Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Claire Delacroix

  Unlike his friend, Lucien had enjoyed being under the tutelage of Mr. Brisbane. Charles’ father was open and generous, a patient man who answered every question. He was clever and practical, and his conviction that hard work would be rewarded was a welcome notion to Lucien. He had assured Lucien that a man could become whatever he desired, if he were prepared to work for it.

  Lucien had been prepared to work, as Charles had not. His friend routinely abandoned his father’s lessons for more material pleasures, while Lucien remained to attend them. He’d been intrigued by the older man’s ability to anticipate changes in fashion and to ensure that his goods were of the best quality, available at the best price at the right time.

  Then Sophia had arrived. She’d greeted her father with affection, then met Lucien’s gaze steadily, like an equal, when introduced. She spoke her mind. She laughed openly. She was as honest and practical as her father, as generous and charming as her brother.

  Lucien had been glad to be assigned to escort her to her father’s house. He’d expected to be given the task of making an inventory of the newly arrived stores, but Mr. Brisbane had, for once, been disinclined to indulge his only son. Charles had taken poorly to his father’s insistence that he begin learning more about the business on this very day.

  Despite the presence of Miss Findlay, Lucien and Sophia had talked, of all things, about sugar plantations. Once Sophia had learned that he had spent his boyhood in St. Domingue, she had peppered him with questions. Their discussion was so lively that they reached the townhouse more quickly than he might have believed, and he found himself offering to show her the sights of London.

  It had been the first of many excursions. He wondered that Mr. Brisbane allowed it, then dared to hope Sophia’s father had discerned his dream. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Lucien supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Mr. Brisbane announced that he had arranged a match for Sophia with Eugene Tremblay, Marquess of Lyndenhurst.

  Sophia, in contrast, had been devastated.

  No. He wouldn’t remember that day. Lucien drained his ale and set the tankard aside. It didn’t matter, not now. He would be dead within days.

  His destiny was with the baron.

  A brisk walk was the best solution to any trouble. That had been Amelia Findlay’s conviction, and her former pupil agreed. It had rained earlier and was still drizzling, but Sophia didn’t care. With the girls summoned to attend their grandmother, she had a few hours to herself, which was the last thing she desired. Anything had to be better than lingering in the castle, expecting to be revealed at any moment, thinking about Lucien.

  She donned her thickest stockings and her sturdy boots, buttoned up a long jacket and wrapped a scarf around her throat. Her dark bonnet was warm and she had brought a thick pair of gloves. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the damp wind from chilling her, but if she walked with purpose, she should be warm enough.

  She walked toward the village, then was enticed by the glitter of the sea. It was a thousand hues of silver on this day, and stretched flawlessly to the horizon. Beyond it, far to the west, was the island of St. Maurice that held the place of honor in her heart.

  She would never see it again, but she had her memories.

  On impulse, Sophia climbed a rising path, hoping it would take her to a cliff and a view. Her heart was racing when she reached the summit, but it was well worth the effort. She stood, letting the wind snap at her skirts, and drank in the sight.

  Six weeks at sea, perhaps four. That was all it would take to be home and barefoot in the sunshine again. To be warm again. To be free of social constraints. To be able to speak her mind once more. Sophia stood and yearned, knowing it was impossible, but wanting to be in the Caribbean again all the same.

  A futile wish, like wishing Lucien had been tempted to take what she’d offered.

  She frowned and turned to leave. Amelia Findlay would have disapproved of such whimsy. What was done was done.

  “Your freckles have faded.” A man’s familiar voice carried from somewhere behind her. Sophia’s heart jumped and she pivoted to find Lucien leaning against a tree, in the shade beyond the path. He looked just as dangerous as he had earlier. She shivered, but couldn’t look away from his steady gaze.

  “But I suppose they disappeared with your tan.” He paused, watching her, eyes glinting, and spoke with deliberation. “Sophia.”

  Her name on his lips made her heart thunder.

  It was tempting to lie, to deny that she was herself, but that was even more foolish than longing for home—or imagining that the man she had known was still within this stranger.

  Sophia exhaled and turned her back upon Lucien, trying to stop the race of her pulse. “I suppose you want a boon to refrain from revealing me,” she said, as if annoyed with him, realizing too late as if she sounded like a woman desiring a kiss. She felt unsettled and uneasy, both wishing he would leave and yearning for him to stay.

  He came to stand behind her and she closed her eyes, knowing it was smarter not to want anything from Lucien.

  “Once you invited me to ruin you,” he murmured, his voice low and close, and she winced at the reminder.

  “It turned out to be unnecessary, didn’t it?” she said curtly. “What a relief to both of us that you weren’t tempted.”

  “Not tempted?” His surprise was clear in his tone. “Surely you never thought that?”

  She couldn’t help herself then, but turned to look at him. His eyes were vivid blue, his gaze boring into hers with familiar intensity. For a heartbeat, she saw the man who had looked at her as if she were a marvel. She smelled the ale upon his breath, though, and turned her back upon him once more.

  She was a fool six times over.

  His fingertip landed on her shoulder, the weight of it creating a line of fire even through the layers of cloth. She swallowed, closing her eyes against his unholy allure.

  “You always tempted me, Sophia,” he said softly and she wished it were true. “From that very first day.”

  “Yet you managed to resist that temptation rather well,” she said, hearing the sharpness of her tone.

  “Sophia,” he murmured and her heart skipped.

  “There’s no need to pretend now, sir,” she said, sounding more like Amelia than she realized. “We know enough of each other that there’s no need for pretense.”

  He was silent for a moment, then his next words were harsh. “Of course, you are right. I apologize for any offense.”

  Sophia grimaced, knowing he couldn’t see her. She’d provoked the answer she expected, but she felt no triumph in it. No, she felt raw and vulnerable, as she hadn’t in years.

  Just because she was alone with Lucien.

  “You’ve fared well, evidently,” she said. “Is it true that you’re in league with the Devil?” She repeated Lady North Barrows’ words to provoke him, but in truth, she could not imagine how he had come to be dressed as a wealthy rake, much less have such a reputation as a gambler. The Lucien she had known had refused to gamble, and had been unlucky at cards.

  Her heart clenched in recollection of his jest that he might be lucky in love instead.

  “You’ve been listening to Lady North Barrows,” he said, his tone unruffled by the accusation. A weight dropped over her shoulders and Sophia realized he’d placed his greatcoat over her jacket. It smelled of his skin, a scent she thought she’d forgotten. She hadn’t. It made her toes curl and her lips burn all over again, as well as that welcome heat unfurl in her belly. She gripped the lapels without intending to do as much.

  “Still cold?” He sounded close and seductive.

  She swallowed and stared resolutely at the view. “Always.”

  “Me, too.” His hands closed over her shoulders, his grip resolute, and she wanted to lean back against him. Once she had trusted him. Once she had believed she knew him as well as herself. Once she had thought their minds were as one. She savored even this touch, greedy for more of him even thou
gh she knew it was foolish.

  He had changed.

  She had changed, as well.

  “Why not go home?” he whispered, and she thought of the serpent tempting Eve in the garden.

  Sophia laughed despite herself. “Where is home now?”

  “St. Maurice, of course. Where it always was.”

  “It can be home no longer,” she said with bitterness. “Charles saw to that. Even if I could pay the passage, why would I cast myself into the marquess’ power?” She shook her head, fighting tears. “He has probably planted it all in sugar, destroyed its beauty for his own financial gain.” Lucien said nothing though his grip tightened a little on her shoulders. Sophia straightened. “No, this is my destiny now. I am not discontent.”

  It sounded like a lie, or at least like wishful thinking. She bit her lip as the silence stretched long between them.

  “I thought you were dead,” Lucien said finally.

  “That was Amelia’s idea.” Sophia shivered in recollection of her companion’s last days, and blinked back tears in memory of the finality of her last breath. The grief she had denied rose within her, tightening her throat and chilling her anew.

  They were all gone.

  She was all alone.

  “But your being in service was hardly your father’s aspiration for your future.”

  “His dream came at too high of a price.”

  “So, Miss Findlay found a solution. Was it her intent to save you from Lyndenhurst or from me?”

  That he could jest about Sophia’s situation meant there was no point in varnishing the truth. “Both,” she snapped.

  “Ever direct.” Sophia stole a glance to find him frowning toward the town. He looked forbidding and remote, utterly unlike the Lucien she had loved. He might have been a stranger, which only made his next words more startling. “At least, my Sophia has not become circumspect.”

  His Sophia?

  Sophia tugged off the coat and offered it to him. “I am not your Sophia!”

  But Lucien did not take the garment. He put his hands into his pockets and faced her, his eyes glittering. “Look in my pocket, Sophia, before you cast away my coat,” he said, his tone challenging. “A wise man taught me to use caution with what I would discard, lest something of value be lost.”

  Annoyed beyond belief with Lucien for provoking her to forget her father’s advice, Sophia felt her cheeks heat. She found a document in the breast pocket of the garment The seal was broken already.

  Only once she held the document did he pluck his greatcoat from her grasp. “Leave service, Sophia,” he said. “You are not so penniless as you imagine.” His eyes blazed, then he pivoted to march away. He strode down the hill as he shrugged into his coat, never sparing a glance back at her. Did Lucien flee from her? It was a remarkable notion, one so strange that Sophia could only dismiss it as absurd.

  This Lucien had no heart. He certainly could have no fear of her.

  She unfolded the document, and her curiosity was replaced with astonishment. It was the title for Brisbane’s Emporium.

  Was this a joke? Her brother Charles had lost everything to Lyndenhurst. She would never forget such a detail—much less how drunk Charles had been when he’d admitted the truth.

  Or the fact that Lucien had brought him home.

  Sophia read the document three times, unable to dispel her impression that the title was genuine. It included the warehouses and the inventories, such as they were, the building that held the emporium and the living quarters above. She stared at it, amazed that she had a choice.

  Because Lucien had given it to her.

  Why?

  Suddenly, she could see again a younger version of Lucien, determination burning in his sapphire gaze after he had brought Charles home that fateful morning.

  “I will retrieve every shilling for you, Miss Brisbane, no matter what the cost.”

  Sophia fingered the deed with new wonder. She had never expected him to even try such a feat. That he had retrieved this much of her father’s legacy and simply given it to her meant that the Lucien she had known was not gone. Her heart fluttered and her tears rose.

  But how could he have done such a thing? She knew Lyndenhurst well enough to know that he would not surrender any of her father’s fortune willingly. He had vowed to do as much. Lyndenhurst was a gambler, and Lucien had never been fortunate at cards. Lady North Barrows was right that he had promised his grandmother that he would never enter the gaming hells.

  What had changed? Lady North Barrows thought him dissolute, but Sophia wondered.

  Had Lucien broken the promise to his grandmother to keep his vow to her?

  Lucien knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that he and Sophia had ended up at the same place, absorbing the same view. It had been a jest, all those years ago, how their impulses ran in the same direction. They’d frequently encountered each other in the same corner of the park or in town, and quite by accident.

  There had been a time when it had seemed to be a sign that they were meant to be together.

  Lucien rode hard back to the castle, fighting against the desire that seemed to have redoubled in their years apart. He could see Sophia softening before his very eyes, slipping from her guise of Miss Findlay and becoming herself again. He felt her thaw. He sensed that she reawakened, and he caught her old audacity in her words. He wanted to heal her, to hold her close, to console her as he had no right to do.

  He had no right to even think of her.

  Worse, he felt his own resolve softening. If it were not for the baron, he could offer for her. He had more than sufficient fortune. But he had only three days until the baron claimed his due, and Lucien knew all too well the price he would pay.

  He couldn’t lose his resolve now. He couldn’t falter now. He had to give Sophia what he could—and that didn’t include a future he didn’t have.

  He had to make sure she was safe from the baron, too.

  One last game. One last victory.

  Then his labor on this earth would be done.

  Funny how it no longer felt like a triumph.

  * * *

  It was remarkable to Lucien that Mr. Brisbane, a man of such splendid good sense, could not see how his decision to betroth his only daughter to the Marquess of Lyndenhurst would only make her miserable. He had ignored Lyndenhurst’s reputation and Sophia’s fear of that man, seeing only the splendor of his title.

  “Your son will be a marquess!” he exclaimed in the office of the emporium when Sophia protested her lack of affection for Lyndenhurst. “Think of it, Sophia! Aristocrats! Your mother would be so proud.” He patted her hand, as if she were a pet, and only Lucien had glimpsed the fullness of Sophia’s dismay. “It is not uncommon for a maiden to be shy, but you will come to care for him and be glad I saw you so advantageously married. You will thank me, Sophia, when your first son is born.” Then he had hastened back to his warehouses, giddy to share the good news with all and sundry.

  Sophia turned and saw Lucien, frozen in his steps, in the act of returning from an errand when he overheard the news.

  “You heard,” she whispered.

  Lucien nodded.

  “What am I to do?”

  He had retreated to the office, sickened by his lack of prospects, knowing he would have to watch her be married to a man they both disliked. “Prepare your wedding clothes,” he said gruffly, ignoring how she stared at him.

  Sophia entered the office in a rustle of skirts and a cloud of the scent that was hers alone. She shut the door and his heart leaped. The weight of her hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to see the resolve in her gaze. “I cannot do it, Lucien. I cannot marry that man.”

  “You have no choice. Your father has made the arrangements.”

  Her lips set and a determined glitter had dawned in her eyes. “I’ll change his mind.”

  “I doubt you can...” Lucien began, then was silenced by her finger landing upon his lips.

  “I will and I kn
ow how.”

  “Sophia...”

  “Ruin me, Lucien. Lyndenhurst will not take me then.”

  Lucien feared the other man would. He wanted the fortune, not the bride, but Sophia gave him no chance to argue.

  She replaced her fingertip with her lips and he was lost. Sophia was soft and willing, her kiss enough to set his blood on fire. Lucien turned, like a man in a dream, and gathered her into his embrace. He savored the sweet weight of her in his arms, the press of her against him, the feeling of completion when he held her close.

  The surety that he betrayed his employer’s trust.

  He set her aside, abandoned her there, her glorious eyes filling with tears at what she saw as his rejection. He’d walked away. He hadn’t said a word in his own defense, hadn’t dared to utter one with his heart so full of yearning.

  Lucien dismounted before the stables, restless with his newfound desire. Was it so wrong for a condemned man to desire one last kiss from his beloved?

  Sophia passed Philip on the stairs when all were hastening to dress their lords and ladies for dinner and halted in delight. She was going down to the kitchens, for she had no one to assist, and their gazes clung for a moment.

  He was still with Lucien. Sophia was relieved.

  Whatever Lucien had done, his oldest and best friend hadn’t despaired of him.

  Philip would know the truth, too, whatever it was.

  But Philip averted his gaze and continued up the stairs without speaking to her. Did he spurn her on purpose, or did he maintain the ruse that she was Amelia Findlay?

  Despite herself, Sophia turned to watch him depart, but Philip didn’t glance back.

  It was only when she continued her course that Sophia realized that Mrs. Bray had noticed her reaction. “Mr. de Roye’s valet, that’s who he is. Never thought I’d see the day to have his like in the castle, to be sure.”

  “He looks like a most elegant man,” Sophia said.

  Morris, who was ahead of her on the stairs, made a sound suspiciously like a chuckle. His eyes twinkled when he turned to confront Sophia. “I suppose you are wanting a cup of tea, Miss Findlay?”