Seducing Mr. Heywood (24 page)

With no personal maid, Sophia had to make do. The fewer buttons and hard-to-reach fastenings, the better she could dress herself. She sighed and stretched her arms high, her full bosom rising with the movement. She must see about replacing Joan. No one on her present staff was right for the position. Perhaps she should consult her new friend, Katherine Ramsbotham. It was past time that she paid that lady a visit, at any rate, to see how the baby was faring. Sophia was feeling maternal tugs that only being in the presence of young children like the Ramsbotham infant and Chloe Brown could alleviate.

She wanted more babies of her own but could not achieve that goal with no husband. She did not even have
a lover! Never had she been so long without a man. It was a unique experience and not entirely unwelcome, except when she thought of Charles Heywood. For the first time, not just any man would do.

Bromley scratched at the open door. “My lady,” he intoned, “the Reverend Mr. Heywood has returned.”

Sophia shot out of her chair like a bolt of lightning electrifying the midsummer sky. “Charles! Oh, do show him in, Bromley, please!”

If Bromley was shocked by the use of the vicar’s first name, he hid it admirably. A good deal of stiffness had gone out of the butler’s rump, Sophia thought, and all for the better. There were fewer formalities at the Hall these days, and she felt more relaxed and the better for it.

His clothes wrinkled from the long ride, his hair in its usual tousled state, his face fresh as all outdoors, Charles exuded health, youth and vigor as he strode into the morning room. Sophia went to him with arms extended and hugged him to her bosom. There was no denying it; she now knew that she loved this man.

Overwhelmed by her greeting, Charles held her close, savoring the smell of almond blossoms in her hair, exhilarating in the warmth of her lush body. “My lady,” he began.

Impulsively, Sophia raised her face and kissed him on the mouth. Charles closed his eyes and deepened the kiss of welcome, losing himself in her delicious mouth, her soft, yielding lips. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips and gently intruded, tested, probed, tasted. Charles allowed her egress and crushed her body closer to his. He was dizzy with her, his mind reeling.

Then she pushed him away, breathless, almost shy. “Charles, I have missed you so.”

He came back to earth, though the heaven of the last few seconds was a far better place to be. “Sophia.” He could barely get her name past his lips. “Sophia, I have missed you, too.”

They looked at each other, hands clasped, drinking the other in as if they could never have enough. Charles
swallowed. “I bring you news, my dear, news that I hope will make you happy.”

Sophia blinked. “Your mysterious journey.” She scrutinized him more closely, her eyes narrowing. “What
were
you up to, Charles, you and that Bow Street Runner?” She waggled her index finger at him. “For you two were up to something! I could have placed a wager on it—”

Charles grinned. “The spirit of good St. Stamia was with us; we found what had been lost. Right under our noses, that was the irony of it.” His smile was rueful.

Sophia shook her head. “I do not understand. Please, begin at the beginning.”

“Perhaps we should sit down,” he suggested. “Should I be worried, Charles?” Sophia asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“No, my lady, no, this is good news.”

She turned to the bellpull. “Let me ring for fresh tea. I have a feeling that this is a long story.”

“Well,” Charles agreed, “it did begin some fifteen years ago.”

Fifteen years ago! Sophia’s hand flew to her throat. That was the year of her first marriage, that dreadful, dreadful time. She looked up at Charles, her eyes wary, but he was smiles and happiness. What had he found? And was it truly good news?

“Please, Charles, do not keep me in suspense any longer, I beg you,” Lady Sophia pleaded.

Charles took her hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. “Jarley and I found Miss Bane, my lady.”

There was a loud roar in Sophia’s ears. It was the last thing she heard before an icy hand gripped her and the world went black as she fainted away.

Miss Bane was alive!

Sophia felt the fool, falling into a faint! She never fainted! But this was the second time, the first occurring when she heard the news that her boys had been taken by the highwaymen. It looked to becoming a habit.

But, such news! It hardly seemed true, even now, with Charles sitting at her side, chafing her cold hands and reassuring her. Bromley stood to one side, vinaigrette in hand and a worried look on his face.

Sophia gave a wobbly smile. “I am fine, Bromley. Thank you for fetching the vinaigrette, but I do not need it now. I became lightheaded for a moment. That was all.”

The butler, a relieved look passing over his stern features, nodded slightly. “Very good, my lady.” He shut the morning room door behind him.

Sophia could feel the color coming back into her cheeks. She rose from her semi-recumbent position on the small sofa, exuberant and full of questions.

Charles had found Miss Bane! Was there ever such a man for finding things and putting them right? He had certainly cut through the underbrush and brambles and found the long-lost pathway to her heart.

A few days later, Sophia was preoccupied with preparations for the arrival of her former governess (whom she persisted in calling Miss Bane instead of her proper married name of Mrs. Walters). So busy was she that the issue of her relationship with Charles was temporarily shelved.

For his part, the vicar had resolved to talk about marriage, but the time was not appropriate now, with the imminent arrival of Mrs. Walters. Instead, he unburdened himself to his friend Lewis Alcott as they walked across the moors early one morning.

In the distance, the endless tumbling songs of skylarks infiltrated the summer skies, and every so often one of the brown creatures would swoop by, so close that the tuft of its crest could be seen clearly. Other birds also made their presence known, and a steady continuo of birdsong accompanied them on their walk.

Lewis stooped and plucked a blade of grass, flushing a startled meadow pipit. He chewed on the stalk, his mood contemplative. “You missed the great elopement, Charles, with your mysterious journey to Kent and York.”

Charles nodded. “Lady Sophia remarked that no one saw it coming, but she, of course, was probably the unlikely cupid, throwing Lord Brent and her abigail together during the outbreak of contagion.”

Lewis nodded. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to a number of pale gray birds clustered on a hummock of turf in the near distance. “Wheatears,” he identified them. “They are here very late, no? It is now midsummer.” A birdwatcher like his friend, Charles nodded in agreement. Wheatears were among the earliest harbingers of spring, making their nests in crevices on the ground or in abandoned rabbit burrows.

“They are culinary delicacies in France, are they not, Lewis?” Charles remarked, idly chucking stones as he walked.

Lewis snorted, correcting him. “Those are ortolans, Charles, not wheatears.”

“Close enough,” Charles remarked, not especially interested
in the avian discussion. He had other things on his mind.

The birds clicked in alarm as the two friends drew closer, flying away in a flutter of white tails and rumps. Charles picked up a handful of rocks and aimed them at a jutting boulder, aim precise and on the mark.

Lewis regarded him. “You are in a peculiar state of mind this morning, if you do not mind my saying so.”

“Only this morning?” Charles quipped.

“No, you are right.” Lewis chuckled. “You have been in a peculiar state of mind for many weeks now, since, I believe, the arrival of the Widow Rowley to this rustic paradise we call home.”

“Pray, do not jest, Lewis, though I know it is against your nature to be serious.”

The doctor sighed and sat down on a hummock, his face grim, as if resigned to what was to come. “You are going to ask for my advice again, are you not?”

Charles stiffened. “If it inconveniences you so much—”

“Cut line, Charles. I am accustomed to being the confessor’s confessor. What are friends for, after all?” His eyes winked behind his spectacles.

“I am going to ask Lady Sophia to marry me, Lewis,” he proclaimed.

“Why do you make it sound as though you are planning your own funeral?” Lewis wondered.

“Does it sound that way?” Charles shook his head. “No, not a funeral. It’s simply that I am unsure of myself in this situation.”

“How much kissing has been going on since you returned from your journey?” Lewis guessed.

A slight flush crept from the edge of Charles’s neatly tied white cravat. “Some,” he acknowledged.

Lewis snickered. He began to speak, stopped, and cleared his throat loudly, uttering his next words with difficulty. “Charles, Charles, you amaze me!”

Charles made a movement to rise. “If you are going to laugh at me, Lewis—” he began.

The other man’s big hand stayed him. “Sit, sit. Allow
me to indulge myself, Vicar.” Lewis sighed, turning his face to the blue, cloudless sky and addressing the meadow pipits, the wheatears, and the hovering skylarks. “He kisses the most beautiful woman in all of England. She allows him these liberties, mind you, and, in point of fact, would not at all mind if he took even more liberties with her delicious person—”

“
Lewis!
” Charles’s voice was tinged with warning.

The surgeon put up his hand. “All right, all right. Do not get yourself into such a lather.” Lewis turned to him. “You know I mean nothing by this banter. But, Charles, I still do not understand the nature of this problem you see concerning Lady Rowley. Allow nature to take its course, man!”

“If nature took its course, I would be less than a sterling example of a man of the cloth, and unfit to serve the church.” Charles’s tone was grim.

Lewis regarded his friend gravely. “If you will not bed her outside the holy bonds of matrimony, have done with it and propose to the lady. She finds you attractive enough to kiss you on every available occasion or so you say. Perhaps she would not find it too awful to have you at hand whenever she needs…ahem…your services!”

“And if she rejects my proposal? What then? How humiliating that would be!” Charles threw a rock with great force at the boulder; it split exactly in half.

“I think you are more worried that she might
accept
, Mr. Heywood.” Lewis’s eyes gleamed. “My Lord, but that is it, is it not? You are concerned that she
might
accept you?”

Charles rose, brushing the dust and grass from his trousers. “I grow weary of confiding in you, I vow. You are no help at all! First, my father tells me not to even think of marrying Lady Sophia, then you tell me I fear she might accept me—”

“Your father?” Lewis was interested. “You have discussed the matter with him?”

Charles grimaced. “He guessed. I told him I had no
interest in his neighbor’s daughter, Charlotte Anne Mainwaring, and he was disgusted with me—”

“Well, Charles, I do not mind admitting that, in truth, I do not envy your marriage to a lady of such volatile temperament. But what was his reasoning?”

Charles shrugged. “He implied that she was much too—” He blushed fully now. “He said that she is too experienced for someone like me. She is worldly. I am not.”

Lewis adjusted his spectacles, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “He is probably right, but, ah, what joy there would be in gaining the benefit of that lady’s intimate knowledge, Charles. No, do not hit me!” He feinted as Charles turned toward him with an evil glare, then clapped the vicar’s shoulder.

“In seriousness, I believe that you and the widow have a good deal to offer each other. Methinks she craves a stable presence in her life, and the boys—who adore you, my friend—certainly need a father. She could do much worse. For God’s sake, man, you should be relieved that Lord Brent eloped with her maid!”

Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I did believe him to be my rival, Lewis. I truly believed that. It made me crazed.”

“Your
greatest
rival, Charles, one not so easily overcome,” Lewis commented shrewdly, “may be yourself.”

The Reverend and Clarissa Walters arrived at midday early in the week, accompanied by Charles Heywood. The clergymen stood aside as the women greeted each other, at first tentatively, and then with such force and emotion that Charles was moved almost to tears. He turned to the Reverend Walters and indicated that they should, perhaps, leave the two women alone.

The archbishop’s secretary nodded, following Charles out the front door. Bromley, who had been standing nearby, gave Charles a speaking look as they passed.

“See that tea is served, Bromley, then make yourself scarce. Inform the others that the ladies are to be left in
privacy. They have a good deal to discuss,” Charles whispered.

The butler nodded, stepping back and closing the door behind them.