by Mia Marlowe
“Then maybe you’d better come in.” She gave his arm a tug, pulled him into her room, and quickly shut the door behind him. “If someone were to catch us all tangled up by my door, you’d likely be forced into marrying me, and I wouldn’t want that.”
“You wouldn’t?” His body cheered the whole “tangled up” business with an aching cockstand.
“No.” She looped her arms around his neck and peered up at him in the dimness. “What girl wants to be a bride merely to satisfy the sense of propriety of the ton?”
“I see your point.” She was making him crowd his trousers till the seams strained. He ached to lose himself in her.
“I want to marry for love,” she said. “Undeniable. Irrevocable. Love without an ending. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
It sounded like a tall order. John hadn’t known much love in his life. His flighty mother had left him too soon to deliver love without an ending. His foster parents offered a strict, prickly sort of halfhearted affection, dependent upon his deportment and willingness to work without complaint. His family hadn’t shown him any love at all.
“That’s how I feel about us,” she went on as she hugged him close. “What about you?”
“I’ve told you I love you, but I can’t honestly say I know what that means. It’s too high for me. Too fine,” he admitted. “Sometimes, I don’t know what I feel. I collect there’s something different about you, Rebecca. I recognized it right off that day in the museum. It’s as if…there’s something missing in me and you’ve got it hidden inside you. I need you, you see. That’s love, isn’t it?”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, this time on the mouth. “Close enough.”
She slipped her arms under his jacket to run her hands along his ribs. Then she let them slide down to tease his bum. Much more of this, and he’d be on her in a heated rut. John grasped both her hands and held them tight between them.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Don’t you like it?”
“More than my next breath, but, Rebecca…I don’t want to press you for anything tonight.”
“Don’t you see, John? I need you too. Blackwood made me feel so very dirty. The things he said, and…I need you to wash me clean of him. Please.”
* * *
“I am without doubt the luckiest almost-bastard in the world,” he whispered in awe.
“Yes, you are.” She grinned up at him and unfastened the top button on her bodice. Then his hands replaced hers and he undid the rest of the row.
Slowly. Carefully. His fingertips slipped beneath the muslin to brush her newly exposed skin. His breath tickled warmly on her neck as he kissed his way along her neckline. He touched her with deliberation, with tenderness, with a sense of wonder.
She’d cringed with distaste when Blackwood laid a hand on her. With John, she tingled with awareness. By the time he bared her breasts and bent to take a taut nipple in his mouth, she was trembling with need.
Articles of clothing sloughed away and fell to the floor. Whatever barriers might yet have existed between them slipped away too. Skin on skin. Heartbeat on heartbeat. Rebecca felt herself fade into John and he into her. They danced a tipsy sort of waltz to no discernible time signature, backing and advancing, turning and lifting, to make the most of the way their bodies fit together as they moved across the room.
John’s breath filled her. His sharp masculine scent overwhelmed her. His mouth was the whole world, his hands the stuff of magic.
When they finally tumbled into the waiting bed, there was no more sense of being two separate people. They were one. One flesh. One heart.
One shared soul between them.
They hadn’t said the words that would bind them together forever yet. Their bodies made the vow for them. There was no need for words.
Twenty-seven
In the theatre, the first and second acts plod along like a draft horse, while the final one races like the swiftest courser. As one nears the end of life, the same thing happens, only with days.
—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset
After Theresa Dovecote finished her work for the night, she plopped down on the bottom step of the back stairs and held her head in her hands. She couldn’t confide in Mr. Hightower what she’d seen. Mrs. Grahame, the housekeeper, would be as aghast as the butler over the way she’d spied on folk in the upstairs world. She definitely couldn’t break protocol and speak to anyone from the Family. Yet she wanted so desperately to help that nice Miss Kearsey. If she didn’t, it would plague her for the rest of her days.
She never should have eavesdropped. Her mother, who was cursed with an overlong nose, always said it grew that way because she never stuck it into other people’s business. Theresa wished she had her mother’s long nose instead of her pert, short one.
“That’ll teach me,” she mumbled.
“What’ll teach you?”
She jerked her head up to find Toby grinning down at her. “Never you mind.”
“Oh, but I do mind. It’s plain you’ve got some troubles, and I’ve a nice broad shoulder.” He sat down next to her and flicked off a little imaginary dust from the shoulder of his smart blue livery. “There you go. Have a good cry if you like. It would certainly be a novelty. You’ve a reputation for being a coldhearted wench, you know.”
She and Toby flirted with each other madly, but sometimes, it felt as if he was merely teasing her to amuse himself, to fill up his time until someone better came along. As the scullery help, she was far beneath a footman, and he often made her feel it.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you could brag to your friends that I was weeping and they’d think you’re the cause,” she said. “The day you make me cry will never dawn, Toby Hollis.”
She made a low growling noise in the back of her throat, stood, and legged it to the back door off the common room in long strides. Toby was on her heels.
“Don’t take on so, Theresa,” he said. “I was only funning. Of course I don’t want you to cry, only you just looked so serious. I thought a little joke would cheer you up.”
She pushed through the doorway and into the little courtyard behind the servants’ part of the house. Sometimes, the grooms came there to smoke their pipes since smoking in the stable would earn them the sack quick as a wink. But there was no one in the windswept courtyard now. Theresa was glad. She was in no mood for company.
Least of all the company of a self-important twit like Toby.
“That’s just the trouble. Everything’s a joke with you,” she said, not slowing her pace until she reached the waist-high stone wall enclosing the space. Then she hefted herself up to sit on it, letting her legs dangle.
“Life is a joke until there’s a real problem,” Toby said. “In all honesty, what’s wrong? You know I’ll help you, if I can.”
There was enough moonlight to make out his handsome face in planes of light and dark. Maybe that was Toby’s trouble. He was so devilishly good-looking he’d rarely had to work hard at anything. No wonder life was a joke to him.
Still, the temptation to unburden herself was more than Theresa could bear. The whole story came tumbling out of her with barely a pause for breath. To his credit, Toby didn’t laugh, not even when she confessed her infatuation with the fellow in the suit of armor on the gallery wall.
After she finished, Toby was silent for the space of several heartbeats. “Well,” she finally said, “what do we do about it?”
“We don’t do anything.”
She whacked him on the shoulder. “I thought you said you’d help me.”
“I did. I will.” He rubbed his shoulder and shot her an accusing look. “What I mean is you aren’t to do anything. I’ll take care of it.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “How?”
“I’ll speak to Lord Hartley about it,”
Toby said. “He strikes me as a fellow of sense, and since he’s not been a lord long, he’s not so puffed up with himself that he’ll be affronted if a servant takes it upon himself to speak up about something. Especially something this important.”
“But I suspect Lord Blackwood is his friend, else he’d not have been invited here,” Theresa said. “What makes you think Lord Hartley will do anything?”
“I’ve noticed the way he watches Miss Kearsey when he thinks no one sees. He’ll be ready for some help in dealing with Lord Blackwood, I’m thinking. Ofttimes, a well-placed servant can do things a lord can’t.”
“Oh, Toby, that’s so wonderful of you.” Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, but she’d told him he’d never make her cry, so she couldn’t let him see. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. Toby was her new hero. He was even better than that fellow in the armor. He was flesh and blood and warm and—
“Gorblimey, Theresa!” Toby said as he stroked her back. “If I’d thought it would get me a hug, I’d have tried to get you into a pickle long before this.”
Disappointment made her belly sink. He had to go and spoil the moment by being himself. The gentleman in the armor would never have said such a foolish thing. She yanked herself out of his arms and gave him another swat on the shoulder. “Just you tell me what his lordship says. We’ll have to look sharp now.”
“Indeed we will.” Toby rubbed his hands together, not at all troubled by her assault on his person. “This is going to be better than a play.”
* * *
It was nearly noon the next day when Lady Richard made her way down to the breakfast room. Ordinarily, Sophie took a tray in her room, as married ladies frequently did, but there was an odd buzz in the house today, and she felt the need to be up and about, so she could locate its source.
She wouldn’t have said she was particularly sensitive about these sorts of things, but somehow the very air in Somerfield Park seemed pregnant with secrets about to pop. She filled her plate at the sideboard with stewed kidneys and buttered eggs, and then seated herself at the long table in a room that was empty save for the handsome young footman named Toby. He leaped to fill her teacup and provide her with an assortment of fresh rolls and potted jams.
“I seem to be the last one up,” she said.
“Yes, my lady.”
Since it wasn’t proper to engage in conversation with the help, Sophie decided to eat in silence. Not that it would bother her in the least to talk to Toby. He probably knew more about what was afoot in the house than she, but if he were caught speaking with her, he’d be the one in trouble for it.
However, she wasn’t destined for a quiet meal. She hadn’t had time to blow on her tea long enough to cool it before the dowager marchioness appeared at the breakfast room door.
“Hightower said you’d be here.”
“And here I am.” Sophie wondered how Mr. Hightower managed to know the whereabouts of everyone, whether he’d actually seen them or not. “How are you this fine morning, Phillippa?”
Lady Somerset glowered at her. “I don’t see what’s fine about it. The weather’s turned sharp. My rheumatism is acting up, and Hartley is still chasing about after that horrid widow. I can’t see what’s to be done about it.”
“We can’t help the weather. I’m told Mrs. Grahame has an efficacious poultice for the rheumatism if you can bear the smell, but about John and Lady Chloe, I expect you’re right. If he’s serious about her, we’re as powerless to change that as we are to change the weather.”
“Dash it all, I probably am right. What are the odds I’d be wrong?”
“Very small,” Sophie allowed, “but while you are right in this, you are wrong about something else.”
“What? No, wait a moment. If you mean to instruct me over an error in my ways, I’d as soon not have you do it before the help.” The old woman settled into the chair the footman thoughtfully pulled out for her. “That’ll do, Toby. Leave us, if you please. You can come back later to do the…well, whatever it is you do once Lady Richard has finished eating.”
“Yes, my lady. Very good.” The young man bowed and left the room with a spring in his step. It seemed to Sophie as if he’d just been excused from a school term and an endless summer was set to begin. She almost envied him. He wasn’t stuck in the breakfast room about to take the dowager marchioness to task.
“Now, you were about to explain that I’m wrong about something,” Lady Somerset said.
“You’re wrong to think it’s your place to try to control who John fancies.”
The dowager shook a bony finger at her. “And you’re wrong if you think the marriage of a future marquess is about anything so prosaic as ‘fancying’ someone.’”
“That may be true for most, yet settling on the lady he fancies is all a match is about to John.”
“How can you know this?”
“I have eyes.” From what Sophie had seen, it appeared to her John was merely putting on a grand show of courting Lady Chloe. In truth, his gaze rarely strayed far from a certain baron’s daughter. Sophie already suspected Rebecca was sweet on John. Now, she believed the affection was returned, but why he was playing a double game with Lady Chloe was a mystery. However, if the dowager hadn’t tumbled to John’s duplicity, who was Sophie to unmask him?
“But this Lady Chloe. She’s so unsuitable.” Lady Somerset looked as if she’d just swallowed a bit of pottage that had been left in the pot far too long. “Surely you agree that the pedigree of the young lady John chooses is vital to improving his acceptance among the ton. It’s all well and good to say that John will be the marquess of Somerset eventually, but a title is no guarantee, you know. If the lady patronesses of Almack’s can refuse the Duke of Wellington, they can refuse anyone.”
The dowager always used to refer to John as Lord Hartley. Sophie was glad to hear her calling him by name.
“You specified that he should wed at least the daughter of an earl,” Sophie pointed out. “Lady Chloe is that.”
“That and so much more.” The dowager rolled her eyes. “Honestly, to have buried four husbands at her tender age smacks of either skullduggery or monstrously bad luck. Either way, I don’t want her near any grandson of mine. Besides, Lady Chloe is uniformly cut by anyone who’s the least respectable.”
“I don’t think John cares much about that.”
“He ought to care. The ones with whom he spends time reflects upon his character. He simply must be made to care. If not for his family’s sake—and he does have three unwed half sisters to consider, you know—he ought to care for the sake of his future children. Knowing the right people, being received in the right parlors is so frightfully important. I cannot emphasize it strenuously enough.”
Though not for lack of trying, Sophie thought as she dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “It doesn’t seem to be important to John, and whether you like it or not, he is a grown man and future peer. He’ll do whatever he pleases, devil take the hindmost.”
“Oh, my dear, there’s no use being vulgar about it.” The dowager shook her head and made a tsking noise. “Believe me, if I thought it would help, I’d join you in your gutter tongue.”
Sophie suppressed a chuckle. If Lady Somerset thought “devil take the hindmost” was gutter tongue, she’d led a very sheltered life indeed.
“Don’t you wonder why the comfort of his family is of so little consequence to him?” Sophie asked.
“Indeed I do. It’s most unnatural.”
“Not if one was raised by strangers,” Sophie countered. “In that case, it’s perfectly understandable that John doesn’t consider how his actions might affect the Barretts. After all, his real family never considered how their actions might affect him.”
“He was fed, clothed, and educated. I saw to that.”
“But was he loved?”
The dowag
er looked pointedly away. “The Barretts are not noted for their demonstrative natures.”
“I’m well aware of that. And yet I married into the family in any case. Whether you show it or not, I know you care deeply for your grandchildren.”
Lady Somerset banged the tip of her cane in indignation. “Of course I do.”
“Then I think now would be the perfect time for you to demonstrate how you feel about John by supporting him in whatever choice he makes with regard to his future wife.”
“Even if it’s that…” The dowager gave an exquisite shudder. “That woman, Lady Chloe Endicott?”
“Especially if it’s Lady Chloe. If you show John you are behind him in even this decision, you’ll have proved that you love him.”
“Love? Do let’s not be maudlin.”
Sophie leaned forward. “Don’t you love him?”
“Of course I do. What sort of unnatural monster do you take me for?” The dowager made a great show of rearranging her skirts so she could avoid meeting Sophie’s direct gaze. “Just because I haven’t the need to wallow in my feelings, it does not signify that I do not have them.”
“Of course not.”
“I simply want the best for him and that is assuredly not Lady Chloe.”
“And yet, you cannot make that choice for him. As I see it, the only choice you have before you is whether or not you’ll show your grandson you love him by offering him unconditional acceptance.”
“But mightn’t I—”
“Unconditional,” Sophie repeated. “Love is not love if it tries to make us earn it. It’s freely given, or it’s not worth a groat. Love takes us as we are, warts and all. And isn’t that a good thing? Otherwise, none of us would ever taste a bit of that heaven this side of the grave.”
The dowager rose and walked slowly to the doorway. She paused at the opening. “Sophie, my dear.”
“Yes, Phillippa?”
