Seducing Mr. Heywood (12 page)

“But, Joan, I do not fancy the man. I do not fancy him at all!” Sophia hoped that was clear enough. She began to take off her jewelry and put it in the ornate carved walnut box on top of her dresser.

There was a scratching at the door. Sophia raised her eyebrows.
Who?
“Answer that, Joan. Perhaps it is Harriett, and one of my boys is unwell.” Sophia’s exuberance dissipated like a bladder quickly deflated as Joan ran to do her bidding.

Lord Brent slipped a large, booted foot into the room as Joan opened the door. He held Sophia’s pink and green paisley wrap in his large hands. “May I speak to your mistress?” he asked the maid.

Joan frowned. “My lady is abed, sir,” she lied. Brent was determined, however, maneuvering his foot further into the breach. Joan would not let him in; she made a grab for the shawl, but Brent held it out of her reach. A stalwart farm girl with six older brothers, she leapt for the fabric and secured one corner. Brent was put slightly off-balance, but recovered, lunging forward to pull it back.

Sophia had had enough of this bizarre dance; she was too tired to enjoy their lively
pas de deux.
Marching to the door, she ordered, “Sir! Unhand my wrap, if you please.”

“Lady Sophia! I wonder if I might have a word.”

“Wonder no more, Lord Brent; the answer is
no.
Good evening, sir.” She pulled the shawl from his hands in one swift, graceful motion, pushing him back into the hallway. Now he did lose his balance, possibly from the pull of gravity on his jaw when it fell open in disbelief. As the door slammed shut and Sophia turned the key in the lock, she and Joan heard a loud crash as the nobleman fell backward against the hard wooden floor.

Sophia leaned against the shut door and began to giggle. Joan joined her in mirth as they walked backward to the bed and collapsed, overcome by the fit of hilarity. Brent’s face! The man was not used to rebuffs, that was for certain.

Downstairs in the drawing room, Brent was disgusted. “How could you be so wrong?” he challenged Dunhaven. His rump hurt; he had landed heavily.

The earl was consuming the wine he had not drunk at dinner and was now on his third bottle of George Rowley’s best claret. “What are you talking about, boy?” His words were slurred, his eyes slightly unfocused.

Brent sat down, too hard, on the drawing room sofa, wincing in pain as the wood responded with a creak of protest. “Your daughter is not interested in dallying with me, sir!”

Dunhaven snorted rudely. “My daughter is renowned for lifting her skirts merely at the sight of a handsome face. The fault must lie in you, my lad. Perhaps your technique needs improvement.” He laughed at his own insulting joke.

The younger man leaned forward, fixing the earl with a direct glare. “And perhaps your daughter is not the doxy you make her out to be.”

The older man’s drink-clouded eyes snapped into focus. “What are you talking about?”

“It is a distinct possibility, my lord,” Brent responded,
his tone sarcastic, “that your daughter and this vicar may be truly in love.”

Dunhaven choked, spilling the contents of his claret glass over his trousers. Recovering, he blurted, “You are out of your head, man! That girl is only interested in two things: men and money. As for the priest,” he scoffed, “that wet-behind-the-ears cleric is hardly a man. More a monk! And a poor, down-at-the-heels monk, at that. There’s no money there! Sophia would have no interest whatsoever in such a specimen.”

“Well, sir, I was certainly fooled, then. That was a lover’s kiss I interrupted in the rose garden after the lady sent me away searching for her blasted shawl. It was neatly done, in truth. No, my lord, that man is no eunuch…and I would say he has your daughter’s heart,” Brent swore.

Glaring, Dunhaven poured himself another glass of claret. The servants could wipe up the spill on the carpet. “Listen to me, Robert Winton, my Lord Brent,” he spat out each word, “my daughter has no heart.” He stood and jabbed his index finger at the left side of Brent’s chest. “She has no heart, sir! I saw to that.”

Brent pushed away the jabbing digit. Dunhaven was foxed, and wrong, so terribly wrong. His daughter and the vicar were lovers. It was plain to anyone with two eyes in his skull. He had no chance with the lady, whatever her scheming father thought. Yet Brent’s hope persisted. Could it be that he was falling a little in love with the notorious lady, himself? She was certainly beautiful and intriguing.

The vicar of St. Mortrud’s was unburdening himself to his best friend, after receiving the physician’s promise that he would not say a word or quirk an eyebrow, until Charles had finished. “Lewis, I count on your discretion, man. Unfortunately, there is no one I can confess to but you.”

“You are placing impossible restrictions on me. I am but a mortal man, neither cleric nor confessor,” Lewis protested. They were walking on the outskirts of Rowley Village; it was a beautiful early summer’s day.

“Nonetheless, Lewis,” Charles faced the larger man down (no easy task), “I rely on you to hear me out and perhaps provide me some guidance. This is the most important matter in my life.”

“What have you done?” Lewis sat down heavily on a boulder at the side of the footpath.

“Nothing.” Charles ran a hand through his hair, betraying his nervousness with that habit. “That is, nothing much, nothing much yet.…”

“You are confusing me,” Lewis warned, pushing the spectacles up on his slightly hooked nose.

The vicar sighed, plucking a large handful of rye grass and chewing the stems thoughtfully. “Lewis, I may have made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I doubt it,” Alcott interrupted. “Please dispense with this Cheltenham farce, I pray you.”

Charles winced. “I assure you, this is serious. Pray listen.”

Lewis was not convinced. “Go on, then; I am listening.” He assumed an intent pose on the rock, hand on chin, elbow on knee.

“I rebuffed Lady Sophia’s amorous advances.” He looked at his friend, whose expression betrayed no surprise. He waited.

“She kissed me.” Charles slanted a glance at Lewis again, but the surgeon’s expression had not changed. “And I, uh, I kissed her back.” He paused.

“And?” Lewis inquired.

“And
, Lewis,
and?
I am a simple, poor country vicar and she is a worldly, sophisticated woman, the wealthiest in the county!” Charles flung out his arm, narrowly missing Lewis’s leonine head.

“Calm yourself, Charles, I beg you,” Lewis suggested, leaning back on his elbows and assuming a languid pose on the outcropping of rock. “I fail to see your problem. We have already discussed the possibility of the beauteous widow falling for your handsome face.” Lewis’s eyes seemed to twinkle merrily, or was it a trick of the early morning light?

Charles looked at him suspiciously. “Lewis, are you taking me seriously?”

Lewis rose from the boulder and dusted his hands on his breeches. “Charles, Charles, you are a man, and the lady is a woman. What is the problem?”

Charles turned his back on his friend. “I rebuffed her the first time, Lewis, but there was a second.”

“And?” Lewis repeated his question.

“And, indeed.” Charles swallowed. “The second time, I did not spurn her, Lewis, and I fear I gave the lady the wrong idea.”

“What idea, Charles?” Lewis asked.

“I…I asked her what she wanted from me, and—”

He ran his hand through his locks again. He must look as though he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, he thought. “And she told me.”

“I can’t bear the suspense,” Lewis commented, his tone sarcastic.

“I find it difficult to repeat her exact words, Lewis, and I beg that you forget them the instant I utter them, or I will feel terrible, nay, worse than that, immoral! The gist of what she said is that…that she desires my body and wishes to bed me.” He flung the handful of wet, chewed grass to one side of the footpath and took Lewis’s former position on the boulder, hanging his head in shame.

“Am I supposed to commiserate with you?” Lewis asked. “Because, if that is what you expect, be forewarned that I will not. I know few men who would hesitate to accept the beautiful Lady Rowley’s advances, myself amongst them!”

“Lewis,” Charles’s voice was muffled from the vicinity of his chest, “you know I do not believe in casual fornication. I cannot do it, man! The notion troubles me. I have not been with a woman—in that way—for a long time.”

“But you want to,” Lewis remarked. “You want to, don’t you, old friend?”

Charles rose from the stone outcropping and paced, rounding the rock twice. “Yes, yes, I do, so help me,
God.” He looked heavenward as if expecting divine intervention. None came.

Lewis brought him back to earth. “What did you tell the lady, then?

“I had no chance to say anything. We kissed, and—”

“No more
ands
, Charles, I beg you!” Lewis pleaded.

Charles stopped pacing and looked directly at his friend. “Lord Brent came upon us, with milady’s wrap, and thus ended the conversation…and the kiss.”

“You did not say
nay
, then, to the lady’s bold suggestion?”

Charles shook his head. “I did not have the chance to say
nay
or
yea
, Lewis.”

Lewis pursed his lips. “Well, well, well. What a pretty kettle of fish we have here.”

“Does silence give consent?” Charles wondered.

“You kissed Lady Sophia after, or before, she made you this proposition? More important, did you initiate the kiss?”

A flush wiped across Charles’s face. “After,” he whispered, adding, “and I think I initiated the kiss.” The last part of his answer sounded strangled to Lewis’s ears; he could barely hear his response.

“Then, I would say you consented, my dear fellow, consented wholeheartedly. Yes, you certainly did!” It was to Lewis Alcott’s everlasting credit that he did not laugh or otherwise gloat at the vicar’s predicament, and for that Charles was grateful. He was in a rare old coil, one that might be impossible to escape.

The surgeon’s big hand clapped his shoulder in sympathy. “You poor sod, you,” Lewis murmured.

“What shall I do?” Charles pleaded.

Lewis shook his head. “Remember that Catullus, one of your favorite poets, said that it was difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion, Charles. Those Romans were serious folk.” Here his lips did twitch as he added, “And the lady is no less serious than our good Catullus, it seems to me.”

You are doomed, my friend
, was what Lewis did not say aloud, but what his face confirmed in silence.

The dinner party invitation was from the Ramsbothams. Lady Sophia was sipping tea in the morning room when the young footman Fred (she thought that was his name), brought her the unexpected note. She and her guests were invited for an evening three days hence. It would be a small, intimate gathering, she read, and they would very much like the pleasure of her company. A Ramsbotham footman was waiting in the hall for her reply.

Sophia pressed the letter against her bosom and closed her eyes, recalling the woman who’d paid her that morning visit, the one with the two daughters. Sophia remembered being less than cordial to them. In truth, she had been rude. She thought quickly, her mind astir. Did this mean that the country gentry were accepting her, or did they want to see her…and mock? To laugh at her from behind their hands?

She pressed her lips together. What to do?

There was a scratching at the door. Bromley, no doubt, indicating that the Ramsbothams’ footman was awaiting her answer. “Yes, Bromley, a moment, please,” she called out.

Charles Heywood entered the morning room, looking as fresh as a new-minted coin, his ash brown hair shining, his step buoyant. She smiled, her heart thumping as if she were sixteen again, not thirty years of age, remembering that extraordinary, passionate kiss in the garden,
that precursor, mayhap, of a more wonderful union to come. Charles!

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he began.

“You are not disturbing me, sir. What can I do for you this morning?”
Or afternoon, evening, or break of dawn, my dear?
she thought, her eyes brightening at the romantic prospect. Since that devastating kiss in the garden, the vicar had been much on her mind. She blushed now at the boldness of her proposition to him, but he had asked her what she wanted from him, had he not? She had responded honestly to that question. Still, her boldness, perhaps more suited to sophisticated London than to rustic north Yorkshire, to
ton
bucks, not country vicars, now embarrassed her. It was not easy, this developing relationship with Charles Heywood. He was not like the other men she had known and so casually and easily seduced. She wondered, too, at times, who was seducing whom?

She brought her wandering thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Do sit down.”

Charles complied, smiling. “I was visiting one of the families in our district, my lady, and they asked if you would respond favorably to an invitation some nights hence. I took the liberty of saying you might, and that you had houseguests. I am also invited. The Ramsbothams are a pleasant family with two lively girls and a young babe. You may know Mrs. Ramsbotham?”

“She paid me a visit some time ago,” Sophia replied, nodding.

“Ah, yes, she mentioned that coming to see you was one of her very first ventures out of the house since the birth of her youngest child, a healthy boy I will be honored to christen in a month’s time.”

“Indeed?” She was surprised. Mrs. Ramsbotham had not mentioned a new baby. Upon further recollection, Sophia realized that she had done most of the talking, dominating the discourse. How rude! Her face grew hot.

She fanned herself with the letter. “I was just about to send a note of acceptance with her footman, who waits in the hall.” She quickly stopped fanning herself and attempted
to smooth the crumpled missive on the breakfast table. It remained adamantly wrinkled.

Sophia put out a hand. “Will you not stay a while, sir? I can ring for more tea—”