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

by Patricia Veryan

  "But, no. He will even forgive me my—huge nose, I collect."

  Whitthurst gave a great whoop of laughter. "Oh, gad! This is rich! Don't he know our dear Regent wants Lawrence to paint you?"

  "Apparently not, but he does have a discerning eye." She touched her nose doubtfully. "You don't suppose it really is—?"

  "Poor Chicky! Such a bulbous monstrosity!" He succumbed to hilarity once again as she flew back to the mirror.

  "You may laugh and tease, sir," she said with mock severity, "but our host was also quite willing to forgive my pitiful dowry!"

  Whitthurst, wiping his eyes with a corner of the sheet, sighed, "You are a naughty puss is what you are, Sophia Drayton! And will be punished for making up such shocking whiskers!"

  "It is fortunate, is it not, that I have several wealthy suitors? Dear Phinny and Lord Owsley and that kind Mr. Buckingham, and—" From beneath her lashes she slanted a glance at her brother. "You seem to think—your uncle…?"

  "Poor old Cam ain't in that league," Whitthurst said regretfully. "Properly in the basket, from all I hear. Serves him right, stupid gudgeon. He'll be lucky if he can get his spa finished in time to save his fool neck, and—Sophia! Are you ill?" He sprang up, all genuine concern, and crawled down the bed toward her. "Dear soul, you're white as a sheet!"

  "Stephen," she gasped, clinging to him. "Camille's rich! He must be!"

  "Was. But he's got too many dipping into his pockets. A bunch of leeches was you to ask me. And you'd not believe the blunt he's spent to improve the home farm and the village. Besides the Priory and the spa! Now he's thoroughly antagonized Vaille—blasted fool!"

  'Good God!' she thought numbly, 'the Duke has cut him off! What have I done?'

  Stephen's voice echoed as though she stood on one side of a great canyon and he on the other, but the words were indistinguishable. All she could think of was Camille's strained white face at that ghastly investors meeting… His searing rage when he'd locked the doors to the music room… the unutterable tenderness in his eyes just before he had kissed her.

  She could all but feel that sweet embrace and, blinking up through her tears, exclaimed, "Oh! Stephen!" as she abruptly returned to reality.

  "Yes—I'm here, dear. Whatever is troubling you?"

  She clung to him for a moment, fighting for composure. And then, frantic lest she weaken and tell him everything, mumbled, "I'm just a… a silly chit, you know, Steve. I'm—" she pulled away and wiped at her eyes impatiently. "I'm just—jealous, you see. I had you back with me for… for such a short while. And now, I'm going to have to… lose you again."

  Whitthurst scanned her face narrowly. She was closer to becoming a watering pot than he'd ever seen her. Whatever had so upset her was, he suspected, of a far more serious nature than a simple dread of his possible marriage. On the other hand, what she said was true. They'd always been very close, and had been reunited for a comparatively short space of time. Perhaps she really was grieving. He shook her gently. "Silly little girl. Even should Genevieve accept me, it would likely be months—if not years—before we could wed. You'll have me to fuss over until you are glad to see the back of me, never fear."

  Sophia smiled, sniffed, and dried her eyes resolutely, while all the time conscience screamed, 'What have you done? You wicked jade! What have you done?'

  Lord Edward Ridgley leaned back against the reference table in the library, folded his arms, and watched the distraught girl in silence. His confirmation of her fears had left her white and shaken, her eyes tearful, her hands tightly clasped. She looked small, alone and frightened. A situation of her own making had completely run away from her. And even so, she was more beautiful than any woman he had seen since Ninon…

  "If I may make so bold, m'dear," he said kindly, "you underestimate Whitthurst. Do not now underestimate Damon, also. He's inclined to be top lofty, I grant you. But he's no fool. He'll find a way out of this mess."

  Sophia regarded him uncertainly and, dabbing at her eyes with her dainty handkerchief, quavered, "I just do not understand. The Duke seems a kind man. Even though I could tell they were not exactly—close, surely he wouldn't turn his back if the Marquis were in desperate trouble?"

  Ridgley scowled but said nothing. Sophia noted in an absent fashion the carefully colour-matched leather covers of the books. Very neat and very clinical. She thought of Damon's library and the many dog-eared, shabby books, the worn and broken backs, the oft-read and beloved favourites.

  "Vaille don't know," said Ridgley gruffly. "Nor is Damon like to tell him. All the Brandens are mad." He gave a wry smile. "I thought you'd already realized that. But if you're wondering why I don't tell Vaille about the fix Cam's got himself into—good gad, I'd not dare! The boy has a ferocious temper! He'd never forgive me. And I am—rather deuced fond of him, d'ye see."

  "I do see," she sighed. "He has made you promise you'll say nothing. Then I must try and do something." But what could she do? She'd given the money to Marcus, and the poor darling needed it so badly.

  Watching her, the Earl said shrewdly, "Already spent, eh, ma'am?"

  "I don't think so. But—I cannot give it back, I'm afraid."

  He realized that she had given it to somebody else. Not Whitthurst—Clay? Of course! She doted on the man, and he'd been deep under the hatches. Bless the chit! Despite her fiery impetuousness, she'd a good heart!

  "I shall have to tell my brother," Sophia said miserably. "I had so hoped he could have a few more days here, for he is much improved. But… there is no one else I can turn to. Someone must go to Devon and try to make Mr. Prendergast take down the fence, and I fear he'd not pay much heed to me."

  Ridgley frowned. It would be a bitter blow to Whitthurst to discover what his sister had done. And a greater tragedy if the shock and humiliation sent his health tumbling once more. Whitt looked happy again, and God knows, he deserved it. Camille had Thompson and Ariel at the Priory, or there could be no contemplating this. But he certainly needed help, and it just might be possible to throw a scare into that wicked old Prendergast… "Ma'am," he said tentatively, "if you have that note with you, I could go to Devon at once and try to effect some compromise—though I don't promise I'll succeed."

  "Oh! Would you? Thank heaven! I do not have a copy of the note. Mr. Prendergast said he would send one, but it has not come. If I were to give you a letter, appointing you my agent… would that do?"

  Sophia was unaccustomedly silent as her two maids fussed with the finishing touches to her toilette. Their awed exclamations woke her from her reverie, and standing to survey the results, she was pleased by her appearance. The gown Damon had sent was not too small. It fit so exactly, in fact, that she knew he must have borrowed one of her own and had careful measurements taken. The rich blue-violet enhanced her violet eyes. Connie had brushed her hair into a high cluster of curls atop her head, with one fat ringlet swooping to her right shoulder. Even the Viscount, escorting her downstairs, had nothing more critical to say than that the ladies would hate her with a passion. "Must say I still like the wide skirts and all those fluffy petticoats you was used to wear," he observed cheerfully. "Still, that's a good colour on you—dashed if it ain't." He grinned and added, "Might even win Phinny's approval—though I wouldn't refine on that!"

  "Wretched one!" she scolded, squeezing his arm affectionately. "Good heavens, are they dancing already?"

  They walked around the landing and started down the last spiral of the stairs. Music drifted pleasantly through the huge room. The air was sweetly scented by the fragrant blossoms of the great bouquets and hanging baskets. Already the hall was filling, and near the foot of the stairs, Lord Phineas and his sister, an angular lady named Mrs. Bridgley-West, who had come down from Bath for the occasion, stood receiving their guests.

  Whitthurst, looking pathetically thin in his dark-maroon jacket and knee breeches, searched the throng eagerly. Glancing at him, Sophia's heart warmed, and she enquired teasingly, "Do you see her, dear?"

  "No. B
ut—Oh… my… good… God!"

  "What is it?" she demanded, her anxiety for him returning.

  "Don't go into the boughs, Chicky," he implored. "For pity's sake—do not lose your temper!"

  "Lose my temper? Why, Stephen—have you ever known me to—?" And she stared, immobile with shock. The ballroom was colour-matched to her! Instead of the black jacket she had expected from so formal an individual, Bodwin wore a peerlessly cut jacket of almost the exact shade as her new gown. The footmen wore blue waistcoats, the lackeys sported blue boutonnieres, even the maids hovering in the halls wore blue flowers in their hair. The bouquets, she now realized, were predominantly blue!

  "Dear heaven!" she gasped. "I am part of a display! Oh! That odious—that pompous! Oh! How could he?"

  "Rich as Croesus," Stephen grunted, misunderstanding. "Must have cost him a mountain of blunt, though, to have all those damned silly outfits tailored in jig time! Chicky!" He grabbed her arm. "Where are you going?"

  "To change, of course!" she said furiously.

  "You cannot! There's no time. Besides—you promised him you'd wear the frippery thing!"

  "Let me go! I will not be put on exhibition like one of his prize possessions! We shall seem a couple! Stephen! It might almost be an announcement! Oh! How dare he!"

  "Because he's a pompous damned ass! If he weren't so blasted well meaning, I should punch his head. But— They've seen us!"

  "Ah," cried Lord Bodwin eagerly, "there you are, my dear Lady Sophia. And how exquisite you look!"

  Mrs. Bridgley-West's pale face was upturned, her hard eyes filled with malice. Stephen hissed, "Please, Chicky! It's a devilish trick, but the poor old fool don't know how clumsy he is."

  Seething, she knew that if she left, Stephen would also leave. And this was the first ball he'd wanted to attend since his illness. "Very well," she grated, baring her teeth in a tigerish smile, "but never—as long as I live—shall I forgive that insufferable windbag!"

  "Dear Lady Sophia," crowed Bodwin. "Come and enjoy your moment of triumph!"

  The dancers, gliding through the complications of a quadrille, created a brilliant, shifting pattern against the gleaming floor; the air rang with lilting music and the pleasant chatter of the glittering throng. Taffeta and satin rustled, feathers nodded, jewels sparkled. Beautifully decorated fans fluttered in dainty hands; jewel-encrusted quizzing glasses swung from strong, gloved fingers. And everywhere speculation was rife. Sophia Drayton and Phineas Bodwin? Was it possible? He was fabulously wealthy, true, and what lady would not desire such a magnificent home—such a dozen, in fact, of beautiful homes? But—Sophia Drayton? The toast of Italy, the darling of London, the girl who was known to have reproved the Prince himself and earned only a laugh and a wink from that notorious gentleman? Bodwin was old enough to be her father. He was handsome, admittedly: a fine figure of a man. And many an ardent beau gazed enviously at the elegant Lord Bodwin, while many a lovely lady looked with curiosity upon the incredible beauty of The Drayton.

  Feather, beset on every side, was irked by the enquiries until she realized what had triggered them. She made her way to Whitthurst and, drawing him apart from a noisy group of young men, said urgently, "The ton is agog! Is Sophia like to murder our host?"

  "At the very least," he answered with a rueful grin. "Can't say I blame her. She didn't notice it in time, y'see, ma'am, and couldn't very well create a scene at the last minute."

  "She's handling herself very well. See how she smiles upon him."

  Whitthurst saw and shuddered. "Poor Bodwin. By tomorrow we'll be on our way back to Kent." A vision in a cloud of pink silk and chiffon came toward him. His eyes took on a glazed look. His lips formed her name, but no sound could be heard. Feather watched mistily as they drifted to one another and, with a sigh for yesterdays, went in search of her good friend, Lucinda.

  "What I should do," Sophia gritted as Harry Redmond handed her a glass of punch, "is leave this fiasco! Never have I been so mortified! Look at all those spiteful cats. See how they smile at me, then titter behind their fans!"

  "Then laugh," advised Sir Harry wisely, his green eyes dancing with mischief. "Bodwin ensnared you very neatly and has announced his intentions and your apparent acceptance without saying a word. I find it hilarious."

  "Then you, cousin," Sophia remarked with a trill of insincere laughter, "are as odious as Bodwin is foolish."

  "In which case, my dear," he countered, "I am not in the least odious." She glanced at him, her head tilted questioningly, and he warned, "Bodwin may appear foolish, and self-opinionated he most certainly is. But he's as safe to cross as a Bengal tiger."

  "You jest, surely?"

  "No, ma'am. I do not. Aha!" His sober gaze brightened. "Now Phinny's ball is an assured success. Look who just arrived."

  Sophia looked, and her heart turned over. Damon stood near the stairs, his intent gaze turned to her. Their eyes met across that crowded room and, for an instant, it was as though none was between them. Then he bowed politely over the hand of the Countess of Carden, and friends pressed in, surrounding him.

  Sophia tore her eyes away from his dark head and realized with a sudden ache of grief that Redmond was murmuring something. "Your pardon, Harry?"

  "It was of no importance—and I'd not thought to bring you to tears!" Dismayed, he stepped closer. "What's wrong, love? Can I—"

  "No, no. It is nothing. Please do not—"

  "Lady Sophia…?"

  How that deep voice plunged an arrow through her heart. Fighting for composure, she turned to meet eyes that glittered in a face pale with rage and powder. His bruises were effectively hidden, but—Camille in powder? She felt an hysterical urge to giggle and only with a great effort managed a cool "Lord Damon, how pleasant to see you again."

  "You look very lovely, ma'am," he said with a sardonic smile, straightening from the briefest touch of his lips upon her hand. "And the colour becomes you far more than some of those you have permitted to copy it."

  "Evening, Cam," said Sir Harry politely.

  "Camille," Sophia begged, low-voiced. "If you will let me explain, I—"

  "Egad, my lady, I am not blind." His brows lifted, and he drawled, "And must not allow myself to become confused. I'd come to think Hartwell was to be the lucky man. Now it would seem I must offer my congratulations to Phineas."

  Looking from the cynical hauteur of the Marquis to the flushed features of his cousin, Sir Harry smiled, "Awfully good to see you, Cam."

  "Does it indeed, my lord?" frowned Sophia.

  The Marquis lifted his quizzing glass languidly to inspect her, the flowers, and the distant form of Lord Bodwin. "What a charmingly coordinated picture." And he added wickedly, "Almost a uniform—you would look so well, side by side, atop a wedding cake… Or—do I detect a treat in store? Is there to be some kind of group entertainment later in the evening?"

  "I am sure you will both excuse me," Sir Harry grinned.

  "Group entertainment!" gasped Sophia.

  "Cheerio!" Redmond laughed and deserted the field of combat.

  "All you need," sneered Damon, eyes glittering, "are the Bodwin sapphires, and your costume would be complete."

  "If you must know, I refused them. It would have been most improper!"

  Damon appraised a passing footman, glorious in his blue waistcoat, and said with a curl of the lip, "Belated awareness, ma'am?"

  "You," she hissed, "are extreme offensive tonight, sir. Did you come purely to be odious?"

  "Apparently, since I am sadly at odds with your colour scheme. I do possess a blue jacket. Would you wish, ma'am, that I go home and change?"

  Sophia drew a deep breath and, knowing that many eyes were upon them, opened her fan with a snap that almost rendered it in twain and, with a forced smile, grated, "Thank you for this beautiful gown, my lord. Though I will admit I had no least intention to wear it tonight."

  "What a great pity," he said in a bored fashion, "that you changed your mind."

  "So t
here you are, Damon."

  They had been so wrapped in their quarrel that neither had noted the Duke approaching, and they stared at him, equally astonished.

  Sophia dropped a curtsey in response to Vaille's bow. Rising, she shot a glance at the Marquis and found his attention fixed upon a lady virtually surrounded by admirers, whose answering gaze seemed to hold a warning. Charlotte Hilby had surely never looked lovelier, gowned in an exquisite misty chiffon that seemed to an irritated Sophia exactly the shade of Damon's eyes.

  His father's presence astounded the Marquis. He knew he had always disliked Bodwin, but before he could speak, Vaille murmured gently, "A private word with you, if you please, my lord."

  Sophia experienced a surge of nervousness, wondering what sins the Duke had now discovered in his errant heir; and then Genevieve was hurrying to join them, aglow with happiness, her hand on the arm of a so obviously lovestruck Whitthurst even Vaille's stern countenance softened.

  Bodwin appeared at Sophia's elbow, begging that she keep her promise and sing for them. She was ushered to the dais, willy-nilly; the orchestra struck up, and she sang. Conversation was busy in the room when she began. By the time she finished, total stillness prevailed. A storm of applause rang out, with shouts of "Encore! Encore!" She sang again, the old Zingari air her father had particularly loved. And again their response was tumultuous. Bodwin, delighted by this success, prevailed upon her to sing "that lovely piece" she had sung for them at the Priory. She agreed and, glancing to Damon as the orchestra struck up, found his brooding gaze upon her. Somehow she made herself look away as she sang the words that would, to her, always belong to him. At the end, knowing she had never sung better despite her heartbreak, she looked again to Camille. He was bending to listen to something Miss Hilby whispered, apparently paying no least attention to the song. A knife turned in Sophia's breast as she was practically carried from the dais by a swarm of admirers. The ovation was deafening. Deluged with compliments, adored, flirted with, worshipped, she was swept into a refreshment room and plied with ices, cakes, and delicacies. From the corner of her eye, she saw Damon come in, at once creating a center of attention. He was in a light-hearted mood now, and she heard his deep laugh ring out several times. Not once did he seem to glance her way, and eventually he returned to dance attendance upon an obviously worried Miss Hilby.