“There are no children,” David mused. “I’ve never read an excited birth announcement regarding the next little Devonport.”
“Another strike against Sophie. She has not produced the requisite son and heir, though they’ve been married five years. The widow whom Devonport wishes to marry already has two small children—she is obviously fertile.”
“Dear God.” David felt ill.
Society would consider Sophie lucky to have landed Devonport in marriage. Pierson’s family, no matter that Pierson had an amazing brain and much compassion, were inconsequential. Pierson’s sister, Sophie’s mother, had married a kind nobody—a gentleman with a Cambridge education but no family connections that lifted him above the ordinary. Mr. Tierney had money in a trust from his mother specifically to give Sophie a start, which was why she’d had a fine dowry with a small piece of property attached to it. But though Sophie’s father was a respectable gentleman, he had no prominent career, no connections among the ruling class, and no ambitions. So Pierson had told him.
Sophie had gone from nonentity to countess, her husband a peer of the realm and prominent in the House of Lords. Society wouldn’t forgive her for betraying this lofty man, no matter what they thought about him personally.
David had mostly ignored Lackwit Laurie since school, because he’d grown from pompous and stupid boy to pompous and stupid man, not worth bothering about. Devonport had never done anything to annoy Hart personally, and so Hart hadn’t asked David to ruin him.
But wouldn’t it be satisfying to?
“I’ll have to run up to London soon,” David said, hiding his sudden enthusiasm behind his cigar. “Business keeps marching, even when I’m rusticating. May I presume upon your hospitality and have my room again when I return?”
Pierson’s eyes narrowed. “Please stay clear of this business, Fleming. Sophie has had enough pain. I do not want her name associated with yours—that would make things worse for her. No matter how fond I am of you, you know it’s true.”
David widened his eyes. “Why would you believe me rushing to London to meddle in Sophie’s affairs? I’ve had charges of assault brought against me, and I need to find a barrister to defend me, or try to convince Griffin to drop it, which would be best all around. I do have my own troubles, you know.”
“I believe it because I know you,” Pierson said. “Leave it alone.”
David subsided, or pretended to. “I only wish to help a damsel in distress.”
“And I know your reputation with damsels. Sophie is my niece, first and foremost. I realize she is not the sort of lady on whom you usually sate your libidinous nature, or I’d never have allowed you the house, but you do like to manipulate people. For Sophie’s sake, please leave it alone.”
David raised his hands, the cigar trickling smoke. “I understand. I am to keep my stained paws out of it.”
Pierson relaxed, but only a little. “Stay here and help me dig out the villa. It is good to have an able-bodied man to assist me.”
“You know, you ought to hire people if you are serious. Let a professional have a look at the site.”
“I am a professional,” Pierson said, wounded. “I have trained in archaeology—did a dig in the Levant, I’ll have you know, and one in Northumbria. Found a nice little stash of Viking gold.”
“Yes, so you have related on numerous occasions. That means you know people in the business and don’t have to force your friends to wallow in the dirt for you.”
“But I am a selfish man, and want this find for myself. It’s my villa, David. I’ll not give it away.”
He looked so affronted that David chuckled, feeling better. It had been a while since something made him light of heart.
David also withdrew his statement that he’d rush up to Town the next day. He did need to return to London at some point and seek a defense against Griffin. And while in London, if he happened to look up Lackwit Laurie and beat some sense into him …
Hmm, he could come up with a much better idea than simple violence. An idea that would destroy Devonport and make Sophie a golden and guiltless angel in the eyes of the world.
He’d need help for that sort of thing, he decided as interest burned through him. Good thing he was friends with such devious people …
David caught Pierson glaring at him and rearranged his face into innocent lines.
The only man in the world who could stop him was the vicar now regarding him in suspicion. Pierson knew far too much about David Fleming, and David would have to be careful of that.
* * *
Mr. Fleming cleared his throat. “Your uncle told me.”
Sophie nodded, but her face heated unbearably. “I know.”
They stood under a cold but sunny sky next to the furrow they’d begun digging yesterday. Uncle had moved off with his measuring equipment, notebook, stakes, and string, leaving them relatively alone.
“Listening at keyholes, were you?” Mr. Fleming asked in the light tone with which he said everything.
“I did not have to. Your expression when you regarded me this morning was enough.”
Mr. Fleming put his hands to his cheeks and moved them this way and that. “Must learn to have control over this face. But is it so bad that I know?”
Sophie kicked at a clod of earth. “The world has split into two camps—one believing I am the greatest trollop in creation and that I have gained my just deserts. The other camp pities me but secretly believes I have only myself to blame. For being a trollop, you see.”
“The entire world?” Mr. Fleming asked. “Including natives of Tasmania? The Chinese emperor? Trappers in the Canadian forests?”
Sophie didn’t laugh. “If they knew of the situation, I am certain they would choose a side.”
She studied the soil as she turned it with her boot, head down so she wouldn’t have to look at Mr. Fleming. As it was cold this morning, she’d donned a fur cap rather than a hat, so she had no brim to keep him at a distance.
“There is another camp,” Mr. Fleming said. “Those who believe your innocence.”
“A very small camp.” Sophie dared raise her head. His gray-blue eyes were fixed directly on her—most unnerving. “Uncle. And me. Even my parents, while they are kind, aren’t certain. My husband is so very convincing.”
“You forgot me,” Mr. Fleming said in a quiet voice. “I believe you.”
Sophie flushed, unable to meet his assessing gaze. “Why should you? You barely know me, except through Uncle.”
“He is one reason. His opinion counts for much. The other is that I know something of your husband, Lackwit Laurie, the Dunce of Devonport. Devonport will do anything to get what he wants, with a directness that’s alarming. Likely how he convinced you to marry him in the first place. I can’t imagine anyone actually falling in love with him.”
“I thought I had,” Sophie said, though she was amazed at herself now. Laurie had been attentive, flattering, even fawning, and Sophie, too often a wallflower, had fallen for him.
“He does have a certain oily charm, I suppose,” Mr. Fleming mused. “And women believe him handsome. But then, a few ladies think I’m handsome, so there is no accounting for taste.”
Sophie looked straight at him, her inhibition fleeting. He had the gift for making her relax her guard. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Mr. Fleming?”
His eyes widened. “Me? Good Lord, no. I am stating facts. Your unctuous husband has now charmed a rich widow into throwing in her lot with him. Hopefully someone will talk her out of it before it’s too late …” A smile spread across his face, lighting his eyes and driving out the shadows. “Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?” Sophie asked in alarm. “You look very much like a snake just now.”
“Damn my expressions. I can’t keep anything from you. I am thinking nothing, dear lady. Wheels simply spin in my head without my permission. You will be well rid of Devonport in any case. Good Lord, his name sounds like a piece of furniture. You might as well
be Lady Writing Desk, or Sophie … let me see … Sofa.”
Sophie sucked in a breath and dropped her gaze again, frantically wishing the villa would reveal itself at her feet and swallow her.
“Oh, devil take it.” Mr. Fleming put gentle fingers under Sophie’s chin and raised her face to his. His eyes held anguish. “They do call you the last one. Bloody bastards—bloody ingrates. I did not know, I promise you. It’s only the wheels, you know … not in my control.”
“It is a natural association,” Sophie said faintly. “I cannot blame you for making it.”
“Yes, you can.” He slid his fingers away, leaving a chill where he’d touched her. “I always strive to be the cleverest man in the room. It is why I am a bachelor. Your uncle chooses that life, but I am alone because I’m an uncouth idiot. I loved a woman once. Only once. She crushed me like an eggshell.”
“Oh, dear.” A spark of interest slid through Sophie’s unhappiness. “Is that true? Or are you trying to make me feel better by being more heartbroken than I am?”
“No, it is perfectly true. She’d tell you herself, and she’d tell you exactly why she threw me over. I’d have driven her mad if I’d married her, and she knows it. Her husband is my closest friend, so it makes things a bit awkward. For me, I mean—the two of them pity me but are not bothered in the slightest that they are deeply in love and happier than most people ever dream of being. To them we are all comrades, chums for life.”
“Poor Mr. Fleming. I had no idea you were a tragic hero.”
“Ugh.” He grimaced. “Never say so. I prefer to think of myself as a strong rock, solid in the stream of life, unbothered by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”
Sophie couldn’t help her smile. “Tragic hero explains things much better.”
“I am devastated, dear lady. Now, I believe we are supposed to be looking for a Roman villa. Your uncle will march back here and demand to know why we haven’t yet uncovered a fabulous wall painting.”
Sophie held her trowel out to him. “Go to, Mr. Fleming.”
Mr. Fleming eyed the muddy ground with distaste. “He must wield highly magical powers, your uncle. He has forced two perfectly respectable people into grubbing about in the loam, and we still like him.”
Sophie’s laughter bubbled up and spilled over. She hadn’t laughed in true mirth in some time, and it felt fine, like being washed clean.
Mr. Fleming’s absurd expression drained away until he looked at her without his mask in place. His face had lost color, making the faint freckles stand out across his cheeks.
Naked emotion filled his eyes, a self-deprecation that approached self-loathing. This was a lonely man, rejected by the woman he loved, forced to watch her love another. He’d fled here—Uncle said because he’d been arrested, of all things—needing peace. Like Sophie.
Mr. Fleming touched her cheek.
She flinched, but only because she hadn’t been touched in such a way in so long a while. Not with this tender inquiry.
Mr. Fleming immediately lifted his hand away, but when Sophie held his gaze and did not move, he touched her again.
His fingers were gentle, gloves smooth, warm with the man beneath them. He brushed her cheek then drew one finger down and across her lips.
Sophie swallowed. After her husband’s accusations, gentlemen had tried to corner her, believing they’d be welcome. But their awkward attempts at groping were worlds away from Mr. Fleming’s touch.
He traced her lips, floating his thumb across the lower one, pressing its cushion. He followed what he did with his eyes, lashes flicking as he studied her mouth.
The cold wind pushed at her, but Sophie paid it no heed. Mr. Fleming’s fingertips stroked heat deep inside her, a burning in her veins she’d never felt in her life, no matter that she’d shared a marriage bed with her husband. She’d never felt this heat, never knew the join of her legs could grow so hot and damp.
Their point of contact was the merest touch, but at the moment, the only thing in Sophie’s world.
Glide, brush, caress. He moved to her lips, her cheek, lips again. He’d shaved today—his skin was smooth, plus she’d heard curses from the top of the house when he’d nicked himself. She smelled his shaving soap, the leather of his gloves, the mint-infused water he used to sweeten his breath.
So careful of his appearance today, when the first morning at her uncle’s table he’d looked and smelled like something from the gutter.
Wind tugged at Mr. Fleming’s clothes, as it tugged at Sophie’s. Tiny cuts marred the skin beneath his chin, attesting to the fact that he was unused to shaving his own face.
He pulled his gaze from her lips and met her eyes squarely. “You,” he whispered, “have exquisite beauty.”
Sophie could barely breathe. She was incandescent, light as a balloon. The merest breath of wind would take her away.
Mr. Fleming lowered his hand, removing his beautiful touch. He studied her another moment, then his brows came together, his expression darkening.
“Damnation,” he snarled. “Damn everything to hell.”
He turned on his heel and marched away, sinking his polished boots into mud as he went.
Chapter 4
Four days. David shook his head as Pierson goaded him out into the field yet again.
Four days he’d endured life with Pierson, rising at a hideously early hour in the morning to tramp with the man to dig in the pasture. Returning in the late afternoon to a hearty meal prepared by Mrs. Corcoran, lively conversation, games in the evening, then a snifter and cigar with Pierson before turning in.
A staid, organized, quiet existence. The only strong drink David consumed was a small glass of wine at supper and one goblet of brandy as he and Pierson conversed after Sophie went to bed.
Four days of gazing at Sophie across the breakfast table, carrying her tools to the dig, watching her and Pierson play draughts in the evenings and Sophie nearly always winning. Pierson played like a shark, so her victory meant something.
Days of being near Sophie and not near. He’d touched her in the cold field, the satin softness of her skin coming through his thin gloves. She’d stood very still, like a wild animal giving him leave to touch her.
Four agonizing days of keeping himself away from her, pretending to view her as the niece of his old friend, a sweet young lady forbidden to a man like David.
This would kill him.
Pierson was correct that Sophie wasn’t the usual sort of woman David chased. David had liaisons with the most elite courtesans in the world, ladies who were companions to kings. Or, aristocrats’ wives, bored with the endless round of balls, plays, masquerades, and musicales, their husbands off with their own mistresses. They sought David for amusement and diversion.
Sophie, with her sleek black hair and fine green eyes, her gentle manners and spirited banter, was far too pristine for the likes of David Fleming. Her husband might have decided to ruin her, but in truth, Sophie was a well-bred and virtuous young woman, the sort mothers pulled quickly out of David’s path.
He had to sit near her every night, walk with her every day, and keep his hands—and his craving, and his words—to himself.
David told himself that he wanted her for the novelty of it. Perhaps because he was isolated here, and she was the only female company in view. He was lonely, and Sophie was pretty and agreeable.
But it was nothing pretty and agreeable that made David wake in the night in his tiny room, hot and hard, stifling a groan. Sophie was beautiful, like a naiad—ethereal and elusive. She had wit as well as knowledge—she’d read more books than David had even heard of. She easily matched David’s barbed speeches with retorts that put him in his place. He was enchanted.
More than that—he’d wake in a sweat from erotic dreams where Sophie surrounded him, her long hair spilling across his bare chest and aroused cock. The groans that dragged from his mouth came from frustration, desire, and brutal yearning.
He’d throw off the blankets a
nd try to revive himself by plunging hands and face in a basin of cold water. In the morning he’d descend, eyes burning and skin itching, and there she’d be across the breakfast table, chewing toast and smiling serenely at him.
He had to leave.
David decided on the fourth day that it would be his last. He’d return to London, deal with Griffin and his prosecution, humbly asking Hart for assistance if necessary. That and apologize to Eleanor for not responding to her summons. He’d now recovered sufficiently to face her.
“Shall we try here?” Sophie said when they reached their now-familiar trench that morning, gesturing with her trowel.
The earth was pockmarked with holes, as though all the ground-dwelling animals in Shropshire had dug their burrows in one place. The deepest holes had been made by David, he taking out his frustrations by driving his shovel into the soft dirt.
He swung his spade from his shoulder and pounded it into the ground where Sophie indicated. If only she didn’t have such lovely hands even her thick gardening gloves couldn’t hide.
“Not so hard,” Pierson admonished as he passed them on the way to his trench. “Roman craftsmen built these villas with care, not for you to destroy with your carelessness. Flinders Petrie advocates slow exposure, sifting each layer and recording what is found with precision.”
“Yes, Uncle,” David said, so meekly that Sophie laughed at him. He loved her laugh.
Pierson ignored him and returned to his trench.
“He works so hard,” Sophie said as David resumed digging, more moderately this time. “I hope he finds something, one day.”
“He has a bee in his bonnet,” David said. “But he’s no fool. There must be something buried here, even if it isn’t a Roman villa.”
A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11 Page 4
