by Mary Nichols
‘He will want neither of us,’ Sophie snapped. ‘So there is no need to put ourselves into a quake over it.’
It was a relief to find a pile of invitations on the breakfast table the following morning. Lady Fitzpatrick, in a housegown and with her hair pushed under a mob cap, was delighted. ‘I knew it would happen, as soon as you were seen out with Lord Braybrooke,’ she said. ‘None of the mamas of unmarried daughters are going to let you have a clear field where he is concerned. And the ladies with sons will not allow him to take all the limelight when you have so much to offer, dear Charlotte.’
She chuckled. ‘Oh, this is going to be a very interesting Season. Now, girls, go and dress for your ride. I have already sent for your mounts to be brought to the door.’ She waved the bundle of invitations at them. ‘When you return we will decide on which of these to accept and make plans for your own come-out ball.’
‘A ball?’ queried Charlotte as they mounted the stairs together. ‘How can we possibly have a ball here? There is no ballroom and the drawing room is too small, even if we moved all the furniture out.’
Sophie was too tense to worry about the answer to that question. ‘No doubt her ladyship will find a way. Let us take one day at a time. Today is the day for riding.’
In spite of her mental anguish, Sophie longed for the exhilaration of a good ride and made up her mind that she would enjoy it and not spend precious time worrying about what could not be helped. She had not bought a new riding habit because the one she already had was perfectly serviceable. Frogged in military style with silver braid, it was of deep blue velvet and fitted closely to a neat waist, becoming fuller over the hips. Her beaver hat, trimmed with a long iridescent peacock feather which curled around the brim and swept across one cheek, was a creation to turn heads.
Without revealing her true identity, she would set aside the undistinguished country cousin and be more like herself, just for a day. It was vanity, she acknowledged, but necessary if she were not to sink into self-induced oblivion. She went downstairs when she heard his lordship arrive, determined to be cool, but her resolve was almost overturned when she saw Lord Braybrooke looking up at her from the marble-tiled hall.
He was neatly but not extravagantly dressed for riding, in a double-breasted coat with black buttons, supple leather breeches and boots with enough polish to mirror whatever was immediately above them, in this case, his outstretched arm as he came towards her hand to take it in greeting.
‘Miss Hundon.’
‘Lord Braybrooke.’
Why was it that even the small touch of his fingers could bring a hot flush of colour to her cheeks and turn her legs to jelly? She was vastly relieved when Charlotte, becomingly attired in leaf green, followed her downstairs and distracted the viscount, giving her time to give herself a severe scolding and collect her scattered wits. She picked up her crop from the hall table and led the way outside, where Martin and Luke stood with the horses.
Luke, who naturally knew that the stallion was her mount, threw her up, leaving Richard, taken by surprise, to see Charlotte into her saddle, then the three men mounted and the little cavalcade set off at walking pace, carefully weaving its way in and out of the traffic until they reached the gates of Green Park.
Sophie on horseback was a very different person from Sophie playing the country cousin in a Society drawing room, or being a nondescript companion riding in a carriage. Sophie on a horse was strong and fearless and competent. Before long she became impatient with their steady plod and, as soon as she saw a wide expanse of green in front of her, set off at a canter, which the others were obliged to follow. Laughing, she increased the pace to a gallop.
Richard was torn between going after her and staying with Charlotte, who showed none of the recklessness of her cousin.
Reckless perhaps, but magnificent. When he had first seen the stallion he had thought it too strong for either of the girls and assumed the young groom would ride it. His initial astonishment at Miss Hundon’s changed appearance was increased when he realised the big stallion was hers. She sat it easily at a walk, as if moulded into the saddle, but now she was flying away from them, a born rider.
Martin, at his side, chuckled. ‘Go on after her, you know you want to,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’ll stay with Miss Roswell.’
Richard spurred his mount and was gone, leaving Martin to turn ruefully towards Charlotte. ‘He will see she comes to no harm.’
‘Oh, I doubt Sophie will fall, she is too good a rider. At home she always outruns me.’
‘I suppose it is not to be wondered at. Leicestershire is good hunting country and if you have been all your life among hunting folk, you have a feel for it.’
‘Oh, but Sophie has not…’ She stopped in confusion and began again. ‘She does not care for hunting.’
‘And you?’
‘I follow it sometimes, but in truth, I fell off when I was little and broke my arm. I was lucky it was no worse, but it has made me a nervous rider. Sophie is very good, she encourages me and does not usually gallop off like that, but I expect she could not resist the opportunity to stretch Pewter’s legs.’ She looked up to where the two riders could be seen approaching a small copse of trees. ‘See, she is pulling up and his lordship has caught up with her.’
‘Are you run mad?’ Richard demanded, pulling his own horse to a quivering stop beside the big grey at the very edge of the trees. ‘You could have been thrown.’
She smiled mischievously and slid easily to the ground. ‘Did I look in danger of falling off, my lord?’
He had to admit she had not and that his annoyance was not so much directed at her as at his own strange emotions. He wanted to shout at her, to tell her she had frightened him to death, to shake her until her teeth rattled, but that was tempered by another desire, one so strong it was almost overwhelming him. He dismounted and stood beside her, looking down into her face which showed more animation than he had seen in her before.
Her greeny-grey eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed and her mouth, slightly open, tantalised him with a glimpse of white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. Did she know how provocative she was being? Was it a well-rehearsed ploy? God in heaven, he was not made of stone! Throwing off his hat, he reached out and pulled her into the cover of the nearest tree where he took that smiling mouth in a kiss which was almost brutal in its intensity.
She was taken completely by surprise and did not move, could not move. His mouth on hers was hard and unyielding, borne of anger, but as the kiss went on, the tension drained from him and the pressure of his lips softened. When she could have pulled herself away, she did not. She found herself responding, allowing him to explore her mouth with a feather-light tongue which swept her into heedless rapture. Her surroundings disappeared and only their two bodies, so close she could feel his heartbeat against the material of her habit, held any meaning for her.
Somewhere, deep inside her, she felt herself turn to liquid. It was as if the very essence of her was dissolving, merging, becoming one with him. The hands she had raised to push him away crept up and round his neck. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair and pulled him even closer. Her skirt became entangled round his legs as if they were one being. Time and place were irrelevant; who he was, who she was, were irrelevant. She could smell the maleness of him, taste his saliva and it was like a drug. She was lost.
The sound of horses alerted him and he thrust her from him, breathing heavily. She stood staring at him, unable to speak.
What she ought to have been was furious with him, but that would have been hypocritical, when she had wanted the experience as much as he did. It would be more to the point to be furious with herself, for betraying her feelings, for succumbing, for forgetting she was mistress of Madderlea.
He was the first to regain his composure, but not for a moment would he admit, even to himself, that she had bewitched him, that forces stronger than reason had impelled him to act as he had. But an apology was called for. ‘I beg you
r pardon,’ he said softly. ‘I did not mean to hurt you in any way.’
‘What did you mean, then?’ she demanded, brushing her hand against her swollen lips and trying very hard not to cry.
‘Nothing, Miss Hundon.’ He was almost back in command of himself. ‘Temptation in the guise of a beautiful and enticing young lady is always hard to resist and I am weak when it comes to resisting temptation.’
Before she could think of a suitable reply, Charlotte’s voice came to them from the other side of the bushes. ‘Sophie! Where are you? Have you hurt yourself? I saw you disappear…’
Sophie sank to the ground—her legs were weak in any case—and smiled up at Charlotte as she ducked under the overhanging branches of the tree to join them. ‘I twisted my ankle on a hidden root when dismounting,’ she said. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Oh, dear, do you think you can ride?’
‘Of course, it was only a little twinge. And it is not my stirrup foot.’ She made to rise unaided, but Richard was at her side in a moment, picking her up effortlessly and setting up such a jangling of her nerves that she was hard put to appear calm. He carried her to her mount and set her in the saddle. Neither of them spoke.
Luke and Martin were waiting by the horses and they set off for home, silent now because every single one of them had thoughts they could not utter. Richard and Sophie were deep in contemplation of what had happened and what it might mean; Martin, guessing the truth, wondered whether his intrepid friend had at last found his match; Charlotte, surmising that something important had passed between the viscount and her cousin, worried about the deception they had perpetrated; and Luke was fearfully hoping that he would not be blamed if Miss Sophie had really hurt herself.
When they arrived at Holles Street, Richard declined Charlotte’s invitation to come in and have some refreshment and the two men saw the young ladies safely indoors and turned to leave.
‘Well?’ Martin demanded, as they walked their horses back to Bedford Row.
‘Well, what?’
‘Miss Hundon did not stumble, did she? Except into your arms. I wonder you were so cork-brained, considering Miss Roswell was only a few yards behind. It was all I could do to hold her back when you both disappeared from view.’
‘I do not need a scold from you, my friend, and if that is all you have to talk about, I would as lief you remained silent.’
‘Then silent I shall be. But I won’t stop thinking.’
They rode on without speaking for about fifty yards, then Richard laughed. ‘I am sorry, Martin, you are too much of a friend to be treated in that rag-mannered way. And over a little bit of muslin.’
‘Only she is not just a little bit of muslin, she is a gentle young lady, an innocent.’ He turned to Richard with a gleam of humour in his eye, though he did not yet feel comfortable enough with him to laugh outright. ‘And she does not meet your criteria.’
‘She is lovely when she chooses to leave off those dowdy country-cousin clothes and she is fond of outdoor pursuits. She sits a horse better than some troopers I have met.’
‘That could be construed as being hoydenish and I distinctly recall you saying you do not like hoydens. Besides, her family, though undoubtedly respectable, are not out of the top drawer and she has no dowry to speak of. Insuperable obstacles, my friend. And what about Miss Roswell, who has hitherto been the object of your attentions?’
‘I said I was sorry, I did not ask you to renew your attack. If you must challenge me, let’s go and have a few rounds at Jackson’s.’
They left the horses to be rubbed down, watered and fed by grooms at his lordship’s stables and walked to Bond Street where they stripped off and spent an hour in the ring, then they dressed and wandered to St James’s to have coffee in Hubbold’s and read the newspapers. It was late in the afternoon when they finally left and parted. Martin had undertaken to dine with his mother and Richard decided to go for a walk. He wanted to be alone to come to terms with that revealing kiss and what it meant.
Sophie, sitting in Lady Fitzgerald’s drawing room, was tired of discussing balls and routs, musical evenings, visits to the opera and theatre, not to mention the gowns they would wear and the people they might meet. Her mind was too full of Richard Braybrooke to think of anything else. Indeed, she had developed a dreadful headache which was exacerbated by having to speak loudly and clearly to Lady Fitzgerald while avoiding meeting Charlotte’s eyes. She knew her cousin was longing to ask her about the incident in the park and she knew she could never bring herself to speak of it.
The last straw was when Lady Fitzgerald began talking about their own ball, telling them that her old friend, Lady Gosport, had offered the use of her ballroom. ‘It is excessively kind of her,’ she was saying. ‘And will suit our purpose well, for young Martin is a close friend of Lord Braybrooke’s and the tabbies can make what they will of that. For my part, I do not subscribe to the common opinion that his lordship is a rake and is only looking for a wife to please his grandfather. The right gel will soon make him change his ways and if you should be so fortunate, my dear Charlotte, as to take his fancy, I shall consider my efforts well rewarded.’
Charlotte began a half-hearted protest, but Sophie could not stay and listen; she rose and excused herself. ‘I have a dreadful headache, my lady, I need some fresh air.’
‘Would it not be more efficacious to lie down and take a tisane, my dear?’
‘No, my lady, I have sometimes had these headaches before and the best remedy is a walk.’
‘Very well, but if you leave the garden, make sure Anne or Luke accompanies you. Charlotte and I have much to discuss and will remain here.’ Her main responsibility was towards Miss Roswell, Mr Hundon had made that clear, and if the cousin chose to go out, then her duty was to see she had an escort, no more.
Sophie had been counting on that. Throwing a burnouse over her afternoon gown of striped jaconet and donning a small brimmed chip bonnet tied beneath her chin, she let herself out of the house, conveniently forgetting to alert either Anne or Luke. She wanted to be alone to think.
Where her footsteps took her she could not afterwards have said, but half an hour later she found herself in Covent Garden. The stalls and barrows had long since gone and it was not yet time for the theatregoers to begin arriving. The huge open space was comparatively free of crowds. The only people about were one or two walkers, like herself, a crowd of barefoot children playing tag and two or three beggars. It was only when one of them accosted her, dirty palm uppermost, that she realised that they were wearing the tattered remnants of uniforms.
She smiled and dug into her reticule for a few coins. ‘You are soldiers?’ she queried.
‘Were soldiers, miss,’ one of them answered her. ‘Soldiers no longer, there being no call for military men now there’s peace.’
‘Where do you come from? You do not sound like a Londoner.’
‘Norfolk, miss, but tain’t no good going back there, is it? They’ve troubles enough of their own.’
‘You have no work?’
‘No, miss.’
She handed over all the money she had with her, which was only a couple of sovereigns and some smaller coins. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could do more.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ The coins were snatched from the man’s hand. ‘Be off with you or I shall feel obliged to call a constable.’
She turned towards the speaker, eyes flashing angrily. ‘Lord Braybrooke, how dare you interfere? I gave the men that money of my own free will and I wish I had more to give them. Please return it to them.’
‘They did not threaten you?’
‘No, of course not. Why should they?’
He handed over the money with a wry grin. The man tugged at his forelock and gave Richard a wink of understanding, which only a few short months before he would never have dared to do. ‘Thank you, lady. God bless you.’ And with that he turned on his heel and joined the others who had been watching the exchange with interest.
Sophie turned to Richard, still angry enough to ignore the swift beating of her heart at his unexpected appearance. ‘Did you follow me?’
‘No, why should I do that? I merely saw what I perceived to be a lady in trouble and came to the rescue. I apologise if I mistook the situation, but you should not be out alone. Where is your escort?’
‘I do not need an escort, my lord. I have nothing worth stealing.’
‘Except your good name.’ It was out before he could stop it and he knew he had laid himself open to a sharp retort and he was not disappointed.
‘That, my lord, was stolen earlier in the day and by someone I should have been able to trust.’
‘It was not stolen, it was freely given,’ he said, equal to the challenge.
‘Lady Fitz said you were a rake and how right she was,’ she said, ignoring the truth of his remark.
‘And you are a tease.’ He was angry now. He had thought she was in danger from ruffians, had expected gratitude, not this bitter exchange of accusations. Rake, indeed! ‘If you behave like a demi-rep, then you must expect to be treated like one.’
It was as well Sophie did not understand the epithet or she would undoubtedly have stung his face with the flat of her hand. As it was, she was hard put to desist. He was the outside of enough. Not a gentleman. Not kind and considerate, not even honourable. Dastardly. She turned on her heel and walked away, tears stinging her eyes.
She had gone only half a dozen paces when she realised he was still beside her. ‘Why are you following me? Are you hoping I will be so weak as to succumb a second time?’
‘I wish I could be so fortunate,’ he said, with a melodramatic sigh. ‘Your generosity does you credit as I have just witnessed, but twice in one day is more than I can expect or deserve.’
‘And there you are right, sir, so why dog my footsteps?’
‘I may well have dug my own pit as far as you are concerned, Miss Hundon, but I am not so lacking in sense as to allow you to continue alone. You have given away all your money—what will the ruffians demand next, I wonder?’
