‘Now, that is a pity,’ sighed Marcus, who was finding it almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the tantalising sight of the soft swell of Sophie’s bosom peeping teasingly above the low-cut neckline of her hastily redesigned evening gown. ‘I’m bound to admit that the idea of holding you in my arms again has enormous appeal—even if it’s only to whirl you around the room in time with the music.’
Her mind unable to erase the piquant image his words had conjured up, Sophie stepped away from him, doing her best to manufacture a frown of disapproval. ‘You really must desist from making that sort of remark—I was under the impression that we had finally reached an agreement over that matter.’
Marcus offered her what was intended to be a penitent grin. ‘You can’t blame me if my baser instincts threaten to get the better of me whenever I am close to you.’
Her pulse ratcheting up another notch, Sophie took a steadying breath.
‘If you refuse to behave yourself, sir, I shall just have to go back inside.’
‘No, please don’t.’ Marcus caught at her hand. ‘I shall try to be good, I promise.’
‘You really shouldn’t make promises that you have no intention of keeping,’ she retorted shakily. ‘You have already broken your word to me on two previous occasions. I had always been under the impression that a gentleman’s word was supposed to be his bond.’
His eyes darkening in exasperation, Marcus stared down at her, frowning. ‘I think you’ll find that that much used adage generally applies to financial agreements made in gambling dens and other such unsavoury establishments.’
‘And only between persons who number themselves gentlemen, presumably?’
‘Goes without saying, I should have thought.’
Her eyes widening in indignation, Sophie drew in a sharp breath.
‘Are you saying, then, that a promise given to a lady doesn’t require to be treated with the same respect as one you might give to a fellow gambler?’
‘Why, yes, of course it does,’ he snapped, then, hesitating, began to run his fingers through his hair in a somewhat distracted manner. ‘Well, not in the same way, perhaps—the two cases are somewhat different. The first is a matter of honour—no, that’s not what I mean. They are both matters of honour, of course but—damn, it, woman! How can you expect me to think straight when you look at me in such a way?’
Then, powerless to prevent himself, he let out a deep groan and, reaching forward, pulled her into his arms, slanting his lips across hers. Caught off guard, Sophie melted into his embrace, moulding her curves into the hard contours of his supreme maleness. Her arms twined tightly around his neck, while every nerve in her body responded to the urgent demands of his lips.
Lost in the wonder of the moment, she felt her senses swim, and nothing else in the world seemed to matter but the wondrously exciting feel of Helstone’s arms surrounding her and the hot, insistent pressure of his lips on hers.
‘Come away with me, Sophie.’ He gasped, pulling away from her just long enough to drag in a lungful of air. ‘Come away now. I don’t think I can stand another night without you.’
Like a dash of icy water down her spine, the sudden shock of his words shattered Sophie’s trancelike state, leaving her stunned and shaken. Uttering a faint moan of distress, she tore herself away from the still heavily panting Viscount and clutched at the stone bulwarks of the terrace in an effort to support her quivering limbs.
‘No more, please,’ she whimpered. ‘Must I beg you to leave me alone?’
‘Sophie—sweetheart!’
Marcus, still struggling to master his unsated ardour, took an uncertain step towards her and held out his hand. ‘You cannot think that I mean to hurt you, surely?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You must know that I would sooner cut off my right hand than—’
Trembling with a mixture of rage and some other unidentifiable emotion that she refused to acknowledge, Sophie clapped both hands against her ears, determined not to listen to Helstone’s hollow blandishments.
Incensed, the Viscount whipped out his hand and grabbed at her wrist, wresting her fingers away from her head and pulling her towards him. ‘Now you’re being foolish,’ he growled into her ear. ‘Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t enjoy kissing me, when I know damn well that you do—you couldn’t respond in that way if you didn’t feel as I do.’
Wrenching herself out of his grip, Sophie stepped back and pointed an accusing finger at him.
‘You have shown yourself to be the very worst kind of cad, sir. I have rejected your offer on more than one occasion, yet still you persist in pursuing me. How many more times must I tell you that I do not desire your attentions? Please remove yourself and take your worthless promises with you. You are without morals—no better than that odious little reptile Crayford—and I swear I would rather starve on the streets than submit to your improper suggestions.’
His face paling visibly, Marcus stepped away from her, his dark eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion and his mouth curving in a mocking smile.
‘That wish may be granted sooner than you think, if I know anything of your employer’s tactics,’ he ground out abruptly, before turning on his heel and thrusting his way through the terrace doors that led into the crowded reception room. Then, ignoring the concerted cries of protest from the closely packed melee, his lips compressed in fury, he proceeded to elbow his way through their ranks before taking the stairs down to the hallway three at a time where, ignoring the waiting butler, he flung open the front door himself and stormed angrily out of the house.
Eventually locating his own carriage some hundred or so yards down the waiting line, he ejected both driver and groom with a curt dismissal and, after hauling himself up onto the box, spat out, ‘Get yourselves a hackney home—I’ll take them myself.’
Hobbes, the Viscount’s driver of many years standing, having opened his mouth to protest at such cavalier treatment, took one look at his master’s pursed lips and rigid expression and immediately thought better of it.
‘He’s in a rare old pelter,’ he muttered to the groom, as Helstone inched the team out of the line until the landau was clear and then, cracking his whip at the leader, set off down the road at breakneck speed. ‘Can’t recall ever seeing him that mad before.’
Chapter Twelve
Letting out a sob of despair, Sophie sank back against the stone balustrade, her heart pounding and hot tears welling up into her eyes. How could she have allowed her temper to get the better of her in such a cruel, malicious manner? she asked herself wretchedly. Just because Helstone had failed to control his ardour, it was surely no reason for her to have reacted quite so imprudently?
Angrily dashing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, she gave a trembling sigh, well aware that the real reason behind her hurtful attack on the Viscount’s character had stemmed from the fact that he had spoken nothing but the truth—a truth that she had been fighting against ever since he had first walked into her life. A truth that brought about feelings of embarrassment, shame and anguish—hence her hysterical outburst. For, although the Viscount had been the one to bear the brunt of her resentment, she knew quite well that it was she herself with whom she was most angry—for having been so foolish as to allow herself to fall so desperately in love with a man whose dreams and aims were about as far removed from her own as it was possible to be. Yet, now that she had cast him out of her life for ever, she could not help being achingly aware that, when the tears had ceased and the heartache had finally faded away—if indeed it ever did—those sweet dreams would be all she would have left to see her through the dark and dismal days ahead.
‘A most edifying scene, I’m sure—although I have to say that I don’t care to hear myself being referred to in such a derogatory manner!’
Letting out a sharp gasp of dismay, Sophie whirled round and saw Arthur Crayford, his fleshy lips curved in a malicious smile, climbing the terrace steps towards her.
‘You were e
avesdropping!’ she cried scornfully, turning away from the advancing youth and making for the doors into the reception room. ‘How very contemptible!’
‘Not as contemptible as your kissing cousin, it would seem,’ he sneered, as he quickly stepped around in front of her, barring her way. ‘I believe you owe me an apology. Something rather similar to that which you treated his lordship would serve nicely—at least to begin with!’
‘Get away from me, you loathsome little beast!’ she hissed, backing away from him. ‘How many times must I tell you to keep your hands to yourself?’
‘As many as you like, my sweet,’ he retorted, as he shot out a hand and, grabbing at her wrist, jerked her viciously towards him. ‘The more insults you hurl in my direction, the greater the number of penalties you will pay—so I can’t really lose, can I? How about that kiss, for starters?’
A ripple of ice cold dread ran through Sophie’s veins as she tried frantically to free herself from Crayford’s clutching hands. Having dismissed calling out for assistance as a pointless exercise, given the high volume of noise emanating from the nearby reception room, she quickly realised that her only hope lay in trying to manoeuvre her attacker in the direction of the doors and praying that one or other of the guests might witness her predicament through the panes of glass and come to her aid.
Unfortunately, Crayford was already intent on forcing her into one of the darker recesses, well away from the pools of light that shone from the windows of the reception rooms out on to the terrace beyond. Her heart racing with apprehension, Sophie knew that her only option now was to feign weakness. Letting out a weak little moan, she bent her knees and allowed herself to slump forward, which sudden reversal of tactics had Crayford desperately trying to maintain his hold on her.
‘Stand up, you stupid bitch!’ he grunted, staggering backwards as he strove to pull her to her feet at the same time as trying to correct his own balance.
Quick as a flash, Sophie seized the opportunity and, ducking under his arm, twisted herself away from him and made a desperate leap for the terrace doors. At that exact same instant, the doors flew open to reveal a livid-faced Mrs Crayford, who charged on to the terrace as though all the devils in hell were in pursuit.
‘The guests are leaving in droves!’ she babbled almost incoherently, drops of her spittle flying in all directions as she prodded the startled Sophie with her furled-up fan. ‘Hawkins tells me that Helstone almost had the front door off its hinges in his fury to quit the premises, and now it seems that the rest of his friends and acquaintances cannot get away quickly enough. They are all going—every single one of them! I shall never live down the disgrace as long as I live! This has to be all your fault, girl! What can you have said to your cousin to put his lordship in such a dreadful taking?’
‘She ain’t his cousin, Ma,’ interrupted her stepson, stepping out of the shadows. ‘She just happens to be one of his current ladybirds.’
‘Ladybirds?’ Mrs Crayford recoiled in distaste, staring at him. ‘Kindly explain yourself, Arthur.’
‘I was down in the garden, enjoying a quiet blow, when I just happened to overhear their conversation,’ he replied carelessly, his eyes gleaming with spite as he cast Sophie a malicious grin. ‘Seems our little governess here is no more his lordship’s cousin than I am. One of his latest demi-reps, more like, judging by what the pair of them were up to when I chanced upon them!’
Letting out a little snigger at his stepmother’s gasp of horror, he gave a quick nod before adding, ‘Anyway, seems that little bit of business led to them arguing the toss over something that ended with our Miss Goody Two-Shoes calling his lordship all the names under the sun and him storming off in a rare old dudgeon.’
‘But that’s simply not—’ began Sophie, determined to stop the flow of Crayford’s wicked inventions.
‘You’re not going to stand there and deny that you called his lordship an immoral cad, I trust?’ he interrupted her, a challenging flash in his eyes.
‘Well, I—’ Sophie said hotly, but then, as the full gist of her angry outburst returned to her, her cheeks flooded and she stopped. ‘It’s not at all how it seems,’ she finished lamely.
‘Is Lord Helstone your cousin, or is he not?’ demanded Mrs Crayford, now quite beside herself with rage. ‘Speak up, girl!’
Biting her lip, Sophie shook her head. She had known all along that this foolish assertion of Helstone’s would lead to trouble eventually. ‘He is not,’ she replied dully. ‘He is merely one of the travellers who were caught in that snowstorm last month.’
‘And that was when the pair of you started this affaire of yours, I presume?’ Icy contempt dripped from her employer’s lips.
‘We are not engaged in an affaire!’ protested Sophie. ‘His lordship is just a-a—’ Racking her brain to find a suitable epithet to describe her relationship with Helstone, she concluded weakly. ‘He’s merely a casual acquaintance.’
‘Well, you must hope that this “casual acquaintanceship” you speak of extends to his helping you find other employment,’ snapped Mrs Crayford. ‘Between the pair of you, you have succeeded in turning me into a veritable laughing stock, and I refuse to have you in my house another moment. You will go straight to your room, pack up your belongings and take yourself out of my sight without further ado!’
‘But it’s after eleven,’ returned Sophie in bewildered stupefaction. ‘Where am I to go at this time of night?’
‘That is hardly my problem, Miss Flint,’ said her employer, with an indifferent shrug. ‘Having put paid to all my carefully thought-out plans with your outrageous lies and subterfuge—not to mention ruining Lydia’s entire future—I cannot imagine why you should think I would wish to concern myself over your welfare!’
‘Well, I trust that you intend to pay me my outstanding wages,’ retorted Sophie, somewhat defiantly. ‘I believe I am owed something in the region of five and a half weeks.’
Raising one supercilious eyebrow, Mrs Crayford raked a contemptuous glance over the passed-on gown that Sophie had so diligently altered. ‘And I believe that the value of the gown you are wearing will more than cover that amount—needless to say you will return everything else that my stepdaughter kindly volunteered on your behalf.’
Before Sophie could voice her thoughts regarding Lydia’s kindness or otherwise, Crayford junior stepped forward, anxious to have his say.
Having remained more or less silent during the whole of the foregoing proceedings, it had slowly dawned on the youth that if Sophie were to be turned out immediately all chance of bedding her would be lost to him. Whereas if he could just persuade his stepmother to allow the governess to remain until the morning there was every possibility that he might be able to creep into her bedchamber and fulfil what had been a long-held ambition of his. And wouldn’t that be one in the eye for the high and mighty Helstone? He grinned to himself. Given that the Viscount seemed to be experiencing a certain amount of difficulty persuading the little lady to part with the goods!
‘Might be better if Miss Flint left first thing in the morning, Ma,’ he interjected hastily. ‘Wouldn’t look too good with the neighbours, her leaving with all her baggage at this time of night—especially after all the guests quitting the place in such a tearing hurry. Plus there was that other unpleasant business with the constabulary on Sunday,’ he reminded her, in an effort to add extra fillip to his suggestion.
Pursing her lips, Mrs Crayford considered her stepson’s words. ‘You may well be right,’ she said, giving a reluctant nod. ‘Very well, Miss Flint. You may stay until first light—but I refuse to have you in my house a moment longer!’
Sophie’s lip curled in disgust as she registered Crayford’s expression of smug complacency, for it hadn’t required a great deal of intelligence to work out what the devious coxcomb really had in mind. While she was relieved that his intervention might, in the one sense, be regarded as something of a temporary salvation, insofar as keeping her off the streets for the next fe
w hours, it was also clear that it was going to involve her in a long and sleepless night, while she kept a tight and vigilant watch on the doorknob to her room.
Shortly before five o’clock the following morning, Sophie dragged her heavy hamper down the steps of the Crayfords’ residence and stood staring down at her pitiful little pile of belongings: one basket, two bulging valises and a couple of paper-wrapped packages—the sum total of her worth, she thought grimly.
But as to how she was going to get her possessions to the coaching station in Piccadilly she still had not the vaguest idea, even though this particular problem had been uppermost in her mind for most of the past few hours.
Just as she had anticipated, young Crayford’s attempts at invading her privacy had started almost as soon as the last servant had crept off to bed, but, having taken the precaution of pushing her chest of drawers up against the locked door, Sophie had been able to sit back and enjoy listening to the thwarted youth’s vicious imprecations as he twisted the doorknob first this way and then that, in his continual efforts to gain entry to her room. Those attempts had persisted at varying intervals through much of the night, culminating in what had been his final endeavour, and one that had caused Sophie several moments of real panic, since by this time her tormentor, almost out of his mind with a combination of rage and frustrated libido, had managed to get hold of one of the spare keys to her door. It had been due only to a last-minute brainwave on Sophie’s part that this final effort was doomed to meet with a similar fate to his previous sorties.
Realising that it would not be long before his key managed to displace her own, she had hit on the idea of jamming a pencil into the aperture, which had had the desired effect of preventing him from pushing her key out and inserting his own. After spending some ten minutes or more involved in various fruitless attempts to dislodge the obstruction, Crayford had finally given up all hope of achieving his ambition and, cursing Sophie to high heaven, hefted one last violent kick at her door before taking himself off to the library, where he’d set about doing his damnedest to drown his disappointment by way of his father’s best cognac.
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