Sex and the Single Earl (10 page)

He swallowed a scathing retort, reminding himself that he had come to propose to her, not pick a fight. “I’m not being callous, just realistic. I have no doubt their life is difficult, especially since their mother died, but they do have a father and a roof over their heads. Their situation is not desperate.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared into his face.

“Sophie, what could you possibly expect? That I would waltz into the blasted place and demand their father take better care of them? Too foolish by half, my girl, if you think that will do any good. In fact, you just might get them thrown onto the parish, and from there to the workhouse. Hardly the result you’re looking for, I’m sure.”

She looked blank for a moment, but then her anger drained away. She wandered over to a heavily cushioned divan, sumptuously covered in gold silk, and sighed wearily as she sank down onto the plump cushions.

Simon’s throat tightened as he noted the grey smudges under her beautiful eyes. Her complexion was pale and drawn, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept well in days. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

“Sophie…”

When she shook her head at him, he went to join her on the divan. He tipped a finger under her chin and made her look into his eyes.

“Very well, Puck. Tell me what troubles you so about these children.”

She did, her voice stumbling over words he loathed hearing on her innocent lips. The story sickened him, and he knew what she told him could very well be true. It was certainly a common practice in London brothels to offer virgins—or girls claiming to be virgins—to the highest bidder.

“But the girl denied it, did she not?”

“Yes, but she’s trying to protect her brother from their father’s wrath. Who knows what he would do to them if they tried to escape.”

“Perhaps the boy misunderstood what he heard. He’s young.” At least Simon hoped so, both for the girl’s sake and for Sophie’s. Either way, there was little he could do to rectify the situation. No one would care about yet another girl sold into prostitution.

“I don’t think Toby misunderstood anything.” Her voice held a familiar stubborn note.

“Even if this tale is true—which it may very well be,” he added as she took an angry breath, “there is little we can do about it. The father would simply deny it, and what magistrate would not accept his word? You have done what you can, Puck, and you must let it go. The girl does not wish for your help.”

Her bow-shaped mouth set into a mutinous line.

“You are not to go back down there. I mean it.” Simon allowed the implied threat to color his voice.

He couldn’t believe it when she rolled her eyes at him.

“Sophie,” he growled.

“That reminds me,” she interjected. “How did you happen to find me last night? What exactly were you doing in that part of town?”

Damn.
He had been hoping she’d forget that question.

“After I called here last night, I ran into Nigel Dash in Milsom Street. I joined him for a few hands of cards at a private club in St. James’s Parade.” Sophie didn’t need to know he’d been too restless and irritated—strangely so, in his opinion—to sit at the gaming table for more than a half hour.

She wrinkled her dainty nose at him. “A hell, you mean.”

He sighed. “No, I mean a club. And I’ll thank you to keep such damned impertinent comments to yourself.”

“Simon! Such language.”

She squared her shoulders in what he knew to be mock outrage. He couldn’t help giving the minx a reluctant grin, and a sweet dimple flashed back at him.

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” she persisted. “How did you get to Avon Street from St. James’s Parade?”

He hesitated, but realized he might as well tell her the truth. She would pester him till he did, and he made it a point never to lie to her. Well, almost never.

“I wanted to walk by the workhouse. It…disturbed me that you had been there without me to support you.” He still couldn’t bear the thought of his little elf in that pesthole without him there to protect her. He knew his explanation sounded absurd, but some inner compulsion had driven him to Avon Street to see the place for himself.

“Oh,” she breathed. Her eyes grew round and misty as they searched his face.

“Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw Aunt Eleanor’s carriage parked in front of a public house on the worst street in Bath. James and John were most disconcerted to be found in such a compromising situation, I assure you,” he added.

She had the grace to look guilty. “You won’t say anything to Lady Eleanor, will you? I really didn’t give them a choice.”

“No, I won’t say anything, and yes, I can believe you gave them no choice.” He reached over and took her hands in his. “Sophie, there is something else we must settle between us today, as you well know.”

She blushed and cast her gaze down at their conjoined hands.

“I know I made a hash of it last night, but I assure you that my intentions are genuine. Sophia, it would be my greatest honor if you would allow me to care for you, and to call you my wife.”

She studied him with round, solemn eyes. “Is that all you want to do? Take care of me?”

He laced his fingers between hers, not quite sure of her mood.

“Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble, Puck.”

The look of hurt that flashed across her features surprised him. Simon felt another stab of frustration. For some reason today, every word out of his mouth seemed to go sideways.

“Sweetheart, I’m joking. I care for you a great deal, and I believe we are well suited to each other.”

“I know,” she responded softly. “I ‘don’t make a fuss.’”

“You don’t make a fuss about silly things, but there’s more to it than that.” The hurt look on her face had eased, but he still didn’t like the wariness in her eyes. “We know each other—we understand each other, Sophie. The St. James family and the Stanton family have been attached by the bonds of friendship for a very long time, going back five generations, at least. Our families would be very pleased by this union, and you would relieve your mother and Robert of a great deal of worry.”

“That’s not a good enough reason for us to get married,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.

He thought it was, as were the other reasons he wished to marry her. But comparing her worth to a seam of coal or a wool mill was hardly an effective way to support his case, and he couldn’t seem to find the right words to express how he felt about her. Perhaps because he was so unsure of that, himself.

He moved closer, sliding one arm along the back of the divan, and behind her shoulders. He leaned down and brushed his mouth across her plush lips. Those lips trembled beneath his, and his heart responded with an unfamiliar stab of tenderness.

“No,” he said, drawing back so he could study her face, “perhaps not. But surely you realize after all these years how much I care for you. You are my family, my responsibility, and have been for a long time.”

He repressed a grimace as the memory of Sophie’s tumble into the lake flashed through his mind. She needed him, for so many things. “And I know you’ve been lonely since Robert and Annabel married. You need never be alone again.”

When she jumped in her seat, he knew he had hit the mark full on. How could she think he wouldn’t notice how much she missed her brother? And what would it take to get her to say yes? His elf was proving unexpectedly resistant.

“I swear on my life I will always cherish and honor you, and honor our marriage. You will never want for anything again, and I promise that I will always protect you.” He clasped her cold hands in a firm grip, silently willing her to say yes.

She raised her solemn eyes to his, and for an insane moment Simon imagined she gazed straight into his soul. He resisted a sudden impulse to stand and move away from her.

“All right.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft and uncertain.

Simon found himself wanting to hold his breath. “Do you mean yes?”

She sighed. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Triumph surged through him, accompanied by a substantial measure of relief. He told himself that it simply resulted from the understandable desire to have the issue settled to his satisfaction. “Thank you, sweetheart. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Be sure of it. I’ll talk to Robert and my aunts, write to your mother and grandfather, and see to the announcements. I’d like to put it in the
Bath Chronicle
.” He dropped her hands, extracted his pocketbook, and made a notation to direct Soames to write to the paper. A choking noise interrupted him.

Sophie stared at his face, her lips pursed in a dismayed oval. His jaw clenched. He should have known it wouldn’t be this easy.

“Now what?”

“Do we have to tell anybody yet? This is all so sudden and unexpected. I really would like a few days to grow used to the idea before I have to talk to anyone about it.”

“Sophie—”

“It’s just that I would like to keep it between us for a time.” She gently smoothed down the front of his waistcoat. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Just the two of us, and nobody else to share it with? You know how people will gossip once they find out.”

She stretched up and pressed a small kiss on his chin. He grimaced, knowing full well he was being managed.

“Fine. We’ll keep it to ourselves for now. But I’ll decide when to talk to Robert and my aunts.”

“Of course. Whatever you say.” Her lips curved into a tiny, satisfied smile, as she cautiously allowed herself to relax into the circle of his arms.

Simon had to repress a laugh as she snuggled against him. Of course she would try to manipulate him. After all, it was in her nature to do so, and he was happy to indulge her if he could. A few days to themselves wouldn’t make a difference—in fact, he rather relished the idea—and he could still tell Russell about their betrothal.

Besides, Sophie would learn soon enough that when it came to manipulation, he had mastered the game long ago.

What in heaven’s name had she done?

Sophie gazed at her reflection in the pier glass of her dressing table. She didn’t look like Bath’s latest version of the village idiot, but her actions suggested otherwise. Why had she agreed so readily to Simon’s marriage proposal this morning? Every instinct within her had whispered—nay, shrieked—out a warning. He had been too determined, too…purposeful. Simon would never marry her simply because of some old-fashioned, ridiculous sense of duty to their families. Would he?

No. She knew Simon. Something else was going on, but whatever it was still eluded her and she needed time to puzzle it out—away from him. Every time he touched her, or looked at her with that hot gleam in his eyes, she felt as if she would faint—just like some idiotic heroine in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s dreary novels. And, blast the man, he knew it, and had no compunctions about using her feelings to manipulate her, just as he had today.

She winced as she recalled her own naiveté. Of course she should have expected his proposal the minute he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. Everyone knew Simon would rather shoot himself than create a scandal, and toying with the affections of an unmarried girl was scandalous behavior indeed—even more so under his exacting code of conduct.

“There, miss, you look pretty as a picture. I’m sure all the fine gentlemen at Lady Penfield’s party will be falling all over themselves to dance with you,” said Sally, Lady Jane’s maid. The young woman smiled with satisfaction as she inserted the last pin into Sophie’s new coiffure.

“Thank you, Sally.” Sophie inspected her image. The maid had arranged her thick mass of auburn curls into an artfully disheveled twist, with strands of tiny crystal beads woven throughout to catch the light. A few tendrils drifted in silky disarray around her neck and shoulders. “You’ve done a splendid job.”

“You have lovely hair, Miss Stanton, if I do say so myself. If only you would remove your spectacles. Not that you don’t look almost perfect, even with them on,” Sally added hastily.

Sophie wrinkled her nose. The last thing she needed was to spend another night stumbling around a ballroom or unintentionally snubbing her friends. In any event, Simon didn’t seem to care whether she wore her spectacles or not, so she might as well keep them on.

She rose from the dressing table, making another check of her new cambric gown in the cheval glass set against her bedroom wall. The delicate fabric, in a pale shade of buttercup yellow, swirled around her slight figure. An emerald-colored sash wrapped softly beneath her breasts and fell in fluttering ribbons to the hem of her skirts. The dress, as her modiste had promised, was the height of fashion, and gave her an elegance she so often lacked. Her grandmother’s diamond earrings also added a hint of sophistication, something she obviously needed now that she might become a countess any day.

Her stomach lurched at the thought. She took a steadying breath, then turned to collect her pale yellow gloves and velvet cloak from Sally. She might look almost perfect, but she felt tired as a pair of old boots and dreaded another evening of loud conversation in overheated rooms. Even worse, she would have to face Simon and pretend that nothing earth shattering had just happened between them. How she hoped to accomplish that miracle, Sophie had not the slightest idea.

She hurried down the stairs to join Lady Jane. Lady Eleanor hated evening parties, and had already retired to her bedchamber.

“Besides,” Lady Eleanor had bellowed at dinner, “Eugenia Penfield is the greatest bore in Bath, and that’s saying something. I can’t stand all that caterwauling from the violins at her balls. No, thank you. I shall have a cozy evening at home and take myself off to an early bed.”

Lady Jane, comfortably settled in the carriage, smiled as Sophie climbed in. “I know it’s foolish to take the coach since we are only going to the Crescent. But it’s so chilly in the evenings that I can’t abide the thought of a chair.” She arched her brows as she ran a discerning eye over Sophie. “My goodness, you look especially lovely this evening, my dear. You’re wearing your grandmother’s diamonds. This must be a more special evening than I anticipated.”

“Oh, you…you are too kind, my lady.” Sophie hoped the shadows in the coach hid the blush creeping up her neck. Did Lady Jane already know Simon had made an offer? If he had broken his promise to keep silent, she would strangle him before the evening was out.

After only a few minutes, the vehicle rumbled to a stop in front of Lady Penfield’s majestic townhouse in the Crescent. James handed Lady Jane and then Sophie onto the pavement, the wind from the heights snatching at their hoods and whipping their cloaks around their bodies. They hurried up the short walk of the house into the small but elegant entrance hall. Lady Penfield and her husband stood at the top of a polished oak staircase, waiting to greet their guests.

“Lady Jane, Miss Stanton, how delightful! The weather is so dreadful tonight. I vow the wind is enough to send me into a decline. I told my dear Penfield that my nerves are continually shredded by the howling tempests up here on the Crescent.” Lady Penfield, a tiny woman wearing an enormous red silk turban, tittered merrily, apparently delighted by the state of her nerves. “It will likely be the death of me, but the aggravating man refuses to listen. He would insist that we take a house up here instead of down in Laura Place. For the life of me I can’t imagine why.”

“If I may remind you, my dear,” huffed the portly and obviously corseted Earl of Penfield, “you were the one who insisted we rent in the Upper Town. Over my objections, I might add.”

“Oh, nonsense. I said no such thing,” her ladyship giggled. “Do go in, my dears. The music will be starting any moment. Miss Stanton, you look lovely tonight, although why you will insist on wearing your spectacles is something I cannot imagine. Perhaps I should talk to your mother about it the next time I see her. You are going into your fourth Season, you know. We don’t want you moldering away on the shelf now, do we?”

“Thank you, your ladyship.” Sophie’s teeth already ached from clenching her jaw, and the evening had barely started.

“You mustn’t mind her,” whispered Lady Jane. “She has no children of her own, and so must fuss over everyone else’s.”

Her godmother swept her into the ballroom, sparing the need for more conversation with their hostess. Perhaps if she were careful, Sophie could avoid Lady Penfield for the rest of the evening. If only she could avoid everyone else at the same time.

Mr. Puddleford emerged from behind a screen of potted plants where he had obviously been lying in wait. “Miss Stanton, I’ve been wondering when you would grace us with your presence. I have been most eager to procure your hand for the first dance.”

“Oh, Mr. Puddleford.” Sophie dredged up a weak smile. She glanced about the spacious room as the violins scraped out the first notes of “Lady of Pleasure.” Where was Simon when she needed him?

Lady Jane waved her away. “Go ahead. I see Mrs. Hughes across the room. I haven’t spoken to her in an age.”

Sophie resigned herself to the inevitable. Placing her hand in Mr. Puddleford’s, she allowed him to lead her into the set.

He beamed as they made their way through the intricate figures of the dance, clearly delighted to be in her company. She sighed when he squeezed her hand as they moved down the line. Poor Mr. Puddleford was such a nice man. Not ill-looking, and he worshipped the ground she walked on in his own absent-minded way. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him instead of Simon?

As they made the turn at the bottom of the room, Sophie looked at her partner’s round, good-natured face and knew she could never go through life with a name like Mrs. Puddleford.

She was a shallow creature indeed.

After what seemed an age, the set came to an end. As Mr. Puddleford bowed over her hand, she furtively scanned the room, hoping to see either Simon or her brother.

“Miss Stanton, perhaps I could persuade you to step out onto the terrace with me. I’m sure you must be hot after your delightfully graceful exertions on the dance floor. There is something most particular—”

“Look! My brother and his wife. Come, Mr. Puddleford. I’m sure Annabel will have some pressing questions about her orchids.” Ignoring his spluttering objections, she stuck her arm in the crook of his elbow and pulled him across the dance floor.

“Hallo, sis. Looking in prime twig tonight.” Robert grinned at her before turning his attention to her escort. “Puddleford. Can’t seem to go anywhere without running into you these days. Extraordinary.”

Robert imperiously inspected the older man through his quizzing glass, doing his best imitation of a protective older brother. Sophie bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. Her brother must be taking lessons from Simon in the art of aristocratic bad manners.

Mr. Puddleford glanced uneasily from Sophie to Robert, shuffling his feet as if his dancing shoes had just shrunk a size.

“Mr. Puddleford. How nice to see you again.” Annabel shot a warning glance at Robert while extending her hand to the widower.

“The pleasure is mine, dear lady.” Mr. Puddleford bowed solemnly over her hand.

“The next set is forming, and I so long to dance. Robert refuses—it is so aggravating—and I see all the other men are engaged. Won’t you take pity on me?” When Annabel turned on her full battery of charm, no man—not even one bent on proposing marriage to another woman—could refuse her.

“Delighted, of course.” He gallantly offered Annabel his arm. With a lingering glance over his shoulder at Sophie, Mr. Puddleford allowed himself to be pulled into the set.

“Ain’t she magnificent, Soph?” The smile returned to Robert’s face as he followed his wife’s progress down the room. “She certainly pulled your bacon out of the fire, old girl.”

Sophie finally let her laughter bubble out. “You are fortunate, Robert. I truly don’t think you deserve her.”

“I don’t.”

At the earnest, almost reverent tone of his voice, Sophie’s amusement faded. Simon would never feel that way about her.

Almost as if her thoughts had conjured him up, Simon strolled through the double doors of the ballroom. Clinging gracefully to his arm, attired in a shimmering, cream-colored silk dress that clung—just barely—to her ample bosom, was Lady Randolph. Sophie blinked in disbelief. Only Lady Randolph would have the nerve to wear a color normally reserved for debutantes, and use it so well to magnify her astonishing sensuality.

Heads turned all over the room as Simon escorted the countess through the crowd. Many of the men wore expressions of avid appreciation and curiosity, while more than one matron’s countenance froze into lines of open disapproval. The unmarried ladies stared greedily at Simon, most of them not bothering to mask their envious resentment of the woman on his arm.

Sophie struggled to keep her fists from clenching into her skirts. Her chest grew tight with the effort to contain the hatred for Lady Randolph that pulsed through every vein in her body. She could hardly breathe, and for one moment she wondered if she might hate Simon too.

“That woman is a menace,” muttered Robert as he glared at the countess. “I swear I’ll never speak to Simon again if he marries her. I really thought he’d given her up.”

“But I thought…” Sophie broke off when her voice croaked.

Her brother cast her a guilty look, clearly having forgotten her presence beside him.

“Nothing, Soph. Spoke out of turn,” he said hastily. “Don’t listen to me.”

She gripped his arm, wrinkling the rich burgundy fabric of his sleeve between her fingers.

“Tell me.” She stared Robert right in the face. He flushed the color of old brick.

“Annabel would have my hide if I discussed such a thing with you.”

“Robert, I’ve been out much longer than Annabel,” she said through clenched teeth. “I need to know. Are Simon and Lady Randolph…are they still having an affair? All the gossips said it was over months ago.”

Her brother eyed her with a doubtful expression, then looked at Simon and Lady Randolph as they chatted with Lord Penfield. The countess stood on tiptoe to murmur something in Simon’s ear. He tilted his head to listen, a brief smile touching his lips.

“Doesn’t look like it’s over to me,” Robert said gloomily.

Sophie closed her eyes as the floor pitched beneath her feet. She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was the only person in the room whose ears were suddenly filled with a loud buzz.

“Sophie!” Her brother’s sharp voice recalled her to her surroundings. “What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you look like this.” His usual cheerful drawl was laced with worry.

She forced herself to speak past the lump in her throat. “Robert, why do you dislike Lady Randolph so much?”

He grimaced. “She uses people, without a care how it affects them. I can’t explain it, but I swear when she talks to me I can feel the ice dripping down my back. She’s like that crazy Italian woman from that dusty old history you made me read. You know which one I’m talking about.”

“Lucrezia Borgia?” Sophie blinked, astonished that her sweet-natured brother would compare Lady Randolph to such a monstrous woman. “Surely you can’t be serious?”

“That’s the one. You don’t know, Soph, and I can’t tell you some of the things I’ve heard. Not idle gossip, either, but from someone…” He cut himself off, then gave her a sharp look. “Just take my word for it. Stay away from her. And if Simon knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away from her too.”

“Oh, Mr. Dash! You do say the most amusing things.” Sophie swiped another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Don’t I just.” Nigel Dash eyed the glass in her hand. “Miss Stanton, don’t mean to throw water on your head, but don’t you think you’ve had enough champagne?”

“Absolutely not.” Sophie took a healthy gulp from the delicate crystal goblet. The bubbles didn’t tickle her nose nearly as much as they did two glasses ago. In fact, she was quite beginning to like champagne.

Almost as much as she liked Nigel Dash. She’d always been fond of him, but until just an hour ago she’d never noticed how attractive he could be. When she peered at him over the top of her spectacles, he really looked quite handsome. Perhaps if she drank another glass of champagne he might become almost as handsome as Simon.