured everyone that she was quite well but would spend the day resting in her room. Many of the party, however, were not satisfied to accept Miss Leale's word that all was well with Sophy, and thus the embarrassed girl had to welcome several visitors to her bedside.

The first was her grandmother. To Sophy's surprise, the old lady greeted her with a pleasant smile instead of the expected scowl. Lady Alicia bent down and kissed the girl's cheek. “You're looking a bit peaked,” she remarked after studying her granddaughter with her keen, bird-bright eyes, “but no worse than what one would expect in the circumstances. I'll have Leale bring you some hot broth.”

“Thank you, Grandmama,” Sophy said meekly. Then she grinned up at her grandmother with weary mockery. “Is that all you're going to say? If you don't give me a scold, I shall be forced to believe that
you're
the one who needs hot broth.”

Lady Alicia surveyed her shrewdly. “I don't think you'll need a scold this time. From the look of you, I'd say you've brought on yourself the disaster I've been predicting.”

Sophy threw her grandmother a quick look and lowered her eyes. “Perhaps not quite a disaster,” she said quietly, “but close enough.”

“Good,” her grandmother said unsympathetically. “The experience may therefore be salutary enough to keep you from tumbling into a complete one.”

Her next visitor, her aunt Isabel, found her stretched on a chaise enjoying the sunshine streaming in her window. Aunt Isabel brought with her a dish of sweetmeats which she unwittingly nibbled at herself during the quarter-hour she sat at Sophy's side.

Then came Bertie, having had enough “gowf” to last a long while. “It is a completely exasperating game,” he told his cousin, “in which one is supposed to hit a ball with a stick that's utterly inadequate for the purpose.”

“I don't want to talk about gowf,” Sophy said pettishly. “I want to know why you betrayed me to Lord Wynwood.”

“Betrayed you!” Bertie bellowed, outraged. “I
never
betrayed you.”

“You told him
something
. He accused me of hiring old Thunderer to get back at him for giving me the mare to ride.”

“Well, I had to offer him
some
explanation for your shocking behavior. If I hadn't made him feel a bit responsible for your misconduct, he would have wrung your neck for sure.”

Sophy made a moue. “He as good as wrung my neck anyway. Are you sure you didn't tell him anything else?”

“What do you take me for?” Bertie demanded, rising in offended dignity.

“Very well, I apologize. Don't get on your high ropes, Bertie. I'm not myself today.”

“I'm not a bit surprised. Serves you right, though. Hope you've learned a lesson from all this.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Sophy snapped irritably. “You sound like Grandmama.”

“I take that as a compliment. Seems to me that old tartar has some good sense. I hope Sophy, that you've come to
your
senses at last. You're not going to continue with your silly schemes to upset things, are you?”

Sophy shrugged. “I suppose not. The whole thing suddenly seems a bit pointless.”

“Humph!” Bertie snorted. “Isn't that just what I've been telling you?”

Sophy's fourth visitor was Lord Wynwood himself. He came in early in the afternoon, carrying a tray. “I've brought you the luncheon myself,” he explained, “to make sure you don't send it back uneaten, as you did last night.”

“Th-This is very kind in you,” Sophy said shyly. “I promise to eat something. I'm quite famished, I assure you.”

“Then let me see you dig in. I don't intend to leave until every morsel has been consumed.” And to make good his threat, he placed the tray on her lap and drew up a chair. Under his watchful eye, Sophy timidly picked up a fork and made a little stab at a plate of cold salmon. “Come, come,” he urged, “you must be able to do better than that.”

“I'm not an invalid, you know,” Sophy ventured with a small smile, but she proceeded to eat with more enthusiasm.

“I know that,” he said, leaning back in his chair and watching her with satisfaction, “but since you touched nothing on the tray last night but a rose—and I presume you didn't eat that—I'm determined to see you take some nourishment.”

At the word “rose,” Sophy blushed furiously, and the hand holding the fork faltered. “You are carrying your duties as a host too far, my lord,” she said in a brave attempt to hide her confusion.

“I think we can dispense with the ‘my lords' by this time, don't you? And we might also dispense with your mistaken interpretation of my motives. If I show you some solicitude, it is not
entirely
because you are my guest.”

“Indeed, sir?” Sophy asked, putting her fork down and keeping her eyes carefully lowered. “What other motive could you possibly have?”

Marcus leaned forward, his brow knit in perplexity. “How can you ask such a question? Don't you believe that I can have feelings of friendship and affection for you? What have I done to make you think I hold you in dislike?”

Sophy raised her eyes briefly to his face. Then she lowered them again but would make no answer.

“I thought,” Marcus sighed, “that when you took the rose last night, it was a gesture of forgiveness. But I see now that the explosion of bad temper with which I greeted you on your return from the downs remains unforgiven.”

“You mistake me, sir. There was nothing in your behavior last night that requires my forgiveness. As you pointed out to me, anyone who knew the circumstances would agree that your response was nothing more than I deserved.”

“I don't agree,” he said, rising and coming to stand over her, “but if
you
believe what you just said, why do I have the strongest feeling that I have deeply offended you? It
cannot
be that blasted mare I forced on you.”

She shook her head wordlessly and kept her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her.

He bent over and lifted her chin. “Look at me, Sophy. Tell me what I've done and how to make amends!”

“I … It is … nothing, my lord.”

With a discouraged breath, he dropped his hand and stepped away. “I apologize, my dear. My questions are keeping you from doing the very thing I came to encourage you to accomplish. I shall press you no further but leave you to finish your luncheon in peace.” He went to the door, put his hand on the knob and hesitated. Looking over his shoulder, he asked with a tinge of embarrassment, “If you were not sending me a message of forgiveness last night, why
did
you take the rose?”

Sophy colored to her ears. “Because … because it was so pretty,” she said with a gulp, and fidgeted with her food.

Later that afternoon, there was another knock at her door. In a swirl of filmy gauze, Lady Wynwood floated into the room. Sophia, flustered by the unexpected honor, jumped up and offered her a chair. “Sophy, my love,” Lady Wynwood said in her breezy way, “have a look at the corsage I've made for you to wear tonight. Marcus tells me you like roses.”