Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (17 page)

She heard footsteps and saw the glow of an approaching candle in the
hall. Amory! At last! She ran through the doorway. The welcoming cry on
her lips died to a sobbing gasp. The slim figure was too tall; instead
of the rich gleam of Hartwell's auburn curls, the hair was black and
thick and slightly waving, with the rumpled look that she knew came
from his running his hand through it while he puzzled at his music.

Damon stopped, lifting the branch of candles he held and scowling at
her. "What the devil?" He looked so forbidding; with that savaged
portrait fresh in her mind, she instinctively took a step back. He
lifted the candles higher and, in a voice like the crack of a whip,
commanded, "Come here!" Instead, she moved back. He must know that she
had seen what he'd done to the portrait. Perhaps he—

She gave a little cry of terror as he pounced on her. "Let me go!"
she gasped, struggling desperately. "Filthy beast! You shall not—"

There was an ear-splitting creak. Dust billowed about them. Choked
and half blinded, she was whirled around in arms of steel and deafened
by a thundering crash. The floor shook, and debris flew through the
air. She was paralyzed by the fear that the entire roof was folding in
upon them as the darkness became absolute. She knew somehow that
Damon's head was bent over her; coughing and spluttering, she clung to
him desperately.

"It's… all… right," he wheezed, stumbling through the blackness. "Don't be… afraid."

"What happened?"

"One of the beams collapsed. Are you all right?"

He loosened his arms, but she shrank against him in a frenzy of terror. "Yes, but don't leave me!"

"Of course not." His voice became steadier and was very tender as he asked, "Sophia—are you quite sure you're not hurt?"

"Just… so frightened. I've never known such awful darkness!" She
heard a scrabbling sound. Perhaps that collapsed ceiling had opened the
way for rats—in a building this old. She threw her arms about his neck,
burying her face against his chest.

And then his hands clamped on her shoulders, and she was being
pushed away. Light was beginning to glow through the dust-laden air,
and, looking up, she saw his face covered with grime, the tousled locks
heavy with dust, the light eyes blazing. Shaking her, he demanded
fiercely, "What in God's name were you doing down here? I told you to
keep away! Are you daft, woman?"

Speechless with shock, she gazed up at him. Were these bruising
hands the same hands that had held her so safely against him? Was this
harsh snarl the tender voice that just a moment ago had asked if she
was hurt?

Other voices rang out, followed by the sounds of running feet. Damon
shoved her roughly towards the oncoming light. "Little fool!" he
gritted. "Go with them! And since it has to be spelled out for you—as
soon as may be, I'll thank you to leave my house."

She gave a gasp at this unthinkable behaviour, yet did not move,
watching as he turned and went back into the drifting clouds of dust,
peering up at the shattered remains of the ceiling.

A familiar voice called a worried "Damon…?"

"Marcus!" With a sob of relief, Sophia ran to her cousin's arms.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, and then shouted, "He's here, sir. And Sophia as well!"

The Earl came running up, his face strained with anxiety. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"I am… now," she faltered, suddenly weak in the knees. Clay held her
protectively. Ridgley eyed her with frowning concern, then went to
Damon and demanded angrily, "Why in the deuce did you bring her down
here at this hour?"

Damon threw him a disgusted look and, ignoring the question, said curtly, "The beam gave way, and—By Jupiter! Amory!"

Candle in hand, Hartwell clambered over the debris. He was covered
with dust, and blood streaked his forehead. The Earl hurried to help
him over the rubble, and he at once rushed weavingly to Sophia. "What
are you doing down here? My God! Were you under that confounded
crumbling ceiling?"

"Your poor head," she cried, her fears forgotten in her concern for him.

"I would suggest," said the Marquis sardonically, "that is is neither the time nor the place for
l'amour
. The rest of this ceiling looks quite ready to come down on us."

Sophia tossed him a disgusted look, but they lost no time in
retreating. Upstairs, Vaille met them in the corridor and assisted
Hartwell to one of the wide settles before the still-smouldering fire
in the Great Hall. Miss Hilby fled in search of water and bandages, and
Sophia, refusing stubbornly to go to her room, sat beside Hartwell.
Vaille examined the young man's scraped forehead. "It doesn't look too
bad. Can you tell us what happened?"

"And why?" asked Damon glacially.

He received outraged glares from both his father and Sophia as
Hartwell muttered a rueful "Don't really know, Cam. Thought I saw
someone trotting down the corridor, so I followed. When I got all the
way to the catacombs, I heard someone behind me and turned back." He
held his head and sighed weakly, "Whole… blasted roof came down."

Miss Hilby returned with a bowl of water and strips of white linen, and Sophia began to bathe Hartwell's lacerations.

"And you, ma'am," Vaille probed, "why were you down in that ghastly place?"

"I wanted to talk with Sir Amory," Sophia mumbled, colouring as she realized how foolish and improper that sounded.

"Had I known you were behind me," sighed Hartwell, "I should have rushed back."

"And had either of you been so courteous as to heed my warnings,"
Damon put in with a curl of the lip, "there would have been no need for
any of this nonsense."

Sophia rose early the next morning. It seemed imperative somehow
that she look her best, and to this end she donned a frock of jaconet
muslin sprigged with tiny orange garlands, and of a colour almost the
shade of her hair. Her gleaming curls she piled high and tied about
them a riband of orange velvet. Her toilette required a good deal of
time, and when she went downstairs at last, it seemed to have been
laboured over in vain, for there was no one to be seen. She had hoped
to find Marcus, or Sir Amory. She needed to talk to someone, for she
was still quite shaken from the horrible events of the previous
evening. Troubled and restless, she wandered into the library and stood
staring blindly at the empty hearth, the old heavy bricks… Again, the
nightmare of that disintegrating ceiling swept over her. She forced
memory away and, walking briskly to the bookshelves, scanned the
volumes. She seemed to have halted before a section devoted almost
entirely to the history of music. Much as she loved the subject, she
was not in the mood, and was about to look elsewhere when she spotted a
copy of Lord Byron's "The Corsair." Pleased, she reached up for it, but
it was quite tightly wedged in, and when she removed it several other
volumes toppled. She gave a little squeal as one landed on her head.
Exasperated, she bent to gather up the fallen books. Her head had
suffered quite a rap. She thought of how much more it would hurt if she
had been nearer that massive beam last evening. Damon had saved her.
There could be no doubt that if he had not acted swiftly she would have
been seriously injured. She was most assuredly in his debt now! Yet
what a hopeless enigma he was—saving her one moment, snarling at her
the next! Heaven help the woman who loved him, for she'd not know from
one second to the next how his temper might—

The murmur of voices reached her ears. She had dropped to one knee
and was in a quite inelegant position, still not having retrieved the
fallen volumes. She gathered them up, stood, and gave a gasp as in her
haste she stepped upon the hem of her frock and the high waistline
ripped disastrously. The voices were closer. Vaille and Miss Hilby.
Catching sight of herself in the glass of a framed print, she uttered a
moan of dismay. Her carefully arranged coiffure had been torn loose by
the falling book; no longer neatly upswept, the entire left side
flopped in total disarray. She tossed the books onto the reference
table. She'd not the least intention of allowing Miss Hilby to see her
looking such a fright, and so made a dive for one of the deep window
bays. She knelt on the cushions, slid the curtains closed as quickly
and quietly as possible, and crouched back, waiting for them to pass.

They did not pass. She could have wept when she heard the door
close. She had no least desire to eavesdrop upon another private
conversation, and reached for the curtain, determined to reveal her
presence.

Already however, the Duke was speaking, and in a gentle tone she'd
not heard before. "… my poor girl, of course I do not wish you to be
unhappy. I am assured you honestly imagine yourself in love, but—"

Frowning a little, Sophia drew back her hand.

"Imagine!" Miss Hilby sounded between tears and anger. "You
know
my heart is given. And my love
is
returned. You cannot convince me otherwise!"

There was a small pause, then Vaille said carefully, "I am sure many
men have loved you, Charlotte. You are an exceeding beautiful woman. I
merely seek, once again, to warn you that there will be no offer of
marriage."

"Camille does not agree," she retaliated with quavering defiance. "He says that soon or late we shall be wed!"

"Does he, by God! Then I should take a horsewhip to that young
scoundrel! My dear child, you must surely realize he has deceived you!"

Sophia gave a shocked gasp as Miss Hilby sobbed, "No, no! He has
not
! Oh, Philip, when he speaks to you,
promise
me that you will at least listen to what he has to say."

"That will not be necessary, for I am convinced he has no intention
of coming to me on such an errand. Waste no more years, my dear. Nor
throw your life away on one who is— quite ineligible."

"Oh…" Charlotte wailed. "How c-can you say such… cruel… things?"

For a moment the Duke made no response. Then, with slow reluctance,
he said, "One must sometimes be cruel… in order to be kind. Despite
what my son may have told you, ma'am, you do but delude yourself. I may
not know him well, but I suspect Camille was merely—"

There was a wild outburst of sobbing, the sound of running feet, and
a door slammed. Sophia, kneeling motionless, heard the creak of a chair
and a deep, groaning sigh.

It was a sigh she echoed as she stared blindly at the closed
curtains. How despicable that the Marquis should so injure those who
loved him. It was hard to know which of them she most pitied: poor
trusting Miss Hilby, or the much tried Duke of Vaille. It must have
been exceeding difficult for so well bred a gentleman to utter such a
deplorable indictment of his son… yet had Miss Hilby one ounce of
sense, she would have listened, for he had spoken honestly. It was
folly for her to continue to delude herself. Damon
might
be fond of her. She
was
very beautiful, but he would not marry a woman older than himself. Besides, if he
truly
loved her, he would certainly… never have— Sophia bit her lip, appalled
to find herself entertaining such unkind thoughts. It was nothing to
her if Miss Hilby chose to throw her silly self at Camille's head, just
because— She gave a gasp, mentally pinched herself for her wickedness,
and hearing the door open, peeped through the curtains. Vaille was
leaving. His head was bowed, but as she watched, he straightened his
shoulders and stepped into the hall, his carriage as proud as ever. Her
heart aching for him, Sophia waited a few minutes, then slipped from
her hiding place.

"Marcus!" Sophia withdrew her hand from her cousin's arm, spun to
face him, and cried furiously, "You really are insupportable! You
should have told me at once so that I could have thanked Damon instead
of—" She frowned and stopped.

He took up her hand and, again pulling it through his arm, led her
across the lawns on this bright morning and soothed, "It was jolly
decent of him to speak to the Duke, and I'm sorry I neglected to tell
you of it, but—no great harm done. You seem to—er, be going along well
together. Cannot say I blame you. He's a handsome devil, and they say
in Town all the hopeful mama's are hot on his trail. I hear he's become
most adept at dodging 'em, and so charmingly that the ladies sigh and
languish just the same."

"Sigh… and languish," murmured Sophia through set teeth. "Do they now?"

"So they say. There are some odd whispers about him, but—I must
confess, I'm devilish drawn to the fellow even though he ain't a
sportsman and don't—"

"Ride or fence or spar—or do anything a gentleman should do," she intervened scornfully.

"Such as," Clay said stiffly, "saving your life?"

Sophia caught her breath. If Marcus knew how Damon had shaken her in
the catacombs and the insulting things he'd said, her cousin's
obviously spiralling opinion of their reluctant host would undergo a
drastic change. Her brow furrowed. Too drastic! Clay was the soul of
honour. He would confront Damon, and they would very possibly come to a
challenge. God forbid! Despite his splendid military record, Clay was
no great marksman and no match for a crack shot like Damon! She looked
away, therefore, and merely said, in what she hoped was a calm tone, "I
am not unmindful of my obligation and intend to express my thanks at
once."

Clay's brow cleared and he patted her hand approvingly. He was a
happy man this morning: not only was his financial situation resolved
so that the crushing spectre of Newgate no longer haunted him, but he
was about to join the party preparing to depart for Bodwin Hall.
Despite his reluctance to leave her at the Priory, Sophia, knowing how
much he wanted to see the showplace, had argued that although she was
most anxious to greet Stephen upon his arrival, her brother had
business with Damon that he would wish to conclude before leaving for
Kent. This, she had pointed out, would give Clay ample time to look
around the hall and return to escort them on the journey home.