There. Back to normal. He glanced down to see if Patricia had noticed his distraction with his own reflection, but she was bent studiously over her work on the desk, pencil scratching steadily. Such a lovely girl. Such a pity no one had thought to educate her before now. Still she was young—too young for you and you know it!—and she’d shown a remarkable aptitude for her work, so her ladyship had asked Fortescue to see to her further education.
Now, normally a lady traveling would take her lady’s maid along, but Fortescue had mildly suggested that Patricia might be the appropriate person to keep a special eye on young Lady Margaret.
Since Lady Margaret, although much improved since the arrival of her new mother, had something of a reputation as a . . . well . . . whirling catastrophic disaster on skinny little legs, milady had hurriedly agreed with Fortescue and arranged to take along another maid instead.
Fortescue had also been prepared to point out that her ladyship wouldn’t want to interrupt Patricia’s education, now that real progress was being made there, but it hadn’t been necessary. There was simply no one else in the world who could handle Lady Margaret.
Hence, matters had worked out very much to Fortescue’s satisfaction. With the reduced duties during his lordship’s absence, Fortescue had even more time to devote himself to Patricia—er, that is, to Patricia’s education.
At the moment, he was leaning over her shoulder to examine the sums that she’d completed for him. She learned quickly—a bit too quickly, one might think if one were a rotter with designs on a sweet redheaded maid fresh from the shores of Ireland, which of course Fortescue was trying very hard not to be—so he knew the sums would be correct.
The reason why he hung there, suspended above her, his silence growing in length was simply that she smelled so good he’d quite forgotten what he was going to say.
And his reason for being there.
And his name.
She twisted about to gaze up at him worriedly. “Is it wrong, then?” The sweet lilt of her voice tugged at his gut.
So wrong. So very wrong, my darling. You simply have no idea.
He was her superior. He was nearly old enough to be her . . . uncle. He could not risk his integrity, his reputation and his career on a pert, outspoken Irish maid with a freckled nose and leaf green eyes and a figure that would tempt a saint into sin. . . .
Damn, again he’d forgotten what he was saying.
So he repeated what she’d said back to her. “Now say it again. Leave off the last word.”
She smiled slightly. “Is it wrong?”
“Actually, it is ‘Are my mathematics correct?’ ”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she dutifully repeated it.
He shook his head. “Patricia, I’ve told you before that if you’re going to serve in a great house, you need to sound less . . .” There was no help for it. He must say it. He loved the Irish lilt of her voice, but if she were to have a successful career in service, she needed to dispense with it. “Less Irish.”
She turned away, looking down at her paper for a long moment. Then she put both hands upon it and pushed it away. She stood slowly and straightened. Then her emerald gaze rose to meet his.
“Mr. Fortescue, I thank you for all your efforts, but I fear I must get back to my duties. I’ll not return to this. I’ve told you before that I’ve no objection to better grammar, but I will no more hide my birth than I would paint myself blue!”
Fortescue had been so distracted by the glow of distant lands in her eyes that he took a bit too long to understand her words.
Oh no.
“Patricia—” She was already turning away. He couldn’t bear it. These hours teaching her were the only reason he rose each morning, that and the possibility of a few words passed in the hallway during the day.
“I apologize,” he said.
Since Fortescue was the master of all who served in this house, such an utterance was quite enough to stop Patricia in her tracks. She blinked. “You’re apologizing . . . to me?”
God, she was beautiful. Fortescue smiled then without realizing it. All he knew was that Patricia’s gaze widened in shock and her breath left her.
“What is it?” The way she was looking at him, as if . . .
He felt himself move closer—she swayed toward him—
A hearty knock made them spring apart, though they’d not yet touched.
A footman stuck his head into the office. “Mr. Fortescue, there’s a guest come. Miss Blake is here and she says it’s for a long stay.”
’TIS EASIER TO beg pardon than to beg permission.
As Sophie stepped from Lementeur’s ridiculously elegant carriage—really, it was like a cake iced in cream and gold!—and was handed down to the walk in front of Brook House, she held Lementeur’s admonition close.
The fine day notwithstanding, she quaked just a bit inside. She was not accustomed to simply taking possession of anything, much less something she had no right to.
And yet you’re making quite a habit of it.
She had no right to invade Deirdre’s house this way, especially with her cousin gone. But Lementeur was right when he said that her new persona, Sofia, needed every advantage of status and address.
This address had status enough to share. The wealthy Lord Brookhaven, soon to be Duke of Brookmoor, was a good master and had a keen business sense, so his fortunes had never suffered like so many of the aristocracy. Brook House gleamed, the marble steps scrubbed thrice daily, the trees shading the circular drive trimmed neatly and the great brass door knocker . . . gone.
Ah, yes. Well, it would be, when his lordship wasn’t in residence. Sophie lifted her chin, feeling all the more like an intruder. The Brook House footmen moved forward instantly, their expressions devoid of surprise, when her luggage was handed down as well.
She’d stayed here for a few months until Deirdre and Brookhaven had wed, so they knew her well enough to smile slightly. She did catch a few of them casting worried glances into the empty carriage. Making sure Lady Tessa wasn’t accompanying her? Sophie could have reassured them that Tessa had no inkling of the move, but she didn’t think it advisable to call attention to her lack of chaperone.
“No one will dare to whisper a word against you,” Lementeur had assured her. “Between my powers of transformation and Brookhaven’s wealth and imminent rank, there isn’t a soul in London who would doubt you.”
Grand words. Sophie, for she was still Sophie and not yet the promised Sofia, was going to reserve judgment thank you very much. No one had ever hesitated to abuse her in the past. She was having trouble believing any future changes would be that dramatic.
Fortescue met her in the front hall, looking oddly flushed for such a paragon of dignity and restraint. Her unannounced visit must have put him out more than she’d thought it might.
Behind him, Sophie spotted Deirdre’s maid, Patricia. She blinked in surprise. “Is her ladyship at home already?”
Patricia smiled and shook her head. “No, miss. I stayed behind to watch over Lady—”
“Sophieee!”
Sophie braced herself for impact, luckily, for Lady Margaret was running so fast that the slick marble of the entrance hall did not allow for braking. After Sophie caught her breath and untangled herself from pointy knees and elbows, she stood Meggie on her feet and gazed at her in mock severity. “Nutmeg, don’t you understand the science of friction and momentum?”
Meggie grinned up at her. “Sure. When I’m in stocking feet I can slide from the back stairs to the front door, if Graham is here to throw me.”
The mention of Graham stole away some of Sophie’s pleasure at seeing her new little cousin, but she lifted her chin to gaze evenly at the butler, one of the few men she tolerated well.
“I’ve come to stay, Fortescue.”
Fortescue seemed to have recovered himself as well. “Indeed, miss, you’re very welcome. How long will you be with us?”
For as long as it takes. She smiled
noncommittally. “I can’t say. I simply felt like a change.”
A sparkle of wry sympathy shone in Fortescue’s eyes. “And how is Lady Tessa?”
Sophie shook her head ruefully. “In for a surprise, I fear, if she ever bothers to notice I’ve escaped.”
Fortescue made no response, but his brisk orders to the footmen concerning her baggage made his welcome clear. As he moved off, Sophie smiled at Patricia. “I’m very glad you’re here. If you don’t mind, I’d like your help.”
Patricia tilted her head. “I’m happy to, miss, but you’ve never let me do your hair before.”
Sophie looked down at her gloved hands. “Things change.”
Patricia let out a breath. “Indeed, miss.”
Sophie glanced up to see the pretty maid’s gaze following the male servants up the stairs. Did Patricia fancy one of the handsome young footmen? If so, Deirdre probably wouldn’t stand in her way like most mistresses would.
Lucky girl—a romance without obstruction.
Envy became no one, however. Sophie had come here to accomplish something and there was no time to spare on might-have-beens.
Meggie tugged at her hand. “Sophie, Papa and Dee are at Brookmoor visiting Great-Uncle. I couldn’t go. I’m not a soothing visitor for an elderly gentleman,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Sophie knelt fluidly, putting her at eye level with the child. “You know, Nutmeg, I don’t think I am either.”
Meggie grinned. “Want to play cards after dinner?”
Sophie squashed the pert little nose gently between her knuckles. “You cheat, you little beast.”
Meggie’s smile widened. “So do you. I just do it better.”
Sophie laughed and stood. “You’re on, beastie.” Then she turned to Patricia. “Lementeur will be arriving shortly. I—”
Patricia blinked in shock. “Mary, Jesus and Joseph,” she breathed. “Here?”
“Yes.” Sophie knew that the ladies in London admired Lementeur’s designs, but apparently she lacked the full truth of his importance. “He is helping me . . . improve my style.”
Patricia’s jaw dropped. Then shut. Then a slow, eager smile bloomed. “Oh, miss. You’re goin’ to look like a princess!”
Sophie grimaced. “Pity the kingdom.” Reaching down, she took Meggie’s hand. “Lady Nutmeg, why don’t you help me unpack?”
Meggie gazed up at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re not as pretty as Dee, Sophie.”
Sophie nodded calmly. It was only the truth, and Meggie’s loyalty to her new mother was understandable.
“Except when you smile.”
As she walked up the stairs with Meggie in tow, Sophie wondered if Meggie had meant to say that she was as pretty as Deirdre when she smiled?
Not possible.
On the way to her room, Sophie paused in the gallery, noticing several new canvases hanging in the long Marbrook family line. Where once the row of paintings had ended with very young Raphael and Calder portraits and one of Calder’s deceased first wife, there now extended an entirely new sequence.
First, a portrait of Calder, the elder and the current Marquis of Brookhaven, and his bride. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with brown eyes glowering out of chiseled features. His expression made Sophie smile, for she could just imagine his impatience with the process of sitting for a portrait. Calder was a man of action, not of leisure.
Standing next to him was an exquisite rendition of Deirdre. She was a regal, golden-haired beauty with eyes like sapphires. The smile she wore was cool and haughty, but her gaze snapped with humor and a trace of impatience of her own. If Sophie was not mistaken, her cousin’s hand on Calder’s shoulder was quite literally pinning him in place!
Theirs had not been an easy courtship, especially considering that most of it had taken place after their marriage of convenience, yet even in the portrait Sophie could see the way that Calder’s entire being gravitated toward Deirdre’s as if she were the earth and he was the smitten moon. Every day was a battle of wills, yet it seemed that the prize was nothing less than complete devotion.
In the next portrait stood Lord Raphael Marbrook, the illegitimate but recognized second son. The resemblance between the half-brothers was astonishing if one only looked at hair and eye color and general bone structure. The difference between them lay entirely in attitude. Rafe’s brown gaze was lighter, nearly laughing, and the faintly besotted smile on his lips was a permanent one.
Seated in a chair slightly before him, with her honey-gold hair down over one shoulder, Phoebe gazed out of the painting with a love-light in her summer-sky eyes that made Sophie’s heart thump just a little in envy. Rafe’s hand on her shoulder was a benediction and a caress, his fingers ever so slightly buried in his wife’s silken hair.
Love at first sight, despite the fact that Phoebe had agreed to wed Calder and very nearly gone through with the wedding. Love forever, Sophie thought as she gazed at the tenderly lingering hand on Phoebe’s shoulder.
“Papa gave me Mama’s portrait to hang in my room,” Meggie stated calmly. “I like it there and so does Dee.” The little girl gazed fondly up at her new mother’s face. “I used to wish that Mama had taken me with her, but now I’m glad she didn’t.”
Sophie closed her eyes against the tragedy that Meggie had narrowly escaped. Calder’s first wife had died in a carriage accident while fleeing with her lover. Thank God the woman had had the sense to leave Calder’s two-year-old daughter behind! “I’ m glad, too, Nutmeg.”
“I’m going to sit for a portrait, too, Papa said.” Meggie scratched her nose. “As soon as I learn how to sit.”
Sophie smiled down at her. “I’d practice, if I were you. It looks like the Nameless One has it down to an art.”
Meggie looked down at the leggy kitten dangling limply from her arms like a boneless cat suit. “Mortimer the Mighty.” She scowled. “No, that won’t do.” She heaved a great sigh and shrugged. The kitten drooped blissfully. A loud rasping purr rose on the air. “I don’t know what to call him.”
Sophie stroked the girl’s hair with one hand. “That’s all right, my sweet. As long as he comes when you call.”
Meggie looked up at Sophie and blinked. “Like Gray does with you?”
Sophie glanced away casually. “Hmm.” It wasn’t until the girl had walked on ahead of her that Sophie wondered if Meggie had meant that Sophie came when Graham called—or the other way around?
Which was ridiculous, of course. Graham didn’t need anyone. Ever.
Chapter Seven
If a man’s status could be measured by the number of eyes upon him, then Graham should have been a king.
Of course, the aforementioned eyes were but glass, gleaming lifelessly from the stuffed and mounted heads of the late duke’s victims—er, hunting trophies—so perhaps it was appropriate that Graham’s status was equally fragile.
The study decor was an oppressive combination of dark wood, dark paper and dark death. Graham fancied that the glossy gazes followed him as he paced, their glinting opacity a plea for final release. The smell, unfortunately, was not born of imagination.
Had this room always smelled of musty tobacco and dry, fusty decay? It was a scent that Graham permanently associated with his father. Add freshly fired gunpowder and whiskey and one would expect the old duke himself to stride in at any moment.
The duke is dead.
Long live the duke.
Graham turned and snarled back at the giant brown bear looming in the corner. “I am duke now.”
An hour later, Graham toasted his back-garden bonfire with his fourth . . . fifth? . . . whiskey. Antlers burned like dry wood, he’d found, and if one stood carefully upwind, one could even enjoy the fiery glow of relief in the glass eyes before they were lost in the flames.
Graham raised his glass. “To my fallen comrades.” He staggered only a little, considering he’d drunk a lot. “You have been avenged. All hail the mighty phelemant . . .” Wait. That wasn’t
right. “Ephalent.” Close enough.
He tossed his whiskey back and wiped his arm across his face, for the heat from the fire made his eyes water. Or perhaps it was the smoke . . . except he stood upwind . . .
Now the study was silent and, better yet, uncrowded. The bear was the only remaining corpse left to gaze at him with reproving eyes. Graham decided to leave the fourteen-and-a-quarter–stone trophy where it loomed. However, the creature’s mood required lightening, forthwith.
The addition of the old duke’s stained floppy safari hat to its head, and one of the elderly flintlocks from over the mantel laid across its menacingly raised forelegs, gave it a jaunty air.
Graham stood back and regarded it critically. “It’s missing a little something.” He shrugged, then saluted his furry companion. “Sorry, Sir Fangsalot, I’m fresh out of wit.” He staggered to the thronelike chair by the fire and collapsed into it. Staring mournfully at the trophy, he hiccupped. “And out of whiskey, as well.”
He leaned his head back on the padded chair and finally closed out the reproving gaze . . . and slept at last.
THE NEXT MORNING, Graham made his way to Primrose Street, ready to pin Sophie down on her sudden coolness toward him.
She wasn’t there.
Graham didn’t know who was more surprised to learn that Sophie had decamped, him or the promptly awakened Tessa. Since Tessa’s role as chaperone was to keep track of the whereabouts of defenseless maidens, etc., Graham did not approve of the shoddy job she was making of it.
“She isn’t my daughter, you know,” snarled his cousin, tightening her wrapper and pushing her disheveled hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m only here as a favor to her mother.”
Graham frowned. “You’re only here to make sure that your stepdaughter marries a duke. Now that you’ve accomplished that, more or less, you think you can toss Sophie to the wolves.”
Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] Page 6
