The Reluctant Countess (8 page)

“Good for her,” Patrick approved, pushing aside the thought that he had not behaved honorably to Sophie himself last night, yet his advances had not been repelled, had they?

“While Myles was groaning in a very unmanly fashion on the floor, I took the countess’s hand and pulled her with me back into the ballroom. She was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears, I handed her my handkerchief, and by the time we reached the ballroom she was once again in control.” Stephen hid his smile as Patrick growled again, sounding like a large dog about to attack. Bidders leapt from his lap and danced around on his hind legs, barking in excitement. “I told her that I would tell no one of what had just taken place and then I returned her to Lady Carstairs, and that irritating, impudent friend of hers, Miss Pette, and left.”

Stephen took another fortifying sip of whiskey at the thought of Amelia Pette; she was like a small splinter of wood stuck under his fingernail—not overly painful, but bloody irritating.

“I will destroy the little bastard!” Patrick roared, regaining his feet and stalking to the door and back.

“A very strong reaction for someone who professes no interest in the fair countess, Colt,” Stephen said.

“Why is Myles intent on threatening the countess when he received a title upon her husband’s death, which comes with both wealth and influence?” Patrick wondered out loud, choosing to ignore Stephen’s comments. “It makes little sense. I came upon him talking to the countess one day on the street. He was yelling at her about his inheritance and how she had cheated him out of it.” Patrick picked up a piece of discarded paper and hurled it into the fire.

Watching its progress, Stephen was deep in thought.

“Did the old goat actually do the right thing by the countess then and leave her some property and money?” he asked.

“So it would seem. Obviously, her son is now the earl, but I believe we need to do some digging, my friend.”

“Why?” Stephen inquired, sitting back and sipping his drink, his face the picture of innocence, but those blue eyes held a wicked twinkle.

“Must you always challenge me?” Patrick sighed, which Stephen knew was false. Patrick was rarely tired. In fact, he slept less and worked harder than any man Stephen knew.

“Of course. Were it not for me, you would be surrounded by ‘yes’ men who would never gainsay one word or order you gave,” Stephen said.

Patrick glared at him, stalked to the door, and wrenched it open. “Fletcher!” he bellowed.

“My lord?” The servant materialized as if by magic before his master.

“We are to be plagued by Viscount Sumner and his pesky pet until he grows a backbone and returns to his town house. Please arrange a room for him.”

“Sad but true,” Stephen said in a mournful voice from behind Patrick.

Patrick rolled his eyes at Fletcher, then ordered some food and returned to his chair by the fire.

* * *

Looking out the carriage window, Sophie observed the many sights and sounds of the city. Even after the weeks she had spent exploring London, she was still stunned at the noise. Sellers yelled out encouraging descriptions of their merchandise. Carriages clattered, and horses sprayed mud and left manure all over the streets.

Over the past few weeks she had begun to enjoy her short trips from Letty’s town house, and the surge of independence that came with it. Amelia accompanied her when she could and they would visit Mr. Draven’s shop and often bought something to add to their collections. Amelia always pushed Sophie to purchase a doll’s house, but Sophie still felt a bit silly over her hobby and said that she would purchase a house when she found the right one.

She had been glad to escape the house this morning. She had woken sweaty and heated after a night tossing and turning; her dreams had been filled with sensual images of Lord Coulter doing wicked and wanton things to her. She had washed, then hunted Letty down in the breakfast room, where she had asked, argued, and finally pleaded with Letty to let her and Timmy leave London, but Letty had stood firm. They would not leave until the end of the season and for once, she would not back down. Sophie could push the matter no further without giving herself away, without telling Letty about a certain dark and dangerous earl and the effect he had upon her.

The problem was that he made her lose all of her hard-won control—something it had taken her months to find. Sophie felt as if cracks were beginning to appear in the veneer she had carefully erected to protect herself. Of course it was entirely his fault, the arrogant and deeply disturbing Lord Coulter. He had seen her knickers while she did a handstand, and he had seen her perched on a narrow ledge as she tried to escape the vicious tongues of the women of the ton. And if those events weren’t bad enough, he had also seen everything that she had taken great pains to hide from society, her insecurities and her fears.

“Oh lord,” Sophie groaned. Even here, away from prying eyes, she was blushing at the thought of her reaction to his kisses. He made her body feel like a flickering ember that would ignite with a mere touch. She must stay away from him, as he could endanger the position she held in society and that could hurt Letty, and that she could not allow. He could unearth her secrets, because when he was with her she felt so very unlike herself, with all her wits scattered about her feet.

A loud scream jolted Sophie from her thoughts. The carriage stopped suddenly and along with her maid Jenny, she tumbled off the seat onto the floor. Struggling to rise, Sophie heard a ripping sound as she pushed back the brim of her bonnet. Reseating herself, she noted that the hem of her gown was now torn and one of the ribbons of her bonnet had come loose. Flinging it onto the seat, she told Jenny to stay in the carriage and then opened the door and stepped out, determined to find out why they had stopped.

“What seems to be the problem, Robbie?”

“Don’t rightly know, S … my lady,” he said, standing on his toes beside her trying to look over the small crowd that had formed before him. “Appears to be some sort of commotion up ahead. Perhaps you should wait in the carriage and I will move us on as soon as the way is clear.”

Ignoring Robbie, Sophie walked around him, trying to get a clear view of what was happening.

“Oh dear,” she whispered as her eyes fell on a young lady lying prone on the ground. It appeared no one had come to her aid and instead all were looking at the poor woman. Pushing through the people, Sophie rushed to her side.

“Here now, my lady, you must move back,” a short rotund man said, although he appeared to be making no move to aid the prostrate woman.

“Nonsense, this woman obviously needs help. What has happened?”

“My carriage struck her. Of course, the stupid girl walked right out in front of it. I hope there is no damage to my phaeton, only had it a week.”

Stunned at such insensitivity, Sophie felt her anger rise. She was well aware of how the English treated their servants, having been one for most of her life. Swallowing the retort that had sprung to her lips, she turned her back on the man and instead looked to the girl who needed her help. Crouching down, she studied the pale face before her.

“How long has she been like this?” Sophie ran her hands lightly over the girl, trying to find an injury. The young woman was very cold, her clothes torn and ragged, and her hair matted.

“A few minutes? Long enough to make me late for an appointment,” the pompous oaf said from over her left shoulder.

Sophie ground her teeth and fought for calm. This man was an insensitive clod; he cared nothing for this poor girl, and all because she was from beneath his class.

“You struck her with your carriage and you are blaming her for missing an appointment? I find that extremely insensitive and ill-mannered, sir,” Sophie snapped. The girl winced as she reached her head and her hands found a large lump that appeared to be bleeding.

“Now see here, I will not be taken to task by some schoolroom miss!”

“Robbie!” Sophie called and instantly he was beside her.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Send me Jenny, and I need blankets, Robbie, and anything else you can find that might give this poor girl comfort. Now, Robbie,” Sophie added as he hesitated to leave her side.

“Yes, my lady,” Robbie said, reluctantly moving toward the carriage.

Sophie started looking around for something to stop the blood and her eyes fell to the man who had knocked the girl down.

“Give me your handkerchief now!” she demanded.

“M-my hankerchief certainly not,” he said, clutching his pocket and taking a step backward.

“What is all the commotion, Scully?” Patrick said, leaning out of his carriage window trying to see what, or indeed who, was making all the noise.

“Seems to be a lady, your grace,” his driver, who was also craning his neck to see what had caused the disturbance, replied.

Patrick wondered if he should have followed his earlier inclination and stayed in bed. Scalding his chest by spilling his morning coffee on it had bloody hurt, and was hardly an auspicious start to the day. He had then found that Bidders, Stephen’s scruffy little dog, had chewed the buttons off his favorite waistcoat and vomited them up all over his bedroom floor. Stephen had told Patrick this was a compliment of the highest order, because Bidders did not chew just anyone’s clothing. Fletcher, his butler, had then informed him of his youngest cousin’s latest escapade, which involved a married woman and a hasty retreat through a bedroom window, which had left the naughty cousin in bed with a swollen foot.

“And what, Scully, is said lady doing?” Patrick asked his driver, striving for patience.

“Actually two ladies, my lord. One lying very still and the other appears to be tending to her in some way.”

Patrick heaved a disgusted sigh, something he rarely did, but the gesture seemed to fit the moment better than any other. Unfolding his legs, he stepped down from his carriage. It seemed his lunch would not be forthcoming if he did not remove whatever obstacle blocked his path. Glaring at his driver, who still sat on his perch eyeing the scene before him, Patrick stalked to where a large group had gathered, and pushed his way through.

“What the hell is going on here?” he barked at the rotund gentleman who seemed to be doing nothing but scowling. Below him, a lady, obviously hurt, was being tended to by another lady who had her back to him.

“Silly chit walked in front of my carriage, now she refuses to wake up. Probably thinks I’ll hand over some money if she continues with this farce for long enough.”

“You … you bloody insufferable, ill-mannered clod! H-how dare you speak of this girl as if it were she who caused this!”

Patrick blinked. He knew that voice even if it was shrieking loud enough to drown out a dockside whore. Had she really just cursed in public? His eyes studied the fall of black curls trailing down the slender if somewhat rigid spine before him. Yes, it was definitely Sophie, Countess of Monmouth, kneeling in the dirt before him. It seemed that every time he left his house lately he found her in a position from which she needed help extricating herself. He studied the simple white muslin dress she wore today. Part of the hem was torn and trailing behind her. The sight of two small leather soles peeking out from beneath the dress produced a pain in his chest, which he immediately credited to the beef he had demolished for breakfast.

“I believe I asked for your handkerchief, sir. I have need of it to stop the blood that is currently flowing from the wound your carriage inflicted on the young lady’s head!”

Patrick felt his lips twitch at her curt tone. He had never heard Sophie speak this way. Her voice was calmer now, although it still held threads of anger, which she was obviously making an effort to withhold. Taking the two strides necessary, he crouched beside her and held out his own handkerchief. “Will this help?”

“Lord Coulter!” Sophie gasped.
Why, why, why is he always the one to find me in an undignified position?
She pulled her eyes from his dark gaze and tried to focus on the task at hand. Holding out one hand, she did not look at him again as he passed her the soft, snow-white square of linen.

“Thank you.”

Turning to the girl who had woken and was now whimpering in pain, Sophie made small soothing noises as she gently dabbed the cut, which was oozing a slow trickle of blood. “It will be well, please remain still,” Sophie said, using her other hand to pat the girl’s shoulder as she tried to rise. “Can you tell me your name, my dear?”

“Ginny, Miss,” the girl whispered in a voice laced with pain.

Patrick moved to the opposite side so he faced the countess. He was in time to see the gentle smile she gave the girl. Her dimples flashed and the result was a tightening of every muscle in his body.
Bloody hell, Coulter, you would do well to remember that you are in a public street
.

“Well, Ginny, my name is Sophie and I would like to help you if I may.”

Sophie had instantly given her first name, which was puzzling; most of the women of Patrick’s acquaintance would never be so familiar. A slow flush crept into her cheeks as he looked at her. He raised an eyebrow and her color deepened. This was just another piece of the puzzle that was the Countess of Monmouth.

“M-my basket, Miss?” the injured girl asked.

Sophie looked at the basket where it lay strewn across the road; small brightly-colored threads and pieces of fabric were scattered everywhere. Getting to her feet, she placed her hands on her hips.

Patrick remembered those slender hips encased in emerald satin and how they had felt in his hands. The woman was a temptress, even here, dressed as prim as any young miss. He watched as she then pointed a finger at the man who seemed to be behind the woman’s injuries.

“You will pick up those things,” she said in a very stern voice that belied her soft feminine appearance, Patrick thought with a small jolt of pride.

“Or the Earl of Coulter and I,” she said, pointing first to Patrick and then to herself, “the Countess of Monmouth, will make it known that your behavior today w-was extremely ill-mannered and … and shabby indeed.” Sophie didn’t know what to say or how to take someone to task. She was usually the one on the receiving end of sharp words and orders, or she had been up until two years ago.