by Sophia Nash
MY dear Lady Jacqueline,
I hope you will excuse the extreme impertinence of my letter. It is with the utmost urgency that I beg your assistance. I write in the hopes that our most fortuitous meeting—briefly at the masquerade ball one month ago—might prove fruitful for possibly both of us.
I find myself languishing in a backwater bay area filled with gnats, beetles and bats of inspiring proportions. My lady insists on ruining my delicate complexion and hers by insisting on long jaunts in the most inclement weather imaginable, all for the joy of delivering baskets of food to unfortunates and observing nature—yes, nature. Hedgehogs, sheep and nest-building birds in the shrubbery are her chief preoccupation during these interminable days when she is not strolling—or rather marching—along the seashore. Yesterday, she began teaching the village school children geography and actually suggested I start teaching the little demons French! The final straw (as you English like to say) occurred this very afternoon when she insisted I attend her on a fishing expedition, which resulted in mal de mer for me. Well! This is when I decided to risk writing to you.
Would you know of any lady who might be in search of a ladies' maid? In meeting you, I was sure I had found a fellow devotee of the importance of all things fashionable and I hoped you might help me secure a new position. That the lady resides in London is, of course, a prerequisite. That she circulates in the uppermost realms of society is the second requirement. That she appreciates the artistry with which I practice my God-given talents is the next to last. The final requirement is that the blunt—or rather remuneration—for my genius is excellent.
I have promised myself I would stay in Miss Somerset's employ until Miss Owens' marriage, but not another moment.
I understand Lord William has been invited to the wedding. It is my fondest hope you will spare me a few moments of your precious time for another rendezvous or two. I recall your gratitude during the ball when I attended to your needs,… and you attended to my own—quite divinely I might add.
Your devoted servant,
Karine Marcher
My dear Miss Marcher,
I do apologize for the delay in my reply. Your most interesting letter missed me at several stops on Lord Will's and my journey northward to the horrid juncture of an earlier scene of unpleasantness. Our current residence, in a little hamlet in Yorkshire, is nothing to Burnham-by-the-Sea, which appears a veritable Brighton or Biarritz compared to this desert of humanity. I despair at ever laying eyes on the exquisite delights of town again. My dear, dare I say, I find myself in the same unappealing little boat alongside you with little anticipation of finding happiness again?
I fear neither of us will ever have the opportunity to explore our own private Garden of Eden again unless we lend a helping hand to our dear, dear frien—or rather, employers.
But I have the pleasure of reassuring you that Lord William will attend Mr. Mornington's nuptials. From there, it is my hope that we will return to London. And who knows, my dear, there is always the chance he will encourage Miss Somerset to do likewise. He does seem to be suffering from a most peculiar sort of tendre for your mistress.
I am willing to let this little tidbit fall from my quill, for your eyes only, to repay my little debt of gratitude. Perhaps you could use it to your benefit (and mine) by softening up your employer to Lord Will's person prior to our arrival. I have come to the conclusion I will suffer from my lord's infernal ability to get into scrapes with the (sometimes, I will grudgingly allow) fairer sex for the rest of my life unless I maneuver a love match to keep him preoccupied until he is a doddering, mush-eating fellow. The man is simply unable to mimic me when conducting his affairs discreetly anymore. It is a crying shame. Bachelorhood has lost one of its brightest charmers.
But I must reveal no more, for discretion is the better part of a valet's service.
Until next month, Mademoiselle Karine, adieu.
Jack Farquhar, erstwhile Lady Jacqueline Barclay
It was almost three o'clock, the time Charles Mornington was to bring a large group of houseguests for an afternoon ride to Brean Down. Surveying Villa Belza's sunny sitting room and the magnificent prospect of the simple, stark side gardens and the ocean in the distance, Sophie found an unexpected moment of solitude.
The two weeks prior to Mari's wedding had proved more trying than Sophie could have anticipated. She had thought the sight of so many former friends and her late mother's relatives from Porthcall would be wonderful. Villa Belza was filled to the rafters with Mari's wedding guests.
For everyone, there were sights to be explored, large dinner parties to attend, singing and dancing at every opportunity, picnics and horse riding and walks on the shoreline.
The Welsh, after all, knew how to have a good time, albeit a noisy good time.
What Sophie hadn't realized was that time and unshared experiences could drive a wedge between close friends and family. She felt like a lamb weaned from its mother and the whole herd after the cleaning, bathing and sheering process. Sophie felt uncomfortable in her skin, not raised with the peers of the realm yet unable to recapture the simple life of her past. She felt her eyes fill with tears at these bittersweet reflections. Sophie realized she had become closer to her irascible yet loving aunt more so than to anyone else.
And her indomitable aunt's fondest wish was transparent. The grand dame still held out hope of a match despite her silence on the subject. Only her former ill-fated guidance kept her aunt's sharp tongue in seclusion. That, and the fact that Sophie had secretly invited Lord Coddington's father to the house party. The gentleman occupied almost all of her aunt's time and put a renewed bloom in her cheeks.
The certainty that William would arrive at any moment nudged the corners of Sophie's mind hourly. Charles had alluded to it on more than one occasion. William was to stand up with him in the parish church of Saint Andrew just as Sophie was to attend Mari. She shivered.
She couldn't bear the thought of facing his handsome elegance and sensual, knowing countenance during the service the day after tomorrow. But she was entirely immune to his dissolute charms.
Their encounter on Primrose Hill had scoured her foolish, foolish sensibilities if not her thoughts. It was just that she loathed the idea of enduring his presence again.
Through the large picture window, she spied a collection of riders and a carriage on the approach. Sophie narrowed her eyes to see if she could discern William or Lord Drummond among the pack. The latter had wrangled an invitation to the Mornington house party and was supposed to arrive today.
She had formed the decision to see if there was any possible hope of forming an attachment in that corner.
Perhaps her aunt was correct. A marriage of convenience would at the least bring companionship and, with any luck, the wonder of a child. She must consider attaching herself to someone one last time or embrace the relative peace and certain isolation of spinsterhood wholeheartedly. Lord Drummond was the most likely candidate.
Sophie hurried down the steps of the villa's entrance in advance of the party, grateful for the opportunity to escape from her thoughts.
Mari and her father, Uncle Rhys, bustled from the villa to join the crowd of guests from Hinton Arms. Mari's two brothers, Parry and Bran, also appeared with their three sisters, Sian, Alis and Bethan, in tow. And Mari's older brother Aeron herded his three young children, Padrig, Anwen and Wyn, behind the others. Two other cousins, Cadell and Trystan Owens had gone to the port to inspect and try Sophie's new fishing boat.
Mr. Mornington had indeed brought Lord Drummond as well as his two sisters and two old friends of the family, Sir John Tarley and his wife, Lady Tarley. William was nowhere in sight.
"I'm delighted to see you again, Miss Somerset," Lord Drummond said after all the obligatory greetings and introductions. He bowed over her hand and brought her fingers close to his lips but did not make contact. Very proper. He really was handsome—clear hazel eyes, curly brown hair and an endearing crooked smile. "I've bee
n counting the minutes since last we parted."
Although he did utter the most inane bits of pleasantry at times. "Really? And how many minutes have passed, sir?" she asked. "I cannot allow such a comment, meant solely to turn me up sweet, to pass without verifying the flatterer's honesty."
Lord Drummond grinned. "Why, it has been well over twenty-two thousand minutes since our unfortunate outing near Regent's Park."
Sophie tried to hide her smile while tapping her whip on the heavy fabric of her dark blue riding habit. "Tell me truthfully, sir, are you a genius or did you not calculate your answer prior to coming here?"
"Ah, you wound my pride. I'd hoped you would assume I was brilliant." He escorted her to her mount, while everyone else arranged themselves among the horses and carriages brought from the stables. "I see by your expression that you'll have none of it. So I'm forced to admit I don't come courting without a well-prepared arsenal."
Sophie dissolved into peals of laughter. Recovering, she replied, "I've learned to value honesty above all things, sir."
Lord Drummond tossed her into the saddle and the collection of family members and friends set off along the sandy track.
The first hour was spent amicably weaving among the open carriages and riders with Charles Mornington offering commentary on the ancient field systems, burial mounds and wildlife that could be found in the area. Eager to see the remains of an Iron Age hill fort at the entrance to the down, the group negotiated their way there, with two riders, Sophie and Lord Drummond, promising to meet the others at the site of a small Roman temple a half mile farther along.
Lord Drummond assisted Sophie from the saddle, and led her to the shade of a beech tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze.
His height matched hers. She gazed into his kind eyes when he removed his hat. "I have missed you, Miss Somerset."
"So you mentioned." She tilted her head and unconsciously reassumed her mocking temptress façade.
"I was mortally afraid you would marry Lord William Barclay after that duel. Deuced bad business that was, if you ask me. The man had no right to defend your honor. If anyone, I should have been allowed to be your champion. Why I never even saw him with you and I—well, I was your favorite, wasn't I?"
Defensiveness was never an endearing trait in a man. At least William never— Oh, drat her dissembling mind. Must pay attention.
"But I know how females are—just have to look at my own silly sisters. They'd immediately marry anyone who was daring enough to fight for their honor. Not that my sisters would ever blemish their names, you understand. Mama would never hear of it. But, it's those ridiculous amorous notions they get with dashing uniforms or duels. Little do they know that there's nothing the least bit romantical about saber blades or pistol balls. You're not like my sisters are you? You're not engaged to Lord William—tell me now if you are."
Sophie laughed. "You do an awful lot of talking, my lord, for someone who professes to have missed me."
Lord Drummond's Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped. "Oh, I say, Miss Somerset. Do forgive me. I guess this means I'm to be allowed another kiss? The kiss of such sweet torture that exists in my dreams and has driven me to madness?"
"Now who's spouting silly romantical notions?" She swept her eyelashes down, demurely, expertly. "Yes, you may kiss me, my lord."
Like a mechanical soldier, he took one step forward and grasped her shoulders with clammy hands before lowering his puckered lips. Long moments passed.
It was a pity. He still ground his lips into hers a fraction too strongly for her taste. And she could hear air whistling through his nose and his hot breath on her face. Sophie ran her fingers through his hair and curled the tips of her fingers along the edges of his ears.
He broke off the kiss and swallowed. "I adore it when you do that, Miss Somerset." He had a dazed look in his eyes. Lord Drummond recaptured her poor lips and groped the full curves of her body.
It did not feel anything like…
She refocused her attention, making a path of small, sweet kisses to his earlobe, trying to force herself to feel something for this man who might bring her a measure of comfort in the long years ahead. She kissed him on the cheek before pulling away.
It was a shame really. He was her age but seemed the veriest boy. This was not going to work. It was time to put away all hopes of a marriage and children.
"Dash it all, Miss Somerset. You do care. Will you have me then? I've been praying you would reconsider my offer." He swept down on one knee, and grasped her hand. "Will you accept me then?"
Oh, she hated to trample on his tender sensibilities. "I am much honored by the proposal you make me, sir. But, I cannot, Lord Drummond. I've given you the wrong impression, and I must apologize profusely."
He looked exceptionally disappointed.
She continued. "I beg you not to misunderstand. It's not that I don't care for you. I like you very much. It's just that I've decided to never marry."
He scowled, then regained his feet and brushed at his soiled knees. "Oh, you don't fool me. You don't fool me a'tall. You're smitten with that—that Corinthian. I knew it. But mark my words, the bounder will bring you nothing but unhappiness." He waggled his finger at her nose.
"You're wasting your breath. I'm not interested in marrying Lord William—not in the least." She turned and walked the short distance past the ruins of the small Roman temple, Lord Drummond right behind her. She faced the sea and let the wind push the wisps of hair from her face.
She smiled and tried to change the subject. "Enough, sir. Will you dance the first set with me at Mr. Mornington's soiree tomorrow?"
"Hell's bells," he muttered.
"Are you too mortified to stand up with me? I do want us to be friends."
"Do you think I wheedled an invitation to this silly wedding, and left the amusements of town for mere friendship?" He spoke the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Sophie stroked the side of his face.
He captured her hand with his own. "Oh, all right, but only if it's a waltz. You dance it adequately."
"Well, then, I'll return the favor by introducing you to three of the most beautiful ladies from Bath. And I won't be surprised if all your future dreams are comprised of auburn hair and blue eyes."
"Ach. Promises, promises. And here we are letting this perfectly good, romantic spot go to waste. I suppose you're now going to want to go back and listen to Mornington prattle again about the driest, most inane historical details."
There was a thought. "That is precisely what we'll do."
Sophie cursed the male mind. How was it that a man could propose marriage one day, and seem to fall in love with someone else the next?
Lord Drummond was waltzing in the ballroom of Hinton Arms with Miss Philippa Aversley. A look of dreamy contentment overspread his face. He had completely forgotten she had promised the first waltz to him just yesterday while he had been in the dismals.
Really, it was almost an insult.
Well, if there was one thing Sophie had learned in the last several months it was that gentlemen, of the Upper Ten Thousand at least, knew nothing about the joys of fidelity and devotion. Constancy was not part of their nature.
Sophie looked past the three and thirty waltzing couples to the beautifully decorated entrance to Hinton Arms' ballroom for what had to be the hundredth time. Where was he? Her nerves were as taut as the strings on the violinist's instrument. She'd mentally prepared herself for William's arrival for the last two weeks by practicing again and again in front of her dressing table's mirror the correct yet distinctly cool greeting she would make when he bowed before her again.
Sophie watched Mari, looking beautiful with small white flowers woven into her dark hair, smiling at her betrothed as she circled the ballroom with the besotted bridegroom-to-be.
A stab of potent loneliness pierced Sophie.
Here in the Mornington's dazzling room filled to the brim with all her family, friends and neighbors, Sop
hie was more thoroughly alone than ever before.
And by this time next week she would be, without question, bereft. Mari and Charles would be on their much-anticipated wedding voyage. All of Sophie's Welsh relatives would be reassuming their lives in Porthcall respectively. School would be closed for the harvesting months and most of her neighbors would be gone to Bath or Brighton if they could manage it. Even Aunt Rutledge, dancing under the loving gaze of Lord Coddington's father, would leave her. Sophie would not be surprised if there was a quiet wedding being planned in that corner.
She reflexively looked at the doors again, then crossed the edges of the ballroom toward the terrace in search of cooler air. Once outside, she observed the gathering of dancers beyond the terrace doors and forced herself to smile in an effort to shake her depressed spirits.
She must fight the memories, the feelings they brought. She must learn to dispel the destructive recollections of her affection for a man who did not deserve her, her—There, she would admit it. She had loved him. But she would battle her sensibilities. She would find peace and then truly take pleasure in the joys to be found living in a smallish parish by the sea. She was practical enough to admit that she would not start until after she faced Lord William one last time—tomorrow.
She looked up from her introspection on the outside terrace and froze. A tall gentleman entered the ballroom through the distant doors. She squinted her eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
IT was not he. It was someone who very nearly was William, but with a wider smile, and long hair drawn back in a queue. But they were identical in their coloring, height and powerful physiques. How could God have possibly created two of them? She was glad she was alone and in the shadows outside so that no one could see her open perusal. She glanced at her hands to find them shaking then returned her attention to the stranger.
Charles, with Mari on his arm, hurried over to this Williamesque creature after the final notes of the set. The guest passed a note of some sort to Charles who bowed in acceptance. A brief exchange occurred followed by the three pairs of eyes turning to scan the room.
