by Sophia Nash
Oh, how much better and easier it was in Wales where she could wear anything she wanted as long as it was modest and serviceable. Her father had even let her wear pantaloons on the days she had been allowed to go fishing or hunting with him.
The handles on the double doors moved and a liveried footman entered and bowed with Lord Coddington on his coattails. "His lordship, miss."
Sophie rose from her perch and became lightheaded. She curtsied and nodded. "My lord."
"Miss Somerset, delighted." Lord Coddington looked anything but.
"You find me alone, sir. My aunt and Miss Owens are out, paying calls."
"So the butler informed me. But as I had something particular to say, perhaps this is for the best."
Sophie felt as if she were playing a part in a bad comedy at the Drury Lane Theatre as she reseated herself on the edge of the settee. Her aunt had insisted Sophie stay behind to hear the gentleman's proposal.
Lord Coddington, playing his role to the hilt, began pacing as he gripped the edges of his tall beaver hat. "Miss Somerset, from the moment I first saw you I knew our lives were destined to become intertwined."
Sophie had the horrible urge to giggle. Her tight undergarments helped curb her initial instinct. She sighed. He was a very handsome man.
His dark blue coat accentuated his broad shoulders and just the correct amount of white froth tied in a dazzling knot appeared below his chin. His boots showed not a speck of dirt despite the rain earlier this morning.
She looked down at the tiny gravy stain on her gown from a hastily eaten meal and placed her hand over the mark. What was he saying now?
"I have been given the blessing of your aunt and my family to pay my addresses to you. But I am sure this is no surprise. And I feel I must offer for your hand in marriage to atone for the newest blemish on your name. Would you do me the honor then, Miss Somerset, of consenting to become my wife?"
It was clear from his proud posture, his patronizing tone and his gaze, which rested on a point just above her shoulder, that he had no feelings for her at all. She could be a codfish for all he cared as long as she brought her possible windfall to the union.
Oh yes, Miss Codfish married to Lord Coddington. A perfect match. She giggled.
"Miss Somerset? Do you find this interview amusing then? Is this your answer to my declaration?"
"No, my lord. I'm sorry if I have caused offense. I am honored by the condescension you have shown me." Sophie stopped speaking. For the life of her she did not know how to continue.
She was in London to contract an arranged marriage with a suitable nobleman of the Upper Ten Thousand. This codfish, er, gentleman was eminently qualified. But his dazzling blue eyes and light hair left her feeling unnerved.
Could she spend the rest of her life looking at his icy expression every day and, worse, perform the most intimate act with him? Surely there would be other suitable offers. But could she risk rejecting the addresses of her aunt's favorite? A gentleman who would satisfy, without question, every condition stated in the will of her late uncle, the fourth Duke of Cornwallis? The union would also fulfill the requirements of the unusual patent of nobility that allowed the duchy to be passed down to a female.
"Well, what is your answer?" Lord Coddington tapped his cane once loudly on the wide-planked wooden floor.
Sophie took a deep breath but was forced to stop midway into the effort by the unyielding undergarment. She panicked and became extremely dizzy. She prayed she wasn't going to faint, but the edges of darkness were already radiating around the edges of her vision. Oh, she was about to embarrass herself and her family yet again.
Chapter Two
"MORNINGTON, by God, it is good to see you," William said, gripping the beefy arm of his old friend from his days at Eton. A sleepy footman eased from his shoulders a rustic, moth-eaten coat drenched from the downpour outside. "Sorry to intrude at this ungodly hour."
Charles Mornington, lord of no land, but of much wealth, looked at William and removed his off-kilter nightcap, scratched his head and tightened the belt of his dressing gown. "I can only assume that the most dire of circumstances has led you to my remote corner of the world."
"You have no idea."
"The last time you were here you swore never to set foot in this part of the country again," Mornington said.
"Necessity is the mother of—let's see—a very bad memory, shall we say?" Will raked a hand through his wet hair and smiled.
"Dare I guess this impromptu visit involves the fairer of the sexes?"
William arched a brow. "I'm not overly fond of self-incrimination, my dear friend."
Mornington looked over William's comical mixed bag of peasant clothes and turned to the footman. "Jones, be so good as to rouse Mrs. Jenkins. We'll need the blue rooms prepared and"— he glanced at William again and grinned—"one of my nightshirts and dressing gowns as it appears my good friend has arrived ill equipped."
The footman rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked, heavy-footed, down the long hallway to the rear stairs. Mornington returned his glance to William. "So?"
"Aren't you going to offer a bit of brandy? You're not playing host very well. But I daresay I will forgive you, given the hour."
Mornington took up a candlestick and motioned the way into a dark wood-paneled library where rows upon rows of books climbed up to the vaulted ceiling. A pair of well-worn brown leather armchairs beside the padded fire railing bespoke of many comfortable hours spent in post-dinner cogitation.
"I suppose it is too much to ask for a fire?" suggested William.
Mornington sent him a glance.
"Oh, all right, I'll see to it myself," said William, kneeling down in his wet and dirty clothes to start a fire.
His former schoolmate poured amber liquid into delicate crystal glasses and brought them to the chairs.
"So?" The repeated syllable hung in the cool air.
William accepted the glass and took a long swallow before dropping into the nearest leather chair. "Well, I can safely say that even the less prudent mothers and fathers will shield their daughters from me now. Thank God, I might add." He leaned his wet head back and closed his eyes in weariness. "I should have done this years ago."
"Criminy, Will. Stop the hints, and spill the tale."
With a paucity of words, he relayed his recent encounter with the calculating Tolworth family.
"Actually, I rather think I did the family a good turn. If I'd stayed to kill the father, I would've felt guilty about leaving the females at the mercy of that oafish heir." William sniffed the soiled arm of the peasant's shirt and grimaced. "Need I assure you I would've—well, perhaps maybe I would've— married the chit if, ahem, matters had been allowed to reach their natural conclusion?"
Mornington hid his laughter without success. "But how did you escape?"
"With Jack Farquhar's help, of course."
"Don't tell me that peacock valet is still in your employ? Cheekiest man alive."
"Never underestimate cheekiness."
Mornington shook his head.
"I managed to evade the larder," William continued. "But my clothes were confiscated as an inducement to remain. Farquhar threw a rope up to my window, I crept into the stables and rode hell-bent for leather away from the blasted place."
William swallowed the remaining brandy in his glass and idly dangled the glass from his fingers over the arm of the chair. "Halfway to London I traded my ring and nightshirt for these rags and some food. Those damn Tolworths were on my heels the entire journey. I finally lost them in the dens of London, near the docks."
Wrinkling his nose, William pulled off his shirt and tossed it into the roaring fire. "Excuse the informality, but this has to be the most foul-smelling rag ever. I don't suppose you've got some clothes squirreled away I could borrow?"
Mornington grinned. "What's mine is yours, my friend, although I doubt they would fit."
William perused his friend's short, hefty frame and bit back a
retort. "I guess I'll have to make do with Farquhar's clothes when he arrives—that is, until I can have some clothes made up. And, by the by, a London man of business should be arriving on the morrow—along with Farquhar if the Tolworths haven't skinned him alive."
"And you think your former hosts—or should I say future in-laws—won't follow your valet?"
"If Farquhar can't outwit those Yorkshire bumpkins, I'll eat my hat—if I had one that is."
"Well, I hope you've the right of it because Anna and Felicia will be arriving in a few days and I'll not have my sisters exposed to your faux pas and petites amies."
"I love it when you speak French, Mornington. It shows you truly care."
"The last time Felicia saw you she behaved like a love-struck moon cow for a fortnight." Mornington studied William's bare chest. "God knows why you have that effect on females."
William laughed.
"Have a care, my friend. Lock those sisters of yours in their rooms each night for I'm tired of running, and more to the point, I've exhausted all possible hiding places." Will gratefully accepted more brandy. Once again, he closed his eyes.
"Well, I'm glad to report there's not an eligible lady for miles," Mornington said, rubbing his eyes and yawning until his jaw cracked. "Except for two recently arrived Welsh females who, according to last week's on-dits"—Mornington picked up an old newspaper and scanned the page with his finger— "yes, here it is.
" 'Miss S., of the towering frame and impressive bosom, dissected in detail here last week, has rightly put her tail between her legs and retreated into the obscurity of Burnham-by-the-Sea with her hanger-on dark cousin of lesser connections. It is to be hoped that retirement by the sea will cure the ill-refined female of improper conduct. Although it is highly doubtful she will be able to reassume her role as a marriage-minded heiress to a dukedom given her audacious behavior and the potential resulting evidence in nine month's time. Lord C. should be commended for his gracious efforts to save the unrepentant miss.' "
Mornington looked up from his paper. "Good God, I just realized, she must be the heir to the Cornwallis title and fortune."
"Clearly the case of lost virtue and maybe worse. The lady has my sympathies. She'll have a more difficult time than I, repairing a reputation if it can be done at all. Perhaps she will need comforting," suggested William.
"I'm sure you'd be more than happy to oblige."
"She's probably as horse-faced as the Yorkshire girl."
Mornington chuckled.
"No, I've had enough scandals to last a lifetime. Now that I'm staring at five and thirty years in my dish, I do believe I must learn to rusticate and reform my ways."
"Wonders never cease," exclaimed Mornington, grinning.
"That is, unless there is an opportunity, perhaps"— William lifted an eyebrow—"one with a lilting Welsh accent. But if there isn't a prospect for a discreet, simple dalliance in the neighborhood, I'll settle for tea and giggles with your dear sisters for the remainder of the Season."
Exhilarated by the morning gallop, Sophie brought the gray mare back to a more sedate trot when she rounded the next to last turn before the beginnings of the small seaside village. The last few days had gone by with surprising ease.
Oh, there'd been the embarrassment of fainting in the midst of Lord Coddington's proposal of marriage. Worse had been facing the disappointment of her aunt when Sophie had told her she wouldn't accept his lordship's offer.
Yet Sophie had triumphed in the end by attaining her goal of a brief departure from the all-knowing, all-seeing eyes of wretched London. Aunt Rutledge had called it "retrenching." Sophie didn't care what anyone called it as long as she was allowed an escape. She craved the peace of the countryside where she could dress how she liked and limit the number of people she would see.
Ensconced in the beautiful turreted mansion perched high atop a cliff overlooking the sea, she had reveled in the lonely harsh beauty of Burnhamby-the-Sea. She would never tire of listening to the cry of the peregrine falcons and the mournful cooing of the stock doves hidden in the low-lying wild thyme and horseshoe vetch. The cruel, salty winds reminded her of Porthcall.
The favored property of her recently deceased uncle, the Duke of Cornwallis, the Villa Belza had been left to her along with the other properties of the duchy with the proviso she marry a proper aristocrat, approved by the duke's sister, Aunt Rutledge. If she failed to accomplish this task by her next birthday, the properties, wealth and title would revert to an ancient fourth cousin, twice removed. Aunt Rutledge had appeared less than taken with that possibility.
Sophie, intent on her errand to the linen draper, tossed the reins into the waiting hands of the smithy and slid from the saddle.
As she trudged toward the shop, Sophie was aware of the stares she received by all in the little village. The people probably found her a disappointment over the last occupants of Villa Belza.
She looked down at her cracked boots and the frayed hem of her dusty, serviceable gown that was two inches too short. After wearing the most beautiful and uncomfortable clothes for the last two months, Sophie was delighted to wear this once again. And it hid her embarrassingly ample bosom well—it always had. But glancing about, she observed her gown was uglier and older than the lowest washerwoman's rag. She felt like a wretch.
Even the parson changed his course after one glimpse of her. Sophie hailed him anyway.
"Mr. Seymour! I've something for you."
He turned to greet her with an embarrassed expression. "Miss Somerset. What a surprise."
Sophie reached into her pocket and removed a coin purse. She emptied almost all of the contents into her palm and gave him the gold sovereigns. "You've saved me an errand. This is a donation for the restoration of the schoolroom damaged by the winter storms."
The parson's eyes widened at the hefty sum placed into his hands. "Why, Miss Somerset, I don't know what to say. I never expected a newcomer to behave so handsomely."
"There's no need to say anything. If my uncle were still alive, I feel certain he would have approved."
The parson looked doubtful.
"Good day, Mr. Seymour."
"And to you, too, Miss Somerset." He walked away and shook his head while counting the coins a second time.
Sophie took the few remaining steps to the draper's shop. The bells tinkled when she closed the door and walked past the bolts of fabrics toward the counter. Seconds later the bells sounded again. The portly owner of the establishment barreled around the counter to take her order. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by the person who had just entered.
"Pull down your finest wool and linen, sir," a tall stranger said, stepping forward. "Also, can you recommend the services of a tailor?" He turned and smiled at her. "Or perhaps there are no tailors to be found in this village?"
Just as she was about to give voice to her displeasure at the man's rudeness, Sophie found herself speechless before his fascinating appearance. Her mouth agape, she felt like a beached fish.
The outrageous gentleman sported a pale lavender waistcoat with an appliquéd design, a sea green coat with exaggerated cutaway styling and pinned back yellow lining, and while his shirt was a simple white, it had double rows of lace creeping from the cuffs and neck cloth. His skin tight breeches revealed the magnificence of every last inch of his physique.
The gentleman's Hessian boots featured an unusual white band with extra long tassels. Even among the priggish dandies in London, this gentleman must appear the veriest peacock.
Despite Sophie's considerable height, he dwarfed her by comparison. She drew herself up to her most imposing posture and tapped him on the arm.
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe the draper was about to take my order." The gentleman raised an ornate quizzing glass to one eye and looked down his aquiline nose at her.
What an absurd picture he presented, one eye magnified to the size of a barn owl's peeper. She stifled a giggle. His gaze traveled over her from the tip o
f her head to her poor excuse for footwear. Bored hauteur was clearly an expression he had perfected.
"Really?" he drawled with amusement evident in the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. He bowed and swept his arm in an invitation for her to step in front of him. "Pray forgive me. Do proceed."
What had she done? Now she had to place her order with this giant dandy standing witness. How provoking. Sophie assembled her thoughts.
"As I was about to say, I'd like to place an order for a warm cloak and, and for"—a sudden rush of heat flooded her face—"pantaloons and other suitable clothes for a lady who will be going on fishing expeditions and the like."
Sophie had lost her nerve. She'd wanted to have the fabric purchased and measured at the establishment. But the presence of the fancy gentleman next to her had overwhelmed her.
The draper tried to hide a smile but was unsuccessful. "And who would this lady be, miss?"
"Miss Somerset, lately of Villa Belza."
"The niece o' the old duke?"
"The very one," she replied, looking at her nails. For some reason she just couldn't bring herself to admit she was the lady in question. She knew without glancing that the exceptionally tall man beside her would have an amused arch to one eyebrow. He probably knew her game. She sneaked a peek at his expression.
Oh, he knew all right.
"Sorry, miss, my lord"—the man nodded to the stranger—"our tailor won't return for 'nother fortnight. But I shall send a message when he's come."
"Oh," Sophie said, with disappointment. "I see."
"Perhaps you could inform the lady that I'd be delighted to offer her a pair of pantaloons?" the gentleman drawled. He lowered his shoulder to look down at her. "I could deliver them myself, of course. Unless she'd prefer a personal fitting at the house where I'm staying—Hinton Arms."
He winked at her.
The draper coughed and wheezed in an effort to withhold his amusement.
Of all the presumptuous audacity. Oh, why hadn't she just said she was Miss Somerset from the start? This was awkward in the extreme. Best to retreat soonest.
