Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (4 page)

"But all my things are in the chaise."

"Robe on the bed. It's clean. It'll do for now." She started away,
and when my lady requested that a maid be sent up, shrugged. "Ain't got
none."

Momentarily bereft of speech, Sophia stared, her mouth falling open
slightly. Almost she thought to see a smile creep into those cold eyes
before the door slammed, but her indignant "Come back!" went
unanswered. It was, she thought, applying soap to sponge furiously, the
outside of enough! Why Stephen should have so deceived her was
incomprehensible. And that Clay should have allowed her to continue to
believe that wretched viper of a Marquis to be her—Steve's—uncle was
downright perfidy! The man was not a day over thirty, if that. He was
every bit as evil as she'd imagined, that was quite clear—a lecher, as
well as a craven! Her hands slowed. Brenda had been right, though. The
Marquis of Damon was assuredly her "Cam"—and the most handsome man
she'd ever seen. She scowled at her own stupidity. It just went to
prove the old adage that looks were only skin deep, for Damon was still
the monster who'd bullied her brother into the hussars and sent him off
to be near killed while he huddled snugly in his wretched Priory!

She smiled grimly, recalling how furious he had been when he'd
realised she was not simply a traveller seeking aid who would then
resume her journey, nor a local girl applying for a position as a
domestic, but that he would be required to provide accommodations for
several unwelcome guests. When the butler, Mr. Thompson, had appeared,
Sophia had thought him well suited to his environment. He was a stocky,
middle-aged man of untidy appearance, and he was quite foxed. The
Marquis had fixed him with a searing glare and apprised him of the fact
that the front door had been left unlocked. Thompson had cringed before
his master's wrath and departed, white-faced, to send grooms to aid
Clay and require the housekeeper to show Lady Drayton a bedchamber.

Mrs. Hatters, coming on the heels of the Priory, the atrocious
Marquis, and the butler, was quite as expected. A thin, dark little
woman, she was possessed of piercing pale-blue eyes that held a sour
look. Her manner had been little short of rude as she'd led the way
upstairs, grumbling under her breath. She'd taken Sophia to her own
pleasant and commodious room at the rear of the north wing, muttering,
"Have to put your bath in here. Can't get another room warm on one
minute's notice!"

Despite these depressing experiences, the bath was restoring, and
Sophia had dried herself, donned the threadbare robe the housekeeper
had left for her, and was curled up in the comfortable armchair before
the grate when Mrs. Hatters returned, carrying her bandbox and valise.

"Oh!" cried Sophia, jumping up eagerly. "Major Clay is here?"

Mrs. Hatters gave a brief nod and set down the luggage.

"Is he all right? Have they repaired the chaise? Is there any word of Lord Whitthurst?"

"One yes. Two no's."

Sophia's chin and her brows lifted simultaneously. What a cold,
unfriendly person. And how utterly insolent. He deserved her! "What do
you mean—there are no maids? There certainly must be servants to run a
big house like this."

"Me. His lordship's valet, Thompson. Ariel, he's the cook and looby
if you was to ask me. Four grooms. Two gardeners. Two daily maids come
in from the village." She stared meaningfully. "Won't stay. Scared of
the place."

Sophia returned that stare to such effect that the woman flushed and
her eyes dropped. "Do you mean," asked her ladyship, "that Mr. Thompson
is Lord Damon's valet
and
butler?"

"Yes, my—" The woman bit her lip for all the world as though the
address she'd begun had escaped against her will. "Yes," she finished
gruffly. "When you're ready, ring the bell, and I'll show you to your
room. Oh, and Thompson's a mite deaf. Cannon at Ciudad Rodrigo. He can
hear if he watches your mouth."

Astonished by this volubility, Sophia recovered in time to request
that she be shown to her room at once. This precipitated a battle of
wills. The housekeeper seemed determined to present rooms that were
totally unsuitable, and Sophia, suspecting the existence of more
comfortable accommodations, stubbornly refused such quarters. Her
fourth turndown, being on the grounds there was no connecting door,
appeared to baffle the woman, and when Sophia pointed out that she
desired her maids to be close to her, Mrs. Hatters actually paled and
gulped, "They in the chaise… with the other lot?"

"If you mean with Major Clay… no. They are at 'The Wooden Leg' in
Pudding Park and will come tomorrow as soon as the bridge is repaired."

Despite Mrs. Hatters' scornful pronouncement that it would be "weeks
afore they gets that done," Sophia remained adamant and enquired
whether all the rooms on the south side of the corridor were occupied.
She refused to admit, even to herself, that the north wing had
frightened her to death and said she had rather look out on to the
countryside than into the central court. Mrs. Hatters was reluctant.
Her ladyship would not like "them rooms." Her ladyship would be better
served across the hall. Sophia was obdurate, and a few minutes later,
watching the door close behind the scowling woman, she danced a jig of
triumph. Mrs. Hatters had flung open the last door on the left of the
long hall to reveal a large bedchamber charmingly decorated in a soft
orchid and white and having a beautiful four poster bed, a mahogany
press, chest of drawers and escritoire, and a fine marble fireplace
flanked by a comfortable sofa and armchair. The connecting door led to
another spacious and pleasant bedchamber, the whole being far more than
she had hoped for. Oddly, she had thought to see a gleam of amusement
in Mrs. Hatters' cold eyes, but it had instantly vanished if it had
existed at all. An obviously reluctant offer had been extended for
milady to return to Mrs. Hatters' room '"til I can find that dratted
fireboy and send him up here." Sophia's pride forbade she accept. It
was positively frigid in the big room, but once between the blankets
and she would soon be warm. She made a dive for the bed and pulled back
the coverlet. The bed wasn't made up! "Oh, fustian!" she exclaimed, and
pulling the bell-rope so that she might send for her clothes, curled up
in the coverlet.

Ten minutes later, her teeth chattering, she eased the door open and
peeped into the hall. No sign of life. By now, Mrs. Hatters was
doubtless busied downstairs. She tiptoed along the hall, drawing the
robe closer. The sash came untied and fell to the floor. Clutching the
robe about her, she bent to pick it up. A slim, tanned hand was before
her. She knew by the length of the fingers whose hand it was and could
have sunk. She fairly leapt upright with disastrous results and, her
cheeks flaming, dragged the parting robe savagely together. Too
savagely. It ripped all down one side. In an agony of mortification,
she shrank against the wall and raised her scarlet face to encounter
those mocking eyes alight with laughter. The Marquis had seen a great
deal more of her than any other man had ever witnessed, but he managed
somehow to maintain a grave countenance. He bound the sash swiftly
about his eyes, turned and groped his way along the hall, singing
softly in a fine deep baritone, "Believe me if all those endearing
young charms, which I gaze on so fondly today…"

She hoped with all her heart that he would fall down the stairs.

Edward, the Earl of Ridgley, ran a hand through his light, crisp
hair, beamed down at Clay, and said, "Couldn't be more pleased, Marcus!
Tell the truth, it gets confounded lonely at times. Though Damon's the
best of company, of course," he added with a quick glance to the
library door. "Still, do you plan on staying a bit? Perhaps you and I
could go a round or two or get in some riding."

Clay was warm at last and enjoying the chair closest to the fire. He
acknowledged his old friend's pleasure with a lift of his wine glass.
"Delighted. A great piece of luck for me, your being here, Ted." He,
too, glanced at the door through which the Marquis had departed a few
minutes earlier. "You're related to Damon in some way, ain't you?"

"Vaille's my cousin." Ridgley's eyes hardened. "Fond of old Cam, y'know. Good boy."

"I heard," said Clay, "that he used to give some jolly fine parties.
But that he—er—don't like company these days. I hope he ain't greatly
put out."

The Earl frowned into his wine glass and chose his words with care.
"This old place belonged to his mother. Beautiful creature…" His eyes
became blank for a moment. "She was French, y'know. But she'd a
grandfather who was English, and his family owned Cancrizans for two
hundred years. Damon's hoping to completely restore it. Take him a
lifetime probably. But he loves the old pile."

"I suppose between this and his hotel, he's kept busy all the time."

"So you'd heard about that. It's to be a sort of spa, actually.
About five miles north on t'other side of Swallow Lake. Lovely spot. He
plans for boating, fishing, riding. He's installing a series of
canals—Venetian style."

"Gad! Must be costing a fortune, between both projects!"

"He has other investors in on the spa. Sunk a great deal of his
own—" The Earl checked and asked with a change of tone, "How does your
lovely Esther go on?"

Clay imparted that his wife, Douglas, and the new babe were well,
added that he hoped Vaille was the same, and stared, astounded.

He'd known Ridgley since he was a boy. The Earl had been several
years younger than Benjamin Clay, but they'd seen service together in
India and become close friends. Clay had always liked the genial man
and had never seen him angry. Now he found himself looking into eyes
from which all warmth had vanished. As swiftly as it had come, however,
that grim expression was gone. "I have not," said Ridgley mildly, "the
remotest idea of how Vaille fares."

Clay was silent. If this same relationship prevailed between the
Duke and Damon, his goose was cooked. He'd no sooner had the thought
than the head of a large goose lifted like a serpent above the arm of
his chair and voiced a loud honk into his startled face. He looked
disbelievingly at his glass.

Ridgley gave a crack of laughter. "You're all right, Clay! It's Horatio. Camille uses the dratted bird as a watchdog because—"

"Because," said the Marquis, returning at that moment carrying a
full decanter of wine, which he set on the reference table, "he don't
tear up my gardens nor bite the grooms. And he gives me lots of
warning"—he turned to Clay and finished with blunt rudeness—"in case
of—er—unwanted company."

Clay flushed darkly and sprang up, yearning to stalk out of this
place and knowing he dare not. "I sincerely apologize for intruding
upon you," he began.

"Not at all," Damon put in with a smoothly disarming smile. "I am
delighted to have… overnight… guests." The emphasis on the
qualification was slight but unmistakable, and he added, "Do sit down,
Clay. I'm not your Colonel, you know."

"Most definitely not," smiled Sophia, walking gracefully into the
room. Her blue gown, its swooping neckline demurely edged with white
lace, fell in a slim line from beneath the snug bodice, the soft fabric
revealing to advantage the full curves of her beautiful body. A single
sapphire gleamed against her fair skin, and matching drops hung from
her ears. A blue band, decorated with tiny seed pearls, held back her
shining hair, and her hand-painted fan showed little blue flowers
against the ivory. She had dressed with care, knew that she looked
extremely well, and was pleased by the awe in the faces of the
nice-looking blond gentleman and her cousin.

Lord Damon watched her expressionlessly. He wore a rich, dark
maroon-velvet jacket that fit his wide shoulders to perfection. The
lace at his throat and the falls beneath the cuffs of his sleeves were
like snow. A large diamond winked from his cravat. Sophia noted that he
wore pantaloons instead of knee breeches, but since he lived in such
squalid conditions in the country, it was not to be wondered at. It
escaped her memory that Whitthurst would likely have told her she had
maggots in her attic had she suggested knee breeches in a country
house. She was forced to admit that Damon looked startlingly handsome
and thought it a great pity that he was such a thorough cad. She
realized suddenly that they were staring at one another and that a
silence had fallen. Breaking it, Clay came to take her hand and tell
her that the Marquis and his men had been so kind as to convey the
chaise to the Priory and hopefully it would be repaired by the morrow.

Clay introduced the Earl, who bowed over Sophia's hand with courtly charm and escorted her to the chair beside the fire.

Offering her a glass of ratafia, the Marquis asked, "Have you any idea what your brother wishes to discuss with me, ma'am?"

Despite the mildly bored air, his eyes seemed very penetrating, and
Sophia lowered her lashes. "I know only that he is much too ill for
such a journey, my lord. Save for that knowledge, I would never have
prevailed upon my cousin to attempt the bridge and thus force ourselves
upon your—er— hospitality."

She failed to disconcert him. "
Au contraire
," he protested with his quirkish grin. "It has been no imposition, but most— revealing, my dear lady."

She knew she was blushing and, remembering with savage rage his
barely contained mirth on the balcony, said sweetly, "I am sure
Whitthurst is close by and will come as soon as possible."

"Then by no means must he be delayed. I shall instruct my foreman to
cease work on the spa tomorrow in order to rebuild the bridge."

Perversely, Sophia thought, 'Why, the wretch cannot wait to be rid of us!'

Horatio burst from behind Clay's chair and started to rush around
the room with much honking and flapping of wings. A taut look crossed
Damon's face. The butler came into the room and, staring at him,
announced in obvious consternation, "Lady Fanny Branden and Miss
Charlotte Hilby, my lord."