Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (5 page)

"Good… God!" Damon half whispered, and locked glances with Ridgley.

Sophia was surprised to note that the Earl, who impressed her as
being a warm and kindly gentleman, looked almost as dismayed as his
kinsman. For herself, she could have screamed with laughter. It
appeared that one antisocial, would-be hermit was about to be inundated
with company!

A tall, husky woman stamped into the room. She wore an ill-fitting
riding habit, the train of which she held draped across one arm,
revealing a startling expanse of high-buttoned boots. An enormous white
feather soared up from a dejected-looking hat of the same brown as her
habit. She was undoubtedly on the far side of forty, but her mousy
brown hair, escaping in all directions from beneath that wilting hat,
was unmarked by silver. Her eyes were dark and scanned the room in a
brief sweep as she advanced on the Marquis. "There you are, nephew,"
she barked redundantly, arms outstretched. "I bring you a surprise."

Sophia had the distinct impression that the Marquis winced as he was
caught in that crushing hug, and his "Feather!" was more a gasp than a
greeting. He planted a dutiful kiss upon her upturned cheek, however,
and thanked her for having braved such a storm.

"Where'd you spring from?" enquired Ridgley, submitting to her embrace uneasily. "Thought we was cut off!"

"Phinny Bodwin's," she roared. "Decided to pay you a quick call but,
with the state of the roads now, may have to camp here a few days!" She
fetched the Earl a slap on the back that deposited most of the contents
of his glass onto the sleeve of his jacket, then marched to the door.
"Charlotte! Where in the devil are you, girl?"

Sophia, meeting Clay's mirthful glance, fought back a giggle and saw
Damon slant an amused look at her. The Earl, smoothing wine from his
sleeve, muttered, "Same old Feather…"

Another woman entered. She was tall and willowy and younger than her
companion by a good decade or more. Coppery curls, coiffed in the
newest short style, framed features of classic perfection, enhanced by
long green eyes. She moved in a smooth glide, her cloak swinging apart
to reveal an apricot-hued gown that emphasized the colour of her hair.

Damon took her hands and bowed over them, pressing each to his lips.
"Welcome, my dear lady." His smile had become very tender, and the
affection in his eyes made him seem, or so thought Sophia, almost
human. The beauty's white hand caressed his cheek in a revealing
gesture before she proceeded to the Earl, who planted a kiss on her
brow and muttered it was "stupid he ain't yet wed you!"

Damon presented Sophia and Clay to the large woman, who was his
aunt, Lady Fanny Branden. Lady Branden cut him off with the
pronouncement that her friends called her "Feather."

"We already know of you, Major." She extended her hand to Clay.
"Your gallant exploits against Old Boney had all England by the
heartstrings! You must tell us of Waterloo. Can't get you lads to speak
of it."

"I rather imagine Clay is tired of speaking of it, dear Aunt."
Damon's voice held boredom. "Meanwhile, Lady Sophia has not met Miss
Hilby."

It was all Sophia could do to hide her disgust. How logical that he
should so summarily turn away any discussion of the fighting he himself
had so carefully evaded. She schooled herself to respond suitably as
she was presented to the beauty, but her forced smile encountered a
thoughtful green stare, and she sensed that her resentment had been
discerned.

Thompson came in to take Miss Hilby's cloak, but Feather refused to
be divested of her hat, pointing out rather illogically that she was
still chilled through from that beastly drive. "Should have ridden!"
she observed. "Get the old blood going, eh?" She turned to Damon. "You
found the gumption to straddle one of your fine cattle yet? Suppose
not! Likely never will at your age! Lud, what a waste, with legs like
those!" She slapped a large hand on her frozen nephew's thigh.
"Splendid! Ain't he got splendid legs, Ridgley?"

"And a red face." The Earl grinned.

Damon's face was more white than red, but he managed a tight smile and murmured, "Dear Feather, won't you sit here by the fire?"

"No," she stated unequivocally. "Shut your eyes!"

Amused, he obeyed, but she peered at him with suspicion. "Don't
trust you! No man should have great long lashes like that! Cover your
eyes, sir! And do not dare to peep!" Laughing, he followed orders. Lady
Branden held one finger to her lips, tiptoed heavily to the door, and
beckoned.

The girl who now entered was small, dark, and vivacious. She was not beautiful, for her upper lip was too short, her nose too
retrousse
,
and her bone structure lacking the fineness associated with true
beauty; yet she appeared beautiful, perhaps because she radiated warmth
and affection. She paused briefly, her soft brown eyes peering around
the room in a myopic stare. She had discarded her cloak and wore a gown
of brilliant orange silk that displayed to advantage an astonishing
figure, bountiful of bosom, round of hip, and tiny at the waist. The
Earl blew her a silent kiss. Lady Feather clasped her hands and beamed
in the manner of a magician who has pulled a very fat rabbit from the
hat. Her face alight with love and mischief, the girl began to run
toward the Marquis, only to stumble over excessively high heels.

At her small shriek, Damon's head shot up. He cried a delighted "Genevieve!" and jumped forward in time to catch her.

"Ah, Camille!" she exclaimed, hugging him tightly as he swung her
around, her feet high above the floor. Lapsing into French, she went
on. "At last, I have found you! And how well you look, dearest of all
cousins! But why in the name of the good God must you hide and
rusticate in such dreary desolation? This hideous ghost ridden
mortuary, when you had London at your feet! Name of a name! The most
beautiful man in all England, buried! Lost to—"

Since all of this impassioned speech was liberally interspersed with
kisses, the Marquis had evinced no inclination to disrupt it, but now
he laughed and said also in French, "Speak English, my little cabbage.
We have company."

He set her down, and upon the Earl's complaining that he did not
rate a kiss, she went to pull him down and plant a generous buss upon
each cheek. "Are you,
mon pauvre
, sacrificed upon the altar of my foolish cousin's… seclusion?"

"If this is seclusion, m'dear"—Ridgley beamed—"I'll spend the rest of my days here!"

"You most assuredly will do no such thing," Damon said coldly.

A scowl replaced Ridgley's grin, and he met the Marquis' level gaze resentfully.

"Damon, you've become a clod!" snorted Lady Branden.

"Total," Ridgley confirmed.

"Will no one introduce me to this lady?" asked the French girl hastily, "whose beauty is of such perfection."

"And who blushes so admirably," murmured the Marquis, peering at Sophia through his quizzing glass.

Flustered and longing to scratch him as all eyes turned to her, she
stammered, "W-Why, I am… overwhelmed by such a pretty compliment.
Though perfect beauty, or perfection of any kind, must surely be
inhuman."

"Not in the House of Branden," grunted Ridgley, still having a resentful set to his jaw. "One would not dare be otherwise!"

The quizzing glass, which had been allowed to swing idly from the
Marquis's hand, jerked slightly. Miss Hilby directed a reproachful look
at the Earl and reminded Damon that his introductions remained
incomplete.

For a second, his eyes challenged those of his kinsman, and Ridgley
flushed and looked away. Then, with perfect composure, Damon presented
Sophia and Clay to his cousin, Mademoiselle Genevieve de la Montaigne.
Clay bowed politely. Sophia held out her hand, and Genevieve took it,
frowning a little. "The name I do not know… and yet we have meet—
oui
?"

Sophia said that she did not think they had met and was astonished when the French girl suddenly wrapped her in a hug.

"Is of
the peu d'importance
! I have know in this one minute
you shall be a special friend! Some of the times I have this
feeling—here." Her hand fluttered to her shapely bosom, a movement
followed with interest by the eyes of the three gentlemen. "Come." She
drew Sophia toward the fire. "Here we sit and have the happy cose."

"Which I shall join." Feather marched to seat herself to Sophia's
left on the comfortable leather sofa. "Knew your Papa. Fine seat. And a
grand fighting man. Served with my husband in Holland." Her hard eyes
softened briefly; then, with a little shrug, she went on in her bluff
manner. "Sorry to hear about your brother. But you can at least be
proud of your men."

Instinctively, Sophia glanced at Damon. A cynical smile twisted his
mouth, but he said nothing. "It seems, my lord," she smiled, "that if
my house is blessed with courage, yours is blessed by its charming
ladies."

Genevieve hugged her, and Feather gave a barking laugh. Damon
watched her with a thoughtful expression, and she realized he had read
an innuendo into the words that she had honestly not intended but that
was, she felt, well justified.

He turned to Miss Hilby and said a meaningful "It is indeed."

"Oh," said Sophia artlessly. "Are you also of the House of Branden, ma'am?"

Miss Hilby, her fond gaze steady on the Marquis, said, "Not yet, my lady."

Lady Branden, Mademoiselle de la Montaigne, and Miss Hilby had
retired to their rooms to refresh themselves after their journey. The
Earl and Clay were engrossed in a military discussion regarding the
shrewd tactics employed by the French at Quatre Bras, and Sophia looked
at Damon with an ingenuously hopeful smile. The westering sun chose
that moment to flood the room with belated brilliance, and, having
stared rather blankly at her, bathed in that warm glow, he mumbled an
offer to show her around the Priory, adding deprecatingly, "Though it
is a dusty old place, and I doubt you'd be in the least interested,
ma'am." She dashed his hopes by saying she would find it delightful,
and, Clay raising no objection to the idea, Damon sighed and bowed her
wearily into the hall.

Despite his apparent ennui, he was nothing if not thorough. He
conducted her through a succession of chill and gloomy rooms, some
holding furniture protected by Holland covers so dusty they looked as
if the doors had not been opened for several years. He gratified her
expressed curiosity politely, drawing many objets d'art to her
attention and discoursing with surprising knowledge on the various
pieces. He then related the gruesome history of the house, which had
originally been a famous keep, the catacombs all that now remained of
the ancient structure. Knowing her host was thoroughly bored, with
outward gravity and inward glee, Sophia asked countless questions and
generally conducted herself very much in the fashion of a bright
student on tour with her tutor. But, gradually, as they went, her coy
duplicity began to be replaced by a real interest, and, sensing this,
his condescension became less pronounced and his comments more informal.

Last to be viewed was the portrait gallery on the third floor. It
was dusty and festooned with cobwebs. Yet, in the beautifully arched
sweep of the roof, the low, recessed windows, the graceful pillars and
random-planked floors, there remained an echo of a simple elegance that
drew from her a little cry of mingled regret and admiration. She swung
around to find him watching her intently. "Oh! But how lovely
it…could…" She faltered into silence. The Marquis said nothing, but in
his steady gaze she thought to detect a shadow of sadness, and she
stood motionless, her head uptilted. Perhaps it was the crimson glow of
sunset or the peaceful quiet. Perhaps the very age of the house created
a mellowing aura. Whatever the cause, they were both swept into a
strangely isolated span through which violet eyes held to eyes of
turquoise. Scarcely breathing, Sophia experienced a haunting sense of
irrevocability—as if a clock not previously wound had suddenly begun to
measure the seconds and hours of a tapestry woven of time.

Something scampered across her foot, shattering that fragile
illusion. She gave a shriek as the mouse fled into a hole in the
wainscoting. Instinctively, her hand went out, and at once Damon's
vital clasp tightened around her fingers. Shrinking against him,
shivering, she glanced up, saw laughter in his eyes, and felt her
cheeks grow hot. Only then did it dawn on her that they were most
improperly alone in this remote part of the Priory. She pulled away
and, because he made no attempt to restrain her, at once felt flustered
and missish. It was foolish to think of Damon as her uncle, yet she
could well imagine Stephen's impatience with her unease.

"This, ma'am," said Damon in his languid drawl, "is the home of many of my illustrious ancestors."

Somehow his very tone reassured her. She looked pointedly after the mouse and murmured, "So I see."

He gave a muffled snort, then, as if unable to recover his aplomb,
burst into a peal of laughter. When mirth overcame him, he seemed a
totally different person, warm and devastatingly attractive. It was
evident that he possessed a lively sense of humour, and it was equally
apparent that he was determined to stifle it. Even now, although
amusement still sparkled in his eyes, he swung hurriedly away and
sauntered to the nearest painting. She followed, wondering why his
irrational temperament should cause her to feel so troubled.

She learned much of the House of Branden in the next half hour.
Damon had a droll wit, and she found herself chuckling at his
anecdotes, her own humour complementing his so naturally that the
moments flew past. And then they stopped before the last portrait, and
he was silent.

Sophia stared upward, fascinated by the face above her. The man was
startlingly handsome, the face thin, with high, finely etched
cheekbones and a sensitive arched nose. The thick light-brown hair was
split by a white streak at each temple, giving him an oddly winged
look. The mouth above the firm, cleft chin was neither as generous nor
as perfectly shaped as Damon's, and the fine blue eyes held a trace of
sorrow, wherefore, womanlike, she felt drawn to him and breathed, "Is
this?"