Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (18 page)

When they reached the stables, Feather, Genevieve, and Ridgley were
getting mounted. Vaille, poised and elegant as ever, was admiring a
splendid grey stallion that a groom attempted to restrain from
devouring Genevieve's fine chestnut gelding. Clay called eagerly to the
other riders that he would be "going all the way" with them, a
statement that was received with jubilation.

Damon stood at some distance from the stables, engaged in earnest
conversation with his head groom. He glanced over as the glad cries
rang out and called sharply, "Hold him, Trask! He's too full of fight!
Saddle up the bay stallion for the Major."

Trask started away, but the Duke was intrigued by the big horse and
went over to take the reins. The grey quieted and stood docilely as
Sophia and Clay walked to Vaille's side. "You look as radiant as ever,
my lady," he smiled. "Sorry about this fire-eater, Clay. I suspect you
are disappointed."

"Not at all, sir. Especially since your son has given me leave to ride the bay. He's perfect."

"Pretty fair," Vaille qualified. "Inclined to throw out his right knee."

Mindful of her intent, Sophia slipped away and approached the
Marquis. He did not see her coming, having rudely turned his back upon
them all, and when she realized he and Mr. Quinn were discussing the
absent Nancy, she paused, eager to learn of the girl's whereabouts.

"… not like the lass at all, m'lord," Quinn was saying. "She sent
word by one of the locals as how she will take an accommodation coach
to London so soon as her Dad do be better off. Reckon she knows how
soft her mistress do be." He shook his head. "More'n one of my men
would do—I can tell'ee! Still—" He broke off, glancing enquiringly to
Sophia.

The Marquis swung around. "Good morning, ma'am. Dare we hope you shall leave us without any further uproars?"

His eyes were sneering, his mouth curving to an unpleasant leer.
Sophia felt her face become hot and was rendered speechless with shock
that he should so address her in front of a groom.

Quinn, also taken aback, stammered, "My lady—er—have you seen our Viking? He do be mortal fine…"

She wrenched her mind from its preoccupation with casting the
Marquis to the lions and followed the man without another word. The bay
truly was magnificent, and she joined the others in her admiration of
the animal. Vaille passed the reins of the grey stallion to Trask as
soon as Clay took possession of the bay. Sophia managed somehow to
concentrate on the remarks the Duke addressed to her and to respond
with some degree of sanity. From the corner of her eye, she saw Damon
saunter toward the house; a few moments later the riding party left,
Clay calling to her that he would be back by three. They headed along
the driveway, and Damon paused on the steps, turning to wave as they
drew level with him.

It was a brilliant morning, the sky blue, a few white clouds
standing about, a gentle, if rather sultry, breeze blowing Although she
was still raging inwardly, Sophia could not but admire the beauty of
the scene. The vivid green of turf and trees; the vibrant colours of
the flower gardens; the sparkling plumes of the fountain; the fine,
high-spirited animals; Genevieve looking poised and lovely; the Earl,
still red in the face from having tossed Feather up into her saddle,
but both he and Clay such splendid examples of British manhood.

And then, suddenly, Genevieve turned her gelding, calling something
to Damon. Trask, who had been standing smiling rather vacuously at the
handsome group, had let the reins slacken. The grey stallion, fired by
a new sight of the hated gelding, thundered straight for his enemy.
Genevieve was taken by surprise as the chestnut reared in fright.
Thrown, she fell with a shriek. The stallion plunged to the attack,
eyes rolling, ears laid back, teeth bared. The chestnut bucked
frenziedly, rear hooves slicing the air only inches above the prostrate
girl. The Earl and Clay swung their mounts simultaneously, but the
animals panicked and collided.

Without a second's hesitation, Vaille left Sophia and raced toward
Genevieve, but Damon was closest. He started forward. The stallion
reared, hooves flailing, screaming his defiance. Damon froze. He shrank
back and quailed, one arm flung across his terrified face.

Vaille, running, shoved his son aside and, with unflinching valour,
reached up to grasp the reins, somehow avoid those flashing hooves, and
with strong hands and firm words pull the raging beast down.

Sophia, also running, tossed a disgusted look at Damon. She was
briefly aware that his face was haggard and streaked with perspiration;
then she was past and rushing to help Genevieve.

Cancrizans Priory seemed a very quiet place now. As she left the
stables, Sophia experienced an odd feeling that a chapter had closed in
her life that was of more importance than any preceding it. She
wandered toward the sprawl of the house, thinking of Genevieve. The
plucky girl had seemed more concerned for Damon than for herself. After
assuring Vaille she was unhurt and perfectly able to undertake the
ride, she had run to the steps where her cousin waited silently and
clasped him in her arms. Speaking in a low rush of French, she had
pulled down his dark head and kissed him resoundingly on each cheek. He
had muttered something, and she'd laughed and shaken him chidingly, but
whatever it was she'd said had failed to bring an answering smile. When
they had ridden away at last, the Duke had come to thank Sophia for
helping. His eyes had swept through Damon as though he were not there,
and the Marquis had sauntered back into the house, his faintly ironic
grin reflecting no trace of the shame he should have felt.

Sophia had accompanied the Duke to the stables where he had decided
to give the grey stallion an exercise before himself departing. Her
initial consternation had been soon dispelled. Vaille was a superb
rider and handled the fiery animal with ease. He had ridden off at a
full gallop, the grey soaring over a low hedge, Vaille leaning forward
in the saddle, his hair flying, looking a man much younger than his
years.

Irritated by her continuing inability to talk with Hartwell, Sophia
determined to seek him out as soon as she had thanked Damon for coming
to her rescue in the catacombs. Whatever the Marquis' motives may have
been, his actions had most assuredly saved her. Certainly, he had made
no attempt to protect himself but had used his own body to shield her.
Her brow wrinkled as she sought to equate this behaviour with the fact
that when faced with an incipient tragedy involving his beloved cousin,
he had acted the craven. Little wonder Vaille had stalked past him with
such cutting contempt. She could well imagine what Papa would have said
had Stephen behaved in such a fashion when a lady was in peril.

Pondering thus, she crossed the terrace and entered the house. It
was cool inside after the rather muggy warmth of the gardens. She could
hear the harpsichord and was intrigued by the poignant sweetness of the
unknown melody. Horatio was not with his master, and Sophia entered the
music room without announcement. She had only listened for a few
seconds, however, before the Marquis tensed and jumped to his feet,
turning to face her. As she drew nearer, something in his eyes shrank,
and she was seized by the knowledge that he
was
ashamed and in this moment completely vulnerable.

She felt strangely disoriented and, forgetting what she had come to
say, was silent as she moved to the harpsichord. A sheet of
half-completed music was on the rack, and she looked at it curiously,
wondering if this was the melody she had just heard. His hand fairly
shot out and covered it with another page. Sophia drew back in
embarrassment, and Damon removed all the music from the rack, his
manner clearly implying that she intruded.

Obviously, he had regained his self-control. He met her startled gaze with one of ice and said, "You wished something, ma'am?"

'I wish your haughty nose may drop off,' she thought furiously but
managed to keep her eyes as cold as his and say formally, "I have come
to thank you for helping my cousin and for—rescuing me in the catacombs
last night."

"Had I followed my natural inclinations, ma'am, you'd have been spanked instead of 'rescued'."

He looked quite capable of performing such a deed, and it was with
difficulty that Sophia maintained her aplomb. "Whatever your natural
inclinations, my lord, you contrived to rise above them. For that, at
least, I am grateful."

Damon granted her an ironic bow and turned back to his horrid harpsichord.

"Excuse me, your ladyship…"

Sophia wrenched her glare from the Viper. Mrs. Hatters stood in the
doorway, addressing her, but with an anxious gaze fixed upon her
employer. "Miss Hilby sends her compliments, ma'am, and might she have
a word with you at your convenience?"

Wearing a dark-blue riding habit, Miss Hilby was as lovely as ever,
but there was a haunted look behind her smile. "I know that Philip
would be relieved to see you safely home," she said as they sat
together in the pleasant bay of her bedroom window. "Can I not prevail
upon you to accompany us?" Sophia thanked her but reiterated her
conviction that Stephen was on his way and that she must be here when
he arrived. Miss Hilby nodded, moved to her dressing table, and placing
a small blue velvet hat on her curls, expressed the conviction that,
without Nancy's deft attentions, her hair looked a fright. "I am a
little worried, Sophia. I would have allowed her to see her father at
once, of course. Still"—she adjusted the large pale-blue feather so
that it curled down beside her face—"it is not at all like her to leave
without telling me. She is a very good…girl…" The words trailed off,
her wistful gaze fixed upon a wall plaque on which was carved the coat
of arms of the House of Branden.

Her heart touched, Sophia crossed to put a hand on her shoulder. "My dear, do not grieve so."

Those liquid green eyes flew to meet her own. A wave of scarlet
warmed Sophia's cheeks, and she stammered, "I—I overheard you talking
with the Duke this morning." Miss Hilby gave a gasp, and Sophia
admitted wretchedly, "I was in the library. I tried to reach a book on
an upper shelf and it fell on my head and knocked my hair all askew…
and then I trod on the hem of my gown and the waist tore. I was so
terribly embarrassed… and I heard you coming. And you are always so—so
elegant. It was deplorable. But I had to hide my tattered self… and…"
She gave a little gesture of helplessness.

"Of course." Recovering, Miss Hilby patted Sophia's hand kindly. "I
quite understand. We have all had such horrid moments, have we not? And
how very unfeminine it would be not to shrink from them! Now don't look
so grieved, my dear, for, indeed, everybody knows my secret."

"I did not know. I might have suspected, perhaps. But a woman can usually sense heartbreak in another woman, do you not think?"

She had spoken sympathetically but had not expected her companion to
suddenly bow her head into her hands and burst into tears. Sophia
offered her handkerchief, sat beside her, and patted the bowed shoulder
through the storm. And in a very little while, Miss Hilby blew her
classic but rather pink nose, wiped her eyes daintily, and sniffed,
"Forgive me, I beg of you. I… I do not usually give way like this.
But—oh, I love him so! And have waited such… such a very long time. But
it is useless. I must accept that he will not offer for me. And I'll…
oh, I'll never find a husband… now!"

"What nonsense! I vow, Charlotte, if you so much as showed your face at Almack's, the men would be flocking—"

"Oh!" wailed Miss Hilby damply. "That horrid marriage mart—at my age?"

"Tush and a fiddlestick!
Your
age, indeed!"

"Thank you for the kindness. But it's true—my salad days are long
past. I should have accepted another offer years since. Damon insists
he… loves me. But—oh, Sophia—it's our ages, you see. He—he feels there
is too large a gap."

'He would!' thought Sophia, striving rather unsuccessfully to feel
indignant and succeeding only in wanting to burst into tears. "Was
there never anyone else?"

"Not that I cared a fig for. I had so many beaux when I first met
him. It was at Almack's, in fact…" Haunted by memory, she looked
extremely lovely despite her tear-stained face. "I shall never forget
it as long as I live. He came straight across the room to me—and I
thought him the handsomest, the most elegant gentleman I had ever
beheld. He looked at me with those splendid eyes of his, and—I was
lost, Sophia. And so I refused all others. And although I knew how he
felt, because he has never lied to me, I waited. I have begged him."
She gave a forlorn little shrug and, looking at the younger woman with
shamed eyes, admitted, "That's how desperate I am, you see. But he
won't hear of it. And so, I just wait… and hope… and pray." She bowed
her head again, and Sophia stood and walked to the windows.

The Marquis was in the courtyard below them, hands on hips, talking
with two grooms. He looked every inch the aristocrat, and, noting the
proud tilt of the head, the carriage of the shoulders, the respect with
which the men attended his every word, her heart ached. A hand slipped
through her arm, and Charlotte stood beside her, a humble smile on her
face. They hugged one another, and struggling for composure, Sophia
forced a smile. "No matter what you say, you could have any one of
dozens of men with just a snap of your fingers. But if you feel it must
be him—or no one, why it's better to have known such a love than to
endure a
mariage de convenance
with someone else. Or so I
should think." And she sighed, knowing drearily that very few marriages
these days had anything whatsoever to do with love.

The maid said her name was Patience, that she came from the village
daily—when there was a bridge to cross—and that the Marquis begged the
pleasure of her company in the library, adding with an envious sigh,
"At your convenience, my lady."