by Wendy Vella
“You must take more care, love. I do not want Stephen’s handiwork coming undone.”
“No,” Sophie whispered, “I would not like to have to go through that again.”
“Amen,” Patrick declared, as a vivid memory of that night flashed again through his head. “Come, we must greet our guests,” he added, placing a light kiss on her mouth.
* * *
Sophie gave a little cry of delight as she and Patrick walked outside and saw who was climbing down from the carriage behind Mary and Letty, holding Timmy in her arms.
“Mellie!”
Timmy squealed as he heard his sister’s voice and wriggled until Amelia lowered him to the ground. Sophie laughed as he ran toward her, his little legs pumping and gaining speed. She met him halfway and would have picked him up except Patrick beat her to it.
“Your arm.” He lifted Timmy and threw him into the air, which produced more happy squeals from the little boy.
Sophie kissed her brother as Patrick settled him against his shoulder. “Hello, my darling boy,” she said, tickling his chin and kissing his cheeks loudly, which had him laughing more.
Timmy decided he liked all the attention and fastened one hand in Patrick’s curls and the other in Sophie’s.
“Ouch!” both said at once.
“Brat!” Patrick said and then blew a loud, foul-sounding noise into the soft skin of Timmy’s neck, producing another delightful chorus of giggles.
Untangling her hair from his pudgy fingers Sophie gave them another kiss and turned to face her friend.
“Sophie, what has happened to your arm?”
“Mellie, what are you doing here?”
Both girls laughed as they spoke in unison.
“We have much to tell you,” Letty said, moving forward to kiss Sophie and wrap a welcoming arm around her waist. “But I think by the look of you, my dear, you should be sitting down, and I would like to be seated with a pot of tea before we begin,” she finished.
“Excellent idea, Lady Carstairs,” Patrick said, with Timmy nestled happily in the crook of his arm and one small arm clasped around his neck.
Sophie thought they looked beautiful together, one blond, one black-haired, and both very special to her.
They went to the small lounge that had windows looking out over the garden. It was Sophie’s favorite room so far, not that she had seen much of her new home, but this room was filled with light all day. The walls were in the softest duck egg blue, the rugs a shade darker, and the furniture was comfortable and elegant.
Patrick waited until the women were seated, then lowered Timmy onto the sofa beside his wife. Timmy immediately climbed onto his sister’s lap and snuggled against her chest. Patrick envied him and his youthful ability to do that with so many people in the room. If he tried the same trick, he would be hurled bodily from the house, he thought, looking longingly at Sophie’s breasts.
“If you will excuse me, ladies, I have a few things that I must attend to,” he said, kissing his wife’s cheek and making another disgusting sound on Timmy’s. Surprisingly, he had enjoyed the soft weight in his arms; Timmy had smelled like his cousin’s children. Patrick often visited them, as he found they were uncomplicated and wanted no more from him than he was willing to give, thus he was their favorite uncle—and of course the gifts helped. Patrick thought that perhaps he would enjoy having Timmy in his life.
“I shall inform Ribble that you require tea, Sophie,” he added with a bow before leaving the room.
“You first, Mellie,” Sophie said as soon as the door closed behind Patrick. She was in no hurry to tell the story of her injured arm again, so she urged her friend to begin.
“I would rather hear your story,” Amelia said, looking everywhere but at Sophie.
She was embarrassed and uncomfortable, Sophie could see as she watched color creep into her friend’s cheeks.
“Come, Amelia, tell Sophie your tale,” Letty said, patting her hand.
“I have left Mother, Sophie, and I will not be returning.”
Now that she had not expected, Sophie thought.
“I am sorry to arrive unannounced and you having only just married Lord Coulter,” Amelia rushed on. “But she said some horrible things about both you and Lady Carstairs, very mean things that made me angry. Sh-she started criticizing my clothes, calling me nasty vicious n-names … oh dear,” Amelia said as she started to cry.
Letty handed the distraught girl her handkerchief while Sophie reached for Amelia’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Amelia arrived just minutes before we were to leave London,” Letty said.
“I … I ran away,” Amelia took up the story once more. “Mother sent me to my room after I took tea with her in one of my new gowns. She called me S-Satan’s whore, and said she was going to church to pray for my black soul.”
“How dare she!” Sophie was outraged that Mrs. Pette would speak to her only child in such a way, especially as Amelia was the sweetest, most kindhearted young lady she had ever encountered.
“I packed up all my new clothes into three large valises, then ordered a carriage to take me to Lady Carstairs’s house,” Amelia added with a small sniff. “I had nowhere else to go you see, Sophie.”
“Of course you should have gone to Letty,” Sophie said firmly. “I would have been very angry had I found out you had done any differently. You are the sister I never had, Mellie.”
“Oh dear,” Amelia cried into her handkerchief, Sophie’s words making her sob even harder. “I always wanted a sister.”
“I was on the verge of leaving as she arrived, and offered to bring her with me,” Letty said, taking up the conversational reins. “I left a letter for her mother explaining our destination and when we would be returning.”
“I am so sorry, Mellie.” Sophie felt the sting of tears in her own eyes at her friend’s obvious distress.
“I … I had come to realize that she would never have allowed me to change, Sophie, and I am hoping that by running away I will shock her in some way.”
Sophie was skeptical but did not show it; instead she looked down at the blond head of her brother and thanked anyone who was listening for the gift of her family, and most especially, Patrick.
“Thank you, Ribble,” Sophie said, as the butler placed a large tea tray on the table before her. “Could you please pour, Letty?”
“Of course, and now perhaps you will tell us about your arm, Sophie,” Letty said as she started serving the tea.
“There is not much to tell, I am afraid. I was out walking while Patrick had gone riding, and someone was poaching. The bullet went straight through my arm,” Sophie said quickly and looked away from Letty.
“Hmmm,” Letty murmured, as she sat back to drink her tea. Sophie knew she would be questioned thoroughly later by her sister-in-law until she was satisfied with the answers Sophie had given her.
“But have the poachers been caught, Sophie?” Amelia said as she reached for her own tea and took a fortifying sip.
“Patrick has men working toward that right now, Mellie.” Sophie tried to smother a yawn. She was feeling very tired and her arm had begun to ache like the devil. Suddenly her whole body seemed to weigh far too much, even her toes felt ridiculously heavy.
“Has a doctor tended you, dear?” Letty said, reaching for Timmy, as the boy was starting to wriggle and she did not want him to hurt Sophie further.
“Yes,” Sophie whispered, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes, just for a few seconds, just until this wave of fatigue passed.
Patrick walked back from the stables deep in thought. Mac had found a brace of birds and several other incriminating items, which suggested that whoever had shot Sophie was a poacher, but he was uncertain. Patrick hoped that was indeed the case, but something niggled at him, telling him that Jack Spode was behind it. Walking inside, he headed straight for Sophie. If necessary, he would bully her into lying down.
“Ssssh,” a voice said to him as he opened t
he door.
Lady Carstairs held a finger to her lips and pointed to Sophie, who was sitting upright with her eyes closed.
“She has just fallen asleep, my lord,” Amelia said in a loud whisper.
He didn’t stop to talk, just lifted his sleeping wife into his arms, offered the room a smile, and left.
Sophie woke as Patrick started to undo the buttons on her dress. “It seems you were right, my lord,” she said, yawning and turning on her side to give him better access.
“That will teach you to disobey me.” Patrick eased the dress off her arms, Sophie hissed as he touched her injured arm, and Patrick flinched, feeling her pain in the pit of his stomach.
“I am even too tired to be provoked.” Sophie sounded drowsy. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she added and then her eyelids fluttered closed.
“Sleep well, sweetheart.” Patrick bent to place a kiss on her cheek and tried valiantly not to follow his instinct, which was to lie beside her and pull her into his arms.
“Hmmm,” Sophie whispered, then “I love you,” and promptly fell asleep.
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispered, standing once again.
Patrick shook his head as he looked down at his sleeping wife. Would she ever tell him she loved him while she was awake? He would have to push her into a declaration, he decided as he forced himself to leave the room, and then he would do the same.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stephen arrived at Plentiful later that afternoon. He was still feeling disgruntled and wasn’t sure why. He had left London because of a woman, but he was damned if he was ready to share his feelings with Patrick. His mother and sisters thought he had been called away on urgent estate business, but the truth was that he was a coward. Finally, after all these years, a woman had managed to get under his skin, and Stephen had run like a scared rabbit.
Handing his mount to Mac with a distracted smile, he walked to the house. Maybe he would talk with Sophie when she was better; perhaps she could shed some light on his predicament.
Whistling softly, he veered right to take the long route to the house, which led him through part of the gardens. He liked the Plentiful gardens, they weren’t filled with flowers and borders like his own, courtesy of his sisters and mother. Instead, these were slightly untamed. They gave the appearance of manicured lawns and trimmed plants, but if one looked closer there was a wilder side, not unlike its owner.
His booted feet were muffled by the soft grass, so the woman who appeared some distance before him had no idea he was even there. Stephen stopped so as not to frighten her, then he couldn’t make his legs move when he realized that it was the very female he had fled London to avoid. She turned away without noticing him and walked deeper into the gardens. Stephen tried to force air back into his lungs. What the hell was Amelia Pette doing here? He hadn’t seen her face, but he would have known her anywhere; the slight tilt of her head when she was thinking, the long auburn curls that caught in the afternoon sun.
“You are in so much trouble, Sumner,” Stephen muttered as he instinctively began to follow her.
Of course the fault lay entirely with Sophie, damn her pretty neck. She had taken Amelia in hand, changed her modiste, changed her hair … actually changed everything. Now the male population of London all noticed Miss Pette, all panted after her like a pack of rabid dogs, Stephen included. He was not so shallow that he hadn’t noticed Amelia before. She had always made him feel like a cat with his hair rubbed the wrong way, challenging him, tilting her chin and giving him a superior look. Now, however, she more than intrigued him, she made his blood heat, and he wanted her more with every breath he drew.
He saw her then, trailing her fingers through a small waterfall, and as Stephen drew closer he realized she was crying. Stephen knew tears; with all of his sisters he’d grown up with gallons of them. What he hadn’t expected was the rage that flooded his body that someone had made Amelia sad.
“Who made you cry?”
Amelia spun around gasping. “St … Lord Sumner, you scared me!” she cried, stumbling backward.
Stephen reached for her as she toppled toward the water. Pulling her forward, he held her against his chest. “Amelia,” he breathed into her hair, “tell me why you are crying.”
Amelia cried harder. Having Stephen hold her like this was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her mother had never offered this sort of comfort; Amelia had never even sat on her knee as a child, and now she realized what she had missed. Having another person hold you close, as if you were the most precious thing in the world to them, was quite simply exquisite.
He felt her fingers clutch his lapels, pulling him closer. She wanted his comfort, seemed to need his strength. Stephen held her, and tucking her head under his chin, he ran one hand up and down her back in soft strokes, and the other he slipped under her hair to cradle her neck. His sisters had liked to be surrounded when they were crying; he hoped Amelia was the same. Soon her cries eased and became sniffles, until finally she was quiet with just the occasional hitch in her breath.
“You may let me go now, my lord,” Amelia said, her words sounding wobbly from all the crying.
“Stephen,” he corrected, pulling her closer.
“Stephen,” Amelia parroted, then once again rested her head on his broad chest; she really did not have the strength to pull away.
“Why are you crying, Amelia?”
She wouldn’t lie to him—indeed she did not want to lie to him. With Stephen, she wanted to speak only the truth.
“My mother thinks I am Satan’s whore and that I am being led down a path of ill repute by my jezebel friend, Sophie.” She took a deep breath and inhaled the intoxicating man before her. He smelled so nice; sort of spicy. Amelia had never known her father and so she had nothing to compare Stephen with, yet she was sure his smell was uniquely his.
“And you believed her?” Stephen asked, trying to put his mind anywhere but on the soft woman in his arms.
“No, but it hurt.”
“She will come around, sweetheart,” Stephen said. “Half of London is still reeling from your change, so I should imagine your mother is also struggling to cope with your sudden popularity.”
“If she saw me now, it would merely confirm her belief.” Amelia’s giggle sounded rusty, but it was a giggle.
Stephen snorted and reluctantly let her go, but only so far; he still held her by the shoulders.
“You, Miss Amelia Pette, are sweet, innocent, and far too beautiful for my peace of mind. I have met a few Satan’s whores in my time and you, love, could never be one.”
“You should not be speaking to me with such familiarity, my lord,” Amelia replied, hearing her mother’s voice in her head.
“Why not, my sweet Amelia?” Stephen said, his eyes sparkling wickedly as he pulled her closer.
“Because,” Amelia whispered, then lost all thought as he lowered his head and kissed her.
* * *
Sophie slept for the rest of the day and into the night. She missed dinner and missed all the visitors who popped their heads into the room to check on her. In fact, she didn’t even wake when Patrick climbed into bed beside her later that evening; she just turned toward him and smiled in her sleep, then sighed as he slipped his arm around her.
She woke about three hours later. Her mouth was dry and her arm throbbing because it was trapped underneath her body. Patrick was breathing heavily beside her, indicating that he was in a deep sleep, and Sophie had no wish to wake him, so she climbed quietly from the bed. The room was dark, with only a faint glow from the fire to show her the way. Pulling on her dressing gown, she sought but failed to find any signs of food or drink. Looking at the lump in the bed that was her husband and then at the door, Sophie wondered if she could make it to the kitchens and back without Patrick waking up. Grabbing her sling, she slipped it over her shoulder. At least if he woke and found her gone, he would be happier if he knew she had on her sling, surely? Luckily the door did
not squeak as she opened and closed it. Finding a candle and holder on a stand outside, she lit it, trying not to move her arm too much, then headed toward the kitchens. After a couple of false starts, she finally found the stairs and slowly walked down into Mrs. Gumbrill’s domain.
The kitchens were in darkness; only a red glow from the range lit her path, so Sophie lifted her candle. Imagine how angry Patrick would be if she hurt her shoulder while raiding the pantry for a snack. She tried to muffle the small laugh that threatened at the vision of her husband raging at her.
“My lady!”
“Oh!” Sophie gasped as she turned to see Mrs. Gumbrill with a large rolling pin held high over her head.
“You should have wrung the bell, my lady,” Mrs. Gumbrill said, lowering the rolling pin to a long scrubbed bench.
“I … I did not want to wake anyone,” Sophie stuttered.
“Well, I suspect you’re hungry,” Mrs. Gumbrill said, moving to light a lamp. “What with sleeping through your supper and having a hole in your arm.”
Sophie did not want to decipher why having a hole in her arm would make her hungry, so she said, “There is no need to go to any trouble, Mrs. Gumbrill, you just head back to bed and I will find something.”
“Nonsense.” The cook took Sophie’s candle, pulled forward a chair, and gently pushed her mistress into it. “Since Mr. Gumbrill passed, I don’t do a lot of sleeping.”
Sophie knew when she was beaten, so she sat and watched. Mrs. Gumbrill had her hair in a starched white nightcap and wore a large dressing gown made up of several yards of blue fabric, around which she wrapped her apron.
“Are you thirsty, my lady?”
Sophie nodded but stayed seated; Mrs. Gumbrill was already pouring her a glass of milk.
“Best thing for you at the moment,” she said, handing Sophie the glass. “Help build your strength back up.”
* * *
She wasn’t in the bed. Patrick pulled on his robe and tied the sash. Where the hell was Sophie? Surely if she needed something she would have woken him?
