“I did it all for you,” he added. “You were the only guest who mattered. I look forward to our next dance.”
She replied hastily, “There won’t be another.”
“Oh, but there will. And the next dance will be much more intimate.” He bowed from the waist and walked away, leaving her with two bruised feet and the horrifying realization she’d finally met someone as difficult and stubborn as she.
Chapter 13
Lazarus strolled up the lane the following morning with a large basket of eggs, full of such neighborly good intentions he forgot how very early it was. The warm air was rich with fragrance. A pollen-heavy haze had already formed, so the sky was more gold than blue, and as he strode along, admiring it, he was too preoccupied to whistle his usual merry tune. Neither did he bother with the bell at the gate since, in his experience, no one ever answered it. Instead he went directly to the cookhouse. Finding the door ajar, he pushed it fully open with his basket, looked in, and saw the place empty.
Then he heard splashing and creaking. Curious, he walked around the side of the cookhouse and saw her by the water pump, bent over a half barrel, her hair falling loose over her face like a thick curtain. He stopped, frozen mid-step, and almost dropped his eggs. She pumped the lever again with one hand, and another abrupt gush of gleaming water splattered down over her bent head.
The fool woman was outside in only her shift. What if some other man came there that morning and saw her? He suffered a sudden spur of hot anger, but his temper soon changed to something else when, having twisted and squeezed her long hair with both hands, she threw her head back. An arc of tiny prisms flew through the air to splatter the thin material of her shift, making a large patch down her back completely transparent.
He immediately looked away, but not many breaths had passed before he looked again. Now she stooped to wash her arms in the barrel, and the dampened shift clung to her hips, revealing a tempting hint of soft pink skin beneath.
His mouth was very dry, his heart thudding away as if it might, at any moment, burst out of his chest. He thought about backing away before she turned and found him watching, but his boots preferred the patch of stone upon which they stood.
You idiot! She’ll turn and see you. Then she’ll run and hide. And think you a rotten, lecherous cad. Which, indeed, you are.
He suddenly wished she would turn and see him there. He wanted to see her eyes. It was their attention for which he yearned, as much as a bird might for the first sight of snowdrops to mark the coming of spring.
Sophie washed her feet next, stepping into the half barrel and reaching down to splash water up her ankles and along her legs as far as the knee. Again, he was treated to forbidden glimpses: some merely taunting suggestions of what lay beneath that wet linen, and others so finely and clearly outlined by the clinging shift. He stopped breathing for a moment, forgetting his brain’s need of oxygen, while other parts of his body were fully and delightfully nourished.
A swallow building its nest somewhere under the eaves of the cookhouse roof swooped low over his head, chirping irritably. He ducked but stayed, too mesmerized to leave yet.
She turned slightly and unknowingly treated him to further delights, for the front of her shift was also wet. The thin material clung to her breasts like a second layer of skin, following the full swell of their shape and revealing the darker circles at their peaks. As he stared, a drop of water fell like a tear to her left breast and dribbled slowly down over the lush curve. He felt that heavy heat in his groin, the excitement of the hunt, the anticipation of imminent capture. She was too assailable.
The swallow, a fierce sentinel, dived down again, narrowly missing his head, and Lazarus finally retreated. His pulse raced, pumping blood hard through his body.
***
Some time later, Sophie entered the cookhouse. She wore a dry gown and carried her wet shift. Her aunt was fast asleep by the fire. No one else was up and about yet. Lavinia was still in her chamber, fussing over her appearance and her curls, as usual, while Henry, with no business to get him up and out of bed, she supposed was still snoring heavily into his pillow.
Sophie kissed her aunt’s temple and then spread her shift before the fire to dry. As she turned her back to the hearth, she finally noticed the basket of eggs. Most of which were broken.
Wilson, the maid, came in carrying a milk pail. “The stranger brought eggs, Miss Sophie. He left them for you. Seemed in a hurry.”
She flicked her damp hair back over her shoulders and stared at the basket of eggs, wondering how long he’d been there to make his delivery and why she didn’t hear him come. She was very warm inside suddenly and feared she might have caught a fever.
***
“Eggs, indeed! As if we need his charity,” Henry muttered at breakfast later that morning. “Take them back to the blackguard, Wilson. Or better yet, send them with the steward. It wouldn’t do to put you, a young maid, in his way. Mark my words, the fellow is trouble. Look how he cavorted about last night with one girl after another. No woman is safe in this village now.”
“Except Sophia,” Lavinia pointed out. “He doesn’t want her.”
Sophie bit into her toast with a loud crunch. She wanted to correct them all and shout he did, indeed, want her still. What good would it do? They would probably not believe her, and then she’d be forced to tell them how he’d kissed her…about the way he looked at her. She fidgeted in her chair, her skin warm, the heaviness of want starting in her belly again, as it did whenever she thought of his warning to her last night.
The next dance will be much more intimate.
“It seems he has designs on the Osborne girl,” Henry muttered as he opened his copy of the Racing Post. “He means to get his hands on her father’s pretty property, without a doubt, and she has no brothers or sisters to share the inheritance.”
His wife wrinkled her small, round nose. “No one would want that plain creature for any other reason but the property. Lord, with those teeth, she ought to be pulling her father’s milk cart up and down the High Street.”
Henry rustled his newspaper, turning another page as if the contents of the last had mortally offended him. “The tailor in Morecroft informed me he fashioned an entire suit of clothes for the illustrious Mr. Kane,” he grumbled. “Breeches, jacket, coat, shirt, and waistcoat. What’s more, he was paid in full for his services, although the stranger arrived there in a very poor and shabby set of patched clothes that clearly belonged to someone else. The only item of clothing he did not purchase new in Morecroft were his boots, and these he was loath to remove, even while being fitted for his new clothes. The reason?” He paused for effect, glancing up over the top of his paper. “Because, according to the tailor, his boots were stuffed full of bank notes.”
His announcement did not have the expected effect. Lavinia was busy complaining to Wilson about the crispness of her toast, and Sophie was deliberately not listening.
Aunt Finn offered jauntily, “He seems very fond of the widow Finchly and her boys. She would be a better choice for him than Jane Osborne, who is too young and desperately stupid.” She turned to her niece. “Do you not agree, Sophie?”
Having just taken another large bite of toast, Sophie made much of chewing and swallowing.
“Of course, either one of the Misses Dawkins might stand a chance,” Finn added cheerily. “They are lively creatures, although Amy Dawkins has the features of a squirrel with rather too many nuts in its cheeks, and the other one rarely has her finger out of her nose.”
But the two Misses Dawkins and the grasping Jane Osborne were not the only hopeful, unwed young ladies in Sydney Dovedale, starved of new male company, who regarded the mysteriously wealthy stranger with eager speculation. They all knew he was in want of a wife, and now that Sophie was considered out of the running, the field was wide open. Already there were signs of a battle campaign being waged. The first to benefit were the milliner and the haberdasher in Morecroft, while new gowns and trimm
ings became matters of the utmost importance. Gowland’s lotion and Steele’s Lavender Water flew off the shelves quicker than it could be stocked, and a disturbing amount of powdered rouge was suspected of lending an unaccustomed blush to even the most immodest cheek.
“Amy Dawkins is the most likely to snare him,” said Lavinia, finally forgetting her dispute over the toast. “She has her sharp claws out and won’t let her lack of fortune or property stand in her way.” She sighed heavily as she brushed crumbs from her bosom. “She’s a dreadful, common little thing, with no fashion, but he seems to be making the most of all the female attention.”
“I would rather not hear another word about his comings and goings,” Henry exclaimed snappishly. “From now on, I will not hear that man’s name mentioned in this house.”
His wife stoutly reminded him he first began the subject. “You are altogether too red in the face, Henry. I hope you are not on the verge of apoplexy. I refuse to be a young widow, for black doesn’t suit me at all.”
He disappeared again behind the Racing Post.
Wilson brought over a letter, handing it to Lavinia, who snatched it away with her buttery fingers. She was growing more discontent by the moment and now claimed to be off her food that morning, although her empty, clean-scraped plate suggested otherwise. While supposedly engrossed in her letter, she threw out little criticisms about anyone and anything.
“This bacon is much too fatty. I believe that butcher deliberately gave us the worst he had yesterday. I know his wife is jealous of my new bonnet. It is very like her own except better and more expensive, which is quite plainly apparent when one looks closely.” She reached over to spear another slice of inadequate bacon on her fork.
No one spoke.
“And now we expect my mama for dinner on market day,” she announced, waving her letter.
Sophie groaned into her coffee, “Let joy be unconfined.”
Lavinia’s mother, Mrs. Dykes, was a frequent visitor to the fortress. She was smaller than her daughter and less stooped, but extremely stiff. Sophie suspected Mrs. Dykes had a cork leg, although it was never mentioned. She feared that one evening, if she had too much wine, she might feel inclined to shoot it with a dart to be sure.
Until Henry married, it was Sophie who managed the daily housekeeping affairs and thus was able, wherever possible, to curb some of his more extravagant spending. But now Lavinia insisted she take this role, she who had even less restraint than her husband and refused to discuss “vulgar economy.” Whenever Sophie quietly tried to offer advice, Lavinia whined to Henry and to her mother that her place as mistress of the house was undermined. Mrs. Dykes, protective of her daughter’s interests, had lately suggested, in countless unsubtle ways, Sophie ought to be sent away with a respectable family as a governess or nanny.
But Sophie had no desire to leave Sydney Dovedale or her little schoolhouse. When she ventured beyond that small world, folk had a tendency to stare and point at her scar.
“We must move everything back to the Keep today, for Mama would be appalled to see how we live, crunched up together like this,” Lavinia exclaimed. “Surely the weather is fine enough now, Henry, and we might at least put a small fire in the great hall.”
From behind his newspaper, Henry agreed their living quarters could be moved back to the main building, but even this was not enough for Lavinia. She insisted also on beeswax candles for the dinner table, not the cheaper tallow.
“The last time Mama dined with us, she commented on the use of tallow candles, and I was so ashamed. Is my mama not deemed worthy of the best candles, Henry? Each time I got them out, Sophia put them back again! But if it were any other guest, the beeswax would be got out without question.”
He mumbled that she may choose whichever candles she preferred.
“I hear Mr. Kane is only five and twenty,” Aunt Finn exclaimed abruptly, causing Henry to ruffle his paper angrily. “One wonders how he came by his fortune at such a young age. He must be either very clever or very wicked. Perhaps both.” She chuckled. “Still, while some men are old before they mature”—she glanced at Henry’s newspaper—“other men mature before they’re old.”
Sophie’s mind drifted wantonly over the image of Mr. Kane as she saw him a few days ago, shearing sheep. He wore naught but those snug breeches as he bent over the protesting, squirming creatures, working with speed and efficiency. Each animal was shorn of its thick fleece before it knew what had occurred, and then it skipped off in delight, several pounds lighter.
She saw again the sweat glazing his thick shoulders under the afternoon sun, and the pronounced lines of muscle as he twisted over the sheep. She would like to run her hands over that torso, feel every mound and valley, know every inch of that terrain. He had dark hair on his chest, mostly across the upper planes then trailing away to a thin line that ran below the waist of his breeches. When he turned and stretched between shearing each sheep, she’d taken note of that vast breadth between his shoulders, and then the rapid narrowing, and lastly, the little dip in the small of his back just above his tight, round buttocks.
The next dance will be much more intimate.
Disgusted, she dropped another crust to her plate.
Only five and twenty! She’d guessed he was young, but it was still a shock to hear his age confirmed aloud. A mere boy, for heaven’s sake! No wonder he was so carefree when it came to the rules.
The devilish Mr. Kane was too young for her; yet he was also, oddly enough, many years too late.
Chapter 14
On market day, Lazarus was obliged to escort Miss Jane Osborne to the village square. How he came to invite the lady for a ride in his cart he couldn’t remember, but it had something to do with a conversation they had at his party.
She was already waiting at the grass verge as his cart rattled down the lane at speed. The bonnet she wore was yellow straw with bulbous swirls of red-and-white striped ribbon. Although such things were still largely a mystery to Lazarus, he knew ladies took their bonnets and trimmings very seriously, so he was sure to compliment her on it as he drew his horses to a sharp halt. The lady looked up at him and beamed, stretching her lips over those enormous teeth. He was late, but now, since he’d complimented her hat, he was forgiven.
He knew enough about ladies to know…
Struck with an idea, Lazarus prodded Tuck with one elbow. “Get in the back and make room for Miss Osborne beside me.”
“Why can’t she ride in the back?” Tuck protested grumpily.
“Because she’s a lady, ain’t she?”
Tuck huffed and puffed and muttered under his breath, but he crawled into the back of the cart. Jane Osborne eagerly accepted the hand Lazarus held down to her.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Kane,” she giggled frothily.
And then they were off again, Tuck complaining loudly from the back of the cart. Lazarus slowed the horses to a prim trot and eyed the short, angular woman at his side. After a few minutes of struggle, he found something else to compliment. “Miss Osborne, that gown is a very becoming color on you.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Kane,” she neighed excitedly, causing the horses’ ears to twitch.
Behind them, Tuck grumbled and spat and glared at the woman who had taken his seat. She tittered, and her left hip shifted closer to Lazarus as they traveled over another bump.
“Best hang on to me, Miss Osborne,” he told her. “I shouldn’t like to lose you under the wheels.”
Tuck muttered, “Cart would come out worse for it.”
***
There was so much noise in the market square he could barely hear himself talk, but Miss Osborne still laughed loudly at everything he said, even things that were neither funny nor meant to be. Her laughter held its own against the bleating of goats and sheep as they rounded the animal pens. With her hanging on his arm, his considerable strength began to wane before they completed a full promenade of the square. But he soldiered on, his eyes scanning the crowd for the sight of a c
ertain small, prim face.
“Mr. Kane, I should like to have my fortune told.”
He let Miss Osborne lead him off to the gypsy fortune-teller’s striped tent.
“You’d best not come in with me, Mr. Kane,” she giggled. “It would not do for you to know all my secrets, would it? Not just yet!”
When he smiled, it actually felt painful. She disappeared through the tent flap, and he looked around, searching.
Aha! There they were.
It was the same gown she wore to church, a light primrose color sprigged with a pattern of tiny flowers, over which she wore a pale blue spencer today, instead of her longer coat. Rather than wear her simple bonnet, she carried it by the ribbons, swinging it at her side as she strolled along behind her brother.
Just as his eyes found her, she was joined by her sister, the rector’s wife. The two women walked side by side, and he saw Mrs. Bentley’s mouth moving rapidly, as usual, while Sophie said nothing. She swung her bonnet idly as her warm hazel eyes searched the stalls for anything of interest. The two women stopped to peruse a selection of jams and pickles just a few feet from where he stood, but Henry, turning irritably to see where his sister had gone, caught sight of the enemy watching. He clasped his sister’s arm, and the officious coxcomb pulled her away into the crowd.
Lazarus realized his jaw hurt, and he raised his hand to it, rubbing it slowly to ease the tension.
“Mr. Kane! We wanted to thank you for the splendid party.” The Dawkins sisters sprang up out of the ground like weeds to stand before him and demand his attention. With one sister on either side, he was immediately penned in. “We so seldom enjoy an evening of dancing here in the village, Mr. Kane. Sydney Dovedale is rather a dull place, you know, for Mr. Valentine frowns on parties. He says they foster drunkenness and lewd behavior, so it is usually discouraged. Of course, there are dances at the Morecroft assembly rooms every month, but they’re hardly worth going to, since one always sees the same people. Do you plan to attend the assembly rooms, Mr. Kane?”
Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Page 10
