Clearly the lads adored her, Adam noted as he climbed to his feet and went to retrieve the pot of tea. And so did he. He paused midstep, then continued, glad he was facing away from her so she couldn’t see his expression. He adored her.
It wasn’t all that surprising, he supposed, considering that they’d been together almost constantly for ten days, and that she was pretty, exceedingly good-natured, and just as compassionate. More unexpected was the fact that the realization startled him. He did have friends in whom he confided, after all, and women with whom he had sex. He’d just never had both in one package before.
Shaking himself, and deciding that his sudden self-awareness was somewhat pitiful rather than earth-shaking, he pulled open the drawing room door and retrieved the tea tray set on the floor. If not for his looming thirtieth birthday and Eustace circling like a vulture and waiting for him to fail so she could dig her claws into his inheritance, he would have sent for the Jones brothers. It would have been a small matter to tell them he didn’t like the bridge construction, and for them to begin the project over again. Then he could spend Christmas alone with Sophia. That would be a present he definitely appreciated, if the cost to him wouldn’t have been more than he could tolerate.
EIGHT
The Greaves Park music room lay directly off the portrait gallery. Sophia paused at the top of the stairs, her gaze already drifting to the former Duke of Greaves’s portrait despite her resolve never to spare that man another glance.
“It’s just a painting,” she muttered to herself, squaring her shoulders and stepping forward.
As she drew even with the portrait, though, she slowed. Not only had this man tormented his family in life, but he’d made arrangements to control his son’s life even in death. In a sense, he’d tried to ensure that Adam would marry without love—or at the least merely to keep his properties—that the new Duke of Greaves would have as little reason to respect and honor his wife as he’d had himself.
With a deep breath she faced the painting. Those compelling gray eyes gazed back at her, unblinking. Because she knew a little bit more about him now, she could study his expression, his stance, for hints of that self-concerned cruelty, that sense of arrogant superiority he must have had.
Michael Arthur Baswich. The ninth Duke of Greaves. Evidently she would have been just his type. A shudder ran down her spine. If that man had invited her to a Christmas house party, she would have declined the invitation. She couldn’t imagine wanting to spend time in his company, much less being intimate with him.
His son, though, was something else entirely. Yes, he could be arrogant and too sure of himself, but he actually listened when she spoke. He remained concerned over her comfort, and he didn’t mind losing a hand or two of cards—even to a female.
Most telling, whether or not he would ever acknowledge it, he cared about the sort of man he was. And the sort of man he wasn’t. How many dukes invited to their homes an illegitimate, employed female who wore trousers and oversized gowns? Not the one in that painting, she was certain.
“I don’t like you,” she said, and turned her back on him.
Adam stood at the end of the hallway, watching her. Damnation. She couldn’t even have a one-sided conversation with a painting without someone seeing.
A moment passed before he walked forward. “I know now how you feel about him,” he drawled, indicating the portrait behind her. “How do you feel about me?”
A smile curved her mouth, her insides heating at the mere notion that he’d bothered to ask her such a question. She reached up ostensibly to straighten his cravat, but mostly so she could touch him. “It’s too early to tell.”
“Oh it is, is it?” He leaned down and kissed her softly. “What are you doing in here? You didn’t come by just to reprimand my father, I assume.”
It took a moment for her to find her voice again after that kiss. “I used to play the pianoforte. I wanted to know if I still remembered.”
He nodded, then released her to open a neighboring door where a maid cleaned windows. “Two mugs of hot cider in the music room,” he said, and returned to her side. “Shall we?”
“I thought you were meeting with your bridge builders this afternoon.”
“They aren’t here yet.” He took her hands and turned her in a circle, his deep gray eyes sparkling. “I’m almost disappointed you’re not wearing trousers today.”
She glanced down at her blue muslin. “Milly’s washing them for me. This is actually my dress.”
“I remember. It’s the one you wore into the river. I’m glad it wasn’t ruined.”
“One sleeve was torn and the hem was ripped out, but Milly mended it for me.” She sent him a sideways glance as they strolled into the music room. “Why did you order your head housekeeper to be my maid?”
“Because you had one gown and a godawful hat to your name, and every lady should have a maid at least once in her life.”
“And you decided that even before you knew about my father’s ultimatum,” she returned with a soft sigh. And he doubted his own humanity, the lummox.
“I’m evidently very intuitive.”
Sophia snorted. “It is nice having someone help me put up my hair. Lucille and I sometimes do each other’s hair, but she digs the clips into my skull.”
Adam chuckled. “I’m glad to spare you a little cranial scarring, then.”
With a laugh she sat at the lovely pianoforte with its panel of inlaid mahogany and polished ivory keys. “It’s almost too pretty to play.”
“Nonsense. Show me what you can do.”
Suddenly a little nervous, she paged through the music resting atop the instrument. The Nocturne no. 4 in A Major by John Field seemed vaguely familiar, and she experimentally played a few stanzas. Slowly her fingers began to remember the notes, and her confidence grew.
When a pair of long-fingered, masculine hands reached past her shoulder to turn the page she started, stumbling over a handful of notes until her mind caught up to her fingers again. “Sorry about that,” he murmured.
“Don’t be. My fault.”
She finished the piece with an impromptu flourish of the keys, and Adam applauded. “You play well.”
“It was barely passable, but thank you. I don’t play nearly enough.”
“Do you have a pianoforte at the club?”
“No. It would have been nice, but none of us could ever afford one, and Diane and Oliver already provide more generously than we ever expected.”
“I’ll purchase one for you.”
Sophia looked up at him. A lock of his black hair had fallen across his forehead, and she brushed it away, lowering her fingers to touch his cheek. He was so handsome, and she wanted to ask how many women had fallen in love with him. “I won’t be there to play it.”
“I’ll send it to Cornwall, then.”
If he put his mind to it, he could make a great deal of trouble for her. “You cannot purchase a pianoforte for me. That’s much worse than a horse. It’s more … personal.”
His eyes narrowed for just a breath. “Then I’ll gift it anonymously to The Tantalus Club’s employees in your name. I imagine quite a few of the ladies know how to play.”
That sounded more reasonable, thank goodness. “Yes, they do. And since you’re ridiculously wealthy and the girls will be thrilled, I won’t argue with you.”
His lips curved in a slow smile. “I’m all astonishment.” His gaze holding hers, Adam kissed her again.
She pulled him onto the wooden seat beside her, sliding her arms around his neck and kissing him back. Mm, she liked this man. He kept saying she was unique, but she’d never met anyone like him—dark and dangerous at one moment, witty and good-humored the next. It would take years and years to decipher him, and she would have been exceedingly willing to take the time to do so.
The thought startled her, and she opened her eyes even as Adam lifted her onto his lap. The past fortnight had felt like a dream—that was why she could think such
Adam slowly slid his palm up her leg, drawing her skirt with it. Then the music room door opened.
“Hello, Adam,” Keating Blackwood drawled, the tray of cider in his hands. “Get your hands off Sophia.”
Sophia yelped, shoving down her rising skirt and leaping to her feet so fast she nearly knocked him off the bench. “Hello, Keating,” Adam said in his coolest tone, considering he couldn’t stand at the moment. He shifted his gaze past his tall, dark-haired friend. “Where’s your wife? Or have you forgotten her?”
“Your butler’s taking her up to our room. Once I heard that the two of you were in the music room, I thought I should be the advance scout.” Suspicious brown eyes glanced over at Sophia. “Hello, my dear. You’re well, I take it?”
So the blackguard thought he was doing something nefarious with the houseguest. Well, he was, but it was mutual. “Calm yourself, Blackwood.”
Sophia strode forward and took the tray from Keating. She set it down on a chair, then gave Blackwood a sound hug. “I’m glad you came,” she said feelingly, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m going to find Cammy.” Without a backward glance she fled the room.
Once she was gone, Keating lifted an eyebrow. “I’m awaiting an explanation that doesn’t end with me punching you in the nose.”
That was damned uncalled for, considering Keating’s reputation. “I have—had—one guest in residence. Sophia and I frequently take tea or cider together. And we’re both adults, so stand down or I’ll take you up on the suggestion of fisticuffs.”
With a quick glance around the room and another look at him, Keating relaxed his stance a little. “I’ll accept that.”
“Good.”
“Thank you for inviting us to your home,” Blackwood continued. “I’m attempting a life of propriety, but I haven’t been able to convince anyone of that fact. We don’t receive many invitations.”
“You stole your bride from someone else’s wedding, Keating. As your grand return to Society after that previous bit of scandal, it was certainly memorable but not very confidence-raising.”
Keating picked up one of the cider mugs and took a drink, then retrieved the other one and walked over to Adam. “And yet it was utterly worth it.”
“I’ll admit that you’ve lately seemed more civilized.”
“Just happier,” his friend returned, handing over the second mug. “And I tried not to take it personally that the first year in seven that I decided to accept your invitation, the one bridge to your estate fell into the river.”
Adam mustered a grin now that his mind, and his body, had mostly caught up to current events. If anyone had to arrive to interrupt this odd, peaceful interlude, he would rather it be Keating than nearly anyone else. “I’m glad you came.”
Narrowing one eye, Keating took another drink of cider. “And you wished to see a dazzling parade of unattached chits as well, then?”
“Not so much wished as needed to see,” he returned. “You do remember which birthday I’m nearing, don’t you?”
Keating looked at him blankly for a moment before his brows lowered in a scowl. “You mean to marry one of them. Of course. I’d forgotten.”
“So had I. Or rather, I ignored the inevitable until it arrived to gnaw on my ankle. This seemed the best setting to select someone appropriate.”
“Do they know why they’re here?”
“Not the details or the timing, but doesn’t every young woman have matrimony on her mind at every given moment?” Even as he spoke he knew there was at least one young lady present who would have preferred not to be facing matrimony, but Sophia seemed an exception to every rule, anyway.
“Then explain Sophia,” Keating said on the tail of that thought.
“I already did.”
“Yes, two adults thrown together by circumstance. Bollocks.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow. “You doubt my word?”
“Yes, I do. The letters Sophia’s been sending across the river to Cammy have been very … affectionate toward you, and my wife was worried that you might be up to some game or other. So was I. And considering what I saw in here, I’m not reassured.”
“I’m not leading Sophia astray, if that’s what you’re intimating. She has her own set of circumstances, but I’m not divulging them. You’ll have to speak with her.” Adam paused as the rest of what Keating had said struck him. “How affectionate were Sophia’s letters toward me?”
“Ridiculously so, at least to someone who knows you as well as I do. She’s a friend, Adam, and she helped me win Camille. So I hope you aren’t doing something disreputable.”
Adam took a swallow of warm cider. “I am not disreputable.”
“And I’m not blind. I’ll be speaking with Sophia just to verify your interpretation of this morning.”
As if he could do something to Sophia against her will without receiving a kick to the groin, anyway. Adam ignored the slight to his honor and stood. His flock of brides was likely crossing the bridge at this very moment, but he wasn’t heading for the foyer to greet them. Instead, he led the way to the upstairs room he’d given over to Sophia.
Her door stood open, and even from the stairway he could hear chatting and laughing. She must be relieved to have her friends finally there. Why wouldn’t she be? Now she had Camille Blackwood with whom to discuss her troubles, and from whom she could borrow gowns and gloves. Adam frowned briefly. He liked providing her with pretty things. It would be difficult to stop.
“May we come in?” he asked, stopping in the doorway to see Sophia and Camille Blackwood laughing over the wreck of a hat that had survived the dunking in the river.
She looked up at him, her green eyes dancing. “Cammy doesn’t like my new hat,” she exclaimed.
“All her things were lost in the river, Keating,” Camille said, rising from her seat on the bed to offer her hand to Adam. “I knew I should have brought more clothes.”
“If you’d brought any more clothes, we would have collapsed the bridge again,” her husband said dryly.
Adam took Camille’s hand and bowed over it. “Sophia is very practical. She’s found or borrowed a very … unique wardrobe.”
Dimly from the front of the house he heard the sound of more voices, and he steeled himself against the abrupt wish to flee the inevitable. The pleasant part of this holiday had just ended. “I have more guests arriving,” he said, attempting not to put any additional meaning into the words as he looked at Sophia. “I need to go greet them.” He turned his gaze to Keating. “I’ve given you two the corner room, right next to this one.”
With a slight inclination of his head, he left the room, pretending that he hadn’t just seen the sliver of regret touch Sophia’s pretty eyes. Did she regret the end of their interlude, or that it had begun at all? This was what would have happened a fortnight ago if the bridge hadn’t fallen into the river. Simply because it abruptly seemed as if the past fortnight hadn’t existed, that didn’t mean it truly hadn’t. Unless it did, and this had all been a perfect, snow-tinted daydream.
* * *
“You truly don’t need to, Cammy,” Sophia protested, as Camille dug into her just arrived trunk. “I have several gowns I’ve borrowed from servants.”
“I’ve brought more than I can wear,” Cammy returned. “Keating loves to purchase gowns for me.”
“Another reason I shouldn’t be wearing them.”
“Sophia, you can’t wear a servant’s dress to a Society dinner.” Straightening, Camille lifted a pretty blue gown in her hands. “This one should fit you.”
The deep gray gown Mrs. Brooks had found in an old trunk was at least as fine as Camille’s, Sophia decided, and she’d been wanting to wear it. Not to a large dinner, of course, but at least it did seem adequate for that occasion. More than adequate. “I’ll be fine. You should wear that one. It’ll look divine on you.”
“We used to share clothes all the time at the Tantalus. Why are you so reluctant now?”
“It’s not that.” Sophia sighed. “You’ll need to wear those clothes. I don’t want these people thinking you’re wearing my gowns or something. I have no place in Society; you and Keating do.”
“Perhaps on the very fringes. A killer and a runaway bride aren’t precisely going to be invited to Almack’s.”
Snorting, Sophia took the gown and held it up in front of her friend. It no doubt looked very good on Camille, with her buttermilk blond hair and blue eyes. “Perhaps not this Season, but you’re both interesting. I imagine in another year or two you’ll be the toast of London once again. Definitely wear this one tonight. Say you will.”
“Oh, very well. But you know you may borrow anything of mine you like. Whenever you like.” Placing the dress on the bed, Camille sat beside it and folded her hands in her lap. “Now. The Duke of Greaves.”
“What about him?”
“You said in your letters that he took you shoe shopping and riding and that you played several interesting games of billiards and piquet. You like him.”
Sophia lowered her brows. “Of course I do. We’ve become friends.” Friends who did some rather naughty things together, but that seemed beside the point.
“Is that all?” Camille asked skeptically. “Friends?”
“Close friends,” Sophia conceded with a smile.
“Oh, you sly thing!” her friend exclaimed. “Did he seduce you?”
With a shrug, Sophia plunked herself down on the bed, as well. “It was mutual. We were trapped here, after all. One has to have something to do to pass the time.”
Camille covered her mouth with her hands, her expression partly amused and partly dismayed. “You know he has mistresses. Did he offer you … that?”
“He mentioned it, but I just enjoy spending time with him. And I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
-->
