Her mother sighed. “I understand. I do. Lord Buxton is too old for you, and your personalities will not suit. But if you refuse him, I also worry that he will turn his attentions to Alice. She is seventeen now . . .”
Sophie’s stomach roiled so much, she thought she might be sick. “Surely Father would never agree to such an arrangement.”
Her mother shrugged. “I cannot be sure.”
“Well, Lord Buxton cannot make anyone wed him if she does not wish it. Me or Alice.”
Her mother’s eyes swam with tears again. “But what if Lord Buxton calls in the debt, Sophie? Mr. Debenham cannot pay it. I fear we may lose the house.”
Sophie’s heart plummeted to the worn Aubusson carpet at her feet. The situation was dire indeed. Charlie had once suggested her father, Lord Westhampton, or Lady Chelmsford could assist if need be, but would her stepfather actually accept their help? He was a proud man.
She could well imagine he’d rather sell off his stepdaughter than accept financial assistance from virtual strangers.
Sophie closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory of Lord Buxton accosting her in Berkeley Square. But this time, Nate wouldn’t be here to save her.
Nate. Tears scalded Sophie’s eyes at the thought of him. She missed him desperately.
His smile. His handsome brown eyes. His teasing manner.
His kisses.
On the long carriage journey home, she’d resolved not to think about him. But it was a battle she didn’t seem to be winning at the moment.
“Sophie, I can see how upset you are. Try not to fret.” Her mother reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sure something can be worked out.”
But Sophie could tell that her mother was just saying that to comfort her. Her tone and the worry lines around her eyes belied her words.
She supposed the coming days would reveal Lord Buxton’s intentions. And if she had to, she would swallow her pride and go to Charlie for help. Because there was no way on heaven or earth that she would marry Lord Buxton to alleviate her stepfather’s financial troubles. And she wouldn’t stand by and watch poor Alice be a sacrificial lamb either.
* * *
* * *
Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair
May 30, 1818
“Goodness, Nate. You look . . .”
Nate drained the last mouthful of his bitter black coffee, then poured himself another cup. “A mess? Shocking?” Like I just crawled out of the farthest, darkest reaches of hell?
“Well, yes . . . ,” said Charlie as she took a seat at the mahogany breakfast table. She poured herself a cup of tea, then dispensed sugar and milk before adding, “I probably wouldn’t have put it that way exactly. But yes, you do look a mess.” Her brown eyes lifted to his in a penetrating stare. “I would venture to say you should still be abed.”
Nate sighed and ran a hand down his face. He wished he were still abed too. He had a monumental headache and an unsettled stomach courtesy of spending too many nights out with Max and MacQueen, carousing and gambling over the past fortnight. But not whoring.
No, it didn’t matter how tempting the demirep, widow, or bored nobleman’s wife—he’d been propositioned more than once by the insatiable Lady Astley over the last few days—he felt nothing, not even a fleeting stirring of lust.
The only time he experienced true desire was when he dreamed or fantasized about Sophie. Indeed, it was a wonder his palm wasn’t sporting blisters considering how many times he’d made himself come by his own hand since she’d departed.
Had it really only been two weeks since she left?
In some ways if felt like forever. Could it be that Nathaniel Hastings, Lord Malverne, a confirmed bachelor, actually missed the company of a particular woman? And not just because he was lusting after her?
He’d never experienced a malaise like it. It was . . . a novel experience. Bloody annoying too. It seemed he’d become a pathetic shadow of his former self. Why, last night he’d even stayed home and had begun reading Pride and Prejudice. This morning he was particularly exhausted because he’d stayed up until the early hours, plowing his way through chapter after chapter of the witty, entertaining tale. He could certainly see why Sophie loved Miss Austen’s works.
He grimaced as he threw back another mouthful of coffee. Hopefully the malaise—whatever it was—would pass soon. Maybe he should think about following in Gabriel’s footsteps and take a jaunt to the Continent. Yes, perhaps he just needed a change of scenery . . .
“Nate, you haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”
Nate shook his head. “My apologies, dear sister. No, I haven’t.”
Charlie sighed and put down her jam-laden toast. “You know what’s wrong with you, don’t you?”
Nate narrowed his gaze. “I beg your pardon?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear his sister’s opinion on what ailed him.
“You miss her.”
Nate felt his cheeks grow uncharacteristically hot. Christ, was he blushing? He flipped open the Times. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Charlie snorted. “Don’t pick up that paper to avoid me. I know you’re not really reading it.” She reached out and pushed the pages down, catching his eye again. “Just look at you. You don’t eat properly. Your sleeping habits are even worse than usual—and don’t shake your head at me—you think I haven’t heard you prowling the hallways at all ungodly hours of the night? You have shadows beneath your eyes and you’ve lost weight. I’ve never seen you so miserable.”
“You think I’m miserable?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
If he admitted that, it meant he would be admitting to Charlie’s first point—that he missed Sophie. He might be prepared to admit it to himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to say it aloud. Because if he truly did miss Sophie, it might mean that the tendre he’d harbored for her had evolved into something much, much worse.
Charlie was right. He was a mess.
When he didn’t respond to her question, Charlie sighed. “Nate, it’s not a sign of weakness to admit you care for someone. Even Father has noticed the cloud of gloom over your head. And he agrees with me. You’re not yourself because you’re in love with Sophie.”
Nate ground his teeth. “I’m not . . . Men like me don’t—”
“Fall in love? Yes, yes. I’ve heard you say it all before. That doesn’t make it true. And I know you just use it as an excuse to protect yourself from ever being hurt again. You cannot deny it.”
Good God, when did Charlie become so perceptive? Out loud he said, “No matter how much you wish it to be otherwise, you are very mistaken about how I feel.”
Charlie scowled at him. “Well, let me ask you this, Nate: why wouldn’t you fall in love with Sophie? For heaven’s sake, she’s perfect for you. And she loves you. Everyone knows it. I suspect even poor Lord Claremont knows it. Indeed, I knew from the very first time you two met in Hyde Park three years ago that you and Sophie were meant for each other. You might pretend otherwise, but I saw how she caught your eye. Why, when we were at Mrs. Rathbone’s academy, I even introduced her to all the things you like because I hoped that one day—”
Nate frowned. “What do you mean? What things?”
Charlie lifted her chin. “You know, the brandy, and tobacco, and a particular set of memoirs . . . I wanted Sophie to appreciate some of the things you like. So that when you had the opportunity to meet again, she wouldn’t be so shocked by some of your rakish appetites.”
Nate couldn’t keep the incredulous tone from his voice. “Good God, Charlie. Is that the real reason you smuggled all of those items into that girl’s school?”
The light in Charlie’s eyes was militant. “It was part of the reason. I still maintain young women would benefit from learning about such taboo topics. We are all expected to lead such cosseted lives. To never put a foot
wrong. To be seen and not heard on matters of importance. To acquire useless attainments such as drawing and how to sing like an angel and sit properly when most of the time men are just thinking about what’s beneath our skirts. Now, don’t look at me like that, Nate. You know it’s true. It infuriates me no end.”
She sighed and her expression softened. “But this isn’t about me, Nate. When you accidentally invaded Sophie’s room that night, I could have gone to Father, of course, who would have insisted that you marry her straightaway. But I didn’t want you to resent Sophie because you’d been forced to marry her out of obligation. I wanted you to fall in love with her by getting to know her as a person. Hence, I blackmailed you into becoming her chaperone. I knew if you spent a good deal of time together—especially if you saw her being courted by others—you’d soon realize what a prize she is.”
Horror shot through Nate. “Good Lord, your machinations are simply diabolical.”
Charlie arched a fine brow. “I like to think of my plotting as . . . clever.”
Nate shook his head. “Be that as it may, I’m a blackguard, Charlie. Fit for nothing other than wasting my days away at this club or that. Sophie deserves better. A man who adores her.”
“And that man is you, why can’t you see it? You are good enough, Nathaniel Hastings. Your life doesn’t have to be so empty and hedonistic. Your arguments are flawed and weak, and you know it.”
Charlie paused to pour herself another cup of tea. “There’s something else I think you should know about . . . about Sophie’s current situation . . .”
“What do you mean?” Nate held his breath as Charlie again fussed about with sugar and milk and stirred her tea with a silver teaspoon far too many times. He wouldn’t put it past her to be torturing him on purpose.
“I’m worried now that Sophie has returned home, that odious man, Lord Buxton, will continue to pursue her. She hinted as much in the letter I received yesterday.”
Nate’s hands curled into fists at the thought of the middle-aged baron going anywhere near her. He’d been so focused on trying to alleviate his own misery, he hadn’t even considered Sophie’s circumstances. What a prat he was.
Charlie fiddled with the handle of her teacup. “But I fear it’s worse than Sophie has let on.”
Alarm spiked, making Nate sound terser than he wanted to. “Stop mincing words, Charlie. Out with it.”
“It seems Sophie’s stepfather, Mr. Debenham, owes Lord Buxton a substantial amount of money. Quite frankly, I’m concerned Sophie will be pressured into wedding the baron. I cannot be sure, but perhaps Lord Buxton will waive the debt if she agrees to marry him.” She shrugged. “You saw the lascivious look in that man’s gaze too. It just seems like something he would do.”
Nate clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw cracked. Christ. Sophie wasn’t a commodity to be traded like a sack of grain or a prize heifer. “Did Sophie ever disclose to you how much her stepfather owes Lord Buxton?”
Charlie nodded. “Two thousand pounds. In her letter she mentioned her stepfather recently attempted to secure a loan from his bank in Bury St. Edmonds, but unfortunately his request was rejected.”
Nate leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a significant sum but not a king’s ransom by any means. He’d occasionally gambled away more than that at the gaming tables in the space of a night. “Thank you for telling me that, Charlie. I won’t have that man hounding Sophie.”
Charlie’s smile was bright. “So you are going to declare your undying love for Sophie and offer for her hand?”
Nate gave his sister a wry smile. “I admire your tireless optimism, Charlie. But no.”
“So what do you plan to do?” Charlie gave him a curious look from beneath her lashes.
He hadn’t been able to save Thomas. He was responsible for his mother’s death too. He might not be able to offer Sophie the love she deserved, but that didn’t mean he would stand idly by and see her suffer. “I think it’s time my man of business paid a visit to Suffolk.”
CHAPTER 22
Has a stroke of good luck at last reversed the fortunes of a particular well-known family of M. G.?
The question on the tips of everyone’s tongues is, does this family have a secret benefactor?
The Suffolk County Chronicle: Vignettes of Village Life
Nettlefield Grange, Monkton Green, Suffolk
June 1, 1818
Sophie’s hands shook as she tore open the letter from Mr. John Murray, publisher, that had just arrived in this morning’s post. Anticipation warring with anxiety, she didn’t even make it inside the house before she’d perused the opening words, then perused them again to make absolutely sure she’d understood correctly. The shifting dappled light cast by the oak tree above her head wasn’t helping matters. Nevertheless, she drew a deep breath and forced herself to read the words at a slower pace for a third time.
Dear Miss Brightwell,
I am pleased to offer you a contract of publication for your delightful children’s novel The Diary of a Determined Young Country Miss; or, a Young Lady of Consequence . . .
Joy surged and Sophie’s heart sang. It was true. She’d done it. Accomplished a cherished goal. Not only was she going to be a published author, she would earn some sorely needed income at long last. She didn’t know how long she could continue to fend off Lord Buxton—
“Sophie, Sophie, come quickly. You’ll never believe what’s happened.”
What on earth? Her heart bolting into a gallop, Sophie thrust her letter into the pocket of her pinafore, picked up her skirts, and then raced across the lawn, past the rose garden, and up the stairs leading to the front door of the grange. Her mother stood on the threshold, her cheeks flushed and her lace cap askew, waving a sheet of paper. Another letter?
Alice and Jane hovered behind her in the narrow hall. Relief surged when Sophie saw both of her sisters were smiling. Fifteen-year-old Jane’s hands were clasped beneath her chin and as she bounced up and down on her toes, her blond curls bobbed too.
More good news then, thank heavens.
“What is it, Mama?” Sophie asked as she was tugged inside by three pairs of hands and led into the stone-flagged kitchen, where her mother had been making strawberry jam with Mrs. Peel, the cook. The mouthwatering smell of bread baking greeted her, and she felt her own mouth curving into a smile.
“Oh, my goodness.” Her mother fanned her face with her cap. “Such wonderful news.”
“Yes?” Sophie prompted. Exasperation began to blend with the buzz of excitement fizzing through her veins. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
It was Alice who spoke. Her fair cheeks were flushed pink too. “Papa just sent word that the debt to Lord Buxton has been cleared. We won’t lose Nettlefield. And you won’t have to marry him.”
Thank you, God. Thank you. Sophie pressed a hand to her chest as another wave of blessed relief washed over her. “That is indeed wonderful. But how? Where did the money come from?”
Her mother shrugged. “Mr. Debenham did not say. Perhaps he will tell us more when he arrives home. He was at the bank at Bury St. Edmunds when he found out, but he was so excited, he sent a message.” Her gaze shifted to Mrs. Peel, who stood by the stove, quietly beaming as she stirred a large pot of the bubbling jam. “Do we have any bottles of the elderflower or bramble wine in the larder? I think we should all have a small glass when Mr. Debenham arrives home.”
Sophie sank onto one of the wooden chairs and placed her trembling hands on the cool scrubbed oak tabletop. Her mind was awhirl with questions and possibilities. It was unlikely Lord Buxton had decided to waive the two-thousand-pound debt; he’d been holding it over her stepfather’s head like the sword of Damocles for over three years.
As far as she was aware, the only other person who knew of the debt outside of their family circle was Charlie.
Had Charlie had s
omething to do with this? She’d recently sent her friend a letter disclosing some of her worries about the future—namely her mother’s hints that Lord Buxton still intended to pursue her, and that her family was still in debt to him, despite her stepfather’s best efforts.
Had Charlie shared the information with someone else? Like her aunt Tabitha, or her father, Lord Westhampton?
Sophie’s gaze fell on the enormous bowl of hulled strawberries in front of her.
What if Charlie had told Nate? Nate had sought to protect her from Lord Buxton on two occasions. If he knew of her precarious situation, would he have been moved to help her?
She had no idea. It really was just wild speculation on her part at this point.
The main thing was, she was safe, and indeed her whole family was safe from Lord Buxton. And that was definitely a cause for celebration.
Pushing her hand into her pinafore’s pocket, Sophie withdrew Mr. Murray’s letter. “Mama, I have something else to share with you . . .” She swallowed, hoping with all her heart that her mother would be excited for her too. “Some months ago, I wrote a book. A children’s book. And a publisher from London has made me an offer.” With trembling fingers she passed her mother the slightly crumpled page.
“Sophie. That’s brilliant,” cried Alice, and Jane squealed. Sophie suddenly found herself crushed in a tight embrace by two pairs of warm arms.
“Is it the stories you wrote for me?” asked Jane. Her blue eyes shone with tears.
“Yes indeed.” Sophie pushed a strand of her sister’s hair away from her flushed cheek. “Mr. Murray, the publisher, thinks they’re delightful.”
“Oh, Sophie.” Lydia Debenham sank onto the neighboring oak chair. Her eyes were suspiciously bright too. “I never thought . . . I honestly didn’t believe you could . . . You’re so very clever.” She dabbed at the fat tear rolling down her cheek. “Will you ever be able to forgive me? For dismissing your writing? And doubting you?”
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 27
