Sofia rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘I should be going. It’s been a long day.’ It had been a wonderful day, too, once she’d gotten past the morning quarrel. Already, that seemed ages ago. ‘My lord, if you wouldn’t mind showing me the way to the Dower House, I will go and get settled in.’
The Viscount offered her his arm, his grey eyes merry. ‘I will do better than that. I will take you there myself.’
‘Your family is lovely,’ she said once they were out of doors. The spring evening was just past dusk and little lamps lit their path. Bullfrogs from one of the ponds croaked nearby.
‘They liked you, too.’ He laughed. ‘You were so worried they wouldn’t. But,’ he said with utter seriousness, ‘we have to get one thing straight before any of this goes further. No more of this “my lord” business. Here at Everard Hall I am Conall. My title is for London, not for home.’ He slid her a sly look. ‘You can relate, I am sure, Sofia Northcott.’
They laughed together over the little joke and she was struck again by how easy it was to be with him. He was affable without being silly, intelligent without being stuffy—that much had been evident today in his description of the wool industry. It was a potentially intoxicating combination. A woman might waltz with the affable gentleman, but she’d marry the man who knew how to run his estate. There was more security in intelligence than there was laughter. This man had mastered both. If she was ever looking to marry again, she would look for such a man. But she wasn’t looking for marriage. Besides, what man would want to marry her? No man of quality married a woman as ruined as she.
‘Tomorrow I will show you my sources for the research,’ he offered as they reached the Dower House. A homely lamp burned within, bathing the night in a soft, golden light and a footman opened the door as they approached.
‘Welcome home, ma’am. Your trunks have been unpacked and your bed has been turned down. Annie, the maid, has seen to it.’ It was about as perfect as an evening got, right down to this.
She turned to her escort and tried it out, finding it came naturally to her. ‘Conall, thank you for today and for this evening.’ The words seemed inadequate. How could she possibly convey to him how touching it was to be part of a family again, if only for a short time?
He left her then and she made her way upstairs to find everything as expected: the soft linen sheets turned down on a sturdy, carved-oak tester bed, her cotton nightdress laid out, her brushes set out on the dressing table and the young maid waiting to help her. They were simple pleasures, to be sure, for a marchesa who’d had a whole complement of servants to wait on her and a suite of rooms done in enough gilt to rival Versailles. Those luxuries had paled against the cost extorted from her to have them. In the end, they hadn’t been near enough compensation to make her stay.
Sofia dismissed the maid and took up a vigil on the window seat, savouring the quiet sounds of evening. Tonight had been full of other, less tangible luxuries: the luxury of honest companionship, laughter among people who cared for each other, time spent without worrying over judgement. And it couldn’t last. Today had been a fantasy. She could not forget that. She’d been brought here for a purpose: to assess the wisdom of backing the importation of alpacas. She was not an honoured guest, no matter how Conall Everard’s family treated her. They didn’t know her. If they knew the depth of scandal that surrounded her, they would rethink their welcome. She knew that to be empirically true. She’d watched it happen in London. Even her own family had washed their hands of her. In the three years since she’d been back, they had not sought her out once. After their first refusal to see her, she had not bothered to give them her Chelsea address.
And yet Conall had not been thwarted by her past. He had brought her home, introduced her to his family, shown her every courtesy of manner a gentleman showed a lady. He’d given her the perfect day. Her conscience began to stir, her sceptic’s armour began to rouse. It whispered a reminder: nothing was perfect. No one was perfect, not even Conall Everard. When something looked too good to be true, it probably was. Why had he gone to the bother? Why had he given her the perfect day? Why was he willing to overlook her shortcomings? Certainly the money was part of it. He wanted an investment partner. He needed her money.
Sofia twisted a strand of hair around her finger. The best way to solve puzzles was with questions. What happened if he didn’t get the money? Would his experiment simply be tabled for a while? What would tabling the alpaca experiment mean for him? Noblemen dabbled in all sorts of whims. But being knowledgeable about the alpacas suggested this was more than a whim to Conall and she’d noted his commitment to the project before when they’d talked at Cowden House. But how much did he truly need this deal to succeed? What happened if it didn’t? Did he simply move on to the next item that interested him?
Sofia shut the window, her hand lingering on the latch. Her instincts told her that wasn’t the case. He needed this desperately. She shut her eyes and sighed, seeing now in hindsight what she hadn’t seen earlier, perhaps because she simply hadn’t wanted to. Illusions were potent that way. Conall Everard needed the money enough to put on quite a show today with his exposition of Taunton history, tea with his mother, a tour through the gardens and a memorable evening. And he’d been very persuasive doing it: catching her eye over dinner, offering her a smile when no one was looking, a light touch here, a hand at her back there.
It wasn’t just the charisma of himself that he’d harnessed. There were other things, too. The setting. Had he guessed how such a day would affect her? She’d like to think not. She’d like to think Conall hadn’t orchestrated the day and she’d like to think she wasn’t so easily read or manipulated. But two things were clear as she headed off to sleep on sheets of finest Irish linen, sheets that didn’t come cheaply. Conall Everard was wooing her approval with all the resources at his disposal from smiles to Irish linen and crystal vases. And, he was using the same strategy to hide something.
She’d nearly overlooked it amid the little treats of today, all the gifts he’d put in her path. But tonight, with the clarity that came from being alone, she saw it plain. Today had been too perfect, Conall had been too affable, his family too accepting. They’d asked her none of the usual questions. She knew what secrets looked like. She had them herself and she hid them in the same ways, secrets that went beyond the shame of her divorce. Secrets she’d go to great lengths to hide and to protect. They were dangerous to her freedom, her Achilles heel. Everyone had one, of course. The question was, what was Conall’s? What was it that he didn’t want her to see?
Chapter Eight
Conall paced the wide bay of the library window, watching the rain dissipate and trying not to watch her with her pale-gold hair put up in a twist that left a few wisps to frame her face. It was a rare woman who pored over reports about alpacas for hours and jotted notes in the margins with the same enthusiasm his sister, Cecilia, devoured the latest feminist tracts from London.
Conall could not recall reacting to a woman so thoroughly in ages, maybe not ever. Certainly he’d not reacted this strongly to Olivia and certainly he’d not expected to still be reacting to Sofia Northcott this way after so much time spent in her company; fourteen days in all if he counted London. One would have thought the newness of her presence would have worn off by now. Wasn’t familiarity supposed to breed contempt? If so, it had failed miserably in his case.
If anything, familiarity had enhanced the sensation of her. He was keenly aware when she entered a room. Her presence electrified the space, gave it energy. Even his family noticed. Evenings were more entertaining with Sofia among them. She played backgammon with Freddie, sang and turned pages at the pianoforte with Cecilia, when they weren’t avidly discussing women’s rights. She stitched with his mother. She fit in very well among the Everards. Of course, that had been the plan. She was supposed to. But it didn’t seem like artifice to Conall. He had to tread cautiously here and not get sucked into his ow
n illusion.
As for himself, he spent his days with her in the office, watching her go over the alpaca research while he pretended to conduct estate business from his desk. He might be behind on answering correspondence, but he had her face memorised down to the most intimate details of its design: the delicate curve of her jaw, the pert snub of her nose with its faint freckles across its bridge, the curved pink shell of her ear, the ashy sweep of her lashes.
He’d had a lot of time to notice. She had been at those papers every day since they’d arrived. She came up to the main house in the morning after breakfast and left in the evening. He’d done well the first day, giving her the space and privacy she needed to explore his sources and his conclusions without crowding her. But he’d not been able to stay away.
He attributed it to the suspense. What did she see in the reports? Was there something he’d overlooked? Was there something that worried her, that might affect her decision to fund the mill? He wanted to be on hand if she had questions. She had very few and he hoped that was a good sign. It was really too late for doubts. The alpacas were here, tucked away in his fields, waiting for the summer shearing, which would be meaningless if he didn’t have a mill. It had taken everything he had to get them this far.
The clock was ticking, bringing with it a bittersweet conclusion to their association. Sofia had worked at a feverish pace to assimilate the information. He should want her haste. The faster she invested, the sooner he could breathe easier and the sooner Sofia could leave Everard Hall before she detected the ruse or before her scandal could touch Cecilia’s chances for a good Season next year. He should want all those things, but he resented the cost at which those things could be obtained. Once this was settled between them, she’d leave. The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest. Evenings would be less merry without her.
There was a rustle of papers and skirts, a sound that carried a sense of finality to it. She was done with her perusal. Conall turned from the window with a smile, hoping to look relaxed and confident. ‘Well? Is all in order or is there something else I might provide you with?’
She laughed and rose, stretching. ‘I don’t think I could read another page.’ She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I think I know everything I need to. You were very thorough.’ Her gaze went beyond him to the windows. ‘What I do need, though, is fresh air. I think the rain has stopped long enough to permit it. Why don’t you show me the alpaca?’
* * *
Conall had the gig out front by the time she’d gathered her gloves and hat. He would take her further interest as a good sign. Surely, she wouldn’t be asking to see them if she thought the animals were a poor investment.
‘I have acreage enough for seventy-five alpaca,’ he told her as they drove. ‘That amounts to one acre per five animals. There is more land available if this proves to be a success.’
‘Seventy-five?’ The surprise was evident in her voice. ‘Isn’t that a bit ambitious?’
Conall shrugged, trying to appear unbothered by the hint of alarm. ‘Hardly. Alpaca can be sheared every two years, so my thought is that a herd should be sheared in a staggered rotation. There has to be enough wool every year. Otherwise, production of alpaca woollen goods wouldn’t be consistent. There’d be an on year and an off year.’ He furrowed his brow, puzzling through the logistics. ‘It could be done, I suppose. The mill could alternate the wool it processed every other year.’
‘But the profit wouldn’t be as great,’ she concluded for him. ‘With seventy-five alpaca, you’d have the chance to turn a profit within the first year.’
Conall nodded, relieved that she saw the merit in his strategy. Still, he was asking for a large sum in order to take a large risk, a mill devoted to the production of alpaca wool. They reached the fields and he put on the brake. ‘The estate has five fields left over after some tenants moved on to greener pastures, shall we say?’ He chuckled. ‘We will be able to rotate the herd between them. There should be plenty of grass for forage and it’s supplemented with hay and grain.’ The dream was near, he could almost touch it. To be foiled now would be devastating on multiple levels. He’d gambled everything on this.
Was this how his father had felt? Euphoria at the prospect of success mixed with gut-clenching worry over the possibility of failure? And then those ventures had failed, over and over again, each one eroding the family coffers a bit further. Was this how it had started for his father? One gamble that was sure to pay off? Only it hadn’t. Instead, it had created a need to seek another investment and then another.
Conall flexed his hand at his side, reining in the emergent panicked anger that so often accompanied thoughts of his father these days. He was not his father. He had done his research. This was a safe bet. He hoped Sofia didn’t see through him, through the carefully constructed ruse of financial solvency. They’d put out every luxury to show Everard Hall and the family at their best. Would it be enough?
Sofia smiled at him, her blue eyes thoughtful. She was contemplating things, weighing the costs and benefits of all she’d read and all she’d seen. ‘Help me down, I want to walk and while we walk, talk to me about the alpacas. Can they only be used for wool?’
‘You’re thinking of supplementing our income.’ Conall came around to swing her down, aware of how light she felt in his arms, the faint scent of basil and thyme in her soap, fragrant and sophisticated, but not heavy like the floral scents worn by other women of the ton. This scent was uniquely her.
‘There’s the milk, which I believe is similar to camel’s milk.’ Conall offered his arm as they strode through wet grasses. ‘I have a friend, Sutton Keynes, with whom I’ve been corresponding. He has a small camel dairy. The milk is good for young thoroughbreds. Alpaca milk would be a similar product we could market to the racing stables. There would be the alpacas themselves once the herd is established. They can be bred and we can sell alpacas to other interested buyers.’
He paused to sneak a glance at her. He was using ‘we’ on purpose, already assuming she would come alongside. It was usually a good persuasive strategy. How was it working today? ‘And, of course, we could always set up an alpaca syndicate. I had hoped to use the Prometheus Club to do that, but after we’ve established our base and people see how successful it is, we can run our own syndicate of investors. Cost and profit sharing benefits all parties involved and it’s more efficient than one man on his own.’
‘You’re a man with vision. I like that.’ She gave him another of her smiles and it warmed him. He was enjoying this, talking with her, discussing business. She made a man feel comfortable in her presence, like he could be himself as opposed to a pattern card of some outmoded notion of a gentleman. Was that ease what had drawn Wenderly, or had he seen only a beautiful woman alone?
A loud bray interrupted the conversation as they approached the fence. ‘I think we’ve been spotted.’ Conall nodded proudly towards his herd, placidly spread about the acres, grazing.
‘What is that sound supposed to be—a baa or a neigh?’ Sofia laughed at the noise.
‘They sound a lot like camels, actually. At least they look a lot cuter than camels.’ Conall grinned. ‘All seventy-five made the voyage successfully.’ Voyages were hard on animals. His alpaca had arrived underweight, but he could fix that with a few weeks of extra grain.
‘They are adorable.’ Sofia studied them, her head cocked as she took in their long necks. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them.’
‘I want you to meet one.’ Conall pulled her forward, pouring some grain into her hand. ‘Cup your palms like this,’ he demonstrated, holding them up to the fence rail.
She followed suit, laughing when a few bold alpaca pushed their soft noses into her hand and nibbled. ‘They’re like horses and camels and sheep all rolled into one, maybe a giraffe, too, with those long necks.’
‘They are. The ancient Incas used them as pack animals in the moun
tains. They’re sure-footed like Scottish mountain goats. But their species is related to the camel. They’re both camelids.’ He laughed. ‘And you’re not wrong about the giraffe part either. All three, the camel, the giraffe and the alpaca’s ancestor, the guanaco, are from the order of mammal, artiodactyl.’ He was waxing scientific in his enthusiasm. Was it the alpaca that brought it out or was it Sofia? The way she listened, the way she laughed, as if this was the most enjoyable experience she’d ever had, walking the meadows and talking of alpacas.
She slid him a teasing, sly look. ‘Is this what you read about in your pamphlets and treatises? Artiodactyls?’
‘Why, yes, it is. Pigs are artiodactyls, too, so it’s not just exotics,’ he informed her with a playfully exaggerated air of a scholar. ‘Do you want to know what else I learned?’ He slipped between the rails of the holding pen and took an alpaca by its rope halter. He led it up to the rail where she could pet it. He ran his hand down the alpaca’s side. ‘Feel here. This outer layer is coarse, it’s the guard hairs. Now feel here...’ He dug his hands into the thick coat a bit deeper. ‘This is the fleece we want. Do you feel how soft it is?’
‘Oh, it’s wonderful!’ Sofia sighed, then frowned, worry in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t hurt them, does it? To lose their coats?’
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story Page 8
