Lord Will & Her Grace

by Sophia Nash

  "Where?" Will said, quietly but with menace.

  "I beg your pardon," said Mornington.

  "Where have they gone?"

  "I'll not tell you. I'll not let you near them."

  Farquhar stepped in. "Oh, go ahead and tell him. Can't you see he's gone and fallen in love with her? And it is painfully clear that you are suffering from the same ridiculous condition." Farquhar began picking up the discarded nightclothes and headed toward the door. "Now let us get a move on to town, directly. For you don't have to tell me where they've gone, or what they'll do. Let's hope by the time we get there that I'll have talked some sense into one, if not both, of you."

  Jack disappeared into the hallway to retrieve the trunks and talked to himself under his breath. "Like I always say, 'Ladies—can't live with them, can live without them.' But do they listen?" He cackled to himself and began quietly singing one of his new favorite tunes. "Yankee Doodle keep it up, Yankee Doodle dandy. Mind the music and the step and with the girls be handy…"

  Chapter Eight

  IT was late to be rejoining the Season in town. But there were advantages to reentering the swirl of society at the height of the bloom and bustle. Relatively new faces were always sought after in the glittering ballrooms such as this one in the Earl and Countess of Mayne's mansion. And faces such as Sophie's, with the taint of recent scandal, were especially desirable. For everyone who was anyone delighted in following the potential for more gossip.

  Sophie glanced down at her bodice. Delicate lace rimmed the edges of the ice blue ball gown. It was her favorite. She examined the display of bosom Mademoiselle Karine had suspended with a most inventive style from the new mantua-maker on Bond Street. Gone were the days when Sophie hunched her shoulders. Now she stretched her neck and displayed her shoulders and form proudly. It was a profound change.

  It was only after discerning William's fortune-hunting schemes, and the resulting fury that fueled her new plan, that she had ruthlessly learned how to use her voluptuous charms to her benefit. Now every gentleman in London from the age of six and ten to six and eighty had a flicker of interest in his eye when he greeted her. Gone were the furtive glances at her covered bulk. Somehow, her proud stature and newfound confidence naturally repelled vulgar comments. In four short weeks, she had gained a hard-won acceptance by the ton, if the invitations piled on her aunt's desk were any indication.

  And tonight she was determined to make her choice, and bask in the radiance of her success. She only wished he were here to witness her ultimate triumph in the face of the almost insurmountable odds that she had encountered upon her return.

  "My dear Miss Somerset, don't break my heart by refusing me the next set." Lord Drummond inched his way forward through the throng of gentlemen surrounding Sophie.

  She tilted her head and fluttered her fan at the precise pace to indicate indecision. Her eyes sparkling, from the reflection of the many candles bedecking a chandelier, revealed her intention.

  A chorus of protests broke out among her court of admirers. "Her card is full," the Marquis of Dalrymple said, much annoyed.

  "She hasn't received permission to waltz, Drummond," Mr. Hornsby continued.

  "Hear, hear!" seconded three more gentlemen.

  Sophie snapped her fan closed and cleared her throat. "Why, Lord Drummond, I had not thought to see you tonight. Most of the more, shall we say, refined guests arrived hours ago."

  "My dear Miss Somerset," Lord Drummond replied with a grin, "I was detained by my efforts to compose a suitable verse describing your lips, your eyes, your very soul."

  "Oh, I say, most unfair," complained the Duke of Isleton.

  "I see. And?" Sophie affected a haughty ennui, plying her newfound role with expertise.

  "And I would request the pleasure of dancing this waltz so I can litter your person with a plethora of pithy adjectives," replied Lord Drummond.

  Much as she had become adept at composing her every emotion, Sophie could not swallow the gurgle of laughter that escaped her. "Ah, well, we cannot have the verse molder so long that you begin to insert adverbs, now can we?" She tapped her fan lightly on his chest. "I accept."

  Unhappy male voices followed the pair when Sophie placed her gloved hand on the proffered arm of Lord Drummond and they wove into the bevy of couples flocking onto the ballroom floor.

  Sophie looked into the blue eyes of Lord Drummond as he splayed his hand on her back, and accepted her hand in his other. He was her exact height and age and his light brown hair was only a shade away from her dark blond locks. He was most adept at amusing her and had been trying to tempt her for the last month.

  Lord Drummond was droll on occasion to be sure. If only he had the intense intelligence in his expression like… Sophie shook her head, willing her memories to disappear.

  "I see you are intent on completely ruining the last shreds of my reputation, my lord," Sophie said.

  "Ah, but it is part of my plan, Miss Somerset," he replied with an open countenance. "If it is wholly in tatters you'll be left no choice but to accept my proposal of marriage."

  "Well, it has not escaped my notice that you've been, let us say, most diligent this past week in your efforts to tarnish my character," Sophie said. "I would call you a blackguard, sir, if your efforts had not failed in an extraordinary fashion. In fact, I do believe I owe you my thanks."

  He sighed in mock despair. "I suspected as much. I'm afraid I was three sheets to the wind when I did it. How many gentlemen have tried to kiss you in the past week?"

  "Ah, a lady does not reveal all, sir."

  Lord Drummond waltzed Sophie past a pair of potted palms, through one set of doors to the terrace beyond. He had the distinct look of a male poised to steal a kiss—the same look Lord Coddington had on his face earlier in the Season.

  Sophie arched a brow and deftly steered them back through the second set of doors. "My, my, Lord Drummond, I think you have had altogether too much of that, don't you agree? You assume too much," she said, laughing. "Especially before you have uttered even one line of promised verse."

  Lord Drummond accepted defeat without much grace. "My dear, I can't get our embrace from my mind. The touch of your hands in my hair, your sweet lips, and what you did to my ear, and, and"— he stared down at her décolleté—"well, you simply have the most beautiful, divine presence that is perfection personified."

  Sophie delicately licked her upper lip and smiled.

  Lord Drummond's step faltered momentarily and a sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow. "Right. Now let's see… a poem. Right."

  He was concentrating. "There once was a girl from Wales, who was certainly not covered in scales. She kissed like a siren, danced like a fairy, and frustrated all the wind out of every poor boy’s sails."

  Sophie laughed.

  "I do believe I forgot a line about 'a certain lady's tall tales.' Yes, I’m certain." He had a comical expression on his face.

  Lord Drummond really did possess most everything she had been looking for—wit, charm, and most amazing of all, he was rich. She had had three sources confirm the last point before setting one of her slippers in his carriage bound for a tour of Hyde Park during the social hour.

  And he was completely entranced by her carefully constructed façade—the unattainable and mysterious lady she and Karine had painstakingly created over the last few weeks.

  There was no reason to reject him. And yet…

  "Have I earned my reward then?" he asked, hope shining in his eyes.

  "Undoubtedly," she replied.

  "Righto then. Back to the terrace."

  The music ceased, and Lord Drummond looked at her. "You knew it was ending?"

  She smiled and winked at him. "Your reward was the waltz, and well you know it, sir. Lead me to my aunt, will you? I fear from the look on her face I shall be departing shortly."

  And then she saw him as she scanned the room for her party. William. Her gaze darted back. There was no one there—just like last week a
t the theater. But she was sure he had been partially visible, standing outside one of the doors to the terrace. Her heart plummeted.

  She suddenly felt exhausted from the effort of embodying her new persona. The concentration required to enact the bold pretense of wit, easy charm and beauty was an unbelievable strain.

  Sophie and Lord Drummond made their way toward the disapproving gaze and tight smile of Aunt Rutledge, her companion Mrs. Crosby and cousin Mari. A word or two later and the females had agreed to depart despite the pleas of Lord Drummond. Aunt Rutledge used her most haughty glare in response to the young gentleman's request to escort Sophie and a party of his making to Vauxhall two days hence.

  Sophie said good-bye to her disappointed suitor and for a quarter of an hour the quartet of females was forced to wait in the great hall of the Mayfair townhouse for the arrival of their carriage. Aunt Rutledge was glowering so intently that Sophie knew better than to initiate conversation.

  Sophie strolled to the gray marble full-length statue of Caesar, bedecked in nothing but laurel and grape leaves, and pondered the current state of affairs. These visions were unsettling. She supposed they were due to her refusal to see him when he had called on three separate occasions. She had not wavered. If she had, Karine would have locked her in her apartments. Her maid had wholeheartedly embraced her plan once she had seen the outrageous amount of shopping it had entailed and the inevitable castoffs.

  Sophie had had to be careful exiting her Aunt's townhouse. She had rushed into carriages, went to small affairs where she knew the guest list in advance, and ruthlessly interrupted Mr. Mornington's stuttering pleas on behalf of that, that poor excuse of a gentleman.

  Every day that passed solidified Sophie's anger at William's deception. She had gained proof of his fiscal woes when she had attended a glittering ton event in one of the most beautiful, opulent mansions in Mayfair the first week of her return. Sophie had overheard two elderly gentlemen tut-tutting about its forced sale.

  "Shocking, Winthrop, shocking, indeed," said one.

  "The poor lads of Granville had no choice but to sell this place—the marquis has not reappeared and it's been what? Years, I tell you."

  "I hear tell the marquis was last seen in France—in that devil Boney's court no less."

  "Well, at least we still have his magnificent pile to enjoy. Our hosts have dusted it off quite nicely."

  Yes, it was painfully clear to Sophie that William had never cared two straws for her—only for her inheritance, otherwise he would have found a way, despite her refusal to see him, to throw himself prostrate on his knees to beg her forgiveness. And the angrier she became, the more brittle and thick the shell in which she had encased herself grew. She would never, ever, open herself to heartbreak again.

  She knew the game well now. She had learned it from the best. And Karine had furthered her education. Uninterest, feigned or—much better— real, was the most potent aphrodisiac in the ton. She had become adept at her façade. Sophie had become archly unattainable and had maintained a mysterious air.

  The one trait Sophie possessed that Karine had been unable to filter from her was her inherent compassionate nature. It was the ingredient that made her different from the other more haughty, jaded females. Within days the gentlemen of London had risen uniformly in a fevered pitch of interest, jockeying for position at each event she attended.

  There was only one reason she was willing to put herself through the rigors of a London courtship instead of tromping back to Porthcall, whose distant, haunting past beckoned her in her dreams. After her initial burst of anger had cooled, she thought about the people she loved and who loved her—Aunt Rutledge, Mari and a scattering of her mother's relatives in Wales, as well as some of the people in Burnham-by-the-Sea.

  After seeing the good she had been able to wrought in Burnham with her contributions to the school, the poor and the infirm combined with the opportunity of securing a wonderful spouse for Mari as well as possibly some, if not all, of her Welsh cousins, Sophie knew in her heart and her mind, that she could not pass up this chance to help so many of her own.

  Perhaps her initial plan to return to London had been borne by a stinging desire to retaliate in kind to Lord Will. But now it had grown into so much more. She realized that she had been cowardly and selfish when she had refused to heed Mari's arguments last spring. Then, she had been a pious spinster, unsure of herself and in possession of a dreadful trusting nature. The solitary life of a recluse, without familial or societal burdens, had proved too tempting. Now she was a fully grown woman and as such could not evade the responsibilities to her family.

  Sophie was roused from her thoughts by the signal of a footman. Within moments, she, along with Aunt Rutledge, Mrs. Crosby and Mari, was bustled into the dark blue lacquered closed carriage with the gold ornate Cornwallis "C" emblazoned on each side. The door latch had not even caught before Aunt Rutledge let loose her displeasure.

  "Really, Sophie, you have been here for less than a month, and I don't know whether I should congratulate you on your successes or be thoroughly put out." Her old aunt's plumage was shaking mightily. "Tonight's ball was a classic example. I thought I might expire when I saw you waltzing with Lord Drummond. The look on Sally Jersey's face—well, you may be assured your name will never cross the patronesses' collective lips along with any compliments."

  Mrs. Crosby waved a perfumed handkerchief in front of Aunt Rutledge's nose.

  "Thank you kindly, Gladys."

  Sophie sighed. "At nine and twenty I should not have to seek permission to waltz and besides, I thought you would be pleased by all the attention, Aunt." Sophie looked for support from Mari and her aunt's companion, Mrs. Crosby, a distant cousin of the same age as the dowager who was indebted to her grand cousin for taking her in.

  Mrs. Crosby said nothing, preferring to concentrate on the carriage lamp. Sophie widened her eyes and made an encouraging motion to Mari.

  "Well," Mari interjected softly, "you must agree that Sophie has been successful at attracting several admirers. Was that not the point of returning here? I would not listen to the old biddies."

  "I beg your pardon?" Aunt Rutledge huffed. "I am one of those old biddies you speak of! And twelve suitors is not my idea of several." She turned to Sophie. "Your character is being called into question, gel, and yet you sit there cool as can be with that odious cat-in-the-cream-pot expression you have so recently acquired. What can you be thinking?"

  Sophie had learned that her aunt pretended a ferociousness that she rarely, in truth, embodied. In fact, Sophie sometimes believed that her aunt delighted in this marrying business more than any of them. "Everything is going better than I had hoped, Aunt. Was it not a stroke of good luck that wager Lord Drummond put in the betting book at his club? I am much obliged to him and shall remember to ask my future husband to make a toast to him during the wedding breakfast."

  A strange sound came from the corner. Sophie saw that it was Mrs. Crosby attempting to stifle a giggle.

  "Gladys," Aunt Rutledge said, "don't encourage her. And you, missy"—she turned to Sophie—"are treading on remarkably thin ice. I find nothing amusing, whatsoever, about the audacious antics of that Drummond boy. He opened you and other ladies up to being accosted by every member of White's. Honestly… wagering that you had the most—what was it?"

  "Arousing kiss," the three ladies answered simultaneously.

  "That was it. Most arousing kiss in London. Give me my smelling salts, Gladys. And now all my acquaintances are furious, saying that every gentleman in town is trying to find a lady who, who can— Oh, heaven forbid! I can't believe I have been put in the position to discuss this most vulgar topic. Why in my day, a young lady—"

  "Yes, I know, Aunt Rutledge. I am sorry. But Lord Drummond's actions are not my fault."

  "Well, I say it is your fault that the ladies of good ton are all in danger of being mauled behind every hothouse bit of shrubbery at evening entertainments. And you, gel, are those young
bucks' primary target—for comparison purposes apparently. Really, Sophie!"

  Sophie swallowed her smile. "Oh, Aunt Rutledge, you know that isn't true. And besides, I think most of the young ladies and old are secretly delighted to have an eligible gentleman give them a chaste kiss. It might even give the mothers a chance to force those selfsame young bucks into making an offer. They should thank me." Sophie yawned and leaned back into the well-padded squabs of the carriage, finally releasing all the tension in her back.

  Mari shook her head. "The transformation is complete. Your father is turning in his grave."

  Aunt Rutledge pushed away the smelling salts Mrs. Crosby had placed under her nose. "They are calling you the Hoyden Heiress in earnest now. And I'm afraid I am going to have to withdraw my support for your inheritance as I do not see how you will be able to secure a proper match. If only you had accepted Lord Coddington. He was everything proper and charming. But, I promised not to— Never mind. Now then, where was I? Yes, I promised my brother I would not sign the papers granting you the title and the inheritance unless you married a gentleman of good ton capable of guiding you to ensure the proper continuance of the dukedom. I fear I will be forced—"

  "I have had four offers from acceptable gentlemen in the last week," Sophie said quietly. She examined the extremely low bodice of her evening gown.

  "What!" the three ladies cried. Mrs. Crosby dropped the smelling salts and Mari lowered a handkerchief she had raised to her face.

  "Four offers. One from Mr. Hornsby over asparagus and aspic, following tonight's supper dance, one from Lord Drummond, in Hyde Park last week, of course. Then there was the offer from His Grace, the Duke of Isleton, but that one is out of the question. I refuse to marry a gentleman seven years younger than I. The final offer came from that Marquis… Dalrymple. I told him I would take his offer under consideration but I think I'll not have him even though he is kind and I dare not hurt his feelings. His expression reminds me too much of a hound and his embrace left me feeling, well… pawed over."