by Kim Bowman
“I wish he wanted me… countess!”
If they all sighed in concert one more time, Sophia feared she might jump from her seat and shout like a bedlamite.
At that, Aunt Louisa tossed her hand of cards on the table with an indignant Humph! and pushed back in her seat while the footmen scrambled to help her up, her cane rapping the floor impatiently. The gossiping women were moments from evisceration when Wilhelm blocked Aunt Louisa’s way, walking straight for Sophia with an outstretched hand. Now everyone in the room looked at her.
“Lord Beckham requested Schumann. I told him you know Liebesgarten, the duet in F?”
“Yes, my lord. Opus Thirty-Four, I believe, and I am sure you have the sheet music in the box.” She narrowed her eyes, trying to convey, “Please leave me alone.”
“I meant, we would like you to perform it for us, with me.” His expression said, “Obey, woman.”
This is a ridiculous display. “My pleasure.” She flashed him her ingénue smile.
Sophia ignored murderous glares from the hen-pecking group of ladies. She sat on the piano bench, assuming the role of accompanist. Lord Devon made a silent but definite announcement: instead of standing in the curve of the piano or beside her to turn the pages, he sat next to her on the bench. Right next to her, with his inside arm reaching across her back to rest on the edge of the bench, pinning her shoulder against his side in a half-embrace. And for him to select Liebesgarten — Lover’s Garden — he might as well have proclaimed aloud, “Behold, neighbors, I have an intimate attachment to this woman!”
She began apprehensively, but before long, she couldn’t help but appreciate the music. Wilhelm was superb — his voice rich, clear, and expressive. The wistful German text made it a romantic experience whether she willed it or not, masculine and feminine in harmony as tenor and soprano. She felt every bit of the scandal as she drew deep breaths in rhythm with his, engrossed in melding her half of the vibrations to match his, creating a sympathetic whole.
Their voices were ideally matched, and they both knew it. Reveled in it. She’d never been so attuned to another, enveloped in the unison of motion and perfect sonority. It felt like both a secret and a promise. Her imagination provided the rest.
Applause echoed in her head, sounding distant. She could hardly breathe. She knew she should look away from Wilhelm’s ice-burn gaze; his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils meant he felt the same buzz of arousal. She could not feel more stricken and exposed if she and Wilhelm had just made love on the lid of the piano.
Finally Martin announced dinner. If the duet hadn’t been tormenting enough, Wilhelm sat her at his left. He fielded compliments and dined with impeccable elegance, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought him most courtly. On the contrary, his left hand stroked the top of her thigh under the table, his foot rubbed her ankle, and he sent her sideways winks and dimpled half-smiles when he thought no one watched.
After the taxing dinner, Sophia pled exhaustion, avoiding the volatile situation awaiting in the drawing room.
Those stupid gossiping women didn’t know the first thing about Wilhelm. None of them could handle him, not his passions or his struggles. Sophia vowed it was not longing on her own behalf, but it would grieve her if Wilhelm was ever deceived into caring for a woman who didn’t genuinely love him.
She identified another burning feeling; it prickled behind her eyes and tightened her throat. Sadness. Regret, bitterness, heartbreak, all in turn. “You will never be a wife and mother,” an insidious voice in the back of her mind taunted. “Spinster, bluestocking! You might as well be a strumpet for all your reputation. Ruined. Unloved.”
“Stop!” she shouted to the darkness, clutching her head in her hands.
Boiling anger at her father riled her. He destroyed everything he touched, including his wife and daughter. “Black-hearted villain!” she cursed out loud.
She sat up, wiped away hot tears, then slipped on a dressing robe and sneaked to the west service door. She only had to call once for Fritz. He dashed inside and followed her through the corridors, prancing circles around her with his tongue lolling out.
“Oh, Fritz,” she sighed and scratched behind his ears. “What do you do when you feel the opposite extremes of emotion all at once?” He cocked his head. “Come and keep me from feeling lonely.” She paused to chortle. “And so it seems I shall have a male in my room this evening. Scandalous!”
~~~~
Wilhelm took the stairs three at a time. He told himself he meant to tease her back to the party but knew he’d truthfully come to steal a kiss. Or two. Hopefully dozens, whatever it took to douse the inferno boiling his blood. She would be the death of him.
Wilhelm had known the moment he saw her, and it only grew worse once he’d touched her, kissed her, sang with her. She devastated him. For a man accustomed to varying degrees of misery, the moments of respite she gave him only sank him lower when deprived of it. Addicting, worse than cognac.
He spied her walking toward her room with the dog, dressed for bed in a flimsy cream-colored lace peignoir and nightgown. He watched her waist-length hair reflecting shades of scarlet and blue in the lantern light, then noticed she was weeping but trying not to.
She is unhappy. It didn’t matter whether he had upset her or if something else had distressed her; either way it meant he’d failed to please her. The sodding dog provided her comfort in his stead.
The crashing noise in his head was the sound of twelve days, six hours, and forty-eight minutes of alcoholic abstinence collapsing like a burst dam. To hell with Aunt Louisa’s party. To hell and back with her inspiration — tonight he would escape it all.
~~~~
Wilhelm stood at the wall in his room, banging his head into it. Thud… thud… thud. It felt better than when he stopped and unwelcome thoughts filled his mind. Thud… thud. It was the only sound in the sleeping house.
Her voice had branded his mind, and he could still hear it. Still feel it. In such close proximity it hadn’t been merely sound but sensation, vibration, a pleasant friction his ears processed directly into desire. The siren woman called to his blood. And apparently he heeled; all he could do was moon over her.
THUD!
Desperately he checked himself with hard-won conviction. He must remember the two men he’d vowed not to emulate: Roderick, his deceased elder brother, who would’ve already conquered and discarded her; and his father, who had been so weak he felt no passion, neither for love nor sin.
Someone knocked at the door. “Wilhelm, my dear?”
“Yes, Aunt Louisa?” Thud…
“Are you quite all right?”
“Cannot a man strike his head on the wall in his own house?”
“Yes, Wilhelm.” A long silence. “Oh, Wil. I can smell the cognac through the door. Give me the bottle.”
“No.”
“You drank it all again, didn’t you?” Aunt Louisa sighed. “You will rot your liver.”
“Good. The sooner the better. Cavendish will make a fine lord of himself, and he will fill these rooms with fine Cavendish offspring.” Wilhelm felt a twinge of guilt at the vitriol in his voice. Why did he lash out at those who didn’t deserve his ire?
Louisa’s voice sounded gravelly through the seam of the door; she must have put her face to it. “You are my happiness, dearest Wilhelm. You saved me when you brought me here. Do you know that?” Then she whispered, “I wish you happiness, Wil.”
She left him alone with his two empty bottles and a fresh tumbler of guilt.
Chapter Eleven
On The Hazards Of Entertaining Excessively Beautiful People
Sophia fixed her gaze on the chandelier hanging above the grand staircase of Lord Courtenay’s summer lodge in Dorset. How she had allowed herself to be bullied into attending a ball, she couldn’t say. Couldn’t possibly have been the sight of Wilhelm in formal dress, or the way his voice purred when he said, “Please,” with his lips brushing her neck.
Sop
hia wasn’t imagining all the staring eyes in her direction. How long until she was recognized? “You should have escorted Aunt Louisa,” she whispered without moving her lips.
“But then you would be on Philip’s arm.” Wilhelm pressed her hand with his thumb and pulled her closer against his side. “And I do not share.”
Well, what could she say to that? If her daring scarlet satin gown and extravagant ruby necklace didn’t declare Sophia his mistress, his behavior did it clearly. He had yet to leave her side for a moment.
“Coming our way is Lord Courtenay of Lancashire, my dearest friend,” Wilhelm said in her ear, then beamed a grin and greeted in a booming voice, “Will!”
Lord Courtenay laughed and answered, “Wil!”
Without releasing Sophia’s hand, Wilhelm embraced Lord Courtenay like the prodigal son. Every eye in the room watched the two men as though their every gesture decided the fate of nations. Perhaps in the summer away from the London Season, two powerful lords at a country ball could be as exciting as royalty. It couldn’t be helped; they were to be the on-dits for the evening.
Lord Courtenay, named William, apparently, was darkly handsome with dramatic Gallic features. The silver streaks in his hair and the lines around his eyes and mouth only served to make him distinguished. She recognized him, an acquaintance of her mother. Unsettling how he still glanced her way long after Wilhelm had introduced her, under a false name, of course.
Dozens of faces watched her from over shoulders and behind fans, the low murmur of voices making the buzzing sound of gossip she knew well. So she did her duty, what she had been bred to do; she smiled.
~~~~
“I must tell you, Wil, that is Anne-Sophronia Duncombe you brought in on your arm.”
Wilhelm hushed him. “I know, of course. But she doesn’t know that I know. Stop looking at her, she will suspect.”
“Chauncey is searching for her. He knows she is in England.”
“Then send him my way. I have something in particular I wish to say to him with the business end of a dull sword.”
“A dangerous game of cat-and-mouse.” Courtenay regarded Wilhelm with a curled lip. “She is magnificent, truly, but you will pay a high price for a warm bed, old friend.”
For a moment Wilhelm feared he might cosh his old friend over the head, and the pressure of his jaw grinding shot a jolt of pain through his teeth. “She is a lady, and I don’t take what is not mine.”
Lord Courtenay raised an arrogant brow. “I see you still polish your honor with a spit-shine.”
Wilhelm snorted then muttered a two-syllable reply under his breath, a phrase more suitable between soldiers than lords.
Courtenay chuckled, undaunted. “Well, back at yourself, Wil. You aren’t getting any younger. You are a fool to wait any longer for an heir. Marry the first woman who won’t give you trouble, then be as particular as you please in choosing a mistress.”
Wilhelm followed Courtenay’s gaze to the staircase, where the stunning Violet Villier traded glances with Courtenay. The heat in the look the two shared made Wilhelm grimace. “Sorry, but I’ve seen how that philosophy treated you. Does your wife know you brought her here?”
“Of course. Lady Courtenay is over there holding court with the Comte d’Anjou.”
“Speak of a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse. You shall be caught in a trap sooner than I, old friend,” Wilhelm warned.
Wilhelm had observed one truth about the game people called love: it was damned messy business.
~~~~
Sophia saw both men glance at the first landing on the stairway above them. They both looked at a striking violet-eyed woman, Parisian, and so inhumanly beautiful it seemed everyone should bow down. The one and only Violet Villier — technically the Dowager Comtesse Mercoeur, though she didn’t use the title — the sole woman on the continent who rivaled Sophia’s mother, the incomparable Helena Duncombe.
Madame Villier noticed Sophia and allowed a subtle look of surprise. She cocked her head and nodded minimally in greeting then touched a finger to the tip of her fan: May we speak?
Sophia raised her own fan to rest on her left cheek: No. She opened her fan with clasped hands. Forgive me. Then she twirled her closed fan in her left hand. We are being watched.
Madame Villier drew her fan across her eyes. My apologies.
Sophia lowered her fan in a gesture of friendship. She looked sideways at Wilhelm then back up with a slight shake of the head to indicate he didn’t know her identity, implying she needed discretion.
Violet Villier rotated her wrist to place the fan behind her ear with a finger extended in the sign for farewell and winked in conspiracy. Neither Wilhelm nor Lord Courtenay seemed to notice the exchange, occupied with their quiet argument. A small commotion on her left prevented her from eavesdropping.
If there were any guests not ogling and whispering in her direction before, they did so now, because being introduced to Philip was Lord Courtenay’s young heir named Andrew Tilmore, Lord Preston, who was then introduced to Sophia. Lord Preston flashed a blindingly debonair smile, his eyes dark flames shadowed by the patrician slashes of his brows. He answered her greeting with smooth genteel manners, worldly beyond his years. The mysterious continental gentleman, as portrayed in the sensational erotic novels naughty ladies smuggled from France and hid at the bottom of a trunk.
Lord Courtenay’s son noticed Violet Villier on the staircase and caught her eye. The two exchanged warm smiles, but when father and son finally glanced at each other, they nodded coldly, the father exasperated and the son angry — antics which drew yet more attention to their corner of the room.
She hazarded a glance and startled, half-certain she’d seen the Comte d’Anjou beside Lady Courtenay. Such a distinct aquiline profile… Sophia shifted to stand behind Wilhelm’s shoulder, hoping it shielded her from view. Anjou was a bragging silver-tongued pest with groping fingers, when sober. No doubt he was sloshed by now and would have no scruples about shouting her name and making a scene if he saw her.
Sophia leaned to speak near Wilhelm’s ear. “I fear being recognized. This is too dangerous. Let me plead illness and—”
“Trust me, events are unfolding just as I planned.”
A sigh of relief escaped as she saw Anjou wander into one of the card rooms. “Who said anything about a plan?”
“Smile and be my doting mistress, Rosalie.”
Before she could reply, the orchestra played the introduction to the Lustenau Waltz. Wilhelm hastily excused himself from the Beautiful People Club and whisked her onto the ballroom floor, already clasping her in an indecently close dance position.
She tried to calm her attraction for him, but when Wilhelm watched her with that unguarded tender expression, she only became more aware of the way he made her heart race. His hand between her shoulders, guiding her with subtle pressure, made her feel warm. He moved with such grace she hardly noticed the steps. In perfect rhythm, a set of twirls intertwined their arms, bringing their faces close for a time. She wanted to kiss him again, but it would be even better if he kissed her.
His hand brushed down her arm as he turned her around, their steps in synchronization. He drew her close, his chest pressed to her back and his jaw against her cheek, transferring the vibrations of his tantalizing ice-velvet tenor as he hummed along with the music.
Easy to follow his steps with his thigh pressed against the back of hers in their tight embrace. It was just a dance, but the same motions in private would be called something quite scandalous. He twirled her around again with his hands trailing across her ribs. Lifting her by the waist, Wilhelm spun her in the air and set her on the ground so gently she barely felt the floor under her feet, all in rhythm with the music.
She couldn’t help looking at his mouth again and back to his smoky grey eyes, and the warmth on her skin turned to smooth fire. He leaned closer, she followed, and they lingered on the brink of a kiss, mingling each other’s quickened breath. Neither closed the empty i
nch between them even as the tension became unbearable.
The final chords sounded from the orchestra and Wilhelm twirled her once more, unraveling their pose back into the traditional closed position with their hands joined. Still it didn’t break the spell, leaving her elated, bewildered, dazzled. He didn’t release her hands, and she could not pull away. Seconds, perhaps minutes passed until she noticed the faces behind Wilhelm’s shoulder, staring.
Oh, no. There could be no worse moment for him to fall into a trance. She shook his shoulder and he came to his senses and led her off the floor.
He led her outside, past the courtyard and into the gardens. He stopped at a bench in front of a fountain and gestured for her to sit. She felt no inclination for conversation, so she sat silently, and he stood behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder. His bare, warm hand; apparently he’d lost patience with his gloves.
Her thoughts muddled, and she couldn’t string them together as Wilhelm absently brushed his fingers back and forth along her shoulder. She thought of nothing other than the pleasant clamor of the water and Wil’s gentle, callused fingertips warming the fabric of her sleeve. A thrill stirred low in her stomach as he traced across her skin and over the seam again. The muscles in her back relaxed and she leaned into him, letting him support her weight.
The disembodied notes of the orchestra wafted through a march, quadrille, and a waltz, then he dropped his hand and came around to sit by her on the bench. He pulled on the cuff of his jacket sleeve, straightening it. She thought he meant to speak, but then he exhaled and said nothing.
She studied his profile, outlined in shadow, strong rough-hewn features with a wild beauty. Unruly waves of hair over his forehead and a dusting of whiskers across his jaw gave him a poetic air. The scars marring his cheek and neck reflected silver in the unflattering light, and it made him more endearing than ever.
Charged silence accompanied the magnetic tension, and she feared she might do something foolish with her lips unless she found a distraction right away. “Wil—?”
