Romancing the Rogue (2 page)

On Scrutinizing Underclothing

Sophia placed stacks
of folded linen in the master suite wardrobe. Emboldened by her solitude, she shook out a pair of Lord Devon’s drawers, the lawn so fine it looked like silk, and dyed a rich pearl-grey sheen. Frivolous. Not nearly the size of the corpulent man in the portrait. Had he decreased with an illness recently? Sophia had only seen him in oil on canvas despite being three months in his employ.

On the table next to an austere mahogany bed lay a stack of books. Sophia squinted at the titles and noted Dostoyevsky, Jules Verne, Darwin, and oddly, Jeremy Bentham, the liberal egalitarian philosopher. The prior day, Homer and Gothic horror novels had been on his bed stand. No spectacles nearby, no bookmarks. Did he read every book or merely browse them?

More puzzling: the assortment of bottles stashed in bizarre hiding places around the room. Did Lord Devon fear a pirate raid on his cognac supply? Inside the clock, under pillows, atop a bookshelf. Enough spirits to pickle a regiment.

Just past seven in the morning, and the sheets were already cold. Even keeping country hours, what lord rose before noon? And she never saw more than one indentation in the mattress, meaning Lord Devon was either too old for bed sport or went elsewhere for it. Perhaps he was a deviant, according to the whispers about him.

Sophia placed pure white lawn shirts in symmetrical stacks on the shelf, careful to space them equally as Lord Devon demanded. Then she made his bed, the starched sheets wrinkle-free and corners tucked under the mattress at ninety-degree angles. The reason she had the position in the first place was because the previous chambermaid had failed to do so and had been sent packing.

Sophia went to the writing desk, and the title on a manuscript caught her eye. A Gounod opera. Debuted only weeks ago, according to the newspapers she stole from the kitchen — fish wrappings. She studied Lord Devon’s elegant script, flawless notation with an artistic flare to the beams and stems while every notehead maintained a perfect elliptical shape. Sophia thought her notation was better than most, but his was as precise as machine print, only prettier.

She scanned the notes and hummed the melody, an aria she didn’t recognize, because it was unpublished. Astounding — Lord Devon had transcribed the music from his head, supposedly after hearing the performance. She made a soundless scoff, wondering how it could be possible. Who had such a memory? Pages and pages of perfect script. Half-mad with envy, she set the manuscript down and straightened it.

Despite Lord Devon’s reputed eccentricities and his dreadful disposition, Sophia wished, not for the first time, that she could make his acquaintance. She imagined cozy fireside arguments over brandy with a grizzled, fatherly gentleman who sparred with her about Parliament and Balzac as though she were a man. His intellectual equal.

A lovely vision, one that vanished as she toppled a bottle of fragrant sable ink onto a card. Sophia cursed, dabbing the ink first from the polished leather mat, then the ruined card. An unfinished letter, which Lord Devon had dated two weeks prior. That made sense when she saw that he’d penned,
Dearest Aunt Louisa,
then nothing else.

If the last maid had been discharged over a creased bed sheet, then Sophia had just done far worse.
If
she were found out. She sighed, knowing it was
when,
not
if.
Better to discard the letter or forge a duplicate?

Sophia had fooled the eagle-eyed bankers in Zurich the past spring when she’d forged her father’s hand and stolen three thousand pounds…

She studied Lord Devon’s penmanship upside down and sideways, memorizing the loops and slashes. He had to be left-handed. Stifling a groan, she angled the pen the way she imagined he held it. Her first attempt was obvious and too careful. But the second, more flamboyant and aggressive, looked identical. She compared the telltale Ss and Es, pleased she’d successfully reproduced his hand. A small deception in the grander scheme of maintaining her disguise.

Sophia sorted the papers, pens, and wax on the desk then noticed a smudge of film on the full-length dressing mirror, the mark only visible from a sideways angle. She wiped it clean, sighing in relief for noticing the discrepancy then double-checked the walls for scuff marks before leaving Lord Devon’s wonderland of brilliant madness. On her way out, she polished the door handle for good luck.

Next on her list of tasks was the dreaded tray service from the kitchen. Sophia bumped the swinging half-door with her hip and gave the flirtatious French chef Monsieur Girard a wan smile as she passed through the scullery, cutting off his greeting. She loaded the tray with wrapped silverware and propped it against her waist to keep the sudden surge of male passersby at bay, but it failed. Botts the coachman whistled low as he passed and made a rude gesture. At least he didn’t touch her, but David, an irritating handsome groomsman, palmed her thigh through her skirts and attempted worse before she darted aside.

Imbeciles. Years of fending off advances like those, and she was beyond tired and angry. She wanted to
do
something about it. A man could beat the stuffing out of his opponent in the boxing ring and earn a pat on the back afterward. Where was her vindication? She wore a skirt, therefore her lot had to be forbearance?

It seemed she’d been marked for persecution, and the men grew more brazen by the day. She refused to stand by while the groping escalated to rape — perhaps the time had come to leave Rougemont. But she had nowhere else to go.

Houseguests for Lord Devon’s aunt arrived, keeping Sophia on her feet until midnight. When she finally returned to her attic quarters, she startled to find David the groomsman waiting across the hall from her door. She ignored his silent threat as she fetched the key from her skirt pocket and unlocked the door. If he meant to attack her, he would’ve done so already.

She turned and shot him a glare infused with all her pent-up fury. She lowered her voice in warning. “Touch me again, David Prescott, and I’ll break your fingers. Now
go away
.”

His face registered surprise; she stared him down until he shrugged and walked away. She retreated inside her room and bolted the door with shaking hands.

Hours later she woke with an indefinable sense of dread. Nightmares lurked close when she dozed, so she tried to stay awake. She didn’t remember surrendering to fatigue.

Her face shoved down. His fist yanking her hair by the roots. Blood dripping onto jagged glass pieces. The eerie burn-chill of flayed flesh. The searing shock of glass cutting her skin. Her shoulders shaking from the rhythmic force of the blows on her back. Her vision blurred and sideways. Snarled curses — “You ungrateful whore!”

Sophia sat up in bed, a metallic tang in her mouth; she’d bitten the inside of her cheek. If she hadn’t awakened, she would have relived the moment her father burst through the door of the hothouse and shot her dog in the head. He’d died in her arms, his blood cooling on her hands. Killed for rescuing her from being brutally raped by Lowdry, her father’s sycophant. Then she’d been punished dearly for defying him.

The scars across her back and forearms itched and burned, a reminder of what awaited should she fail in her disguise.

How had she come to this, living in fear?

She clenched her jaw and rekindled her anger — that she could manage. Anger forged her onward, but grief was debilitating. She allowed herself to succumb to it only a few times year, and she had already spent her allotments for 1867.

~~~~

Wilhelm took this
way every morning at daybreak. Nine years in the army, rising with the cock’s crow, had beaten the decadence out of him. Today the eastward trade wind brought clean, briny smells from the sea. He followed the path and noticed fresh pine and blossoms on the breeze — good, the last frost had passed, then. The birds were restless, but they didn’t cry in alarm. No danger, but someone else was in the forest. His forest.

Ahead on the trail Wilhelm heard a woman’s clear soprano rising and falling in a familiar Spanish melody. The purity of tone and grace of inflection made his chest constrict, an odd feeling. He slipped into the brush, circled the trail, and saw her.

The woman sat against a fallen log on the side of the footpath. Her hat lay discarded on the ground, and her waist-length hair hung free, twirling in the breeze as she sang. His dog lay in her lap, as though she was his owner.

Held in place by a force he could not oppose, Wilhelm silently begged the siren to stop luring him while hoping she never would
.
Who is she?
Why
do I know this music?
And why am I spying on a lady?

The woman either forgot the rest or lost interest, absently humming the melody. She wound endless waves of glossy jet hair into a tight knot, the strands glinting blue and red in the sunlight until a disappointing grey felt hat covered her head. His eyes followed every movement as she fastened the top buttons of her plain cotton blouse, hiding the pleated lace edging of what appeared to be very fine Parisian lingerie, dyed the color of a ripe peach.

Heaven help him, her bare legs! Such delicate lines, long and willowy. Hypnotizing, the iridescent sheen of her skin where the sunlight reflected on it. He must have crept closer but didn’t recall doing so. He swallowed to avoid echoing her sigh as she rolled stockings up her thighs and tied the garter ribbons. He saw the hem of her translucent peach shift. Very short. Edged in rose-shaped lace that teased over her legs, flaying him alive with an
almost
view of the skin beneath. His mouth went dry.

She turned in his direction to scan the trail, and his breath stalled as her gaze passed over his hiding place. She was quite possibly the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Not because of the near-perfect symmetry of her features, but the
fire
burning in her eyes: intelligence, sorrow, secrets, strength. And oh, how he detested the longing it gave him.

Over her naughty underwear, she was dressed like a domestic, but betrayed a straight, proud posture that should only be bred through generations of nobility. She moved with the grace of a dancer. Flamenco in wool.

Ridiculous, what he was doing. Inexcusable. Wilhelm Montegue, Earl of Devon, crouching in the bushes and peering out like a satyr. He hated the familiar wash of loathing for himself; it followed every instance of shattered self-control. Still he watched.

He knew he was a slave to the unnatural forces in his brain. He was insane, more or less, but most mad people didn’t know it, whereas he was entirely aware of his lunacy.

The doctors called it a disorder, the poets called it obsession, but he was helpless when provoked. An ivory-obsidian chess set, the scent of ancient parchment, the facets of a crystal: all his captors for hours on end, enslaving him to fascination. It was what made him memorize texts, invent formulaic equations, compose music… Never before had a human caused it. This was very bad.

She walked away down the trail, and it seemed she took the forces of nature with her. He watched until she disappeared, leaving him bereft and feeling every bit the damned fool.

At any rate, he was
not
a cad, lusting after whatever woman crossed his path. Just now he’d been sidetracked by an uncommon specimen, as he would be interested in a rare species of bright-plumed bird. It was merely scientific interest. He went straight for the library to clear his head with a tedious book on politics and a strong mix of drink.

Why One Must Always Remember One’s Lamp At Night

Wilhelm watched from
the shadow of a velvet drapery, peering down from the railing one floor above her. He was stunned to recognize her, the siren woman with the golden voice and French underwear who had made him so angry. Here she was, polishing his baseboards. He stood transfixed, heart hammering as he warred with himself, abhorring the power a strange woman had over him.

She paused as she reached a doorway, looked down the endless line of scuffed and dusty baseboard, and bowed her head as she sighed. She still had over a hundred yards of trim to clean, not counting the fluting around the seven remaining doorways. That meant one hundred ninety-seven more yards. And that was only one side of the passageway. She would be at it all week.

She tried to uncurl her hands from the handle of the brush, and he wanted to groan, watching her wince and straighten her stiff fingers. Elegant, slender fingers, not gnarled and callused. Clearly she was not accustomed to manual labor.

He hated seeing her on her knees. It gave him a clear view straight down her bodice, for one thing. Wilhelm gripped the railing, unable to look away, on the verge of charging down the stairs.

Would he toss her out the door or carry her upstairs to his bed?

He was halfway down the first staircase when a footman passed the woman, muttered a taunt, and yanked her cap off, grabbing her hair with it. Hairpins clattered to the floor and her chignon unraveled. The force knocked her against the doorway. She hissed an oath at the man, which Wilhelm could not make out because he was running.

Wilhelm became aware of the pair of hands around the footman’s neck. He recognized the scars and the pattern of tawny hair across the wrists and couldn’t deny they belonged to himself. Watery blue eyes stared back at him in a face flushing from red to violet. A tug on his sleeve and the distressed chiming of a treble voice pierced the haze in his mind.

He was strangling his footman. Wilhelm eased his grip and lowered the fainting man to the floor. He concentrated on breathing in and out. His blood pumped hot, his heart pounded a war chant. With great effort, he cleared his head, convincing himself temperance, not vengeance, was the order of the day.

“What have you done?” She gasped and retreated a step. Her eyes darted between the unconscious footman and Wilhelm, clearly wondering which presented the greater threat. “Did you
kill
him?”

Wilhelm shook his head once, aware he’d just made a lunatic of himself. He simply must wrestle himself under control; he had a most irrational desire to please the woman.

“He will wake in a few minutes. And then he will be thrown out on his ear.”

“Oh, no! Sir, don’t report the incident, if you please.”

“I witnessed his insult to you, an unpardonable trespass.” She obviously didn’t know who he was. Out of some unfathomable desire not to alienate her, Wilhelm played along. “Lord Devon tolerates no misbehavior among his staff.”

“Indeed. However, I wish to avoid unpleasantness.” Such an enchanting, musical tone of voice. Perfectly genteel inflection.

He betrayed a hint of appreciation in his look. “I will see to it you are spared any unpleasantness.”

Oh, yes, she understood, and he was pleased with the blush creeping over her cheeks and across her lovely collarbones. The small victory gave him a rush of pleasure; she unmanned him, but at least he could affect her in return.

“I thank you, sir, but—”

Wilhelm nudged the idiot with his boot. “The man sank his career the moment he laid a hand on you.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Now kindly divulge the names of the others who have insulted you. Again I assure your amnesty.”

Her breath sped, and if he read her correctly, she reacted with anger. So he’d assumed right — other men had been harassing her.

“At the risk of abetting murder, I respectfully decline.
Sir
.” She tacked on the honorific, clearly as an afterthought.
Housemaid, bollocks.
An irresistible puzzle.

“Then you do not deny being accosted by the male staff here.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. An imperious gesture, as though
he
was the one trying
her
patience. “I am unharmed, and I think it best to maintain the harmony.”

“Lord Devon would take exception, I assure you, Missus…”

She smiled flatly in a clear refusal to reveal her name. “Lord Devon manages his affairs as he sees fit, I assure you.
Sir
.”

“And I assure you,
madam,
he will be most displeased to hear of the situation. What I can’t understand is why an otherwise circumspect Mrs. Abbott hired
you
as a housemaid.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought there was a universal law that the female domestic help must be either homely or matronly, preferably both. The males are supposed to be hale and handsome, since women oversee the hiring in a household.” Wilhelm bit back a smile at her cocked eyebrow. “You cannot be unaware you appear as conspicuous as a peacock in a henhouse.”

A flinty look crossed her face, and he was all the more fascinated that she did not seem pleased to hear pretty words spoken to her. What beautiful woman didn’t want adulation?

“Have I reasoned amiss, madam?”

“I merely wonder at your concern for Lord Devon’s domestic affairs, Mister—” She trailed, fishing for his name.

“I prefer to follow your example of evasion, madam.”

“Very reasonable. In that spirit of elusiveness, I shall now fade into the scenery as I ought. Good day.” With the shallowest curtsey he’d ever seen, she turned to escape.

He said lazily, “In theory, that dynamic functions properly between master and servant, but not if the latter is more masterpiece than background.”

She turned and shot him an incredulous look. He loaded his expression with innuendo, and fire snapped in her autumn-hazel eyes. Finally, a crack in her prim façade. She closed the space between them in dance-like strides.

“Sir. Neither your wealth nor station grants you such license. Your flattery, however amusing, does you no credit. Kindly desist.
Sir.
”

The sport was over. He watched her carefully, her wide eyes and quick breaths. “I have scared you. I apologize.”

They locked gazes, and — there it was. A softening of her eyes, the flush of her skin. The unmistakable force like magnetism warming the space between them: attraction. Hope unfurled in his heart.

She hardly noticed when he touched her, which meant she’d already allowed the intimacy in her mind. He angled his shoulders to shield her from view, and a small movement brought his hand to cradle her elbow. He brushed down her forearm, holding her captive with his gaze. Subdued by the contact, she let him slowly rub over the delicate muscles in her arm, tight with strain from her labor. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting the urge to close. He was careful to convey comfort in his touch, adopting the utter stillness necessary to coax a spooked horse.

Wilhelm lowered his voice. “This is a peaceful place. I vow you have nothing to fear. And you may keep your secrets, madam.” He brushed the underside of her wrist with his thumb as he said
secrets.

He released her and stepped away, and he knew the moment she realized she’d allowed a strange man to caress her arm, neither of them gloved. He gave her a shallow bow and retreated before she could work herself up over it. He savored the warm pleasure of victory as he strode away, a sensation far more pleasing than his usual cognac-induced stupor. Intoxicating.

~~~~

Sophia could not
bring herself to use the old copper hip bath in the kitchen. The very thought made her ill, thanks to the memory of drowned mites floating on the surface of congealed brown-colored suds after the gardeners had used it. Even if she made the full-day journey to Bath for the public bathhouses on her every other Thursday off, she couldn’t risk being recognized.

Twice she’d brought soap and a bundle of fresh clothes to a secluded inlet of the nearby stream, but never managed to disrobe. She could stand the cold water but not the feeling of vulnerability, afraid of being watched.

An unfounded fear, since the groomsmen and footmen had mysteriously begun treating her like The Queen of Sheba. It had begun the same day that horrible, fascinating gentleman with the hypnotic steel-grey eyes had nearly strangled the footman. Apparently he’d reported her plight to Lord Devon, who had taken it seriously. Clearly he’d struck the fear of God in his men, because Sheba herself couldn’t have asked for more solicitous, groveling treatment. A blessed relief. Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to bathe in the stream.

Each morning in her quarters, she washed as best she could with a basin and rag while looking out the small window at the bathhouse. It seemed to beckon her with the promise of relief. The master’s sanctuary, reportedly an Italian marble masterpiece built over natural springs.
Steaming hot water.

The chambermaid helping Sophia fold sheets put her nose to the fabric and complained, “I’m wonderin’ if this didn’t quite wash clean. I smell somethin’ sour, you know.”

It wasn’t the sheet.

Sophia finally gave in.

She waited past midnight and stole out the east service door. The dogs came to her at once but didn’t bark when they recognized her. She greeted them with a few quiet words, and they escorted her, trotting alongside her in the dark to the bathhouse door.

No light shone from the windows, so she went inside. Sophia left her clothes on a bench near the door. She wound her way around the columns and partitions, treading carefully on the steam-slicked tile, following the luxurious sound of water bubbling in pools.

~~~~

Wilhelm leaned his
head back on rolled toweling and stretched out his legs, soaking in his favorite spot in the bathhouse facing the window high on the wall, where he could watch the moon. The evening air outside was so cool and the water inside so warm it created a mist that obscured his view. The water relaxed his muscles and soothed his old battle injuries. He twisted his shoulder where it ached, sore from the long day’s horseback ride. The heat worked its magic and his eyes slid closed.

The nerves on the back of his neck tingled. He opened his eyes and listened in vain a long moment, then let himself tentatively relax. He was half-asleep and listening to the water rushing though the pools when he felt a set of toes on his thigh, then the soft flesh of ankles brushing his knees. He shouted in surprise the same moment another voice cried out in shrill soprano.

Hot water stung his eyes as he slipped, lost his balance, and dunked under the water. His foot struck her sideways in the belly, and they tangled as she doubled over. Wilhelm thought he might pass out, overwhelmed by the indecent battle of twined limbs. In the chaos he became aware of her panic.

She
being the woman Mrs. Abbott had said was Rosalie Cooper, his housemaid, whom he would recognize anywhere by her fruit-and-spice scent alone.

Rosalie thrashed like a cat when all he’d meant to do was grip her by the elbows and pull her out of the water. That is, as soon as he could pry her knee from his left buttock and dislodge her elbow from his aching ribs. He picked her up by the tops of her arms and set her on the edge of the pool, then dove backward out of the way as she flailed and scratched, gasping for breath.

He shook his head, his face burning from the heat. In the weak moonlight, he saw a streak of pale skin disappear through the thick steam and a flash of long dark hair. The uninvited vision paraded behind his closed eyes, wreaking havoc on his senses. With great effort he slowed his breath and calmed his erratic pulse.

He heard a feminine squeal then a sickening thud that meant Rosalie had slipped on the dewy floor and collided with something. He heard her flesh slap the ground. A low-pitched crash echoed along the tile. He was already out of the pool and dashing to her aid before he heard her pitiful groaning.

He tensed to leap over the toppled marble statue lodged diagonally between two columns, relieved to find she wasn’t trapped beneath it.

She shot a hand out. “
Stop!
You
fiend
! Get away from me!” She flinched away from his outstretched hand, gathering her limbs at her sides, protecting herself from a blow that wasn’t going to land.

Wilhelm twitched, uncomfortable, averting his eyes and stepping back as she requested. It went against his every instinct to stand by while she struggled to rise. Her legs shook, and her lungs failed to draw in the air she needed to recover herself; she was injured; she needed help. Without permission, his feet carried him forward.

“
Don’t touch me!
” She hurled a white piece of the statue that had broken off in her hand; he guessed she’d grabbed it as she’d tried to break her fall. He narrowly dodged the missile.

Her unreasonable distress gave him pause. He retreated with his hands held up in a conciliatory gesture. She exhaled in relief and dashed away, whimpering with each painful step.
Poor creature.

He made a connection. It was Rosalie who had stumbled upon him that night in the courtyard garden; she’d reacted the same way then. He’d only seen such disturbing psychological damage before in other soldiers who had endured the unspeakable carnage of war. What had befallen her?

Wilhelm heard the dogs barking outside and recalled how they’d seemed to guard her. She would be protected, then. Good.

He retrieved the elliptical chunk of marble she’d thrown at him and couldn’t help his spontaneous bark of laughter. Resting in his palm was a marble penis. The poor Roman statue would never be the same.

Through the still-open door, Wilhelm saw her retreating form, nymph-like in the moonlight. Then came the memory of her soft peaches-and-cloves-scented hair splayed across his chest, her clear and lyrical soprano voice, the wicked slant of her exotic autumn-hazel eyes… Assaulting him, tormenting him. At night he dreamed it in vivid colors and tangible sensations, and he couldn’t say if it was worse or better than the ghosts who haunted him.

He needed a few fingers of cognac and a sound coshing up the side of his head.