Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

by Patricia Veryan

  His wet hair still sent occasional trickles of water down his face. His skin was bronzed by the sun—not at all the thing! The white shirt clung wetly to broad shoulders that tapered to a very trim waist, and his muddied grey breeches revealed slim hips and long legs.

  Disposing herself beside the fireplace, Sophia waited for him to get his first real look at her. The wait became interminable. With growing indignation, she realized that he had completely forgotten her, "If there is a butler in this asylum," she said haughtily, "be so good as to summon him."

  "You'll find him in the kitchen."

  She tensed with rage. A china figurine—the charming but inexpensive replica of a boy and a dog—was closest. She took it up and dropped it into the hearth.

  The servant's head shot around. His eyes widened predictably as he saw the fragmented china.

  "I gave you an order," she nodded. "I do not care to be kept waiting."

  "Do you not?" In two long strides, he was much closer than she appreciated. "Well, I strive never to keep a lady waiting— especially so eager a chit." He seized her by the shoulders, bent, and kissed her, long and hard.

  The Drayton sometimes allowed her fingertips to be lightly kissed, but aside from her immediate family, no man had ever been permitted to kiss her on the lips. For an instant, she was so stunned she didn't move. His hands gripped her shoulders like iron bands. He smelled of rain and wet earth and shaving soap, with no trace of pomade or perfume. Her eyes shot open. 'Good God! What am I doing?' She groped back, found the fireplace tongs, and swung them upward. A crystal vase toppled from the mantle and joined the ex-figurine.

  "Hey!" Long fingers closed about her wrist, and he laughed down at her as he took possession of the tongs. She was pale, her great violet eyes flashing with rage. Awe crept into his expression, to be replaced by shock as her open palm cracked across his cheek so hard that a lock of hair was bounced down his brow.

  "Filthy…lecherous…brute!" Sophia wiped her mouth fiercely. "My brother will kill you for that!"

  "While I await death," he said, an infuriating quirk tugging at the side of his mouth, "I'll have you taken home." He crossed to pull on the bellrope and, turning back, touched his glowing cheek thoughtfully and stared at her stomach.

  Sophia glanced down. Her cloak had fallen open. Her new brown travelling gown was very muddied, and she gave a distressed wail.

  "I told you I would buy you another dress," he said with an uneasy surveillance of that modish gown.

  "So you did. That will be one hundred and thirty-five guineas, if you please!"

  "One… hundred,—" he gasped, with a simultaneous shiver of cold.

  "Lud, sir," she mocked, "I'd no thought to make you shake in your shoes."

  "And I've no thought to be made a monkey by some pert lass who—"

  "Energy wasted," she intervened loftily, "since t'was accomplished before ever I came upon the scene!"

  He glared; then mirth began to twinkle in his eyes. "What a madam fire and destruction! Who in the deuce are you?"

  "I am come," she said, her nose well elevated, "to find my brother."

  "Well, he's likely at 'The Wooden Leg' and well foxed by now."

  "My brother's habits," she said quellingly, "are scarcely your concern. However, you may be of service. My cousin and his groom need help to repair our chaise. The wheel came off soon after that ridiculous bridge collapsed—"

  "Devil it did! Well, the blasted thing can stay down for all I care!"

  "You will scarce be consulted," Sophia said with disdain. "However, your master must be told of it, and I shall also advise him of your impertinence and your language, both insupportable." She tossed her cloak onto the sofa.

  Undaunted, his eyes travelled appreciatively down her sleek but well-rounded little figure. So appreciatively that her teeth grated together.

  "My… master?" he repeated with obvious amusement.

  "My uncle," she nodded. "The Marquis of Damon."

  His jaw dropped. The laughter died from his eyes, and he all but gaped at her. "Your… uncle?" It was a near croak.

  Triumphant, she smiled and said loftily, "You sense retribution, I perceive. You may announce that the Lady Sophia Drayton is here and desires to make his acquaintance. If the old gentleman is not already abed."

  His jaw snapped shut. "Allow me, my lady," he said with new and chill politeness, "to introduce myself. I am Camille Damon!"

  Chapter 3

  "I do not see," Lady Sophia complained, "why this could not have waited."

  Mrs. Hatters poured more hot water around the girl in the hip bath. "Milord says you be chilled and must be bathed," she said in a dry, expressionless voice. "He says. I does. That's it."

  "But all my things are in the chaise."

  "Robe on the bed. It's clean. It'll do for now." She started away, and when my lady requested that a maid be sent up, shrugged. "Ain't got none."

  Momentarily bereft of speech, Sophia stared, her mouth falling open slightly. Almost she thought to see a smile creep into those cold eyes before the door slammed, but her indignant "Come back!" went unanswered. It was, she thought, applying soap to sponge furiously, the outside of enough! Why Stephen should have so deceived her was incomprehensible. And that Clay should have allowed her to continue to believe that wretched viper of a Marquis to be her—Steve's—uncle was downright perfidy! The man was not a day over thirty, if that. He was every bit as evil as she'd imagined, that was quite clear—a lecher, as well as a craven! Her hands slowed. Brenda had been right, though. The Marquis of Damon was assuredly her "Cam"—and the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She scowled at her own stupidity. It just went to prove the old adage that looks were only skin deep, for Damon was still the monster who'd bullied her brother into the hussars and sent him off to be near killed while he huddled snugly in his wretched Priory!

  She smiled grimly, recalling how furious he had been when he'd realised she was not simply a traveller seeking aid who would then resume her journey, nor a local girl applying for a position as a domestic, but that he would be required to provide accommodations for several unwelcome guests. When the butler, Mr. Thompson, had appeared, Sophia had thought him well suited to his environment. He was a stocky, middle-aged man of untidy appearance, and he was quite foxed. The Marquis had fixed him with a searing glare and apprised him of the fact that the front door had been left unlocked. Thompson had cringed before his master's wrath and departed, white-faced, to send grooms to aid Clay and require the housekeeper to show Lady Drayton a bedchamber.

  Mrs. Hatters, coming on the heels of the Priory, the atrocious Marquis, and the butler, was quite as expected. A thin, dark little woman, she was possessed of piercing pale-blue eyes that held a sour look. Her manner had been little short of rude as she'd led the way upstairs, grumbling under her breath. She'd taken Sophia to her own pleasant and commodious room at the rear of the north wing, muttering, "Have to put your bath in here. Can't get another room warm on one minute's notice!"

  Despite these depressing experiences, the bath was restoring, and Sophia had dried herself, donned the threadbare robe the housekeeper had left for her, and was curled up in the comfortable armchair before the grate when Mrs. Hatters returned, carrying her bandbox and valise.

  "Oh!" cried Sophia, jumping up eagerly. "Major Clay is here?"

  Mrs. Hatters gave a brief nod and set down the luggage.

  "Is he all right? Have they repaired the chaise? Is there any word of Lord Whitthurst?"

  "One yes. Two no's."

  Sophia's chin and her brows lifted simultaneously. What a cold, unfriendly person. And how utterly insolent. He deserved her! "What do you mean—there are no maids? There certainly must be servants to run a big house like this."

  "Me. His lordship's valet, Thompson. Ariel, he's the cook and looby if you was to ask me. Four grooms. Two gardeners. Two daily maids come in from the village." She stared meaningfully. "Won't stay. Scared of the place."

  Sophia returned th
at stare to such effect that the woman flushed and her eyes dropped. "Do you mean," asked her ladyship, "that Mr. Thompson is Lord Damon's valet and butler?"

  "Yes, my—" The woman bit her lip for all the world as though the address she'd begun had escaped against her will. "Yes," she finished gruffly. "When you're ready, ring the bell, and I'll show you to your room. Oh, and Thompson's a mite deaf. Cannon at Ciudad Rodrigo. He can hear if he watches your mouth."

  Astonished by this volubility, Sophia recovered in time to request that she be shown to her room at once. This precipitated a battle of wills. The housekeeper seemed determined to present rooms that were totally unsuitable, and Sophia, suspecting the existence of more comfortable accommodations, stubbornly refused such quarters. Her fourth turndown, being on the grounds there was no connecting door, appeared to baffle the woman, and when Sophia pointed out that she desired her maids to be close to her, Mrs. Hatters actually paled and gulped, "They in the chaise… with the other lot?"

  "If you mean with Major Clay… no. They are at 'The Wooden Leg' in Pudding Park and will come tomorrow as soon as the bridge is repaired."

  Despite Mrs. Hatters' scornful pronouncement that it would be "weeks afore they gets that done," Sophia remained adamant and enquired whether all the rooms on the south side of the corridor were occupied. She refused to admit, even to herself, that the north wing had frightened her to death and said she had rather look out on to the countryside than into the central court. Mrs. Hatters was reluctant. Her ladyship would not like "them rooms." Her ladyship would be better served across the hall. Sophia was obdurate, and a few minutes later, watching the door close behind the scowling woman, she danced a jig of triumph. Mrs. Hatters had flung open the last door on the left of the long hall to reveal a large bedchamber charmingly decorated in a soft orchid and white and having a beautiful four poster bed, a mahogany press, chest of drawers and escritoire, and a fine marble fireplace flanked by a comfortable sofa and armchair. The connecting door led to another spacious and pleasant bedchamber, the whole being far more than she had hoped for. Oddly, she had thought to see a gleam of amusement in Mrs. Hatters' cold eyes, but it had instantly vanished if it had existed at all. An obviously reluctant offer had been extended for milady to return to Mrs. Hatters' room '"til I can find that dratted fireboy and send him up here." Sophia's pride forbade she accept. It was positively frigid in the big room, but once between the blankets and she would soon be warm. She made a dive for the bed and pulled back the coverlet. The bed wasn't made up! "Oh, fustian!" she exclaimed, and pulling the bell-rope so that she might send for her clothes, curled up in the coverlet.

  Ten minutes later, her teeth chattering, she eased the door open and peeped into the hall. No sign of life. By now, Mrs. Hatters was doubtless busied downstairs. She tiptoed along the hall, drawing the robe closer. The sash came untied and fell to the floor. Clutching the robe about her, she bent to pick it up. A slim, tanned hand was before her. She knew by the length of the fingers whose hand it was and could have sunk. She fairly leapt upright with disastrous results and, her cheeks flaming, dragged the parting robe savagely together. Too savagely. It ripped all down one side. In an agony of mortification, she shrank against the wall and raised her scarlet face to encounter those mocking eyes alight with laughter. The Marquis had seen a great deal more of her than any other man had ever witnessed, but he managed somehow to maintain a grave countenance. He bound the sash swiftly about his eyes, turned and groped his way along the hall, singing softly in a fine deep baritone, "Believe me if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze on so fondly today…"

  She hoped with all her heart that he would fall down the stairs.

  Edward, the Earl of Ridgley, ran a hand through his light, crisp hair, beamed down at Clay, and said, "Couldn't be more pleased, Marcus! Tell the truth, it gets confounded lonely at times. Though Damon's the best of company, of course," he added with a quick glance to the library door. "Still, do you plan on staying a bit? Perhaps you and I could go a round or two or get in some riding."

  Clay was warm at last and enjoying the chair closest to the fire. He acknowledged his old friend's pleasure with a lift of his wine glass. "Delighted. A great piece of luck for me, your being here, Ted." He, too, glanced at the door through which the Marquis had departed a few minutes earlier. "You're related to Damon in some way, ain't you?"

  "Vaille's my cousin." Ridgley's eyes hardened. "Fond of old Cam, y'know. Good boy."

  "I heard," said Clay, "that he used to give some jolly fine parties. But that he—er—don't like company these days. I hope he ain't greatly put out."

  The Earl frowned into his wine glass and chose his words with care. "This old place belonged to his mother. Beautiful creature…" His eyes became blank for a moment. "She was French, y'know. But she'd a grandfather who was English, and his family owned Cancrizans for two hundred years. Damon's hoping to completely restore it. Take him a lifetime probably. But he loves the old pile."

  "I suppose between this and his hotel, he's kept busy all the time."

  "So you'd heard about that. It's to be a sort of spa, actually. About five miles north on t'other side of Swallow Lake. Lovely spot. He plans for boating, fishing, riding. He's installing a series of canals—Venetian style."

  "Gad! Must be costing a fortune, between both projects!"

  "He has other investors in on the spa. Sunk a great deal of his own—" The Earl checked and asked with a change of tone, "How does your lovely Esther go on?"

  Clay imparted that his wife, Douglas, and the new babe were well, added that he hoped Vaille was the same, and stared, astounded.

  He'd known Ridgley since he was a boy. The Earl had been several years younger than Benjamin Clay, but they'd seen service together in India and become close friends. Clay had always liked the genial man and had never seen him angry. Now he found himself looking into eyes from which all warmth had vanished. As swiftly as it had come, however, that grim expression was gone. "I have not," said Ridgley mildly, "the remotest idea of how Vaille fares."

  Clay was silent. If this same relationship prevailed between the Duke and Damon, his goose was cooked. He'd no sooner had the thought than the head of a large goose lifted like a serpent above the arm of his chair and voiced a loud honk into his startled face. He looked disbelievingly at his glass.

  Ridgley gave a crack of laughter. "You're all right, Clay! It's Horatio. Camille uses the dratted bird as a watchdog because—"

  "Because," said the Marquis, returning at that moment carrying a full decanter of wine, which he set on the reference table, "he don't tear up my gardens nor bite the grooms. And he gives me lots of warning"—he turned to Clay and finished with blunt rudeness—"in case of—er—unwanted company."

  Clay flushed darkly and sprang up, yearning to stalk out of this place and knowing he dare not. "I sincerely apologize for intruding upon you," he began.

  "Not at all," Damon put in with a smoothly disarming smile. "I am delighted to have… overnight… guests." The emphasis on the qualification was slight but unmistakable, and he added, "Do sit down, Clay. I'm not your Colonel, you know."

  "Most definitely not," smiled Sophia, walking gracefully into the room. Her blue gown, its swooping neckline demurely edged with white lace, fell in a slim line from beneath the snug bodice, the soft fabric revealing to advantage the full curves of her beautiful body. A single sapphire gleamed against her fair skin, and matching drops hung from her ears. A blue band, decorated with tiny seed pearls, held back her shining hair, and her hand-painted fan showed little blue flowers against the ivory. She had dressed with care, knew that she looked extremely well, and was pleased by the awe in the faces of the nice-looking blond gentleman and her cousin.

  Lord Damon watched her expressionlessly. He wore a rich, dark maroon-velvet jacket that fit his wide shoulders to perfection. The lace at his throat and the falls beneath the cuffs of his sleeves were like snow. A large diamond winked from his cravat. Sophia noted that he wore pantaloons
instead of knee breeches, but since he lived in such squalid conditions in the country, it was not to be wondered at. It escaped her memory that Whitthurst would likely have told her she had maggots in her attic had she suggested knee breeches in a country house. She was forced to admit that Damon looked startlingly handsome and thought it a great pity that he was such a thorough cad. She realized suddenly that they were staring at one another and that a silence had fallen. Breaking it, Clay came to take her hand and tell her that the Marquis and his men had been so kind as to convey the chaise to the Priory and hopefully it would be repaired by the morrow.

  Clay introduced the Earl, who bowed over Sophia's hand with courtly charm and escorted her to the chair beside the fire.

  Offering her a glass of ratafia, the Marquis asked, "Have you any idea what your brother wishes to discuss with me, ma'am?"

  Despite the mildly bored air, his eyes seemed very penetrating, and Sophia lowered her lashes. "I know only that he is much too ill for such a journey, my lord. Save for that knowledge, I would never have prevailed upon my cousin to attempt the bridge and thus force ourselves upon your—er— hospitality."

  She failed to disconcert him. "Au contraire," he protested with his quirkish grin. "It has been no imposition, but most— revealing, my dear lady."

  She knew she was blushing and, remembering with savage rage his barely contained mirth on the balcony, said sweetly, "I am sure Whitthurst is close by and will come as soon as possible."

  "Then by no means must he be delayed. I shall instruct my foreman to cease work on the spa tomorrow in order to rebuild the bridge."

  Perversely, Sophia thought, 'Why, the wretch cannot wait to be rid of us!'

  Horatio burst from behind Clay's chair and started to rush around the room with much honking and flapping of wings. A taut look crossed Damon's face. The butler came into the room and, staring at him, announced in obvious consternation, "Lady Fanny Branden and Miss Charlotte Hilby, my lord."

  "Good… God!" Damon half whispered, and locked glances with Ridgley.