by Lee, Jade
"You have never been more honest than when you spoke of your love of literature, your desire to see the world, even your need to please your family." He drew her closer still. Soon, her soft belly pressed against his knees. She watched him warily, her movements reluctant, but he saw the hunger in her eyes and felt an answering cry in his own blood. That knowledge emboldened him to pull her even tighter against him.
"Sophia—"
She stiffened. "It is every daughter's desire to please her family. It is her duty—"
"Liar." Her body was taut, but he continued to brush his fingertips along her face, feeling Sophia's tender flesh softening beneath the warmth of his touch "You never looked more lifeless than when you told me how you longed to marry that duke or that you had danced with some viscount. You lied when you said you enjoyed those parties and routs."
"No—"
"A dying man sees everything, Sophia."
"You were obviously not that close to dying," she countered.
"I was."
"No." The word was a bare whisper, her body as still as a statue.
He leaned forward. He felt the hard ridges of her hips pressed against his thighs. She was nestled between his legs, and he was on fire for her. His voice became husky as he finally set his lips against the soft down of her cheek. "You could be alive again," he whispered. "Marry me, Sophia, and be happy again."
He did not know what he said wrong. She was sweetly willing, her breath soft pants of a desire that went beyond the simply carnal. Then, suddenly, she went rigid in his arms, her fists pushing him away with a strength he had not expected from a woman.
"You presume too much!" she said, her voice as cold as it had ever been.
"Sophia?"
"Do not ever touch me again," she cried, then spun away from him, storming down the hall like an ancient fury. He watched her go, his body throbbing painfully, his frustration a bitter taste in his mouth.
What had he done wrong?
* * *
Sophia ran long and hard, her breath coming in painful gasps against the needle of strain in her side. She ran through the small grove behind her aunt's house, tore through the dale, running until she dropped to her knees beside a crystal-clear stream. She did not know where she was, nor did she care.
All she knew was that she had almost given in. Again.
She had almost allowed a man to convince her to do something he wanted because it would be "for her own good."
Hypocritical bastards.
Sophia let herself roll onto her side, closing her senses to everything but the sweet babble of the brook and the rich smell of wet summer grass.
How could she have allowed it? One moment, she'd been lying through her teeth, telling the major he never meant more to her than any other injured soldier. The next, she'd been standing between his knees, her body aching for his kiss. She had been ready to do anything, to say anything, even marriage vows, if only he would let his mouth follow the excruciatingly sensitive path of his fingertips to her lips.
Her face burned in mortification. She had been wanton, lewd, and so... needful.
Sophia groaned and buried her face in her hands. Thank God she had come to her senses. Thank God he had revealed himself at the last moment. Marry me, Sophia, he had said, and be happy again. Arrogant ass. As if she could not be happy on her own! As if her only choice for joy was his arms!
She was not stupid, so why did men always assume she was?
Sophia flopped onto her back with her arm over her eyes. Her skirt was twisted beneath her, pulling it up almost to her knees. It was a totally undignified position, but she did not really care. She was free. She would not marry the arrogant major. She would do whatever she wished, because she was free.
Free.
She frowned. Why did the word suddenly seem so empty?
It was at that moment she felt the hot sun blocked from her body. A shadow had fallen across her arm and face. Sophia tensed. She was abruptly conscious of how isolated this land was. After five years in London, she was used to having people everywhere she turned, always someone within earshot of a healthy scream.
But not out here. Not in Staffordshire, where one could walk for miles without seeing a soul.
Sophia shifted, lowering her arm from her face. There was a man standing over her, his body short and stocky, his red hair curling in an unkempt riot about his craggy face.
It was Kirby, the major's batman.
Sophia relaxed, then sat up, shifting her skirt to a more decorous position. He watched her movements, his green eyes oddly intense, but he did not say a word.
Obviously it was up to her to fill the silence. "Is there something you need?" she asked formally, her imperious tone as cold and proper as she could manage.
He shook his head. "The major sent me down to keep an eye on ye." As if to mock his orders, he let his gaze travel the length of the lonely dale. "Not fitting for a woman to wander off alone."
"Not in London," she countered. "But here—"
" 'Ere there's bandits to watch fer."
She nodded, knowing that tone of voice. It was the tone of a man who hated what he was doing, hated why he was doing it, but nevertheless did it because he was somehow forced. Sophia had heard that tone every time some gentleman was obliged by his mother to dance with her, every time her father gave her some gift... and every time she came in contact with the major's surly batman.
He did not like her, yet he was being forced by his loyalty to the major to tolerate her.
She smiled lazily. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "It occurs to me, Kirby, that you and I are on the same side here."
He raised a skeptical eyebrow but, in true military fashion, refused to comment.
"You do not wish the major to marry me, and I do not wish to marry him. The question now is how to convince the major that I am not the woman for him."
"The major makes up his own mind." Kirby's words were curt, but she saw the gleam of interest in his eyes.
"Yes, he does. Why is it, do you suppose, that he is so set on marrying me? I cannot believe he would put so much stock in my visits to the hospital. There must be something else."
The batman shifted awkwardly, turning his gaze to the distant hills as he clearly hesitated. He wanted to say something but did not dare.
"I need to know, Kirby. What is it?"
The man was practically squirming.
"Why is he so intent on marrying me?"
Finally, he spoke, his words quick in the afternoon heat. " 'E wants a diplomatic post."
Sophia frowned. "He told me his appointment is to India."
"Only if 'e's married."
Sophia straightened slightly, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt as she considered this newest information. It was certainly a piece of the puzzle, but it did not give her all the answers she needed. "There are plenty of women still in London," she said slowly. "Why would he come all the way out to Staffordshire for me?"
Again the dour man was silent. As she raised her eyes to study his profile, she was struck by the batman's solid appearance. Like the major, he was almost elemental in nature; strong and stubborn, as immovable as a mountain.
She folded her hands and released a sigh of disgust. Men. When would they learn they could bend and not break?
" 'E thinks ye could be a proper diplomatic wife." Kirby's words were harsh, as if forced out of him against his will. Or as if he were betraying the one man to whom he most owed his loyalty.
Sophia studied the man's impassive face. "Are you saying that he wants me because... because I am cold?"
"Regal," he countered stiffly.
"The Ice Queen." She looked away, fighting the tears that clouded her vision. The title had dogged her every footstep in London, and now it followed her here to Staffordshire. Of course the major knew about the hateful appellation; they had spoken of it in the hospital before fever claimed his reason. More than
that, he knew how much the term hurt her.
Could the major want her for the same thing she most hated in herself? Could he possibly be attracted to that very coldness, that deadness she had felt all those years in London? What he had cited when she had talked of her experiences with the ton? The betrayal felt like a knife in her soul. But such an aloof nature was indeed perfect for a diplomat's wife.
"If I was wishin' to discourage the major," Kirby said, his voice pushing into her thoughts, "I would show 'im that I was not the stiff-rumped woman 'e thought."
Sophia frowned, suddenly wanting to be done with this whole business. Whatever it took, she would rid herself of her suitor. "You mean," she said slowly, "I should show him I would be a terrible diplomat's wife."
Kirby nodded but did not offer any suggestions. Which left Sophia to ponder the possibilities.
"I could not do anything truly scandalous. It would hurt Aunt Agatha too much." Sophia idly pulled at a scarlet wildflower, carefully stripping away its petals as she focused on her newest plan. "But it would not have to be public. He is our butler, after all. He can see me as I am privately." She flushed at her misspoken word. "I mean, as I am at home." She frowned, the beginnings of an idea occurring to her. Suddenly she twisted, pinning the batman with a hopeful stare. "Kirby, what does the major abhor most of all? What absolutely disgusts him?"
It was the oddest thing, seeing the dour batman slowly blush to a fiery red. Apparently the man had thoughts that embarrassed even him. She pulled at another wildflower, her speculations running riot.
"Strong drink, my lady," Kirby finally choked out. "He abhors a man in his cups."
Was that all? she thought with a slight shrug. And here she had been imagining all sorts of strange things. Still, strong drink had its possibilities. Sophia allowed herself a triumphant smile. "Very well, Kirby. Tonight, I shall get myself thoroughly castaway."
Kirby cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the thought. "Um, ma'am, 'ave you ever imbibed in excess?"
"Of course not!" She pushed to her feet. "But that shall make me all the more susceptible."
He shifted again, a frown puckering his face. "Ma'am, it ain't so easy—"
"Nonsense. It is the perfect suggestion. Except..." She paused, trying to remember the contents of her aunt's liquor cabinet. "I am not sure if my aunt has enough of any one drink." She shrugged. "Never mind. I shall just drink it all."
"But—"
"Tut tut, Kirby," she said airily as she began walking briskly back to the house. "It was an excellent notion. Pray do not try to take it back now." She steeled her spine with determination. "With luck, you shall be on your way back to London on the morrow."
"Aye," he commented grimly. "Or I'll 'ave me 'ead busted in for starting this in the first place."
Chapter 5
"My," exclaimed Sophia with a large and rather false yawn. "It is getting late." She glanced at her aunt. "Are you not the least bit tired?"
Aunt Agatha raised her gaze from her embroidery and stared so hard at her niece that Sophia began to fidget. "No, Sophia," she said slowly. "I am not fatigued. In fact, I feel I am becoming more alert by the second."
Sophia felt herself flush from her aunt's suspicious gaze. She knew she was bungling this whole affair, but she found the thought of becoming thoroughly cup-shot in her aunt's presence a bit more than she could bear. Still, there was no help for it. She had to start imbibing soon. Before long, the major would finish his tasks and retire for the night. Cook and Mary had already sought their own beds.
With a final glance at the clock, Sophia sighed and gave in to circumstance. She would simply have to explain herself to her aunt later. Right now, her task was to get thoroughly and disgracefully foxed.
She wandered over to the array of bottles on the sideboard. She had no experience with anything other than wine and champagne, and very little with even those. But her father's drink of choice had been brandy, so she supposed that would do.
She selected the largest glass she could find and poured.
"Sophia!" exclaimed her aunt. "I had no idea you enjoyed brandy."
"Oh, I—"
"So that is why you have been trying to shoo me off to bed. But, my dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I often enjoy a glass. To be honest, I was refraining so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities." She winked at her niece. "But now that I know you enjoy the odd glass... well, pour me some, too."
Sophia gaped at her relative. "But—"
"Come, come," interrupted her aunt. "Enough of this false modesty. We shall toast to a wonderful summer together."
"Er, very well." Sophia had no choice but to do as she was bid. She poured a modest portion into a glass and carried it to Agatha, marveling all the way. In her experience, ladies did not drink brandy.
"I can see you are still somewhat young," said her aunt with a rueful glance at her half-filled glass. "No matter. Just bring the bottle over here, and we shall have a comfortable coze."
Sophia did not dare gape any more, especially since she herself was the one who had opened the bottle to begin with. So, she brought the brandy to the table between them and watched in amazement as her aunt poured another large dollop into her glass.
"Come, Sophia," Aunt Agatha said after taking a healthy swallow. "Tell me something about London."
"Er, yes." But Sophia could not think of anything to say. She could only stare at the unusual sight of her aunt quite easily draining her glass.
Then her aunt glanced at her, her cheeks already turning a blushing rose. "Is there something wrong with the taste?"
Sophia glanced down at her still-full glass. "Oh!" Suddenly recalled to her purpose, she lifted her glass and drained it. Or rather, she tried to. She managed only two gulps before she nearly choked to death.
It was like swallowing fire, and it burned her all the way down past her stomach to her toes. She was coughing and wheezing like a dying old man while her aunt pounded her on the back and chortled heartily.
"My goodness, Sophia. From the way you were acting, I thought you had been sneaking your Papa's brandy since you were five. And now I have corrupted you."
"Nonsense, Aunt," gasped Sophia loudly, mindful that her voice had to carry enough for the major to overhear. "I enjoy brandy whenever the occasion arises."
"Of course you do," laughed the older woman cheerfully. "So drink up. Unless, of course, you would rather retire." She cast a significant glance out the window at the fading sunset. "It is rather late."
Sophia bit her lip in consternation, then finally relaxed into a smile. "You are gammoning me, Aunt. You are getting even because I tried to send you to bed."
Agatha leaned forward. "You were a bit obvious, my dear." With a deft twist of her wrist, the dear lady topped off her niece's glass. "Now, drink up, then tell me what is bothering you."
Sophia shifted uneasily. "But, nothing is bothering me."
"Um-hmm," responded her aunt with a solemn nod. "Finish that glass; then we can discuss why you left London before the last Season was out. And perhaps we might mention the major a time or two?" She gave her niece a look that suggested a wealth of understanding without explaining a thing.
"But—"
"Tut tut." Her aunt pressed the glass back into Sophia's hand. "Finish your drink first. Then we shall talk."
* * *
Anthony was checking the front door before retiring when he heard uproarious female laughter emanating from the upstairs parlor. Gone were Sophia's familiar mellow tones. What he heard instead was loud giggling—high-pitched and delightfully mischievous. It was as if his intended truly laughed with unrestrained glee for the first time in her life.
That thought drew him upstairs, his steps silent and slow, though he was certain neither woman would hear an entire regiment if it were banging on their front door.
"Do allow me the honor of tramping on your toes and breathing foul liquor into your face." Sophia's words were low and thick, and the major did n
ot need to hear her aunt's high-pitched squeal to know she was imitating some crusty beau. "What!" she continued. "Why do you not swoon at the honor I bestow upon you? I am a peer o' the realm, don't you know!"
Anthony reached the parlor and carefully eased the door open. Sophia stood with her back to him, but he could tell from the haughty angle of her head that she was peering down her nose at an empty bottle of brandy. The poor container was apparently supposed to be her dance partner.
Her skin was flushed and glowing from drink, but that did not hinder her from mimicking some stuffed London popinjay. She continued to pretend to dance, moving stiffly, posturing with every step. Her hair, which had grown a bit, was working its way out of several pins she had inserted to keep it neat, and as he watched the golden curls tumbled loose.
She was beautiful. How could anyone have called her an "Ice Queen"? She seemed now like a flame, literally burning with energy and life as she strutted about the room with her bottle-cum-partner in hand.
"Oh, you have Harrington to a T!" exclaimed her aunt, holding her sides to contain her laughter. "Goodness, he was an old goat when I made my curtsy." The older woman drank heartily from her glass before peering owlishly at her niece. "But what of the major? How does he dance?"
"I have never danced with the major," came Sophia's response. Then she stepped forward, lowering her voice to a drunken whisper that nevertheless could have been heard in the next county. "But I know exactly how it would be."
"You do?" Her aunt was on the edge of her seat with curiosity, and Anthony could not help but lean closer to the door to hear Sophia's response.
"Goodness, Aunt, have you ever seen the major do anything but at attention? I expect he even stands during his baths."
"Sophia!" her aunt exclaimed, but her shock was belied by a delighted giggle.
"It is true," Sophia continued. "Can you imagine the man on the dance floor?"
Lady Agatha pursed her lips and stared pensively at her drink. "I suppose with his bad leg—"
"His leg has nothing to do with it. Even were it whole, he would dance like a poker, marching one foot in front of the other." Then Sophia began to demonstrate, stomping her feet as she held the brandy bottle at rigid arm's-length before her. "And far be it for anyone to miss a step," Sophia continued. "Why, that would be grounds for a firing squad!"
