It was Lucien who, one month later, gave Sophia her first kiss. An awakening kiss. A kiss that had been tentative, then had heated and become a force of its own.
A kiss that had been both an end and a beginning.
Castle Keyvnor—Tuesday, October 29, 1811
* * *
Sophia awakened, her lips burning in memory of the kiss that had set her soul afire.
She sat up abruptly, heart thumping, halfway convinced that it had been more than a dream. But she was in the small room under the eaves at Castle Keyvnor, and she was alone. Her dream of Lucien had been so vivid that it was difficult to dismiss.
It was even more difficult to dismiss the yearning she felt for his touch.
What she should remember was his rejection.
Seven years and Lucien still haunted her.
It was more than long enough. The past was over and done, and the present was all that mattered. Sophia swung her legs out of bed, determined to banish him from her memory. Lucien had been her brother’s best friend, the first man who had looked at her with appreciation, the first man who had kissed her.
And he had rejected her. Who knew what had become of him? Sophia did not care.
Well, she cared very little.
It would be clever to not care at all.
Why would she dream of him now? That music must have been responsible for her unsettling dreams. What kind of guest was so rude as to play the harpsichord in the middle of the night? Even if he or she were unable to sleep, it was scarcely fitting to awaken the entire house.
Or maybe it was guilt that had given her a restless night. Sophia had been sick at heart for the entire journey south, convinced that some maid or chance traveler would call her by name and her ruse would be revealed.
She’d even planned a dozen responses, each an improvement on the last, all of which professed her ignorance of Sophia Brisbane.
The fact remained that she had lied to Lady North Barrows. She had deceived people who had been good to her, and the fact that she had done so out of fear seemed a paltry excuse.
I will have you and your inheritance, at any price.
Sophia shivered and got out of bed. It had been pouring rain when they arrived the day before, and even Lady North Barrows had appeared to be exhausted. She’d waved them all to their rooms and commanded that their dinners be served there, and Sophia had been grateful.
This day, though, she would be subject to greater scrutiny.
Her disguise would have to suffice. Sophia pulled her hair back tighter than ever. She powdered it a little more liberally to make it look more gray. She donned her spectacles and her plainest dress, hoping she could disappear into the woodwork of the castle.
No one really looked at governesses, did they?
No one here could possibly recognize her or realize who she really was.
No one.
Everyone she truly knew in England other than Lucien and Lyndenhurst was dead, after all. Neither of them could possibly be here in Cornwall.
Amelia would have told her that she was foolish to be agitated, and looking for trouble where there could be none.
Morning always came too early when there were guests in the house. That was Mrs. Bray’s thinking and each day since the earl’s death only reaffirmed it. She would sleep for a week when this ruckus was through.
She had been through the house, ensuring that every maid was quick about her tasks and that every fire was lit when she found Morris in his pantry, frowning at the inventory. His stillness caught her eye and prompted her impatience. If the butler had nothing to do or oversee on a morning such as this, she could be of help in that!
“Are they more fond of the wine than you anticipated?” she asked.
He waved off the very suggestion. “There’s more than sufficient in the cellar.” He lifted a bottle. “It’s the rum. No one favors it, but the earl believed we should have some, in case there was a guest desiring it.”
“And so last night there was,” Mrs. Bray said, nodding at the half-empty bottle.
He spared her a glance. “But none of the gentlemen indulged in it last night. The bottle was yet sealed when I retired.” He swirled its contents. “It is a veritable antique, this one. I don’t even recall when we acquired it.”
“And someone drank of it in the night? Just helped himself?” Mrs. Bray’s lips thinned. “That smacks of theft. One of the visiting valets, then? As if a good room and hearty fare aren’t enough generosity!”
“Did you hear anyone about the house?”
“After the day I had? I slept like the dead last night, to be sure—or I would have if that Mr. de Roye hadn’t arrived at all hours. Time was that a young gentleman like that would remember his manners and arrive in the afternoon, like decent people, instead of rousing the house after midnight.” She took a deep breath of indignation. “And bringing that Negro valet besides. Black as the bottoms of Cook’s pots, he is, and in this house! The earl would have been dismayed, to be sure.”
“I suspect not,” Morris said. “That valet’s manners are impeccable, and that is all that would have mattered to the earl.”
Mrs. Bray sniffed with sufficient indignation to communicate her thoughts on that matter.
“Perhaps it was Mr. de Roye,” Morris mused.
“Perhaps it was his fine valet.”
“Someone was playing the harpsichord last night, and it was after Mr. de Roye’s late arrival.”
“The harpsichord? Is it still in tune?” Mrs. Bray couldn’t recall the last time anyone had shown an interest in the instrument. If a guest were inclined to play, she should call old Fitzwilliam up from the village to ensure the notes were true.
Even if it was played in the middle of the night.
“I didn’t get back to sleep quickly after Mr. de Roye was settled in his room and I heard the music. I didn’t recognize the melody, but it was played very fast. I found this empty glass there this morning.” Morris sniffed it. “Rum. Fortunately, the glass didn’t leave a ring on the veneer.”
“I suppose it is better if it was Mr. de Roye helping himself than any of the visiting valets.”
“And far better than one of the maids doing so,” Morris agreed. He squinted at the bottle, as if to remember the level of the rum within it. “I shall keep an eye on it, just the same.”
“And then the governess dies.”
Sophia halted at the emphatic comment that carried clearly from the castle’s library. Of course, it was Daphne.
Although ordering an execution did seem to be an excessive means of avoiding a German lesson.
It was five minutes to nine, and they were scheduled to continue their regular lessons at the stroke of the hour, per Lady North Barrows’ instruction.
“No!” Eurydice replied, her outrage clear. “She’s the princess of a distant realm, hidden for her own safety, who claims the heart of the duke. There’s no happy ending if she dies.” Her tone turned disparaging. “Have you failed to note anything about stories in your life?”
Ah. Eurydice was writing her story again, and had made the mistake of asking her sister for advice. Sophia fought against her smile.
“I know what I like.” Daphne was pouting.
“How can you like it if the princess dies?” Eurydice was exasperated.
“I could if she spoke perfect German.”
“Of course, she does. She couldn’t be a princess otherwise.”
Daphne snorted in a very unladylike fashion.
“And flawless French, and Spanish,” Eurydice taunted. “I think she might excel at mathematics, too.”
“That’s the best kind of person to die in a book. No one likes heroines like that.”
“I’m a heroine like that!”
“You’re not in a book.”
“I mean to see that repaired.”
“Then no one will read the book, because everyone will think the heroine should die!”
Their voices rose in dispute as Sophia stepped bri
skly into the library to intervene.
They didn’t even notice her arrival.
Sophia dropped the German grammar book on a desk. It was a volume of considerable heft and made a satisfying thump on impact.
It also loosed a cloud of fine dust.
Both girls fell silent and pivoted at the sound, their eyes wide.
“Good morning,” Sophia said. “Guten morgen.”
Eurydice tucked her work away, her face alight with anticipation. Daphne pouted—she even did that prettily—and took her seat. There was boredom in every line of her figure and mutiny in her eyes.
“Guten morgen,” the girls repeated in unison but in vastly different tones.
“Fräulein Findlay,” Eurydice added.
“The past perfect of ‘to read,’ if you please, Daphne. I had been reading Eurydice’s book...”
“We should learn French,” that student declared. “It sounds nicer.”
“We did learn French,” Eurydice corrected. “Except that you didn’t like it either.”
Daphne stuck out her tongue at her sister.
Sophia cleared her throat.
“Ich hatte gelesen; du hattest gelesen; er/sie/es hatte gelesen,” Eurydice said. “Wir hatten gelesen; ihr hattet gelesen; sie/Sie hatten gelesen.”
“Very good. How about the future, Daphne? As in I will read Eurydice’s book when it’s finished.”
Daphne blinked.
“Ich werde lesen,” Eurydice hissed.
“Du wirst lesen,” Daphne added, then fell silent.
“Er/sie/es wird lesen; wir werden lesen, ihr werdet lesen; sie/Sie werden lesen,” Eurydice continued.
“Very good. Did you study last night?”
“I did some of the exercises.” Eurydice took a superior tone. “Daphne was too busy deciding what to wear today and looking out the window.”
“I suppose you have a fine view of the sea.” Sophia gave Eurydice a look.
The younger girl narrowed her eyes for a moment, then smiled with triumph. “Ich nehme an, Sie haben einen schönen Blick auf das Meer.”
“Very good. But if you were speaking to Daphne...”
“I’d say du hast instead of Sie haben because she’s just my sister.”
Daphne ignored this jibe and sighed. “Our room has a view of the gates.”
“Unser Zimmer hat einen Blick auf die Tore,” provided Eurydice. “But it wasn’t the gates you were looking at last night.
A sparkle lit in Daphne’s eyes. “No, I saw something much better.”
“You might as well tell us,” Sophia said, pretending to be less curious than she was.
“A carriage arrived at midnight.”
Eurydice leaned forward. “It raced through the gates, at reckless speed. It was black, and pulled by a perfectly matched team of four blacks...”
“At midnight, you could see this?” Sophia had to ask.
“The moon is almost full,” Eurydice said. “They halted at the portal, the horses stamping and breathing fire.”
Sophia arched a brow. “I thought Daphne was telling us.”
Eurydice grimaced. “I would tell it better.”
“And the most handsome man in the world leaped out of the carriage,” Daphne added. “He was dressed all in black, except for his white cravat.”
“Which was adorned with a gem of uncommon brilliance,” Eurydice said. “It glittered in the moonlight and had to have been worth a king’s ransom. It was probably stolen, or an heirloom, or won in a gaming hell in London.”
Daphne sighed with rapture. “He must be a duke or the son of a duke. He’s wealthy beyond compare, I’m sure, and gallant...”
“I would stop short of gallant,” a rich male voice contributed from behind Sophia. Her heart stopped cold, so certain was she that she recognized that voice. She felt a shiver run from her scalp to her toes.
No. It couldn’t be Lucien de Roye. Not after all this time. It would be against every conceivable possibility.
He was in her thoughts because of her dream.
She probably wouldn’t even recognize his voice. It had been seven years, after all.
But it was suddenly cold in the library, the air turning frigid just as it had the last time she’d seen him.
Sophia pivoted, her expression properly prim, and caught her breath at the sight of the man leaning in the doorway.
It was Lucien de Roye.
And he was every bit as handsome as he had been seven years before.
But terrifying. Once he had been serious but with humor in his smile, with a manner that invited her trust. Now, his eyes glittered, like faceted gems. The line of his mouth was harsher, almost cruel. He looked even colder than he had when he rejected her. She had the sense that he was reckless, assessing, dangerous, heartless.
And as unlike the man she had loved as was possible. Lucien might have had a wicked twin. Sophia barely kept herself from taking a step back.
She should have been relieved that he barely noted her presence. Her disappointment had to be because his gaze lingered on Daphne, a girl he would have found predictable seven years before. What more proof did she need that the man she loved was gone?
If he had ever existed.
Had Lucien changed or had his hidden truth simply been revealed? Sophia could not say.
“You interrupt our lesson, sir,” she said with authority. “Is there good cause for this?”
“Curiosity is always good cause,” he said with a cool smile. He sauntered into the library with that lithe grace she remembered so well. “It has been a long time since I’ve been accused of gallantry,” he said to Daphne, who stared at him with awe. “Much less chivalry. In league with the Devil is a more common attribute, or wicked to my very marrow.”
Daphne blinked. Sophia was quite certain that the girl had never had a man like this speak to her before. She took advantage of Lucien’s diverted attention to survey him, seeking some hint of his past self.
He was dressed in black, from his trim jacket to his breeches to his polished boots. That was consistent. His taste in clothing had always been austere. The cloth was fine, and the tailoring, exquisite. His cravat was starkly white in contrast, his waistcoat made of a brocade that only revealed a hint of blue because of the splendor of that sapphire. His hair and brows were as black as ever, his eyes as vivid a blue, his chiseled features as handsome as that of any Greek god.
If anything, he was more confident. He still emanated an impression of power just barely contained. He was intense and watchful in a way that was utterly different from the man she remembered. She was put in mind of a predator, and stifled a shudder.
Once he had won her heart: now he frightened her.
It was a poor moment to recall that Lucien had always been particularly perceptive.
Sophia dropped her gaze to the floor. She reminded herself that they would only be at Castle Keyvnor until the end of the week and that she could surely evade the attention of a man like this for that long.
“Lucien de Roye, at your service,” he said to Daphne.
“Miss Goodenham,” Sophia supplied and her charge recovered herself well enough to curtsy.
“Delighted to meet you, sir.” Daphne smiled and fluttered her lashes, dipping her chin to show her charms to best advantage. Sophia realized that the girl had probably chosen her new sprigged muslin specifically because she had seen Lucien arrive.
Lucien granted her an appraising survey. Daphne, for her part, had a good look at him through her lashes. “This is my sister, Miss Eurydice Goodenham,” she said, but only after Sophia cleared her throat.
“Delighted, sir.” Eurydice bobbed a quick curtsy.
“Delighted,” he replied. “But I regret that I must disappoint you both yet again. I am not, regrettably, the son of a duke either.” Lucien turned a smile upon Eurydice that made the girl blink. “Thus no inherited gem.” He fingered the sapphire in his cravat. It was as big as Eurydice’s thumb and glittered deep blue.
&nbs
p; “Stolen or won, then, sir?” the girl had the audacity to ask.
Lucien chuckled and the dark sound awakened a flutter in Sophia’s stomach. “Won, of course. And might well be lost before the moon is full again.” He bowed to the girls, then paused beside Sophia. She kept her gaze fixed on her boots, fighting to ignore the blush that rose from her breasts. “I do apologize for the interruption, Miss...?”
“Miss Findlay,” she replied firmly, summoning the spirit of her former tutor. “If you would excuse us, sir, we have a great many lessons to complete this morning.”
“Of course. I would not hope to compete with the pleasures of conjugating German verbs.” There was something in his tone that made Sophia think he was teasing her and her gaze flew to his. He held her gaze without blinking and her heart clenched that she had been recognized. Then he arched a brow. “German has never been my strength.”
Daphne was delighted by this confession and smiled at him radiantly.
He bowed again then strolled to the door. Sophia was almost ready to take a breath of relief but he halted on the threshold to glance back. “Je serais ravi de vous aider dans vos leçons dans cette langue.”
Daphne looked confused.
“He says he’ll tutor you,” Eurydice whispered.
Daphne’s eyes lit. “Oh! Merci, Mr. de Roye.”
Lucien inclined his head, his gaze flicking to Sophia.
No. He was baiting her.
“That will not be necessary, sir,” Sophia interjected crisply. “Although your offer is most generous.”
“I doubt you believe that, Miss Findlay,” he purred, punctuated the address with a piercing look that made Sophia quiver to her marrow. He made to leave the library then hesitated again. “And Miss Eurydice, you are right. They are perfectly matched blacks. If you come to the stables after luncheon, I will prove it to you.”
Sophia kept her irritation from her voice with an effort. Why was he so determined to tempt the girls to folly? “I regret that she will be occupied with her studies,” she said with force. “If you will excuse us. Good day, Mr. de Roye.”
Something Wicked This Way Comes Page 3
