“You like garnets, Aunt Gwendolyn?” Sophie interposed quickly, seeing her ladyship’s distress. “I have dozens—more than any one person could wear in a month of Seasons. Brooches, necklaces, bracelets, rings. When we return to Portland Square we shall perch ourselves on your bed, munch sugarplums, and paw through the pile of stones together. And you shall have your pick of the lot to keep—as my gift to you for being so wonderfully kind to this undeserving stranger.”
“Such a nice girl,” Lady Gwendolyn cooed, still staring at Miss Waverley’s brooch. “Bramwell is fortunate in his ward.”
Miss Waverley’s head moved a fraction, as if she were trying not to react to having been slapped, even as she protectively closed her fingers around the coveted piece of jewelry. “Not his ward, Lady Gwendolyn,” she corrected kindly but firmly as Sophie watched from beneath lowered lashes. “But only Miss Winstead’s sponsor for the length of the Season. Nothing more permanent than that.”
“Oh, heavens, no, nothing more permanent than that,” Sophie agreed, giggling. “I shouldn’t wish to be a burden to the dear duke.”
“I can envision the sun tumbling from the sky, Miss Winstead,” Lord Lorimar broke in feelingly. “I can imagine the birds mute, the stars falling dark, the grass at our feet turning purple. But I cannot, Miss Winstead, ever imagine you being any sort of burden.”
“Oh-ho—there he goes!” Sir Wallace exclaimed, and Sophie turned to him in time to see him rolling his eyes heavenward. “Can you swim, Miss Winstead? It’s getting to be dashed deep water in here.”
“Stubble it, Wally,” Lord Lorimar spat from between clenched teeth, so that Sophie smiled brightly at the ladies sitting across from her, then shrugged, as if she had no idea why gentlemen acted the way they did, silly creatures.
“Do you know what I should like?” she chirped as the landau stopped, for the curricle in front of them had come to a halt on the pathway, one of its wheels obviously having worked loose. “I should like to get down and walk for a bit, that’s what I should like. Is that permissible? Miss Waverley, would you care to take a small stroll?”
“Walk?” Miss Waverley repeated hollowly, as if Sophie had asked her accompaniment on a journey to the moon. “Lud, just the thought! But the dew—your hem? No, I shouldn’t think I’d like to do that.”
Sir Wallace had already flung open the low door. “I’ll accompany you, Miss Winstead,” he offered eagerly, holding up his hand to her. “They can just catch us up on their next circuit around the Park.”
Before Lord Lorimar could do more than whisk himself across the seat as Sophie lightly jumped down, Sir Wallace had slammed the door shut once more and called to the driver to move off around the disabled equipage as they were holding up the coach behind them. Sophie watched as the duke glared down at Sir Wallace, then followed off after the landau, leaving her and the shiny-nosed schemer alone together beside the pathway.
“My congratulations, Sir Wallace,” Sophie told him as he offered her his arm and she slipped hers around his elbow, leaning against him as they made their way across the grass. “I fear I would never have been able to convince the ladies that it is much more fun to be walking on such a lovely day as this instead of sitting all prim and proper and being driven about like melons in the back of a wagon.”
“And twice the fun to be walking rather than to be stuck listening to the drivel that pours out of Lorrie’s mouth,” Sir Wallace grumbled, then brightened. “Would you like to pick some flowers, Miss Winstead? It isn’t strictly allowed, but the Park is fairly thin of company, and I saw some posies back there a while ago that would look very fetching tucked into your, um, into your...”
“Buttonhole?” Sophie suggested helpfully, raising her muff-covered arm to indicate the top button of her ensemble.
She watched as bright color ran into Sir Wallace’s cheeks, staining them nearly as deeply as his shiny nose. “Harrumph!” he said, coughing into his fist. “Buttonhole, Miss Winstead. That would be the ticket. Precisely that. Buttonhole. Yes, yes. Buttonhole.”
“Some buttercups for the buttonhole,” Sophie recommended as she tugged on his arm, leading him toward an area of the fairly ragged spring grass where the wildflowers had not yet fallen to the scythe. “That way we will not fall afoul of the law, if the flowers are considered the property of the Crown, yes? I should like to see as much of London as I can, Sir Wallace, but I don’t believe I would find the inside of the local guardhouse at all edifying. You drink, Sir Wallace, don’t you, poor dear.”
She danced away from him then, leaving him to stand openmouthed and dazed at her last words. By the time he had caught up with her she was sitting on her skirts in the dewy grass, busily filling her lap with creamy yellow buttercups. “Forgive me. I can’t have heard you aright, Miss Winstead. What—what did you say?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her, which put paid to his pantaloons, not that he seemed to notice.
“Oh, but you did hear me aright, Sir Wallace.” Sophie picked up a half dozen blooms and threaded them into the top buttonhole of Sir Wallace’s waistcoat. “I smelled wine on your breath,” she explained, looking steadily into his sad, puppy brown eyes. “And, I believe, just the hint of cherry brandy, yes? I have always enjoyed the sweetness of cherry brandy when I was allowed the occasional sip. It makes the insides all warm and comfortable and cosseted. Rather as if everything in the world was rosy and wonderful. But to have imbibed so much this early in the day? That can’t be good, now can it? There,” she said, patting his waistcoat before resting back on her heels, admiring her handiwork. “Now, don’t you look handsome?”
“Ladies ain’t supposed to drink cherry brandy,” Sir Wallace said, then winced, as if he had spoken before he could think. But, as she had already supposed he would, he opened his mouth yet again, and went on to dig himself deeper into a pit of unfortunate wonderings. “I suppose your mother drank cherry brandy, and fed it to you as well. She did lots of things ladies ain’t supposed to do. And had a lot of fun doing them, I’ve no doubt. But you really shouldn’t drink it anymore, Miss Winstead. Ratafia. That’s the way to go. Ratafia, the occasional glass of wine, I suppose, if someone offers it and the other ladies are drinking it. And lemonade. You can’t go wrong with lemonade.”
“I’ll try to remember that, thank you. Why do you drink, Sir Wallace?” Sophie asked him as she tucked a small nosegay of buttercups into her own buttonhole. “Uncle Horace drank because his wife was a shrew. That’s what Maman said, and she must have been, because the woman finally came at Uncle Horace one night with his own campaign sword.”
She grinned up at him. “They locked her away for a bit after that, Maman told me, where she couldn’t hurt anyone. But Uncle Horace was much happier even after they let her out again, and didn’t drink half so much. Although I must say he still liked his cherry brandy. We were always careful to keep some on hand for when he called.”
Sir Wallace sat back on his heels as if trying to distance himself from Sophie, wagging one finger back and forth in front of his nose. “Oh, no,” he said on a nervous chuckle. “Oh, no, no, no! You’re not talking about Horace Autley, are you now, Miss Winstead, him who’s been dead since Waterloo? My uncle, Horace Autley?”
Sophie opened her eyes very wide, then blinked several times, just as if she didn’t already know everything she was about to ask. She really didn’t remember Uncle Horace very well, but Maman’s journals had been very detailed, very precise on the man and his family—complete to a shade as a matter of fact. “Uncle Horace was your uncle, too? Not that he was really my uncle, but I called him Uncle Horace, you understand. Oh, but that’s famous, Sir Wallace. He would have been your mother’s brother?”
He shook his head, dismissing that notion. “Uncle Horace was married to the shrew. Um, that is, I mean to say that Uncle Horace was married to my mother’s sister. Her twin, actually. Alike as two peas in a pod they are in every way, now that I think on it.” He shivered in the bright sunshine. “Except that m’mother wasn
’t ever locked up. And you’re right. She’s not anymore, you know. Locked up, that is. My aunt, you understand. Lives with m’mother.”
“Oh, dear.” Sophie pushed out her bottom lip as she laid a hand on Sir Wallace’s forearm, looking at him tenderly. And then she believed herself to have a blazing moment of insight. “Just as you still reside with her, don’t you?”
She thought the man would break down and cry, “Yes! Yes, I do!” he exclaimed, laying his own hand over hers. “I’m her only family now besides Aunt Millicent, what with my papa turning up his toes nearly a dozen years ago. They neither of them feels safe nor comfortable living in an all-female domicile, so I stay on. She still hasn’t forgiven Bonaparte for taking me off to war, you understand.”
“What a dear, good son you are, Sir Wallace,” Sophie soothed, allowing him to help her to her feet, a shower of buttercups spilling to the ground as she shook out her skirts. “Although I’m sure the arrangement is pleasing to your mother and aunt, it’s not one free of difficulties, yes? I imagine cherry brandy, among other spirits, helps to make you feel all warm and comfortable and cosseted.”
“Difficulties? They’re enough to grind a man straight into the ground, the pair of them. I could drink gallons—and that’s just at breakfast!” Sir Wallace exploded, then clapped a hand over his mouth and stared at Sophie. Slowly, he drew his hand away and smiled at her. “My God, Miss Winstead. Aren’t you the downy one.”
Sophie smiled in genuine happiness. The world was so simple, if one just took the time to listen, to look, to learn. “Do you know, Sir Wallace, that Uncle Horace found that a stout, strong butler and a few strapping footmen can make even the most nervous lady feel more secure in her surroundings? Handsome footmen, of a certain age, shall we say, can even be a comfort to fragile females fearful of being alone through the dark and lonely nights. So comforting, in fact, that one could think, couldn’t one, that they might not even miss the presence of a devoted son and nephew—or require it, for that matter?”
Sir Wallace narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Uncle Horace died nearly penniless, so that Aunt Millicent was forced to move in with us. She’s always going about, lamenting the loss of her butler, whom she had to let go. Goes on and on about it, when she’s not kicking poor old Peterson, the family majordomo, and calling him useless as a third thumb. Miss Winstead, you’re never saying that... and that m’aunt... that my uncle arranged—heavens, what a thought! And my mother? That she might... that she might be interested in... that she’d even think to... But that’s, that’s—”
“A simple solution? And so, so much healthier than too much cherry brandy. At least that’s what my dear mother told Uncle Horace when she suggested just that solution to him. You might want to think about that, yes?” Sophie offered, then danced away, waving gaily as the duke approached, his face dark as any storm cloud.
“Where are you headed, Wally?” his Grace called out as he stopped in front of Sophie, looking over her head at Sir Wallace, who was moving away from them rather than joining them.
Sir Wallace waved his hands in front of him as he backed toward the path, as if to say he had no time to dawdle, no time to answer questions. “Miss Winstead—farewell, and thank you. Thank you so much! Give my farewells to the other ladies, won’t you, Bram? I’ve just remembered something I have to do, that’s all. Then I’m off for home. Tomorrow is Wednesday, remember? I have to make sure my man knows to get my knee breeches ready for Almack’s.”
“Posies, Your Grace?” Sophie pulled a sadly crumpled bunch of buttercups from inside her muff, offering them to the frowning duke once he’d dismounted. “All the best-dressed gentlemen are wearing them this Season, you know. Or at least I hope they are, or Sir Wallace is going to feel extremely silly when he finally realizes that he’s running about London with a clutch of them stuck in his buttonhole.”
The duke looked down at her accusingly, his eyes steely, his jaw firmly set. “What did you do to him? What did you do to Wally—to Sir Wallace?”
Sophie sighed, shrugging her shoulders. He really should smile more. It would bring out those lovely crinkles around his eyes. But, then, he was probably suffering the tortures of the damned this morning, which fairly well served him right. Not that she’d let him see how much she’d suffered last night, reliving his unexpected kiss, her impossible-to-describe reaction to that kiss. “Do to him, Your Grace?” she now asked innocently. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying. I don’t do anything to anybody.”
Bramwell pushed his palm against his mouth, squeezing his cheeks as he turned his head to one side, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her any longer, then dropped his hand and glared at her once more. “I knew better, you know. I knew better than to leave the two of you alone.”
“Is that why you’ve come back, Your Grace? To effect a rescue?” Sophie asked, longing to slap him with the muff until his eyes rolled in his head. Goodness! She had to do no more than come within ten feet of the man for her temper to flare to life, for her fingers to itch to throw something. With every amount of will she could command, she suppressed the red wall of anger surging within her and returned to their verbal battle. Because she really did enjoy teasing the duke. She enjoyed it very much.
“Because you’re afraid of what I might do, yes?” she went on with a smile, prodding her dimple into evidence. “How many times must I tell you? I’ve not set out to harm anyone; I only want to make people happy. I do make people happy. Sir Wallace looked happy to you, didn’t he? Surely you can’t say he looked unhappy?”
Now His Grace looked as if he could grab the muff and bounce it off her head a few times. “You dazzled him, didn’t you?” he ground out accusingly as they began to walk back toward the pathway, leading the gelding behind them. “How, Miss Winstead? Wally never walks when he can ride. And he most certainly doesn’t run. But you? You’ve got the fool skipping! Just tell me how. How did you do it?”
Sophie’s smile widened, and she knew that smile to be nearer an unholy grin. She could even feel her nose crinkling up. Should she tell him? Should she tell him that she had known who Sir Wallace was all along, thanks to her mother’s marvelously detailed journals, and known of his family, of his uncle’s problems—even of her mother’s positively brilliant solution to those problems? Should she tell him that she had only done what she had been taught to do—tried to make those around her happy? Or should she fib, make up some farradiddle about giving Sir Wallace a sad, depressing sermon on the evils of drink and the joys of sobriety?
She saw that the landau had stopped ahead of them on the pathway. The door was open, Lord Lorimar standing on the ground, awaiting her pleasure, offering her sanctuary. “Very well,” she said at last, deciding on a half-truth, an explanation that fell somewhere between fact and an outright fib. “I’ll tell you.”
“You will?” Bramwell said, sounding more surprised than angry now—which would change the moment she opened her mouth.
“Yes, I will,” she said as she judged the narrowing distance between herself and Lord Lorimar, and decided it was safe to speak. “I simply suggested a way to make Sir Wallace’s mother and aunt happy. I pointed out to him that if they were happy, he could also be happy—so much so that he might not need such copious amounts of cherry brandy to put a rosy haze around his life.”
“And what would that way be?” the duke prodded, as Lord Lorimar removed his curly-brimmed beaver and executed an elegant leg in Sophie’s direction.
Sophie measured the distance between herself and the landau once more, just to be certain. “I am nothing if not a student of my mother, Your Grace. So, as would quite naturally follow, I simply told Sir Wallace to find his unhappy mother and aunt lovers. Once they’re happy, Sir Wallace will find his own life much less oppressive.”
“You—you did what?” Bramwell shot another look over his shoulder, to where Sir Wallace had been but was no longer, and then glared, narrow-eyed at Sophie once more. “I don’t believe you.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, don’t fib, Your Grace. Of course you believe me. It’s just what you expect of me,” Sophie answered with a quick giggle, then ran ahead to launch herself onto the steps of the landau and lightly vault onto the cushioned seat, the baron close behind her. “Have I kept you waiting? Oh, what a lovely parasol you’ve just opened, Miss Waverley,” she said breathlessly, feeling Bramwell’s eyes boring into her even as he stomped off to remount his horse. “Yes, it is quite the prettiest parasol I’ve ever seen. I must have one, I simply must. A dozen couldn’t be too many. Do you think you could arrange an outing to Bond Street, Aunt Gwendolyn?”
“I imagine so,” Lady Gwendolyn murmured absently, turning on the seat to look back over her shoulder, watching her nephew. “Now, what do you suppose is the matter with Bramwell? I vow I’ve never seen his face quite so red.”
Sophie lifted the ermine muff to her face and buried a smile in the soft white fur. Kiss her, would he? Confuse her, befuddle her, break down her carefully built defenses and release the temper she had done so well to hide beneath her happiness—her hopes for a lifetime of happiness.
Silly, silly man. He couldn’t win against her. No man could win against her. Not if she did as Desiree said, as Desiree had taught. Not if she remembered that all men were ruled by their desires, their needs.
All she had to do was to hold on to her heart, keep it safe. That’s all she had to do, and her life would be wonderful. And, unlike her maman before her, she would never, ever cry.
Bramwell glanced at the small clock on his desk, then slipped the gold watch from his pocket and consulted it as well. He straightened the blotter on the desktop, aligned the ornate silver inkwell and sanding set an eyeball-measured five inches from the right edge of the desk, moved the humidor a fraction, and carefully, precisely, folded his hands on the blotter.
The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne Page 9
