by Kim Bowman
Chapter Five
A Bargain With The Devil… Or Worse — Lord Devon
Sophia felt a prickle on her neck, intuition alerting her she was being observed. She closed the book and slid it onto the shelf then gripped the railing of the ladder as she turned to look for Lord Devon.
He sat so still her eyes passed over him at first. Then she spotted him: Apollo’s coarser, meaner elder brother lounging in a leather armchair between two tall bookshelves opposite her, not twenty feet away.
“Vous faites des ravages partout où vous allez, madame.” You wreak havoc wherever you go, madam.
Sophia smirked then realized she’d given much away. He assumed she spoke French, and she’d confirmed it with her expression. Or if he had exceptionally good eyesight, he might have recognized Odes et Ballades by Hugo on the spine of the book she’d been caught reading. She grasped the ladder with both hands as she teetered on the rung, mortified. Sophia had last dusted a book more than a half hour ago, had spent the time reading instead.
He straightened, looking up from his book with an arched brow and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a sly smile. Not so patiently awaiting her response.
“Lord Devon,” she greeted dryly in the same tone she might say, “You impish prankster.”
He shrugged one shoulder to mean, “So you finally figured it out. Bravo.”
“The only havoc I see here is the dreadful cataloging. For one so meticulous, it strikes me as odd that the alphabet should be beyond you.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I had them organized chronologically by genre.”
“You have the Bible next to Homer.”
“Fiction.”
Sophia scoffed and made a show of looking up at the ceiling as though she expected lightning to strike him down.
“Keep waiting, madam. If there is a god, he is busy punishing the righteous.” A scoff escaped her throat, and he had the nerve to chuckle. “Does blasphemy offend my lady?” he mocked.
Sophia tried to stifle a rush of pleasure. A philosophical debate? Intelligent flirting? Don’t take the bait, Sophia! She couldn’t help it. She mirrored his cocked eyebrow and lowered her voice, purposely making the tone a bit purring. “It’s not my wrath you should fear, my lord, and I am not a lady.”
He stood and walked with a swagger to the base of the ladder, bent to retrieve her dusting rag from the floor, and held it out. She had no choice but to climb down and take it.
His storm-grey eyes narrowed. “Aber ich fürchte dich.” But I do fear you.
German. He was testing her. What he really meant was, Are you a worthy opponent? Can you match wits with me?
She pasted an innocent expression on her face and answered, “Warum sagen Sie dass?”And why do you say that?
“Hai tentato due volte di uccidermi.” You have tried twice to slay me.
Italian. Easy. Her mother was Italian, and Sophia had grown up spending summers in Florence. Her smile warmed, not the coy version she saved for flirting. The one she gave Lord Devon came from genuine enjoyment. “On the contrary, when I set out to slay a man, there are no failed attempts. Tenga cuidado, señor.” There, take that. Spanish.
One side of his mouth pulled into a flat smile, but his eyes beamed. “Theo̱ro̱ ton eaf̱to mou proeidopoii̱meno.” I consider myself warned, in Greek.
“Sapiens tui.” Wise of you, in Latin. Sophia would soon run out of languages and hoped he would, too, because she did not want to lose his little contest. “Where do you hide the novels? I missed the last Wilkie Collins.”
“Not so fast. Let us bargain, you and I.” He leaned closer and her throat tightened. “You tell me why you call yourself not a lady, and I will surrender Oscar Wilde’s latest.”
Throw in Trollope and you can have anything you want. Sophia bit her lip. This was not one of her mother’s decadent parties in Paris, and Lord Devon was no swain.
“Shall I say, answer my query, and you may have your pick from my secret cache of novels?”
“My lord, indeed you know how to tempt a bluestocking. I would have traded my soul for Trollope, alas you have surrendered the whole lot.”
Lord Devon did something utterly beautiful: he tossed his head back and laughed in loud tenor peals. Sophia couldn’t resist staring. His peppery leather-spice smell made her head foggy. Had he moved closer then, or had his scent drawn her in?
Wake up, Sophia. Flirtation was a game only the rich could afford, and for now, Sophia was a housemaid. She stepped back and held up her dusting rag, keeping it between herself and the very tempting Lord Devon. “I forget myself, my lord. I have books to dust, and if I am waylaid by Wilde or Trollope, I shall never finish.”
“You do as you please. And I allow you to do as you please.” He said this blandly, a statement of fact.
“A grievance or edict?”
He smiled. “Both, madam.”
Well, what on earth could she say to that?
“I see no need to pretend our little game can sustain itself any longer.” He leaned closer, as though they were two cohorts plotting conspiracy. “Perhaps you might ease my conscience. If you accept a more genteel position in my household, you may cease scrubbing and dusting, and I may quit agonizing over the sight of you doing so.”
Ah, there it came. The choice to be a man’s mistress, or not. For the sake of being able to throw it back in his face, she blurted, “I am at your service, my lord.”
“Ah, good. Because in two weeks’ time I will have need of a governess.”
Sophia blinked, hoping it was her only outward sign of shock.
“I received word that my cousin, Sir Eldrich Cavendish, has died. Since his son Philip is estranged and out pirate-hunting with the Royal Navy, I am left guardian of his three daughters. May I assume you are qualified in all the usual subjects?”
“Do you mean needlepoint, piano, and polite conversation? Or are you referring to literature, politics, marksmanship, and—” Bed play, she swallowed before it came out. The more she studied his expression, she understood he was serious. He didn’t recognize her as a woman with the sensibilities of a courtesan, trained to spar with men as equals. He still thought her a lady despite her warning.
“My nieces are precocious, with quaint French manners and neglected educations.”
“Your nieces?”
“Oh. Well, technically, they’re my cousins-once-removed, but the girls have always called me Uncle. At any rate, you have your work cut out for you. I would be pleased to find your tutelage comprehensive in academic subjects, and defer to your judgment in other matters with the hope they will emulate your disposition.”
If she had a mite less discipline, Sophia’s jaw would have fallen open. “Why, thank you, Lord Devon.”
He chuckled, a private, maddeningly seductive sound. “Wilhelm,” he said softly. “And you must give me something to call you, other than madam. I tire of it.”
“In private, Rosalie. In company, Mrs. Cooper.”
He seemed disappointed. Had he expected to address her intimately before others?
“Perhaps in time you will give me another name. Rosalie.”
She went cold. Unsurprising he’d seen through her disguise, considering how often he caught her behaving suspiciously. But guessing she used a false name? Dangerous.
He touched her, his hand brushing the side of her arm slowly from elbow to shoulder. Not licentious, so she couldn’t complain, but neither did it feel platonic.
“You said before I could keep my secrets and I shall. I promise, you would like me less without my mystery.”
“I believe I warned you before about baiting me. Knightly quests, curiosity and cats, and all that.”
It was her turn to laugh, and he stared. She flattered herself to believe he was transfixed.
“Wilhelm? Oh, there you are.”
When Lord Devon turned to look behind him, Sophia saw a regal middle-aged woman approaching. She didn’t appear pleased to find him flirting with a housema
id.
“Hello, Aunt Louisa.”
“I thought I heard you laughing a moment ago and came to your rescue. I have not heard such a frightening sound in years.”
He pecked a kiss on her cheek, and the fond look he gave his aunt made Sophia like him a little more. “Aunt Louisa, may I present Mrs. Rosalie Cooper, our new governess for the girls.”
To her credit, Aunt Louisa managed a stiff nod in exchange for Sophia’s curtsey. She wore the proper expression for a lady greeting a demimondaine, silent disapproval and eyes slightly averted. Sophia knew she had the bohemian look about herself, even in the domestic uniform. Everyone except Lord Devon seemed to recognize it.
“You are too kind, my lord, but I do not recall accepting the position.”
“Of course you did.” Don’t make me quote, “I am at your service.”
You wouldn’t dare.
Oh, but I would.
As clearly as if they had spoken, they communicated with expressions.
“You do me great honor, my lord.”
“Aunt Louisa, please inform Mrs. Abbott that Rosalie Cooper’s new duties begin today. Now.” He took Sophia’s dusting rag then reached for the volume of Hugo she’d shelved. Placing the book in her hands, he announced, “I shall show her to the Red Suite.”
She didn’t miss Aunt Louisa’s look of horror as Lord Devon took Sophia’s arm to place it over his as he escorted her from the library.
“Second floor study in the east wing. That is where I keep the novels. Have at it, but take care what the girls see you reading. I draw the line at excessive brutality and graphic sensuality.”
“What sort of novels do you expect I read?”
“I expect you read everything. It’s not my business; I only ask for discretion.”
My, oh my.
“Ten o’clock at night, and bring a lantern. And the dogs, for protection.” At her puzzled expression he explained, “The bathhouse. Be out by eleven. Unless you want company.”
Sophia hoped the rush of heat on her cheeks was solely for the too-fresh memory of her debacle a few weeks past, and not for his joking innuendo. He made her feel warm. Too warm. “I declare, I have no idea what you’re referring to, my lord.”
“Neither do I. Fritz whispered the suggestion to me earlier. I tried to tell him it was boorish, but he wouldn’t listen. And call me Wilhelm.”
He reached across her shoulders, removed the pin holding her cap on, and wadded the spinsterly abomination. Good riddance. But why had he stuffed it in his pocket?
“Say it.”
“What?”
“Rosalie. Call me Wilhelm.”
He was right; she felt awkward doing it. But he’d requested directly… “Wilhelm. You are strange. And I don’t think I am well-suited to be a governess.”
“Whyever not?” No hint of irony. He was earnest.
She doubted she could train impressionable young ladies to be a man’s pet.
“Perhaps I am a murderess. Or I might be the author of excessively sensual and brutal novels. Worse yet, I may speak my mind and offend my superiors.”
“Then at the least I shall have some entertainment in this godforsaken house.” He slanted a wry smile at her.
Bent on laying out all his terms, he went on, businesslike. “Meals with the family, as well as holidays and socializing when necessary. Whatever salary is marketable for a governess, I will triple it. More. You will have anything you want, frankly.”
“Very generous terms, my lord.”
“I am not generous. On the contrary, I shall demand a great deal of you.” His voice was pure seduction, but his expression looked innocent, and contrarily his thumb rubbing the top of her hand started a small fire low in her belly. He was driving her mad.
“Lord De— Wilhelm. I cannot tell if you are employing my services in the schoolroom or the bedchamber. You will have to tell me plainly if you want me for a lover.”
He laughed, and she wanted to slap the mirth off his face. Then she looked and saw coldness in his eyes. Was he mocking her?
“Absolutely, to the latter. But wanting and having are entirely separate matters, are they not? I am rather accustomed to going without the things I want. No, dear Rosalie, against the advice of my baser self, I shall spare you those duties.”
Sophia had never been so dizzy. Sincerity or sarcasm? She was so disoriented she belatedly realized she wouldn’t have to tell him to sod off.
“I don’t recall such an offer in the first place,” he mock-whispered. “And I would be a fool to presume.”
“Your humility serves you well.”
“I shall store your words away and savor them again in the future, perhaps at a time when you contradict yourself.” Then he winked and smiled, and it disarmed her.
Sophia couldn’t resist a wide smile; it was all she could do to avoid laughing outright again. No use letting him think he’d thoroughly charmed her. “Then what is it you demand, aside from tutoring your nieces?”
“Your company, any time I ask for it. And… an illusion.” He explained, “Surely you noticed I mean to give the impression you are my mistress. That is the simplest explanation to present to the household and the best way I can protect you.” He said it experimentally, but his eyes watched with a hawkish intensity.
She was careful to show no reaction to his suggestion that she needed protection. “Fair enough.” Pretend to be a ladybird? Sophia was willing to do far worse than appear to behave wickedly in exchange for safety.
“Depending on the situation, I may introduce you as my paramour, fiancée, or even my wife. And you will smile and play the part, something you do well.”
A man who only wanted to appear attached to a woman? She could think of only one reason why, but she’d never dare ask. Instead she teased, “You sound like a spymaster.”
Wilhelm chuckled. “Clever female. Too clever, but that’s why I like you.”
His expression invited no argument. “My secrets in exchange for yours. Deal.”
He ducked to kiss her temple and let silence hang between them until they reached the west wing. They passed the master suite, then Wilhelm halted and unlocked the next door. The Red Suite, the luxurious apartments of the non-existent Lady Devon. Sophia followed him inside, knowing there was no going back.
Chapter Six
Why Rum Is Henceforth Banned At Rougemont
Lord Devon still hadn’t said a word. He lounged in the window seat overlooking the west courtyard. Long minutes, perhaps a quarter hour — a long time for silence. It seemed he hardly blinked or even moved.
Sophia reclined on a settee, studying the sitting room fit for a queen. Scarlet velvet drapes framed tall windows, and marble tile veined in black and red peeked beneath gorgeous Persian rugs like the ones she admired in the music room. Dramatic mahogany furniture gave the room its somber Rococo style. Elegant but serious, a space she could relax in. The enormous canopied bed called to her. Feather stuffed — hallelujah!
The painted friezes of Roman goddesses and their lovers chasing each other across the ceiling put her in a maudlin mood. Sophia was all too aware of the far door of the bedchamber connecting to Lord Devon’s — Wilhelm’s, she corrected herself — dressing room. Of course it would stay locked, but she would think far too often of who slept on the other side.
Finally he turned and stared, and she felt conspicuous. His gaze raked over her, a slow study with a hint of erotic interest belying his even expression. Why did he do that? She stared back, blatantly studying him in return, but the brazenness seemed lost on him.
Wilhelm looked striking, cast half in light and half in shadow. His coloring was subdued, as though God had not dared paint such a grim, ferocious man with frivolous colors. Storm-grey eyes, sharp rather than brilliant. Careless waves of collar-length hair a sandy blond that had probably grown darker as he matured. And mature was the word. His thirty-some-odd years had not been kind. He looked excessively weather-beaten and scarred for a lord. He was essen
tially too much. Too handsome, domineering, far too interesting.
“I feel wary of you as well, Rosalie.”
“You see too much, Wilhelm.” She shifted, and he tracked the movement.
“I am often told that, in variations.”
“What were you thinking of just now? You seemed deep in concentration.”
He shook his head. “We deal in secrets, you and I. Tell me one of yours, and I’ll tell one of mine.”
“All right. Well, I once ran naked down Rue de Jardinet at midnight. I was drunk and lost a wager.”
Oh, that beguiling half-smile! One side of his mouth pulled up, carving a dimple in one cheek while the other side set in a smirk. It made him look like a mischievous pirate. She could grow accustomed to teasing that smile out of him.
“Interesting, Rosalie, but it must be the one I ask for.”
Returning his smirk kept a flush of embarrassment at bay. “What do you want to know?” His gaze bore into hers, and she felt as naked as she had that wild night in Paris, but painfully sober.
“What sort of foe do I protect you from?” Before she could object, he added, “The truth, please, or I will know. And if you won’t give names, at least tell what we are up against.”
We. We? Since when had they become we?
Wilhelm unfolded himself and stalked to the settee, kneeling before her where she couldn’t escape the cold fire burning in the facets of his eyes. Up close he was mesmerizing.
“You are hiding from the law… No. You’ve been wronged. Betrayed. Ah, yes — a truth. By your husband? No. Someone else in your family.” His gaze scanned her face as though her entire history was written there. “And you are frightened. But I see such ruthlessness in you. You are ready to fight. You expect it. And that resolve was instilled in you by a great deal of hardship.”
Sophia turned away before he guessed everything else. “Stop that.”
