Scandal (31 page)

Her frock fell in a straight line from just beneath her bosom to her hips, but her body did not. Well. And so. She had the kind of lines an artist drew to render a gown more flattering in depiction. “Relax, Sophie.” He skimmed his cheek along hers and shifted closer. Soft skin. He remembered touching her, stroking her body, covering her with his, sliding inside her. He drew in a long breath. A faint scent, light, clean, and floral. “Darling,” he murmured in her ear. “I cannot instruct you in the mystic skill of handling the ribbons if you sit there like a lump of cold butter.”

She gave him a killing glance, but she did relax. Her back curved against his torso, and the horses settled down.

“Much better,” he said. Jesus, but he wanted her. Eventually, he leaned away from her, withdrawing his hands. When she concentrated, she had the habit of sticking the tip of her tongue into the corner of her mouth. She was doing that right now, and given his state of mind, the images in his head were not polite ones. Sophie always had affected him that way, from the very first moment he set eyes on her.

She settled to the task of handling his team, and her anxiety faded, replaced by concentration and then delight. “They're doing most of the work,” she said of his pair.

“An indication, Sophie, that you have got a talent for driving. You'd probably be as gifted on horseback.” There went her tongue again. He spread his legs, and she was concentrating too hard to notice his thigh pressing against hers. “Do you ride?”

She spared him a glance. “We're to be married, and you do not know the answer?”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting, my darling Sophie, that you have previously told me the answer and I have failed to recall?”

“No, my lord.”

“I merely assume your answer is yes, but that you have no animal of your own.”

“I don't ride often.” Her mouth tightened. “I did as a girl.”

“Watch the turn here.” He placed his hand in the small of her back. “Well done, Sophie, well done.” He removed his hand, but he left his thighs spread and crowding her since she didn't seem to mind and he liked the contact a great deal. They followed the lane for another mile before coming to a narrow bridge. She gave him a panicked look, but he pretended not to notice and let her cross without remark.

“How did I do?” she said when they were over and her tongue was back behind her lips. The grays were in stride again, at ease with their guide.

“Perhaps a phaeton is in order. I'll order you one like this one.”

She laughed. The first genuine laugh he'd heard from her.

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. “Considering your instructor, I expected no less.” She rolled her eyes, and he was glad to see she wasn't tolerating his nonsense. The lane widened then continued straight. On either side fields stretched to the horizon. “Withypool is half a mile on,” he said. And from there, just a mile and a half to Castle Darmead. “Do you want to drive so far?”

“It's a pleasant day,” she said. Carefully. “But it's late. I'll be missed.”

“I'll have you home in time, my word on it.”

They drove in a companionable quiet. Thank goodness she was not one of those women compelled to fill every silence with inanity. Presently, though, she said, “Withypool is just around the corner.”

“Let's turn around here.” At his signal, she brought the curricle to a slow stop in front of a cottage with a driveway large enough to turn around in, though he was prepared to help her if she hadn't the strength in her arms. She did, and besides, his pair was well-trained.

The cottage looked empty. It was tidy, with a flagstone path, a thatched roof, and the crosssbeams typical of a house built in Elizabeth's time. The flower beds were grown wild, however, and the thatch was years past replacing. Behind the cottage the fields swept out into brilliant green. “A lovely view,” he said. The turrets of Darmead were visible at the horizon. As a girl, Sophie must have cut through that very field to get to Darmead.

She glanced from the house to the sky and then at last at him. “I was shocked to see you at church. I thought you were here to have the banns read.”

“There's no time for banns.”

“For you and Miss Llewellyn.”

“Sophie.” Her attention moved back to the view, and he sighed. “Sophie, look at me.” She did, and for a moment his stomach threatened to fly away with his heart. Instinct told him now was the moment to take her in his arms, to touch his mouth to hers. He didn't, though. Acting on his instincts had gotten him a reputation that did him no good with Sophie. Instead, he clenched his hands into fists. “I'm not going to marry Fidelia.”

“It's true,” she said.

“What?”

“That I used to tell stories about Castle Darmead and your ancestors. I used to pretend I'd marry the master of the castle one day.” Despite himself, he set a gloved hand to her cheek. A light touch. Her cheek turned pink. “I did tell Mr. Jenkins's daughters I would marry the Earl of Banallt one day. I was ten, I think. I absolutely believed I would.”

“And that absurdity persisted until?” He kept his hand on her cheek.

She closed her eyes. “Until I married Tommy.”

“I wish I'd met you first.” He had no time to regret his hasty words, because Sophie's eyes popped open. Hell, but he was perilously close to kissing her. That would spoil everything.

“You'd never have looked at me twice.”

“Probably not. But I'd have heard you speak and understood you were the woman for me.”

Her mouth curled into a crooked smile. “I had spots. And no bosom to speak of.”

“You certainly developed one later,” he said. He drew a finger along the bridge of her nose. Up and over the arch. “And yet your mind was first-rate. That can't have changed.” But she was right. If he'd met her when he was twenty instead of when he was thirty, he'd never have gone close enough to her to hear her speak. He was proud then, callow when it came to women, though he would have denied the accusation since in those days he'd believed sexual experience and appreciation of women were one and the same.

She curled her fingers gently around his wrist, but not, he noted, to disengage from their contact. “I was a foolish girl, Banallt.”

“You are determined to disagree with me at every step, aren't you? That's vexing of you.”

Her smile deepened. “And what would I have thought of you if I'd met you before Tommy?”

He put his other hand on her cheek, too. “You would have thought, there stands a man to make my pulse race,” he whispered. He stroked his thumbs along her cheeks. He wished he didn't have on his gloves and that she wasn't so bloody damn wary of him now. “The Earl of Banallt and the master of Darmead. No doubt you'd have wanted to marry me straightaway. I'd only have needed to crook my finger at you.”

“You ought to write a novel of your own.” She drew back, but he tightened his hands on her face.

“I tried that once, as you may recall. Such a hideous failure I'll never unleash on paper again. Don't,” he said, keeping his hands on her to prevent her from looking away. “Let me look at you a little longer.” With his thumbs, he stroked her eyebrows, followed the strong line of her nose, and at last traced the sensitive curve of her mouth. Her eyes slowly closed. She was going to let him kiss her; he knew it because he was a connoisseur of women and their sexual responses. He didn't do it because he was afraid of what might happen if he did. He had only one chance left with her. One only.

“Let us get down and walk, Sophie.”

Twenty-seven

SOPHIE PUT HER HAND IN BANALLT'S WHEN HE CAME around to her side of the phaeton. She stood, and he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He dipped his chin toward her, but he didn't kiss her. She didn't know what she thought of that. Nor was she sure of his mood.

“Not a long walk,” he said. “I don't want the horses to get cold. Perhaps just to the end of the drive and back?”

“Very well.”

They said nothing to each other until they were well away from the cottage. He walked with her into the shade of a tree, and when they stood in the shadows, he touched her cheek with his free hand. The other gently held her arm.

“Did you really come here to rescue me from shame and humiliation?” Her thoughts hopped from one memory to another; her first sight of his silver tarnish eyes, an afternoon spent discussing novels. The first time his lips touched hers. The way she'd felt so alive when he held her. “After I ignored all your letters?”

For far too long, he stared into her face, and Sophie's vision darkened. “Did you even read them?”

She tried to pull away, but he didn't release her. She looked away. “I didn't dare, Banallt,” she whispered.

“Why not?” He sounded calm, and that made her risk a look at him. He smiled at her. Why wasn't he angry or hurt? “Were you afraid of wretched poetry? I acknowledge you as my superior in literary matters. I wouldn't dare write you poetry.”

“Be serious.”

He took her hands in his. “Shall I? Tell me, then, my darling future wife, what's happened to you. Why did you fill your letter to Fidelia with nothing but lies?”

“Lies? Has she said they were lies?”

“I say they were lies. Except about your brother every single word you wrote her was a lie.”

She slipped her hands free of his, and all the emotion she'd worked so hard to keep back overflowed her. Her body shook. This explosion of feelings was precisely why she hadn't read any of his letters. She didn't want to feel anything, and here she was with her numbness fading, leaving her exposed. “Why would I write anyone the truth?” The flash of heat in her words took her by surprise. “I hate it here.” She managed to level out her voice. “I never thought I'd hate Havenwood. I would have said it impossible. But I do.”

“Darling.” He glanced back to the cottage and his horses and walked her to a bench built around the trunk of the elm. She let him draw her down beside him. “Tell me everything. How is it that you are here at Havenwood with these poor imitations of Mercers and not living independently? I was certain you'd pack up and leave if your brother's heir came here. I'd thought I'd have to track you down all over again just to make you tell me if we'd managed to make a child. Why didn't you take your inheritance and remove yourself to Yorkshire or Cumbria or some god-forsaken backwater so I'd spend the rest of my damn life discovering where you went with my child?”

“Why?” She laughed. “That's easy. Because there was no inheritance,” she said.

“Of course there is.” His eyebrows drew together. “Your brother had a fortune independent of the entailment.”

“Yes. He did.” Her throat closed off, and she bowed her head until she had herself under control. She'd not needed to control herself in a very long time. “John meant to do well by me, Banallt, but...”

“What?”

“It does no good to imagine what might have been. I inherited nothing from my brother.”

He frowned. “No annuity? No trustor in charge of your money? Has your cousin stolen it from you?”

“No.”

Banallt scowled until his eyebrows nearly met. “I had understood from your brother himself that you would have no worries for your future, whether you married or not.” He held up a hand. “When we had such a discussion is beside the point, Sophie. In fact, he assured me that was the case.”

“He did not leave behind debts, if that's what you mean.”

“What did he leave you? Not nothing. He would not leave you with nothing. That's inconceivable.”

“And yet he did, Banallt.” Her voice rose with the anger boiling inside her, fresh, hot, and welcome. “He meant to look after me. But he didn't.”

Banallt shook his head. “How could this happen?”

“According to his solicitor, the changes to his will were never executed.” She let out a breath. “And so I was once again cast adrift and dependent upon relatives for every breath I take.”

“You should have told me.” He stood up and took two strides in the direction of the cottage then turned and walked back to her. His eyes flashed. “You should have written to me the moment you knew you'd been left with nothing.”

Sophie gave him a push, but he didn't budge. “To what end, Banallt? Whether I wrote to you or not, my situation would be the same. Destitute again and dependent on the kindness of my relations.”

“You are too proud for your own good.” His fingers tightened on her face, and she curled her hands around his wrists and pulled down. To no avail. “Had I known, I would have come sooner than this. I thought you needed time. I never dreamed you were in straits yet again. I thought the only risk was that you were pregnant and plotting your retirement to the deep countryside.”

“Hardly straits, Banallt.” She let out a puff of breath and this time managed to step out of his embrace. But, she suspected, only because he let her go. “The Mercers have been very kind to let me stay at Havenwood.”

He sneered. “That woman? Kind? She despises the very ground upon which you walk.”

“It does not signify.” She started back to the phaeton on her own. “I don't expect to be here much longer.”

“Meaning?” He caught up with her and had no trouble matching her stride for stride. “Have you told Tallboys yes? You can't have.”

She scowled at him. “What business is it of yours?”

“Don't pretend it isn't,” he said in a dark voice.

“I have not accepted Mr. Tallboys.” She took a step back. Banallt's body relaxed. She folded her arms under her bosom and hid her fists under her arms. “How could I when I don't know whether I'm disgraced?”