by Kim Bowman
“I apologize.”
What, are you a gypsy fortune teller? How did you do that? I didn’t say a word.”
“Your face did. Your eyes hardened when I mentioned betrayal. You swallow when you are angry. And your pupils dilate when I guess the truth, but you blink when I am wrong. Otherwise, you are admirably demure. Never fear, you would fool all but the best.”
“And you are the best?”
Wilhelm smiled, and she hoped he wouldn’t do it often — it was blinding. Wearing a true smile, he went from roughly handsome to devastating. “You said so, not me. Now your turn. Ask.”
“Why do you offer me such freedom? To a stranger?”
“Some reasons I may tell you later. But primarily, I like you. I suppose I trust you.”
“You suppose?”
“Instinctually — I am seldom wrong. Why, should I not trust you?”
“Not for a moment.” She tried to smile but couldn’t manage it.
“Now that,” he leaned in to peck a kiss to her temple, “was honest. Do come down for dinner at the bell. Half past six, but I suppose you already know that. And wear something fit for a lady.”
And then he was gone, leaving her left temple aflame with the memory of his lips on her skin. For the first time in her life, she found herself interested in a man who clearly didn’t want her at all. Surprising how that stung. Petty that she reassured herself, He prefers men — it must be true. Wasn’t that the way of it, the most appealing being out of reach?
She’d met scores like him among the demi-monde in Paris, Athens, Venice, some overtly deviant and others, like Lord Devon, who seemed entirely masculine. The alternative possibility, that he consorted with women but she simply didn’t inspire his passion, bothered her far more than she would admit.
~~~~
“Whatever is the matter, dear?”
Sophia desperately wanted to scramble from the dining room in a panic and barely registered Aunt Louisa’s flat tone. She couldn’t eat a single bite of the cake before her. Cold shivers froze her blood, numbing her limbs.
Cornered. Dewy glass at her back and her escape blocked. The sharp bloom of panic exploding in her chest. Restrained and powerless as he slammed her against the wall, again and again until her vision blurred. Grasping, scratching, desperate to defend herself — her fingers slid on sweat-slicked flesh, hairy strong limbs. Futility. Sickening dread. His panting and grunting in her ear. Gagging with every gust of his putrid rum breath, the horror of choking when everything depended on being able to scream—
Maple rum, maple rum… mixed with the stench of congealed blood, manure, and crushed petals.
Her stomach heaved and her ears told her someone had given her a dish just in time. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she could banish the tactile sensations of the memory if she pushed them farther from her mind.
“Rosalie. Breathe.” A gentle hand rubbed warm circles down her back.
“Oh, damn it all,” she muttered despite herself. Sophia forced her eyes open and saw the bottom half of furniture and a curtain of gold damask — the tablecloth. She sat under the dining room table, cradled in Lord Devon’s lap. He called out and another voice responded, and as he leaned forward she realized he was handing a sorbet dish filled with rather disgusting contents to a footman, who retrieved it and left the room. By the sound of the quick footsteps following, Aunt Louisa fled the scene as well.
Sophia squirmed and he let her go. Instead of crawling out, Lord Devon shifted and leaned his back against the thick column of the table support, sliding down and ducking his head so he fit. His outstretched legs framed hers as she sat between his knees, but it was hardly the most inappropriate or bizarre aspect of the situation.
“So you don’t like rum. Or was it Monsieur Girard’s maple rum cake? I must agree it was a bit soggy.” He reached his hand past the tablecloth, blindly palming the surface of the table. He knocked something over before producing her wine glass.
She pulled deep swallows, trying to chase away the bitter aftertaste in her mouth as well as the residual horror still kicking her heartbeat into double time. She tried to take the glass from Lord Devon and hold it herself but found she was shaking, and his help prevented her from spilling wine down the front of her dress.
“Breathe deeply, Rosalie, and your pulse will calm,” came his mesmerizing low voice. “When your heart calms, your hands will stop shaking.”
She couldn’t look him in the eye. Sophia covered her face with her hands and slumped over. “I have a very sincere apology on the tip of my tongue, but it sounds inadequate and I haven’t even begun.”
“Forget it.” Then he simply sat, doing nothing. The silence ticked by without expectation or tension. That soothed her, too.
Finally she blurted, “I am so sorry, Wilhelm. I had no idea I would be stricken in such a manner, or I wouldn’t have put us all in such an embarrassing position.”
“You froze and started gasping — symptoms of poisoning. I am only glad it’s not that.”
“This sounds absurd, but the scent of the rum touched a foul memory and sent me reeling.”
“And I thought it was some elaborate scheme to get rid of Aunt Louisa.” He nudged her knee with his. “It worked. Well done.”
“In case forty-five minutes of stiff conversation hadn’t already done it, I’m sure I have won her over now.”
“Well, that is the last time we serve rum dishes at Rougemont. Care to explain your trouble?”
“No.”
“Very well. Why don’t you join Aunt Louisa in the music room?”
Sophia would’ve thought he was punishing her, but Wilhelm handed her out from under the table and supported her so gently, she sensed no ire. In fact, he’d been remarkably sanguine about the entire episode.
In silence, he escorted her to the east wing, then paused at the doorway and smoothed stray tendrils of her hair. “We are more alike than you know, Rosalie. I am also… haunted. I would never mean you harm. But at times I don’t know where I am. That is… I believe I see one thing, but it’s, ah…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Run away. When I seem not myself, or if I frighten you, leave me be.”
“Run away? What—”
He sighed. “I have a poor way with words.” Wilhelm kissed her temple again and left her inside the music room to fend for herself with an incensed Aunt Louisa.
“Are you quite recovered, Mrs. Cooper?”
“Yes, thank you.” She expected no quarter from Aunt Louisa.
She expected correctly.
“What are you about, Mrs. Cooper?” Aunt Louisa’s hands perched on the arms of a wingback chair, her posture like a portrait of an arrogant King Henry sitting on the throne.
“I am sure I do not grasp your meaning.”
“What do you want with my nephew Lord Devon?”
Sophia carefully kept her inflection even to avoid the impression of sarcasm. “Nothing at all, to be quite clear.”
“Balderdash. You are his mistress?”
“I am whatever Lord Devon says.”
“And what does he say?”
“Today, I am the governess.”
Aunt Louisa looked her over with an arched brow. “Are you breeding?”
“N—no!” Sophia choked. “Good heavens, no.”
“Good. Because no babe in your belly, not even his own, would snare him. Years ago Lord Devon entailed all his titles and lands to Philip Cavendish, whom he loves like a nephew.”
The urge to say, “Is that so?” nearly won out, but Sophia managed a nod with her mouth closed and her expression set in polite interest. “That is none of my business, of course, but I presume Lord Devon manages his affairs with acuity.”
Aunt Louisa leveled her penetrating stare at Sophia. “You are strange, Mrs. Cooper. I shall figure you out anon. Meanwhile, allow me to warn you: Lord Devon is a good man, but he is not your Mr. Darcy. I guarantee you will not abide the symptoms of his suffering. I predict you will run afraid before t
he month is out. The sooner the better.”
Before Sophia uttered a word, Aunt Louisa leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But if you injure him, play him false — wrong him in any way, I shall see to it personally that you regret it.”
Lord Devon barged through the doors of the music room. Judging by his expression, he hadn’t heard his aunt’s threat. He kissed Aunt Louisa’s hand, and Sophia assumed his gesture for her would be the same, but instead he pulled her out of her seat and onto the sofa then sat next to her. Right next to her, with his thigh pressing along the length of hers. He leaned back in a casual pose and draped his arm across the back of the sofa, framing her shoulders. Perhaps she was playing the mistress tonight.
“Wilhelm, darling,” Aunt Louisa chimed, all trace of fire-breathing gone. “Just now Mrs. Cooper and I were engaged in a fascinating discussion about Naval history. Remind me, when was the Battle of the Sluys?”
“June the twenty-fourth, the year thirteen-forty.”
Sophia was completely lost, but sensed an attack from Aunt Louisa.
“What day was that?”
“A Tuesday.”
“And the lunar phase?”
“Waning crescent moon.”
Her voice was guileless, but her eyes snapped with the dragon-fire Sophia had imagined earlier. “And who fought? I cannot remember.”
“Edward the Third defeated Hugues Quiéret and Nicolas Béhuchet of the French Navy. What put you on the topic?”
“Oh, I was just wondering who the great-grandson of Béhuchet was.”
Without hesitation Lord Devon answered, “Nicholas dePuis Béhuchet, the third marquis of—” His eyes narrowed and his face fell, as though he just now realized he’d played right into his aunt’s demonstration. It went without saying he had an uncanny ability to remember obscure historical facts. But what was the point?
“Oh, dear. It seems the button on my cuff has come undone. Do you mind, Wilhelm?” Aunt Louisa held up her arm, gesturing to her sleeve. Lord Devon didn’t move from his seat. She sounded so genial that, without Lord Devon’s furious expression, Sophia wouldn’t suspect her simple request.
“He will not. Cannot, to be precise.” Aunt Louisa fastened the button herself with one hand and looked at Lord Devon, then Sophia. “I mean that quite literally. He is incapable of manual function requiring contrary motion, as you might have noticed.”
“I certainly have not,” Sophia protested, disturbed by Lord Devon’s silence.
“My nephew is indisputably a genius. Mathematics, chess, music. He reads in one night what a competent scholar does in a week.”
“That I did notice.” Sophia smiled and turned to Wilhelm, but his downcast eyes seemed to be studying the rug. “And he is present…”
Aunt Louisa sniffed. “He will thank me for explaining in his stead. He is a proud man, but he is not well; you do not know the least of it. Despite his standing, it is the work of a trusted few who protect his power, his freedom. Do you understand? There are those who would manipulate my nephew—”
“You make Lord Devon out as an imbecile,” Sophia protested.
“Far from it! But his history is such that he has enemies. I would give anything to spare him from harm.”
“Then it seems you and I are not at odds, after all.” Sophia turned to Wilhelm. “Do you have anything to add, my lord?”
He ignored her, still staring at the rug.
“Already you see what I mean,” Aunt Louisa muttered resignedly. “He is far away at the moment, Mrs. Cooper. Wait long enough and he will emerge from the catatonia with a litany on… oh, Fibonacci ratios in the woven pattern. Or if you are lucky, he will return with music. Wilhelm is a brilliant composer.”
Sophia might have taken the “Old Dragon” to task but saw devotion and worry behind the façade of disdain. “Very well then, I shall wait.”
Aunt Louisa huffed and drew herself out of the chair. She thumped her cane on the floorboards and whispered indignantly, “He is not mad!”
“Of course not.” Sophia studied his dramatic profile, his furrowed brows and his intense gaze leveled at the floor. “And he is a benevolent, kind man.”
“On a good day.” Aunt Louisa muttered a terse goodnight and left the music room.
Sophia leaned back and tucked herself against Wilhelm’s side, content to sit and think. He had done this earlier today when he’d watched out the window. She guessed ten minutes, maybe a quarter hour had passed with Lord Devon behaving like a statue.
When he finally blinked and sighed, she was rewarded with a companionable squeeze across her shoulders. She didn’t know the evening air had chilled until he stood and crossed to the piano bench, leaving her right side bereft of his warmth.
He bent his head over the keys, plunked out an unusual chord progression, then before she could be disappointed, a lovely serenade came from the piano. No, more like a nocturne: sentimental, romantic, and lyrical. The melody pealed like a soprano voice, but the dark minor key stole its joy. She listened, enraptured, as Wilhelm spun elegant phrases too complex to truly remind her of the poetic Chopin, but she supposed he drew his inspiration there. And not a note out of place, every chord logical, the harmony inventive — artistry and technique married.
She waited a few minutes after he finished before asking, “Is this one new?”
“Yes.”
A simple answer for the astounding revelation that he composed music in his head then played it without flaw. “It’s beautiful, Wilhelm. Will you transcribe it for me?”
He smiled weakly, but she saw amusement — or was it pleasure — dancing in his eyes. “If you wish.”
She waited while he gathered manuscript paper and a pen then watched as his script flowed, as lovely as his music. A revelation: Aunt Louisa had been wrong. Wilhelm’s hands moved in contrary motion when he played the piano. Yet he couldn’t fasten a button?
He titled the work: Her Voice, In Anger and Affection.
Unless she flattered herself, she guessed Wilhelm had given song to Sophia’s side of the argument with Aunt Louisa. If he’d listened to her tone of voice and ignored her words, he would’ve heard just that in her inflection, anger and affection. His generous rendition of her voice would seem like a romantic gesture, if she didn’t know better.
Sophia had been absolutely correct to guess long ago that she would find Lord Devon interesting. That was the least of it.
Chapter Seven
In Which Virtue Is Wielded As Punishment
The young misses Elise, Mary, and Madeline boasted one of the most illustrious surnames in all England: Cavendish. A shame they behaved like barmaids. Lord Devon escorted Sophia into the drawing room to meet his three porcelain-faced nieces, all decked from head to toe in ostentatious Parisian fashion. Within minutes Sophia knew they had mortified even their liberally minded uncle. Aunt Louisa appeared to have need of smelling salts.
The youngest, Madeline, had dropped the gold chain locket swinging on her finger and cursed, “Merde!” as she doubled over to pick it up, like a cabaret girl. The effect was less scandalous on a girl of nine but unseemly nonetheless.
Mary, dark and plump with unruly chestnut curls arranged in a gravity-defying coif, had desperate need of a dictionary. Sophia doubted the melodramatic girl understood the definition of “impertinent” versus “impotent,” and accused a footman of being the latter, to Lord Devon’s amusement.
Elise, the eldest, had answered, “Why, yes, I know!” when Aunt Louisa commented that she had grown into a bewitching, elegantly developed young woman.
As pretty as peacocks, the three of them, with manners to match. And Wilhelm wanted Sophia to turn them into diamonds of the first water? She knew they’d been raised without a mother the past nine years, but how had matters come to this?
“Make them presentable at court, and I will petition your sainthood,” Wilhelm muttered in her ear as he passed behind her.
“I might find them penniless husbands for their fortunes, W
ilhelm, but do you know many deaf bachelors?” she breathed, knowing he could hear as he paced behind her.
“How long do we have?” Mercy. He muttered it right on the back of her neck, chasing shivers down her spine with his breath.
Sophia studied Elise, who at age nineteen should debut in only a few months’ time with the start of the London Season. A delay would cause speculation as to her eligibility — meaning the ton would assume she was either promiscuous or broke. “Not this year, I’m afraid. Perhaps next. How badly do you want her to make a match before twenty-and-one?”
“Eighty thousand pounds. A hundred. Double, if I must.”
Sophia wondered if Lord Devon could truly pay quadruple the fortune the few wealthiest diamonds of the first water boasted. He didn’t seem to be joking.
“That shouldn’t be necessary, my lord. If she remains silent, most men will take one look at her and profess undying devotion. What happens if any care to measure her character is out of our hands.”
Madeline startled everyone by dashing across the room and throwing herself into Wilhelm’s lap. He cradled her as she buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
“Hush, darling. Now what is the matter?” Lord Devon crooned. When Madeline didn’t answer, he ducked his head and whispered a quiet conversation with her, then she nodded and blew her nose in his handkerchief. Wilhelm wiped the tears dewing her absurdly long eyelashes then turned her sideways to rest on his shoulder. She curled small dainty hands around his thick arm, holding tightly as though she feared being ripped away.
“You shall have a pony, Madeline. A white one. And Philip is sailing from the Baltic; your brother sent me a wire just yesterday. You must be patient, my sweet.”
Revealing that the late Sir Eldrich Cavendish’s youngest daughter foremost mourned the loss of her pony. His two elder daughters, judging by the levity in their attitudes, mourned their father not at all. He had certainly neglected their educations — a crime Sophia found unforgivable, since a woman’s eligibility in the marriage market determined her well-being for life. Which was why she owed it to Wilhelm to help the Cavendish girls catch husbands who would make them happy.
