Sex and the Single Earl (19 page)

Sophie leaned back in her chair, enjoying the spectacle of Robert defending himself to his irate wife.

“Blast it, Annabel, why would I want to dance with Lady Hume?” he exclaimed, casting a furtive look at the rotund baroness as she stomped around her crowded drawing room.

Annabel gave him a steely-eyed glare. “Because she is your hostess and one of your mother’s oldest friends.”

If Sophie hadn’t been so angry with Robert, she would have laughed out loud at the hangdog expression on his face. But since she was still furious with him, she hoped Annabel would make him dance with every bilious old woman in Bath. And hoped his feet got thoroughly trod upon in the process.

“She’ll natter on forever about her beastly grandchildren,” he implored. “The woman is a menace, Belle. Honestly.”

Annabel simply narrowed her eyes. Robert made one last desperate appeal. “Besides, you know her breath is like the inside of an old boot. It’s enough to drive a fellow to Bedlam.”

His wife responded with an impatient tap of her foot, the silver beadwork on her slipper reflecting the light from the nearby sconce.

“Oh, all right.” Robert glared at Sophie. “I hope you know this is your fault, sis.”

She repressed the urge to stick her tongue out, instead giving her brother a sugary-sweet smile. He muttered a few choice words about sisters before stomping off to meet his doom.

“Finally,” breathed Annabel. “I thought he would never leave. He’s been trying to explain away his outrageous behaviour all day, and I just won’t have it.”

She leaned forward on the edge of her chair and inspected Sophie’s face. “How are you feeling, dearest?”

They sat in relative obscurity in the far corner of Sir Geoffrey Hume’s elegant, Chinese-inspired drawing room. Most of the other guests had bunched together at the opposite end of the room, outside the double doors of the adjoining saloon, where a small orchestra played country dances and the occasional waltz.

Invitations to Sir Geoffrey’s private balls were highly coveted in Bath. His champagne was excellent, the food superb, and the company refined. Sophie would have enjoyed visiting the sumptuously decorated townhouse in Sydney Place if her world hadn’t come crashing down earlier in the day.

She gave a slight grimace. “I’ll survive, Belle, I promise.”

Annabel heaved a sigh. “It’s so lowering to realize men can be such idiots. I thought better of Robert—and of Simon. Perhaps it’s best not to expect too much of them. That way one is bound not to be so disappointed.” She smiled encouragement at Sophie, as if her madcap logic actually made sense.

Sophie rolled her eyes at her.

Annabel sighed again. “I know. I wish I could say something that would make this horrible day go away.”

“Well, you can’t,” Sophie replied.

It was all she could do to get the words past the lump in her throat. Annabel’s sympathy somehow made everything seem worse. Her sister-in-law only meant to help, but Sophie was sick to death of thinking about Simon and the farce of her engagement. It was bad enough that she had to drag herself out to parties, worse that she had to accept the astonished congratulations that came with her altered state, and worse yet that she had to pretend to be happy about it. Even her teeth ached from the false smile she had plastered on her face all evening.

Sir Geoffrey sauntered up, the aging beau dressed impeccably as always. He executed a faultless bow despite his creaking corset. “Mrs. Stanton, may I have the honor of the next dance? Miss Stanton, I wouldn’t think of asking you to stand up for this set. No doubt you will want to wait until your fiancé arrives, eh?”

Despite the twinkle of genuine benevolence in Sir Geoffrey’s eyes, Sophie could barely resist the impulse to box his ears. It wasn’t his fault. The person who deserved a good, hard slap still hadn’t arrived. How typical of Simon to keep her waiting, even after such a dreadful day as this.

Annabel hesitated, loath to leave Sophie but unwilling to offend their host.

“Go ahead, Belle.” She conjured another smile. “I’m happy for the opportunity to have a rest before Simon arrives.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Annabel whispered as she took Sir Geoffrey’s hand.

Sophie eased her numb bottom to the edge of the pretty but hard beechwood chair, wondering how long she would have to wait before Simon bothered to show up. Once he did, she would make him take her home. Not that she wanted to be alone with him, but even that was preferable to an evening spent like an exotic insect under a magnifying glass.

The minutes ticked by as she watched the dancers through the double doors to the saloon. Engagement to the Earl of Trask seemed to have resulted in a strange combination of avid curiosity and precipitous abandonment. Even her middle-aged bachelors had been driven away by the news of her impending marriage

She twisted her favourite diamond bangle around her gloved wrist. Simon had sent a terse note promising to meet her in good time tonight, but he hadn’t made much of an effort so far. Was this a glimpse into her future? Always waiting for a man who cared more for everything else in his life than he did for her?

Maybe, she reflected with a sickening pang, he didn’t think she was worth the bother. She couldn’t decide which was worse—hoping Simon would grow bored with her and leave her alone, or fearing he had never really cared for her in the first place.

A pleasant male voice jerked her out of her gloomy reverie. “Ah, Miss Stanton. Why so glum? Surely no creature as lovely as you has cause to look so forlorn?”

Her stomach did a sickening flop. Where had Mr. Watley come from? She stiffened. More to the point, where was Lady Randolph?

“I find myself wondering where all your suitors are,” Mr. Watley murmured as he arranged his limbs in the vacant chair beside her. He smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his superfine tailcoat, then gave her a charming smile. “Surely they haven’t been frightened off by the prospect of your wedded state? Respectable men are such fools, don’t you find, Miss Stanton?”

Sophie couldn’t think how to respond. Was he flirting with her? Handsome men never flirted with her. She laughed uncertainly, not wishing to appear rude.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Watley. I only know respectable men.”

His pale blue eyes glittered. “We shall see what we can do to change that, lovely lady.”

He
was
flirting with her. But why would he bother? The latest on-dit had him attached to Lady Randolph, and they had certainly seemed friendly the other day in the Pump Room. Could his flirtatious behaviour be yet another attempt by the countess to humiliate her in front of half of Bath?

Her chest grew tight. As if today hadn’t already been bad enough.

She pretended to be Lady Eleanor, forcing herself to sound majestic. “I’m surprised to see you alone, Mr. Watley. Or is Lady Randolph in the other room?”

He arched his brows, looking genuinely surprised.

“No, Miss Stanton. I am alone. Her ladyship has other engagements tonight,” he said, giving the words a faint, bitter taint.

The muscles of her neck and shoulders pulled into hard knots. What did he mean by
other engagements
? Could Simon be with Lady Randolph right now? Surely he wouldn’t do that to her—not after today.

She shook away the gruesome thought.

“Her loss is my gain,” she said, affecting a bright tone.

He unleashed a charming smile. “My sentiments exactly, Miss Stanton.” His voice dropped to a low purr. “I say, don’t you find the atmosphere stifling in here?”

Now that she thought about it, it was rather stuffy. She nodded cautiously.

“I’m told Sir Geoffrey has a lovely conservatory—small, but elegant, and with some rare species of plants,” said Mr. Watley. “Perhaps I could tempt you into a brief stroll? I’m sure it will be worth the effort. His fuchsias are rumored to be some of the rarest in England.”

Sophie hesitated, not quite trusting the man’s motives. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the ebony sideboard. Almost ten thirty. And still no Simon.

“Come, my dear. What can be the harm? All we need do is step through the library, and there we are. Don’t be nervous,” he added with an outrageous wink. “I already know at least one of your secrets, and I have not betrayed you. Surely you can trust me to keep my counsel on something as harmless as a stroll amongst the greenery?”

A bland smile played around the corners of his mouth. He looked harmless. A voice inside her whispered not to trust him, but it was true he hadn’t revealed what he’d seen that night outside the theater. The night she’d taken Toby into Lady Eleanor’s carriage. The night Simon had proposed to her.

Simon.
The memory of their kiss in the alley brought a hot flush to her cheeks. Where the devil was he, anyway? He should have been here ages ago.

“I really should wait for my fiancé, sir,” she replied.

Mr. Watley’s smile grew knowing. “It would appear his lordship has other amusements this evening. Why should you not have a few of your own? Surely you don’t desire to sit against the wall all evening with the spinsters and widows, do you?”

His gentle taunt wormed its way past her defences. What could be the harm? It wasn’t as if they would be leaving the house, or going out into the gardens. Not on such a cold night. And the muscles in her neck
had
twisted into an impossibly hard little knot, which would no doubt lead to a headache. Perhaps a nice, relaxing turn in the conservatory would do her good. If Simon deigned to appear while she was strolling with Mr. Watley, well, so much the better.

She silenced the warning voice in her head and rose from her chair. With a gently triumphant smile, Mr. Watley extended his arm. As far as Sophie could tell, no one saw them leave the room and go across the hall to the library, which was unfortunate given her growing desire to avenge herself on Simon.

They crossed the shadowed library to a pair of double doors leading to the conservatory. She paused as they crossed the threshold, her eyes widening with genuine delight.

Sir Geoffrey’s conservatory was a compact but elegantly designed half-dome of metal and glass with a tessellated floor of black and white tile. Pots and tubs of varying sizes—some made of stone and others of polished wood—had been packed into every corner of the room, all filled to overflowing with exotic flowers and plants. Oriental fuchsias nestled alongside chrysanthemums, camellias, and geraniums. An orange tree in a stone pot stood in the center of the room, a dozen pieces of ripe fruit hanging from its well-tended branches.

“How beautiful.” For a moment she forgot her anger at the world. “Mr. Watley, thank you for bringing me here.”

“I am overjoyed you are pleased,” he replied, escorting her to a wooden bench next to the orange tree. “But nothing in this room compares to your astonishing beauty.”

Now
that
was a bit much.

She peered at him, her spectacles slightly misted by the moist air of the conservatory. Men like Mr. Watley could spout flowery compliments as easily as they breathed. After all, flattery was a dandy’s stock in trade. But he did seem to be gazing at her intently, with a gleam in his eyes that made her shift uneasily on the hard bench. Perhaps allowing him to bring her to this secluded place had been a little unwise.

Her discomfort soon faded, replaced by boredom as Mr. Watley kept up a relentless stream of compliments about her hair, her gown, her figure—really, that was getting a bit warm—and, finally, her graceful deportment. When he compared her to one of the graces of classical antiquity, she could barely stifle a giggle. No one had ever called her graceful before, not even the middle-aged widowers.

Mr. Watley clearly didn’t sense her growing restlessness. In fact, he had moved closer on the bench, close enough for Sophie to discern the extra padding in the shoulders of his formfitting coat. An image of Simon’s massive shoulders—naked and corded with muscle—leapt into her mind, causing a strange weakness in all her limbs. Compared to that of her erstwhile fiancé, Mr. Watley’s physique was that of a youthful stripling.

Sophie blinked as her companion’s thigh brushed up against her gown. She was about to suggest they return to the drawing room when he grabbed her arms and planted an alarmingly enthusiastic kiss on her lips.

No man but Simon had ever kissed her like that before—and Simon’s kisses were altogether in a different category. For a stunned moment she allowed her curiosity to run away with her. Emboldened by her acquiescence, Mr. Watley gripped her tightly and tried to slip his tongue between her lips.

A sour taste of revulsion surged in her throat. She choked and pushed against his chest, her gloved hands slipping against the silk front of his waistcoat.

She wrenched her mouth free. “Mr. Watley! I insist you take me back to the drawing room immediately.”

The dandy’s fingers dug into the soft flesh above her elbow-length gloves. His eyes glinted with a lecherous ardour. “You needn’t play coy with me, sweet Sophia. We both know why you let me to bring you in here.”

He bent and tried to reach her lips once more. Sophie dodged, banging the top of her head against his chin. He cursed, grabbing for the nape of her neck, his other hand pawing at her waist.

Panic bolted along her nerves. She swiped at his arm, teetering over the back of the bench. No one had seen them come in here. No one would come to her rescue. Should she scream?

She righted herself, pushing at Mr. Watley with all her strength. He gasped out a strangled cry and toppled sideways—straight into the orange tree which, along with Mr. Watley, went crashing to the tiled floor.

Sophie jumped up and raced for the door, leaving the hapless dandy in a tangle of broken tree limbs, shattered pottery, and a small pile of dirt. A lone orange dangled over his head, as if someone had carefully placed it there. A second later the fruit dropped from the limb and bounced off Mr. Watley’s forehead. He whimpered.

“I suggest we keep this unfortunate incident to ourselves, Mr. Watley.” Her breath came in a pant, but she strove for a dignified tone. “You may know my secret, but if my fiancé ever discovered your…your impertinence, things would go very badly for you indeed.”