by Wendy Vella
“Please,” Sophie begged, “no more, my lord.”
“I want you, Countess, and I will stop at nothing to have you,” Patrick vowed, taking a deep breath before he continued. His body was an inferno. “You are no sweet maiden; you know what happens between a man and a woman, but maybe you have never experienced this level of passion. And it is rare, Sophie. Do not fight it, my sweet, when we could both find so much pleasure together.”
Sophie gripped the door handle behind her as Patrick moved closer. “I am afraid that is not possible, my lord, as I will be returning to Monmouth shortly.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “It is a dangerous game to tease a man, Countess.”
“No!” Sophie cried. “I … I would never.”
Patrick watched her slip through the door and away from him. Returning to the balcony, he looked out into the darkness below. He could have taken her right here on the balcony, if those harpies above hadn’t made their presence known. Feeling frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair, trying to make some sense out of what was happening to him. He wanted her so badly the woman had him tied in knots. Patrick had never behaved in such a rash manner before; never had he given a lady power over him. His liaisons were planned and then carried out in a bed, yet here he was, attempting to make love to Sophie where anyone could have walked in on them.
Her response was that of an innocent, yet how was that possible when she had a child? Was Timmy her brother? When he had accused her of teasing him, her face had been etched in horror.
He would not go near her again tonight. Tomorrow he would take her driving and he would get answers to the questions that plagued him, because there would be nowhere for her to run.
* * *
“That little baggage!”
“My lord?”
“Nothing further, Fletcher, thank you.” Patrick waved his butler away, his eyes still on the note in his hand.
“I will bring your tea, my lord,” Fletcher said, then quietly shut the door behind him.
Scanning the few lines of flowing penmanship, Patrick thought he might swap the tea for something stronger.
“So that is how you wish to play this hand, Sophie, Countess of Monmouth. ‘My son has taken a chill and it would be unwise to leave him in such a distressed state, therefore I must decline your invitation to go driving today, my lord,’ ” Patrick said, reading aloud.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, Coulter?” demanded a voice from the doorway. “Were you in fact treading the boards when you decreed that you must study, whilst I was reveling it up with my fellow scholars?”
Patrick carefully folded the letter and turned to face his unexpected guest.
“Is it an apparition? Surely the estimable Viscount Sumner is not standing before me at”—Patrick made a great show of checking the clock that hung above his desk before he added—“eleven o’clock.”
“Shut up, Coulter. My mother has come to town and you know what that means.” Viscount Sumner groaned, sinking into a leather armchair. A small, scruffy white dog followed, leaping nimbly onto Stephen’s lap before turning two circles and settling into a small coil.
“Good morning, Bidders,” Patrick directed to the small canine who had his back to Patrick. Clearly the dog had his master’s manners. “I will have Fletcher make up a room.”
“Very good of you.” Stephen propped his chin on one hand while he stared morosely into the fireplace.
“How many has she brought with her this time?” Patrick asked, reaching for his bottle of whiskey and pouring two healthy amounts into glasses. To hell with the hour! If ever two men needed a drink it was they.
“Ten, and three are sisters, but I fear more will follow,” Stephen replied, taking a large gulp of the whiskey Patrick had just handed him.
Stephen, unlike Patrick, had a mother who was still alive and seemed—in his opinion—hell-bent on making her son’s life one of abject misery. She often turned up with no warning, a full entourage of people and guests accompanying her, and invaded Stephen’s town house demanding attention. She was a larger-than-life, gregarious woman who had a zest for living that sometimes gave her only son palpitations.
“Actually, I like your mother,” Patrick said with a fond smile. She was the direct opposite of what his own very formal parents had been. Lady Sumner hugged and kissed Patrick whenever he was in hugging distance; she loved him like he was one of her own children. He remembered his childhood visits to the Sumner estates—they had been filled with love and laughter, something his own family life had lacked.
“Done!” Stephen said. “She is yours as of this moment.”
Patrick snorted, enjoying the burning feeling as the liquor traversed his insides. How dare that little raven-haired witch give me the runaround. His mind once again returned to Sophie and their passionate interlude last evening.
“I saw your countess last night. Actually, I rescued her from the clutches of that pernicious peacock of a cousin of hers,” Stephen said, still looking into the fire, which was a good thing as he couldn’t see the reaction his words had produced in Patrick.
“I must admit to having trouble thinking of Myles as a viscount.”
“Rescued?” Patrick questioned, taking the seat opposite Stephen.
“He really is a sniveling snot, Colt. Sort of reminds me of a reprehensible, repulsive rodent.”
“I think we have established your ability for alliteration, my friend,” Patrick said in clipped tones. “How did you rescue her?”
Stephen pulled his eyes from the fire at Patrick’s tone. He then looked at his friend for several seconds. There were few people who could read Patrick’s implacable gaze; unfortunately, Stephen was one of them.
“So that’s how the wind blows.” Stephen whistled softly.
“Don’t make me break your nose again, Sumner.” Patrick’s growl was fierce, which caused Bidders to lift his head and send Patrick a small beady-eyed glare.
“I would like to see you try,” Stephen drawled.
“I believe my house may be full, sorry,” Patrick added, his eyes now black as midnight and totally unrepentant. “Seems you will have to reside with your mother and her friends after all.”
“Bastard,” Stephen’s words held little malice as he stroked the soft fur of his companion.
“Now we both know that is not true,” Patrick said softly.
“Myles had her cornered on a terrace, seems she had gone out there to escape the sweaty masses and find a rare breath of fresh air. I walked out with the same intent and Myles had her up against the wall and seemed to be forcing himself upon her.” Stephen was quite pleased with the hiss of indrawn breath from Patrick as he finished speaking. To his knowledge, the man had never shown a genuine emotion for the fairer sex in his entire life.
“I’ll kill the little weasel,” Patrick hissed. “Rip his limbs from his body and use them to strangle his scrawny, sweaty, spotty little neck.”
“Now who is alliterating?”
“What?” Patrick barked as he grappled with his anger.
Deciding now was not the time to needle his large friend further, as his feelings for a certain luscious countess were obviously still very new, Stephen continued with his story.
“I went to stop Myles, but the countess beat me to it and lifted her knee into his groin, with deadly accuracy I might add,” Stephen said, wincing.
“Good for her,” Patrick approved, pushing aside the thought that he had not behaved honorably to Sophie himself last night, yet his advances had not been repelled, had they?
“While Myles was groaning in a very unmanly fashion on the floor, I took the countess’s hand and pulled her with me back into the ballroom. She was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears, I handed her my handkerchief, and by the time we reached the ballroom she was once again in control.” Stephen hid his smile as Patrick growled again, sounding like a large dog about to attack. Bidders leapt from his lap and danced around on his hind legs, barking in exci
tement. “I told her that I would tell no one of what had just taken place and then I returned her to Lady Carstairs, and that irritating, impudent friend of hers, Miss Pette, and left.”
Stephen took another fortifying sip of whiskey at the thought of Amelia Pette; she was like a small splinter of wood stuck under his fingernail—not overly painful, but bloody irritating.
“I will destroy the little bastard!” Patrick roared, regaining his feet and stalking to the door and back.
“A very strong reaction for someone who professes no interest in the fair countess, Colt,” Stephen said.
“Why is Myles intent on threatening the countess when he received a title upon her husband’s death, which comes with both wealth and influence?” Patrick wondered out loud, choosing to ignore Stephen’s comments. “It makes little sense. I came upon him talking to the countess one day on the street. He was yelling at her about his inheritance and how she had cheated him out of it.” Patrick picked up a piece of discarded paper and hurled it into the fire.
Watching its progress, Stephen was deep in thought.
“Did the old goat actually do the right thing by the countess then and leave her some property and money?” he asked.
“So it would seem. Obviously, her son is now the earl, but I believe we need to do some digging, my friend.”
“Why?” Stephen inquired, sitting back and sipping his drink, his face the picture of innocence, but those blue eyes held a wicked twinkle.
“Must you always challenge me?” Patrick sighed, which Stephen knew was false. Patrick was rarely tired. In fact, he slept less and worked harder than any man Stephen knew.
“Of course. Were it not for me, you would be surrounded by ‘yes’ men who would never gainsay one word or order you gave,” Stephen said.
Patrick glared at him, stalked to the door, and wrenched it open. “Fletcher!” he bellowed.
“My lord?” The servant materialized as if by magic before his master.
“We are to be plagued by Viscount Sumner and his pesky pet until he grows a backbone and returns to his town house. Please arrange a room for him.”
“Sad but true,” Stephen said in a mournful voice from behind Patrick.
Patrick rolled his eyes at Fletcher, then ordered some food and returned to his chair by the fire.
* * *
Looking out the carriage window, Sophie observed the many sights and sounds of the city. Even after the weeks she had spent exploring London, she was still stunned at the noise. Sellers yelled out encouraging descriptions of their merchandise. Carriages clattered, and horses sprayed mud and left manure all over the streets.
Over the past few weeks she had begun to enjoy her short trips from Letty’s town house, and the surge of independence that came with it. Amelia accompanied her when she could and they would visit Mr. Draven’s shop and often bought something to add to their collections. Amelia always pushed Sophie to purchase a doll’s house, but Sophie still felt a bit silly over her hobby and said that she would purchase a house when she found the right one.
She had been glad to escape the house this morning. She had woken sweaty and heated after a night tossing and turning; her dreams had been filled with sensual images of Lord Coulter doing wicked and wanton things to her. She had washed, then hunted Letty down in the breakfast room, where she had asked, argued, and finally pleaded with Letty to let her and Timmy leave London, but Letty had stood firm. They would not leave until the end of the season and for once, she would not back down. Sophie could push the matter no further without giving herself away, without telling Letty about a certain dark and dangerous earl and the effect he had upon her.
The problem was that he made her lose all of her hard-won control—something it had taken her months to find. Sophie felt as if cracks were beginning to appear in the veneer she had carefully erected to protect herself. Of course it was entirely his fault, the arrogant and deeply disturbing Lord Coulter. He had seen her knickers while she did a handstand, and he had seen her perched on a narrow ledge as she tried to escape the vicious tongues of the women of the ton. And if those events weren’t bad enough, he had also seen everything that she had taken great pains to hide from society, her insecurities and her fears.
“Oh lord,” Sophie groaned. Even here, away from prying eyes, she was blushing at the thought of her reaction to his kisses. He made her body feel like a flickering ember that would ignite with a mere touch. She must stay away from him, as he could endanger the position she held in society and that could hurt Letty, and that she could not allow. He could unearth her secrets, because when he was with her she felt so very unlike herself, with all her wits scattered about her feet.
A loud scream jolted Sophie from her thoughts. The carriage stopped suddenly and along with her maid Jenny, she tumbled off the seat onto the floor. Struggling to rise, Sophie heard a ripping sound as she pushed back the brim of her bonnet. Reseating herself, she noted that the hem of her gown was now torn and one of the ribbons of her bonnet had come loose. Flinging it onto the seat, she told Jenny to stay in the carriage and then opened the door and stepped out, determined to find out why they had stopped.
“What seems to be the problem, Robbie?”
“Don’t rightly know, S … my lady,” he said, standing on his toes beside her trying to look over the small crowd that had formed before him. “Appears to be some sort of commotion up ahead. Perhaps you should wait in the carriage and I will move us on as soon as the way is clear.”
Ignoring Robbie, Sophie walked around him, trying to get a clear view of what was happening.
“Oh dear,” she whispered as her eyes fell on a young lady lying prone on the ground. It appeared no one had come to her aid and instead all were looking at the poor woman. Pushing through the people, Sophie rushed to her side.
“Here now, my lady, you must move back,” a short rotund man said, although he appeared to be making no move to aid the prostrate woman.
“Nonsense, this woman obviously needs help. What has happened?”
“My carriage struck her. Of course, the stupid girl walked right out in front of it. I hope there is no damage to my phaeton, only had it a week.”
Stunned at such insensitivity, Sophie felt her anger rise. She was well aware of how the English treated their servants, having been one for most of her life. Swallowing the retort that had sprung to her lips, she turned her back on the man and instead looked to the girl who needed her help. Crouching down, she studied the pale face before her.
“How long has she been like this?” Sophie ran her hands lightly over the girl, trying to find an injury. The young woman was very cold, her clothes torn and ragged, and her hair matted.
“A few minutes? Long enough to make me late for an appointment,” the pompous oaf said from over her left shoulder.
Sophie ground her teeth and fought for calm. This man was an insensitive clod; he cared nothing for this poor girl, and all because she was from beneath his class.
“You struck her with your carriage and you are blaming her for missing an appointment? I find that extremely insensitive and ill-mannered, sir,” Sophie snapped. The girl winced as she reached her head and her hands found a large lump that appeared to be bleeding.
“Now see here, I will not be taken to task by some schoolroom miss!”
“Robbie!” Sophie called and instantly he was beside her.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Send me Jenny, and I need blankets, Robbie, and anything else you can find that might give this poor girl comfort. Now, Robbie,” Sophie added as he hesitated to leave her side.
“Yes, my lady,” Robbie said, reluctantly moving toward the carriage.
Sophie started looking around for something to stop the blood and her eyes fell to the man who had knocked the girl down.
“Give me your handkerchief now!” she demanded.
“M-my hankerchief certainly not,” he said, clutching his pocket and taking a step backward.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Seems to be a lady, your grace,” his driver, who was also craning his neck to see what had caused the disturbance, replied.
Patrick wondered if he should have followed his earlier inclination and stayed in bed. Scalding his chest by spilling his morning coffee on it had bloody hurt, and was hardly an auspicious start to the day. He had then found that Bidders, Stephen’s scruffy little dog, had chewed the buttons off his favorite waistcoat and vomited them up all over his bedroom floor. Stephen had told Patrick this was a compliment of the highest order, because Bidders did not chew just anyone’s clothing. Fletcher, his butler, had then informed him of his youngest cousin’s latest escapade, which involved a married woman and a hasty retreat through a bedroom window, which had left the naughty cousin in bed with a swollen foot.
“And what, Scully, is said lady doing?” Patrick asked his driver, striving for patience.
“Actually two ladies, my lord. One lying very still and the other appears to be tending to her in some way.”
Patrick heaved a disgusted sigh, something he rarely did, but the gesture seemed to fit the moment better than any other. Unfolding his legs, he stepped down from his carriage. It seemed his lunch would not be forthcoming if he did not remove whatever obstacle blocked his path. Glaring at his driver, who still sat on his perch eyeing the scene before him, Patrick stalked to where a large group had gathered, and pushed his way through.
“What the hell is going on here?” he barked at the rotund gentleman who seemed to be doing nothing but scowling. Below him, a lady, obviously hurt, was being tended to by another lady who had her back to him.
“Silly chit walked in front of my carriage, now she refuses to wake up. Probably thinks I’ll hand over some money if she continues with this farce for long enough.”
“You … you bloody insufferable, ill-mannered clod! H-how dare you speak of this girl as if it were she who caused this!”
