A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  Perhaps, once again, his faithful yet particular man, Jack Farquhar, had proved his weight in gold. Yes, it was to be hoped the fanciful valet could next perform miracles.

  It was infernally hot in the ballroom despite the coolness of the early spring outside. A mesmerizing display of many-hued ball gowns swirled around Miss Sophie Somerset as she waltzed, making her even more dizzy than her constricting corset and the forceful embrace of her partner, Lord Coddington. She glanced about and was happy to see some of the Count and Countess of Hardwick’s footmen opening the French windows and doors leading outside of the glittering ballroom. If she were not so practical she would faint from the sheer heat of it all.

  Her partner’s penetrating blue eyes and very pale blond, wavy hair fascinated her. He matched her height, unlike most of the other gentlemen whose noses tended to rest in her décolleté. He was decidedly the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen — a true prize among men, or at least as much of a prize as a titled gentleman with pockets-to-let could be.

  But then, all the men who jotted their names on her dance card were well known to the moneylenders in town. It was the reason they asked. For what other reason would they seek an introduction to an almost on the shelf, blowsy spinster, albeit rich or very nearly rich, indeed? Sophie found it amusing how they managed to look at her with too keen an interest and yet disgust all at the same time.

  Lord Coddington steered them toward the floor-to-ceiling French windows. The room seemed to tilt and become foggy as he waltzed beyond the nodding palm fronds in the planters near the closest window. Outside, they danced along the narrow balcony.

  “You are one of the most attractive ladies of my acquaintance, Miss Somerset.”

  Before she could offer thanks, his head tilted toward hers. He was about to kiss her! How delightful. She closed her eyes and leaned into him to claim her first kiss. Her first real kiss — from a man to a woman — not like the ones from her papa. Suddenly, the whirling sensation ceased. She encircled her arms about his neck to more fully enjoy the sensation. Sophie relaxed into his embrace as he tightened his hold around her waist.

  At first she was aware only of her breathing, of his breathing, then the sounds of the night insects humming became clearer when the music ceased. A loud buzzing grew, overtaking all other sounds. He broke away from her.

  “Miss Somerset, I fear we are causing something of a sensation,” Lord Coddington whispered. “I would not blemish your fine reputation for the world. I’m sorry we cannot continue — what you so delightfully initiated. May I presume the honor of calling on you tomorrow?” His tone hinted of distaste and his smile was tight.

  What? He thought she had begun the kissing?

  Sophie turned in horror to find what seemed to be the entire gathering in the ballroom staring at her. What on earth was she doing next to another set of French windows? She was sure Lord Coddington had waltzed them to a deserted corner. She looked up to find him edging away from her into the ballroom with a smug expression.

  A few giggles erupted from the ballroom and she noticed the cupped hands and the rounded eyes of many females gossiping and tittering in front of her.

  She heard whispers of female venom, “ill-bred hoyden heiress — another exhibition of fast behavior…” and, “… gel’s reputation is beyond tatters now, poor dear.” Ah, revulsion she could swallow, but a true show of pity, she could not.

  She was suddenly cold, colder than the frostiest winter day in Wales. She turned and tried to flee, down the steps into the garden, into the fog. Oh, she was so cold… and her feet wouldn’t move.

  Sophie woke with a start. She was freezing. All of the silk-satin bedcovers had slid off the bed and the pitch darkness proved that the fire had burned out in the hearth. She shivered and struggled to haul the covers from the floor without placing her toes on the massive bedchamber’s icy cold floor. What a horrid nightmare. It had been so real. Her teeth chattered as she gathered the bedclothes tightly around her body. And then she stilled.

  It had been so real, just like the ball tonight. She closed her eyes. Just exactly like tonight. Only she had not been able to escape from the hard, calculating stares of the crowd. Oh no, she had had to pull herself up, walk into the ballroom, where she had been unable to perceive her cousin Mari or her ancient aunt. She had stood there like a complete dolt, gawking at the many faces. She was sure everyone had been able to see her heart pounding below her inelegant bosom. It had been altogether the most embarrassing moment in her nine and twenty years.

  Her only consolation was to be found in the considerable form of her aunt who suffered from very little rational conversation after consuming a vast quantity of ratafia. On this occasion, instead of chastising her niece yet again, she had chosen to sleep off her overindulgence during the whole of the miserable carriage ride back to the townhouse. Mari had been unable or unwilling to make light of the event. That had been left up to Sophie.

  “So do you think it was worse tonight or did last Tuesday’s disaster equal it, Mari?” Sophie rearranged the plumage of her dozing aunt’s headgear that kept poking her in the face.

  “Hard to say, dearest.” Mari grimaced as the carriage wheel negotiated a spot of uneven cobblestones.

  “So kissing in public is worse than having someone spill lemonade on me, thereby — let’s see, how did that vile Lord Busby describe it? Ah, yes — ‘allowing my voluptuous charms to peek through my amusing gown?’” Sophie, exasperated, removed the offending hat from her Aunt Rutledge’s head as the grande dame began snoring in earnest on her shoulder.

  Mari sighed and rested her forehead in her hand.

  “Well, I hardly think I should have been blamed when Lord Busby was the one trying to put his hand down the front of my bodice. It’s not like I wasn’t trying to fend him off.”

  “Dearest, we’ve been through this before.”

  “I know, I know. If his wife and her circle of friends hadn’t come upon us, naught would’ve been said.” Sophie looked out the small carriage window. “Ah, Mari, come on then. You promised to cheer me up.”

  “Hmmm,” her sweet cousin intoned, tapping her fan on Sophie’s arm. “Well it won’t help at all to remind you that you shouldn’t have been kissing tonight at all, public or privatelike if you ask me. Especially after the old goat pawed you last week.”

  “Oh, but Mari, Lord Coddington was so very beautiful, don’t you think? And I did so want to be kissed, at least once in my life. It was ever so interesting——until he showed his true colors that is.”

  “I just wish you had waited for the kisses until after you were married to a right and proper Londoner,” Mari said. “Your nob of an uncle would turn in his grave with these goings-on and it just makes it all the harder to carry out the terms of your inheritance.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Sophie said, pulling up her bodice and losing the war to curb her unfashionable, full curves. “They’ve seen my ‘charms’ and know all about the possibility of a windfall. What more can they want?”

  “Cheer up, dearest,” Mari said, patting Sophie’s hand. “There’s always tomorrow. And there are all those shops we have yet to see. And after all, we’ve only been here a month. I’m certain you’ll succeed in finding a husband.”

  The clock struck four, bringing Sophie back from her reverie of the evening’s events. She closed her eyes and shook her head, dropping onto the downy pillows of her bed, which provided precious little comfort on the dawn of what promised to be another miserable day in London. Why, oh, why had she ever agreed to leave her beloved little village in Wales?

  Sophie was struck anew with the same thought a mere ten hours later as she sat waiting for the blond perfection of Lord Coddington to mount the stairs to the morning room after being announced. Sophie shifted uncomfortably on the settee.

  She and her new intimidating French lady’s maid, Mademoiselle Karine, had taken great care in Sophie’s toilette and dress today. The new corset, which managed to suppress her bosom e
ven more than the last torturous device, as well as the tight bodice of the white morning gown, constricted her lungs in a way that made it difficult to breathe. But Aunt Rutledge had insisted she wear it. Karine had looked her over from head to toe, then she had shaken her head with displeasure and muttered her opinion in French so no one could understand.

  Oh, how much better and easier it was in Wales where she could wear anything she wanted as long as it was modest and serviceable. Her father had even let her wear pantaloons on the days she had been allowed to go fishing or hunting with him.

  The handles on the double doors moved and a liveried footman entered and bowed with Lord Coddington on his coattails. “His lordship, miss.”

  Sophie rose from her perch and became lightheaded. She curtsied and nodded. “My lord.”

  “Miss Somerset, delighted.” Lord Coddington looked anything but.

  “You find me alone, sir. My aunt and Miss Owens are out, paying calls.”

  “So the butler informed me. But as I had something particular to say, perhaps this is for the best.”

  Sophie felt as if she were playing a part in a bad comedy at the Drury Lane Theatre as she reseated herself on the edge of the settee. Her aunt had insisted Sophie stay behind to hear the gentleman’s proposal.

  Lord Coddington, playing his role to the hilt, began pacing as he gripped the edges of his tall beaver hat. “Miss Somerset, from the moment I first saw you I knew our lives were destined to become intertwined.”

  Sophie had the horrible urge to giggle. Her tight undergarments helped curb her initial instinct. She sighed. He was a very handsome man.

  His dark blue coat accentuated his broad shoulders and just the correct amount of white froth tied in a dazzling knot appeared below his chin. His boots showed not a speck of dirt despite the rain earlier this morning.

  She looked down at the tiny gravy stain on her gown from a hastily eaten meal and placed her hand over the mark. What was he saying now?

  “I have been given the blessing of your aunt and my family to pay my addresses to you. But I am sure this is no surprise. And I feel I must offer for your hand in marriage to atone for the newest blemish on your name. Would you do me the honor then, Miss Somerset, of consenting to become my wife?”

  It was clear from his proud posture, his patronizing tone and his gaze, which rested on a point just above her shoulder, that he had no feelings for her at all. She could be a codfish for all he cared as long as she brought her possible windfall to the union.

  Oh yes, Miss Codfish married to Lord Coddington. A perfect match. She giggled.

  “Miss Somerset? Do you find this interview amusing then? Is this your answer to my declaration?”

  “No, my lord. I’m sorry if I have caused offense. I am honored by the condescension you have shown me.” Sophie stopped speaking. For the life of her she did not know how to continue.

  She was in London to contract an arranged marriage with a suitable nobleman of the Upper Ten Thousand. This codfish, er, gentleman was eminently qualified. But his dazzling blue eyes and light hair left her feeling unnerved.

  Could she spend the rest of her life looking at his icy expression every day and worse, perform the most intimate act with him? Surely there would be other suitable offers. But could she risk rejecting the addresses of her aunt’s favorite? A gentleman who would satisfy, without question, every condition stated in the will of her late uncle, the fourth Duke of Cornwallis. The union would also fulfill the requirements of the unusual patent of nobility that allowed the duchy to be passed down to a female.

  “Well, what is your answer?” Lord Coddington tapped his cane once loudly on the wide planked wooden floor.

  Sophie took a deep breath but was forced to stop midway into the effort by the unyielding undergarment. She panicked and became extremely dizzy. She prayed she wasn’t going to faint, but the edges of darkness were already radiating around the edges of her vision. Oh, she was about to embarrass herself and her family yet again.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sophia Nash’s first ten novels won thirteen national awards including the prestigious RITA Award and two spots on the American Library Association’s “Top Ten Romances of the Year.” Sophia was born in Switzerland, raised in France and the United States, but says her heart resides in Regency England. Her ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave. Before pursuing her long held dream of writing Historicals, Sophia was an award winning television producer for CBS, a congressional speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO.

  Visit www.sophianash.com for more information about the author’s books, excerpts, contact information, links to facebook/twitter, and a witty dictionary of Regency era vocabulary.