Kasey Michaels (28 page)

“What you’ve
bought
for him?” Isadora exclaimed, then smiled. “Oh, Miss Winstead, how kind of you. But nothing too personal, I hope. Because, lud, that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.”

“What you’ve
bought
for him?” Bramwell ground out from between clenched teeth as he leaned over the back of the chair, making it easier for him to breathe fire into her ear. “You’ve bought Samuel a
friend
?”

“Yes, Bramwell, oh, ye of the infinitesimal faith in my abilities,” she said, turning slightly in her chair, the better to whisper at the man—and the better to see his face as he realized he’d lost their wager. “I bought him a friend. A friend he can count on never to leave him, always to love him, completely and unconditionally. A friend to care about, so that he doesn’t have so much time to worry about himself. A friend to take out in public, where others can see, and admire, and enjoy—and begin to realize that Sad Samuel is not quite the nemesis everyone seems to believe him to be. In short, Your Grace, I’ve bought your cousin a
dog
.”

“And you think that will work?” Bramwell whispered back at her. He gestured with his chin, urging her to look in Sad Samuel’s direction. The man was still waiting for Lady Gwendolyn’s return, occupying himself in prodigiously blowing his nose, then holding up his handkerchief to inspect his success. “It will take more than a dog to fix
that
.”

“Yes, I know,” Sophie said happily, rising to greet Lady Gwendolyn as she came back into the room, Desiree behind her, doing her best to hold onto a pair of wriggling, yipping, wonderfully adorable coal black poodle puppies. “That’s why I bought
two
.”

Bramwell walked back into the mansion after handing Isadora and her abigail up into the coach, eager to speak privately with Sophie before she could escape to her bedchamber. He caught her just placing her foot on the first step, called her back into the drawing room, then closed the doors behind them, surreptitiously locking them.

“I could have waited until morning to listen to your concession speech, Your Grace,” she said, dipping down slightly so that Ignatius could step off her shoulder and back onto his perch. “I’m very good at what I do, yes?”

“A single swallow doesn’t make a summer, Sophie,” he told her, going over to the drinks table and pouring them each a glass of wine. “Sad, er, my cousin may have become embarrassingly adoring and almost adorable when he saw those two dogs—”

“Poodles, Bramwell,” Sophie interrupted. “Romeo and Juliet, to be even more precise. I wonder, does your cousin have the faintest idea what it means to have both a Romeo and a Juliet?”

Bramwell smiled. “In another six months or so, everywhere he looks, there will be a Capulet?”

Sophie returned his smile, accepting the glass of wine. “Ladies simply adore puppies. And Mr. Seaton has already assured me he intends to take the little darlings with him everywhere he goes. Just like Poodle Byng, he told me, and Heaven knows that man has made good use of his dogs. Why, Mr. Seaton says he’s already planning to have a special high seat fashioned for them up behind his horses, so that they can better see and be seen when he takes them driving in the Park. And did you notice? He didn’t trip over a single thing as he was carefully carrying them out of the drawing room.”

“And it has been known to snow in June,” Bramwell shot back, knowing he wasn’t being exactly graceful in defeat. “Oddities do occur.”

Sophie giggled. “Oh, give over, Bram. Your cousin took his first steps this evening in finding that something exists outside his nervous disposition and his—pardon me, please—his phlegm. I’ve won, and you know it.”

She sat down on the couch, resting her back comfortably against the cushions Lady Gwendolyn insisted were necessary to bodily comfort. “So? What day would be best for you to escort me to Bartholomew Fair? I can’t tomorrow, I’m afraid, as I’m already promised to Sir Wallace early in the day, and Miss Waverley and I do want to drop in at Hatchard’s later in the afternoon, so that I might possibly locate a book I’ve recommended to her. Besides, I understand that the dear, widowed Lord Charles Anston brings his daughters to Hatchard’s quite often, believing good literature to be quite edifying to young minds.”

Bramwell felt his stomach muscles tighten unexpectedly. “You’ve set your sights on Anston?”

He watched as Sophie dipped a finger in her wine, then sucked the glistening liquid from her skin. God, she was driving him mad! All of Desiree’s lessons, and executed with all the innocence of a young woman who hadn’t the faintest idea what her actions really meant, what they invited, what the consequences to that invitation would be for her, for him. “Set my sights on him? Well, yes,” she said, smiling so that her adorable nose wrinkled. “I suppose you could say that. At the very least, I am exploring—options.”

She took a sip of wine and changed the subject. “The evening went well, yes? But I will admit to an anxious moment or two, thanks to my carelessness in saying the word,” she shot a quick glance in Ignatius’s direction, “c-o-a-c-h-i-e. Now I understand why Uncle Tye—Sir Tyler—was so worried.”

Bramwell sat down beside her, feeling in charity with her once more. How could he not? She was maddening, infuriating, more beautiful than anyone could imagine, had a heart large enough to care about people such as Sad Samuel, and she spoke to him as if he were her very best friend in all of the world.

And she’d probably kill him if she knew how much he wanted to kiss away her every last stitch of clothing, reveal her in all her perfection, touch her, worship her, love her with his mouth, his hands...

“My cousin’s reaction gave me a bad moment or two as well, Sophie,” he said as companionably as possible while cursing himself for a lusting, rutting boar. “And yet, your veiled reference to leprosy, I admit, bordered on the brilliant. But should I be making a list? I mean, does the bird imitate anyone else?”

“Say
Connie
,” Sophie told him, leaning close, to whisper the suggestion in his ear, her breath wine-sweet and inviting. Driving him mad. “Ignatius is Uncle Cesse to the life. Honestly.”

Bramwell’s smile froze in place, his lust momentarily forgotten. “I don’t believe it,” he said, a considerable amount of his good feeling, the hail-fellow-well-met camaraderie that a moment before had been growing between Sophie and himself also draining away. “He can sound like my father?”

She nodded, watching him closely, as if her admission was a test, to see if he really was an unnatural son, a person who could dislike his father even beyond the grave.

“Connie,” he said, loud enough for the parrot to hear.

“Connie!” Ignatius responded at once, the bird’s voice so close to Bramwell’s father’s that he was hard-pressed not to jump to his feet, and say, “Yes, sir!” the way he had done as a child. “Kiss me, Connie!
Squawk
! Pucker up! Pucker up!”

“Good God,” Bramwell said on a groan, shaking his head. “Somebody ought to strangle that bird.”

“As she told me her grandfather owned a parrot himself, Miss Waverley likes him well enough. Ignatius,” Sophie said more loudly, as if to make the bird less obnoxious in Bramwell’s eyes, “you like Miss Waverley, don’t you?”

Ignatius, upon hearing Isadora’s name, immediately began bobbing his bright yellow head up and down, showing off what he’d learned since coming to Portland Square: “
Squawk
! Lud, no, Selbourne! Lud! Lud!
Squawk
!”

“Oh, dear, I didn’t know he did that!” Sophie choked out, jumping to her feet. “Come on, Ignatius. It’s past time all naughty parrots were in bed.”

Bramwell had risen at the same time, partly in shock at hearing his betrothed’s voice coming out of the parrot’s mouth, partly because Sophie had stood up and he, as a gentleman, was bound to do so as well—and partly because he really didn’t want Sophie to leave. Not just yet. Perhaps not ever.

“Tell me about the brooch first, please,” he said, for the question had laid heavy on his mind all evening. “Did Giuseppe really find it?”

Sophie lied well, he remembered, and she looked ready to give fibbing her best effort now. Strangely, she opened her mouth, then hesitated. She seemed to be having some difficulty in looking straight into his eyes, almost as if her considerable talent for well-intended deception had unexpectedly deserted her. Did that mean anything? Was she softening toward him, so that she found herself unable to lie to him quite so easily anymore? Or was he simply reading too much into her reaction, being hopeful when he really didn’t care if she told him the truth or smiled openly while she lied?

But he did care, damn it! He cared very much! He wanted her to tell him the truth, to trust him enough to be honest with him. To trust him as a friend, as a man. On every level.

“Sophie?” he prompted. “I’m waiting. Did Giuseppe really steal the brooch?”

“Well, of all the silly questions, Bramwell! Of course he did,” she said at last, her voice bright even as she still averted her eyes. “Giuseppe is always finding things and bringing them to me. I immediately recognized the brooch as belonging to Miss Waverley.” She looked at him appealingly. “You won’t punish Giuseppe, will you? He means no harm.”

“Neither does my aunt, Sophie. But, then, you know that, don’t you? You know it, and you’re protecting her, just the way I’ve been doing.”

“Your aunt? Why, Bramwell, I really don’t have the faintest idea what you’re—oh, I give up,” she said, her gloriously perfect shoulders collapsing in a defeated slump that was almost laughable. “I admit it. I found the brooch in with Aunt Gwendolyn’s jewelry. She means no—oh, I’ve already said that, haven’t I? Very well then,
neither
of them means any harm.”

“No, I’m sure they don’t. And I’m pleased you didn’t give the poor old dear away. However, Miss Waverley already knows about my aunt’s, er, proclivity for picking up the stray item or two. The brooch, unfortunately, is not the first of her possessions I’ve
discovered
here in Portland Square over the past months and had to return to her. In fact, she’s already mentioned the potential for embarrassment if Aunt Gwendolyn should be found out, and has suggested she be sent away.”

“Sent away? Locked up?” Sophie asked, looking immediately incensed, and ready to do battle.

“No, Sophie,” he answered, a part of his brain wondering why it always smelled like spring whenever she was close by. It was odd. Even now, while in the midst of a fairly uncomfortable conversation, Sophie’s mere presence made him feel lighter, younger, more aware of himself as a man, of her as a woman. She was constantly soothing to him, yet constantly exciting. In short, he supposed he simply felt
alive
whenever she was near. It was very strange, for he’d thought he’d been alive all along. Had he only recently begun to live?

He took a steadying breath, then went on: “Miss Waverley merely suggested Aunt Gwendolyn be sent to the country, to Selbourne Hall, where she couldn’t end up being branded a thief or, worse, a woman who has misplaced her mind. Miss Waverley meant it only for the best, I’m sure, to protect my aunt from herself.”

Sophie nodded, considering his words. “I see. That’s all right then. Of course Miss Waverley would think she was doing Aunt Gwendolyn a kindness, although it would never occur to her to just go on as you’ve been doing—simply returning whatever Aunt Gwendolyn has admired. Miss Waverley would have chosen the safest way, the most proper way, to solve the problem. Well,” she ended, smiling, “I’m certainly glad she didn’t want you to have Aunt Gwendolyn locked up. Because otherwise I would have had to put my mind to hurting her, yes?”

Bramwell laughed out loud. “And you would, wouldn’t you? For a young woman who vows to remain heartwhole, you show a great interest in protecting those around you. But, before you protest, I understand now, Sophie, really I do. My aunt is a totally lovable, harmless creature and would never think to hurt you, so you gave your own heart willingly in return. It’s only the male of the species you hide from, are afraid of, see as heartless predators wanting more from you than you feel it safe to give.”

She gazed up at him for a long time, time during which he once again realized how alone they were, how closely they were standing to each other, how loudly the clock on the mantel behind him ticked off the time. Time to feel their easy camaraderie shift, change, re-form itself once more into lust, as Sophie would call it. To lust. To desire. To, God help him, love.

“I —I... yes,” she said at last, both sounding and looking confused, unsure of herself, as if something she once felt to be clear in her mind was now becoming muzzy, more difficult to understand. “Men are cruel... the uncles... even Uncle Cesse. I’ll love, yes, but I’ll never fall in love. Not me. I won’t... won’t allow it. Besides, it doesn’t really exist. Not in the way
Maman
believed in it. The word love is so pretty, filling the gullible with silly dreams. The real word is lust, and I’ll never let myself forget that. Unlike my
maman
, I will live my life heart free, and on my own terms.”

Bramwell had to stop her. Stop her from saying what she believed, what he had often believed himself, but did no longer. He stepped even closer to her, their faces now only inches apart. “Isadora has postponed the wedding until the fall, saying her father is too unwell for the ceremony to go forward now,” he said before he could measure his words. “In truth, I believe she’s simply trying to distance herself from me slowly, one small, proper step at a time. I doubt we’ll ever marry.”