Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (41 page)

She paled. "Dear heaven! Is a meeting arranged, then?"

"Word is it's only a matter of time."

Sophia turned to remove a fallen leaf gently from Damon's rumpled
hair. "My Viper does not need that news. But if it becomes imminent, we
must warn him."

"That's what Phinny said. Cam would be the only man might stop 'em.
Though I'd not give much for his chances do those two fire-eaters
clash!"

The thought made her shiver, and eager to change the subject, she
asked, "Was Lord Bodwin in Town? He called three times to visit Camille
and was the soul of consideration, yet looked at me—"

"Like a moon calf," Whitthurst grinned. "Sorry, Chicky, but shall I
ever forget the sight of him in that ridiculous blue costume. And Cam's
face!" He gave a hoot of laughter, forgetful of the sleeper, and Damon,
without opening his eyes, tossed the serviette with swift and
unexpected accuracy and voiced the opinion Whitthurst was a
"pestiferous young cub."

"You are awake!" Sophia said accusingly.

He rolled lazily onto his side, propped his head on one hand, and
smiled. "How may a poor man sleep with your braying brother close at
hand? What is my intrepid rival about in Town, Whitt?"

The Viscount sobered. "Arranging for some kind of small memorial to be built in honour of Irvin Ford. He still mourns him."

"And if I know Phinny, his 'small memorial' will evolve into something only slightly less pretentious than the Taj Mahal!"

"To hear Genevieve talk, one would think Ford rated it." Curious, Whitthurst asked, "What
was
he like, Cam?"

Damon sat up, looked unseeingly at the wasp that still hovered
hopefully round the picnic basket, and said slowly, "He was the salt of
the earth. England lost a great deal when that blasted gun misfired."

"Do you suppose his death—er—affected Bodwin?"

Damon threw him a quizzical look. "Phinny has always been… Phinny."

Whitthurst nodded, suddenly snatched out his pocket watch, and
groaned that his head would be forfeit if he did not leave at once. "I
promised to ride into Farnham and meet Hartwell. There's a team of
chestnuts he has his eye on."

"Sidmoor's?" asked Damon with interest. "I heard he was letting them
go. Amory will be hot after 'em all right. Does he come on here
afterwards?"

The Viscount, assuring him this was the case and that they would return in good time for dinner, took his leave.

Sophia watched him stride cheerily away and refused to turn even
when a long tufty strand of grass tickled persistently at her ear.

"You are angry," sighed Damon, dropping the strand of grass.

"You were listening." Her eyes searched his with keen anxiety. "Camille—did you hear—?" and she paused, frowning a little.

Realizing she was not going to divulge whatever it was that he might
have heard, Damon asked, "Why does Whitthurst call you Chicky? You
never told me." She fixed her troubled gaze upon the stream and made no
answer. "You have no need to hesitate," he smiled. "
I
am not plagued by fears of heredity, you see…"

She turned an indignant glance on him, but the quirk beside his
mouth was irresistible. She laughed and in a second was clasped in his
arms. And when he had kissed her satisfactorily, whispered of his love,
and apologized for "whatever it was" he had done to offend her, he
repeated his question.

"It was because of our Uncle James," she said. "He came home from
the Americas full of tales of the New World and the Indians. He told us
how one tribe shaved their heads and left only a long strip of hair
running down the middle of the scalp. Stephen and I were fascinated. We
just had to try it. I started on Steve, but, alas, I was no great hand
with a razor. He accused me of trying to scalp him, and the end of it
was that he shaved
my
head, instead! All except the middle."
She ran one slim finger from front to back of her lovely head. "It
looked perfectly delicious, though my dear Mama and Papa did not find
it so." She chuckled at that memory and went on, "When my hair began to
grow back, it was like fuzzy down all over my head, and the center,
having grown longer naturally, stuck up like a cockscomb!"

"Aha!" Damon's eyes danced with laughter. "How I should love to have seen my little… Chicky!"

"Do not dare start to call me that!"

"Why not? You have a far less kindly nickname for me!"

"And well deserved," she nodded with a flash of dimples. "My… Viper."

Her voice softened. Damon's eyes became ineffably tender, and he leaned once again to her lips.

The afternoon was still, and the countryside, beginning to be
touched with russet, was peaceful, with no sign of menace or danger.
Yet, fifty yards to the east, an apparent gamekeeper strolled, with
hunting gun on one arm and eyes keen; and to the west were two more
such vigilant guards. Damon, having schooled himself to find such
intruders invisible, was managing to ignore them, particularly when so
happily occupied. But in the pocket of his jacket, now discarded and
lying on the grass beside him, resided a small but efficient pistol.
Just in case.

Sophia opened her eyes, gazed into the finely chiselled face above her, and murmured, "Camille…"

"Yes, beloved?"

"It is… very warm."

He looked around and, getting to his feet, went to a nearby tree and
broke off a branch of leaves. Returning to fan her gallantly, he was
rather taken aback to meet a ferocious scowl. When he enquired as to
the reason for this, he was told an explicit "Nothing!" He knew his
ladies quite well, wherefore he smiled faintly and continued to fan
her—thus providing the spark that was to launch a campaign.

"You," she nodded thoughtfully, "are just as bad as they are."

There was no doubting to whom she referred. "They are not 'bad,' Sophia."

She sat up and, taking the branch from him, began to fan herself
rapidly. "They are proud and arrogant and… childish! And so are you!"
Her sudden violence shaking the leaves from her impromptu fan, she
glared at the bare stalks and cast them aside.

The Marquis sighed, leaned back against the tree and, pulling up a
strand of grass, stuck it between his teeth, closed his eyes, and said
nothing. Such provoking conduct must naturally lead to reprisals,
wherefore, opening one curious eye in a few moments, he opened the
other in a hurry and gasped, "Good God! What are you doing?"

"Taking off my stockings, silly," she giggled. "Turn your naughty head, sir!"

Horrified, his eyes reconnoitred. The guards were not facing this way. "Sophia! You must not—"

"Oh, don't be so high in the instep! They're not looking. And, at all events, you told me to pretend they are not there."

"I know, but I didn't mean… that is—I—Gad!
Now
what are you doing?"

"I am about to paddle in the stream. Come!"

"Sophia!" he protested, "a lady of quality don't—"

"Deirdre Breckenridge does. And she's a lady of quality!"

"Yes—and delightfully so. But always was as wild as—"

"She is the reigning toast! And I heard you fluttered about her
campfire before you disappeared from the social scene. Which was
natural enough, I suppose, since she—like yourself, sir—is a halfbreed."

He flung a sharp look at her, then grinned. "Vixen!"

Sophia ran down the slope, stepped gingerly into the clear water,
gasped, then splashed happily, holding her skirts so that he could see
those shapely ankles. "Come, dearest—it's lovely!"

He stood and followed her to the water's edge but said a firm "No."

"You are afraid," she taunted.

He frowned a little, then smiled and shrugged. "
Assurement
!"

"Proud… and arrogant… and childish!" she verified.

Refusing to be baited into a quarrel, he bowed and started away.

Desperate, Sophia called, "Why do you still wear that special shoe and punish yourself by walking… normally? Because—you
are
a coward. As you said!"

Stunned, Damon halted but did not turn to her.

Her heart contracting, she said, "Feather told me that your foot
doesn't hurt if you limp. But you never limp if other people are about.
Is pride that important to you? Had people known you had a… a…"

He whirled around. "Crippled?" he supplied between set teeth.

"Crippled foot"—she gulped—"nobody would have thought you should
have been in the fighting. But you would not let them know preferring
instead to live a lie so as not to fail his impossible standards!"

White-faced, he drawled, "Are you quite finished, ma'am?"

"Why do you love me?" she demanded, dreading lest he walk away from her.

He bit his lip, scowling.

"Is it because I am beautiful?"

She was very beautiful, standing there with the sunshine waking
golden lights in her hair, her lithe and lovely body swaying, her bare
feet white through the clear water. But… "No," he said honestly. "Not
entirely."

"Why, then?"

And remembering so many precious moments, he could not hold his hurt
and anger and said, "Because… you have a bright and happy nature.
Because you have a clear, intelligent mind. Because I honour you for
your virtue and respect you for your courage. And because—when you are
my wife— I shall be able to talk with you… as well as… make love to
you."

Sophia blinked, and the lump in her throat so choked her that for a
moment she could not speak, and then she asked, "And why do you think…
I love you? Because you are said to be the handsomest man in London—and
will become one of the richest? Because of your high title?"

He watched her, his heart in his eyes, and asked humbly, "Why
do
you love me, my most precious woman?"

"Because," she replied, her voice a caress, "even when you sought to
frighten me and drive me away, an innate decency shone from your dear
eyes. Because you are as gentle as you are strong; and as good as you
pretended to be evil. Because you are kind to those who have nothing
and as courteous to a serving maid as to a Duchess. And—because I would
not settle for any less than a man I could… honour… for his gallantry."

Recalling her words that morning such a little—yet such a long time
ago—his eyes misted, and he begged huskily, "Sophia, my heart… come to
me."

"And," she went on, her pulse racing, "my love for you has little to
do with whether you have one arm or one leg… or are… crippled."

Damon froze.

"Oh, my dear," she cried yearningly. "I cannot bear to see you
struggle for so foolish a cause. Will you not come into the stream with
me?"

He knew now that this was why she had refused him. That if he did as
she wished, it must mean that he never wear that cunningly contrived
yet so cruel boot again. And that his father would be obliged to own
that he had a crippled son. He stood for a long moment, torn by
conflicting emotions. Then he frowned and said a harsh "No!"

"Go, then!" she cried fiercely. "Take your pride and clutch it to
your heart, as they do! Make it the most important thing in your
life—as they have! Wear that horrid boot for the rest of your life—no
matter how it punishes you! But you will walk through life without me,
Lord Damon! No son of
mine
shall be sacrificed on the altar of pride, as your Mama sacrificed you!"

She knew at once that she had gone too far. He stood utterly still
for a few seconds, his face a livid mask. Then his head tossed back in
that familiar haughty gesture—so like Vaille. He turned from her
without a word and started up the slope, walking very straight and
steady. Sophia threw both hands to her mouth and, shrinking, stifled a
whimper of despair.

Damon, rage struggling with a bitter desolation, reached blindly for his jacket—and paused.

She was singing, her voice gaspingly uncertain but that rich, glorious soprano piercing his heart:

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a… tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known
To which time… will but make thee… more dear.
No… the heart that has truly… loved… never forgets
But as… truly… loves on… to… to—

And her voice broke and choked into silence.

"Oh—hell… and blast… and damnation!" he groaned.

The Most Honourable the Marquis of Damon sat down and tore off his
shoes and stockings; then, standing, rolled up his breeches.
Shamelessly, he limped down the bank and into her arms.

Damon's eyes opened as the first thread of light split the darkness
around his door. Silently, the light widened. He saw a man's shape
black against the shielded glow from a candle and, his blood tingling,
slid his hand under the pillow, fingers closing around the reassuring
chill of the pistol.

The door was closed. The figure crept closer. The hand was removed
from the candle flame, and looking into the yawning mouth of a steel
barrel, Amory Hartwell yelped, "Good God! D'you want me to have a
seizure?"

Lowering the weapon, Damon reached for his watch on the table beside
his bed, peered at it, and said quietly, "Whatever gets you up at this
hour is not like to be good news."

His friend proceeded to kindle the flames on a branch of candles.
"Had I known I was about to get my head shot off, I'd not have come at
all!" Then, abandoning his aggrieved manner, he said regretfully,
"Truth is, I wish I'd
not
to be the one to bring you word, Cam."

Damon was already up and limping toward his press. "My father?"

"Yes. I left my man to keep an eye on things, and he just arrived
with word that they meet at sun-up. It's almost four now. You'd best
hasten."

"Blast!" Pulling on his breeches, Damon asked a terse "Where?"

"Tottenbury Castle. Of all the miserable places! I collect they were
both guests at Parapine—you know the Drummonds, do you not? Yolande's
come-out is to be next month, and—"