All I Ever Needed

by Jo Goodman

  Sophie nodded slowly. Her experience had not been so different. "I had not imagined the rumor would have traveled so far."

  His shrug was indifferent. "From town to country. It is the usual way of these things. With so many parties dedicated to the third anniversary of Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, it was inevitable the tale would spread as quickly as the plague."

  "It is not a pretty metaphor."

  "But it is apt."

  Sophie did not deny it. She fingered the material of her dress just above the knee, pressing a fold together, then smoothing it out. It was an absent gesture, one she engaged in when she was neither as composed nor as incurious as her placid features might suggest. "You told them you were not engaged, of course."

  "Of course."

  "They believed you?"

  "I should hope so."

  "Then it was not your friends who first raised the story of our engagement?"

  Eastlyn looked at her sharply. "Did you think so?"

  "It occurred to me." She paused, waiting him out. Patience had always been her strong suit, but she was learning the limits of it with the marquess. When she could tolerate his silence no longer, she asked, "Am I wrong?"

  "Yes." He waited now, anticipating her next question, though he could see that she was loath to put it to him. When she artlessly caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried it gently, Eastlyn found his eyes drawn to the line of her mouth. She did well to show some reticence, he thought. Her angelic looks be damned, the most surprising things came out of that perfectly sculpted mouth.

  Aware of his scrutiny, Sophie released her lip, touching the teeth marks she had pressed to the soft underside with the tip of her tongue. She was made further self-conscious by the small crease that appeared between Eastlyn's brows and the darkening of his eyes. "You are scowling at me."

  He wasn't, but he was not unhappy that she thought so. She was perhaps as innocent as he always thought her to be. That would prove to be her best defense should he imagine an attraction toward her. Eastlyn relaxed the line of his brow and returned his attention to her faintly accusing eyes. He was coming to understand that in Lady Sophia's company his balance was a rather precarious thing. If he was not stepping where he shouldn't, then she was knocking one leg out from under him. "I beg your pardon," he offered with clipped politeness.

  Which brought Sophie back to the matter at hand. "About your friends," she said carefully. "Do you believe their denials?"

  "You are assuming I asked them if they began the rumor. I did not. I think I know their character well enough to know this type of trick is not done by them. You may believe me or not."

  "I believe you."

  Both of Eastlyn's brows rose slowly. "Why? Can it be you have changed your estimation of my character? Gambler? Drunkard? Murderer? Am I absolved of all these things?"

  "Not at all," she said with disarming frankness. "But I never imagined you to be given to untruths. If I had entertained such a notion, you would have put it quickly to rest when you answered my questions with such forthrightness."

  He grunted softly, thinking of his pistol again. There was an odd sort of logic to her thinking that he couldn't quite grasp and wasn't certain he wanted to. "So the fact that I have admitted the flaws in my character also makes me an honest man."

  "Yes."

  Eastlyn simply collapsed back on his elbows and briefly closed his eyes. Slim beams of sunlight through the parted branches warmed his face and eased the set of lines across his brow and at the corners of his mouth. He breathed deeply, finding the small ache that had begun behind his left eye could be suppressed if he did not overtax himself.

  "My lord?"

  Her voice was proof that she had not disappeared. He opened first one eye, giving her a long, considering look, then the other, doubling the effort. "You are certainly a perverse creature, Lady Sophia. Have I mentioned that?"

  "I believe you said I was not a restful person. There was no mention of perversity."

  His mouth crooked to one side. She was having fun with him now, and the marquess found he did not mind. Still, there was the coil of this false engagement to settle and his desire to make certain Lady Sophia emerged unscathed by any scandal. Eastlyn pushed himself upright, then drew himself to his feet. He held out a hand to Sophie, who regarded him with some surprise. "A walk, if you will," he said. "After so long a journey on horseback, it cannot help but improve my thinking."

  Sophie felt compelled to point out, "It is but a very small garden, m'lord."

  "Yes, but then I have a very small mind."

  This last did not raise Sophie's smile. Slipping her hand into his, she allowed herself to be helped to her feet. She accepted the crook of his arm, keenly aware that from somewhere in the house they were being watched. Eastlyn could not help but know it himself. It was not fear of impropriety that dictated there be a modicum of supervision. Sophia was of an age where it was not unseemly for her to be alone with a male acquaintance in a setting such as this. The reason she and Eastlyn were being observed was exactly the opposite. Within the house at No. 14, there was the most fervent hope that matters would proceed in a most improper manner and that Sophie could be forced to change her mind about marriage.

  Eastlyn and Lady Sophia stepped onto the narrow path of crushed stone. Sophie's fingertips grazed the velvet petals of a pink rose as they walked through the lattice arbor. For a moment their features were shaded from the sunlight.

  "You are going to say it, aren't you?" she said, feeling his steps slow.

  "I must."

  "It is not necessary."

  "I think it is." It was a matter to which he had given a great deal of thought on his return to London. He had not, however, arrived at a solution that satisfied. When last he had considered it, he had been leaning toward the opinion that opposed the very position he meant to take now. It was interesting to him that Lady Sophia was adamantly opposed to it, but he did not want to hear the course of her thoughts or how she had arrived at such an end. It would only make his head ache.

  Sophie drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. With considerable calm, she told him, "Then have it done quickly, m'lord. Afterward I will call for refreshment so you can wash the taste away."

  He stopped completely and drew her toward him, taking both her hands in his. He gave them a small shake. "You must look at me, Sophia, else how will you judge the truth of my words?"

  She lifted her chin and looked up at him. He was a full head taller than she, and his shoulders half again as broad. It would be an easy thing to always stand in the circle of his arms, but she couldn't think of one reason why it would be the right thing to do. "Go on," she said. "Now. For both our sakes, have done with it."

  She was not making it easy for him, which was precisely the tactic she had chosen to avoid just this end. It had been her strategy all along, he realized, as if she had known from the moment he breached the walls of her garden sanctuary that he would want to speak these words. Odd that she had believed he would make the honorable gesture when he had been uncertain himself.

  Eastlyn narrowly avoided clearing his throat. The effect would have added weight to the moment that the moment simply did not require. "Lady Sophia, it is my fervent wish that you will acquit me of being presumptuous. Although our acquaintance has been brief and, based on our previous encounters, I would not have judged that we might suit, I have had reason to revise that opinion this afternoon. I am sincere when I say you will make me a most happy man if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife."

  Sophie merely stared at him, saying nothing.

  Eastlyn waited. A fine sheen of perspiration attached itself to his upper lip.

  Sophie cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow and remained silent.

  No coward by anyone's definition, the marquess now had reason to believe his knees might buckle.

  Taking pity, Sophie said, "I will see to those refreshments now, my lord. Please, excuse me." She withdrew her hands from his and presente
d him with her back. She was halfway to the rear entrance of the house when she heard him call after her.

  "That is no answer! I would have your answer!"

  She paused, but did not turn, and Eastlyn was not privy to the sad, uncertain smile that cut across her features like an open wound.

  Harold Colley, Viscount Dunsmore, stepped into the hallway immediately upon hearing Sophie's entry. He did not apologize for the start he gave her but went straight to the point. "Well?" he demanded. "Is it done? Has he come up to snuff? The two of you looked to be having quite a coze."

  "You were watching." It was no question, but a statement, and disappointment quieted her. She had expected that he would observe her meeting with Eastlyn but not that he would be so bold as to admit it. Harold really had no shame.

  "Of course I was watching. You are living under my roof and therefore my responsibility. How else could I be assured Eastlyn would mind the proprieties?"

  "Then you saw he was a gentleman." She turned to make her way to the kitchen belowstairs but was brought up short by her cousin's fierce grip just above her elbow. She did not try to shake him off, and neither did she look pointedly at his fingers pressing whitely into her flesh. Instead she waited him out calmly, holding his narrow, disapproving gaze until his hold eased. She would bear the imprint of this brief encounter for days, she knew. In spite of the summer heat, long sleeves would be in order. "I have promised our guest some refreshment," she said.

  "In a moment." Harold let his hand fall to his side. He worked his lower jaw back and forth as he weighed his words carefully and reined in his anger. His fingertips tingled as the blood returned. "I have no liking for losing my temper," he said. "You would do well not to provoke me, Sophia."

  There was no response that satisfied in these circumstances, at least none that she had been able to discover. It was difficult, perhaps impossible, for Harold to accept that she did not set out to nettle him. These moments of intemperance galled him because he liked to view himself—and have others view him—as a reasoned, thoughtful man. When he made decisions they were considered ones, if not considerate, and he perforce had the expectation that they would be met with agreement. His opinion on any matter was so sound, so commonsensical, he believed that others must follow it as proof of their own good judgment.

  "Pray, forgive me," she said softly, no longer meeting his gaze. Since coming to live with Harold and his family upon the death of her own father three years past, Lady Sophia had learned a certain amount of contrition was required to place the peace before them again. In most instances it was not difficult for her to do because there was so little of consequence at stake. She was not opposed to offering an apology to placate her cousin even if it attached some fault to her. "It is only that you startled me."

  Harold grunted softly, thereby communicating his acceptance of her regrets. He was a trim, but slightly built man, given to carrying himself stiffly as though this bearing might compensate for a lack of physical presence. It had pained him to be forced to observe the small drama unfolding in his own garden from a position in the house, his nose pressed to the glass like a beggar at the baker's window. "I should like an answer," he said.

  "My lord Eastlyn is waiting for one as well."

  Harold thought he heard a hint of impertinence in Sophie's tone, but he chose to let it pass for now. He had remarked to his father only last month, when the earl had made his perfunctory inquiry into Sophia's welfare, that she was a sensible female, perhaps more so than most of her sex. Biddable was how he had described her, an unexceptional companion to the viscountess, a proper influence on the children. It was no hardship to have her under his roof, he'd reported to his father, and surely Sophie would prefer the activity of London to rusticating with the earl at Tremont Park. As he had little interest in having Sophie underfoot for much longer than a single fortnight, the Earl of Tremont was easily persuaded to extend Sophie's stay in town. There was still the matter of a suitable match for her, a situation that could be more easily remedied, the earl agreed, if Sophie remained available to the London bucks.

  Which was why Viscount Dunsmore found himself so vexed by her recalcitrance in regard to the Marquess of Eastlyn's suit. Not only was her refusal to do as she was told an affront to his sensibilities, but she made him appear a poor judge of character. There was no aspect of this last that set well with Harold.

  "Please, cousin," Sophie said. "His lordship will wonder what has become of me and if I mean to return to the garden."

  Harold led her into the rear parlor where he had posted himself to observe Eastlyn's suit. He rang for the butler and permitted Sophie to request lemonade for herself and her guest. As soon as they were alone again, Harold pounced. "What precisely did the marquess say?"

  "He said he was sincere in his suit and that I would make him most happy by agreeing to be his wife. That is the standard, is it not? It is much the same as Lord Edymon said to me when he pressed his suit. Also Humphrey Bell. Is it something men learn at Eton and Harrow, do you think?"

  Harold was unamused by what he thought was an unseemly attempt at humor. "I was not aware there were previous applications for your hand, Sophie. You have never mentioned it." Perhaps if she had, he thought, he would have been prepared for this small mutiny with Eastlyn.

  Belatedly, Sophie realized that Harold had probably used a similarly unimaginative proposal when he sought Abigail's hand. She had doubtlessly offended him again, a state of affairs she seemed to be unable to avoid these days. Even treading carefully, she managed the thing with tiresome regularity. It did not bear thinking how accomplished she might become if she actually applied herself to the task. "Edymon came to me before Father died, though I suspect his lordship knew there was not much time left. Mr. Bell came afterward, when it was still uncertain where I would go." She would have told Harold she had no regrets about her answer to either man, but a servant appeared with a tray, glasses, and a pitcher of lemonade. "Take it to the garden," Sophie said. "And tell his lordship that I will join him directly." It surprised her when the maid did not remove herself immediately, but looked to Harold for direction. She saw her cousin hesitate a moment, staring at the tray as if contemplating the necessity of offering this small hospitality. His agitation was clear, and when he finally gestured that the maid should go on, his direction was impatient and churlish.

  Sophie made to excuse herself again. "You would not have me be rude to our guest."

  "Indeed not," he said tightly. "How little unpleasantness there would be left to share with me."

  Sophie charitably supposed her cousin meant to suggest sarcasm with his tone. To her ears he merely sounded spoiled, and it was borne home to her anew how little liking she had for him. "I must go," she said when he continued to block her way. "Please, Harold, you must see that it is required of me to speak to his lordship. You cannot expect me to tell you first what I mean to tell him." In point of fact, she had told Harold repeatedly what she intended to tell Eastlyn should he make a proposal. Her cousin simply refused to believe her or, more accurately, believe he could not change her mind.

  While Harold was forming another carefully crafted objection, Sophie used the distraction to turn sideways and slip neatly past his jutting elbow and the doorjamb. She was already in the hallway when he realized she was escaping and at the door when he began cursing. Although Sophie understood all too well that she would be made responsible for that curse, she didn't pause on the threshold to the garden. Instead, she flung open the door and hurried from the house, slowing her steps only when her feet touched the crushed-stone path.

  In spite of the calm she affected by the time she reached Eastlyn, she knew her face was flushed. It required some effort on her part not to press her palms to her cheeks. If she was fortunate, Eastlyn would merely conclude that it was her eagerness to return to him that forced the color on her complexion, not that it was brought on by her cousin's latest effort to intimidate her. She was more embarrassed for Harold than frightened,
or even angry. She doubted he would ever understand how his grasping, rapacious nature offended her.

  "My lord," she said in the way of greeting as Eastlyn came to his feet. "Please, do not trouble yourself. I beg you, sit." Sophie saw he had a glass of lemonade in his hand. The pitcher and extra glass were on the bench. "Is it to your liking?"

  "If you mean has it washed away the taste of my proposal," he said, "I fear that will require something fermented, preferably for twenty or more years in an oaken cask."

  Sophie marveled at the perfect aridness of his tone and wondered that he did not eschew his glass and drink directly from the pitcher. "My comment stung, did it?" she said softly, the tiniest smile lifting one corner of her mouth. "I cannot even apologize because it was my intention that it should."

  "I never doubted it."

  Sophie slowly sat down. Wishing she had indeed asked for something stronger, regardless of the hour, she poured herself a glass of the lemonade. "I did not want you to make your proposal."

  "You were clear on that point."

  "Yet you made it anyway."

  "It was a matter of honor."

  Sophie wasn't certain she understood why he thought that was true, but she did not ask. Wrapping both hands around her glass, she drew in an uneasy breath and released it slowly. "Have you truly considered the consequences, my lord, if I were to accept?"

  Chapter 2

  Eastlyn wondered if he had ever been so discomposed as he was in the presence of Lady Sophia Colley. He had negotiated terms of surrender between entire countries that were less troubling to him. But then, he acknowledged, this was about his surrender, and in all those other situations he had been dealing with levelheaded men who were well versed in the nuanced language of diplomatic relations.

  Sophie's faint smile hinted at her amusement. Though Eastlyn's fine features remained imperturbable, his silence in the face of her question spoke most eloquently of his feelings. "I collect you are happy to have this bench under you," she said.