Shocked, she muttered his name in a curious, high-pitched, breathless voice.
He bent his head and pressed his lips to the rounded swell of her breast above her corset. She felt his tongue move wetly over the curve of flesh, and her nipple was instantly roused. It tightened under the layers of clothing, wanting his lips. She gasped and knitted her fingers through his sun-warmed hair. And then his mouth wandered a little lower, gently kissing the front of her gown, as if to pacify that frantic nipple in any way he could. Had there been no corset, no chemise, and no gown in his way…
Her legs weakened at the mere thought of skin-to-skin touching. With him.
“Forgive me,” he said gruffly. “I’ll never be so presumptuous again. At least, until we have an agreement about those lessons.”
She said nothing. If he tried stealing another kiss—or something more than that from her—she just might give it. Her inner hussy was all hot and heavy. Any moment now, she could sink to her knees on the grass and be quite unable to find her feet again. Her back arched slightly with his big hand spread across her spine. She wanted to press her aching nipple toward his lips, but that would be wicked, asking for trouble.
He straightened, and his breath brushed her cheek. “The next time, it’ll be your kiss, and there’ll be no debate about who took and who gave.”
She slid away, put up her chin to regain a little dignity, and straightened her frock. She stepped over the stile and tried to act as if this were a day like any other, as if she couldn’t still feel the pressure of his fingertips on her flesh. He’d probably left her bruised.
“I see your ankles, Miss Valentine!” he reprimanded her, teasingly stern.
“Then don’t look, Mr. Kane!” She felt extremely wanton now, after that kiss and his wicked caress. Most inappropriately giddy.
“You do have a very pretty pair of ankles,” he remarked as he watched her skip down the other side. “I suppose you know that, since you flaunt them deliberately.” His crooked smile somehow succeeded in being very warm and eager while still bearing a shadow of uncertainty—as if he were ready to duck away, fearing she might slap his face. What a strange mix of rough and gentle he was. He reminded her of a sweet-natured young dog emerging from puppyhood into a boisterous growing stage, and suddenly finding his paws and limbs much larger as he crashed about in excitement after a butterfly.
“Mr. Kane, you’re too familiar.”
“Miss Valentine, I haven’t even begun.”
She was tempted to laugh, but she managed a curt, “I shall expect you for a lesson tomorrow after the school day.”
“And when shall I hear an answer from you? About these lessons I’m willing to give you in return?”
“When my brain has made an informed decision.”
“Women have brains?”
She pursed her lips.
“Can it be true?” he asked again, blinking as rapidly as she had when he’d told her he did his own laundry.
“Oh yes, Mr. Kane. And, unlike young men, our brains are not led by any other part of the body.” She curtseyed. “Good day, Mr. Kane.”
Unfortunately, as her thoughts were in a pickle, she forgot her apron and remembered it too late to go back.
Her mind was spinning. What did she want now? A man she knew well, a man who curbed her naughty side and with whom a secure future was certain. Or a cocky young stranger who curled every hair on her head just by looking at her, and who kissed her without permission, in broad daylight on wash day, when her appearance must be a complete and utter mess. A man who tempted bad Sophie to come out and play. One was a gentleman who wanted a well-behaved wife. The other, apparently, was a lusty young bull who simply wanted her however he might get her and was shameless about both his methods and his motives.
How strange it was that suddenly she—a scarred spinster of almost thirty—had two men vying for her attentions. Perhaps, she mused, that advertisement was not so idiotic after all. She wondered idly if any other men would come in answer to it. Then she laughed at the idea, for truly she didn’t think she could cope with yet another offer. It was all quite absurd.
Chapter 18
He came for his first lesson the following day and stood with unusual meekness in her doorway, head bowed, hands behind his back. It was half an hour since the last child had left, and she was sweeping up when his shadow fell across the wedge of afternoon sun at her feet.
“Am I too early?” he said.
No, you’re ten years too late, my dark warrior. But she set down her broom and bade him come in, very politely, very businesslike. After that, he always said the same thing when he arrived, “Am I early?” Even when he was late and she knew he must have known it.
On his first afternoon’s lesson, she sat him by the window, put a book into his hands, and told him to read aloud what he could for her, so she might gauge the level of his education.
“Street level,” he replied with a charming smile. “That’s where I was educated.”
He was always very careful to arrive at the schoolhouse while no one else was walking by in the narrow, grassy horse path, and he left in the same cautious way. Sophie thought it best his private tutoring continue in secret. She certainly didn’t want Henry finding out and using it as another excuse to try closing her school.
The secrecy apparently suited Lazarus. He confessed he didn’t like people knowing he’d had no formal education. For the first few lessons he applied himself diligently to the exercises she gave him. It did not take much, however, for his attention to wander. Even the sight of a centipede crawling on the window ledge would give him an excuse to set his slate aside and disrupt the lesson.
She tried to encourage an interest in books by reading aloud at the end of each lesson a chapter from Tom Jones, a novel she thought he would enjoy for its saucy humor. She sat beside him as she read, so he could follow the words on the page with his finger. Occasionally that finger would stray upward to stroke a curl away from her cheek or to straighten a crease on her sleeve. She did her best to ignore it.
“When do we get to the good part?” he said one day.
“Are you not enjoying the story, Mr. Kane?”
“Yes, but when does Tom get his Sophie?”
“Eventually. You’ll see.”
He sighed, taking the book from her and turning it over in his sun-browned hands. “But he must have all these trials and troubles first.”
“Of course. Our struggles help build character.”
He threw her a dark look. “I’m sure I could have done without my struggles.”
There wasn’t much she could say to that. From what he’d told her of his life, she knew it had not been an easy one. But she often sensed there was more he had yet to confess. She didn’t want to pry for fear of chasing him away just when they were becoming friends.
“I think I deserve my Sophie now.” His lips, formerly solemn, parted in a wily grin.
She rolled her eyes.
“After all I’ve been through,” he continued, “it’s time I had my reward. ’Tis only fair I have a little happiness in my poor, sorry life. And you need some in yours. I knew that the first time I laid eyes on you.”
Her heartbeat slowed, thickened. Somewhere outside, a dove cooed lazily. The sun drifted down below the treetops and broke into millions of dusty specks that danced through the window.
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the tip of each one, so gently she thought her heart would stop completely.
“I knew you were mine even then. But it took me a long time to find you again.”
“You had only to walk up the lane,” she replied crisply, and thought of that sunny morning in May when he caught her reading her scandalous book in the chestnut tree.
He laughed and looked down at her hand. “Oh, I had farther to come than that. My adventures would fill a book twice as long as poor Tom Jones.”
She pulled her hand away, pretending she needed it to tidy her hair. Letting him hold her hand
for too long made her wicked urges excessively feisty. She was supposed to be reformed these days and a good deal wiser. She was respectable now, prudent and demure at all times. At least she could put on a good façade as long as she kept Lazarus and her growing feelings for him hidden away, like the way she kept that naughty reading material tucked out of sight within the pages of more suitable books.
His empty hand dropped to her knee and rested there. It was heavy and warm. She should have told him to move it. Instead, she said, “We haven’t finished the chapter.” He can never concentrate on one thing for long, she mused.
His fingers spread, moving upward, rubbing her thigh gently through her gown and petticoat. “Are you wearing your French lace drawers again today, Miss Valentine?” he whispered.
“No.”
His lips turned down slightly at the corners. “Pity. I’d like to see them again. Study them more closely.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know next time I wear them.” She meant to be sarcastic, but his mouth quickly turned up again into a grin, and she knew he’d taken it seriously.
“I think that’s the end of today’s lesson.” She stood and cleared her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Kane.”
He watched her a moment through narrowed eyes, and then he, too, stood. “Until tomorrow, Miss Valentine.”
She bit her lip and nodded. Until tomorrow. So many hours away.
He was very close, the hot male scent of him surely rubbing off on her gown. His hand stroked up her left arm almost casually and briefly rested on her shoulder before sliding down her spine. He kissed her cheek softly and then turned away.
She suddenly wanted to call him back and put her arms around him. But he was walking toward the door, his broad shoulders framed by the dying sun. She blinked, and then he was gone. She felt oddly adrift now he was not there at her side. There was a hollow ache in her belly, and she could not catch her breath.
His lessons, she realized then, had become the brightest part of her day. His company amused her, entertained her, even when he was badly behaved. Especially then. She could never let him know that, or it would go directly to his big head. It would encourage him when she should be doing the opposite. She didn’t want any further scandal, did she? He was a young, charming stranger, never still, never idle, but also probably never long fixed on one idea or one fancy.
As she’d said to him, she’d met his type many times before in her youth. He was too busy enjoying life, too young to settle. Even if he thought today—this hour—he wanted her, tomorrow he could change his mind, and then where would she be?
Only minutes after Lazarus had left, she heard the familiar sound of her brother’s cane swishing at the long grass, his boots squeaking, his heavy breaths puffing along. By some miracle, he’d just missed Lazarus.
“Henry! What—?”
“I decided to come and see for myself what you do here so late.”
She glanced up at the sky as she came out through the low door, closing it behind her. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” This was true. Each day, her secret pupil kept her a little later, which wouldn’t do at all. It was unusual, however, for Henry to put himself out by walking to find her. He must want her for some very important reason.
And almost at once, she learned what it was. “James Hartley tells me he means to pay court to you again.”
She let the iron latch fall with a clatter. “Yes.”
“And you’ve agreed to consider a marriage proposal.”
Turning, she walked back along the horse path, and Henry followed. Usually her brother had a brisk stride, but today he was easily out of wind, and she had to slow her pace for him. “Hmm.”
“Good.”
Surprised, she looked at him. “You hate James Hartley.”
“Hate is a very strong word, Sophia. James and I had our differences, ’tis true. But may I remind you, Sister, you’re soon to be thirty, and no other man is coming to Sydney Dovedale to marry you.”
“No, you need not remind me, but you just did. Thank you.”
“What I’m trying to say, Sophia”—he stopped her, one heavy hand on her arm—“is you must consider this proposal very seriously. It could be your last chance. Marry Hartley and become a respectable wife at last.”
Sophie was relieved. Clearly he came to find her there so they might talk out of Lavinia’s nosy earshot—not because he suspected her of anything untoward.
They walked on. “Did James ask you to talk to me?” she said softly.
Henry denied it, but she would not be at all surprised. She couldn’t be trusted to make her own wise choice, could she? Needed a man to set her straight.
With a gusty sigh, she looked up as the slow-burning sun exhaled the last of the daylight and began to sink, like a fire ship on the horizon. “I suppose my only other choice is to go away as a governess for the Sadlers.” She was joking, of course.
Henry rumbled along behind her, beating at the grass with his cane. “You are exceedingly fortunate, Sophia, that so many folk are willing to help you out of your situation.”
Her “situation” being that of an unmarried woman, almost thirty, scarred, truculent, and burdened by past scandal.
“I sincerely hope you’re not nursing any ideas about Lazarus Kane,” he added suddenly.
She laughed, high and silly. “Why ever would I?”
“He has not spoken to you?”
“About what? You told me he doesn’t want to marry me.” She shot him a sideways glance. “Why would he try to engage me in conversation?”
“Just make sure he doesn’t,” Henry snapped. His face reddened, and he mopped his sweaty brow on a linen handkerchief. “As you say, that villain has no reason to approach you or converse with you on any matter. I hope, should he try, you will immediately inform me. If you’re on the verge of an engagement to Hartley, we can’t have another scandal to upset his grandmother.”
Sophie watched his waistcoat buttons straining, his swollen fingers dabbing frantically at that broad, glistening brow. She was tempted to laugh, but she felt sorry for her beleaguered brother, so she linked her arm in his and helped him along the lane.
Chapter 19
Lazarus moved slowly through the crowd, enjoying the bustle and smell. When he thought of all those rich pockets crammed together, unsuspecting and untended, he was reminded of his misspent youth. But he was a new man now, there to find livestock, not to use his light-fingered skills. Tuck had already picked out a fine-looking ram to add new blood to the flock and was now perusing a complacent line of cows. The old man had lost some of his inherent doom and gloom today, because he was in his element here at the sale, moving among his “kind,” with nary a dainty female in sight. His eyes gleamed like the sun through a damp, early morning fog, and he temporarily forgot his limping shuffle. Instead, he swayed along with relative ease on his bowed legs, hands in his pockets, the ever-present, dusty cap pushed back from his forehead.
He passed a long row of farm horses and came to a dappled grey standing apart and alone in the corner, gently cropping away at the grass. He stopped, and the animal raised its graceful neck to drop a curious muzzle over the top slat of the fence. Its solemn brown eyes blinked soulfully.
“That’s a riding mount,” Tuck muttered depreciatingly, coming up behind him, “for a lady. Won’t do ye no good.”
Lazarus petted its long muzzle and watched its ears prick up. “She might like a horse to ride. You told me she was a good horsewoman.”
The old man shook his head and propped his cap even farther back with one broad thumb. “That were a long time ago. Ain’t seen her on a horse in years.” They both knew of whom they spoke, just as they both knew any caution of Tuck’s would be treated with polite impatience then disregarded in as warm a manner as any well-meant advice was ever ignored.
Lazarus leapt over the fence and examined the horse, lifting its feet, running his hands down the tendons. The horse was a sturdy animal, but it had a beautifully arched n
eck and a certain refinement in the way it held itself. He knew good blood when he saw it.
“I thought we came ’ere for the farm beasts,” Tuck mumbled to no one in particular, arms resting on the fence. “That one won’t earn its keep, will it?”
Lazarus straightened up, one hand resting on the grey’s firm rump, the other stroking its neck. He could already picture Sophie on its back, riding around his paddock as he watched and admired.
A loud cry suddenly echoed around the field, causing everyone to turn and cease their conversations. A very large fellow elbowed his way through the crowd. His big, bald head shined in the sun’s rays like a lighthouse beacon.
“Russ! Is it you? After all this time!” He had a round, ruddy face with a bulbous nose. His head and neck were as one, a thick column shooting up out of his dirty collar like a large thumb from the hole in a glove. The two hands he raised over the fence toward Lazarus were almost the same size as the head they moved to embrace, and they clutched the younger man’s ears with clumsy fondness. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your old friend?”
“Chivers! What are you doing here?”
“I should say the same to you, eh? This is a long way from where I last saw you.”
“’Tis good to see you, old friend. Come back with me.”
The giant declared he didn’t want to get in the way and was only passing through, but Lazarus insisted. “It’ll be a pleasant change to have one of my own about the place.”
Chivers looked over at the dappled grey and wanted to know whom it was for.
“My wife, Chivers. My trouble and strife as we’d say back home in the rookeries.” He grinned. “Not that she’s agreed to it yet.”
***
Chivers filled the farmhouse kitchen with his great bulk. His presence overflowed the crooked walls, and his roaring laughter was surely heard for half a mile down the lane that evening. Tuck had gone up to bed, and the two old friends shared a bottle of brandy that rested now three-quarters empty on the table between them. It was six years since they’d last met. They’d fought together in the army and become close as brothers. Now, as Lazarus considered that broad, scant-toothed smile, he realized how much he’d missed the friendship. There was no need to pretend for Chivers. He would see through the sham, in any case. He was a solid, trustworthy, unchanging fellow, and he either liked you or he didn’t. If the latter, you were very unlucky; if the former, you had a faithful friend for life.
Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Page 14
