“And make sure you season it properly.”
Her hands stilled. Season it? What was that supposed to mean? Summer or winter? A chuckle escaped her. Today had been the nightmare she’d known it would be, and the occasional satirical thought was about her only salvation.
Already they had been awake for ten hours and the day was only half-done. Blake told her every five minutes how much work they had yet to accomplish. More than once she’d wanted to tip the pot of hot stew over his head and beat him with the spoon. But she hadn’t. She wouldn’t resort to violence or more insults. No matter how hungry and delirious she became.
When he’d railed that she couldn’t cut through the large pumpkin he’d asked her to slice, she had merely smiled and asked him to show her how it was done. When he’d shouted chores at her as if she was the kitchen maid, she nodded and set to work despite how much her feet and back already ached.
The only way to make Blake treat her as a human being was to win his stupid challenge and smile the whole time she did his bidding. It grated. It gnawed on her senses until she wanted to tear at her hair and scream right back but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Perhaps if she showed him what she was made of, he would treat her less like a pariah and more like an old friend.
Already she’d given away too much, shown him more of the real her than she’d intended. In the barn when he’d reached for her, when she hadn’t been able to discern the intent in his shadowy eyes, fear had lodged in her brain and held her immobile. It had taken her back to her days as a girl in London and before, in the days before she’d fled this place, when she had argued and pleaded with her father not to do it, not to sell her to the duke. Days she didn’t want to recall. Her mask was very carefully, firmly in place to those who saw her, even if occasionally she was caught off guard.
It wasn’t a nice feeling. When you didn’t know what the man before you would do. What he was capable of. The scars he could inflict. But Blake was not his father and she had to keep reminding herself of that fact. Although they had the same eyes, the same aristocratic nose and full mouth, the same commanding tone, Blake was as far removed from the ton and walking in his father’s footsteps as she was from being a lady.
“Stir the pot, woman!”
Sophia jumped. Damn him for scaring her witless again. She really had to stay with the task at hand. But she was exhausted. From the day and from the lies. For once she didn’t want to be strong. She didn’t want to be sensual or womanly. She wanted to be a petulant child and poke her tongue out at the oaf who ordered her about with a raised voice.
The spoon moved around the pot, occasionally hitting the edges with a clang and scrape, but Sophia had no real notion of what she was doing. Even if she did, she was sure he would tell her it was wrong. It’s what he had done with the carrots, the fire, even boiling water. It’s what he had done in the barn with that damned fork.
Hopping from one foot to lean on the other, she nearly lost her balance and had to place a hand on the wall of the hearth to steady her body. Hearing Blake’s heavy tread, she straightened and began to stir in earnest.
“Watch out,” he warned, coming to stand beside her.
Sophia shuffled back and let him have access to the pot. When he tipped the green beans and corn into the stew, his elbow brushed her breast. Her cheeks heated but she refused to move, to acknowledge the accidental touch. A different kind of warmth—expected but unwanted—began to blaze its way through her body.
Blake stilled for a split second, a vein in his jaw throbbed just once, and then he stalked away, his bowl hitting the preparation bench with a thud.
She went back to stirring the stew, but she was so uncomfortable in her blouse. Every time she reached the far side of the pot, her top buttons threatened to choke her. With a quick glance to be sure Blake was occupied with his vegetables, Sophia undid her top five buttons. Right away, she felt a difference and her neck finally stopped itching.
“Damn it, stir that pot!” Sophia jumped again. She turned half her body to snap and snarl the same way he did but then remembered her plan to show him she could keep up.
When she finished with the stew and it was off the heat of the fire, Sophia considered doing her buttons back up but she found her body temperature more comfortable without her blouse choking her. She also found Blake couldn’t not stare. He tried valiantly and snapped his head this way and that whenever she happened to catch him in the act of ogling but still his gaze wandered back again and again.
When it came time to serve the evening meal, Sophia was surprised to find the table in the private dining room set for two.
“Are you expecting someone special for supper?” she asked Blake. Perhaps the man was meeting a lady friend and wished for privacy. There were no other guests staying in the upstairs rooms as far as she knew.
“No,” he replied, his head resting against the door jamb.
“We are not having dinner together.” That was his intent. It shone from his face.
“We can eat in the tap if you would rather.” He shrugged and pushed away from the wall.
Yesterday he’d been adamant about her staying out of the tap. It took everything she had left not to narrow her eyes at his sudden change in attitude. “I’ll take a tray to my room.”
“Running away, Duchess?”
“What have I to run from?” she asked. The past few hours had been spent in relative peace. Were they to revert to mortal enemies once the hard work was done?
“I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’ve had enough games for one day. I wish to dine and then retire.”
“I have to hand it to you, Duchess. I really didn’t think you would make it.”
Sophia shook her head rather than admit her own surprise. “You know nothing about me, Blake. Why don’t you concede defeat and we can move on from this ridiculous contest of strengths.”
“I will not concede. You have worked but one day. Not so hard for a woman used to physical exertion. I wonder if you can stand another?”
Physical exertion? He said the words as though they carried the plague and she knew exactly what he didn’t say out loud. “Hmm,” she murmured. If he was going to remind her of her occupation to make her angry, perhaps she would use it to spark his own temper in return. “It is true, I am capable of exerting a reasonable amount of stamina, but even I must go to bed at the end of the day.”
She couldn’t tell from his reaction, but Sophia had the feeling she had bested him once again. As she retrieved her dinner and skipped up the stairs, she didn’t feel weary. She felt she had gained another point in their imaginary tally.
Sophia—two. Blake—zero.
* * *
Contrary to Miss High and Mighty’s belief, Sophie had won nothing. Blake had been determined to ignore her siren’s call, but as usual when it came to Sophie, he was an unarmed man. The first time she turned to him with the creamy expanse of her chest showing, his heart had quite honestly thumped against his ribs so hard, it was a wonder the next county hadn’t heard the sound. Did she not know what that skin would do to the town’s men already enflamed by her presence?
When he imagined her dining in the tap or even walking through the common room, his blood boiled and he thought of nothing other than violence, but for fourteen years she had looked out for herself. Blake doubted to the soles of his boots that she would welcome any interference from him.
It was why he had set the table in the back room. Dining with her would have been a torture, but he would have endured. He would have martyred himself if it meant keeping her from the prying eyes of his patrons.
Dominic had already warned him they were filled to the brim with punters come to get a glimpse of the famous London harlot. His fists had curled at his sides, but he’d bitten his tongue. He would not have Sophie turned into a public spectacle. Not only for her sake but for Matthew’s and Violet’s also. Once Sophie went back to her grand life, they would be the ones left to deal w
ith the whispers over her visit. It would be Violet who would bear the gossip just for marrying into the Martin family and it wasn’t fair to such a naive slip of a girl. As it was, they had tried to keep Sophie’s improbable return as quiet as they could in the silent hope she wouldn’t actually come.
Well, he had silently hoped.
So there he had sat, Dominic’s statement about the men who waited for just one glimpse of Sophie heavy on his shoulders. He’d done the only thing he could. He set a trap and she’d walked straight in and predictably fought him, resulting in her eating in her room. He was beginning to see a pattern where she refused everything he asked of her if it meant they would be close to each other.
But what about tomorrow when the men came back? And the day after that? He couldn’t trick her into staying in her room forever. How would he keep her out of sight? He did have to make a trip to Sheffield to purchase a few items that were hard to find around Blakiston, but he had intended to wait for a quieter day.
His shoulders lifted with a sigh. He would have to make the journey soon and convince Sophie to go with him. It hadn’t occurred to him when he’d challenged her to walk in his shoes that she would have to step where he stepped and do what he did. Now he had an obligation to shield her.
This is why he should have taken the time to think before throwing down the challenge in the first place. There were loopholes and pitfalls in every action of his and hers. Would she see the Sheffield trip for what it was or would she wonder if the challenge wasn’t all that important to him after all?
Why did everything have to be so complicated? This is what she had been doing to him since he was old enough to have an interest in her.
When she wasn’t there, he wondered about her safety and happiness and when she was there, he worried even more. Why was it that whenever Sophie was involved, he had the feeling he would always emerge the loser?
Chapter Five
When Blake knocked on Sophie’s door the next morning, he expected to find her in that nightgown that hid nothing, her dark curls in disarray over her shoulders, and still half-asleep. But when she answered his first knock bright eyed, dressed and wearing a vibrant smile, he wanted to close the door, knock again, hope she answered the way he’d wanted her to.
“Good morning, Blake.”
“Good morning, Sophie. Are you ready to start the day?” he asked with a smile. This was one instance where he didn’t want to spark her anger and cause her to do the opposite just to spite him. If he told her he needed to go to Sheffield and she declined to go with him, then he would look the fool and she would instantly know he staged the day.
Instead of walking through the kitchens and out to the barn, Blake put a hand on her shoulder and steered in the direction of the private parlor.
“What...” The softly spoken word died on her lips as eggs, ham and fresh bread came into view.
“I thought we could break our fast early today. We have to get the chores done and then hitch the wagon to make a trip to Sheffield.”
“No milking cows and collecting eggs today then?” she asked with a heavy amount of suspicion.
“I was going to wait until next week but my...churner broke and I need to replace it. Don’t worry, Dominic can handle the work for today, tomorrow it will be back to cows and chickens for us.”
She didn’t appear as though she believed a word he stuttered, but she didn’t argue. Merely inclined her head and ate her breakfast as though it was to be her last meal ever.
When she flicked a glance in his direction, he couldn’t help but keep staring.
With an odd look, she ran her tongue over her teeth, wiped her mouth with a linen and then stared back. “Do I have something on my face?”
Blake shook his head. “I haven’t before seen a grown woman eat like you.”
One dark brow lifted and he wished he didn’t now raise her suspicion in every inconsequential comment. As a girl, she’d never been a particularly fussy eater. Those in the country couldn’t afford to be. But he’d served many a titled gentlewoman in his private parlor, and more often than not, there were complaints about his menu options. As though he should have served only the finest of foods.
“I am hungry.”
“That you are,” he said with a laugh, trying not to think of her as a fancy lady.
“If I am hungry, I eat. After yesterday’s deprivation of breakfast and lunch, I thought to take advantage now.”
And there it was again. Even though they didn’t exchange insults, she was still mad. He was trying his hardest to be a gentleman now, but with retorts like that, it would be very difficult indeed.
Moving about the kitchen after breakfast, he washed the few pans and pots used to make a meal fit for a duchess and let his mind wander to the events of the day and their journey to Sheffield.
He planned to be his most charming self no matter her half remarks and reminders of the day before. He would let her chat away, listen when she talked, murmur the appropriate phrases when she drew breath and generally play the role of gentleman. It was the only weapon he had left now. Not in the sense of hurting her. No. He was beyond that. Seeing the hurt in her eyes did things to his heart that didn’t feel comfortable.
Hanging his wet dish rag on a hook by the hearth, he took one last look around his kitchen with pride. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Each pot had a shelf or hook, each plate, spoon, fork and bowl had been earned and lovingly cared for. He’d worked hard for every item his gaze roamed over. His was a good life, but he wished it had turned out differently.
When he was just five years old, his mother had left him on the doorstep of this tavern. She hadn’t left a note. No explanation. Nothing. But his uncle had known why he’d gained an extra mouth to feed. A woman couldn’t live alone with a child and not earn scorn and derision from her friends and neighbors unless she was a widow. It would have been so much easier for them all if she had been.
The only problem he’d seen through the eyes of a five-year-old child was that she’d abandoned him to a fate worse than derision or tomato target practice in the street. It had only taken twelve short months for Blake to become intimate with pain and humiliation. To dodge and duck the fists and slaps meant for his head and back. He’d missed his mother madly and held hope for a long time that she would come back and save him. That she would miss him so much, realize life was better when they were together and come back. After a few years, he’d forgotten the color of her eyes, how she looked when she smiled, the sound of her laughter. Resentment eventually had a way of shadowing the good times and turning them all bad.
His reprieve from the nightmare his life had become came in the form of Matthew Martin and a few years later his little sister.
Little Sophie who wasn’t afraid of anything. Not even Blake’s violent uncle.
But then just like his mother, she’d fled. Disappeared without a trace, without a goodbye or trail to mark the route she took. Slowly the days grew dull again, his uncle’s beatings took their toll and he hardened himself to any kind of emotion that required he invest more than a kind word or smile.
It didn’t mean he didn’t long for a family or children, a wife to wake next to, to share his secrets with, the toll of the days or the happiness of a good harvest. He just didn’t want them bad enough to put his soul on the line. Not again.
Never again.
* * *
“Well, that was...interesting,” Sophia commented from the bench seat of Blake’s cart.
That’s not quite the word he would have used for the day they’d just had.
Nothing had gone wrong. He’d introduced her as his old friend, Sophie, and she had gritted her teeth and let him. He had towed her from market stalls to store fronts and then back to the market stalls. By the end of the day she laughed and smiled and even took care of some of the negotiations for his spices and fruits. Altogether it had been amicable, enjoyable even. But inside, Blake was torn and it made him angry and upset. It made him fe
el like roaring.
For years he had read far too many news sheets and heard tales involving courtesans and prostitutes, and for all of those years he had imagined her standing on some corner by the docks, displaying her wares for all to see. He imagined she had lost a tooth somewhere along the way, stacked on forty pounds and lost most of her hair. Clearly the stereotypes he read about were very far from the truth, and that made him angry as well.
She came home all this time later with confidence and her spine straight despite what she had run away to do. Despite what she had become.
“Blake, are you all right?”
His hands tightened on the reins and he had to bite his tongue. Hard. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“I’m not surprised.” She chuckled. “Do you not have anyone at all to help you when you travel to Sheffield?”
Did she imply he had no friends? “I don’t tend to go mid-week and usually Dominic comes with me while Maria cleans the rooms.”
“Maria?”
Why did she ask so many questions? Why could she not close her mouth and let him stew? He sighed. “Maria is Dominic’s younger sister.”
“Why have I not seen her yet?” This was not a casual question. There was a hint of outrage in her voice and he almost smiled.
“She only works one day a week, since she is only thirteen.”
“Thirteen?”
Blake nodded. Dominic’s father had died the year before and their mother struggled on her own, so the town’s people helped where they could. Maria cleaned his rooms, dusted and scrubbed the floor in the bar once a week and he provided them with fruits and vegetables for their meals. Maria had said she preferred to be away from the gloom at home, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction to earn her way.
At least no one in that family had fled to London to warm beds.
He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. He had to stop doing this to himself. He had to stop seeing her in his mind. He had to start seeing her as she stood before him and that wasn’t as a gap-toothed dove. The problem was that he had no idea where to start with this new Sophia. His body kept telling him to hate her but his brain longed for just one question to be answered.
Behind the Courtesan Page 5
