Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (27 page)

The words she'd read circled her mind, expanding as if they shouted at her. There was no ignoring it now, no further shoving the idea away to a dark corner of her mind.

His sister's name was Rebecca, and she'd worked at Lady Grimstock's house. She was very dark, like Russ.

And the writing on the letter belonged to James Hartley.

Somehow she regained her feet and made her way down the crooked stairs without stumbling, no sign of any guilty prying on her face. She hoped.

Later that evening, she raised the subject of one day bringing little Rafe to live with them.

He looked at her, sudden surprise streaking across his face, but then his eyes dimmed. “You wouldn't mind?”

“Of course not. One day he'll have cousins. It would be nice if they all lived here together.”

“Perhaps.” His free hand went to his heart, the fingers spread over that little bump.

It tore brutally into her happiness, that he didn't expect to live long enough to see his children grow up. He worried about leaving her with those responsibilities.

Life was not fair, she thought angrily. Here was a young man who should have years ahead of him; yet, one night, he could lie down to sleep, and if that little bit of broken blade should move while he slept, he would never open his eyes again. Well, he had her now at his side, and every day would count.

She thought again of that letter hidden away in his trunk. Should she mention it to him? No. She'd deal with this on her own. She had a letter to write to Lady Honoria Grimstock.

Market day was the first time she showed her face since she moved to Souls Dryft as “housekeeper.” Aunt Finn advised her to hold her head high and thumb her nose at those spiteful few who were bound to gossip unpleasantly, but as accustomed as she was to rumors about herself, she didn't like hearing folk talk badly about Russ.

Even as they set up their stall at the market, Amy Dawkins swept by in the company of Mrs. Flick and whispered just loud enough to be heard, “They say he paid Henry Valentine five hundred pounds for his sister. He bought her like a woman”—she lowered her voice to a hiss—“of the streets.”

“Nonsense! Henry paid the stranger five guineas,” Mrs. Flick replied, “to take Sophia off his hands and end the scandal. Henry had no choice once he found out what they were up to together. I knew about it, of course, the moment I heard how they waltzed together at the Morecroft assembly rooms.”

“Mama says Sophia's loose morals and opinionated misbehavior are a demonstration of the chaos that results from an education granted where it was not required.”

Due to their notoriety, they soon had many customers, who came primarily to assess the situation and were thus trapped into making a purchase by Russ and his excellently persuasive chatter. Amused and proud, Sophie watched him make the most of their curiosity to lure them in and sell his fruit. He had an odd sort of charm he didn't even seem fully aware of. Probably a good thing too, she thought, or else no woman would be safe. She felt a quiet sort of contentment watching him work, knowing he was all hers. He threw himself into the task of shopkeeper just as he did anything, whole-heartedly.

While he was thus preoccupied, Sophie spied James Hartley in the crowd, approaching slowly until he stood a short distance from their stall. His handsome face was marred with a scowl, and his angry gaze stabbed at her like prongs of a toasting fork. She wished he'd been the one to break off their engagement ten years ago; then she wouldn't feel this guilt now.

She slipped away from Russ and walked around the baskets of fruit to meet James. Better get it over with, she thought.

He began at once with a heated accusation. “Do you know what a fool you've made me look? Yet again?”

“I'm sorry, James, but I—”

“I could give you everything.”

Except what she needed most of all.

He took her elbow in his gloved hand. “I'll forgive you for this error in judgment. I suppose he tricked you somehow.”

She tried to move her arm away, but his grip tightened.

“Come with me now, Sophia, before he drags you down with him. I can forgive you for this transgression, but I can't continue excusing it to my grandmama forever.”

“Surely my actions have no importance to Lady—”

“They will, when we marry.”

“Marry?” she burst out in surprise. “But I've already accepted Lazarus.”

“I'm willing to overlook your mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Sophia, I've loved you for fifteen years at least.”

“Yet you spent the last ten of those away from me.” She meant to say he didn't know her anymore, not the way he thought he did. Too much time had elapsed.

But he took her statement as an accusation. “It broke my heart when our engagement was ended. For a long time I was angry with you for listening to your brother and throwing me over. We can put that all behind us now. Let me make those years up to you, Sophia. Don't stay with him. Come back to me. I can give you so much more.”

She was astonished he could be so willing to forgive her and take her back. But on reflection, she realized there always had been a tender, vulnerable side to James. He usually kept it well hidden from the world, but she'd witnessed it on more than a few occasions, when he thought no one was looking. He wanted her back because he truly thought she needed him, that he could take care of her. But the love he felt for her was not the passionate, all-consuming fire she shared with Lazarus.

Poor James, she thought, sadness beating slow wings in her heart. He was a rich man who could buy anything he wanted in life. Anything except love.

His lips trembled, but he managed to calm his tone. “You'll never go through with it. It's just like you, Sophia, to make such a sudden, irrational decision, which soon you'll regret.”

“I'm not leaving him, James. I'm sorry.”

“For the love of God, Sophia, I put aside everything to come back for you when Henry asked me to. I came back to save you.”

She pulled her arm away. “Henry asked you to come here?” So that was it. She'd thought it strange he should come to find her again after ten years.

“He wrote to me about your unhappiness and the advertisement. He told me he regretted breaking off our engagement.”

“Oh, James,
I
broke it off. It wasn't Henry. It was my choice.
Mine!
”

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“And he encouraged you to return, James, because you'll soon turn thirty-five, with access to your full inheritance. I'm afraid your grandmama was right about that. I love my brother, but I have no illusions about his failings when it comes to money.”

She turned and hurried away between the stalls, but there was no escape. Wherever she turned, she heard the whispers.

“It is well known around Morecroft, Mrs. Cawley. I heard the stranger demanded five hundred pounds from Henry
not
to marry Sophia. Once the ransom is paid, he agrees to leave the village, so the incident can be hushed up.”

“'Tis too late to be hushed up, surely.”

“Sophia will be sent away to Bath as a governess, and Henry hopes the entire affair may be forgotten.”

“She's such a quiet girl…”

“But she takes after Finn. Blood will always out. And you know what…”

Jane Osborne screamed when a well-aimed plum knocked her new bonnet sideways. Almost simultaneously, several other ladies were likewise assaulted by flying fruit, and they all ducked for cover, wailing in distress. Within moments, the market was in an uproar. Someone opened the latch on a sheep pen, and then a number of crates were broken open, releasing a cackle of excited hens into the fray. A dozen guinea fowl made their rattling, chortling cacophony as they mysteriously rampaged free from their cage, and Amy Dawkins, in haste to escape an ill-tempered billy goat, tripped backward into the village pond.

No one, of course, had any proof as to the identity of the culprit, although they all had their suspicions. Sophie would later claim to be nowhere near at the time, for she walked home early from the market that day, not waiting for Russ and her aunt on the empty cart, as she needed the time alone with her thoughts.

***

It was a quiet, subdued meal at Souls Dryft that evening, none of the usual merriment in evidence. Chivers apparently thought he might be to blame for the change in mood and mentioned he must soon be on his way. He thanked Russ and Sophie for their hospitality, but it was time for him to move on—he didn't want to outstay his welcome.

Sophie quietly urged him to stay, at least for the harvest. “We're grateful to you for all your hard work…” She trailed off, and her gaze moved to Russ, but he let her speak. He never interrupted her as certain other folk did. In fact, he often pressed her for an opinion, waiting to let her talk. She swallowed hard and added, “Of course, the decision is yours…whether to stay…or go.”

The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Finally Chivers cleared his throat. “I can stay another few weeks, then. To help get the harvest in, Russ.”

“Don't stay just for that,” he said. “If you need to leave, we'll manage here.”

“If your lady has no objection,” said Chivers calmly, “I'll gladly stay on a while.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “You'll always be welcome here. Whenever you need a place to stay.”

Russ looked down at his fingernails.

Good.
She wanted him to know she wasn't afraid of what he was or where he came from or the company he kept.

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Chivers. “That's very generous of you.”

“You're a dear old friend. Of course you're always welcome.”

Aunt Finn pulled her chair up to the table, brought out a pack of cards, and began to shuffle them with a dexterity that continually surprised both men but not Sophie. “If you mean to stay, then, Mr. Chivers, you'll want another chance to win back the pennies you lost to me, I suppose.”

He laughed. His broad face crumpled as he looked at the little lady with the sharp eyes and the quick fingers. Sophie began clearing the plates and cautioned him to watch his pockets, although it was too late for that. In the past two nights, Aunt Finn had practically emptied them for him.

Russ picked up a knife and toyed with it. After a while, he got up and went out to chop some wood to expend some of that pent-up energy.

***

Later, when he came to bed, having no further cause to delay, he paused outside the bedchamber to listen. He couldn't hear her moving around, so perhaps she was asleep. He carefully lifted the latch and went in. He wasn't sure how to handle what had happened in the market that day, but he knew he ought to say something about her temper. Soon he would be her husband. She would be his responsibility.

She was seated on a long bench by the window, finishing little details on a sketch by the light of that great, round moon. He thought of the dandy, Hartley, as he stood in the market square earlier and watched Sophie, like a dog pining for a lamb chop. He ought to give that pretty fellow a good beating. One of these days, if he was pushed far enough, he just might.

“What did Hartley say to you today?”

He heard her small gasp of frustration. “Naught.”

Hands on his hips, he turned away and padded across the creaking floor to the small hearth where she kept the little caged linnet. It took pride of place there, beside a vase of open-faced roses, their stamens dripping gold dust to the mantel.

He swung around again to face her. “You caused that ruckus today in the market square, wench.”

“
Wench?
” Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn't deliberately try to cause a quarrel with me, would you, Kane?”

He said nothing. What could he say when she sat there so prim and proud with that long, honey-colored hair spilling across her shoulders, her linen chemise almost transparent in the moonlight? How could he still be angry? After all, Sophie was now his, whomever she belonged to before.

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.