by Katy Madison
"I had in mind that Sophie carries my blood, albeit through my father's sister."
"Are you hoping she whelps a boy before your demise? That still will not get you around the rules of primogeniture." Keene had spoken with solicitors, too. His father's title had to pass through him. There was no way for him to renounce his right to the title before it was his. Now, there was no need.
Keene raised his glass to his lips and remembered with frustration it was empty.
"I have decided you shall marry your cousin, or I will have you charged with attempted murder."
Keene stared into the empty glass. The last time he had seen Sophie she had been sitting in a tree spitting cherry pits. She hadn't been that young, either. At least fourteen or fifteen. She was a hoyden. She ran through her father's house. She laughed too loud. Once he even heard her swearing at an uncooperative fence gate. He shuddered and swallowed hard.
A year ago he would have laughed. He would have stuck to his guns that he would never marry. Certainly not that awful, unruly girl. Not marrying had been the one sure way he could give his father what he wanted. "If that would please you, sir."
His father guffawed.
Not the expected response.
"What happened to your pledges of eternal autonomy? Were you not the one who said fifty horses could not drag you to an altar?" asked the old man.
Had his father hoped he would chose exile? "That was when Richard was my heir."
Lord Whitley's eyes sparkled with a dewy glitter.
Keene stood and crossed to the brandy decanter. He poured a glass full and downed it in practically one swallow. "I am standing here in my dirt." He pulled the bellpull. "I shall attend you at dinner, where you may inform me of particulars. I assume, as I am willing to do your bidding, that you will see fit to allow me the wherewithal for a wife."
"That's it, you sniveling cur. You would marry that girl for the money."
Keene brushed his sleeve. No, that wasn't it. "I am sure that I could find a much more suitable and demure heiress who would accept my suit. Sophie is your choice, is she not?"
Keene moved to the door; fortunately, the butler arrived to show him to rooms he hoped had been prepared for him.
He dreaded the coming evening. Without Richard, who had loved them both, to buffer them, it would be an ugly business.
The next day he eagerly climbed into his carriage to travel to the Farthings. As he drew out into the lane, he laughed, realizing he was so glad to be free of his father he actually anticipated seeing Sophie again. He could hope that someone had taught her the meaning of the word demure in the last few years.
* * *
Sophie hitched up her skirts and skittered down the hall. She would have run, but she feared her footfalls would be overheard. Her thin slippers made little sound against the thick carpet. She ducked into her room, pulling the door shut ever so gently.
"Oh, miss—"
Sophie jumped and hit her head on the door.
"—you are wanted in the drawing room."
Sophie rubbed her forehead. "Lord, Letty, you gave me a fright. I didn't know you were in here."
"I was sent to fetch you."
"I'm not going. I saw Squire Ponsby's carriage. He'll just ask me to marry him again, and I'll have to say no. Then there will be nothing but unpleasantness for the rest of the day."
"Please, miss." Letty wrung her hands.
Who was foolish enough to send her maid to fetch her? Letty wouldn't have any more success than if one of the carp from the fountain had come calling. Sophie kicked off her slippers. She reached for a pair of shoes and sat on the bed to put them on. "Just tell them that I have gone out and you don't know where."
"Please, miss. Your mother said I had two minutes before she would come herself."
That was why they had sent Letty. She was to stall Sophie long enough so her mother could find her. Sophie dropped her shoes and sprang off the bed. "Oh, Ludcakes."
"There is another visitor coming to see you."
"Dash it all. Is it the vicar? Because I tell you, if he proposes and I refuse, I shall be damned to hell."
"Miss, please."
Sophie hardly knew if Letty was protesting her language or her sentiments. She was too busy pacing the room, looking for a hiding place. Her mother would check the wardrobes, and Letty wouldn't be able to contain herself if Sophie hid under the bed. Sophie's gaze fastened on the windows.
"I just can't take another proposal, Letty. Papa is so sure that I am about to wither and die on the vine at the grand age of one and twenty that he encourages any remotely eligible man to propose. Do you remember the widower from Cornwall, Sir Gresham? Papa led the poor man to believe I should be glad to entertain an offer."
Sophie threw the casement back.
"What are you doing, miss?"
"I'm going out."
Letty wrung her hands. "It's three stories down."
"I won't fall. Don't give me away."
Sophie hoisted a stockinged foot up to the sill. There was a ledge of sorts running between the windows.
"They'll see you."
"I daresay neither the squire nor the vicar would look up. The squire might get a crick in his back, and the vicar's collar is so stiff it should saw a hole in his head. I shall be fine."
Sophie suffered a moment's qualm as she stared down at the half-circle drive in front of the house. Better to not look down at all.
"Sophie, darling, you must come to the drawing room," called her mother from the hallway. "If you hurry you might change to the peach dress."
Uh-oh. Sophie nearly hated that gown. Almost every time she wore it, her parents would plunk some poor besotted fool down in front of her. She turned and backed out through the window, her stockinged foot searching for the ledge. Her skirts and petticoats hampered her hasty departure. She pulled them up far enough to get her knees on the sill and made a lunge for the ledge beside the window.
The door clicked open. With desperate fingers, she clutched the mellow brick and inched sideways. Oh Lord, what if she fell and broke her neck? Why, then she wouldn't have to fend off suitors. She closed her eyes, resisting the temptation to peek.
"Sophie, where are you? Letty, isn't she here? The footman downstairs thought he saw her heading toward her bedroom."
Sophie could just picture Letty's slow shake of the head.
"Have you checked the wardrobe? I know she was in the house."
"I believe she went outside, ma'am."
Good girl, Letty.
Heavens, why have you opened the window?" said Sophie's mother. "Shut and latch it now."
"Yes, ma'am," mumbled Letty.
Sophie watched in horror as her maid shut the window and lowered the catch.
TWO
Keene paused his horse in the driveway. The pale brick of the Farthing house was a soothing sight, until he caught sight of the upturned petticoats and drawers on a young woman backing out a window three stories up.
Sophie.
He heaved a deep sigh. Before he expelled it fully, his breath snagged in his throat.
Surely the news of his impending arrival and proposal hadn't prompted her to leap to her death. When he had her alone, he would explain that she could refuse his suit. A small hope surged through him. Certainly his father could find no fault with him if Sophie rejected him. He trotted his horse toward the house, hoping she didn't fall in front of him. He hesitated to call up to her for fear he would startle her.
The wind whipped her petticoats and long blonde curls. From what he could see, she had a rather nice form, not that he liked the idea of his future wife displaying her backside to the whole countryside. She straightened on the decorative ledge. Her full skirts settled around her ankles where they belonged. She inched away from the window.
Whatever she had in mind, leaping wouldn't have required a move away from the casement. Walking along ledges was probably her preferred method of traveling between rooms.
Keene shook h
is head and walked his horse around back to the stables. A waiting groom took his reins. Earlier in the day, he had sent his carriage ahead to inform them of his arrival. His father had also included a letter, which Keene presumed contained news of his suit. Upon entering the house, he was led to the drawing room.
His father's cousin Jane Farthing quickly embraced him with a happy greeting. "I'd like you to meet our neighbor, Mr. Ponsby."
Keene bowed slightly to the robust man sitting on one of Jane's delicate chairs. The chair looked like it might disintegrate into matchwood at any moment. Jane gestured for Keene to sit.
"Mr. Ponsby is the local squire."
"How d'you do?" The squire shifted thick legs stuffed like sausages in his broadcloth knee breeches. "Pray tell, have you located Miss Sophie yet?"
"I am sure she is just taking a constitutional. I've sent her maid to search the orchards. She will be sad if she misses you." Jane perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs.
"The gel needs a couple of children to occupy her so she hasn't the time to gad about the country at whim," said the squire peevishly.
Keene drew up stiff. Who was this unmannerly man to comment on Sophie's behavior? Not that he was terribly wrong, but criticism should be reserved for family.
Keene brushed his sleeve and said negligently, "I daresay children should not require a great deal of Sophie's time. I'm sure she might discharge her daily duties to their nanny in the space of a quarter hour. Although I am told one can be done in less time."
"Quite right, sir, quite right," blustered the squire, taking the not-so-subtle reminder of their difference in stations with ingratiating grace. "I have missed her these last few times I have come calling."
"We are looking for her. I have sent my maid upstairs to search. I haven't even had a chance to inform her that Keene is to join us."
So it wasn't on his account that Sophie was impersonating ivy on the house.
The squire ran a work-calloused finger under his cravat. Keene flicked his gaze over the brocade embroidered waistcoat and tight tailed jacket the squire wore. Although his clothes were clearly of the country, he was very well dressed for an afternoon social call, but he looked uncomfortable, as if the clothing sat ill on him.
"Mr. Farthing assured me he would speak with her," mumbled the squire.
Jane's eyes widened. "I'll just check again." She reached for the bellpull.
Keene settled on the sofa.
The squire had the ruddy complexion of a man often outside. He looked as out of place as a rusty plow would among the myriad polished rosewood tables scattered around the room, ready to trip up a man of the squire's stature.
"Do you hunt, sir?" asked Keene.
The squire looked uncertain, as if a trap lay ready to spring on him. "Why, yes."
Keene relaxed. "Farthing finds such amusements trivial." Jane's husband found most entertainment frivolous. The man should have been a minister rather than a country gentleman. Although many might have found his sermons on life too dour. "Perhaps you might indulge me in a day of grousing during my stay."
"Shall you be here long, sir?"
The conversation digressed into a discussion of hunting, while Jane made several inquiries of her servants as to Sophie's whereabouts, all to no avail.
Keene doubted she still hovered on the ledge of the house. Although the cherries weren't in season, he had no doubt she was somewhere she shouldn't be and wouldn't be found until she was ready.
He suffered a momentary qualm as he remembered once pulling her out of the river behind the orchard and another time freeing her dress from a fence that had her feet dangling uselessly above the ground.
Disappointment covered the squire's face when he finally took his leave.
"Oh, dear." Jane sank back into her chair with a sigh. "I have no idea where she's hiding."
Keene resumed his seat on the sofa. "Is she hiding?" Or was she still clinging to the side of the house?
"I presume. She and Mr. Ponsby were great friends. They often rode together. Of late she avoids him like the plague."
Had all the upstairs rooms been checked? "What happened?"
"Mr. Ponsby proposed. Sophie should be married. Of course, you know that. And, well, Mr. Farthing and I thought . . . they seemed to enjoy each other's company. Mr. Farthing has been seeking her settlement for several years. She never likes any of the men he has set before her."
So the girl was not without prospects. Although Keene could imagine the dour men Sophie's father would choose as potential husband material. He suspected they would be grossly offended by the notion that she displayed her drawers to the countryside, not that he cared for such behavior.
"I don't recall her being brought out."
"Oh, no! Mr. Farthing objects to the London season. He thinks all that indulging in gaiety, the balls and such, should be quite bad for her. Sophie is far too frivolous as it is."
Frankly, Keene didn't understand his cousin-in-law's Quakerish bent. Most girls of Sophie's station were settled with a London season. He supposed even a hoyden like Sophie would be satisfactorily engaged if she had done the rounds at Almack's and been presented at court. He shifted in his seat. What if Sophie still clung to the ledge?
Jane leaned forward and patted his hand. "I am so glad your father and you have offered a solution to our problem. I know that Sophie was ever fond of your visits as a child. And of course, we all will miss Richard dearly."
"We all will miss Richard."
Richard's death was still too raw and new. Keene turned his head and tried to ignore the tangled lash of emotions. He forced himself to think of Sophie, while Jane squeezed his hand.
Sophie had probably enjoyed Richard's company more than his own. They were nearer in age and played together during their yearly summer stays. Keene had done his best to shake off her presence. Although a strong urge to find her and make sure she was still of sound body and not a stain on the cobblestones of the drive was making it difficult for him to sit still.
"So has Sophie refused Mr. Ponsby?"
"At first when the squire approached Mr. Farthing, we thought—well that it would be a misalliance, but she is . . ." Jane smiled brightly. "I am so glad you have come. I do wish one of the servants would locate her."
So did he. He dimly registered Jane's concerns. On some level he knew that if Sophie's parents were so anxious to be rid of her, it must be worse than he thought. Keene stood. "I daresay I shall see her soon enough at dinner."
"Oh, dear, I'm sure you wish to rest from your journey."
He had no need to rest as he'd spent a leisurely morning at a nearby inn allowing his carriage and servants time to announce his arrival and give Jane enough time to be ready for his visit. But he did need to assure himself that his future bride was not plunging to her death due to some negligence of his own.
* * *
Sophie clung to the bricks as the cool wind whipped her skirts and hair. Cold seeped through her toes until she wasn't sure they were agile enough to see her back along the ledge. She couldn't stay outside forever. She inched along the ledge to the next room to see if the windows were unlocked. All the while she cursed her foolhardy way of avoiding Mr. Ponsby.
Trouble was, she was fond of him, but not nearly fond enough to want him as a husband. But Ponsby was like a dog with a bone. Once he got the idea in his head that they should marry, short of her marriage to another, he couldn't see any objection to it. Especially since her father encouraged his fixation. As if her female mind was fluid and it only required catching her at the right tide.
Sophie had no real opposition to marriage. She had pleaded and begged for a season, promising to bring a gentleman up to scratch. What she really wanted was a chance to see London, to dance, to dine in state, to live the life she was born to. Of course, her father detested all manner of indulgences and even the local subscription balls were off-limits.
As the rough surface of the bricks tore at her hands, Sophie swore to her
self she would marry the first man who offered her the opportunity to go to London. Trouble was, her father, while he meant the best, sought perfect upright men, the sort of men who made Sophie want to scream in vexation.
She might need to start screaming soon. The windows of the next room were locked.
Where was Letty?
"Might I be of assistance?"
Sophie whipped her head around and suffered a momentary lurch of her stomach as she contemplated the long drop from the ledge. Slipping now, when help stood at hand, was a real possibility.
Leaning out a window several rooms down, her cousin Keene watched her.
She stared as if he was an apparition. Maybe he was. He hadn't visited in an eternity. Only, if she was seeing ghosts, his brother Richard would be the one to appear.
"Don't fall," he said in his usual calm, almost bored, tone. While his warning confronted her greatest fear of the moment, his smooth deep voice soothed her.
He appeared at her window so fast she would have thought he ran, except she had never known Keene to run to her rescue. Instead, he would fold his arms across his chest and wait until she begged for his assistance and he'd sufficiently scolded her for needing help.
He opened the casement and reached out, tucking his arms around her and pulling her inside where her toes could curl against the thick Aubusson carpet. She wanted to hold on and sob against his chest. "Oh, thank God you are come. You are ever my rescuer."
He put her away from him. "What were you thinking?" He folded his arms across his chest.
That posture she recognized. Somehow she didn't think Keene would react with compassion to a fit of the vapors. "I don't expect I thought my maid would lock me out."
"Have you been out there the whole time?"
How long had he known she was hanging onto the ledge? "You knew I was out there?"
"I never thought you'd still be on the wall. It's a good thing I decided to check."
"Yes, it is, and I'm ever so grateful. I should return to my room. Even if you are my cousin, it's quite improper for me to be alone with you in a bedroom."
"I daresay it shouldn't matter." His dark eyes flicked around the room and returned to her with a wry assessing look that made her want to cringe. "Whose room is this?"
