Chapter Five
Sophy gasped and spun round to stare in Ives’s direction. She was so delighted, so relieved to have an ally, that any resentment of his high-handed actions during the previous evening were forgotten. Even his brash intrusion into what was an extremely private matter was forgiven. He looked, she thought happily, very menacing and implacable as he stood there by the door. Just exactly the sort of ally she needed at the moment.
Her features alight with pleasure, she said, just as if he had not barged into the midst of an ugly scene, “Lord Harrington, how kind of you to call. We were just discussing Anne’s stay with me. Miss Weatherby is Anne’s aunt.”
His green eyes twinkling, Ives approached her and bowed low over her outstretched hand. “After our adventures last night, it seemed appropriate that I call upon you this morning.” Casually tucking her hand under his arm, he turned to face the others.
“I am Viscount Harrington,” he announced with deliberate hauteur.
“I do not care who the bloody hell you are,” growled Edward. “You are interfering in a personal matter that is of no interest to you.”
“Hmm, I had hoped,” murmured Ives, “that after a night’s sleep your nasty temperament would have improved, but I see that I am doomed to disappointment.” He glanced down at Sophy, who was trying discreetly to free her hand. “I know that you have told me that this dundering rake is your uncle, but surely there is some mistake?”
The words were said with such innocent bewilderment, that Sophy nearly choked on the amusement bubbling up within her. The encouraging gleam in Ives’s green eyes was her undoing, and, unable to help herself, she burst out laughing.
“There is no mistake. And you, my lord, are incorrigible!”
Ives smiled lazily at her. “And you should laugh more.”
Looking across at Lord Scoville and Miss Weatherby, he said, “I think that it is time that you were leaving, don’t you? Let me assure you that your niece will be safe enough with Lady Marlowe. In fact, I venture to say that she will be safer here than she ever was in your hands. And as for you”—he glanced at Edward—“I would suggest that you give up your pursuit of ladies of such a tender age. The next time I find you abusing an innocent, I will do more than knock you down.”
“It was you!” Edward howled, just now realizing precisely who the big man at Sophy’s side was. “You hit me! Refused my challenge.”
“Yes, I believe that I had that honor,” Ives drawled, “and I suggest that unless you really want to find out just how good I am on the dueling field that you take yourself off. And Miss Weatherby with you. You have inflicted your company on Lady Marlowe long enough.”
“Well!” huffed Miss Weatherby. “I am shocked! Yes, shocked by such rude, overbearing manners.”
It was clear that she did not quite know what to make of Lord Harrington’s entry into the battle. His confident manner had aroused the uneasy suspicion within her that it might be prudent to withdraw from the lists for the time being. Further argument today could only prove to be unproductive, and there was every possibility that Anne’s stay with Lady Marlowe might turn out to be a very good thing.
After all, Lady Marlowe was the daughter of an earl, the niece of a baron and the widow of a marquess. To think that her niece was hobnobbing with such blue blood was a very heady thing for Miss Weatherby. There was also, Miss Weatherby admitted, the unfortunate fact that Lady Marlowe, ably abetted by Lord Harrington, was not going to release Anne without a fight. This could lead to embarrassing questions about her guardianship of the Richmond heiress, something Miss Weatherby wished to avoid at all costs.
While Edward continued to bluster, Miss Weatherby put as good a face on it as she could, and said, “I see that you will not be swayed, and since you seem to have only Anne’s good wishes at heart, I will agree to let Anne stay with you . . . for the time being.” She bent a stern look upon Sophy. “I shall hold you accountable, Lady Marlowe, for any harm that might come to my dear, dear niece while she is under your roof.”
Sophy bowed as haughtily as a queen. “Let me assure you that Anne will certainly not be subjected to the type of treatment she has suffered at your hands!”
Miss Weatherby stiffened, her eyes narrowing. Clearly half tempted to wade in and continue the fight, she glared at Sophy.
It was Ives who broke the deadlock, saying calmly, “I am sure that your niece will be well taken care of. Lady Marlowe has already shown herself extremely expert in that area. She has had the sole care of her younger brother and sister for a few years now.”
When Edward started to object, Ives bent a deceptively bland eye upon him. “The sole care,” Ives repeated softly. The expression deep in those devil green eyes gave Edward pause and his grumblings prudently subsided.
“Very well, then,” Miss Weatherby said. “There is nothing further for us to discuss today.”
“Oh, there is one other thing,” Sophy contradicted smoothly. “There is the matter of Miss Richmond’s clothing and personal effects. I would suggest that you have them brought here as soon as possible.” She smiled at Miss Weatherby. “The poor child has only the gown she was wearing last night, and that is badly torn. I am sure that you would not want it gossiped about the ton that you sent her to visit me with hardly a stitch of her own clothing, now would you?”
Miss Weatherby’s bosom swelled. But with a curt nod, she bid them good day and—with Edward trailing angrily behind her—swept from the room.
Sophy looked admiringly at Ives. “I must say that was well done of you, my lord! For once, you have my sincere thanks for your timely intervention.”
Ives lifted her hand to his lips. “Ah, but I have no doubt you would have vanquished them all on your own, my dear Lady Marlowe.”
Oddly breathless at the touch of his lips on her skin, Sophy jerked her hand from his and moved quickly to put several feet between them.
“What brought you here at so opportune a moment this morning?” she asked bluntly when she felt she was in command of herself.
“A polite call?” he offered, his eyes gleaming.
Her gaze flew to his. “Is that all it was? Just a polite call?”
“What do you want it to be, sweetheart?” Ives inquired with a smile that turned her bones to honey.
With an effort, she kept herself from smiling back at him. Flashing him a dark look, she said, “You are too forward, my lord. I am not your sweetheart!”
“Well, not yet, anyway,” Ives returned imperturbably.
Sophy took in an outraged breath, and her lovely eyes filled with gold fire. “Not only are you far too forward, my lord, but you are arrogant as well.”
Ives tried to look chastened. “You are no doubt correct, my lady. I pray you forgive me and put it down to my having been a mere soldier until a short time ago. Having lived rough for a number of years, I confess that the fine manners of the aristocracy are a great puzzle to me.”
“You are also,” Sophy retorted, trying very hard not to smile at his feigned wretchedness, “a great fraud!”
Ives sighed heavily. “’Tis all too true, I fear.” He shot her a hopeful look. “Mayhap you would take me under your wing and teach me how to go on?”
“Perhaps you could stop trying to bamboozle me and tell me why you came to call this morning?”
“Bamboozle! As if I would do such a thing! Nay, nay, sweetheart, you have me all wrong!”
“I am not your sweetheart!”
His eyes crinkled attractively at the corners and even before he opened his mouth, she knew what he was going to say. Her own eyes glinting, she warned, “And don’t you dare say ‘not yet!’”
He laughed and, closing the distance between them, took her hand in his once more and murmured, “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t have me tell you an untruth, now would you?”
Sophy muttered something rude under her breath and, after futilely struggling to free her hand from his, glared up at him.
“My lord, I do not know what
maggot has gotten into your brain, but I assure you that I am not some easy lightskirt you can overawe with your charm. I will speak frankly to you: I am not casting about for either a husband or a lover. If you think to pursue such a relationship with me, I will tell you to your face that you are wasting your time. Now, dash it, let go of my hand before I box your ears!”
“Such talk and from a lady of your breeding!” he gasped, his green eyes mocking her. “I vow I am shocked.”
Since he looked anything but shocked, Sophy snorted and demanded, “My hand, my lord?”
“Ah, such a pretty hand it is, too. Do you really object to my holding it?” He brushed a kiss across the back of it.
Managing to jerk it free from his grasp once more and ignoring the tingle that raced up her arm, she said sternly, “My lord, I must ask you to leave if you are not going to behave in a proper manner.”
Edging toward the door, she added, “I do appreciate your help, not only last night, but this morning also.” She glanced back at him. “But while your intervention was appreciated, it was unneeded and does not give you the right to take liberties with me or to force yourself upon me. If you wish to keep in my good graces, I suggest that you leave . . . now.”
“That is certainly telling me, isn’t it? Is that how you have kept the gentlemen at bay all these years since your husband’s death?” he asked interestedly, not moving an inch.
Sophy gritted her teeth. The dolt was impossible! “Since they were gentlemen, I did not have to speak so plainly,” she replied sweetly.
Ives threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, sweetheart, that is certainly telling me.”
“By the Devil’s bones!” Sophy swore, forgetting herself by using one of Simon’s favorite oaths. “Will you leave, my lord, or must I have my butler throw you from the house?”
Chuckling to himself, Ives walked toward her. “Now don’t get yourself all twitterpated, my lady. If you really want me to leave, I shall.” Ives smiled down at her, then dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Whatever pleases you, sweetheart.”
Leaving her staring after him, Ives strolled out of the room. It was several seconds before Sophy’s heart resumed its normal pace and her chaotic thoughts untangled themselves.
She told herself it was anger that prompted the rapid heartbeat; but the odd thing was, she didn’t feel angry at all. In fact, a bubble of laughter threatened to escape from her. The man, she thought helplessly, was impossible! And arrogant! And, she admitted uneasily, there was the possibility that he was very, very dangerous to females with susceptible hearts.... Which of course, she did not possess!
During the following days, Sophy’s opinion of Lord Harrington did not change. Torn between vexation and amusement, she grew to expect him to appear magically at her side at whatever function she happened to be attending. In fact, she began to realize that she was growing rather used to having the rather large and alarming Lord Harrington hovering at her side whenever she appeared in public.
Worse, he had craftily insinuated himself into her household, coming to call frequently and outrageously wooing Phoebe, Anne, and Marcus to his side. They, she thought darkly, thought him a great gun. As well they should, since he always seemed to be arranging outings for their amusement.
In the days since Lord Harrington had foisted himself on her, he had arranged to take everyone to Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre one evening and had thrilled Anne and Phoebe by giving them a ride through Hyde Park in his dashing high-perch phaeton.
Not content with enslaving Anne and Phoebe, he had introduced Marcus to Gentleman Jackson himself at the former boxer’s boxing saloon on Bond Street, much to Marcus’s gratification. He had even hosted a meal at Offley’s for Marcus and his two boon companions, feasting on the hotel’s excellent beefsteak and enjoying themselves hugely.
Why, only yesterday, Sophy remembered almost indignantly, he had swept aside her objections, something he did with infuriating regularity, and cheerfully escorted the three ladies to a tour of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum and afterward, to a scrumptious tea at Grillon’s Hotel. The younger ladies were clearly enamored of him and his easy, teasing manner kept them both giggling. He had become an integral part of Sophy’s life and to her great dismay she was growing to like it.
But Lord Harrington seemed to be her only concern these days. She and her siblings were happily partaking of the pleasures London had to offer. Anne Richmond had settled into life at the Grayson town house as if she had been born to it, and Lord Scoville had not intruded further into their affairs. Anne and Phoebe were fast friends, and Anne clearly looked upon Sophy as her savior. There was nothing, she swore passionately to Phoebe, that she would not do for dearest Lady Marlowe. Nothing.
Anne’s relationship with Marcus, however, could only be termed tepid. He politely tolerated her, and she viewed him with a wary forbearance.
While things were going rather well at the moment, Sophy was vaguely aware that something of a more permanent arrangement would have to be made for Anne. As requested, Miss Weatherby had promptly sent over Anne’s effects and made no push to change the situation.
Anne’s drain upon Sophy’s purse, at present, was slight, and Sophy begrudged her not a penny, but she could see that there were going to be problems down the road. What would happen when the Season ended and the Grayson family returned to Cornwall? Of course, they would take Anne with them, but what sort of a dustup would ensue with Miss Weatherby? Sophy would not even let herself think of what might happen in a few years if the situation remained unresolved and it was time for Anne to make her London debut and young men were to come courting, as was certain to happen given Anne’s beauty and great fortune.
The state of Anne’s affairs worried Sophy and one afternoon about ten days after the interview with Miss Weatherby and Edward, Sophy asked her explicitly about it.
The three ladies were sitting in the small conservatory at the rear of the house, enjoying the spring sunshine as it beamed through the many windows. Phoebe and Anne had been halfheartedly plying their needles on some edifying samplers, and Sophy had been idly leafing through a pattern book sent to her by her favorite modiste.
Sophy had not really been paying attention to the book in front of her. Her mind had been on Anne’s situation. Looking across at Anne’s industriously bent head, she asked abruptly, “Why is your aunt so set on your marriage to my uncle? What does she gain by it?”
Anne was startled by the question, and for a moment her pansy brown eyes were blank. As comprehension set in, she put aside her sampler, and answered simply, “As I told you that first night, she wants me aligned with the aristocracy and your uncle was going to settle a substantial sum of money on her after we married. She doesn’t have any money of her own. My grandfather disinherited her.”
“I know all that, but doesn’t she have the ability to draw on your fortune?” Sophy asked, thinking of the way her uncle was raiding her siblings’ fortune.
“Only for my upkeep and for that she has to apply to the trustees of my father’s and grandfather’s estates. Any sums for my care are generally disbursed directly to the creditors themselves, once the trustees determine they are legitimate. Aunt Agnes is given a household allowance for the day-to-day running of my establishment, and I understand that they pay her a sum of her own because she is taking care of me. Since she lives wherever I do, she has no actual living expenses. But the trustees are very strict. She is always complaining that they go over the household accounts rigorously, questioning all her expenditures. They are not stingy. They simply make certain that the money is spent on me or for my welfare.”
A frown furrowed Sophy’s forehead. “Isn’t she your legal guardian? Or are the trustees?”
“She is. The trustees watch over my fortune, but Aunt Agnes supposedly watches over me. My father named her my guardian after Grandfather died. She was my only living relative and he thought, if something were to happen to him, it would be better for me to be in the care of a relative th
an an utter stranger. He was aware of the safeguards my Grandfather had put in place to protect his estate from her grasp, and he took similar precautions.”
“And when you marry?”
“When I marry I suppose that my fortune will naturally be in the hands of my husband. The trusteeship would be ended.” Anne looked very adult as she said thoughtfully, “I believe what Aunt Agnes and your uncle planned is that once he and I were married, and he came into control of my fortune, he would settle a large portion of my money on her for having helped him marry me.”
“Why, that is utterly Gothic!” exclaimed Phoebe, who had been listening avidly. “It is a good thing that Sophy came along when she did! And I think that my uncle must be a dashed loose screw!”
“Phoebe!” Sophy scolded, choking back a laugh. “You must not talk that way. It is most unbecoming.”
“Marcus says it all the time,” Phoebe countered stubbornly. “And you do, too, so why can’t I?”
“Because you are being raised a lady. I am beyond redemption, and your brother is a gentleman—they do as they please.”
“But you are a lady,” ventured Anne, “and you say whatever you want.”
“You forget,” Sophy answered with a dancing smile, “I may be a lady, but I am also a widow, and widows have far more freedom than mere ladies!”
“I wish I were a widow,” sighed Anne, and both Phoebe and Sophy burst out laughing.
“For shame,” Sophy said teasingly. “Not even a bride yet, and you are already wishing your poor husband in his grave.”
Having heard Sophy’s history from Phoebe, Anne glanced at her through her lashes. “And did you never wish your husband dead?”
The laughter left Sophy’s face, and in a hard little voice she admitted, “My husband’s death was something I devotedly prayed for nearly every waking moment of my marriage. When he died I felt that my prayers had been answered.”
For Love Alone Page 9
