Disobedience by Design
Regina Kammer
Harwell Heirs series, Book Two
Lady Sophia is presented to Society on her eighteenth birthday and is unimpressed. Her parents encourage the suit of a duke, a man older than her father! Yet free-spirited Sophia is smitten with her brother's handsome American business partner, who introduces her to sensual delights beyond the bounds of propriety.
Seeking investors for his railroad enterprise, Joseph is out of his depth among the British aristocracy. Even worse, he can't keep his hands off Sophia, a beauty far beyond his social class who is betrothed to a duke. When the duke’s villainy is revealed Joseph decides to risk all to protect Sophia and he embarks upon a partnership of an entirely unexpected nature.
Inside Scoop:Disobedient and excitable Sophia enjoys a bit of disciplinary spanking. Joseph likes to watch when he’s not part of the action and has a taste for men as well as women—sometimes both at once. Includes references to the villain’s evil: rape, child abuse and violence.
A Romantica® historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Disobedience by Design
Regina Kammer
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my family, friends and romance colleagues for their enthusiastic and continued encouragement. Thanks to my editor Jill for pushing me. Special thanks to my husband for transportation and investment scheme research—and everything else.
Dedication
To Curtis, wherever you are. I’m sure you’d laugh at this one too.
Chapter One
Lincolnshire, 24 March 1860
Boring. Boring. Dreadful. Taken.
Lady Sophia Harwell sat upright in a baroque high-backed chair, her hands folded primly in her lap, affecting a polite demeanor as she surveyed the guests attending her eighteenth-birthday ball…and decided that the eligible men Mama had picked out for her were, each one of them, somehow ineligible.
Of course that might have been Mama’s plot all along. She and Papa were quite adamant Sophia marry the rather dull Duke of Royston, which must have been the reason they decided to hold her party on the first Saturday of spring—the very same day as the queen’s first Drawing Room of the year. Thus, it seemed, all the truly handsome, interesting men were attending their sisters and cousins during their presentations at Court.
Sophia simply could not see herself as the Duchess of Royston—well, really could not see herself as a duchess at all, it seemed such a boring fate—but especially could not see herself marrying Royston. The man had to be well over fifty—he was older than her parents, of that she was sure. His hair was almost all gray, the hair he had left anyway. And he was—well, the most polite thing she could say was paunchy and that didn’t seem very polite at all. She would not mind so much his portly physique and lack of hair if such things meant he was jolly and wise. She could see herself raising a couple of chubby babies with a man such as that, and then being widowed by the time she was twenty-five. But Royston was boorish, arrogant, condescending and sometimes quite vile, especially to the servants. Being married to him even for a day would most certainly not be very pleasant, and having to give him children was an odious notion, even if doing so meant she would end up a young widow who could eventually marry for love.
But according to her parents—and her brother—being the daughter of the Marquess of Richmond meant she had a responsibility to marry a peer—the higher the better—and give him a son. They all spoke of familial obligation, of duty to the crown and how they, as the heirs to the Richmond Marquessate, were above sentimentality and romantic notions.
Yet somehow her brother Arthur, the actual heir to the marquessate, was allowed his sentiment and romance.
That just boiled her blood.
She loved Arthur, she really did. He was the best brother in the world. Why, at that very moment he danced with his fiancée Henrietta—Henny—her full skirts swinging like a bell in perfect rhythm to his lead, their faces flushed and smiling. His countenance reflected the swell of pride he felt toward Henny, hers how absolutely besotted she was with him. They were a perfect couple and Sophia did not wish them ill will in the slightest but she did take umbrage over the fact that Arthur was allowed to marry for love and she was not.
Or maybe she was just annoyed because when Henny, the beautiful, charming daughter of the Earl of Bloxholme, fell in love with the rather handsome—she had to admit, even though he was her brother—Lord Petersham, she had decided Sophia’s fate.
Because for a short while, Henny had been considered a possible wife for the Duke of Royston. He was her mother’s cousin and so when Henny came of age and Royston was still unmarried, all concerned—except Henny of course—discussed their possible union. Then she met Arthur at a grand social occasion where he was all dressed to the nines and dashing. After that, Henny was no longer considered a match for Royston.
She must have breathed a sigh of relief. And it wasn’t as if her decision was intentional. No. Henny just had reasonable parents who preferred their precious daughter marry for love.
Whereas Sophia was somehow expendable in the service of queen and country.
She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile as the music ended and Arthur and Henny came toward the dais where Sophia sat.
“Are you feeling well, Sophie?” Arthur’s forehead furrowed in concern.
“Oh I’m just tired, is all. I need a little respite.”
“Arthur, your sister has been dancing all night and with some dreadful partners, I should add.” Henny touched Sophia’s shoulder. “Darling, shall we go to the refreshment room?”
“That would be wonderful, Henny.”
The best thing about Arthur getting engaged was Sophia suddenly gaining an older sister. Mama had her limitations as a confidante and friend. With Henny, Sophia finally had someone to gossip with, someone to talk to about men with, someone to tell her all about kissing. Someone who was actually on her side in the whole Royston affair.
“I think it’s ghastly that your parents are even considering such a match, Sophie,” Henny had said. “Let’s make sure we find you someone else, shall we?”
Unfortunately Sophia’s birthday party was not the night to find that someone else.
“You know I think I saw Geoffrey over by the champagne earlier. Perhaps he’s still there.” Henny raised a suggestive brow and offered her arm.
Sophia stifled a smile but she couldn’t hide a blush. She and Geoffrey Peel were partners in the sinfully delightful pastime of kissing. She wasn’t in love with him—he was far too interested in boring pursuits like hunting and fishing. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t divert each other when the opportunity presented itself. And as a good friend of Arthur’s who lived two hills over, Geoffrey was around quite a bit and opportunities were more plentiful than they really ought to be.
The path to the refreshment room was fraught with guests pausing to bestow birthday greetings, introducing Sophia to bachelors and widowers, or stopping for pleasant chitchat. When they finally arrived Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen. Royston, however, chatted loudly with the Countess Asterby and her extraordinarily pretty daughter Maude—who was certainly only sixteen—all the while brandishing disgustingly lascivious leers in the poor girl’s direction.
Henny gently pulled Sophia back into the oak-paneled passageway.
“Looks as if we’ll have to try our luck in the ballroom,” Henny said.
On the return journey once again they had to feign sociability and gaiety. Sophia’s head hurt from offering false smiles and tedious pleasantries to people she barely knew.
She steered them up the stairs to the ladies’ retiring suite. There maids attended their ladies, arranging hair and dresses. I
n the back room a gaggle of girls gossiped—probably complaining about the dearth of handsome suitors. They greeted Sophia then quickly filed out. Sophia plopped on a padded bench, her crinolines poofing up her skirt inelegantly. She patted the spot next to her. Henny sat with the same indecorous flair.
Sophia giggled. “Henny, it’s after midnight and so, I suppose, no longer my birthday—”
“And it’s not really your birthday anyway, darling.”
Henny was right. Sophia’s birthday was in February but February was far too cold a month for a coming-out party. Although the first Saturday of spring was only slightly warmer.
“Yes well, I mean, I don’t think I should have to stay until the end, right? I’m frightfully bored.”
“Sophie—” Henny scolded.
“I just want to find Geoffrey and take a stroll.”
Henny laughed her very contagious laugh then squeezed Sophia’s hand. “All right but don’t stay away too long or your parents will go searching. You don’t want them catching you.”
Maybe I do. Then she would have to marry Geoffrey and not the horrid Royston.
“Sophie.” Henny’s voice raised in rebuke.
“No one will see me. I’ll take the servants’ stairs.”
Henny shook her head. “All right. But I know nothing about what you are doing, remember?” She kissed Sophia’s cheek then stood and left with a nonchalant air.
Sophia waited a moment then glided down the back stairs, through the corridor behind the ballroom and exited into the Great Courtyard. She crossed to the private passageway that led to the Great Wood where Geoffrey always waited for her and inhaled the air of temporary freedom.
* * * * *
Joseph Phillips sank into the button-back, leather club chair and gazed in admiration at Arthur’s billiard room, the dark luster of the wood paneling and box-beamed ceiling evoking a refined manliness a world away from the crude virility of the New York docks. He swirled the brandy in his crystal snifter, the rich amber liquid reflecting the golden glow of the fire in the marble-trimmed hearth, and sucked on his cigar, exhaling the fragrant smoke with a sigh. A man could get used to such a life very easily, too easily. Especially a man enervated from spending almost three weeks traveling three thousand miles, using every damn mode of transportation in existence. Joseph swigged a mouthful of liquor with a bitter blasphemy for being part of such an exhausting industry.
The departure of the steamship Telemachus from the Port of New York was delayed due to a dispute with the captain of a merchant ship left short-handed with landing his cargo. For Joseph, a former stevedore, the episode was the height of irony, empathetic frustration mounting as he stood idly by, inconspicuous in a crowd of other first-class passengers waiting along South Street. He was a modern man of business now, his future in railroads not waterways, yet his status was in stark opposition to his sympathies.
Of course the lost time was made up during the Atlantic crossing, the proud distinction of the steamship’s snub of the vicissitudes of the wind. His rather beat-up copy of The Odyssey provided an intellectual refuge from vacuous, polite conversation during the fifteen days at sea. The smiles of young women were especially diverting. But the daughters of the wealthy were not the lusty damsels of the docks and only served to remind him of his probable upcoming abstinence while ensconced among the aristocracy.
Liverpool was as chaotic a port as New York and he wanted to linger but he was not a tourist. Then, lo and behold, the train was delayed due to rain. Good heavens above! How did the British do anything in their blasted country if their railroad could be delayed by rain? But he got his day in Liverpool. He sent a letter to Arthur explaining his predicament, then received a reply that very same afternoon. There was to be a grand social occasion on the night Joseph was to arrive but Arthur was certain Joseph would not be interested in such an event and he should simply proceed to Arthur’s entrance and his man would take care of him.
The missive in his hand begged the question—why couldn’t Joseph simply ride with the damn postman?
The next day he took the London & North Western from Liverpool to Manchester, transferred to the Manchester, Sheffield & Lincolnshire line to Retford, transferring once again to the Great Northern to Little Bytham. The choice of routes was staggering, competition among the various railway companies creating a system of hatch marks to shade the contours of England. One day the map of the United States would be equally criss-crossed with its transcontinental system.
The station-master at Retford telegraphed his colleague at Little Bytham to expect Joseph’s arrival but the message had failed to be delivered to Arthur’s man, and when Joseph arrived at the tiny station in the middle of the night he had to shake a local wretch out of bed, promising money he did not have but assuring the man that the Earl of Petersham—his very good friend indeed—would be able to pay any amount. Darkness and drowsiness made the nearly two-hour dogcart ride dull. By the time the half-asleep driver found himself on the gravel approach to the great Tudor hall that was the estate of the Marquess of Richmond, he was wide awake. And by the time the man stood on the carved stone stoop of the east wing, his jaw dropping at the sight of the elegantly dressed butler, he said no fare was required, that the privilege was “all mine, milord,” and wished Joseph a very good night.
Joseph would have to send the man an appropriate sum in the morning.
As it was well past midnight all he wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately his body was still agitated from his travels, his thoughts spinning and reeling from nerves or anticipation or both. The earl’s valet—because gentlemen had such things—showed him to his rooms—not “room” singular—and had indicated where the billiards and library were, that both had been laid with fires and were quite comfortable, and then had left Joseph to his own devices.
So he threw off his jacket and waistcoat, tore off his tie and stiff collar, unbuttoned his shirt to mid-chest then staggered downstairs to the billiard room.
Once comfortably settled in the masculine haven, the glow of the fire burnishing the rich oak paneling, he said a quiet prayer of thanks to the gods who sent Arthur Harwell, the Earl of Petersham—and his cigars and brandy—into his life. He snorted a chuckle. Life was truly amazing when a poor American dock worker could be sipping brandy in the billiard room of an English earl.
* * * * *
Geoffrey Peel downed his champagne a little too quickly then grabbed another glass from a passing tray. He should have known Sophia would be busy with more eligible suitors. But—blast it!—he was her brother’s best friend and solicitor. He deserved a courtesy dance.
Because then he could exhaust her with far too much turning so they’d have to take a reprieve outside. There they would walk to a dark corner in the woods and tire each other out in far more delicious pursuits.
He grew hard just thinking about the possibilities. Ambling back to the ballroom should take care of that. The perfumes and décolletages of other women would be distracting.
He followed two such distractions as they babbled in what they thought was confidence. The advantage of being a tall man meant not only a good view of plunging necklines but the opportunity to eavesdrop undetected.
“Poor dear. Did you see her? She looked simply enervated.”
Sophia?
“And it being her debut—”
Yes. Sophia.
“She should have all the vigor of youth.”
Geoffrey looked down at the woman who spoke. She was not much older than thirty.
“Well I think I saw her go upstairs. And not to the ladies’ room. Across the courtyard.”
“Probably to her bedroom for a nap. The final dance isn’t for a couple of hours. Poor dear.”
Bedroom? He knew precisely where that was—from the outside at least. He knew at which window to toss a pebble as a signal to meet him in the woods. He’d only been on the inside once, having been invited to see a new dress, which turned out to be a high-collared day dress or riding h
abit or something equally unrevealing that her maid and the seamstress were fussing over. Of course he had followed her mother from the morning room so hadn’t come upon her bedroom from the courtyard, but no matter. He was fairly certain her room must be next to Arthur’s old bedroom, which Geoffrey had been in a few times before Arthur moved to the east wing. Surely he could find Sophia’s suite without too much trouble.
He sauntered casually out of the ballroom, through the French doors, across the flagstone courtyard to the family’s private staircase. He removed his gloves, pulled up the black collar of his evening jacket to shield the white of his shirt then ducked into the dark, furtively glancing around before he took the stairs to the first floor.
Torchlight from the Great Courtyard spilled through the diamond-shaped windowpanes of the gallery, illuminating his way. He kept to the shadowed wall along the bedrooms, peering at the bottoms of the doors to see if light shone through underneath.
A swoosh of skirts, pale gray in the dark, swirled not twenty feet away before him out of the gallery and into a room. The door clicked shut.
Sophia.
It must be her. Her dress was white—with a shockingly low-cut neckline. And if he remembered correctly, he’d just passed the door to Arthur’s old bedroom with its puppy claw scratches along the base.
Geoffrey drew in a breath as he reached her door. Accosting a woman in her bedroom was perhaps not the best of plans. But it was Sophia and they had an understanding. She might be surprised but she’d definitely be willing.
He turned the knob stealthily and went in.
The room was dark with a nip in the air. He let his eyes adjust and took a moment to scan the space. A sitting room, most likely, as the bed was nowhere to be seen.
He spied her at the mantel, a little hunched, perhaps warming herself at the dying fire. He was behind her in three strides.
“Sophie, darling, I’ve a present for you.”
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