Lord Harry's Daughter (13 page)

Chapter
21

Major Lord Mark Adair was not the only one to be affected by the bewitching condesa. Across the room, Sophia, discussing with Fitzroy Somerset the merits of the duke's pack of hounds and the hunting to be had in the area, was assailed by the most unpleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach as she caught sight of the major and his lovely partner whirling around the door. Resolutely ignoring it, she tried to focus on the conversation instead.

“So you too agree that Lascelles's is the best going across country."

“What?” She looked up in dismay to see that Wellington's secretary was waiting for her answer. “Oh, er, ah Lascelles's, you say.” She groped wildly for an answer. “Perhaps, but his horse invariably runs away with him."

“Yes, of course you are right. I do recall now that he has more than once nearly caused the duke to come to grief,” Fitzroy Somerset agreed almost too heartily. What was wrong with Miss Featherstonaugh? Usually as knowledgeable in conversation as any man, she had suddenly seemed to lose her bearings, but to his infinite relief, she appeared to recover from her momentary lapse.

But she had not. Sophia had recovered herself in conversation, but found herself completely at sea where her emotions were concerned. The sight of the major smiling down at the condesa and leaning over to catch every word in the same intimate manner he had shared with her struck her with all the force she had once suffered when a low branch had knocked her off Atalanta's back. She was experiencing the same difficulty catching her breath now as she had then when a momentary loss of attention had caused her to be thrown to the ground with the wind knocked out of her before she even knew what had happened.

Drawing a deep breath, she steadied herself and, on the pretext that she needed to speak with her mother, excused herself to escape to the same deserted corner of the room that the major had just left and gaze out over the scene that had captured his attention.

You are a fool, Sophia Featherstonaugh,
she scolded herself,
to think that yo. meant something special to him. The only thing special about it was that you were the only available female at the time. Now that another one has appeared, you can see that how he treated you is how he treats them all. You were not special, you were simply a woman.

Actually, she reflected, she was glad to learn this, for the major had begun to distract her in a most upsetting way. She was relieved to see that she was not special to him because now she could once again focus on her life, her work, and making her dreams come true. Taking a last glance at the scene below lit by a moonlight as bright as day, Sophia squared her shoulders and returned to the crowd surrounding her mother and General Curtis.

Unaware of the effect he was having on one woman, Mark was concentrating all his attention on another as she alluded, ever so delicately, to the loneliness of her existence.

“Mama died not long after we fled to Spain so I have not really had anyone to guide me except Papa, who, try as he did to be everything to me, could not teach me all those things that a daughter learns from a mother. My life lacked the feminine guidance that every young woman needs. You can have no notion how isolated a life I have been forced to lead."

“It appears to me that you have succeeded admirably on your own. I fail to see how a mother could have helped you become any more of a woman than you are now.” The look in Mark's eyes as they swept appreciatively from the provocative lips to the smooth white shoulders and the long line of hips and thigh revealed by the clinging white satin slip gleaming through the Venetian crape draped over it, left no doubt that he considered her to be more than adequately endowed with feminine qualities.

“Ah, but you are a man, you cannot know what a young girl misses in a mother's affection.” The condesa licked her lower lip in a way that suggested that the concentrated attentions of a dashing cavalry officer might possibly make up for some of that lost attention.

“That is true, of course, but none of us, man or woman, can truly understand someone else's needs and wants.” The condesa's conversation was moving a little too fast for Mark, who was beginning to feel more and more that he was the pursued instead of the pursuer, a feeling he tried to avoid at all costs. “But now that we are here in winter quarters perhaps some of that loneliness you allude to can be dispelled. For..."

“I certainly hope so.” There was no mistaking the invitation in the condesa's dark eyes.

“For there are several English ladies attached to headquarters who would be only too happy to make your acquaintance.” Mark tried desperately to regain control of a situation that was slipping rapidly away from him. “Allow me to introduce you to two of them, Lady Curtis and her daughter. Miss Featherstonaugh. Miss Featherstonaugh, who has also spent much of her life as the only young woman among many men, will be most sympathetic to your situation."

And taking her by the arm. Mark hurried the condesa over to meet Sophia and her mother.

There was little Diane could do to protest as her partner grabbed her almost rudely and forced her over to meet a slender, quiet-looking young lady and another older woman, who was obviously her mother. Approaching the two of them, Diane realized that it was the demureness of the young lady's costume rather than her face that made her appear somewhat mousy. The blond lace frock over a slip of white satin was almost devoid of ornamentation with the exception of a quilling of blond lace at the hem and the bodice, which was cut higher than any Diane had seen in some time. The dark hair, too, was simply dressed, pulled smoothly into a knot at the back of her head. However, there was nothing mousy or demure about the large hazel eyes that examined her with lively interest. It was not quite true that Diane had been entirely deprived of feminine companionship. Though she certainly did not consider the wives of Saint Jean's mayor and its bankers to be on a level high enough to offer companionship or competition, she had had enough contact with females to recognize that Miss Featherstonaugh was an unusual young woman. She made no attempt to hide her obvious intelligence with fluttering eyelashes or a self-deprecating smile, and her bearing, though self-possessed, exuded an energy that most of the ladies of Saint Jean would have concealed with a graceful languor. It was abundantly clear that it would take more than beauty and social position to impress this young lady. And it was also clear that Major Lord Mark Adair expected the two of them to become instant friends.

“Miss Featherstonaugh, I would like to introduce you to the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna, who is eager to become acquainted with the English ladies just arrived in town."

Before Sophia could do more than acknowledge the introduction, Diane, flashing a bewitching array of dimples and beaming dazzlingly at her escort, launched into a disquisition on the excellence of the British officers attached to headquarters. “They are all so dashing that I am quite bouleversee. I hate to admit it to you, mademoiselle, but we had been led to expect barbarians so it is altogether delightful to discover that they are so charming.” Casting a seductive sideways glance at Mark, she clung to his arm even more possessively than before.

“Naturally we British do not possess the
politesse
for which your countrymen are so renowned, but we do try to behave with a modicum of civility."

Mark's lips twitched at Sophia's acid response, but the ironic note was lost on the condesa, who continued as though Sophia had not even spoken. “I have never seen such handsome men. But are they all so large?” Again a provocative glance was directed at Mark. “And the way they ride,
mon Dieu,
on such magnificent horses. We in France have nothing to compare with your English horses. Surrounded by such officers, you must have lost your heart to more than one of them. What?” She exclaimed in horror as Sophia, bemused by the spritely banter, shook her head slowly. “Not even one handsome cavalry officer who makes your heart beat faster?” Again Sophia shook her head, though much to her horror, she felt her cheeks growing hot, but the condesa was concentrating too much on the major to notice. “You must be made of ice, mademoiselle. One hears of the coldness of these English young ladies, but
c'est incroyable,
such lack of interest is unnatural."

“Madame does not realize that I look upon them as brothers.” Gathering her wits at last, Sophia defended herself.

“Brothers? What young lady could possibly consider the major here as a brother. He looks to be the
beau ideal
of any young woman's romantic dreams.” Though she addressed Sophia, Diane's words and expression were all for the benefit of Mark.

Acutely uncomfortable, Sophia struggled to find something clever to say that would dampen both the condesa's monopolization of the major and her condescending attitude toward Sophia. While it was true that the condesa was stunningly beautiful and seductive, and sumptuously and provocatively dressed, Sophia knew, that despite her sophisticated air, Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna was in fact not much more sophisticated than Sophia, and that, as far as worldly experience was concerned, she actually had less than Sophia, never having traveled more than a hundred miles on either side of the rugged mountains that divided France from Spain. All this led Sophia to ask herself why she should feel at such a disadvantage in the presence of this woman. “Romantic dreams are usually the longings of one's imagination for the unfamiliar, for something that one does not have, but I grew up among military men, such as Major Adair, so, you see, they are hardly the stuff of dreams.” There, she had at last come up with a reply that wiped the fatuous smile from the major's lips and the self-satisfied expression from the condesa's lovely face.

“Ah, yes, I do see your point. Miss Featherstonaugh. What a shame you cannot enjoy it, for I find their company quite exciting. But I see my father looking for me. Major. Perhaps you will be so good as to restore me to him. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Saint Jean, Miss Featherstonaugh,” Diane remarked over her shoulder as she swept Mark off to a knot of officers clustered around a courtier dressed for an evening at Versailles.

Trying not to grind her teeth too audibly, Sophia turned her attention back to the group that included her mother and General Curtis. She could not say precisely what it was about the condesa that made her feel so ill at ease, but she sensed that the condesa felt no more comfortable with her. In order to reassure herself of her own value, she suddenly found herself listing all the characteristics she possessed that the condesa undoubtedly did not, horsemanship, for example. Surely a lady so exquisitely turned out would not want to mar her seductive image with anything so rough and dirty as riding.

Chapter
22

Sophia was wrong in her assumption. Though Diane's isolated existence had robbed her of the opportunity to grace a society worthy of her charm and beauty, she possessed an innate sense of what was pleasing to the male sex, and horses were an integral part of the masculine world. Therefore, though she did not care for the exertion or the inevitable dirt and discomfort associated with horses and riding, she had forced herself to acquire enough equestrian skill to show herself creditably in most circumstances. And she definitely enjoyed selecting riding costumes designed to show her superb figure to the utmost advantage.

The condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna also knew that the best way to arrange a seemingly accidental encounter with one of Wellington's aides was to take up a regular routine of riding, preferably early in the morning. Diane's distaste for early rising was even stronger than her distaste for exercise and dirt, but the handsome major was worth the effort in both cases.

For a number of days her plans were thwarted by the weather, which remained cold, gray, and rainy, but at last, several crisp sunny days dried out the soft ground and beckoned to all sorts of people who had been forced into confinement by the bad weather.

Diane, mounted on a stylish-looking though utterly docile bay mare, was trotting sedately along the promenade that ran the length of the beach when she spied a lone horseman galloping along the hard sand left by the retreating tide. It took no time at all for her to recognize the major and turn her horse toward him so that as he slowed at the northern end of the beach she was directly in front of him, a picture of desirability in a clinging riding habit of deep crimson with a military cut that showed off her figure to perfection. The daring color called attention to the beauty of her complexion, sparkling dark eyes, and full red lips. A dashing shako bonnet perched jauntily on her brown curls completed the ensemble and was quite enough to take Mark's breath away.

“Good morning, Condesa. How fortunate I am to have this beautiful landscape made even more lovely by your presence.” As he uttered these words, Mark could not help thinking of the derisive expression such a speech would elicit from Sophia. The condesa, however, appeared to find nothing amiss with such a fulsome compliment, and smiling graciously, accepted it as her due.

“I, too, am surprised to see you, Major. I thought that all those on Lord Wellington's staff were too busy planning the next campaign to have a moment to spare."

“Oh no. Old Douro would never have us miss our daily gallop. We must spend too much time in the saddle during campaigns to allow ourselves to go soft in between them."

“Then you are between campaigns. I am delighted, for it must mean you intend to remain in Saint Jean for some time. If the reports one hears are true, you will be settling in for a month or so at least, which means that we must keep you amused so that you do not return to England complaining of French hospitality."

“Certainly I would welcome a chance to remain long enough to experience a great deal of French hospitality.” Mark smiled appreciatively at the face turned up to his. Yes, he would enjoy forgetting the cold of winter wrapped in the condesa's soft white arms, for he had no doubt he would be enjoying the warmth of her embraces fairly soon. He had seen that inviting look in women's eyes too often not to know what was coming next, and he smiled in anticipation. Campaigning of one sort might have ceased for the winter, but campaigning of another was just beginning.

“But tell me, Major, after all the activity of the past year, how do you plan to spend your time if you remain quietly quartered in this fishing village?” Diane dismissed the cluster of whitewashed houses dominated by the tower of the Eglise Saint Jean Baptiste with a scornful wave of her riding crop.

“Delightfully, I assure you.” The expression in the eyes fixed so intently on her left Diane in no doubt as to how the handsome major intended to amuse himself. A shiver of delicious anticipation ran down her spine. La, the gentleman was bold. If his lovemaking was as bold as his conversation, she was going to find the British occupation even more enlivening than she had hoped. “I, for one, shall do my best to see to it that you do.” She ran her tongue slowly, provocatively over her lower lip. “But come. Major, I must show you the few picturesque sights we have to offer in Saint Jean.” With a flick of her crop, she was trotting toward the rocky headland at the end of the beach.

Grinning, Mark urged Caesar after the condesa's mare. Catching up to her easily, he reined in as she pointed out the jagged promontory that thrust itself into the sea. “After the sublime heights of the mountains you undoubtedly find our gentle beach quite tame, but we do have our Pointe Sainte Barbe to add a little drama to our landscape."

“I see. And I also see that a far more artistic eye than ours is appreciating it at this very moment.” Mark nodded toward a solitary figure seated on one of the rocks, head bent over a sketchbook in her lap, and he turned Caesar's head in Sophia's direction.

Diane had no notion of the artist's identity, but the fact that she was a female dampened any curiosity she might otherwise have entertained. It seemed, however, that the major was intent on speaking to this person, so there was little she could do but follow him with what little appearance of interest she could muster.

“Good morning. Miss Featherstonaugh. I should have known that you would be part of the most picturesque scene Saint Jean has to offer."

“Good morning. Major.” Having recognized the major from a greater distance than she was willing to admit even to herself, and having guessed the identity of his fair companion, Sophia was prepared for the meeting though she had not been prepared for the stab of disappointment she had felt when she had witnessed the encounter between the two riders. The fact that the female had obviously sought out the male did very little to diminish this unwelcome feeling. If she had stopped to consider it, Sophia would have agreed that it would have been more disappointing to have the major seek out the condesa rather than the other way around, but at any rate they were together and it was quite clear to Sophia, at least, that the condesa was intent on exercising all her charms on the major.

Once again, Sophia felt at a dreadful disadvantage. She had not given a second thought to the plain white cambric dress she had put on that morning or the deep yellow three-quarter pelisse except to make sure that she looked neat and that her bonnet of yellow satin was securely tied. But now, surveying the condesa's dashing ensemble, she felt positively dowdy. And once again, Sophia felt an irrational defensiveness rising up within her in the face of the condesa's clear assumption of her power to attract.

“I see that you are sketching. What a talented thing you are, Miss Featherstonaugh, to be able to cultivate such refinements in the midst of such barbaric company.” The condesa darted a playful glance at her companion.

“Miss Featherstonaugh's sketches are no mere feminine accomplishment. You must see for yourself how talented she is. With your permission. Miss Featherstonaugh, I would love for the condesa to see them.” Mark dismounted and strolled over to help the condesa down so she might get a closer look at Sophia's work.

Torn between gratitude at his defense of her art and annoyance at his calm assumption that she wished to share her work with just anybody, especially the condesa, Sophia protested. “The major is too kind. One must have something to occupy one's time while everyone is off fighting. Music does not lend itself to military life. Campaigning with a harp or a pianoforte is next to impossible."

The condesa glanced briefly at the sketchbook. “Very pretty. You certainly have done justice to our landscape, though I confess to a weakness for portraits myself. I find people so much more interesting than trees or rocks.” The dark eyes barely took in the picture before focusing suggestively on the major.

Feeling utterly excluded by this intimate byplay, Sophia remained seated, clutching her pencil and wishing desperately that they would continue their ride, take their flirtation elsewhere, and leave her alone.

“Oh Miss Featherstonaugh is even more skilled at capturing people than she is at portraying landscapes. May I?” Mark held out his hand. Short of refusing him outright, Sophia had no choice but to give him the sketchbook. She certainly did not wish to appear churlish in front of the condesa, but she did not relish sharing her own private view of the world with someone who was so clearly interested in other things.

Diane was no more pleased with the way the conversation
was going than Sophia was. It was bad enough to have her tęte-ŕ-tęte with the dashing major interrupted, but to have it interrupted by another young woman, even a
petite Anglaise
who had no idea how to dress for a man, was annoying in the extreme. Reluctantly she took the proffered sketchbook and glanced at the half-finished landscape. “Yes, it is really quite well done."

The tiniest of smiles tugged at one corner of Sophia's mouth. She had regained her equanimity and her sense of humor enough to be amused by the Frenchwoman's utter lack enthusiasm for her, her pictures, the scenery, everything, but Major Lord Mark Adair.

A gentle puff of wind ruffled the pages of the book and the condesa's expression of polite boredom suddenly vanished. “Why here is a picture of you. Major.” She darted a quick, speculative glance at Sophia, who was struggling to maintain her own expression of polite boredom. “Why it is very like you indeed—that firm jaw, the noble forehead. Miss Featherstonaugh has captured your very essence—that aristocratic bearing, the forceful character. Of course no one could quite do justice to the man, but I can see you agree with me. Miss Featherstonaugh, that the major is a fine-looking man and a most fitting subject for a portrait."

Sophia gave up hoping that the earth would open up and swallow her or that a sudden tidal wave would sweep her out to sea. She would rather have died than agree to sharing anything with the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna, but to disagree with her opinion at this point would appear pettishly contrary. “I, er, have been doing portraits of nearly everyone at headquarters. As you see I have completed a number of them already—Fitzroy Somerset, Francis Larpent, Major General Morillo, Andrew Leith Hay.” Sophia opened to the other portraits in the book, but even to her ears, her explanation sounded halfhearted and Mark, observing her closely, did not miss the self-conscious flush that rose to her cheeks.

During the entire exchange Sophia had resolutely avoided looking at the major. Intrigued by this uncharacteristic evasiveness, he leaned to look over the condesa's shoulder at the picture. Even he, accustomed as he was to confronting himself in the looking glass every morning, was caught off guard by the closeness of the resemblance and the intensity of the portrait.

There was a fire in the eyes looking back at him that was surprising even to him, a passion expressed in the tight line of the lips and firmness of the jaw that made it appear that the subject had been captured in the midst of some desperate and heroic act—leading a cavalry charge or scaling a heavily defended fortress—by someone who was fighting right at his side. It was the work of an artist who understood completely what it was to brave enemy fire, and plunge into battle with no expectation of emerging alive. Familiar as he was with Sophia's skill. Mark found his breath quite taken away.

“But none of the others is nearly so dashing as this.” The condesa's remark fell on deaf ears. Neither Mark, his attention riveted to the reproduction of himself, nor Sophia, warily observing his reaction, was even aware of Diane's existence, much less paying attention to her.

Mark turned back to Sophia. “It is incredible! Do I really look like that?"

“To me you do."

It was a simple answer, simply stated, but Mark, overwhelmed by the heroic persona of the man on the page in front of him, was humbled by it. Was it true, then? Was he really this way? He had always striven to be the man in the picture, idealistic in the causes he fought for, courageous in the heat of battle, steadfast in the face of danger, but he had never been sure whether or not he had succeeded. Apparently he had. “Thank you."

It was barely a whisper and Sophia was not even sure whether she had heard it or whether she had read it in his eyes, but the message was abundantly clear. “You are welcome."

If the condesa's plan had not included meeting up with the young Englishwoman who boasted a prior acquaintance with the major, it definitely did not call for the long, deep, significant look that passed between them, and the condesa was not about to stand for it, no matter how plain or how unfashionable the young woman. “Goodness, how the time has flown! You are such a distraction, Major. I had no idea it was so late. Papa will be frantic with worry. You must accompany me to vouch for me when I assure him that I was not abducted by soldiers from either army."

Mark saw the scornful little smile that curled Sophia's lip ever so slightly at this obvious ploy, but short of being barbarically rude, he was helpless to refuse the condesa's obvious command. “But of course, Condesa.” He sauntered over to help her back on her horse, hoping against hope that Sophia had heard and understood the ironic note in his voice.

He could not have said why it was so important that Sophia Featherstonaugh understood that he was not a slave to the woman that only days ago he had welcomed as an antidote to his preoccupation with Sophia, but it was. He glanced at her quickly as he mounted his own horse and was relieved to glimpse one delicate eyebrow raised in an expression that was both amused and conspiratorial. He grinned in return and then wheeled Caesar around to join the condesa.