A Regency Match (14 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Mansfield

BOOK: A Regency Match
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Bertie, so unexpectedly attacked, turned pale, colored at the ears and looked embarrassedly at the ground. “I only meant … I know Sophy's been behaving badly … but …”

The boy's look of acute discomfort softened Marcus immediately. “I'm sorry. I was shouting at you, wasn't I? Forgive me. Your cousin's behavior should not be laid at your door. But you cannot be trying to make
excuses
for the girl. There can be no excuse for what she's done this afternoon. You know as well as I do what turmoil her little escapade has caused.”

“I didn't mean to make excuses for her,” Bertie said miserably. “I only wanted to suggest—how can I say this?—that perhaps … Sophy is not
entirely
at fault.” He took a deep breath and went on bravely. “I beg your pardon if I'm … stepping beyond the bounds to say this, my lord, but … you, yourself, may have had a bit to do with this, you see.”

“I?
I
? I'm afraid I don't see that at all.”

“Well, you
did
offend her this morning, you know.”

Marcus peered intently at the red-faced boy through the gathering gloom. “Did I? In what way?”

“Do you remember, at the stables, that you gave her that slug to ride? Sophy's been riding since she was a babe, and she couldn't be expected to be pleased that you thought her incapable of handling anything better.”

“Oh? A really good horsewoman, is she?” Marcus asked. Bertie's nod made Marcus add in a defensive mutter, “Hang it all, Bertie, how was
I
to know the chit could ride?”

“You might have asked.”

This simple response caught Marcus short. He bit back the cutting retort that sprang almost automatically to his tongue. The boy was obviously sincere in his suggestion that Marcus had been thoughtless and rude. Could the fellow be right? Could
he
, Marcus Harvey, have been guilty of discourteous behavior towards a guest? “Did Miss Edgerton complain to you about this?” he asked.

Bertie did not know how to respond. He was sure that Sophy wouldn't wish him to repeat their conversations about Lord Wynwood. “About the mare?” he asked evasively. “No, she didn't. Not directly. I saw her trying to coax the mare to gallop, and I could tell she was … er … somewhat displeased.”

“I see. And you think she undertook this little stratagem to show me my mistake?”

“I can't say, my lord. It ain't my place to speak for her.”

Marcus nodded. The fellow was not such a simpleton as Marcus had judged him to be when they'd first met. The boy had a strong sense of loyalty, an observant eye and blunt honesty that Marcus couldn't help liking. In an unspoken apology, he put an arm about the boy's shoulder. “I wish you'd stop calling me ‘my lord' in that punctilious way. I'm Marcus to my friends. Now, let's see what's become of Old Andrew. Perhaps he can give us some inkling of when our impetuous horsewoman intends to return.”

But Andrew, who had returned to his cottage and begun to light his evening fire, had no clues to offer. The young Miss had promised to return in just a little while, he told them. He certainly had no idea that she intended to stay out until dusk.

But dusk was rapidly becoming dark, and the two gentlemen, sitting on the little stone wall which edged the cottage garden, could discern no movement on the deeply-shadowed downs. Bertie watched Marcus's face apprehensively as, with the passing minutes, his eyes narrowed and the creases around his mouth deepened.
Damn the girl, had she no sense
? Bertie wondered. If she took much longer, his lordship—Marcus—would be as furious as he'd been before Bertie had softened him up.

Bertie's fears were quite justified. As the sky darkened, so did Marcus's mood. At length he ordered Bertie to take the carriage and return home. “Lady Alicia will be distraught by this time. You can relieve her distress by telling her that her granddaughter and I will be following closely behind.”

“But if I take the carriage, how will you—?”

“I'll keep one of the horses. Come on, let's help my man unhitch him.”

“Marcus, why not send your
man
home on horseback? That way, I can wait with you, and we can drive the curricle back ourselves when Sophy gets here.”

“Because, my boy, what I have to say to your Sophy, when she gets here, will not be fit for you to overhear.”

Bertie sighed. “That's what I was afraid of. Very well, I'll go if I must.” He climbed gloomily into the curricle and the coachman clucked at the horse. Just as the carriage began to move, Bertie stuck his head out. “You won't be too hard on her, will you?” he asked worriedly.

“Hard on her?” Marcus said between clenched teeth. “I'm going to
wring her neck
!”

The sky became black. Nothing could be seen but the stars, a quartermoon, and the dim lights from the cottage windows, and still Sophy had not come. Old Andrew, who had come out a few times to mutter that he hoped the lass had not made off with his horse, had callously gone to bed. Marcus's mood had progressed from impatience, through raging fury to abject terror. This was more than sport, more than a girl's game. No one with a grain of sense would keep a horse out after dark, especially on strange terrain. The girl must have been thrown and was lying somewhere unconscious. Dead, perhaps. He alternately paced up and down the lane or sat stock still on the wall listening for the sound of hoofbeats. Added to his agony was the awareness that there was nothing he could do but sit and wait.

His anticipation of the satisfaction of wringing her neck had long since given way to quite another feeling. He yearned, he longed, he
prayed
for the sound of those hoofbeats. If only she were not harmed, not unconscious, not dead … he would forgive her everything. He would be patient with her, kind, thoughtful, understanding. Anything! Everything! If she would only …

There was a slow clip-clop from the far end of the lane. He held his breath. Yes, he could hear it quite clearly. His heart jumped joyfully into his dry, fear-frozen throat. It must be she! He peered intently down the lane and saw a moving shadow in the faint, faint moonlight. Leaping eagerly from the wall, he raced down the lane. “Sophy? Sophy, is it
you
?” he cried.

“L-Lord Wynwood …?” came a frightened little voice. And in another moment the horse was at his side, and Sophy was sliding from the saddle into his waiting arms.

For a moment, unconscious of what he said and did, he held the girl against him muttering “Thank God,” into her hair, so intense was his relief. But the feeling spent itself almost immediately and was replaced by the most violent, inexplicable rage. All the feelings he'd suffered throughout those harrowing hours came flooding back. He had no awareness of the girl's trembling limbs, her tear-streaked face, her frightened eyes. Like a mother who viciously slaps her beloved, lost child the moment after she finds him safely restored to her, Marcus seized the girl by her shoulders and shook her furiously. “Damn you, woman,” he hissed, “where the devil have you
been
?”

For Sophy, this was the worst and most difficult development in a very bad and difficult day. “P-Please, l-let m-me go!” she stuttered, appalled at the ferocity of his anger. “You're
h-hurting
m-me …”

“Hurting you? I'd like to
strangle
you! Do you realize that I've been sitting on the wall, picturing you lying in a pool of your own blood, for almost
four hours
?”

“I … I'm sorry. I l-lost m-my way …”

“Sorry? You're
sorry
? That meaningless word comes very readily to your tongue, doesn't it? Is that supposed to be a sufficient explanation for your thoughtless, calamitous behavior?”

They glared at each other breathlessly. Sophy's spirit, which had flagged completely under Lord Wynwood's startling attack, began to stiffen. Now that she was no longer lost and alone, her courage reasserted itself. “If you'll stop b-bruising my arm and give me a chance to explain—” she managed to gasp.

Guiltily, he loosened the hold on her arms. It was not until this moment that he realized how cruelly he'd been grasping them. “What is there to explain?” he growled. “You wanted to teach me a lesson for underestimating your horsemanship. Well, you've succeeded. If you managed this enormous animal for all this time, you must be a very talented horsewoman indeed. I compliment you.”

Sophy turned on him a pair of very startled eyes. “How did you—? What makes you think—?”

“Bertie told me.” He turned away and fumbled for the horse's bridle. “I'm sorry I offended you this morning, but couldn't you have made your point with a little less drama? Did you have to put me … us … through this protracted torture?”

“I didn't mean to … surely you don't think I
intended
to do anything like this! I meant only to take a short ride, and then gallop back to the carriages while everyone was getting ready to leave. In that way, you would all see how well I—”

“A likely tale,” he said with a sneer, wheeling around to her. “You needn't have ridden off to the downs to accomplish
that
!”

Sophy hung her head. “I suppose I needn't have done that. But once I'd climbed on the roan's back and felt his power, I longed to race him. The downs at this distance seemed more level and flat than they turned out to be. By the time I'd passed over a few hills, I looked back and couldn't see the village. Not even the spire! I rode back, but I must have mistaken my direction, and before I knew it I was hopelessly lost. I'd gone miles out of my way before I found anyone to ask, and then I …”

“Then you what?”

She looked up at him defiantly. “You won't believe it, but I was misdirected and became more hopelessly lost than ever.”

“Oh, I believe it. You have a talent for getting yourself embroiled in these unbelievable coils. It's quite like you.”

Sophy drew in her breath. “Quite like me? How
dare
you! What gives you the right to make assumptions about me on the basis of a mere brief acquaintance?” she asked haughtily.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Brief acquaintance? My dear girl, in the few days I've known you, you have managed to put me through more turmoil than anyone else could have done in
years
! I think that what I suffered tonight
alone
gives me the right to make certain assumptions—”

“You
suffered
? What a bit of gammon!” she said scornfully. “As if you cared if I lived or died!”

Marcus, whose inner trembling over her safety was only now beginning to abate, raised a derisive eyebrow. “Listen here, Sophy, what sort of man do you think I am? Not
care
? What do you think caused me to lose my head when you turned up just now? You surely don't believe that I
normally
greet my friends by falling into a frenzy and shaking the life out of them.”

“You seemed upset, I grant you, but you cannot make me believe that it was over
my
welfare. I know what you think of me. Your only concern was the success of your houseparty! If I had met with an unfortunate accident, it would no doubt have somewhat damped the proceedings.”

Marcus stared at her in disbelief. “Don't talk like a fool!” he said curtly. Could she—or anyone—have failed to notice the tell-tale signs of the extent of his concern? Why, his hands were
still
trembling! This wretched girl seemed to believe he had no
feelings
!

In the dim moonlight, he could see her lift her chin proudly, although she tried to hide its slight quiver. “Then perhaps, since I'm talking like a fool, we'd be well advised to stop,” she said. “I would like to g-go home.”

The little stammer smote him like a blow. “Of course,” he said quickly. “We'll return Andrew's horse and be on our way.” Damnation, why had he been so curt with her? He had promised himself that, once she came back, he'd be kind.

He had an almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her and tell her that he hadn't meant to scold. But he couldn't very well do that, being neither her parent nor her lover. He wasn't even a friend. He sighed and reached for the horse's bridle and started up the lane, the girl following dejectedly. A quick glance at her over his shoulder showed a woebegone, rumpled creature, her bonnet hanging limply from the ribbon round her neck, her hair dishevelled, her face streaked. He looked away quickly, feeling like a beast. But
why
he should feel so culpable he didn't in the least understand.

He led the horse to Old Andrew's shed, covered him with a blanket and set him a bucketful of oats. Then he took the crestfallen girl to the place where he'd tied up his own horse, lifted her upon it and jumped up behind her. “Why don't you lean back against me and go to sleep?” he suggested gently. “We won't be home for an hour or more. I'll have to go slowly in this darkness.”

But she shook her head. He felt a stab of disappointment. He would have liked her to lean against him and nestle her head in his shoulder. It would have made him feel forgiven, although he wondered (for the second time) why—for what crime of omission or commission—he should seek her forgiveness. But the girl sat stiffly erect, as if any contact with his body would be a contamination, and they exchanged not another word or look during the long ride home.

Chapter Eleven

S
OPHY TRIED TO
brace herself to face the wrath of her grandmother and the subtle scorn of the other guests, but she could not. She was exhausted in mind and body, and her emotions seemed stretched to the point of snapping. If anyone should even look at her askance, she knew she would burst into tears.
Real
tears. For the past few days, she had taken enormous satisfaction in her ability to upset the placid tenor of the Wynwood establishment by her
false
tears, but somehow the thought of bursting forth in real ones was humiliating to her. It was a strange paradox. She had really caused chaos today, and that success gave her no satisfaction at all.

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