The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  In love. The man is in love.

  And so was Sophia. Her heart soared, if guardedly. She was not ready to share Nicholas with the world. Not just yet. She needed him to herself—craved the opportunity to learn everything there was to know before they faced the future.

  She began to shake all over at the mere thought.

  “My lady, you’re shaking,” Lettie said with worry, dropping the dress over the chair back once again. “I apologize. I’ve kept you talking when you should be resting. Let me help you out of that gown and into bed before I go and see about having your dress pressed.”

  “Yes, I believe a bit of a lie-down would be wise,” Sophia agreed. She stood, legs trembling, to give her companion access to the buttons on the back of her dress. She steadied herself against the chair, gripping the rose-hued velvet until she scored the fabric with her nails.

  Lettie finished freeing the buttons and tugged at the fabric with efficiency until it pooled at Sophia’s feet. “If you’d like, I’ll have cook send up a tray.”

  “Yes, thank you, Lettie. I believe a quiet night is just what I need.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Nicholas startled at the sound of Sophia’s voice and slipped one stair tread down from where he’d been sitting. “I’m not precisely sure,” he replied, watching as she came ’round to join him on the carpeted main stairwell of Petworth Manor.

  The clock in the foyer below chimed midnight. “What are you doing skulking about at such a late hour?” he countered playfully, offering Sophia his arm as she settled against him.

  “I was waiting for you—or waiting to go to you,” she thought aloud, clearly not having decided. “And then I grew hungry. Waiting can do that to a person, you see.”

  Nicholas smiled and leaned in, intent on kissing her. “May I?”

  “We’re fools, aren’t we?” Sophia asked, meeting him halfway and placing a sweet, hesitant kiss on his mouth. “Here we sit, waiting for the other. Thinking on our kiss by the lake, yet wondering if we’ve need to ask permission for another. Wanting to know everything about each other yet too shy to ask.”

  He moved his mouth to the shell of her ear and nibbled at the tender lobe. “I’ve waited nearly my entire life to touch you, Sophia. That many years of restraint does something to a person.”

  “For my part, I cannot claim years of yearning,” Sophia answered with complete honesty. “But I want you—the whole of you. Your thoughts and feelings. Your heart. Your body. Everything. And I cannot let hesitation or embarrassment keep me from you.”

  Nicholas’s mouth went dry. “I … You … Exactly.”

  Sophia sighed with amusement, an air of ease settling between them. “Well then, what do we do to regain some composure—some balance, if you will?”

  Nicholas trailed a series of small, wet kisses down her neck, circling about the neckline of her blue dress and ending his travels with one last kiss on her mouth.

  “Do you really want to know everything about me?” Nicholas asked boldly, though he felt stupid for doing so.

  Sophia cupped his face in her hands. “I do. And more.”

  He felt ridiculously pleased. As a child might upon receiving the most wanted of gifts on their birthday.

  “This is where you confirm your own desire to know everything about me, Nicholas,” Sophia prompted, gently pinching his cheek before releasing him.

  Nicholas eased back against the stairs, placing his elbows on the tread just above. “But I already do know everything. You always assumed I wasn’t paying attention to you—when, in fact, I was.”

  “Is that so?” Sophia asked, arching one brow in disbelief. “My favorite color?”

  “Green. Emerald, to be exact.”

  Sophia emitted a low “mmm.” “What makes me the happiest?”

  “Your work with the Halcyon Society,” Nicholas answered succinctly.

  “What makes me sad?”

  Nicholas hesitated for a moment, not wanting to upset her. “The sight of a mother and daughter together.”

  Sophia turned to look down the long stairwell, a frown appearing on her lips. “Does that make me selfish? That I envy such girls?”

  “It does not make you selfish,” Nicholas assured her in a low, steady tone. “It makes you human.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb methodically over her knuckles.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, turning her face toward him once more. “Now, I believe it is my turn.”

  “Ah yes,” Nicholas confirmed, thinking back on her questions. “Rose, you, Langdon.”

  Sophia’s eyes grew round with dismay. “You really are the most impatient man in all of England, aren’t you?”

  “Efficient, Sophia,” he corrected her teasingly. “I am the most efficient man in all of England.”

  Sophia chuckled at his reply. “Well, that may be. Still, I’ll require an explanation—especially the rose part.”

  “It’s simple. The color rose reminds me of you—of your lips, to be precise.”

  “Oh, that is quite sweet, Nicholas,” Sophia said, then leaned in and gently kissed his cheek.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Nicholas asked in all seriousness. “You appear to have a gift for bringing out the most detestable traits in me—sweetness, thoughtfulness, kindness. Really, everything admirable that ends in ‘ness.’ ”

  “Well, that is improvement. At least you didn’t deny their existence.”

  “You’re quite comical, you know,” Nicholas teased, pulling Sophia onto his lap. “I nearly forgot where I was … Ah yes, what makes me happy. You. I believe my gut-wrenching speech delivered in front of the milliner’s should suffice for explanation.”

  Sophia wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. “I suppose it will do. Now, for the sad bit.”

  “Must I?” Nicholas asked, only wanting to close his eyes and breathe in the scent of her. “I am not accustomed to laying my soul bare. In fact, I rather avoid it, if you must know.”

  Sophia tilted her chin until her mouth rested against his ear. “The sad bit, Nicholas.”

  He swore under his breath. “Langdon is my brother, Sophia. And despite all of the upheaval, the unnecessary drama and pain I’ve caused, he never so much as let me think he regretted it. He never once lost faith in me, unlike my parents—though, to be fair, I’ve absolutely no confidence that they ever possessed any to begin with. Langdon is my brother …”

  Nicholas swore a second time, not bothering to hide it beneath a whisper. He swallowed hard and rested his cheek against Sophia’s. “I want him to be happy. To be rewarded for the admirable life he’s lived.”

  “As do I,” Sophia murmured, tightening her hold on him. “And he wants the same for you, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas brought her as close to him as he could, memorizing the feel of her in his arms. “But at such a high cost? That is the question.”

  June 4

  “You hurt my feelings, young man, taking your dinner in your room. On a tray, no less.”

  Nicholas smiled warmly at Mrs. Welch, Petworth’s cook. “Well, that is typically how one does it, though I would be most happy to entertain other ideas. Perhaps a horse’s backside? Wide enough to accommodate all of the necessary dishes and such. Still, how would one ensure the nag did not wander off with one’s meal?”

  Mrs. Welch let out a cackle that could surely be heard on the Continent. “You well know what I’m unhappy about, you sly fox. But it is nice to know you haven’t changed, Nicholas—oh blast! Mr. Bourne, that is. All these years and I can’t think of you as anything else. Your own fault for not visiting us a time or two when you were grown.”

  Nicholas sat back, the heat from the kitchen fireplace pleasantly warm. “Then we have something in common, Mrs. Welch. For I cannot think of you as anything other than the young, beautiful cook who so cruelly denied my advances.”

  “You were a boy, Nich—Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Welch said, catchi
ng herself. “And the second son of an earl. Besides, it was only my tarts you were interested in,” she finished, shooing away a kitchen girl with a wave.

  Nicholas simply looked at the woman with a slight smile, arching his eyebrow as he took another drink of coffee. “Your tarts?”

  “Ah! Go on with you, then,” Mrs. Welch howled, her peal of laughter making the spurned kitchen girl titter with amusement.

  “Dear me, I seem to have missed the joke.”

  Nicholas swung about in his chair. Sophia stood in the doorway that divided the kitchens from the servants’ dining area. He’d woken that morning thankful that they’d decided against anything more than rest last night. Their conversation had taken a toll on both of them.

  He stood and sketched a neat bow. “There will be another one shortly, never fear.”

  Mrs. Welch rose to her feet as well and curtsied, her excitement over Sophia’s presence palpable. “Lady Sophia, I don’t suppose you’ll remember me. We are all so glad to have you here once again. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Welch,” Sophia answered, walking to the scarred kitchen table and taking a seat. “And of course I remember you—quite fondly, actually. You were my most stalwart supporter against Reynolds.”

  Mrs. Welch grimaced at the sound of the butler’s name. “Well, I don’t know if the news reached London. Mr. Reynolds had his comeuppance served to him on the horn of an angry bull. He was gored to death while chasing after a village boy who he believed had stolen from the manor’s gardens.”

  “Good Lord,” Sophia uttered, her eyes widening with horror.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” Mrs. Welch blurted out, looking pleadingly at Sophia. “I must learn to mind my tongue. It’s just that we’re not used to anyone else but the small staff, you see.” She eyed Sophia carefully.

  Sophia cocked her head, confusion flitting across her face, only to be quickly followed by a mischievous smile. “Oh, please do not misunderstand me, Mrs. Welch. I was merely thinking of the poor bull. That must have been quite frightening for him to find a man such as Mr. Reynolds affixed to his horn.”

  Mrs. Welch slapped the table with her large, worn hands and cackled. “Oh, Lady Sophia, you are still the sprite I remember from long ago. I’m mighty glad for that. We all worried, you see, when Lady Afton …”

  Mrs. Welch peered down at the scarred table and brought her fist to her lips, rubbing her knuckles gently back and forth. “I’ll just shut my mouth, Lady Sophia, and have Daisy fetch your morning tea.” She laid her hand on the tabletop and pushed herself to her feet, then snapped her fingers once in the kitchen girl’s direction.

  “Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Welch said with solemn formality. “If you would be so kind as to accompany my lady to the jade drawing room? Daisy will be there directly with a tray.”

  “Please, Mrs. Welch.” Sophia reached across the table as if to grasp the cook’s hand to keep her from leaving. “You’ve not upset me with talk of my mother. In fact, I was rather hoping you would be willing to share what you remember about her—and me. It was all so long ago, and I’m afraid most of my efforts have been aimed at forgetting Petworth.”

  “And why wouldn’t that be the case?” Mrs. Welch asked, her sober countenance softening a touch. “Such a tragedy, it was. But let us speak of the happy times, yes?”

  Nicholas watched Sophia smile appreciatively and return her hand to her lap. What a show the woman was putting on, he thought with admiration. She meant to question the cook right there, over tea and shortbread. All the while pretending to want nothing more than fond memories and touching stories.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?” Mrs. Welch asked hesitantly as she smoothed out her white apron.

  Nicholas looked at Sophia, unsure of whether a change in venue would affect her plan.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Sophia replied. “It’s rather warm and inviting in the kitchen. And there’s a pleasant hum of activity. So very different from the main floors.”

  Mrs. Welch snapped her fingers again and Daisy jumped, nearly spilling the hot water.

  “Your mother made the very same observation, my lady,” Mrs. Welch commented as she oversaw Daisy’s efforts with the tray. “Oh, she loved life above stairs, do not misunderstand me. Still, there were many times she could be found down here, lingering after this or that errand.”

  The kitchen girl carried the laden tray to the table under the watchful eye of Mrs. Welch and set it down carefully. “Shall I pour, then, ma’am?”

  “No, you shan’t, you daft girl. Go on now and see if Jonah has returned with the supplies from town.”

  Mrs. Welch watched as Daisy turned a tidy curtsy then practically ran for the door that led to the outer yard.

  “She’s sweet on Jonah, so we should not be disturbed,” she explained, a twinkle in her eye as she settled into her chair once again. “How do you take your tea, Lady Sophia?”

  “A splash of milk is all,” Sophia replied easily, and smiled graciously when the cook handed her the tea.

  “And you, Mr. Bourne? How do you take your tea?”

  Nicholas glowered dramatically at the woman. “I take my tea and pour it out in the nearest field, Mrs. Welch.”

  The cook tsked at his humorous reply and returned the pot to the tray. “As clever as ever. Do you remember, Lady Afton called you her crow? ‘Smart as the day is long, crafty and cunning, and far more entertaining than any play could ever hope to be.’ ”

  Nicholas noticed a brief shimmer of distress in Sophia’s eyes, though it passed just as quickly as it came. “Is that right?” he asked Mrs. Welch.

  “I remember,” Sophia offered, looking kindly at the cook. “She had pet names for us all.”

  Was this really going to happen, then? Nicholas asked himself. A cup of tea, a biscuit or two, and a tragedy resurrected as though they were discussing the price of hay?

  “That’s right, Lady Sophia,” Mrs. Welch chimed in, a fond expression lighting her features. “Young master Langdon was a buck, master Dashiell her red fox, and you, my lady—”

  “Were her swan,” Nicholas interrupted, the image of Lady Afton looking down at Sophia as she named her flashing in his mind’s eye. “Beautiful and loyal, with a nasty bite when provoked.”

  Sophia smiled wistfully, as though picturing the exact image. “Yes, I do remember now,” she said, lifting the dainty china teacup to her mouth and sipping. “Mrs. Welch, you mentioned that my mother spent a fair bit of time below stairs?”

  “Yes indeed,” the cook answered, looking about the kitchen. “She was very involved in the day-to-day workings of the manor, of course. And careful to keep up on the servants. She knew everyone’s birthdays, all about our families—and more than once, all about our sufferings. A finer mistress I’ll never find—nor a finer woman, I’d wager. And you can bet every last person in service to the Aftons would say the same.”

  Nicholas watched as Sophia tipped her head in thanks for the cook’s appreciation. It was nothing they had not heard before—nor did not know to be true from their own time spent in Lady Afton’s presence. But hearing it from Mrs. Welch, more than fifteen years after Lady Afton’s death, was profoundly touching.

  Nicholas rose abruptly, desperate to be away from the memories, if only for a few minutes. “I need to speak with the butler. Please, continue,” he urged the two. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  He walked to the door and stepped across the threshold, momentarily disoriented. He ground his teeth against the flood of melancholy emotions, his hands curling into fists.

  He wrestled the grief with iron control and started down the hall, peering into what was clearly the housekeeper’s office before continuing on. At last, he found the butler at the end of the hall, sitting behind a neat desk and consulting a series of sums in a ledger. “Good day,” Nicholas said cheerily, walking into the man’s office.

  The butler snapped to attention and quickly rose from his chair, quill still in hand.
“Mr. Bourne, I did not see you there. My name is Mr. Watson. What might I do for you?”

  Nicholas had hoped Watson would be unavailable, preferably upstairs, so that he might have a moment’s peace. Clearly, that was not meant to be. He glanced about the neat room, noting the nearly empty bottle of brandy sitting on a side table. “I was wondering if you might have some brandy sent up to my quarters,” he asked.

  “Of course, Mr. Bourne,” the butler replied, walking around his desk and over to the side table. “In fact, I was just going to return this to the storeroom. I’ll fetch you a new bottle and I’ll send it up at once.”

  Mr. Watson picked up the brandy and turned to Nicholas, waiting for him to leave.

  “I will take care of this one, Mr. Watson, if you don’t mind.” Nicholas held his hand out.

  Mr. Watson did not even bat an eye. He simply handed over the bottle and bowed, then left the room.

  So why did Nicholas feel … what? Embarrassed? He pulled the cork from the amber-colored bottle and lifted it to his lips.

  Guilt, perhaps? He tipped the bottle up and drank, savoring the almost instant numbing quality of the smooth brandy as it slid down his throat.

  God, this business was grueling. All he wanted was to lay hands on Lady Afton’s murderer, not sort through everything he’d spent years trying to forget.

  When the bottle was empty, he returned it to the side table.

  That would be enough. At least for now.

  17

  Sophia had forgotten how much she liked Mrs. Welch. As she watched the animated woman share stories of Lady Afton with her, she could almost allow herself to enjoy being back in the house she’d once lovingly called home.

  But the pain Petworth clearly caused Nicholas made Sophia heartsick.

  She promised herself that it would not be in vain.

  After Nicholas had abruptly left to find Mr. Watson, Sophia encouraged the cook to talk about Lady Afton’s affinity for event planning. Their reminiscing had led naturally to a discussion of the house party during which her mother had been killed.