What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1) (2 page)

He glanced down at the necklace in his hand, the weight of its burden pressing down on his shoulders. Whatever problem Beaufort had, he could not get involved. Then he felt the familiar stirring in his chest, the thrum of excitement that always lured him towards dangerous and mysterious escapades.

Damn it.

The quicker his friend returned to claim the pretty necklace, the better.

Chapter 2

“Mr. Potts, I think he’s here, Mr. Potts.”

Sophie Beaufort watched the old woman scurry out through the door behind the glass counter and then continued to examine the box of ribbons.

“Your mother seems rather excited today,” she said, pulling out a length of red satin.

She did not need new ribbons, or threads, or buttons, but her regular walks to the village made the days seem shorter.

“She has been like it all morning,” Emily said shaking her head. “She thinks the marquess is going to come in and buy her whole stock of gloves. I’ve told her he probably buys all his apparel in London, but you know how she gets.”

Sophie swallowed a few times hoping it would help to correct the problem with her hearing. “I thought I heard you say the marquess,” she chuckled. She really was spending far too much time on her own.

“I did.” Emily bent down, removed another draw and placed it on top of the glass counter. “I know how you hate to tie it up, but I think the forest green would look wonderful with your ebony hair.”

Feeling an odd flutter in her chest, her mind oblivious to whatever it was Emily had just said, Sophie placed her hand on the counter and inhaled deeply through her nose.

“Why … why would your mother think that?”

Emily glanced back over her shoulder and then leaned forward. “Mother said it’s the least he can do. She’s spent the last six years moaning and complaining about him and there she was yesterday morning, a smile spread right across her face, waving her handkerchief at him as his carriage rattled by.”

A hard lump formed in Sophie’s throat, forcing her to swallow deeply. “The marquess has come home?”

“Yes,” Emily beamed. “Isn’t it wonderful? Lord Danesfield has returned to Westlands.”

“Wonderful,” Sophie repeated, fear and loathing hiding within that one feigned word.

Emily gave a teasing wink. “He’ll probably call on you today, what with you being his closest neighbour. Course, he’ll be expecting your brother to be home.”

Sophie’s stomach twisted into gut-wrenching knots as she recalled her last encounter with Sebastian Ashcroft. The image conjured was so real that she smoothed her hand down the front of her dress, expecting to feel the evidence of the dumpy fourteen-year-old girl.

“Just make sure there’s someone with you,” Emily said as her gaze drifted over Sophie’s hair. “You know what the gossips say about him. Though I don’t believe it myself.”

Sophie smiled and nodded in acquiesce: a bid to maintain her fragile composure. Her heart thumped violently in protest, desperate to tell the world that he was everything people imagined him to be: a coward, a rake, and a debauched fool.

“He’s here, he’s here. I knew he’d come,” Mrs. Potts said running up to the front window. She turned to Emily. “Don’t just stand there. Make yourself presentable, girl.”

Emily skittered over to the window. “Mother’s right,” she said as her eyes grew wide. “The marquess is here and he is heading in the direction of our shop.”

The world suddenly tipped off its axis and Sophie gripped the counter to steady her balance. Little lights flashed before her eyes and the room melted into a hazy mist.

Emily rushed over to her. “The marquess is here,” she said, her mother’s excitement obviously contagious.

Sophie thought to put her handkerchief to her mouth lest she catch it, but there was no danger of that. Excitement was definitely not what she felt.

She gripped Emily’s hands, the blood rushing from her face and pooling at her feet as though expecting an army of heathens to suddenly burst through the door. “I don’t want to see him,” Sophie cried. “You must hide me, Emily.” Fearing she sounded like a raving lunatic and in a bid to infuse an element of logic into her plea, she added, “I don’t want him to ask about my brother. I don’t want him to know I am on my own. At least not yet.”

Emily gave her a knowing look. “Well, there’s no sense in taking chances,” she said. “Quick, you can hide behind here.” She directed Sophie to the concealed dressing room, pulled back the red curtain and ushered her inside. “Wait in here until I come and get you. Mother is too busy flapping to even notice.”

Emily closed the curtain, leaving her alone in the shrouded space and Sophie could hear the heavy beat of her heart thumping in her ears.

The sound of scraping wood and the tinkling of a bell preceded the heavy thud of booted footsteps.

“Good day, my lord,” Mrs. Potts chirped. “May I say, what a pleasure it is to have you home at last.”

“Good day to you, Mrs. Potts. It is certainly a pleasure to be back.”

Sophie closed her eyes tight and placed the palm of her hand over her stomach in a bid to stop her traitorous body responding to the warmth of his tone, to the slow, purposeful drawl.

You hate him, she cried silently, chastising her fickle heart.

“Indeed, I am in desperate need of new gloves,” he continued, no doubt much to Mrs. Potts’ delight. “And I can see you have an excellent selection.”

In the small confines of her curtained prison, Sophie did not hear the rest of the conversation. Her mind drifted back to the study, to the young girl hiding behind the drapes desperate to hear more from the handsome buck.

“I will speak to Sophie,” her brother James had said. “Every time I turn around she is nipping at your heels like an annoying little dog.”

He spoke then and she remembered her tummy flipping somersaults. “That’s what country girls do, James. They are tedious and tiresome and will not rest until you die of boredom. I can picture your sister married to a vicar, listening to him drone on about the righteous and eating supper at six. She will sit with her hands in her lap and only speak when spoken to.”

James chuckled. “What you desire is someone more
seasoned
.”

“Precisely. Did I tell you about the lady I met in London recently? She had the sweetest mouth …”

Sebastian Ashcroft broke her heart that day.

And the irony of her current situation was not lost on her.

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

Her long black curls were tied loosely at her nape as opposed to the ridiculous knots she wore as a girl. Her slender, shapely figure no longer resembled an over-sized dumpling. No one thought her weak and insipid; the whole village knew her to be strong and fiercely independent. The silly little girl had grown into a woman and she did not need to hide behind curtains anymore.

With renewed confidence, she straightened her back, lifted her chin and threw back the velvet curtain. “The bonnet is divine, Emily,” she said striding out of the dressing room. “I shall call and collect it tomorrow.” As she approached the door, she could feel the heat of his gaze and he rushed forward to hold it open. She refused to look at him directly but decided to be civil. “Good day, Mrs. Potts. Good day, my lord,” she said, resisting the temptation to run all the way home.

Chapter 3

Sophie sat behind the large mahogany desk, staring at the crumpled pieces of paper scattered over its surface.

James should have been home over a week ago. Despite writing numerous letters to his forwarding address, she’d still not received a response.

She thought of writing to a great-aunt, but the lady never ventured as far as London. Then she wondered if James had met up with friends, but she didn’t know where to send her missive. They had a cousin in Kensington; though he enjoyed gloating over other people’s misfortunes and would turn what was no doubt a simple misunderstanding into something far worse.

Then there was Sebastian Ashcroft, the Marquess of Danesfield, known simply as Dane to his male friends.

She would rather walk the plank and dive into shark-infested waters than ask for his help. She would rather stand naked in a field dodging a shower of barbed arrows.

A loud rap on the door broke her reverie.

“There is a gentleman to see you, miss,” Rowlands said, struggling to hide his surprise. He extended his arm to offer the salver, the pristine calling card proof he spoke the truth.

A visitor?

Panic flared. He had decided to call.

Her heart fluttered up to her throat forcing her to gulp as her mind tried to rouse a coherent thought.

What on earth was wrong with her? Why wouldn’t the marquess want to visit an old friend? She did not have to invite him for dinner or partake in a lengthy conversation. Struggling to control the warm feeling blossoming in her chest, Sophie stood abruptly and snatched the card from the tray, expecting to see Dane’s pompous script.

She stared at the crisp white card for a moment, bringing it closer until it touched her nose. “Who is the Comte de Dampierre?”

“I have no notion, miss,” Rowlands replied, his expression somewhat vacant. “The gentleman did mention an acquaintance with his lordship.”

Sophie’s hand flew up to rest on her throat. “He is acquainted with the Marquess of Danesfield?”

A deep furrow appeared between Rowlands brows. “I was referring to your brother, miss, to Lord Beaufort.”

Her face flushed. Of course he meant her brother. Since Dane’s return her brain had turned into a wobbly pile of mush.

“Very well, you may show him in,” she said trying to hide her embarrassment. Perhaps the gentleman had come to offer an explanation for her brother’s absence.

Sophie could not recall ever meeting a comte before, though she must have done. When her parents were alive, they were always throwing house parties with all sorts of interesting and flamboyant guests.

Then a sudden sense of foreboding gripped her.

She could think of only one reason why an acquaintance would take the trouble to travel such a long way. Yet the thought was too bleak to contemplate.

Rowlands opened the door and stepped forward. “The Comte de Dampierre,” he announced.

Sophie could hear the slow, methodical thud from his heeled boots echoing along the hall like a death knell. When he entered, he kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead before coming to an abrupt halt a few steps away from the desk.

The gentleman was a walking monument to foppish fashion. The lapels of his green tailcoat were trimmed with black velvet, his cravat tied in a fussy, complicated style. The collars of his shirt finished just above his chin, creating a contradicting impression: one of flamboyancy yet utter rigidness.

The comte gave a dandified wave while his other hand gripped the silver top of a black walking cane. “Miss Beaufort. It is a pleasure to meet you, finally.”

His English was impeccable and while there was a hint of a soft French burr, his tone lacked the warmth his words implied.

Fighting the urge to cower under the desk, Sophie walked around to greet him. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his small pointed beard brushing over her skin, sending a cold chill through her body. As he straightened, his gaze roamed over her loosely tied hair and one corner of his mouth curved up in amusement.

Gently retrieving her hand from his grasp, Sophie gestured to the small seating area in front of the fireplace. “Would you care to sit? Rowlands will arrange for tea to be brought in.”

Rowlands bowed gracefully and walked out into the hall, taking care to leave the door wide open.

The comte’s dark gaze swept the room before settling on Sophie. “Your brother, he has told me much of your beauty, but I fear he has been modest in his appraisal,” he remarked, examining her body as though she wore the flimsiest of gowns and not a brown muslin dress.

Sophie wondered if all Frenchmen were so bold.

“You are too kind,” she replied taking a seat. “I must say, I am relieved to finally have news of my brother. In truth, I was beginning to feel a little apprehensive.”

He sat down and continued to stare at her, running his fingers over his bearded chin, sculpting it into a perfect point. His eyes were so dark they were almost black and she felt them bore right into her soul.

“Am I to understand that you have not heard from your brother?” he said. “That he has not … corresponded?”

“No. I have not heard or received anything,” Sophie said shaking her head. “I assumed you had brought news of him.”

The comte’s aquiline nose twitched and he ran his fingers over his chin once again. “Please forgive me for being the bearer of such news. But I fear the city does not suit him. A gentleman with such … weaknesses would be better served in the country, away from all temptations.”

“Temptations!” She could not imagine James in any sort of trouble. He was so honest, so reliable, so dependable.

“Do not worry that pretty head of yours. He has made his affairs known to me and I will assist him where possible.”