by Mary Campisi
Chapter 3
Holt threw open the doors of Ellswood nearly colliding with Jaffe, the butler. He stalked past the bewildered old man and headed for the library and the crystal decanters lining the sidetable.
“What has you in such a huff?”
Holt swung around to find his brother studying him with blatant curiosity. How had he missed Jason when the man sat three paces from the damnable sidetable? He turned back to the decanters, poured a whiskey and downed it in one gulp. He poured a second and asked with as much disinterest as he could muster, “What does Sophie Seacrest look like?"
Jason laughed. “Do not tell me you had the pleasure of viewing her from afar. If you did, consider yourself among the fortunate few.”
Why the devil was Jason laughing? Holt found nothing remotely humorous about the question. Or the answer. What did his brother mean viewing her from afar, or fortunate few? He didn’t know but he was damn well going to find out. “I merely asked what she looked like.”
“Very well.” Jason leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I shall tell you about Lady Sophie Seacrest. She has long auburn hair that shines with bits of red and gold when she walks in the sunlight. Her eyes are the deepest green, like a lush, velvet lawn in early morning. Her skin is soft and creamy, perfectly flawless. And then there is her body.” He smiled and closed his eyes.
Holt clenched the glass in his hand. “What about her body?” Damn it all, Jason had no business noticing the woman’s figure.
Jason’s eyes snapped open, darkening with annoyance. “If you’ve seen Sophie, you need not inquire about her body. You would know, even from a distance that it was perfect. What the deuce is this all about?”
Holt studied his drink and shrugged. “I met her today.”
“Just like that? Did you ride over and introduce yourself as the new Earl of Westover?”
“Of course not.” He was in a foul mood and he knew exactly who was responsible for it. Visions of the green-eyed temptress flashed in his mind, making him angrier still. “She was riding her horse when the storm broke,” he said in a clipped voice. “I helped her to safety.”
“And?”
"And what?" He was not about to reveal what had transpired in the gamekeeper’s cottage.
“And did you not find her exceedingly beautiful and charming?” Jason continued patiently.
“I didn’t notice,” Holt lied. “She looked like a drowned rat when I came upon her.” He pushed away thoughts of lush curves clinging to a rain-sodden riding habit. Soft. Lavender-scented. Inviting.
Jason raised a brow. “Are you serious? I must say your opinion is not shared by many.”
Slowly and deliberately, Holt refilled his glass. If they didn’t end this discussion soon, he’d be drunk before supper.
“I swear, when you get that look on your face, you could pass for one of the meanest pirates on the water."
Jason’s attempt at lightheartedness only further annoyed him. “You sound like a suitor.”
“What?”
“Are you courting the woman?”
“Of course, not! I’ve known Sophie for years. Do you not remember the little girl in pigtails who used to hide in the kitchen with Julia and steal cherry tarts?”
“Actually, no.” What business would he have had in the kitchen?
“You never lifted your head out of a book long enough to think about food or much of anything else, did you?” Jason’s lips twitched. “How things have changed.”
“Indeed.” Holt had needed to find some source of comfort when his awkward, ill-fitting body and shy disposition proved such a supreme disappointment to his father. Reading had seemed a natural course and the perfect protection from the earl’s bitter diatribe over a weakling son. Twelve years and a psychotic uncle had changed everything.
“Julia and Sophie were inseparable until her mother’s death,” Jason continued. “She was like a second sister to me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Sophie is not a plaything, Holt. She’s a lady and should be treated as such.”
Holt glared at him, refusing to acknowledge he might have had less than honorable plans in store for the woman, which of course he had, but damn if he would admit it. Nor would he disillusion his younger brother about the fair Lady Sophie’s innocence or lack thereof. He paced the room, edgy and unsettled, and damn anxious to shift the conversation. “The Seacrests would like nothing better than to see every last one of us ruined.”
“That would be an accurate assessment.”
“Rendhaven has jeopardized his business and schemed to sabotage ours whenever possible. And yet, despite heavy losses, we’re still surviving and doing much better than Seacrest Shipping.”
“Father was an excellent businessman.”
“I have heard you are as well,” Holt said. “I’m confident the company will become even more profitable with both of us working at it. Should I choose to leave, I have sufficient resources to make a vast amount of money available to you.”
“Gained through legal means, I hope?”
“I did not plunder and pillage to obtain it if that’s what you’re asking.” Years of reading and a seafaring mentor by the name of Captain Harry Thurston had taught Holt about trade and negotiation.
Relief skittered across Jason’s face even as he said, “I knew that.” Which he clearly hadn’t. “Sophie runs her father’s business now and handles the bill collectors while he spends his days getting foxed. When he does show up at the docks, he behaves like a rambling idiot.”
“Would he use his daughter to bait us into a war?”
“How so?”
“By sacrificing her virtue?”
“Absolutely not,” Jason said. “Besides, Sophie would never agree to it. She’s too much a lady for such behavior.”
A vision of long legs and silk skin flitted through Holt’s brain. Lady, indeed. “You don’t think she’d throw herself at some man’s feet if he offered to salvage her father’s business?”
"That’s ridiculous. You know nothing of the poor girl and yet act as though you have a personal wager against her. Too many years bouncing around in the ocean have jostled your brain and your reason."
“My past has nothing to do with my reasoning. I’m going to end this feud once and for all.” Unbidden visions of emerald eyes and auburn hair crept into his thoughts. “Just leave everything to me.”
***
The lady's maid patted the last ringlet in place and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Lady Sophie, you are truly a vision."
“Thank you, Annette.” Sophie touched the sapphire comb which held back masses of auburn ringlets from her shoulders. She wore a midnight-blue gown with a low cut bodice and a sapphire pendant which dangled from her neck to settle just above the swell of her bosom.
“By tomorrow morning you will indeed have a line of men come to beg your father for your hand.”
“You flatter me. And besides, were it a simple matter of my hand, I would have forfeited that long ago.”
Annette blushed and murmured, “Lady Sophie! I never know what you will say next.”
“Neither do I, which unfortunately quite often poses a problem. I seem to have this tiny issue of self-control now and again. Just when I think I have mastered the fine art of composure, I . . . well, you’ve been around long enough to know the rest.” She frowned as she recalled the argument she and Aunt Vivian had just this morning.
Since that fateful day two weeks ago when Sophie had the dreadful misfortune of making a certain someone’s acquaintance, she’d delved headlong into finding a match. It was no longer a matter of desire to enter the married state, for she’d never desire that death march; marriage had become a matter of necessity.
What happened in the gamekeeper’s cottage had been more than a slight loss of control or error in judgment. She grew hot even now as she admitted her role as an eager and active partici
pant. She hadn’t wanted the man to stop. And therein lay the problem. If she could respond with such wanton disregard in the arms of a perfect stranger, a servant no less, then she could not trust herself to avoid a recurrence should the occasion arise again. Who might she find herself cavorting with next? The gardener? The groomsman? The man who delivered fresh eggs each Wednesday? Disgrace was inevitable and she must act quickly to avoid it.
Marriage was the only solution. While she could not claim to be enamored with the thought of securing a husband, she did recognize the necessity of it and therefore, her determination to obtain one grew, as did her impatience.
Thus, she found herself an hour later, ensconced in the ballroom of Lord Potsdane’s grand residence amidst a kaleidoscope of greens and pinks and blues as men and women swirled about, dipping and turning in brocades, silks, and satins, providing a delightful display of well-bred beauty and good taste.
Sophie drank it all in, hoping to forget her reason for being here. There had been six dances and three conversations with potential candidates. Each had smiled upon her gaily and after a respectable period of time, politely inquired after her sister’s welfare. Only two had returned to engage in further conversation.
“Lady Sophie?”
“Yes?” She turned to find the warm brown eyes of Mr. Harold Jennings gazing upon her as though she were a goddess of some sort. He offered her a glass of champagne and proceeded to turn the very color of Lady Potsdane’s plum gown. “Why thank you very much, Mr. Jennings. I do seem to be acquiring a taste for this drink.” She bestowed a dazzling smile on her companion, sizing him up for husband material. This would make his third encounter with her this evening. He was nice looking in a calm sort of way. Tall, trim, and fair, when he wasn’t given to blushing. Images of strong, dark fingers on her bare skin slid into her thoughts alongside Mr. Jennings’s face.
Thankfully, he was not a barbarian with long hair and navy eyes who wore a ruby medallion around a neck thicker than her waist. As it were, Mr. Jennings appeared rather long and scrawny, a doubtful candidate for the weight of a ruby medallion.
" . . . and so I would like to present him to you, Lady Sophie. You will undoubtedly have much in common," Lord Potsdane finished amiably. He was a kindly old gentleman and Sophie had always enjoyed his visits to her father. Unfortunately, he had just finished speaking and she’d not heard a word of his conversation.
“I do apologize, Lord Potsdane, but I did not quite hear what you were saying.”
“Well, my dear, there is no further need for explanation. The gent is coming toward us now.”
Sophie fixed a welcoming smile upon her lips and turned slightly, preparing to greet her host’s friend. Her smile froze and split in half as she encountered the piercing gaze that had haunted her for days. She whipped her head around so quickly, a sudden jolt of pain shot through her neck, forcing her to suck in several short breaths in an effort to calm herself. The effort proved entirely futile.
The Langsford’s gamekeeper stood not more than two few feet from her and the horrid man appeared not the least bit affected by her presence! What on earth was he doing here? Sophie attempted to swallow but her throat had turned dry as burnt toast.
Fortunately, Lord Potsdane was an elderly gentleman and neither his eyesight nor hearing were acute, thus he missed the by-play between Sophie and the gamekeeper. “My dear child, may I present Mr. Gregory Thurston, a merchant trader recently returned from the Far East. Mr. Thurston is a guest of Mr. Jason Langford and is looking to expand his fleet of ships. When I told him about Seacrest Shipping he was most anxious to meet you. Of course, I also told him of your breathtaking beauty.” Lord Potsdane leaned closer and winked at her. “Mr. Thurston, may I present Lady Sophie Seacrest, daughter of the Earl of Rendhaven.”
Chapter 4
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Sophie.” Holt bowed low, grasped her hand from the folds of her gown and bestowed a light kiss upon it. He had known she was beautiful, but the sight of her as she entered the ballroom, had overpowered him. He’d spent the past hour devouring every detail from the jeweled comb so artfully placed in her auburn hair to the satin-clad feet twirling from partner to partner.
When he finally sought out Lord Potsdane for a proper introduction, he was able to feign a carefree attitude that well belied his inner turmoil. Sophie Seacrest could not make the same claim. He hadn’t missed the pink spots on her cheeks or the unsteady breaths, signaling a rather large upset. “Lady Sophie.” Holt clasped her small-gloved hand firmly in his own, and said, “Please, allow me the honor of this next dance.”
“I apologize, Mr. Thurston, but my dance card is quite full this evening.” She tried to disengage her hand but he held fast. “If you will excuse me?”
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. “More’s the pity for the poor chaps. I doubt any of them would be fool enough to try to reclaim this dance.”
“I have no desire to be associated with someone such as yourself,” she spat out under her breath as they moved about the floor. “You led me to believe you were the Langford’s gamekeeper, not a business associate.”
“You, fair lady, drew the conclusion I was a lowly gamekeeper, one you could tease and torment at will without anyone becoming the wiser.”
“That is not true,” she muttered, fixing her gaze on his chin. “Can we not forget that regrettable afternoon?”
He frowned in response. “I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, it is not.” He studied the long slender column of her neck and recalled how sweet she’d tasted and how perfectly he could bury his face in the cascade of curls that gleamed under the lights. Her hair smelled of lavender and he was overcome with an incredible desire to pull out the pins and sift his fingers through her hair.
“Mr. Thurston? What do you intend to do?”
He tore his gaze from her hair only to settle it on her lips. Full, pink lips which parted slightly as she wet them with the tip of her tongue. That simple action brought to mind the gamekeeper's cottage and the kisses they had shared. She’s Rendhaven’s daughter. The man had destroyed three Langford ships and attempted to burn their warehouse. He must be stopped and Holt knew exactly how to do it.
“Mr. Thurston,” she repeated. “What do you intend to do?”
“Are you asking if I will inform your father of our tryst in the gamekeeper’s cottage? That depends,” he replied in a bland voice, “on what you are willing to do for my silence.”
“You are the very devil,” she said, her voice simmering with anger. She broke free of his grasp and rushed toward the nearby French doors, disappearing onto the terrace in a whirl of blue silk.
A welcome darkness enveloped Sophie as she drank in the crisp evening air with shaky gulps. The man was an incorrigible beast! If only she had never met him. Sophie leaned against the balustrade, closed her eyes and willed the events of the evening to disappear.
She did not realize someone had joined her on the terrace until something brushed her cheek, so faint she thought it was the wind. When it touched her lips in a feathery motion, her eyes flew open. Gregory Thurston towered over her making her heart hammer with fear and a sliver of anticipation.
He smoothed a wisp of hair from her face and said in a voice that jolted her insides, “I’m sorry if I offended you. I truly do not know why I did it. You appear to have that effect on me.” He spoke so tenderly had she not seen his face, she might have thought the words came from another man.
He tilted her chin upward, his gaze drawn to her lips. His dark head descended slowly, carefully. When their lips touched, the world slipped away. When he drew her into his arms, molding every shape and curve of her body to his, he became her world.
He groaned and pulled her closer. “Torment me again and I’ll be forced to play the gentleman and deliver what you are seeking.”
“Why you –” She jerked away and raised a hand to slap him but he caught her wrist in a firm grip.
“I wouldn’t advise trying that agai
n,” he warned. “You may be the daughter of an earl, but we both know you are no lady.”
“Blackguard.”
“Venture near me again and it will be at your own risk.”
“Venture near me again, and I shall have you shot,” she countered.
Gregory Thurston studied her a long moment before he slowly released his grip on her wrist, threw back his head, and laughed.
***
“Did you see Sophie and Mr. Thurston this evening?” Francie Bishop laid the silver brush on her dressing table and turned to her husband. “They were standing exceptionally close.” Her eyes sparkled. “Did you happen to notice?”
Alexander Bishop tied the belt of his dressing gown and shot his wife a warning. “Do not even start, Francie.”
“I am only making a simple observation.”
“Which will turn into another matchmaking attempt, just like all the others.” He sifted his fingers through her reddish-gold curls and said, “Need I remind you how those turned out?”
“Misunderstandings, all of them. Had Lord Winson not taken Lady Mulingen’s comment about his scrawny neck to heart, they might well have suited.”
“She called him a chicken and said she would rather marry a convict at Newgate.”
“Clarissa was a bit overwrought when she said it.”
Alexander lifted a brow. “Indeed.” Would he ever get used to his outspoken wife who ran about the grounds barefoot and swollen with child? In their scant years of marriage, she had brought light and hope and love into his life, and given him a son they named Harry. Unfortunately, Francie suffered one fatal flaw which proved damned disturbing to Alexander’s state of mind; she believed everyone should experience the joy of marriage and thus had embarked on a crusade to play matchmaker.
She had been horribly unsuccessful.
But in typical Francie fashion, she refused defeat, stating her less than favorable attempts were the results of incorrigible candidates and not inadequate matchmaking skills.
