Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (3 page)

Sophia walked reluctantly into the unprepossessing interior,
murmured an ironic "Charming!" and called, "Is somebody here?" No
whisper of life answered her. 'Lud!' she thought. 'What an awful place!
Just what I expected of him!'

Two corridors led back into the wings of the house. The one to the
right was dark, but to the left, light gleamed faintly. She traversed
the hall and walked nervously along the corridor, passing several
closed doors on either side. It was chill and damp and smelled of
paint, but the last door was slightly open, sending a beam of light
across the flagged floor. Again, her knock won no response, and she
stepped in. Something white flew at her with a loud hissing. She gave a
shriek of terror and shrank back. A large goose advanced, with neck
outstretched in evident hostility. "N-nice… birdie," she quavered. The
creature eyed her with beady displeasure. Sophia reached blindly for an
object of defence and, grasping something from a side table, glanced
down at her prize. It was a sculpted bust, the name across the man's
chest identifying 'Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart'. She smiled faintly, but
her smile faded as the broad wings of her antagonist began to rise and
the neck to stretch once more. She replaced the bust hurriedly, but
when she took a tentative step forward, the goose hissed like a
veritable dragon. Sophia thought of Marcus and Smithers labouring in
the rain. Vexed, she shook her cloak at the bird and cried, "Oh, go
away, do!" The goose squawked, made an ungainly dash for the rear of
the room, and squeezed through a French door that was not quite closed.

The victor looked around in some surprise. She stood in a large and
gracious room. A fire blazed in a lovely Adam fireplace. The walls,
with Gothic panels picked out in gold, were a soft cream. Heavy
brocaded draperies of cream and beige were closed over all the windows.
The furnishings were tasteful, and at the far end of the room, stood a
magnificent old harpsichord, the top littered with music. She walked
toward it curiously, then, glancing to the door through which the goose
had vanished, caught a glimpse of someone outside.

She hurried on to a broad, rain-swept terrace below which lawns
stretched out. At once the wind blew the door wide, whipping the music
from the harpsichord into a paper cyclone that whirled out to surround
her. A servant, inadequately clad in breeches and a leather apron over
an open-throated shirt, had been labouring to retrieve similar sheets
apparently kidnapped by an earlier gust. He looked up from the foot of
the steps, saw the new disaster, and roared an exasperated, "Oh hell
and damnation!" It was not an endearing greeting, and the startled
Sophia collected herself and favoured him with her most daunting frown.

He was undaunted. "Close the door, you ninnyhammer!" he shouted.

It had been several years since anyone had addressed her in that fashion.

"How…
dare
you!" she said with regal displeasure.

Unintimidated, he started towards her, bellowing, "Close the door, woman! Are you daft?"

He was slim but tall and with broad shoulders. Sophia backed away
and, intending to escape this insolent brute by returning to the house,
was thwarted as the door blew shut. Her attempts to open it were
fruitless: it was either locked or jammed. The servant was again
gathering up the sheets of music that the disobliging wind blew in all
directions. The goose, she saw, lurked beside him, scurrying around,
keeping the man ever between itself and her, peering at her uneasily
from beyond him each time he halted. She looked around for some other
door into the house. She
must
try and find someone rational who could send help to Marcus.

"Don't stand about!" the servant shouted. "Get down here and help!"

She wondered if he always addressed his master's guests in such a fashion and decided he was either mad or drunk as a walrus.

"
Will
you get down here—or must I drag you?"

Given pause by that irate snarl, she looked at him again. He was
reaching for an errant sheet of music, but she glimpsed black, wet hair
and darkly scowling eyebrows. She had best placate the lunatic. She
walked reluctantly to the steps. He thrust a sheaf of wet papers at
her. "Since you cannot take 'no' for an answer, make yourself useful,
girl! Put these under your cloak."

Sophia stared. The unbelievable impudence of the fellow!

He waved his salvaged collection at her impatiently, then burst into
a torrent of French, so rapid that she caught only the beginning, which
conveyed the information that she was totally wits to let, and the
ending, which was a pithy "
ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute
!"

She regarded him with the hauteur that had shattered many a too persistent admirer. "Were it up to me, sir,
my
first step in this house would be to discharge
you
!"

"God!" he groaned. He came slowly up the steps. Sophia looked down
into a lean, finely chiselled face, possessed of a straight nose, firm
chin, and the most unusual eyes she had ever seen, wide and deepset,
and of a clear, light turquoise colour. She had heard someone speak of
such eyes and now remembered silly little Brenda Smythe-Carrington
mooning over her latest "true love."

"Cam" somebody or other, whom she had described as "the handsomest
man in London." Whoever Brenda's Cam may be, thought Sophia, slightly
dazed, he would surely be put in the shade by this man! She stood
motionless, her own features shadowed by her hood, watching the rain
drip off the end of that slim nose and course down the aquiline
features.

"Put these under your cloak!" he repeated with tight-lipped emphasis.

Finding her voice, she said, "I most assuredly shall not! They are muddy."

"Of course, they're muddy! Largely because you left the blasted door open! I'll buy you a new dress, girl! Do as you're told!"

"No!"

For an instant, he stood still, then stepped even closer. Those
incredible eyes were hard and cold, his beautifully shaped mouth
curving to a terrifying smile. Speaking very softly, he said, "Put…
these… under…"

She grabbed the sheets and thrust them under her cloak.

He turned away, muttering a sardonic, "
Voila! Coup de maître
!"

As soon as he reached the lawn, Sophia made a mad dash across the
terrace, passed a wide central court between the two wings of the house
and, at the far side, found to her inexpressible relief a door that
admitted her to the dark hall.

She ran a little way, slowed, and stopped. It was very dark in here,
and the quiet held an odd brooding. Darkness had always terrified her,
and she knew suddenly that someone, something, watched her. Her heart
fluttering, she began to back away. Something touched her elbow, and
she almost fainted from shock.

"I am persuaded, ma'am," said that same deep drawl, "that I have
been most rude to a poor soul not in possession of her full faculties.
You have been misinformed as to our needs. I shall provide
transportation for your return to the village if you will be so good as
to come this way."

She felt weak with relief and, ignoring his sarcasm, followed his
tall figure back onto the cold, wet terrace. Long before they reached
the door to the lighted room, however, she was fumingly rehearsing the
speech she intended to make to her uncle about this obnoxious secretary
or music master, or whatever he was.

He tried the door handle, muttered, "Confound it!" and gave the door a hard kick while roaring, "Horatio!"

Sophia took an uneasy step back into the rain. The goose honked
behind her, tore past triumphantly as she jumped aside, and took refuge
behind a graceful Hope chair. The man stood aside, said a cool, "Your
Majesty," and swept her a mocking bow. Outraged, she marched in, tossed
the dirty papers on to a sofa of brocaded cream satin, and crossed to
the fireplace, well aware of the cry of rage that had burst from her
companion. Her depredations were incomplete, however. Her hand left a
blur of mud along the pristine mantle even as a tiny but very muddy
shoe gratifyingly sullied the hitherto immaculate brass rail before the
fire.

"You, madam, are a full-fledged disaster!" came that irate voice
behind her. "We've no need for a maid who ignores requests and in one
minute desecrates an entire room! That I can assure you."

It was apparent there had been a misunderstanding, but how dared
this arrogant upstart use that tone with her? She put back her hood and
gave a shake of her lovely head. The gleaming ringlets did not bounce
softly on to her shoulders, as expected. The gleaming ringlets were, in
fact, one wet straggle. Raising an exploratory hand, she realised too
late that it was muddy and began to form an unhappy estimate of her
appearance. Ignoring the Creature, who had dropped to one knee before
the sofa and was scanning his sheets of music with anxious intensity,
she sought in her reticule for her small mirror. It revealed her
appearance to be even more shocking than she'd anticipated. She went
swiftly to work and, when her repairs were completed, turned again to
her busily occupied companion.

His wet hair still sent occasional trickles of water down his face.
His skin was bronzed by the sun—not at all the thing! The white shirt
clung wetly to broad shoulders that tapered to a very trim waist, and
his muddied grey breeches revealed slim hips and long legs.

Disposing herself beside the fireplace, Sophia waited for him to get
his first real look at her. The wait became interminable. With growing
indignation, she realized that he had completely forgotten her, "If
there is a butler in this asylum," she said haughtily, "be so good as
to summon him."

"You'll find him in the kitchen."

She tensed with rage. A china figurine—the charming but inexpensive
replica of a boy and a dog—was closest. She took it up and dropped it
into the hearth.

The servant's head shot around. His eyes widened predictably as he saw the fragmented china.

"I gave you an order," she nodded. "I do not care to be kept waiting."

"Do you not?" In two long strides, he was much closer than she
appreciated. "Well, I strive never to keep a lady waiting— especially
so eager a chit." He seized her by the shoulders, bent, and kissed her,
long and hard.

The Drayton sometimes allowed her fingertips to be lightly kissed,
but aside from her immediate family, no man had ever been permitted to
kiss her on the lips. For an instant, she was so stunned she didn't
move. His hands gripped her shoulders like iron bands. He smelled of
rain and wet earth and shaving soap, with no trace of pomade or
perfume. Her eyes shot open. 'Good God! What am I doing?' She groped
back, found the fireplace tongs, and swung them upward. A crystal vase
toppled from the mantle and joined the ex-figurine.

"Hey!" Long fingers closed about her wrist, and he laughed down at
her as he took possession of the tongs. She was pale, her great violet
eyes flashing with rage. Awe crept into his expression, to be replaced
by shock as her open palm cracked across his cheek so hard that a lock
of hair was bounced down his brow.

"Filthy…lecherous…brute!" Sophia wiped her mouth fiercely. "My brother will kill you for that!"

"While I await death," he said, an infuriating quirk tugging at the
side of his mouth, "I'll have you taken home." He crossed to pull on
the bellrope and, turning back, touched his glowing cheek thoughtfully
and stared at her stomach.

Sophia glanced down. Her cloak had fallen open. Her new brown travelling gown was very muddied, and she gave a distressed wail.

"I told you I would buy you another dress," he said with an uneasy surveillance of that modish gown.

"So you did. That will be one hundred and thirty-five guineas, if you please!"

"One… hundred,—" he gasped, with a simultaneous shiver of cold.

"Lud, sir," she mocked, "I'd no thought to make you shake in your shoes."

"And I've no thought to be made a monkey by some pert lass who—"

"Energy wasted," she intervened loftily, "since t'was accomplished before ever I came upon the scene!"

He glared; then mirth began to twinkle in his eyes. "What a madam fire and destruction! Who in the deuce are you?"

"I am come," she said, her nose well elevated, "to find my brother."

"Well, he's likely at 'The Wooden Leg' and well foxed by now."

"My brother's habits," she said quellingly, "are scarcely your
concern. However, you may be of service. My cousin and his groom need
help to repair our chaise. The wheel came off soon after that
ridiculous bridge collapsed—"

"Devil it did! Well, the blasted thing can stay down for all I care!"

"You will scarce be consulted," Sophia said with disdain. "However,
your master must be told of it, and I shall also advise him of your
impertinence and your language, both insupportable." She tossed her
cloak onto the sofa.

Undaunted, his eyes travelled appreciatively down her sleek but
well-rounded little figure. So appreciatively that her teeth grated
together.

"My… master?" he repeated with obvious amusement.

"My uncle," she nodded. "The Marquis of Damon."

His jaw dropped. The laughter died from his eyes, and he all but gaped at her. "Your…
uncle
?" It was a near croak.

Triumphant, she smiled and said loftily, "You sense retribution, I
perceive. You may announce that the Lady Sophia Drayton is here and
desires to make his acquaintance. If the old gentleman is not already
abed."

His jaw snapped shut. "Allow me, my lady," he said with new and chill politeness, "to introduce myself.
I
am Camille Damon!"

"I do not see," Lady Sophia complained, "why this could not have waited."

Mrs. Hatters poured more hot water around the girl in the hip bath.
"Milord says you be chilled and must be bathed," she said in a dry,
expressionless voice. "He says. I does. That's it."