Song for Sophia (20 page)

“I will call for breakfast.” He grimaced, “And now I want to clean my teeth. And I missed my morning walk and chess match with Martin. And I need to send a wire to Lancashire.”

“Carry on. Don’t mind me.” Sophia arched her back, stretching on the bed. He watched, his eyes making slow progress from her ankles to neck. She couldn’t quite make out what he muttered. “What was that?”

He still stared, making her self-conscious. Sophia closed her eyes and rested. At times she forgot about his condition, and other times she realized how it enslaved him.

“Symmetry,” he said absently after several minutes. “One-point-six-three, only eight-tenths of a percentage point deviation from the Golden Ratio. Virtual aesthetic symmetry, as you probably know.” She opened her eyes from a light doze to find him looking apologetic. “Fibonacci, and all that. And I like your underwear.”

Sophia furrowed her brows and a smile pulled her lips. Quoting a mathematician to poeticize her beauty? “Go clean your teeth, Wilhelm. And send my breakfast.”

“You are beautiful. Lovely. Exotic like a flamenco dancer.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“You hardly care, don’t you?”

“On the contrary, I am likely the most vain woman you will ever meet.”

“I think you like it better when I flatter your mind. It is true you are the most clever woman I know.”

“Then which man of your acquaintance is more clever?”

“Touché,” he chuckled. “You are by far the cleverest
creature
I have ever met; man, woman, or animal.”

“Then I shall concede, against my better judgment, that you are the most devilishly handsome and desirable man in all England.”

He hummed. “And it pains you to do so?”

“Exceedingly.”

• • •

“Martin, I believe I am capable of taking care of Wilhelm for two weeks.”

“I thank you kindly, my lady, but my lord needs me.”

Sophia reached for the stack of linen shirts the same time as the butler. She tugged the shirts out of his hands then wished she hadn’t as her ribs protested. “As his bride, it is in my best interest to keep him out of his clothes by turn, and properly dressed when warranted. I vow to guide him accordingly.”

Martin appeared to debate whether or not he dared grab back, they glared a mutual challenge, then his mouth twitched in an almost-smile as he conceded. He packed Wilhelm’s shaving kit and blurted, “I know your mother.”

“What you mean to say is, you recognized me months ago yet granted me a boon. Thank you, Martin.”

“I served under Colonel Duncombe — before he was Lord Chauncey — in the Twenty-Third battalion.” Martin, the consummate domestic professional, betrayed no opinion of this.

“I am sorry to hear it.”

He twitched a ghost of a smile again.

“You can say it, Martin. No one loathes my father more than I.”

“I wouldn’t mind sending him to hell, ma’am.”

“There is a long queue for that.”

“Do have a care, my lady. Months ago we sent the investigators away with false information, but then Vorlay recognized you and betrayed us. A sly one, Chauncey is.”

“I can outwit my father, I have done it before. What concerns me is Wilhelm.”

“Aye, he will guard you with his life.” Martin chortled and stacked folded silk drawers in the trunk. “
Iron Wil
, we called him in the army — Puts his mind to it, good as done. That, and he has eyes for no woman, no matter how comely. Excepting my lady of course. Fond of you, in his own way, ma’am.”

If only
. “He is a good man, that is true.”

“Do take good care of my lord, ma’am. Not the sort to suffer his displeasure in silence, and your diversion keeps the growling to a dull roar, if you catch my meaning, ma’am.”

“I will do my best, but as you observed, Wilhelm does as he pleases.”

Mrs. Abbott knocked on the door and brought Sophia a telegram, accompanied by a sour expression that showed exactly what the housekeeper thought of housemaids who made themselves countess. Sophia wanted to tell Mrs. Abbott she agreed it was atrocious, but she represented Lord Devon now, and such an apology would insult him.

“That will be all, thank you Mrs. Abbott.” The housekeeper dropped in a curtsey far too low and formal, which Sophia ignored.

She opened the telegram and read from Lady Lambrick, her co-conspirator writing from neighboring Somersetshire:
Congratulations Lady Devon. Stop. I have your mother here safely. Stop. Chauncey is livid, suggest you go abroad. Stop. I will make the best of godmothers
.

Wilhelm came through the door, short of breath. “Good, you are dressed. Sophia, we must go. Are you ready?”

She waved the telegram. “What have you done?”

“What?” He appeared genuinely unaware.

“A note of congratulations from Lady Lambrick. Oh, and she thinks she is godmother to our baby.”

Infuriating man, his lips twitched in a smile. “Yes. Well, I needed a liaison, for information. Including your name — all five of them, now six — for the marriage license. And I thought you wanted your mother looked after.” His tone implied Lady Chauncey was not so bright, an unfortunate but fair assessment. Helena Duncombe would have made a better wood nymph than viscountess. “I may have encouraged your friend’s matronly ambitions in the process.”

Her conscience nagged through her irritation, suggesting she should thank him for protecting her mother. Thoughtful of him. But making such a promise? “Superb, Wilhelm. We have my father, Aunt Louisa, and now Lady Lambrick, all fighting over a baby who will never exist.”

The moment she complained, she wished her words forgotten. He had to know it was the truth, but her unkind phrasing struck him; she saw it. He flinched, and a crestfallen look came over him before he arranged his features in a neutral expression. Oh no. He wanted to be a father, secretly hoped for it. What had she done, marrying him?

He said politely, with flinty eyes, “I will sort it out later, Sophia. I have asked for your trust, and that includes not questioning my judgment.”

Riddled with guilt, she didn’t have to heart to start a quarrel. She fought the tears blurring her vision and swallowed hard, devastated by the memory of the hurt she had seen in his expression. It would haunt her tonight, perhaps for years to come. “I am so sorry, Wil.”

Sorry for all of it.

Chapter 17

When The World Proves Far Too Small A Place

“St. Agnes, here it is,” Wilhelm announced to no one. Even Sophia slept, her head cradled in his lap, which did little to cool his interest. If the fates were kind, she would have her way with him tonight, although if it went over so easily he’d eat his boots, because nothing ever came easily. Not for him.

He had been watching her closely, scrutinizing her manner, trying to discern if the hint of innocence about her was genuine or the expert renditions of an actress who knew how to tempt. Now that he decided he wanted to go to bed with her, he could think of nothing else.

Of course that only brought maddening speculation about the men she had taken to her bed before him. How many? What were her tastes, and how in hell could he please her when she was accustomed to sophistication and experience?

Weighing on his mind was Roderick, his late older brother, a losing bettor in the game of roulette promiscuous people played. He paid for his indulgence with raging cases of syphilis and consumption. A gruesome combination, to slowly rot from both the outside and internally. The harrowing memory had kept Wilhelm chaste all these years; pleasure women all had the same empty vapidity in their eyes. But not his Sophia. She burned white hot, like a smelting fire.

Foremost, Wilhelm wondered if Sophia had been violated by Lowdry or Vorlay or both. He didn’t think he could bear to hear the tale if she had. And since she had been ill-used by men, could she even manage bed sport with him, or would she panic? Flail and scratch, making him feel a rapist, no matter how gently he attempted? To fail at being her lover … .

And I do not love you
, her casual words echoed in his head, tormenting him. So if his attempt to bed her went poorly, he had what to fall back on? Her friendly regard? Hope that her need for protection would keep her at his side? That rang false, even to his subconscious. She had that legal document tucked away somewhere, the signed bill of annulment — his constant reminder that she expected him to muddle it up, that nothing tied her to him.

Not that he had an aversion to steep odds, but this was uncharted territory for him.

The dog gave a sharp bark, trotting along outside the carriage. Wilhelm saw Fritz pause and sniff the air, following a trail to the side of the road. He twitched and whined, waiting for permission to scout. Wilhelm whistled, ordering the dog to move along and follow the carriage. So he had gypsies in his woods again, according to Fritz.

Sophia squirmed and groaned, likely discovering how impossible it is to sleep with damaged ribs. Another reason he should keep his hands off her. Boorish of him to expect her to be amorous when she still recovered from a violent attack.
You idiot, Wilhelm
. Calling her wife should satisfy him. And it would, even if it killed him.

She woke stiffly and he helped her sit up. She watched out the window, and he waited for her reaction to the hedge-lined drive, ancient rosebushes in bright orange and fuchsia. Thousands of petals reflected the golden sunset, making them seem to glow with flames. She didn’t sigh in appreciation as he expected. Her face peaked, her brows furrowed, and when the cottage revealed its ivy-covered rustic splendor, the color drained from her face. He thought she mouthed,
Oh no
.

“What is it, Sophia? Are you ill?”

Her eyes darted to the others, still sleeping. She leaned to his ear and whispered, “I have a confession to make, Wil. You will be so angry … .”

Angry? He was too busy preening — she had called him
Wil
again, and it would keep him afloat for hours. “I doubt it.”

“I have been here, years ago. With my mother.” She seemed to expect a reaction from him. “Because she came with
Roderick
.” She added dutifully, “God rest his soul.”

He had no placating response on hand. “Are you certain?” She shook her head slowly, not in denial but resignation. “That would have been … . ” He couldn’t think of anything inoffensive to say. Even allowing his brother’s twelve years’ seniority over him, still an eyebrow-raising number of years in age separated Helena Duncombe and Roderick Montegue.

Sophia looked out the window as the carriage rolled to a stop before the front entrance. “Saints, this is embarrassing.”

“What, that my brother rogered your mama in this very house? Not at all.”

Sophia made an indignant squawking sound and pinched his side, which he liked. “Then you are not upset?”

He could not resist teasing her. “Not if you will be rogering
me
in this house.”

Aunt Louisa made a deliberate cough, alerting them to their audience. “What a charming cottage, Wilhelm,” she scolded. “Ages since I have seen a thatched roof and Bavarian doorways.”

Sophia closed her eyes, a forbearing yet mortified expression; Aunt Louisa had overheard their bawdy exchange.

Wilhelm carried his sleeping nieces one by one upstairs to their room, lost in his memories. The others thought he had fallen into a trance and let him alone to think. He remembered being sixteen years old, lounging impatiently in a country villa, wishing he could go out riding. The dusky Madrid breeze brought the sound of
that
song drifting through his window from the courtyard below; the singer would have been Helena Duncombe. It had drawn him like a siren call, the way it had months ago when Sophia sang it in the woods.

Wilhelm combed his memories for anything of a young Sophia. As suddenly as the first memory came, another settled in his mind, finally connected: Another visit a year later in the same countryside near Madrid. He saw a young girl on horseback approaching the villa, her long dark hair flying in the wind as she rode a spirited roan mare at a wild gallop. He watched her cut across the field, jumping over the fences. She seemed too young to be riding so dangerously, and he followed her anxiously until she made the stables in safety.

He called for her attention and scolded her for being so careless. “I should tell your mother,” he threatened.

He remembered when she turned around; he startled to see that the girl was not so young as he had first thought from a distance, tall and already blooming womanhood. Thirteen, perhaps fourteen, and he a few years older.

She shot him a patronizing glance with a haughty raised eyebrow and stalked toward him with her finger pointed at his chest like a weapon. “You will do no such thing,” she ordered.

“That horse is sixteen hands — a fall would break your pretty little neck.”

“I fall off horses all the time. Even from a Clydesdale. No harm done.”

He snorted in disbelief, enjoying her bristling, but then she sidled even closer, making him swallow hard. “And in the dark you might have misjudged a step and lamed the horse.”

“A sure-footed, gentle beast if I ever met one.”

“Lilith? She is young and temperamental, only half broken. Too spirited for children.”

The young Sophia scoffed and looked skyward. “Perhaps she just doesn’t like
you
.”

“She is
my
horse!”

“And I don’t like you either.” Her tone dripped with condescension, but then she glanced at his mouth. “You are meddling, ungracious, and a gangly
boy
.” She sounded as though being male was the worst of his offenses.

“And you need a sound spanking.”

There! She did it again — dropped her gaze to his mouth. She stood so closely, her chest grazed his with every inhalation. Wilhelm held his breath as she leaned closer, closer, and for an awful moment he thought she would kiss him. His instincts screamed
danger
!

Autumn-hazel eyes; old-soul-eyes, with the burning strength and passion he would recognize years later. Fearing he would be snared into a trance, he shifted his gaze to the faint trail of freckles spattered across her nose; it reminded him of her age and his advantage, which he should not exploit. He shifted his weight, waiting for her to do something.