Swiping his hand across his eyes, Marcus had to concentrate hard to keep the neat script in focus. Even so, it took him three attempts before the meaning of the words finally sank in. ‘Not mine, unfortunately,’ he growled, as he let the paper slip from his fingers before slumping back into his seat. ‘And not nearly as grateful as I would like her to be!’
Grabbing at the missive before it floated into the fire, Giles cast a quick glance over the words, but was unable to make sense of their content. ‘Seems the lady needs your help,’ he said, somewhat awkwardly, since he had no idea what sort of brouhaha his brother had got himself into this time. ‘Messenger’s waiting for a reply.’
Muttering scabrous imprecations, Marcus stumbled to his feet again, staggered over to the nearby bureau, snatched up a piece of crested writing-paper and, after stabbing a quill into the inkstand a couple of times, shakily scrawled ‘3 p.m. tomorrow. M.H.’ across the sheet. Folding the paper with careful precision, he picked up a stick of sealing wax and stared down at it in some confusion.
‘Might be better if you left that to me, old boy,’ came his brother’s gentle voice from behind him.
With a weary nod, the Viscount passed the sealing wax to Giles and, blinking rapidly, watched as the Major lit a candle, melted the wax and sealed the letter.
‘Pass me your ring!’ commanded Giles, holding out his hand.
Easing the crested band from his finger, Marcus slid it across the desk towards his brother who, wordlessly retrieving the item, proceeded to press its raised design into the blob of wax, leaving on its hardening surface the clear imprint of an upright lance along with the ancient family motto—nunquam cesseris—never give in!
Pulling the missive towards him, Marcus stared dumbly down at the inscription for some moments, before his lips twisted in a wry grimace. Then, straightening his shoulders, he lifted his chin and rose cautiously to his feet.
‘I can do this,’ he muttered, his teeth clenched tightly together as he eased himself around to face the library door. ‘I can do this.’
Then, to Giles’s amazement, he proceeded to cross the room with barely the faintest hint of having overindulged himself. Swinging open the door, the Viscount then poked out his head, beckoned to the still waiting messenger and pressed his reply into the man’s hand, along with the requisite shilling.
It was only after the visiting footman had bowed and taken his leave that the flash of an incomplete memory leapt into Marcus’s still somewhat befuddled brain. He was sure that it was connected to something he had seen in the bookshop, but he was damned if he could call it to mind.
Returning to the fireplace, he pulled at the bellrope to summon his butler. ‘Sorry about that pathetic display, Giles,’ he said with an awkward grin. ‘A large jug of black coffee seems to be in order. It’s high time I started making a few much-needed changes to my life, I believe.’
Chapter Eight
Even though her living conditions seemed about to take a turn for the better following Mrs Crayford’s wrongful assumption of her relationship with Helstone, Sophie was not at all sure that she cared for such a change, since it appeared that from now on she was expected to join the family at dinner, instead of taking the meal with the two younger Crayford children in the nursery parlour, as had previously been required of her.
Nor did it add to her sense of wellbeing to have Lydia march into her room the following morning and deposit a huge pile of miscellaneous articles of clothing onto her bed, with the words, ‘You may have these—I no longer have any use for them!’ before letting out a barely disguised snort of laughter, clapping her fingers to her lips and running from the room.
Even the discovery that several of the garments appeared never to have been worn before was of no great consolation to Sophie, since it was clear that every single item had been designed for someone a good few years younger than her own three and twenty, in both fashion and colour scheme. But even as she stared down in dismay at the pale pastel-shaded gowns, every one of them complete with more than its fair share of frills, flounces and furbelows, she was well aware that, other than appearing at the table in one of the three serviceable grey gowns that comprised her limited wardrobe, she had little choice but to comply with her employer’s instruction that she wear one of Lydia’s repugnant cast-offs that evening.
Neither had Helstone’s message that he intended to present himself at three o’clock that afternoon brought her any solace. The fact that he had chosen to ignore her request had already cost her a sleepless night, as her exhausted brain endeavoured to fathom out his reasons for hounding her in this manner. By his impetuous actions he had made it very clear that he was attracted to her but, given that he was a man who could have the pick of the most beautiful women in Society—and probably already had, if the truth be known—his apparent determination to add a provincial nobody to his list of conquests had left Sophie feeling confused and ill-equipped to deal with any further onslaughts from him. For, as she was gradually being forced to admit to herself, the plain fact of the matter was that she was already more than halfway in love with the charismatic devil—a situation which only served to make his continued importuning of her all the more difficult to resist, when all she really wanted to do was to shout, Yes! Yes! Yes! Hold me in your arms and kiss me to distraction!
Not that she could ever imagine herself acting in such a wild and abandoned manner, she concluded with a disapproving grimace, as she stared at what she could see of her reflection in the pock-marked mirror that stood on her chest of drawers and ruefully contemplated the likely effect of the least offensive of Lydia’s gowns when held up against her own rather more curvaceous figure. Perhaps I am just more strait-laced than I had otherwise supposed? was her next thought. Although, whilst it is true that my upbringing might have been somewhat out of the ordinary, Mama was always quite strict in certain matters, and I am perfectly sure that she would never approve of me even considering such a shameful course of action!
Heaving a sigh, she tossed the over-embellished pinkspotted muslin back on to the bed and selected another from the pile—pale green this time, and almost identical in design to the former, apart from a deep flounce of figured lace at its hem. Hmm … she then thought. If I unpick all those ridiculous bows and folderols, this might well serve the purpose for this evening. Not that anyone will give a fig as to how I look—apart from the odious Arthur, of course—although, thanks to Helstone’s timely intervention, the little creep does seem to have drawn in his horns somewhat. Oh, dear! I really must learn to count my blessings, as Mama is often wont to say!
Unfortunately, unpicking the numerous bows and other unnecessary ornamentation on the gown took Sophie rather longer than she had expected, and as she reached for a clothes hanger upon which to hang the completed garment her eyes happened to fall on the little clock that stood on her bedside table. Good grief! It was a quarter to three already and she had barely left herself with enough time to wash her hands and brush her hair!
She was just in the process of stabbing the last hairpin into her hastily constructed chignon when a tap at her bedroom door heralded the appearance of the maidservant, bearing the message that the mistress wished to inform Miss Flint that Lord Helstone had arrived, and would she be so good as to join the family in the drawing room?
Brushing her fingers down the front of her grey cambric gown, in a vain attempt to smooth out the creases that had formed during her needlecraft activities, Sophie followed the girl down the stairs to the ground floor where, pausing outside the drawing room, she took a deep breath, stiffened her spine and pushed open the door.
‘Ah, come in, my dear Miss Flint,’ cried Mrs Crayford at her entry. ‘As you can see, your cousin has kept his promise to call on us!’
Cousin! Great heavens! What other barefaced lies had the wicked devil been constructing during her absence?
It was all Sophie could do to stop herself from exclaiming out loud. Inwardly fuming that Helstone had had the audacity to clai
m a non-existent kinship with her, she dipped him the briefest of curtseys and refused to raise her eyes to meet his, knowing full well that they would be regarding her with their usual mischievous glint.
‘It was good of you to come, my lord,’ she managed, through partly clenched teeth.
Marcus bit back the grin that threatened. Sophie’s indignant reaction to his spurious assertion was proving to be much as he had expected, but, having finally decided his course of action, he was quite prepared to make some sacrifices in order to achieve his intended goal. The past ten or more minutes spent engaged in pointless conversation with the inept and decidedly doddery Crayford senior, along with his unbelievably bourgeois and graceless wife, having been the first of such sacrifices, the Viscount was only just beginning to realise exactly how much of a challenge he had set himself. But then, as he was quick to remind himself, to the victor the spoils—or so the saying would have it.
Not that there was any real chance of him failing in his chosen pursuit, he thought complacently. There never was. Once he had set his sights on a particular target, it merely remained to find ways of persuading the object of his interest to succumb to his advances. This method had always served him perfectly well in the past, and the Viscount could see no reason why it should fail him on this occasion, having already reached the conclusion that the mounting ardour he felt for Sophie was simply some sort of adverse reaction to her continued refusal to accept his offer. The trouble was, as he was now obliged to admit as he sat back in his seat and covertly studied her set expression, he was just not used to being turned down—rather the reverse, in the majority of cases!
‘His lordship has expressed the desire to take you for a drive in his curricle this afternoon,’ gushed Mrs Crayford, coyly batting her eyelashes at the Viscount. ‘In the ordinary way, of course, such a suggestion would be out of the question, but now that he has explained your relationship I see no reason to refuse his request—although I do think that you might prefer to go and change into one of your prettier gowns before you depart?’
This last was to Sophie, to whom her employer shot a fierce look of disapprobation—doubtless for her having chosen to appear before the noble guest dressed in her customary colourless fashion.
‘I cannot think that his lordship would care to keep his horses standing any longer than absolutely necessary,’
returned Sophie mutinously. Torn between wanting to reject Helstone’s offer out of hand and a pressing need to take him to task for falsifying their relationship, she had opted for the latter. Nevertheless, she had no intention of primping herself in Lydia’s outmoded cast-offs just to oblige Mrs Crayford’s déclassé ideas of propriety. ‘I will just go and collect my bonnet—if you will excuse me?’
Dipping another quick curtsey to no one in particular, she left the room before her employer could summon up an adequate reply.
‘So impetuous—I sometimes find it quite difficult to keep up with the girl!’ exclaimed Mrs Crayford gaily, in a failed attempt at merriment, as she feverishly applied her fan to her reddening cheeks. ‘Do sit down again, my lord—another glass of sherry, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ replied Marcus, bending to retrieve his hat and gloves from the arm of his chair. ‘Miss—er—my cousin is quite correct in her assumption that my horses have been left standing quite long enough. I will take my leave of you now, if you will excuse me? Thank you both for your indulgence.’
‘Oh, our pleasure entirely, my lord!’
Doing his utmost to construct a bow at the same time as reaching for the bell-pull in order to summon the butler to escort his esteemed visitor from the premises, the doddery Crayford senior lost his footing and all but tumbled into the fireplace. His ungainly recovery brought forth a barely suppressed snigger from his son, whose apprehension over the Viscount had rendered him virtually speechless throughout the entire visit. A questioning glance from Helstone, however, soon put him firmly back in his place. A bright flush crept across his cheeks as, mortified once more, he hunched up his shoulders and did his best to appear invisible, mentally swearing eternal damnation to Helstone and all his kind.
Blissfully oblivious of the vicious maledictions being cast against his person, Marcus strode out into the hallway just as Sophie stepped off the bottom stair. Hurrying across to meet her, he felt his heart execute the same extraordinary somersault that it had done at every other one of their meetings. Catching his breath as he offered her his hand, he could only put the inexplicable sensation down to his recent over-indulgence of liquor which, he was forced to admit, seemed to have increased out of all proportion of late—a matter that clearly needed addressing.
Tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow, he led her out of the house and into the late April sunshine, glancing down at the fine woollen shawl on her shoulders.
‘Are you sure that scrap of stuff is going to be warm enough?’ he asked in concern as he handed her up into his curricle, before taking the reins from his tiger and climbing into his own seat. ‘The breeze will tend to feel quite brisk once we’re on the move.’
‘I trust that you are not about to give forth with one of your usual panegyrics regarding the supremacy of the fur stole over the humble woollen shawl,’ said Sophie wearily, and she attempted to edge herself further along the seat, away from Helstone’s impossibly charismatic masculinity. ‘After spouting that inexcusable falsehood, I wonder that you have the audacity to face me at all!’
‘Needs must.’ He laughed, nodding to the tiger to let go the horses’ heads. ‘How else was I supposed to get you out of the house? That old cat of an employer of yours is a sight too inquisitive for my liking. I was obliged to invent all manner of relatives to satisfy her curiosity. I’m still not entirely sure that she trusts me to return you in one piece!’
‘Then your reputation has clearly preceded you,’ retorted Sophie tartly, clutching at the side rail of the highly sprung vehicle as it swung sharply around a bend in the road, while secretly in awe of the way the Viscount’s strong, shapely hands manipulated the reins to control his team. Hands that had held her so firmly against his chest—
‘Do you have to drive so fast?’ she gasped, desperately trying to banish that oft recurring image from her mind. ‘You will have me tipped over the side if you’re not careful! Where are we going, anyway? This isn’t the way to the park.’
‘Too busy, and too many prying eyes for my liking.’
A frisson of unease shot through her. ‘I trust you aren’t thinking of attempting to repeat yesterday’s sordid activity?’ she challenged him.
His eyes gleaming with laughter, Marcus shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. Your virtue is quite safe this time, I promise you. Besides which,’ he added, jerking his head over his shoulder, ‘Kimble is here to see that you come to no harm—isn’t that so, Kim?’
‘Whatever you say, guv,’ returned the tiger, with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Very confidence-inspiring, I’m sure!’ muttered Sophie. ‘I dare say you pay him extra for helping you abduct helpless maidens!’
‘Not my style,’ retorted the Viscount, shooting her a sideways glance. ‘Besides which, I’ve never thought of you as particularly helpless—you had little trouble fighting me off, as I recall.’
‘Probably because your conscience got the better of you!’ she flashed back at him.
‘Conscience!’
Letting out a scornful hoot, Marcus tightened his hands on the reins, signalling to his team to slow down to a trot. ‘I can’t imagine what has given you the impression that I have any sort of a conscience.’
‘Everyone has a conscience if they dig deeply enough,’ she replied smugly.
When he did not answer, she glanced across at him. Though his eyes were fixed on the road ahead, he had a frown on his face, and as she watched a small tic appeared at the side of his lower lip. She opened her mouth to ask him if something was wrong, but then, thinking the better of it, remained silent.
Eventually he
spoke, with a slight grate to his voice. ‘Did you really mean it when you described my kissing you as “sordid”?’
‘I—I—!’
Her cheeks aflame, Sophie was temporarily lost for words.
‘I had the distinct feeling that, for a moment or two at least, you were actually enjoying the whole experience quite as much as I was,’ he continued, still concentrating his gaze to the front. Then, with a jerk, he pulled his team to a standstill and swung round to face her, his eyes boring into hers. ‘In fact, I defy you to tell me that you didn’t enjoy it!’
‘I—I—that is—it was wrong of you to pounce on me like that!’ she floundered, finding it totally impossible to withstand the blatant heat of his compelling gaze.
‘That’s not what I asked!’ he rasped, ripping off his glove before reaching out and cupping her cheek so as to prevent her turning her head away. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that you didn’t enjoy it as much as I did!’
Endless minutes ticked slowly by, as the Viscount’s unremitting gaze seemed to strip away every one of her defences and lay open her very soul, until at last, as a little sob escaped her lips, Sophie was forced to tear her eyes away from his with the broken whisper, ‘I—I cannot—you know full well that I cannot!’
A hot flood of elation pulsed through him. I knew it! I knew it! Marcus told himself exultantly, clenching his fists and almost punching at the air in his utter delight at having forced the admission from her, but then, as his gleeful eyes turned once more to confront her, a bewildered frown furrowed his brow. Sophie’s face was turned away from him, but there on her right cheek the slow trickle of a single tear was clearly visible. All of a sudden his heart seemed to stumble to a standstill, and what he had previously regarded as a resounding victory swiftly deteriorated into the most crippling of defeats.
Motioning to Kimble to get down and hold the horses’ heads, the Viscount reached across and took hold of Sophie’s hands, only to feel his heart lurch once more. Even through the thin fabric of her cheap cotton gloves the trembling of her fingers was marked.
Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) Page 34
