Uncle studied her, understanding in his eyes. “My dear, the man you see with us in Shropshire is Mr. Fleming. He does not change when he moves from place to place. I admit that some people do, but David has never been duplicitous. At least, not to his friends.”
Sophie drew a breath, enjoying the clean air scented with flowers. “I am pleased to hear it, but … I suppose I wish to understand him. He is a puzzling man.”
“True, but we did not have to change trains three times and ride halfway across England so you can understand him. But, as we are here, we might as well make the best of it. Come along.” He lifted the valise, which he had rested on the path while he spoke, and trudged toward the front door.
Sophie fell into step with him and studied the house as they approached it. “It is not where I imagined he’d live.”
“His father purchased the estate.” Uncle Lucas spoke breathily as they walked. “He was even more decadent than David—David learned his feigned lazy manner from him. David’s father bought it for David’s mother, but she died when David was quite young. His father then began to live a most extravagant and lavish lifestyle, collecting expensive artworks and hosting gatherings that became famous, if not infamous. Some said, uncharitably, that he celebrated his wife’s death, but from what David has told me, the man was grieving. Trying to run away from his pain. He died falling from a racehorse in a steeplechase, leaving David alone as a very young man and quite rich.”
Sophie’s steps slowed as she listened. David must have grown up watching his father cover his deep feelings with self-indulgence and dissipation. This explained some of David’s sardonic manner, the pain that lingered in his eyes. His father must not have known what to do with a small boy except teach him to be as extravagant as he was.
Uncle Lucas had already mounted the steps to the front door, and Sophie hurried to catch up.
“Perhaps we should not,” she said quickly. “We are intruding. I am satisfying my own curiosity, is all.”
“That is true.” Uncle sounded cheerful. “But I am curious myself, and I do not wish to trudge the two miles back to the village. The house is here, David has told me it has a caretaker, we are his friends, and they at least might let us sit down for a few minutes.”
Sophie could not argue with his logic. The spring day had turned warm and a rest would be welcome.
The door opened when Uncle rang the bell, revealing a tall footman who looked down his haughty nose at the dusty travelers.
“Good afternoon,” Uncle said brightly. “I am Dr. Pierson, and this is my niece. We are great friends of Mr. Fleming.” Uncle beamed at the footman who, to Sophie’s surprise, softened.
“Ah, yes. Her Grace of Kilmorgan sent word. Please enter, sir. Madam.”
Sophie prepared to follow her uncle inside when hoofbeats sounded behind them.
Up the side path, well out of the way of the more formal garden, galloped a horse and rider. The horse halted, and the rider, dressed in a sleek black suit complete with top hat, slid from the saddle, tossing reins to a groom who’d materialized to meet them.
The rider strode toward the house, head down, paying no attention to the visitors. He hopped over the railing onto the terrace without bothering with stairs, still not noticing his guests until he found them blocking the front door.
David stumbled to a halt, his gray-blue eyes widening, his chest lifting with a startled breath.
Sophie wanted to dissolve into mist and disappear. She’d been so very certain he wouldn’t be here—Eleanor had assured her David rarely came home.
In the next heartbeat, David left behind shock and obvious dismay to become a congenial host. He removed his hat and rubbed the dust from his hair, giving them a warm smile.
“My dear friends, had I known, I’d have sent a coach to the station and extended a carpet when you arrived. I can’t promise a buried Roman villa for you, Pierson, but I hope what little I have will delight.”
David waved them into the house, out of the spring sunshine. His welcome included Sophie, but he didn’t look at her.
The interior of the house was even grander than Sophie expected. The entrance hall rose two floors, its high ceiling painted with clouds and frolicking cherubs. Paintings hung on the paneled walls, many depicting the house and grounds, while others were portraits. Sophie at once found a painting of David along with that of an older man who, by the resemblance, must be his father. A woman with soft gray eyes peered from a painting next to his.
A few of the older pictures depicted men and women in Scottish dress, and on one wall hung a family tree, wonderfully curlicued and embellished, with small names written all over it.
Uncle Lucas, his valise taken by the footman, went at once to this. “Your ancestry?” he asked David.
David strolled to him, the world-weary man returning. “My pater was very proud of the fact that we are distantly related to the Dukes of Kilmorgan, ever since Angus Roland Mackenzie married Donnag Fleming, my great-great-something aunt. I have no real Mackenzie blood, only Mackenzie in-laws, as it were.” He waved at paintings higher up the walls, difficult to see in the shadows. “The rest of the lot hanging here are the D’urbeys, who owned the property before the last scion lost his fortune at cards and died penniless. My father snapped up this property for a song after the Crown, who’d taken it back, didn’t know what to do with it. He ever loved a bargain.”
Sophie studied the names on the family tree, one branch leading from Malcolm Mackenzie, who fought in the ’45, and his son Angus, down through the ages to Hart Mackenzie, the current Duke of Kilmorgan, Eleanor’s husband. Names beneath Hart and his brothers had been written in—their wives and many children.
The other branch led from the brother of Donnag Fleming, unfolding down to David Fleming father, and David Fleming son.
“Fascinating,” Uncle Lucas said in true interest. “Every name has a story behind it, I wager.”
David looked pained. “They do, but nothing I am prepared to tell you now in the middle of the hallway after a long and dusty journey. If you are truly intrigued, I’ll pair you up with Ian Mackenzie, who is an expert on the family history. He can relate the stories in great detail.”
“That would be splendid.” Uncle Lucas meant it, Sophie knew, and would likely hound David until he set the appointment.
“Now then, it is a poor host who keeps his guests in the draughty hall. Thomas will be scurrying about upstairs, harrying the rest of the staff to prepare rooms for you. You will of course stay, unless you plan to rush for the last train out?”
David sent them a look of mild inquiry, as though he didn’t care one way or the other, but Sophie saw the uneasiness in his eyes.
“We will indeed stay, my dear fellow,” Uncle Lucas said. “We had hoped for a billet here, though we were prepared to bed down in the village if need be. I believe Lady Eleanor telegraphed to your servants, so they will be more prepared than you fear.”
“Eleanor?” David flashed a frown at Sophie. “I see.”
He clearly did not, but before Sophie could stammer an explanation, Uncle continued in his exuberant way.
“I know you must think us rude, but I had a hankering to see your house and the gardens I’ve heard so much about. They are written up in newspapers, you know. Since you flit about so much, I thought we’d simply come on our own without bothering you.”
Sophie stared as her uncle lied for her. He did it well, smiling gently, the vicar’s collar on his throat giving his words credence.
“You had but to ask, my friend,” David said. “I am glad you have come—it will keep supper from being a deadly dull and silent meal. When I’m home, I mostly eat with my valet, Fortescue, and read the newspaper, but I left the man in London. Thank heavens—he is forthright with his many opinions.”
David spoke glibly, but Sophie sensed his tension. He did not want them there, had barely stopped himself from leaping back onto his horse and riding away when he found them on his doorstep.
> “It was me,” she blurted. Both men turned to her in astonishment, and Sophie’s face scalded. “I wanted to see your house, Mr. Fleming. I was curious. Uncle traveled with me for propriety’s sake.”
David gazed at her for one endless moment, stillness shielding any emotion in his eyes, then his sardonic expression returned. “Ah, it is the building that holds the Pierson family interest, not the man who owns it. Well then, I’ll leave you to have supper with my house, while I take something in my chambers. You’ll never know I am here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Uncle Lucas said. “Of course we are delighted you are home. We didn’t expect you, nor you us, but we are all good enough friends that none of it matters. Now, let us each refresh ourselves and meet again for supper—by then we will have all recovered our tempers.”
David and Sophie stared at him. Uncle liked to be the most self-effacing gentleman possible, but when he decided to take charge, he could be a force of authority.
“Yes, Uncle,” Sophie said meekly.
“Yes, Uncle,” David echoed. He shot Sophie a glance, and winked.
* * *
Pierson allowed them only congenial topics at supper that night, both to David’s relief and frustration. The history of the house and its interesting inhabitants, the joy of the unusually warm weather, the design of the gardens—by none other than Capability Brown, of course—why the house had been built in the French style, and what sort of crops grew in David’s fields.
Nothing about their impromptu visit, what David had been up to in London, Sophie’s divorce, or David’s triumph regarding her annulment.
Once conversation surrounding David’s house had been exhausted, Pierson went on at length about the dig and his Roman villa. Dr. Gaspar had proved so competent that Pierson had been comfortable leaving the excavation in the man’s hands for a few days. Though, he added with amusement, a villa of Roman Britain was a bit too modern for Gaspar’s tastes.
Sophie also looked pleased with Dr. Gaspar’s expertise, to David’s irritation. He needed to speak with her.
“A stroll?” he suggested after the meal had finished. Light lingered in the sky even if a brisk breeze had sprung up.
Pierson brightened, then caught on that David meant a walk with Sophie alone. “A bit chilly for me,” he said quickly. “I’d love a rummage through your library.”
The efficient Thomas, in charge of the sparsely staffed house, led him off, Pierson chattering excitedly all the way. This left David to escort Sophie, once they’d fetched wraps, out to the terrace. David glanced at the lighted windows of the library, which showed Dr. Pierson avidly looking over books packed onto a tall shelf.
“I never knew he could dissemble so well,” he remarked. “I suppose that’s a good trait in a vicar.”
“Yes, Uncle is full of surprises.” Sophie’s words were light but stiff.
David could think of nothing to reply so he led her unhurriedly down the steps to the main garden, where lingering twilight touched pale flowers.
“Beautiful in the summer,” David said as they walked side-by-side, not touching. “Fountains play, birds sing, the trees are green. Absolute paradise. Or so I remember as a child.”
“Do you not come here for summers now?” Sophie’s face softened. “It is incredibly lovely. You are lucky.”
“No, I’m usually flitting about Britain or the Continent, doing errands for Hart. All part of the game.”
He heard weariness in his voice that he never meant to put there. Only a few years ago, he’d thrived on the game, chasing down men reluctant to help Hart with his schemes, campaigning for his own seat in Commons. What had changed?
“Well, one day you must come for the summer and enjoy it,” Sophie said.
David halted. “Are you feeling quite well, Miss Tierney?”
Sophie turned from admiring the view. “Ever so robust. Why?”
“You aren’t teasing me, twitting me, or telling me I’m an ungrateful wretch for throwing everything my father built to the wind.”
Her faint smile made his heart turn over. “I don’t need to. You’ve just done it yourself.”
“And I’d say you are right.”
Sophie stood very still, the night breeze stirring the curls on her forehead, peeping from under her fetching fur hat. “Is that why you rushed away to London? Something to do with your estate? And why you returned today?”
“Pardon?” David made himself cease watching the way Sophie’s lips moved, which only enticed him to kiss them. “No, indeed. I went to London to see about your annulment.”
All color left her cheeks. “You mean my divorce. Which I asked you to leave alone.”
David faced her squarely. “I know you asked me, but of course I could not. And you will have an annulment. The solicitors have all the papers now and it only awaits the verdict of a judge.”
Chapter 13
Sophie’s breath left her, her lacings suddenly far too tight. She turned swiftly as she coughed, seeking air.
David was beside her in an instant. “My dearest Sophie, forgive this wretch for springing the news on you so callously. But it is the truth. We can rejoice.”
Spots swam before Sophie’s eyes, but she found her voice. “You are wrong. My husband will never let me go that easily.”
“Oh, but he will. With the Scots Machine and Hart Mackenzie on your side, the proceedings will take mere weeks, not the months it does for lesser mortals.”
“You don’t know Laurie,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “He does as he pleases, and he wants to humiliate me. I did not fill his nursery like the dutiful wife I was supposed to be. He is punishing me for that.”
Somehow David’s hand was on her arm, holding her up. “If I may say so, Lackwit underestimates me and Hart, not to mention Sinclair McBride. The marriage will be annulled, you may trust me on that. I’ll spare you the sordid details—believe me, they are sordid—but Lackwit will keep his mouth shut to protect himself.”
Sophie slid from his touch and began to walk, wandering down the darkening path toward the woods. She had no idea where she was going, but movement was better than standing still. At least she could breathe again.
David’s warm body beside her cut the chill. Sophie knew she should make for the house, find Uncle and a fire, but her feet would not obey.
“I thought I’d make you happy,” David was saying. “I might have known I had no power to do that.”
Sophie slowed to a stop at the edge of the garden, where a line of trees divided the formal park and gardens from the fields beyond. Those fields were the real world, where farmers toiled and animals built burrows. Inside the garden was gentleness, sanctuary.
But not for David. When he’d sought peace, he’d traveled to Uncle’s remote vicarage, in spite of the inconvenient trains, rather than come here. Why?
“I am grateful, in spite of what I seem,” Sophie managed to say. “You are stirring powerful people to help me, for no gain to yourself. I don’t know why you should help, except that you are a kind man, no matter how you protest to the contrary. But I’m so afraid, David. So afraid to hope.”
David watched her in silence, his eyes a glimmer in the shadows. He went so still that Sophie touched his shoulder.
He started, then caught her hand. “I am afraid to hope too,” he said softly. “Do you know? You’ve just addressed me as David.”
Sophie began to shake. “I beg your pardon. I am agitated …”
David put his finger to her lips. “I prefer it. Not Mr. Fleming. David. As though we are intimate.” He came closer. “Sophie.”
The darkness embraced them, and shadows hid them from the house. They were alone here, more than they had been on the hill by the abbey. Sophie’s heart beat just as swiftly as it had then, his nearness sending her reason to the wind.
She rose on tiptoe and sought his mouth in a kiss.
She’d meant it to be a light touch, a reassurance that he was real, and with her. But as soon as their
lips met, David’s arms came hard around her and he dragged her close.
His heat enveloped her as his lips parted hers, his strength turning the kiss deep. As he swept his tongue into her mouth, hot need gripped her and would not let go.
She pulled him against her, wanting this kiss. She’d dreamed so often of being in this man’s bed—imagined David’s slow smile as he shed his clothes, firelight touching his strong body, his sure hands on her skin.
Her heart pounded, and she felt his hammering as hard. His hands were firm on her back, fingers splayed. The breeze turned cold, but David kept her warm.
Dizzily she broke the kiss but kept her hands on his shoulders. “I’m not …” She shook her head, eyes stinging. “I’m not a free woman.”
David gave her a feral smile. “If the marriage is proved invalid, that means you already are free. You never were married.”
But then she’d be ruined, having shared a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband. If she followed David’s logic, however, being already ruined meant she had nothing to lose by becoming his lover.
She laughed shakily. “You are trying to make me as bad as yourself.”
David touched her cheek. “No one, least of all your sweet self, could ever be as bad as I am.”
“You wish to be irredeemable.” Sophie gave him a tremulous smile. “Why?”
“I don’t. But it’s easier if I accept it. I am a bad, bad man and there is no help for me.”
“You’re wrong.” Sophie laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he sheltered her in his arms. “You’re a good man masquerading as a reprobate. Uncle would never be so fond of you otherwise.”
“He’s nostalgic for the youth I was when we first met.” David’s embrace tightened, and she felt his lips on her hair. “But to hear you believe in me makes me half-hope the devil within will flee. I will become a puddle of straight-laced virtue, if that will make you happy.”
“I think that would be frightening.”
His laughter vibrated her in a fine way. “I agree with you.”
A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11 Page 13
