“He must have thought to cut some time off the trip and then panicked when his scheme turned sour,” Kate offered quietly. She appeared lost in thought as she spoke, which probably explained why she missed setting her teacup on the table by at least twelve inches.
“Oh dear.” Kate picked up the fallen cup and looked ruefully at the wet stain on the carpet. “I do so hope that will come out.”
Mirabelle patted her shoulder kindly and poured Kate another cup of tea.
Sophie couldn’t help be surprised at the girl’s calm reaction to what many would consider a major social misstep.
“You’re quite all right, aren’t you?” Sophie asked. “You’re not burned?”
Kate shook her head. “Oh no, the carpet took the worst of it. I suppose I should have warned you earlier, but I’m dreadfully clumsy. It’s become something of a family joke, only it’s not particularly funny.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”
Kate quirked a little smile. “I’m positively ungainly. There’s no accounting for it and nothing to be done. I’ve caused some perfectly awful mishaps.”
Sophie laughed softly. “I know a little something about mishaps,” she told the girls. And then with a little cajoling— a very little—Sophie spent the remainder of the afternoon entertaining her new friends with tales from some of her more outrageous adventures.
Sophie had never felt so uncomfortable in all her life.
Last night, her gown had drawn the appraising stares of men and the covetous glances of women, but none of her other new dresses were yet completed, and Sophie felt hopelessly provincial standing next to several elegant women in one of her more rustic pieces from home.
Perhaps she was being oversensitive. Probably, she was the only one paying attention to what she was wearing. No, she knew that wasn’t true. Alex had been staring at her quite openly all evening. She felt his eyes on her even when her back was turned. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck and all the color rise to her cheeks.
Good Lord, a bad dress and a red face. Now all she needed was to say something in truly poor taste to make the evening complete.
“I say, Miss Everton, your dress this evening is quite unlike any I’ve seen here in town. Wherever did you have it made?” Lady Wellinghoff punctuated the question with a thin smile.
“China,” Sophie replied. There was no point in lying, and she didn’t really feel like being polite to Lady Wellinghoff. The woman had insulted Mrs. Summers within minutes of arrival, commenting under her breath about the evils of overly familiar employees.
“Do you mean it? Oh, but how silly of me, of course you do. You’ve only just come to London, haven’t you? I’d forgotten. Well, the silk is lovely, dear. Tell us, how does our fair city compare to some of the more exotic locales of your experience?”
Sophie swallowed nervously. She had never been a shrinking violet, but then she had rarely been subjected to such unnerving stares. The least unpleasant of the guests were the rather serious Colonel and Mrs. Peabody. Mr. and Mrs. Jarles were officious snobs. The Earl and Countess of Wellinghoff clearly also considered themselves superior to those of the assembly, but their disdain was of a more subtle, though no less cutting, variety. Viscount Barrows was already too drunk to be insulting; his viscountess too dim-witted to know how. Alex’s presence set her nerves on edge, and her cousin, she had recently decided, was simply an ass.
She gave the group what she hoped was a patronizing smile and said, “You must understand that cultures vary so greatly from one continent to the next, and even from country to country and city to city, that I cannot possibly compare one civilization with another in any qualitative sense, but I will say that London has been all that I expected.” She topped off her speech with a shrug that hinted at indifference.
“But surely after having spent some time in England, you cannot continue to regard your previous residences as truly civilized,” Lady Barrows whispered dramatically, as if Sophie had uttered the most shocking statement heard this last century.
Her husband just hiccupped.
“Oh, but they are,” Sophie insisted. “They—”
“But they’re heathens!” Mrs. Jarles cut in.
“True, but—”
“Some of their practices are most barbaric,” Lady Wellinghoff told the group with relish. “I have heard that in China, young women have their feet bound to keep them from growing and it makes it quite impossible for them to move more than the tiniest step at a time.”
Sophie nodded. “I agree, it’s a distasteful practice, but we British are slaves to our own fashions. I dare say none of us look overly comfortable to night in our respective bindings and tight cravats.”
Sophie’s statement was met with muted gasps from the women, while several of the gentlemen cleared their throats uncomfortably. Apparently, the mention of women’s undergarments was not an acceptable topic of conversation at a formal dinner party. Belatedly, Sophie entertained the thought that perhaps that was why they were referred to as “unmentionables.”
Only Alex and Mrs. Summers appeared not to be shocked. He was grinning at her with unabashed amusement while she looked disgruntled but resigned.
Sophie was spared having to break the awkward silence by Mrs. Summers’ tactful change of subject. “I understand, Mrs. Peabody, you have done some extensive traveling yourself.”
“A lifetime of following the drum,” Mrs. Peabody replied to the group in general. “I’ve had the opportunity to see much more of this world than most young ladies.”
“Have you been to the Americas?” Sophie inquired, with genuine interest.
“I have,” Mrs. Peabody replied. “I lived for several years in both Boston and Philadelphia as a small child. We left some five years before that unfortunate revolution.”
“Hmph, and good riddance to that godless country, I say,” Mr. Jarles snorted.
Lord Barrows hiccupped and raised his glass in salute.
Sophie fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Mrs. Peabody calmly raised one eyebrow. “I presume by the strength of your opinion, Mr. Jarles, that you’ve traveled to that country yourself?”
Sophie was surprised to hear the hint of mockery in Mrs. Peabody’s voice. She had expected Mrs. Peabody to be of the same mind as the nasty Mr. Jarles.
“One doesn’t need to visit to know it’s populated with traitors and savages,” Mr. Jarles said.
“History is written by the victors,” Mrs. Peabody replied. “And according to history there are no traitors in America, only brave patriots willing to fight for what they believed in, or at the very worse, rebels who opposed a tyrannical monarch.”
“That’s treason, Mrs. Peabody.”
She appeared unmoved. “One can only commit treason against one’s own country,” she retorted calmly.
The colonel leveled his best commanding-officer stare at Mr. Jarles. “I do hope you were referring to the Americans when you spoke of treason, sir, and not my wife.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Jarles sputtered. “The thought never occurred.”
To accuse Mrs. Peabody of treason—a woman married to a celebrated colonel and who had spent her whole life serving her country in a capacity as close to soldiering as a woman was allowed—would not only be idiotic, but suicidal. Mr. Jarles was certainly the former, but not—and Sophie couldn’t help but think it was something of a pity—the latter.
The colonel nodded once in a supremely military sort of way that had Sophie smiling. It was something of a wonder to see the unmistakable glow of respect in Mr. Peabody’s eyes when he turned to look at his wife. He wasn’t just tolerant of her opinion, he was proud of it. A rare man indeed. And by the look she favored him with in return, a rare match.
For some reason Sophie glanced at Alex to see his reaction, only to discover he was already watching her, his emerald eyes unreadable. Sophie wasn’t certain if he had been paying attention to the Peabodys at all.
Hi
s intense gaze made her feel tingly all over, her lungs tight, her heart racing. In an effort to distract herself, she quickly turned back to Mrs. Peabody.
“Did you have a chance to meet any natives, ma’am?” she inquired, not at all certain she had spoken in a voice loud enough to be heard. It was terribly difficult to determine what might be an appropriate volume with her blood rushing in her ears.
Mrs. Peabody didn’t seem to notice her distress, and Sophie dearly hoped she wasn’t alone in that. “I did, my dear. But only a few, and there are a great many Indian tribes. And they are as diverse as any nations could be. Some of their customs I find appalling, others fascinating. Did you know, for instance, that in some tribes, a woman can be trained as a warrior along with the men?”
“Female warriors.” Mr. Jarles snorted with disgust. “Savages, just as I said. Lacking even the sense to keep their women at home as nature intended.”
“How is it that you are so sure that is what nature intended, Mr. Jarles, and not man?” Sophie asked.
“Don’t be daft, girl. I’ll not insult the ladies by speaking of indelicate topics, but suffice it to say, females are referred to as the weaker sex for a reason.”
“Quite right, husband,” Mrs. Jarles chirped.
Sophie ignored her and spoke directly to Mr. Jarles. “It is my understanding that every soldier has his own strengths and weaknesses. True, my arms are not as muscular as a man’s, but I’ll wager my fingers are a good deal more nimble.”
Mr. Jarles snorted for what seemed like the dozenth time, and Sophie began to wonder if the man was capable of making conversation without the porcine sound effects. “Exactly my point,” he scoffed. “Nimble fingers indeed! What good is that, I ask you? A fine hem won’t keep Napoleon from knocking at our gates, now will it? Civilization depends on the strength of our men. War cannot be waged with nimble fingers, my girl. We need soldiers strong of body, and leaders strong of mind.”
“Here, here!” some idiot cried. She was too annoyed to bother discovering who.
“I question the strength of anyone’s mind who would insist that war is a more civilized pursuit than embroidery,” she returned.
Mr. Jarles turned an unfortunate shade of red, but whether it was from embarrassment or temper, she would never know.
“Dinner is served.”
Alex, pointedly ignoring the still fuming Mr. Jarles, stepped forward to take Sophie’s arm. There would be a wait. Like all dinner parties, the pro cession into the dining room held all the pomp and circumstance of a military parade, and the ritual appeared to be a new one for Sophie. He could see she was trying to hide a smile. And failing miserably. She faced studiously ahead, but her eyes darted furtively about the room and her lips kept quirking in the most adorable fashion. Or perhaps adorable wasn’t the right word.
He had watched the unfolding scene with more interest than he had felt at a dinner party since…well, since ever, that he could recall. Oh, once or twice he’d been angry enough at Mr. Jarles to seriously consider planting the man a facer, but he suspected the chivalry of the act would be lost on Sophie. What’s more, it had become readily apparent that she didn’t require defending. Sophie Everton, he realized, was an extraordinary lady indeed. She didn’t know it, but two of the gentlemen present were considered eloquent speakers, often in demand for dinner parties and soirees. Rarely, if ever, were they gainsaid, and never by a young unmarried woman.
And yet here she was, trading barbs with men and women of means and rank. And winning. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like crowing at her victory. As if he were somehow responsible for her cleverness. For her. It was a ridiculous notion to be sure. He was there to discover Loudor’s secrets, and she was nothing more than a means to that end. He would do well to remember that.
And God knew he was trying, but it was so easy to become lost in her every expression. The lilt of her voice, the curve of her neck, the way she wrinkled her nose when she was annoyed.
And then there were her lips.
Never had he seen a woman so adept at expressing her emotions with her lips. She twisted them, pursed them, parted them, licked them. And Alex found each contortion more erotic than the last. He caught himself wondering what it would be like to press his own mouth over hers and feel those delightful movements with his lips, his tongue—
“Is something wrong?” she inquired softly.
“Hmm? Wrong?” he responded, only half hearing her.
“Yes, wrong. You’re looking at me most peculiarly.”
“Sorry, was I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“How peculiar.”
“So I believe I said. Peculiar. Are you unwell?”
He snapped back with alarming speed. Unwell? Good Lord, is that what he looked like when consumed with desire? Unwell?
“I’m quite all right,” he stated with a little more conviction than was probably necessary. “Merely lost in thought.”
“Oh, what about?”
“About? Well, I…er…”
Think, man, think.
I’d very much like to nibble on the corner of your mouth.
“The gardens are rather splendid for this time of year.”
Oh, brilliant.
Sophie glanced around as if confirming something. “We’re indoors.”
“So we are.”
“At my town house.”
“Also true.”
“And you were looking at me.”
“So I was, but you are right in front of me, and the gardens are not. As I said, I was lost in thought.”
“I see,” she said slowly, clearly not seeing, because she was looking at him as if she still expected he might be feverish.
Alex was vastly relieved to finally make it through the French doors and into the dining room. He was even happier to discover that Sophie had been seated next to him rather than across the table. Given half the opportunity—and he rather thought facing her for the next two or three hours would certainly be that—he’d gaze at her like some pathetic love-struck loon all evening. As it was, he was bound to have a sore neck tomorrow from turning his head to the side so often. If nothing else, the seating required that he look away if he wanted to eat without dribbling food on himself— which he most certainly did. And in the end, he managed not to disgrace himself.
Seven
Alex had intended to spend the time in his opera box wooing the lovely Sophie. In fact, he had spent the two days since the dinner party carefully calculating his plan of attack. It was, after all, his mission to find a way into her good favor. He would whisper, wink, manage a few light but well-placed touches, and otherwise be on his best rogue’s behavior. The combination of music, excitement, and his attentions had never failed to secure his conquests.
Five minutes into the first act, Alex realized he would have to change tactics.
Sophie appeared completely enraptured by the performance. She was ignoring him entirely, her eyes never leaving the proceedings on stage.
Alex was at a complete loss as how to proceed. No one came to the opera to actually watch the opera. They came to see and be seen, to gossip, to flirt. That’s what he had the damn box for! He didn’t even like the opera.
He groaned inwardly and tried to get more comfortable in his seat. At least his view of the stage required that he look past Sophie’s profile. He could stare to his heart’s content and no one, including her esteemed chaperone Mrs. Summers, would be the wiser. And she was nice to stare at. His eyes slid from the thick mass of sable hair he knew to feel like silk from the briefest of touches after the carriage accident, down to her ear, which was perfectly adorable, small, and slightly pointed at the tip. His gaze continued down to her elegant neck and then her bared shoulder. Alex wondered if her skin would taste as creamy as it looked. He followed the curve of her collarbone as it slid around to the front where he could make out the most tantalizing hint of cleavage.
He shifted in his seat again, stared at her hair for awhile, then
gave up and spent the rest of the evening trying very, very hard to develop an interest in the performing arts.
Sophie, on the other hand, had planned to spend the time in Alex’s box soaking in every blessed note of the opera and completely ignoring the man who inexplicably turned her mind into mush. Her original plan had been to cry off with a headache, but Mrs. Summers wouldn’t hear of it. So Sophie had devised the backup plan of actually enjoying herself, but that too seemed in immediate danger of failing.
The evening had started well enough. Alex had behaved as a perfect gentleman on the ride over. At least she thought he had been—she was still a little uncertain about some of the finer requirements of that particular station. He certainly had been more subdued in his choice of conversation topics, and, more importantly, he’d been unfailingly respectful to Mrs. Summers, which had raised him several notches in Sophie’s esteem. By the time they had reached the opera house, she had been confident her plan would be a resounding success.
That changed once they entered the box. It was too small for one thing, and for some reason he seemed to take up more than his fair share of the available space. He continued making polite conversation, but she had the hardest time overcoming the sensation that she had been cornered like so much prey. It wasn’t that she was typically uncomfortable in small spaces. In fact, if the box were half the size with twice as many people, it wouldn’t have mattered in the least. Small boned, and at barely over five feet and two inches, Sophie was accustomed to looking up to people, to feeling petite. Alex’s size, although impressive, wasn’t what overwhelmed her. It was everything else about him—his laughing green eyes, his gravelly voice, the way that one errant coffee-colored lock of hair kept slipping down his forehead the same way it had the first time she’d seen him. It was, simply put, him. He made her feel trapped. She didn’t like it. And yet she did. It was positively maddening.
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