He gave the maid a quizzical brow, and she mouthed the word again. This time, he got it.
“Emma!” he told Lady Sophia. This caused her such an apoplexy of excitement that she nearly dropped her teacup, and succeeded in spilling liquid all down the hem of her gown where it touched the carpet.
David stifled a laugh as he stood up, though thankfully Lady Sophia’s head was bent towards her gown, and she did not notice the brief look of mirth on his face. He searched in vain for a napkin or cloth with which to offer her. He had a handkerchief, of course, but it was finely embroidered by a seamstress from France and had cost a fortune. He wouldn’t risk sullying the thing with droplets of tea, not even for his future wife.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I seem to have misplaced my handkerchief, but…” he trailed off, idling patting his pocket to show he had made a go of searching.
Lady Sophia did not look the least bit distressed at having ruined her gown. Indeed, she was smiling back at him serenely, a look of pure happiness on her face as she waved off his comment.
“Do not worry about it at all. I get similarly excited when I speak about books. Once I spilled an entire cup of tea all down my gown upon reading a particularly exciting bit of a novel,” she said in a low tone, as though she was confiding a wicked transgression to him.
David gave her his most winsome smile, but inside he was laughing at how innocent Lady Sophia seemed. Demure, too. Exactly the sort of wife he was looking for. The innocent could be easily manipulated, and the shy never overshadowed the great. She would never outshine him with her quiet ways and girlish excitements. Everyone would simply think her sweet.
The sweet Lady Montrose.
“Oh, Lord Montrose, I do think my father is right in thinking we will get on well,” Lady Sophia said, as the maid came over and began mopping up at the mess with a cloth she took from her apron pocket.
David’s eyes were momentarily distracted by the sight of the maid’s bottom waving in the air, but he quickly regained his composure and turned a pleased smile toward Lady Sophia. “My Lady, I could not agree more.”
As Lady Sophia preened at him, the maid looked up and gave David a smile followed by a truly lascivious wink. He felt his trousers stiffening again, and began to wonder whether it might not be prudent to repay the maid for her help today.
It would only be fair, after how she had saved him from ruining his first meeting with Lady Sophia. Thanks to the maid, he had made himself seem to Lady Sophia like her perfect match. It would be so easy to woo her from here on. Why, thanks to the maid, he and her lady could be engaged within a month. It was really only best practice to repay the servant for her kindness.
And David knew exactly what he could gift her. It wouldn’t cost him a penny.
Chapter 3
Sophia spent the next week imagining Lord Montrose as her very own hero.
She had been so nervous when he walked in the room. She hadn’t remembered him being so handsome, with his golden locks pushed back, showing off a smooth forehead and aquiline nose. His eyes were the color of bluebells just blooming in springtime, and he had a way of walking that spoke of confidence.
All this was to say that he had appeared very much like the sort of heroic lover Sophia had pictured for herself. Indeed, after the success of their first meeting, she had spent the next two weeks fantasizing about their future together.
She imagined what he might say when he confessed his love to her for the first time. She thought constantly about what his kisses might feel like when bestowed on her lips. She found herself hoping during each subsequent meeting that he would ask the maid out on some errand, and then, when they were all alone, he would take her into his arms.
They would do nothing very untoward. Just a chaste kiss or two, enough to show her that the fire and sparks that books always spoke of happening when two people kissed could be hers to cherish, hers to experience in her own life.
It was by far the happiest few weeks of Sophia’s life since that birthday when she had received the collected Shakespeare. Then, she had spent weeks on end reading through the plays, the imagined worlds dancing in her head. This, however, was far more delicious, because it wasn’t imagined. It was real, it was her future.
Or so she had thought, until that fateful day when she and her maid, Erin, were out on an errand to Marcum’s.
It was true that Lord Montrose’s house was not strictly on the way to Marcum’s Bookshop, as Erin had so helpfully pointed out that day. However, Sophia had been longing to see his house, so that she could better imagine her future home, where she would finally be Lady of her own household.
Walking to the Montrose residence had taken them nearly fifteen minutes out of their way, but Sophia had thought it well worth it when she was finally able to gaze upon the fine townhouse. It was beautiful and far larger than her own home, and she could only imagine the library that lurked within, stuffed to the very gills with books of all sorts.
How many books has he read? How does he organize his books, by genre or by author?
She preferred the former method, but she supposed she could learn to live with the latter if need be.
She was so lost in her fantasies that she did not at first notice the house’s master exiting the front door. It was only when Erin had pulled her by the arm behind the back of a lingering carriage that Sophia realized she had nearly been found out.
Peeking out from behind the carriage, Sophia watched Lord Montrose walk down the steps, tugging on his gloves and adjusting his hat. He was talking to someone behind him in the doorway, but the angle obscured the person from her view.
What was not obscured were Lord Montrose’s words.
“Do me a favor and read and respond to my letters, if you please, Mother. You know how much I detest reading, and today of all days I simply do not have the patience for it.”
Sophia’s mouth had hung open as she watched Lord Montrose ascend into the very carriage behind which she was hiding. She had stood still as the carriage pulled away from the side of the street, and it was only when Erin had tugged her roughly by the arm that she realized what a very strange sight she must make to passers-by.
“He was lying. He lied to me, Erin. He doesn’t like reading at all! He’s probably never even read Jane Austen. He must have just said the first of her titles that came to him,” Sophia had screeched at Erin as they walked home, the trip to the bookshop abandoned. Sophia could not search for books in such a state, not when her vision was blurred by tears and she was liable to throw something.
Erin had stayed quiet throughout the walk home and the succeeding days afterward. It was only today, three weeks after her first meeting with Lord Montrose, that the maid finally told her the truth.
“It was me who helped him, m’lady,” Erin said now, looking sheepish. She was staring pointedly at her feet, her hands clasped behind her back and her back hunched in supplication.
“What do you mean, you helped him?” Sophia asked, trying to keep her voice low, for they were in the drawing room and she knew her mother would soon be entering. “Helped him lie? How? You met him the same time as I did, didn’t you? When would you have been able to feed him the information he needed to trick me?”
“I…I mouthed the book name to him. That Emma book. I knew it was your favorite, and when he looked my way, I mouthed the word to him. Took him a minute—he’s not the brightest—but he eventually got it in the end,” Erin said with a shrug.
“Oh,” Sophia said. She didn’t know how to respond. She was too busy discerning which of the many emotions in her head she felt most strongly. There was anger, at both Lord Montrose and Erin, but there was appreciation too, because she knew her maid had only done it in her aid. Erin was young and impressionable, but she was loyal, too. She cared about Sophia.
This was echoed in Erin’s next words. “I only want you to be happy, m’lady. I want you to find someone who makes you feel like those women in your books. I thought…I thought maybe if I
gave him some help, made ye think he was like those heroes, then you wouldn’t be so afraid of him. You wouldn’t judge him. You’d be able to get to know him without any previous judgment.”
“I supposed I was rather afraid of him when we first met, wasn’t I?” Sophia said with a bitter laugh. “He made me so…discomfited. I thought it was simply because he was handsome, but now I wonder if it wasn’t just my mind telling me he wasn’t right. That he wasn’t what he seemed.”
“Well, any gentleman who talks to his mother like that isn’t right for you anyway. As if he had no manners, no respect. And him, one of the richest men of the ton.” Erin said, shaking her head. She was still staring at the floor, but she looked a little less cowed.
“Erin, stand up and look at me,” Sophia asked quietly. “You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not angry. I’m just…”
“Disappointed?” Erin hedged.
“Yes, but not at you. At him. I really did think I’d found my Willoughby.”
“Oh, m’lady,” Erin said, shaking her head. “You will find him. In some other gentleman.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be another gentleman,” Sophia said, falling into the chaise longue behind her and settling into the seat. “My father has made it very clear that Lord Montrose is to be my husband. It is the dynastic plan, and I am powerless to stop it.”
At that moment, Sophia’s mother entered the room.
“Oh, good. You’re here. I just heard the most exciting news from Lady Sanders. Apparently, a certain Earl has been talking you up at the club, and her husband told her the word marriage was mentioned.”
Sophia’s eyes briefly flitted to Erin’s, and they shared a conspiratorial eye roll before Erin departed to get the tea.
Sophia listened to her mother chatter excitedly about Lord Montrose and weddings and the idea of being connected to the Montroses, but her mind was elsewhere.
Specifically, it was lingering on the fact that she was now going to be forced to marry a liar. Even worse, this was not Lord Montrose’s only downfall.
Now that Sophia was honest with herself, she would admit that his constant self-referential discussions had rather begun to bore her. Indeed, he seemed able only to talk of himself, asking her few questions about herself. Sophia had thought him so enchanting, his voice so wonderful to listen to, but looking back, now she could see that his words were not enthralling. They were, rather, boring and filled with hubris.
Men of the ton were often described as arrogant, especially those in financial positions such as the Earl. However, Sophia did not like to listen to rumors. After all, there were plenty of falsehoods floating around about herself that she hoped others paid no mind. It would seem, though, that in this case, the rumors were true. Those who said that Lord Montrose was an arrogant and insufferable fop were exactly correct.
How could I have been so blind? Sophia went back over all their meetings this past month and winced at the irreverence which he had shown her.
Talking only of himself, staring openly at her bosom, making the occasional lascivious remark. Sophia had thought all of this so romantic, so reminiscent of her favorite heroes, but now she could see it was the exact opposite. Heroes cared about others, cared about decorum, and what was right and wrong. Lord Montrose did not care about anything but himself and his wardrobe.
A wardrobe that was a bit too dandy for my liking, if I’m now being honest with myself.
She had thought his magenta waistcoat a tad strange that first day, but his hair and eyes and general swagger had been so distracting she had not countenanced it. Now, however, she looked back and nearly laughed out loud, interrupting her mother, as she thought of his inane outfits and the stories he told her about each and every one. He was the only gentleman she had ever met who bragged about his tailor, who he supposedly brought over from his Grand Tour of Europe and was “the most skilled man in the sartorial arts that you will ever find.”
Indeed, was by far his favorite subject, and Sophia had been forced to listen to him wax poetic on the importance of a fine waistcoat just the previous week. He had spent no less than thirty minutes explaining in extreme detail the appropriate materials to line said garment. How had she endured such ridiculousness without comment?!
Again, how have I been so blind?
Infatuation, she reminded herself. That emotion that had ruined many a lady’s life, whether by leading her astray or tricking her into falling for someone who was not her equal. And Sophia knew, now, that Lord Montrose was certainly not her equal. He was, in fact, far below her.
But Sophia also knew that, not perhaps this week, but certainly soon, Lord Montrose would ask for her hand. Her mother was telling her as much, and her father had hinted that he and Lord Montrose had discussions at the club concerning “aligning our interests more closely.” If her parents were to be trusted, and in this above all other matters they were, then Sophia would soon find herself Sophia, the Countess of Montrose. She suddenly felt ill.
“Sophia? Did you hear me?” her mother asked, and Sophia looked up to find her mother staring at her expectantly.
“No, Mama, I’m sorry. I was thinking about—”
“The Earl. Of course you were. I am sure you can think of little else besides him. I know when I met your father I was nearly constantly dreaming of our life together. He was the most wonderful gentleman I had ever met.”
Sophia thought her mother’s expectations of gentlemen must be very low indeed for her father to deserve such a proclamation. But then again, her mother never read novels, or plays, or any literature other than the gossip pages. She did not know the kind of love women and men were capable of, if they left things to fate and chance rather than society and expectations.
Thinking about her literary heroes made Sophia slump deeper into the chaise. How could she return to Persuasion knowing that fate would never be hers? She would never be cherished like Willoughby cherished Anne. She would never find a hero who prized both brains and beauty like Darcy. She would never experience the magic of a kiss like the ones between the characters in her favorite novels. Kissing Lord Montrose, she was quite certain now, would be like kissing a dead fish. Odious, disgusting, and unnatural.
And yet, there was no other option, and therefore literature would lose its appeal. Lord Montrose was her destiny, and so she could no longer read poems or sink into the tale of Emma and Mr. Knightly and imagine her future as a wife in love. Her story would never mirror theirs. Hers would not be a sweeping love story, but rather a perfunctory tidbit in the newspaper. “Lady Sophia Appleton marries David, Earl of Montrose, this April the ___.”
“Together they own over half of the unentailed property in England, making them the wealthiest couple the ton has seen in some time.” No romance, no confessions of undying love. Just life as the ton dictated it. As her father dictated it. Sophia didn’t have a say at all. She was not the author of her own story. Indeed, she never had been. It had been foolish of her to ever think she could craft her own happy ending, not when family and the ton were there to do it for her.
* * *
Wesley Fifett, son of the seventh Duke of Bersard and heir to the family title and fortune, was spending the afternoon doing his level best to ignore his lot in life.
It was just after three in the afternoon and he was striding through his family’s large estate. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun set in a cloudless sky, allowing the full force of the sunlight to shine down through the trees above Wesley’s head. The branches had just this week burst into splendiferous color. At Wesley’s side was his trusty companion, Phillip, a foxhound who had no talent for the occupation that gave him his name, and was therefore freed of his duties and allowed to follow Wesley around as he pleased. And it pleased him to do so every moment that he was not asleep by the hearth in Wesley’s study.
Wesley much preferred Phillip’s company to most people’s. Phillip asked for nothing but affection and scratches behind the ear, two things that Wesley was more th
an happy to give. Phillip did not treat him different because of his station, did not demand that he act a certain way, do certain things, marry a certain lady. Indeed, Wesley was quite certain that Phillip would be perfectly content for their life to continue in the same vein as it had done these past three years, forever more.
Phillip was the most uncomplicated thing about Wesley’s life. He loved Wesley not because he was heir to a dukedom, but rather because he was kind and always had treats in his pockets. It was a blissfully simple relationship for them both.
Because Wesley so doted on the dog, Phillip could usually be found at his side. At that very moment, however, Phillip spied the river up ahead, and bounded away from Wesley to crash down the riverbed and into the water. Some dogs were reluctant to interact with large bodies of water, but not Phillip. He delighted in it, finding infinite enjoyment in the various bodies of water dotting the Bersard estate.
Wesley smiled as he watched the dog splash around the river, his face lit up with a canine smile. Phillip stuck his small muzzle into the water with gusto, but pulled it out suddenly and began barking ferociously at what Wesley assumed must be an errant fish swimming by.
He envied Phillip his insouciance. The life of a dog was so much easier than that of a human, or at least, a human in Wesley’s position. Being the only son and living heir of the Duke of Bersard was a heavy load to bear.
Don’t think of it now, he reminded himself. This walk was, after all, supposed to take his mind off all the business lingering in the house behind him. He had come outside to escape from the papers piling up on the desk in his study, the physician flitting in and out of his father’s bedroom.
A sudden tweeting sound came from above, and Wesley tilted his head back and looked up into the interlocking tree branches shading him from the sun. He could just make out the small feet of a bird as it flew from branch to branch, hopping happily upward toward the tops of the trees where the sun bled through.
The Art 0f Pleasuring A Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 29
