Beyond bafflement now, she opened her mouth to again ask him why. Why he’d granted her mercy in the matter of Miss Mayhew? Why he had taken her part when presenting her case to his mother? Most importantly, why he’d delivered her from her drudgery? None of his actions made a whit of sense. Not when his sole reason for keeping her at Hawksbury was to shame and humble her.
Before she could form the words, however, he began to stretch. The unconscious grace of his motions drew her attention to his body, which in turn diverted her mind from her questions to his apparel. To say that she liked the way he looked in his work clothes would be a sweeping understatement.
Exercising the discretion she’d failed to practice on the statue, Sophie made a show of securing her bonnet, all the while admiring his appearance.
Magnificent. That was the word for him. She must have been all about in the head to have ever thought him otherwise. True, he was taller than most men she knew. And yes, more muscular. But rather than detract from his appeal, his size served only to make him all the more alluring … all the more earthy and masculine … especially dressed as he was.
A tingle of excitement rippled through her as she covertly studied his apparel. Though he wore the clothing of a common laborer: a rough shirt of indeterminate color, coarse yet snug brown breeches, thick black stockings and muddy clogs, there was nothing the least bit common about his appearance. Indeed, he looked every bit as lordly now as he did standing amid the crush of the ton bedecked in formal finery.
Only there was much more of his lordliness displayed by his current attire, and she was definitely enjoying the superior view. Why, she’d never even seen him without his coat or waistcoat, much less stripped of both with his shirt open and his chest exposed.
The sight of his chest, so tan and sculpted to a perfection that put the statue to shame, made her shiver despite the fact that she felt warm enough to wilt.
“Sophie?”
“H-m-m?” She more purred than uttered the response.
“I asked if you would like me to assist you with the strawberries?”
“Strawberries?” she echoed absently, wondering how his chest hair would feel should she rub her cheek against it. Would it tickle her with its crispness? Or caress her with its silkiness? She had just decided that it would most probably tickle, when he reached out and laid his hand against her cheek. Without thinking, she nuzzled against it, closing her eyes in her contentment.
“Sophie?”
“M-m-m?”
“You’re not about to faint are you?”
“Um … hm-m what?” Oh, but she liked the feel of his hand, so big and strong and lightly callused.
“I asked if you felt faint from the sun?”
“Uh … no. Why?”
“Because your face is flushed, and you’re breathing rather hard.” His hand moved from her cheek to her forehead. “You feel a bit warm, too.”
Flushed? Warm? Whatever was he going on about? It wasn’t until she opened her eyes and saw his frown that her senses returned and she understood.
Talk about feeling warm! Her face felt on fire when she realized what she’d done. Why… why, she’d behaved like a lovelorn dollymop the way she’d cooed and sighed, and practically thrown herself at him. Oh! Oh! What he must think of her!
What Nicholas thought was that he had to get her out of the sun and fast, a thought that firmed to resolution as her color deepened to an even more alarming shade of crimson. Feeling helpless, as he always did when faced with female frailty, he looked around for help.
Of course there was no one near. There never was when he worked in the garden. It was an unspoken rule, one passed down through the generations of Hawksbury gardeners: never disturb a Somerville while he communed with nature. Apparently a few of his ancestors had taken violent exception to being interrupted.
Frantic now, he glanced at the manor, mentally gauging the distance. Then he looked back at Sophie’s face, which, if such a thing were possible, was even redder, and calculated her chances of reaching it before swooning.
Were she a racehorse, he’d have given her twenty to one odds … a risky gamble by any standards, and not one he was willing to take. Not in this instance. If she fainted before reaching the house, he’d have to carry her the remainder of the way. Well, unless she turned purple and stopped breathing, then he’d be forced to tend to her where she dropped.
Just the thought of opening her gown and loosening her stays was enough to make him grab her arm and pull her toward the nearest source of shade: the forcing houses. Oh, it wasn’t that he found the prospect of undressing her unpleasant, quite the contrary. The notion of holding the luscious Miss Barrington in his arms and discovering if what lay beneath all that muslin was as fine as he suspected —
Stop it! Stop mooning this instant, you fool! he chided himself. Just because the chit is being agreeable doesn’t mean that things have changed. She’s still the same traitorous baggage who betrayed you in London. If you’re wise, you’ll view her improvement with caution and question the motive for her sudden congeniality.
Problem was, he’d never been wise when it came to Miss Barrington. It now appeared that he never would be. For while he truly longed to despise her, and heaven only knew she deserved his contempt, he found it impossible to hate her when she behaved as she did now. Indeed, so disarmed was he by her flustered charm and stammering humility, that he felt powerfully compelled to forgive her her every transgression …
Which was exactly how he’d felt on Sunday when she’d chased after the Mayhews and confessed her guilt in the gown disaster. She’d been so contrite, so genuinely concerned for Miss Mayhew that he’d been moved to take her part when his father reported the catastrophe to his mother. It was during that same lapse in his wrath that he’d pointed out her ineptitude for household chores and had suggested that she be given work more suited to her talents. Hence, she now assisted Miss Stewart.
“My lord! Please! I can’t run anymore. I — huff! gasp! — have a stitch in my side.”
Nicholas stopped, frowning, as she yanked her arm from his grip and clutched at her side. “What?”
“I said I can’t run anymore,” she puffed out.
Run? He blinked several times, trying to orientate himself to his surroundings. When he did, he saw that they stood but a few yards from the forcing house stairs. Good Lord! They must have indeed been running, and exceeding fast at that, to have covered so much ground in such a brief time. Why, in her current weakened condition, it was nothing short of a miracle that Sophie hadn’t toppled into a swoon two grottos and a knot garden ago.
The knowledge that he, a man who prided himself on his gallantry, had forced an ailing woman to dash, made Nicholas feel like the world’s worst cad. Deeply shamed by his thoughtlessness, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you run. Truly, I didn’t. I forgot myself in my rush to get you out of the sun.”
She continued to massage her side, eyeing him as if he’d lost his mind. “But why? Whatever made you so eager to get me out of the sun? I said I felt fine.”
“Yes, but you didn’t look fine,” he pointed out, skeptically. “Indeed, I can’t recall ever seeing you breathe so hard or turn such a distressing shade of red.”
“Oh. That.” The hue in question flooded her face again. “I — I’m sorry I alarmed you. I was flushed and a bit agitated in my — uh — eagerness to fetch her ladyship her strawberries. It’s almost teatime, you know, and I didn’t want her to suffer the disappointment of having her tray arrive without them.”
The logic of her explanation — not to mention the delightful earnestness with which it was uttered — instantly dissolved the last of his reservations.
“I truly am sorry for alarming you,” she repeated, gazing at him solemnly.
He smiled down at her upturned face. “I’ll tell you what, Sophie. You forgive me for making you run, and I shall forgive you for alarming me.”
She returned his gaze gravely for several
beats, as if considering his proposal. Then she laughed, a lilting, mirthful sound that was quite unlike the forced giggle with which she’d responded to his humor in the past. “All right, my lord. Done. But only if you direct me to the Francesca’s Delight strawberries.”
He chuckled and sketched a bow, suddenly feeling more lighthearted than he’d felt in many a year. “Your servant, madam,” he murmured, presenting his arm with a courtly flourish.
She took it, grinning like an imp. “Speaking of servants, my lord, there is one more condition to winning my forgiveness.”
“Which is?” he quizzed, more enchanted by her grin than by all her tonnishly correct simpers combined.
“You must promise not to think the worst of me for shouting at you earlier. It is the way of the servants to shout at one another to draw each other’s attention. Since I am now a servant and I mistook you for a gardener, well — “
“There is no need to apologize or to explain,” he interjected, surprised and yes, touched, that she cared for his opinion of her. “I’m perfectly aware of the servants penchant for shouting.”
“You are?” She couldn’t have looked more astonished if he’d ordered her boiled in oil for her infraction.
He nodded as he escorted her up the stone stairs to the main forcing house entrance. “Of course I am. I would have to be deaf not to be. Why, I heard Fancy shouting for Edith to help her turn my mattress this very morning, and I was at the opposite end of the hall at the time.”
Sophie sighed, as if greatly pained. “I told Fancy not to shout like that, not if she’s serious about becoming a lady’s maid. She promised to watch her tongue.”
“I take it that you and Fancy are on better terms these days?” he inquired, ushering her through the tall glass-paned door.
“Much better, thanks to you.” She paused to smile her gratitude, a smile so breathtakingly lovely that his heart danced an odd little jig in response. “Fancy and I had a long talk Sunday night, and do you know what?” “No, what?”
“We found that we rather like each other. She seems truly sincere in her desire to become a lady’s maid, and has asked my help in refining her person. She wishes to be polished enough to take Miss Stewart’s place when she finally marries John. Of course I promised to help her, though I must admit that it’s proved a challenge thus far. She can’t read a word and, well, you’ve heard the way she speaks. I must constantly remind her not to drop her g’s or say the word bloody.”
Nicholas couldn’t help chuckling at her comical expression of distaste as she uttered the word bloody. “If I remember correctly, there are several good reading and grammar primers in the schoolroom. You have my permission to use them or anything else you find there that might aid you in your endeavors,” he said, leading her from the exotically tiled palm court, which served as an entry hall for the forcing pavilions, and into the first of the seven adjoining buildings.
“Why … thank you,” she sputtered, looking genuinely surprised by his offer. “Having the proper books shall make my task ever so much easier. The only ones we have in the servants hall are a dreadful novel called Pamela, and the Bible, neither of which — oh!” She stopped short, gaping at her surroundings in awe.
Nicholas followed her gaze with his own, his chest swelling with pride, as it always did when he viewed Hawksbury’s impressive collection of rare trees and plants.
To his right loomed a row of prized banana trees, to his left a dense stand of fig trees. Both sides boasted tracts of pineapples, trellises of passion fruit vines, and colorful expanses of tropical flowers. Before him, stretching on as far as the eye could see, was hothouse after magnificent hothouse, each sheltering fruit, vegetables, and flowers beneath their curving glass ceilings.
“Oh — oh!” she softly exclaimed. “I’m in paradise.”
“I take it you approve?” he said, pleased by her enthrallment.
“I more than approve, I — ” She shook her head, clearly at a loss for words.
“I love it, too. I always have. My father used to bring me here when I was a babe and let me play among the foliage. Indeed, one of my mother’s favorite tales involves me crawling off and getting lost among the man-gosteen trees in the East Indian Pavilion.”
“Well, I can’t say that I blame you. I wouldn’t mind being lost in here myself,” she murmured, cranking her head first this way, then that, as if trying to take in all the wonders at once.
Nicholas chuckled. “I spend so much time out here when I visit, that my mother has accused me of trying to do so again. Indeed, this is the first place John looks every time she sends him to find me.”
“I’ll remember that if she ever sends me instead.” She almost sighed the words as she closed her eyes and tipped back her head, deeply inhaling the air. “Oh, but it smells glorious in here.”
So beautiful, so very artless and dreamily content did she look in that pose, that he was struck speechless by the picture she made. He was also struck by a powerful urge to kiss her. Tempted beyond reason, he inched his face nearer to hers, his gaze hungrily riveted to her mouth.
Oh, how he longed to claim those lips with his, to sweep her into his embrace and show her the untamed passion that raged beneath his civilized facade. He yearned to plunder the warm honeyed depths of her mouth with his tongue, and hear her moan of surrender as she melted against him. He —
“My lord?” called a masculine voice.
His head snapped up, his forehead narrowly missed colliding with Sophie’s as she, too, came to attention. In the next instant his senses returned, and he realized what he’d almost done. To say that he was mortified didn’t begin to describe the depth of his shame. That he’d almost stolen a kiss from a woman he knew found him physically repulsive, well — he shuddered to think of how she might have reacted had he succeeded.
Cursing himself for his lapse and praying that Sophie hadn’t noticed it, Nicholas turned toward the advancing footman. “Yes? What is it, John?”
John sketched an elegant bow. “It’s the Duchess of Windford and her daughter, Lady Helene, my lord. They have arrived.”
“They have?” He frowned, trying to pull his mind from his near embarrassment to the business at hand. “I thought they were to arrive tomorrow?”
John nodded. “So did the rest of the household, my lord. It seems, however, that the marchioness mistakenly wrote the seventeenth instead of the eighteenth when she made out the invitation.” He shrugged. “And, well, today is the seventeenth.”
Though Nicholas was tempted to curse aloud, he bridled the urge and replied, “Tell my mother that I shall be along shortly.”
“Very good, my lord.” Another bow and the footman was gone.”
The next few moments passed in silence as Nicholas grappled for something to say. Exactly what one said to a woman from whom he had almost stolen a kiss, he didn’t know. He’d never been in such a position before. Utterly at a loss, he looked everywhere but at Sophie, and rather inanely muttered, “Well, I suppose I should prepare myself to meet Lady Helene.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Damn it. He had to say something more. He couldn’t just walk off and leave her standing there like that. Even if she hadn’t noticed his amorous advance, he had to say something to bring closure to the episode … if not for her sake, then for his own.
Closure? H-m-m. Yes. Remembering their errand, he said, “You’ll find the strawberries you seek in the third pavilion. Wait there, and I shall send a gardener to assist you.” Oh, bloody hell! He hadn’t meant that last to come out like an order.
“Thank you, my lord. I shall do that.”
He lingered a moment more, wondering how to proceed. Then he decided it best to retreat before he did or said anything else stupid. Thus he nodded and turned on his heels. As he did so, he couldn’t resist stealing a final peek at Sophie.
She caught him and smiled. So soft, so genuinely sweet and full of fondness was that smile, that he suddenly felt like the most desirable man
in England. That smile won his forgiveness …
And his heart.
Chapter 16
“And then Lady Helene say — “
“Said,” Sophie corrected, looking up from the lace she was repairing on the marchioness’s night rail.
“Said. Lady Helene said.” Fancy nodded her comprehension, then scrunched her face into a caricature of their guest’s supercilious expression and mimicked, “You there, girl.” She scowled and snapped her fingers at Sophie and Pansy, who sat beside her in the airy servants hall, doing their respective mending. “Look at this bedsheet. Just look at it! A crease.”
Three more finger snaps, this time directed at an imaginary bed. “I cannot sleep on that crease. I simply cannot! It shall rub my skin quite raw.” An imperious wave of the hand. “Take it away! Take it away this very instant and see that it is properly pressed.” She resumed her normal expression and tone to add, “It were her own — “
“Was,” Sophie interjected.
“It was her own fault that the sheet were — uh — was wrinkled. She spent half the bleedin‘ afternoon wallowin‘ — “
“Fancy — “
“I know. I know.” A sheepish grin of apology. “Sorry. I’m not surposta say bleedin‘.”
“You’re not supposed to say bleeding. Also pigs wallow, and ladies lounge.”
“It looked like wallowing to me,” Fancy retorted, frowning at the pillowcase she was mending. “You should have saw — seen her rolling around on the bed with that ugly little rat of a dog of hers. Why, you’d have thinked that — “
“Thought. “
“Thought. You’d have thought that rat dog were — was her lover the way she was hugging and kissin‘ — kissing it on its mucky mouth, and making those queer booby… boo-by … Mingy noises she’s always makin‘ — making to it.”
“No!” Pansy looked up from the stocking she was examining, her face a mask of horror. “She don’t really kiss it on the mouth?” Like many of the servants, Pansy was unconvinced that Lady Helene’s odd-looking pet was a dog. Thus, she had designated the animal an it.
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