by Kim Bowman
He wanted her away. He squirmed miserably, but she missed the hint. And he sure as hell wouldn’t tell her outright she was torturing him. Only a sick man could be aroused at such a moment. He really was a bloody bastard.
“I thought I could help you. It was foolish. Too often I hear you disturbed at night, Wilhelm, and it grieves me you cannot rest. What is it that haunts you?” Her fingers moved in his hair, her nails scraping along his scalp. As pathetic as Fritz when she scratched his ears; Wilhelm’s eyes slid closed and he leaned into her hand.
“Ghosts and demons.”
She demanded nothing more of him. It made no sense, but now all he could think about was her: the calm rise and fall of her breath, her fragile warm frame covering his, the heavenly feel of her hands tousling his hair. In turn she let him run his fingers through her hair, and he found the smooth texture soothing. A pure sensation, free from the ugliness of his memories. He immersed himself in the task of warming each glossy lock with his hands. No better smell in all the world than the perfumed fruity scent mingled with spice soap in her hair. It was long; his fingers combed down the length and brushed the small of her back at the ends.
It defied reason that she should be his siren by day but guardian angel by night. Praenuntius pacis.
“What?”
Oh. He’d said it aloud. “Harbinger of peace,” he answered the angel voice. His own voice sounded groggy. He couldn’t possibly be drowsy.
A throaty chuckle, a sound he adored. “Wilhelm, go to sleep.”
He woke the next morning with her scent infused in the bed sheets and deep in his skin where her head had lain. It puzzled him to see late morning light fighting its way through a gap in the curtains. He never slept past dawn. He seldom slept soundly. Yet she’d put him to sleep, and it had knocked him out cold.
He rolled out of bed, forgetting he wore only his drawers, and went straight for the controversial door linking his and her apartments. Frantic, he searched her room and shouted in triumph as he found it in a laundry bag near the hallway door: the cream-colored lace nightgown that smelled so intensely of her.
He stole it.
Wilhelm returned to his room in time to scandalize the poor chambermaid. He covered his groin with the nightgown and barked, “Don’t change the sheets! Leave them!” Words he’d never in his life uttered before.
The maid regarded him as though he was Cerberus, and he shooed her out of the room, lifting the lacy fabric to his nose again, reassuring himself with the heavenly scent. A foolish smile curled his lips.
He quelled the dark voice in the back of his mind warning, You are certifiable, Old Wil. He hardly minded. He was darkness and she light, yet the shred of hope gave him dangerous ideas, all of them beginning with Perhaps…
He was right. The next several nights he finally spent alone in his own mind. He woke in the morning with his last memory of lying down to sleep, so long as he kept her nightgown folded under his pillow where he could breathe in her scent. It calmed him, grounded him, and for a man who had dreaded the night for nearly a decade, it was no small miracle.
~~~~
Sophia was out of sorts. Half of her lingerie had gone missing from the laundry: stockings, a chemise, her nightgown, even a pair of drawers, heaven forbid. That morning the Cavendish girls had responded to her lesson on long division with all the panache of a cold worm. Mr. Cox had sent another wire containing a vague warning about confusing activity he’d observed from her father’s investigators, which she could do nothing about except worry.
She might have managed those annoyances with some grace if not for the pains in her abdomen. They returned with a vengeance, after only two weeks since the last episode. Since she was reportedly barren, according to the best doctors in Italy, Germany, and Switzerland, could she not at least escape the unpleasant burdens of reproduction? Short of surgical dissection or electrical shock treatment — no, apparently. Adenomyoma, a very scientific-sounding term equating to “tormented, dysfunctional female.”
Lord Devon had been perfectly solicitous, and she stood ready to behead him if he crowded her again, trying to coddle her. He sat next to her on the sofa behind the piano while Sophia corrected Elise’s playing. Apparently he had nothing better to do. He propped his arm across the back of the sofa, not quite on her shoulders.
Even worse when he pried, subtly probing for clues about her condition. “Are you quite all right? I suppose an afternoon ride is out of the question? You don’t feel light-headed or weak? Could you have upset your stomach with a bit of spoiled food? Please tell me you are not in pain.”
I have never felt better, thank you, my lord. She knew he really wanted to know if she was with child. She debated whether to tell him she was about to drop a brat by a prince or a gypsy. Which would irk him more?
A grunt escaped as a fresh wave of pain gripped her womb. The throbbing radiated all the way through to her spine and numbed her legs. Sitting became unbearable. Sophia shifted in her seat and glanced at the clock again, wondering if she could claim she needed a nap so soon after breakfast without attracting more unwanted attention.
“Come on, rest back on the sofa. I know you want to,” he whispered in her ear through clenched teeth. “I can’t tell if you are about to faint or vomit. You are driving me mad.”
“Charming,” she groused. “Elise, mind the key change. F-sharp.”
Elise played another wrong note, jarring Sophia’s already short temper. She pressed against her belly in a futile effort to push the pain away. Oh, she loathed how every beat of her pulse burned, riding her nerves. “F-sharp, Elise. The black key.”
“And play legato, connect the notes. Smoother in the andante section,” Lord Devon added helpfully, unaware he tipped the balance in favor of his murder.
Then he nudged Sophia by the waist, laying her back on his chest. He reclined against the side of the sofa with her cradled in his arms, her feet on the cushion. The pain eased from a stabbing sensation to a dull throb as her body unfolded and relaxed. She surrendered, sighing in relief. He hummed back then fell silent.
Then his hands replaced hers, kneading her belly. His hands were stronger and warmer; the tension in her cramped muscles melted away at his command. Sophia had not been able to bear lacing her corset that morning as she’d dressed and had foregone it; thus with only two thin layers of fabric in the way, she felt his touch almost like contact with skin, but was too relieved to protest. Elise played on, unaware of the horridly inappropriate scene going on behind her.
A high-pitched gasp and choking wail startled Sophia out of her sleep. She struggled to disentangle herself from Wilhelm’s embrace in time to see Elise gaping in horror. Tears flooded her lovely ocean-blue eyes, making her appear even more impossibly young and innocent. She pressed a hand to her mouth and fled the music room without a word.
“High time for that,” Wilhelm muttered, and Sophia wanted to slap him. “I am old enough to be her father. I have filled the role of father for her since she wore braids. Not to mention she is so…”
Naïve? Vain? Innocent?
“Do you feel better?”
“I am far too well at the moment.” Not that the pain was absent, but eclipsed by the pleasure of lying in his arms. She’d thought of little else since the night she’d spent asleep on the bare skin of his chest, listening to the deep steady rhythm of his heart. She had slept with a lovely sense of safety; it had kept the nightmares away. Wilhelm had starred in her dreams every night since. Steadily her judgment had deteriorated to the point where she couldn’t remember why she should resist him. It had taken Mr. Cox’s letter to remind her.
“I should go. This is wrong.” Shameful; she reinforced her sensible words with no conviction. Not to mention her complete lack of action.
“Why?” He blew a short breath through his nose, raising little bumps on her neck. “I was about to try my luck teasing another kiss from you.” He didn’t pretend to soothe the cramps in her abdomen now; his fingers stroked her ri
bs and his wandering thumb moved with the provoking caress of a lover.
“The doors are open. Anyone could walk in.”
“All the more thrilling. Why don’t we give them something to talk about?”
She should twist away and berate him with her shocked outrage that he would suggest such impropriety. No, instead she arched her back and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing his face to hers.
He nuzzled her with his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Tell me what ails you. I must know.”
“Nothing that can be remedied.”
“I have seen you before like this; I fear for you.”
“I almost wish it was a baby, but in more ways than one it may never be possible. Do you understand what I mean, Wilhelm?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so — but why?”
“Even if I could explain it and make some sense, I would sooner die of humiliation.”
“Please? For me?”
“No, Wilhelm.”
He cursed under his breath and extricated himself from the sofa with irate movements. Sophia closed her eyes, her thoughts in a tangle. The piano bench creaked and Wilhelm’s glorious Schumann followed. A melancholy serenade, which he tinkered with. A chord change here, a variation on the melody there. Four phrases later nothing of Schumann remained as Wilhelm spun his own musical creation, something darker. Complex.
He’d fallen into a trance, staring past the piano, his gaze far away while heartbreaking music flowed from his fingers. She should leave; when he composed it felt very private and she didn’t want to intrude. In a way she couldn’t bear hearing it. Over the past few months she’d found his music made her unreasonable, emotionally. Today the stormy texture and nostalgic melody soaked through her, dragging her every frustration and longing to the surface where she couldn’t ignore them, magnifying them.
Wilhelm created the musical embodiment of desire, and it struck her as utterly effective. She was moments away from an illogical outburst of tears when he finished. The bench creaked again, and the silence meant he waited for her to acknowledge him.
“Tell me you feel it, too.”
“Always, Wilhelm.”
He moved; she felt it rather than heard it. He knelt over her and pressed his lips to hers. Slowly, in painstaking increments so she was aware of every moment and breathed in rhythm with him. When he finally rolled his lips over hers and took her mouth in a deep kiss, it shattered what she thought were her convictions. Kiss him back, only that. Same as his music: stormy, demanding, with a consuming energy that would soon drive her to drastic actions.
Already her hands roved greedily, squeezing the muscles bunched in his shoulders, raking down his arms, pulling him closer. He responded with a low sound, probably meant to be a word, that didn’t make it past his throat. Wilhelm cradled her head in his hands and angled his mouth over hers in a hungry ill-behaved kiss that stole her breath. It made her want more of him, all of him.
Difficult to heed her better judgment warning, You are issuing an invitation you have no intention of honoring, when the rest of her demanded, More! She relished his warmth, his strength, the exciting feel of him brimming with leashed energy. Thrilling to provoke and tease his restraint while she counted on him to control himself. He’d tugged her sleeve over her shoulder, but while he dared kiss the skin across her collarbone, he hadn’t ventured any lower. She knew he wanted to; she’d practically invited him with her arched back.
He pulled away with a sound of complaint, as though she’d pushed him. Wilhelm sat back on his haunches and hung his head. Short of breath, he cursed again. “What are we to do about this?”
She waited to calm her own breath. “Nothing at all. Or I can go. I should have left here long ago.” She risked adding, “I have probably endangered you, and especially with your nieces here, I had no right.”
After a long pause he finally spoke, his tone tea-time casual. “You have given me much to puzzle out, Miss Rosalie. What would you say if I told you I already know everything?”
“I doubt that.” She hated his vainglorious smirk.
“I have resources. And you give much away, darling.” He raised a finger to tickle the corner of her mouth, daring her to smile when she would rather bite him. “Humor me. I will tell you what I suspect, and you deny it while I read the truth on your face.”
“If I am so sloppy that you somehow know everything, then it hardly matters—”
“Because bad men are searching for you. You fear they will find you.” He seemed marginally less daunting kneeling before her at eye level. The unsettling factor remained his piercing storm-grey eyes and how intensely he watched her. People simply didn’t look at each other in such a soul-baring manner, only Wilhelm.
“In truth I have grown tired of our little farce, Miss Duncombe.”
Of course she startled as her name rolled off his lips.
“Miss Anne-Sophronia Varanese Rinaldi Duncombe, missing from your estate in Hampshire nearly a year. What a naughty girl you are, making your poor father ill with worry, supposing you’d been abducted by gypsies. Or worse. Some whisper that you have been very naughty indeed, and you eloped with your lover, ashamed of carrying his brat.”
Damn him, he smiled.
“What is this I see? Anger? Indignation?” Wilhelm smoothed the tension between her brows with a finger, where a headache had started to throb. His voice lowered. “I truly loathe assumptions, Miss Duncombe, don’t you?”
Oddly, she felt none of the mortification she expected. Only relief. She finally answered, “You seem pleased with yourself. By all means, continue.”
“I much prefer facts. Lord Chauncey is the worst financial blunderer I have ever seen. How he managed to gamble away the titles to entailed properties is a mystery. I wonder what sort of pressures his creditors are laying on him. I hear the gambling hells of Bangalore adore English officers who cheat and skip town on their debts.”
“How do you know this? No one—”
“I told you, I have resources. While I don’t spread gossip, Miss Duncombe, you do realize sooner or later your father will unravel himself? Quite publicly, I fear. I don’t care about that. What interests me is why Lord Chauncey would hire Vincent LeRoy to find his daughter.”
Sophia shook her head. “Who is that? One of his investigators?”
Wilhelm snorted. “Bounty hunter. Thug, murderer, thief. LeRoy should know better than to set foot on Rougemont property. It will be his last step.” His cold half-smile gave her chills. “I said it interests me, not concerns me. What concerns me is why Anne-Sophronia Duncombe — daughter of a viscount and society darling — would turn up at a country estate so close to home, posing as a lowly housemaid.
“And what makes me insane is wondering who hurt you, who instilled the fear of a hunted animal in you.” His voice lowered but remained calm. “I don’t look to a higher being for retribution. I specialize in this brand of justice — for those who escape the law.”
Sophia sat stunned at his confession. “Oh, my — You are serious. You mean to kill—”
He hissed and put a hand over her mouth. “Damn all, woman. The first thing you must learn in matters of conspiracy is to interpret vagueness. The second is caution.” She had no idea if he was making sport of her or deadly serious. “I am asking you to let me handle your little problem.”
Oh, that pirate-smirk! She had suspected before, but there really was little charming and much wolfish about it. She should have been more frightened of him; she certainly felt it now.
“You are a man who deals in bargains, Wilhelm. What do you want in return?”
“First, your name. Anne-Sophronia is a mouthful I cannot manage, and I have lacked any desire to address you properly for months now. Tell me, what does a man whisper in your ear at night?”
She couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. “I could hardly say. When they shout in delirious ecstasy, however, the word is Sophia. Incidentally my friends, few as they are, use the same.” His
bewildered expression, and the resulting flash of what might have been jealousy, was worth letting him assume scandalous behavior of her.
“Sophia,” he echoed, lifting her hand to his lips. Now that he’d recovered himself, she couldn’t read his expression at all, unless she allowed the comparison of a wolf.
“I don’t care for that look, Wilhelm. Perhaps you had better tell me what you want from me, in exchange for your protection.”
“A simple matter, really.” He paused to kiss her hand again, slowly, his gaze burning her with icy fire. “Marry me.”
Chapter Fourteen
In Which History Repeats Itself
“I declined, of course.” Sophia hid her mouth behind the wine glass and nodded in concert with the circle of drawing room guests. Lord Devon’s neighbors, again. She wore a blankly pleasant expression while her heart groaned — she had injured Wilhelm the previous day with her refusal. Her being the single most ineligible woman on earth hadn’t seemed to daunt him. It mattered to her a great deal.
Aunt Louisa rustled, reminding Sophia of a dragon flexing its scales. “I cannot say which is worse: your living in sin for all the world to see, or you — a Duncombe — as Lady Devon.”
Sophia muttered sotto voce to Aunt Louisa, “Do keep your smelling salts near, ma’am, but I must tell you the Duncombe family has held its title since Cromwell. So, I believe, has the Montegue family.”
“It is not your family’s title I object to. Merely your family.”
“On that front I must agree. But as I did have the nerve to be born into my family, I must reserve the right to insult it, if you don’t mind. Furthermore, if you insist on comparing dreadful reputations, it is possible Lord Devon’s trumps mine.”
“Falsehoods!” Aunt Louisa hissed. “All of them! Born of jealousy and spite.”
Sophia whispered, “Then you understand the burden of an undeserved reputation.”
Aunt Louisa scoffed too loudly, and a few guests turned to see what was the matter. She ignored their glances and spoke behind her handkerchief, “I knew who you were nearly the moment I laid eyes on you, girl.”
