For All Eternity

by Heather Cullman

  Unfortunately for Helene, she was either too stupid to detect it, or too arrogant to heed it. Casting him a look that clearly conveyed her contempt for him and anything he might say, she snapped, “I assure you that both my birth and my parents’ morals are above reproach … something which cannot be said for some people.” She uttered that last while gazing pointedly at Sophie.

  “Are you so very certain?” his father drawled. “Utterly.”

  “In that case, you shan’t mind if I inquire as to the date of your birth?”

  “Of course not. I was born September 23, 1789.” “And your parents were wed … when?”

  “A year or so before, I suppose.” She shrugged. “I never thought to ask.”

  “Then, I suggest you do so.”

  “Why ever would I — ” Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. To her credit, she instantly regained herself and countered, “Even if it turns out that I was a six-month babe, what does it matter? It simply proves that my parents loved each other too much to await the reading of the banns. Just because you cannot understand such a love, my lord, does not make it wrong.” “Try a three-month babe,” he shot back, “and your father never even set eyes on your mother until a month before their wedding. He was rather desperate for funds, you see, and your mother happened to be a very wealthy widow in need of a husband.”

  She gasped. “I don’t believe it … I shan’t believe it! Next you shall try to tell me that I’m the by-blow of a commoner.”

  “Oh, you were sired by a nobleman, though which one is anyone’s guess.” His father seemed to consider the matter, then shrugged and shook his head. “Your mother enjoyed the, er, consolation of so many gentlemen during her bereavement for her first husband.”

  If looks could kill, his father would be dead from the one Helene shot him. “You are a truly vile man,” she hissed. “And I refuse to remain beneath your roof a second longer than it takes to pack my bags. No doubt my mother shall be eager to leave as well when I tell her of your filthy lies.”

  “No doubt,” his father uttered dryly.

  Casting both Nicholas and Sophie a venomous look, Helene crushed Ming-Ming to her heaving breast and turned on her heels. Furiously snapping her fingers, she commanded, “Come along, mademoiselle. You must pack my bags immediately.”

  Mademoiselle shrugged. “You sacked me. Pack them yourself.”

  “How could you, Harry?” the marchioness berated, glaring at her husband. “Suzanne is my oldest and dearest friend. Whatever possessed you to say such dreadful things to her daughter?”

  The marquess shrugged unrepentantly. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

  “True?” She sniffed. “Fiddlesticks! Those old rumors about Suzanne being a wanton are nothing but rubbish. She was — “

  “Seduced by an unscrupulous rogue during her bereavement,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know. So she claims.”

  “Well, I for one believe her, and do not hold any part of the unfortunate affair against her. The poor dear was distraught over the death of her husband, and the scoundrel took advantage of her heartbroken state. She confided everything to me when she found herself with child.”

  “Everything but her seducer’s name.” He shook his head. “Don’t you find it even the least bit queer that she refused to name him? Most women would be eager to expose such a man for the knave he is.”

  “Well, Suzanne isn’t like most women. She’s a dear through and through. She refused to tell out of pity for his wife.” A sigh. “Sweet, noble Suzanne. Always thinking of everyone but herself.”

  The marquess couldn’t help snorting at his wife’s misguided view of the woman. “Saint Suzanne didn’t name Helene’s father because she didn’t know who he was.” She snorted back. “Rumors. Spiteful rumors. I shall never believe that gammon about her taking a dozen lovers the month her husband died.”

  “Believe it. I could name at least that many men who had her during the first week. Could have had her myself had I been so inclined.” Though he hated to shatter his wife’s illusions about her so-called friend, it was high time she learned the truth.

  “What!” She stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Surely you’re not suggesting that she made a play for you?”

  He chuckled, trying to soften the blow with levity. “Why so surprised? You always say that I’m the handsomest man in England.”

  “You are. Of course, you are. You always shall be. But — ” she shook her head ” — I simply cannot imagine Suzanne doing something so very loathsome as to try to steal you from me.”

  “Oh, she didn’t want to steal me, she simply wished to borrow me for a night or two. Since you two used to share everything from secrets to trinkets, she no doubt decided that you wouldn’t mind sharing me as well.” “No. Oh no!”

  “I’m afraid so, my dear. Worst yet, she tried to share me again just last night. She was most concerned about the state of my manly needs, what with you ailing and all.”

  “Oh, Harry. Why didn’t you tell me the first time she made advances?” she exclaimed, looking every bit as ill as she wished everyone to believe her to be.

  “Because I love you and didn’t wish to break your heart,” he replied, rising from his chair to move to the bed. Smiling all the love he felt inside, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his embrace. Gently stroking her hair, he murmured, “The one thing I try to avoid at all costs is breaking your heart.”

  She nuzzled against his shoulder, the very place she’d laid her head every night for the past thirty-two years. “You, Harry, are the dearest and most considerate man in the world.”

  “Don’t forget handsomest,” he teased.

  She smiled. “That goes without saying. Still — ” her smile faded and she grew solemn again ” — I do wish you’d never said anything to poor Helene.”

  It was all he could do to keep from grimacing at her referral to the horrid little termagant as poor. Struggling to keep the distaste from his voice, he said, “I rather think that I did the girl a favor. At least now she shall be prepared for the rumors she will undoubtedly hear during her Season.”

  “I suppose.” She sighed. “Poor girl. I do hope the rumors don’t spoil her chances to make a good match. She’s such a winning creature. Indeed, I found her so agreeable that I’d have welcomed her into the family, in spite of her mother’s faults.”

  “Not I,” he declared, shuddering at the thought of Colin shackled to such a shrew. “I’d have forbidden the match under threat of disinheritance.”

  His wife lifted her head from his shoulder to glare at him. “Why, Harry Somerville! Don’t tell me that you would hold Suzanne’s sins against her daughter?” “Come, come, now, Fanny,” he murmured, kissing the end of her nose. “You know me better than that. I shall gladly give my blessing to Colin to wed whomever he pleases, provided that I’m convinced she will make him happy.”

  “And what makes you so certain that he wouldn’t be happy with Helene? As I said, I found her perfectly charming.”

  “Well, I found her insufferable. Can’t recall the last time I met such an ill-natured chit.” He shook his head. “No. Helene would never do for Colin. The man who marries her shall spend his life plagued with misery and servant problems.”

  “Servant problems?” She frowned. “Whatever are you going on about now, Harry?”

  “You would know exactly what I meant had you put aside your deathbed charade and actually spent time with the chit.”

  “For your information, I truly am ailing,” she exclaimed indignantly. “And please do stop being cryptic. I still have no idea what you meant by your last remark.” “Fine. Then, I shall put it bluntly: There isn’t a servant at Hawksbury who’d have remained in our employ had Colin married Helene. She behaved most abominably toward them, insulting and criticizing them at every turn. Why, she even went so far as to slap little Agnes, the under-housemaid, and all the poor girl did was wish her ladyship a good day.” He shook his head grimly. “I say
good riddance. And if we never see either her or her mother again, well, hurrah!”

  “Hurrah, indeed,” she agreed, relaxing back against his shoulder. After a beat she sighed. “Ah, well. TTiere is always Lady Julianna. She and her mother are to arrive in three days. Perhaps she shall prove more suited to Colin.”

  It took his every effort not to grin. “I wouldn’t throw too much hope in that direction if I were you.”

  She made a frustrated noise. “If you know something, please do just say it. Your riddles are making my head ache.”

  “Do you want me to be blunt again?” he inquired playfully.

  “Present it anyway you wish, just tell me.”

  “All right, then. Colin shan’t be suited to Lady Julianna because his heart is already engaged.”

  “What!” Her head popped up again, and she peered at him as if he’d lost his wits.

  He grinned. “It’s true, Fan. Our Colin is in love.” “Who? When?” She punched the shoulder she’d just

  vacated. “Oh, but you are the most provoking man! Do tell me the gel’s name.”

  “Bluntly?”

  “Harry!” She punched him again.

  He chuckled. “It’s our own Miss Barton.”

  Instead of being stunned, as he expected, she looked thoughtful. “Then, Helene’s accusations are true? Colin and Sophie were dallying in the stable?”

  “Judging from their appearances, I would say yes.” She pondered a few moments, then nodded. “Come to think of it, it makes sense. He was rather vehement in his defense of the girl over the Mayhew affair. And he can look at nothing but her every time he visits me.” She nodded again. “I do believe you are right.”

  “And what would you think of such a match?”

  “I’ve always thought Sophie lovely and charming, you know that. Indeed, I have even considered promoting such a match myself. What gave me pause is the fact that we know nothing about her family. She never speaks of them, and what information I have managed to pry from her is out of keeping with her tale.”

  He frowned. “In what way?”

  “Well, for one, she knows much too much about the ton to have never had a Season, as she claims. I also noted that what few gowns she owns are of first-rate materials and all the kick in style. One does not find such garments in Durham.” She shook her head. “My guess is that Miss Barton isn’t who she claims to be.” “My thought exactly,” he countered, his smile returning.

  “In that instance, I am certain that you agree that we cannot allow a match until we know who she is and how she came to be here. For all we know, she’s a murderess running from the law.”

  The marquess’s smile broadened into a grin. “Oh, I can assure you that she’s no murderess.”

  It was his wife’s turn to frown. “What makes you so certain?”

  He chuckled. “Come, come, now, Fan. Surely you have some inkling as to our Sophie’s identity? I’ve had one for quite some time now.” In truth, after watching his son’s demeanor toward the girl change from frigid hostility to heated captivation, he had more than a mere inkling.

  She grunted. “There you go with the riddles.”

  “You want it blunt again?”

  She punched his arm.

  Taking that punch as an affirmative response, he gleefully replied, “My guess is that Miss Sophie Barton is in truth Sophia Barrington. And from all appearances, she and Colin have settled their differences.”

  Chapter 19

  “Thank goodness. You haven’t left yet, Terry,” Sophie exclaimed, rushing into the kitchen.

  The footman looked up from the shopping list in his hand, smiling. “I was just about to do so now. Is there something you or the marchioness need from Exeter?” She paused a beat, plagued by second thoughts, then nodded and pulled a letter from her pocket. “I need you to deliver this note, that is, if it isn’t too much trouble.” She rather hoped it would be.

  But of course it wasn’t. Taking the letter, as she’d known he would do, he replied, “Nothing you could ask me to do could ever be too much trouble.”

  She smiled faintly at his gallant response, though smiling was the last thing she felt like doing. The note was to her uncle, who was due to return home any day now, informing him of her whereabouts and begging him to rescue her. It was a note that grieved her to write and devastated her to send, for she now loved Nicholas with an intensity that made her soul cry out with longing.

  That love was the reason she must leave Hawksbury, and soon, before she did something reckless that could only result in heartbreak and a score of hopeless quandaries for the both of them. For she knew, as surely as she knew they could never wed, that the next time their passion exploded, they wouldn’t stop at a mere kiss.

  Desperate to escape the kitchen before the tears flooding her eyes fell, Sophie turned and hurried to the door. She was on the threshold when Cook paused from chastising Meg, one of the kitchen maids, to shout, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Miss Barton?”

  “Pardon?” she forced past the lump in her throat.

  “Her ladyship’s luncheon tray.” The woman gestured to the sideboard next to the door, where the meal trays were always set.

  Today, Sophie noted, it held three. Apparently Nicholas and his father were too busy preparing for their houseguests’ imminent arrival to dine together, as they usually did.

  The lump in her throat swelled at the thought of the coming company and the purpose of their visit. If Nicholas found Lady Julianna agreeable, he would most probably marry her.

  Well, he has to wed someone, someday, she ruthlessly told herself, blinking back her tears, a suitable, well-bred someone who can stand beside him in the ton and be a credit to the Somerville name. It was a fact she had to accept, no matter how much it hurt, just as she must accept the hopelessness of her lot and get on with her life as best she could.

  Drearily contemplating the emptiness of that life without Nicholas, she picked up the marchioness’s tray. As she did so, she noticed that his tray, the one with apple cider instead of tea, lacked the tarts the other two held. She frowned. How very odd that Cook would be so careless, especially in preparing Nicholas’s tray.

  Like everyone in the house, Sophie knew of Cook’s fondness for Nicholas, and she often found herself smiling at the lengths to which the woman went to please him. Indeed, not a morning passed that she didn’t bake him a special treat; one made from fruit, since fruit was his weakness. This morning she’d baked the apricot-and-pineapple tarts that now graced the other trays.

  Certain that the omission was an oversight, she turned to inform Cook. The woman still scolded Meg. All too familiar with the dangers of interrupting her when she was thus engaged, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She might not be able to love Nicholas as she wished, but she could most certainly see that he got his tarts.

  Wistfully picturing his smile as he tasted the treat, she selected the plumpest and most perfect tart from each of the other trays, and placed them on his plate. Satisfied, she again picked up her ladyship’s tray. As she did so, Julius, the third footman, appeared to claim Nicholas’s meal. After exchanging brief greetings, each rushed off to their respective destination.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the kitchen, Cook continued to berate Meg, gesturing furiously at the basis for the scolding: a plate of tarts. “Now, then. Do you understand?” she inquired, glaring at the thin, red-faced girl before her.

  The maid nodded so emphatically that her cap tumbled from her head. “Aye, ma’am. Lord Lyndhurst ain’t to have nothin‘ with pineapple ‘cause it makes him itchy and gives him spots.”

  “Among other unpleasantness, yes,” Cook murmured, grimacing at the thought of those other effects. His poor lordship. It was a good thing she’d caught Meg putting the tarts on his tray.

  “Beggin‘ yer pardon, ma’am,” Meg murmured, bending down to retrieve her cap. “But wouldn’t his lordship have tasted the pineapple ‘n’ not ett them tarts?”

  She
shook her head. “Not with the apricot. Pineapple and apricot are a wretched mix, can’t taste one fruit for the other.”

  “Ifn it’s so wretched, how come you used it?” “Because it’s her ladyship’s favorite, and she requested it.” Sighing over the hopelessness of her mistress’s palate, she waved the girl away. “Well, don’t just stand there. Cut a slice of the pear pie cooling at the window, and put it on his lordship’s tray.”

  The girl hastened away to do her bidding, only to return moments later, wringing her apron. “Oh, law! Julius already taked his lordship’s tray.”

  Cook grunted her irritation. “Well, there’s no help for it now. Just set the pie on the sideboard. No doubt his lordship will note the lack of a sweet and send Julius back to fetch it.”

  Nicholas, however, was too preoccupied to notice anything on his tray. What occupied his mind was Sophie.

  Never had a woman captivated him as she did, never had one confounded him so. One minute she was in his arms, her body pliant and her lips yielding, the next she avoided him as if he were the deadliest of plagues. Indeed, all he’d seen of her in the last three days was a blur of blue gown as she dashed from his sight.

  Trying to make sense of her actions, Nicholas absently plucked a tart from his tray and took a bite. As he chewed, he wondered if his kisses had prompted her sudden avoidance. Could it be that she’d found them unpleasant and sought to escape suffering more?

  He polished off the tart as he considered. Well, he’d never had any complaints about his kisses before. In fact, once experiencing them, women usually seemed eager for more.

  Then again, he’d never kissed a woman as he had Sophie. With her he’d been swept away by passion, letting his desire rather than his head guide him as it had done in the past. Could it be that his abandon had made him too rough? Too eager and demanding? Could he have frightened her with the savagery of his need?