Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (10 page)

No one watching Lazarus would guess the steps he showed off tonight were, like his manners, all very newly learned. But it was worth the sore feet, he thought, to have Miss Sophia Valentine's sole attention.

The dance was coming to an end. He feared she would take her aunt and leave, so he desperately sought for some means to make them stay a while longer. He was saved the trouble when, suddenly, his partner claimed she had twisted her ankle. Helping her to a bench, he bade her sit and propped her injured foot up on a little milking stool.

She thanked him profusely. “You must tell my dear niece Sophie I cannot possibly be moved until my ankle stops throbbing. We must stay a while yet, I fear.” Then she licked her lips and blinked her feathery lashes, tilting in a half swoon.

He studied the lady, his eyes narrowed, as she removed her lace cap to fan herself. “Please do stay and rest,” he advised her. “I'll find your niece and inform her.”

She reached for his sleeve, her fingers plucking it like the strings of a harp. “You know, young man, this house once belonged to my brother. We all lived here then, when my nieces and nephew were children.”

“Yes. Tuck told me.”

“Sophie loved this house, never wanted to leave it. How she cried when we were obliged to move up the lane to that fortress. Jeremiah, my dear brother, was not a lucky man with money, you see, Mr. Kane.” She sighed. “I fear his son is just the same. The ladies in this family have always suffered from their bad choices.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“I must see my Sophie content, back at Souls Dryft where she belongs.” She paused for a breath then added, “By the by, our hens are off laying, Mr. Kane. Perhaps you might spare some eggs, should you remember us tomorrow morning. Come early if you can.”

He bowed quickly and walked away to deliver her message. As he neared the cider barrel, he caught part of a conversation between Sophie and her sister, Mrs. Bentley.

“Why could you not, for once, keep your tongue, Maria? Have I not suffered enough?”

“If you're so mortified by it, you shouldn't have written that advertisement.”

“Believe me, I regret it now. It was wrong of me to post such an advertisement without thinking of the consequences. Now he came all this way and must be disappointed by what he found. I cannot possibly make amends for the wrong I've done to the poor man.”

His heartbeat strengthened, and his feelings toward her warmed even further. She had no idea, of course, he'd been looking for her long before he learned of that advertisement.

The two women noticed him approaching through the flickering light of the rush torches, and Sophie immediately fell silent. He bowed and greeted the rector's wife, who commenced chattering to him as if they were already in the midst of a conversation. He waited for her to be done, but Mrs. Maria Bentley could talk for considerable length without pausing for breath. His nerves were in a frayed, delicate state. This stupid awkwardness he suffered in Sophie's presence might have been comical if he stopped to consider it—which he didn't. He was too anxious for her attention and yet too fraught with nerves to claim it. By her gentle admission, she had knocked his thoughts all asunder.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that long tail of honey-colored hair pulled over her shoulder while she fidgeted with the end of it, curling it around her finger. In the mellow, shimmering torchlight, that color was even more intriguing, a cornucopia of ever-changing tones and shades, too many to count.

Mrs. Bentley talked on with no end in sight, apparently forgetting the very presence of her sister. He scratched his neck and fitted a finger under his cravat, which, although loosened, still felt much too tight. The noise of the crowd was beginning to annoy him, and he was thirsty, his throat as dry as a bone.

Sophie was watching the dancers, her face turned away. A shorter frond of hair escaped her ribbon and fluttered against the side of her neck, just below that small ear. He wanted to brush that tendril aside with his uncouth fingers, as he'd done in the church when he ran into her. His fingers coiled into a fist, this time resisting the urge, but the idea of touching her again took rapid possession until every nerve within his body came alive, jolted out of a long, deep sleep.

When he let out a sudden, soft groan, Maria finally ceased her chatter. Her eyes widened in apparent alarm. “Mr. Kane?”

He was still staring at Sophie's neck and that thin sliver of golden hair. His hand flexed, prepared to do as it pleased without a care for propriety.

“Mr. Kane?” Maria persisted.

Sophie turned her face to look at him, and the stray lock of hair slid from his view. He coughed, one hand raised to his mouth. Her eyes were layered in the rich shades of an autumnal forest, pulling him in so far he heard wind-fallen leaves rustling under his feet—and her laughter, soft and breathless. He felt her hand, warm in his while he led her along to where the leaves were piled into a bed under the rich, golden canopy. There he laid her down, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered all his desires. The fantasy blossomed. He saw his hands removing her gown and her petticoats. Would she cry out when his lips took possession of her nipple for the first time? He stared and imagined he could see a sharp little peak there, pushing through the thin material of her old blue gown. He bit down on his lip. Lust, greedy and quick, soared through his body. When he entered her for the first time, would she arch her back as she did when leaning from the bridge to reach for a hawthorn flower? He could already hear her sighs and moans, could feel her breath softly brush his cheek as her body welcomed him in at last…and he drove himself deeper…and deeper.

Lost in his vision, Lazarus was quite unaware of his hand moving. Until she blinked, and the spell was broken.

“You must excuse me,” he croaked, bowing very stiffly and almost double before hurrying away like a man with his boots on fire.

***

“How very odd,” Maria whined. “What can he mean by walking away like that?”

Sophie couldn't reply. She could hardly even breathe.

Because, in the darkness, his little finger had brushed against her hand.

Perhaps it was by accident alone. If his finger hadn't curled so slowly against her palm, she might have thought it was just that—a mistake. But she'd looked into his eyes and read thoughts that shocked her. Aroused her.

Now he walked out into the brighter light of the yard, where he stopped to talk with Jane Osborne. Sophie looked for her aunt and saw the lady sitting on a bench, clapping along to the music, one foot resting on a milking stool.

She moved quickly across the yard, but before she reached her destination, Farmer Osborne stepped in her path and playfully demanded a dance. She felt Lazarus watching her through the crowd, his regard still heated and lusty.

“Of course, Mr. Osborne.” She accepted the elderly gentleman's hand and let him sweep her off for a jig.

Luckily, she hadn't forgotten the steps after so long with no opportunity to dance. When younger, she'd often enjoyed trips to the assembly rooms in Morecroft for the monthly balls. She and her sister would dress up in their best gowns and curl their hair. But that was a long time ago. These days Maria was busy with her own family, and Sophie stayed away from Morecroft as much as possible, rather than suffer being stared at. Tonight she felt a little stab of wistfulness for the old days. As she looked across the yard, she caught Maria's eye and smiled. Her sister was tapping her feet to the music, head bobbing, and suddenly it seemed like yesterday when they would giggle together in their bed and talk over the happenings at some ball or party, or gossip about other girls and handsome young men. Speculating on whom they would one day marry.

Certainly, she thought with a wry smile, Maria had never shown any fancy for clergymen, and she'd never imagined herself advertising for a husband in a farmer's gazette. Funny how life turned out.

Suddenly the dance was over. Breathless, still smiling, she stumbled directly into the arms of Lazarus Kane.

“There she is,” exclaimed Aunt Finn, who had hold of his sleeve in her fingers as if she'd just dragged him across the yard like a naughty boy. “Mr. Kane wishes to dance with you, Sophie. He's been waiting all this time.”

He looked slightly bemused, but then he smiled, and it lit up his entire face.

She couldn't very well refuse, could she? And since Henry wasn't there…

“I suppose I have time for one dance,” she muttered. “And then we really must leave.”

As Lazarus took her hand and led her into the line of couples, whispers fluttered in the air around them on all sides, curiosity swooping like a flock of seagulls over broken crab shells on the sands.

“Don't mind them,” he muttered from the side of his lips.

“I don't.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“I don't,” she repeated firmly. It would be good for them all to see her dance with him, she decided. Then they would know there was no awkwardness between them and no reason for any further speculation.

The dance began. She tried to avoid his direct gaze but soon found it impossible. She could see her face reflected in his dark, satiny pupils as he looked down at her, rarely blinking.

“Ouch,” she said when he stepped on her toe.

He mumbled an apology and promptly stepped on her foot again, his gaze still trained upon her face.

“You didn't seem to have this much trouble with your other partners,” she observed curtly.

He gave a sheepish grin and turned her just a little too fast. “You have an extraordinary effect on me, Miss Valentine. As your aunt has already observed. A very clever lady.”

“Will you please pay attention to the steps? And you're holding my hand too tightly.” His palm was very hot and clammy.

“I don't want you to get away again.”

She glowered at him.

He laughed softly. “You can stop pretending you didn't want to dance with me.”

“I didn't,” she objected. “I was forced into it by my aunt.”

“Your aunt is a sweet lady.”

“Sweet? Don't be fooled, Mr. Kane. None of the women in our family are sweet or delicate, despite appearances.”

“Oh, I know you are not what you appear to be,” he said with a wink. “Hold tight!” He spun her again, far faster than necessary. She tripped over her hem and fell against his torso, giving him the excuse to put his hands on her waist while she found her balance. “I bet you're a damn good card player,” he added.

She was, as a matter of fact. It was a skill inherited from her aunt. “Mr. Kane, you are bold and presumptuous.”

“How else can a man get what he wants out of life?”

She rolled her eyes to the starlit sky. “Thank goodness not all men think like you. Where would we be if everyone cast aside rules and propriety and forgot their manners?”

He leaned down to whisper against her brow. “I'd be with you, madam, and I know
exactly
what we'd be doing.”

As much as she might like to misunderstand, his meaning was shockingly clear.

“Not dancing,” he clarified with a grin.

She merely shook her head. She was unable to speak just then, still recovering from the stroke of his breath against her temple.

“You think me too forward,” he added.

A
slight
understatement
, she mused.

“But I like to get all my cards out on the table. I don't waste time.”

She swallowed a groan of despair as he tossed her about again like a rag doll. All the other couples danced demurely and elegantly, while she felt as if she'd been dragged through a hedge by her feet.

“Your brother doesn't like me much, does he?”

Again she shook her head.

“Is that why you keep running away from me?”

“Certainly not. I do not run away from you, Mr. Kane.”

“Yes, you do.” He stuck out his jaw. “Five times now we've encountered each other in private. Twice you ran away. Once you simply backed away and hid behind your sister-in-law. The other times, you railed at me for helping you over a puddle and slammed a door in my face.”

“I was…embarrassed. Mortified by your behavior.”

“Nonsense. You're not embarrassed, Miss Valentine.” He tightened his hold on her hand, almost squeezing the blood out of it. “You're afraid.”

“Of what?” she scoffed, annoyed by his smug assumption.

“Of what you want from me.”

Her lips parted, but she couldn't find the words to protest.

His eyes narrowed. “You're afraid of how badly you hunger for it and of what you might do to get it. I understand you've been known to take drastic measures in the past.”

The music ended. She finally unwedged her hand from his great paw. “Thank you, Mr. Kane. That was most amusing. Good evening.”

“Thank
you
, Miss Valentine. Now this entire party was worthwhile.”

“Worthwhile?” She scowled, hands raised to tidy her hair.

“I did it all for you,” he added. “You were the only guest who mattered. I look forward to our next dance.”

She replied hastily, “There won't be another.”

“Oh, but there will. And the next dance will be much more intimate.” He bowed from the waist and walked away, leaving her with two bruised feet and the horrifying realization she'd finally met someone as difficult and stubborn as she.

Lazarus strolled up the lane the following morning with a large basket of eggs, full of such neighborly good intentions he forgot how very early it was. The warm air was rich with fragrance. A pollen-heavy haze had already formed, so the sky was more gold than blue, and as he strode along, admiring it, he was too preoccupied to whistle his usual merry tune. Neither did he bother with the bell at the gate since, in his experience, no one ever answered it. Instead he went directly to the cookhouse. Finding the door ajar, he pushed it fully open with his basket, looked in, and saw the place empty.

Then he heard splashing and creaking. Curious, he walked around the side of the cookhouse and saw her by the water pump, bent over a half barrel, her hair falling loose over her face like a thick curtain. He stopped, frozen mid-step, and almost dropped his eggs. She pumped the lever again with one hand, and another abrupt gush of gleaming water splattered down over her bent head.

The fool woman was outside in only her shift. What if some other man came there that morning and saw her? He suffered a sudden spur of hot anger, but his temper soon changed to something else when, having twisted and squeezed her long hair with both hands, she threw her head back. An arc of tiny prisms flew through the air to splatter the thin material of her shift, making a large patch down her back completely transparent.

He immediately looked away, but not many breaths had passed before he looked again. Now she stooped to wash her arms in the barrel, and the dampened shift clung to her hips, revealing a tempting hint of soft pink skin beneath.

His mouth was very dry, his heart thudding away as if it might, at any moment, burst out of his chest. He thought about backing away before she turned and found him watching, but his boots preferred the patch of stone upon which they stood.

You
idiot!
She'll turn and see you. Then she'll run and hide. And think you a rotten, lecherous cad. Which, indeed, you are.

He suddenly wished she
would
turn and see him there. He wanted to see her eyes. It was their attention for which he yearned, as much as a bird might for the first sight of snowdrops to mark the coming of spring.

Sophie washed her feet next, stepping into the half barrel and reaching down to splash water up her ankles and along her legs as far as the knee. Again, he was treated to forbidden glimpses: some merely taunting suggestions of what lay beneath that wet linen, and others so finely and clearly outlined by the clinging shift. He stopped breathing for a moment, forgetting his brain's need of oxygen, while other parts of his body were fully and delightfully nourished.

A swallow building its nest somewhere under the eaves of the cookhouse roof swooped low over his head, chirping irritably. He ducked but stayed, too mesmerized to leave yet.

She turned slightly and unknowingly treated him to further delights, for the front of her shift was also wet. The thin material clung to her breasts like a second layer of skin, following the full swell of their shape and revealing the darker circles at their peaks. As he stared, a drop of water fell like a tear to her left breast and dribbled slowly down over the lush curve. He felt that heavy heat in his groin, the excitement of the hunt, the anticipation of imminent capture. She was too assailable.

The swallow, a fierce sentinel, dived down again, narrowly missing his head, and Lazarus finally retreated. His pulse raced, pumping blood hard through his body.

***

Some time later, Sophie entered the cookhouse. She wore a dry gown and carried her wet shift. Her aunt was fast asleep by the fire. No one else was up and about yet. Lavinia was still in her chamber, fussing over her appearance and her curls, as usual, while Henry, with no business to get him up and out of bed, she supposed was still snoring heavily into his pillow.

Sophie kissed her aunt's temple and then spread her shift before the fire to dry. As she turned her back to the hearth, she finally noticed the basket of eggs. Most of which were broken.

Wilson, the maid, came in carrying a milk pail. “The stranger brought eggs, Miss Sophie. He left them for you. Seemed in a hurry.”

She flicked her damp hair back over her shoulders and stared at the basket of eggs, wondering how long he'd been there to make his delivery and why she didn't hear him come. She was very warm inside suddenly and feared she might have caught a fever.

***

“Eggs, indeed! As if we need his charity,” Henry muttered at breakfast later that morning. “Take them back to the blackguard, Wilson. Or better yet, send them with the steward. It wouldn't do to put you, a young maid, in his way. Mark my words, the fellow is trouble. Look how he cavorted about last night with one girl after another. No woman is safe in this village now.”

“Except Sophia,” Lavinia pointed out. “He doesn't want
her
.”

Sophie bit into her toast with a loud crunch. She wanted to correct them all and shout he did, indeed, want her still. What good would it do? They would probably not believe her, and then she'd be forced to tell them how he'd kissed her…about the way he looked at her. She fidgeted in her chair, her skin warm, the heaviness of want starting in her belly again, as it did whenever she thought of his warning to her last night.

The
next
dance
will
be
much
more
intimate.

“It seems he has designs on the Osborne girl,” Henry muttered as he opened his copy of the
Racing
Post
. “He means to get his hands on her father's pretty property, without a doubt, and she has no brothers or sisters to share the inheritance.”

His wife wrinkled her small, round nose. “No one would want that plain creature for any other reason but the property. Lord, with those teeth, she ought to be pulling her father's milk cart up and down the High Street.”

Henry rustled his newspaper, turning another page as if the contents of the last had mortally offended him. “The tailor in Morecroft informed me he fashioned an entire suit of clothes for the illustrious Mr. Kane,” he grumbled. “Breeches, jacket, coat, shirt, and waistcoat. What's more, he was paid in full for his services, although the stranger arrived there in a very poor and shabby set of patched clothes that clearly belonged to someone else. The only item of clothing he did not purchase new in Morecroft were his boots, and these he was loath to remove, even while being fitted for his new clothes. The reason?” He paused for effect, glancing up over the top of his paper. “Because, according to the tailor, his boots were stuffed full of bank notes.”

His announcement did not have the expected effect. Lavinia was busy complaining to Wilson about the crispness of her toast, and Sophie was deliberately not listening.

Aunt Finn offered jauntily, “He seems very fond of the widow Finchly and her boys. She would be a better choice for him than Jane Osborne, who is too young and desperately stupid.” She turned to her niece. “Do you not agree, Sophie?”

Having just taken another large bite of toast, Sophie made much of chewing and swallowing.

“Of course, either one of the Misses Dawkins might stand a chance,” Finn added cheerily. “They are lively creatures, although Amy Dawkins has the features of a squirrel with rather too many nuts in its cheeks, and the other one rarely has her finger out of her nose.”

But the two Misses Dawkins and the grasping Jane Osborne were not the only hopeful, unwed young ladies in Sydney Dovedale, starved of new male company, who regarded the mysteriously wealthy stranger with eager speculation. They all knew he was in want of a wife, and now that Sophie was considered out of the running, the field was wide open. Already there were signs of a battle campaign being waged. The first to benefit were the milliner and the haberdasher in Morecroft, while new gowns and trimmings became matters of the utmost importance. Gowland's lotion and Steele's Lavender Water flew off the shelves quicker than it could be stocked, and a disturbing amount of powdered rouge was suspected of lending an unaccustomed blush to even the most immodest cheek.

“Amy Dawkins is the most likely to snare him,” said Lavinia, finally forgetting her dispute over the toast. “She has her sharp claws out and won't let her lack of fortune or property stand in her way.” She sighed heavily as she brushed crumbs from her bosom. “She's a dreadful, common little thing, with no fashion, but he seems to be making the most of all the female attention.”

“I would rather not hear another word about his comings and goings,” Henry exclaimed snappishly. “From now on, I will not hear that man's name mentioned in this house.”

His wife stoutly reminded him he first began the subject. “You are altogether too red in the face, Henry. I hope you are not on the verge of apoplexy. I refuse to be a young widow, for black doesn't suit me at all.”

He disappeared again behind the
Racing
Post
.

Wilson brought over a letter, handing it to Lavinia, who snatched it away with her buttery fingers. She was growing more discontent by the moment and now claimed to be off her food that morning, although her empty, clean-scraped plate suggested otherwise. While supposedly engrossed in her letter, she threw out little criticisms about anyone and anything.

“This bacon is much too fatty. I believe that butcher deliberately gave us the worst he had yesterday. I know his wife is jealous of my new bonnet. It is very like her own except better and more expensive, which is quite plainly apparent when one looks closely.” She reached over to spear another slice of inadequate bacon on her fork.

No one spoke.

“And now we expect my mama for dinner on market day,” she announced, waving her letter.

Sophie groaned into her coffee, “Let joy be unconfined.”

Lavinia's mother, Mrs. Dykes, was a frequent visitor to the fortress. She was smaller than her daughter and less stooped, but extremely stiff. Sophie suspected Mrs. Dykes had a cork leg, although it was never mentioned. She feared that one evening, if she had too much wine, she might feel inclined to shoot it with a dart to be sure.

Until Henry married, it was Sophie who managed the daily housekeeping affairs and thus was able, wherever possible, to curb some of his more extravagant spending. But now Lavinia insisted
she
take this role, she who had even less restraint than her husband and refused to discuss “vulgar economy.” Whenever Sophie quietly tried to offer advice, Lavinia whined to Henry and to her mother that her place as mistress of the house was undermined. Mrs. Dykes, protective of her daughter's interests, had lately suggested, in countless unsubtle ways, Sophie ought to be sent away with a respectable family as a governess or nanny.

But Sophie had no desire to leave Sydney Dovedale or her little schoolhouse. When she ventured beyond that small world, folk had a tendency to stare and point at her scar.

“We must move everything back to the Keep today, for Mama would be appalled to see how we live, crunched up together like this,” Lavinia exclaimed. “Surely the weather is fine enough now, Henry, and we might at least put a small fire in the great hall.”

From behind his newspaper, Henry agreed their living quarters could be moved back to the main building, but even this was not enough for Lavinia. She insisted also on beeswax candles for the dinner table, not the cheaper tallow.

“The last time Mama dined with us, she commented on the use of tallow candles, and I was so ashamed. Is my mama not deemed worthy of the best candles, Henry? Each time I got them out, Sophia put them back again! But if it were any other guest, the beeswax would be got out without question.”

He mumbled that she may choose whichever candles she preferred.

“I hear Mr. Kane is only five and twenty,” Aunt Finn exclaimed abruptly, causing Henry to ruffle his paper angrily. “One wonders how he came by his fortune at such a young age. He must be either very clever or very wicked. Perhaps both.” She chuckled. “Still, while some men are old before they mature”—she glanced at Henry's newspaper—“other men mature before they're old.”

Sophie's mind drifted wantonly over the image of Mr. Kane as she saw him a few days ago, shearing sheep. He wore naught but those snug breeches as he bent over the protesting, squirming creatures, working with speed and efficiency. Each animal was shorn of its thick fleece before it knew what had occurred, and then it skipped off in delight, several pounds lighter.

She saw again the sweat glazing his thick shoulders under the afternoon sun, and the pronounced lines of muscle as he twisted over the sheep. She would like to run her hands over that torso, feel every mound and valley, know every inch of that terrain. He had dark hair on his chest, mostly across the upper planes then trailing away to a thin line that ran below the waist of his breeches. When he turned and stretched between shearing each sheep, she'd taken note of that vast breadth between his shoulders, and then the rapid narrowing, and lastly, the little dip in the small of his back just above his tight, round buttocks.

The
next
dance
will
be
much
more
intimate.

Disgusted, she dropped another crust to her plate.

Only five and twenty! She'd guessed he was young, but it was still a shock to hear his age confirmed aloud. A mere boy, for heaven's sake! No wonder he was so carefree when it came to the rules.

The devilish Mr. Kane was too young for her; yet he was also, oddly enough, many years too late.