Seducing Mr. Heywood (3 page)

How could she bear it?

Charles Heywood sat in a comfortable leather wing chair in his cluttered study, his booted feet resting on a worn oak desk, scribbling notes for his Sunday sermon. He was borrowing heavily from a sermon one of his tutors at Cambridge had delivered on the same topic. He was aware of this borrowing, plagiarism by any other standard. At the end of his text, he’d scrawled, guiltily,
“I am a thief!”
He was finding it difficult to think of new sermon topics these days, ever since that humiliating incident with Lady Sophia, the baron’s widow. She had been much on his mind of late, to the detriment of his living at St. Mortrud’s.

The third son, after three girls, of a land-rich viscount with holdings in Ulswater and Kendal in the Lake Country, Charles was fated from birth for the church. His elder brother, as heir, managed the family estate; the second son was following a glorious career in the army. His sisters were all suitably and happily married. Every year brought yet another niece or nephew, or both. The Heywoods were a fertile family.

Did he have a clerical calling? No matter; he was bookish and did well at his studies, unlike his two male siblings. It was as good an option for him as any other. He’d had no objection to the church, and the living at Rowley Village was pleasant, the duties hardly onerous. Lord Rowley had been a kindly mentor to Charles, and he had spent more time at the Hall than at the vicarage, playing whist, sipping brandy, and enjoying the use of
the excellent library and well-stocked stables. His curate, Mr. Duncan, saw to the efficient running of the little church and was always ready to take vespers, evensong, or matins, when Charles was otherwise occupied at the Hall. It was a most satisfactory arrangement.

Though it was not a requirement of his office, Charles was celibate by choice. Fornication for fornication’s sake had never much appealed to him, perhaps because he was a romantic by nature. His present state of agitation was exacerbated by the fact that he had fallen immediately and impossibly in love with the unobtainable Lady Sophia the day he first saw her portrait in the baron’s drawing room. She was a goddess, indeed, the woman of his dreams. The artist, famed for his many paintings of Emma Hamilton, had been partial to beautiful faces and perfection of form. He’d emerged from semi-retirement to paint this one last portrait, as a favor to the baron.

George Rowley had chuckled heartily, watching the play of emotions over the young man’s expressive face. “Everyone falls in love with Sophia, Charles! You are neither the first, nor will you be the last.” The baron had not been offended by Charles’s blatant admiration of his lovely wife; indeed, he had seemed inordinately pleased.

Rowley was an amazing old gentleman. He’d been frank with Charles that he and Lady Sophia weren’t a love match. George’s first wife, Lucy, was the only true love of his life. He was very fond of Sophia, but not in love with her. She had gone her way, as he had gone his. His goal in their marriage was to secure two sons, and she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain in short order. John and William were two fine lads, eleven and ten respectively, now at Eton for their schooling.

Yes, George Rowley had been very frank about how things stood between him and his wife, but not frank enough to enlighten Charles as to the contents of his last will and testament. It had been as much a surprise to Charles as to Lady Sophia that he was named legal guardian to John and William Rowley. With no living male relatives, the baron had had to choose a man to serve as guardian. A woman, even if she was the boys’
mother, did not count. Charles understood that; it was simply that he had not been forewarned.

Neither, obviously, had Sophia been forewarned. Charles had to speak to her regarding the boys. And That Other Thing that he owed to old George, that George had refused outright to discuss with him, to the end of his life. He’d gone to Rowley Hall that fateful afternoon to address both issues with Lady Rowley, but the disastrous scene with the lovely Sophia had precluded any discussions.

Now he had to steel himself to see her again. The woman’s exquisite blond beauty rendered him almost speechless—he, whose eloquent sermons were always much praised at university and in the pulpit—and how could he begin to apologize for his clumsiness? He had torn her dress; how uncouth, how unutterably crude! How could she stomach the sight of him?

He’d become a dithering oaf in front of the one woman he wanted to please and impress above all others. He was shallow, worthless, a sham of a man. Perhaps the best resolution of his troubles would be to find a nice woman and marry her, as his sisters had been teasing, to marry and leave this blighted spot of Yorkshire for good.

His father had an unentailed parcel of property near Rydal Water that was Charles’s for the asking; his favorite sister was eager to introduce him to her young sister-in-law; and there was a neighboring peer’s daughter of whom his father was quite fond. Perhaps he, the parson, should allow himself to be led by the nose toward that infamous mousetrap. And, far better to marry than to burn, according to St. Paul. He was certainly burning now, no doubt about it, if his fevered dreams of a long-limbed, buxom, blond enchantress were any indication. He had glimpsed the moon goddess’s breasts through her liqueur-soaked chemise, and he would never be the same again.

Lady Sophia was restless. Rustication was not all it was made out to be; the infernal quiet of the countryside was driving her mad. It was bad enough during the day, but the nights were worse. How could she sleep when it was so quiet? She was used to the clatter of carriage wheels over cobbled streets, the noises of social activity and occasional fistfights, footpads running through alleyways, the sound of the watch calling the hours. This quiet and boredom was like a kind of death.

She had expected the boredom, that time would pass slowly in her exile, but had not anticipated the tediousness of a constant stream of tiresome visitors, ostensibly her late husband George’s friends and neighbors. In truth, they were all gossips and scandalmongers, verifying her lack of mourning costume and coming to ferret out the details of her ill-fated liaison with Sir Isaac.

’Twas a truth she’d not pondered overmuch, but bad news
did
indeed travel fast, per the familiar saying, as fast as the traveling chariots and Royal Mail coaches from London to Leeds.

Yesterday it had been the turn of a Mrs. Ramsbotham and her two simpering, spotty daughters, Drusilla and Annabelle. While the young country girls ogled the light green clocked stockings visible under the vandyked hem
of Sophia’s high-necked dark green challis walking dress, the mother had rained question after personal question upon her.
How rude!
Sophia had managed to turn the conversation to fashion, raising her skirts so that the girls could have a better look at the unusual stockings that seemed to fascinate them so.

The impulsive gesture had shut Mrs. Ramsbotham’s gaping mouth for the nonce, as Sophia chatted merrily about Madame Gruyon’s exclusive London dressmaking establishment. It was a place the Ramsbothams would see only in their dreams, never in actuality. The modiste had standards—not just
anyone
could ply her custom at Madame Gruyon’s Conduit Street shop.

It was becoming harder and harder to keep herself in check these days. The tale of her impulsively raised skirts would guarantee the Ramsbothams entrée wherever gossip about Sophia Rowley was the main course. Should she be concerned with the unfavorable impression she was continuing to make upon her neighbors and her staff, Sophia wondered? She frequently lost her temper, and the household was learning to keep out of the way, especially when these black humors were upon her.

She knew she should forswear the rough oaths she was lately wont to utter, but found herself unable to restrain her vocal outbursts. Clearly, she was out of control. This was uncouth, unladylike behavior to a fault, more befitting the worst of guttersnipes, and she rued her actions even as she continued to behave badly. Her London reputation was largely false, but this she alone knew. Ruefully, she acknowledged that her irrational behavior could do naught but augment the widely held opinion.

The only member of her staff who managed to retain his aplomb was the stiff-rumped butler, Bentley or Brownley, or whatever his name was. Nothing, it seemed, fazed that man, not even The Scene in the drawing room over a week ago. As if seeing one’s employer upon the floor in a most ungainly manner, her dress torn to shreds, whilst a man sprawled unconscious nearby, was the most normal of events! Yet the butler had quickly taken matters in hand. Sophia did not as a rule think much about
the behavior of servants, but she conceded that the butler seemed most admirable, for a servant.

As to that other man…She could not stop thinking about the too-handsome Charles Heywood, vicar of St. Mortrud’s and friend to her late husband. He had obviously wormed his way into George’s great good heart. What else had George given him, besides the guardianship of his two sons? She caught herself.
Their two sons.
Yes, theirs. Hers.
Her two sons.
That other worry was uppermost in her tangled thoughts these days. John and William would be home on school holiday from Eton soon. What was she to do with them? She hardly knew her own boys, having last seen them when they were toddlers.

John and William were scarce a year apart. She had done her duty well by George Rowley; he’d no cause to complain. She remembered how motherhood had taken her by surprise. She’d loved her babies. They’d been so soft of skin, helpless, dependent on her for all their needs. She’d actually nursed John for several months, until her morning sickness with William had interfered. She remembered, out of the hazy blue of long-buried memories, how she’d hated handing her sweet little son over to the wet nurse for his nourishment. Maternal feelings—yes, she’d once had them; there was no question in her mind about that. And, all of a sudden, with no warning, they seemed to be returning.

But she had been a terrible mother. No one would argue that point. She had turned her back on her boys after scarcely three years and never questioned her actions. When had she last seen them? Shame suffused her countenance. Among her set, casual motherhood was not uncommon, but surely she had come from better stock? Though her own mother had died young, Sophia remembered her as a loving, caring woman.

What had gone wrong? Why had her life turned out this way? She was at an impasse, a crossroad, or, perhaps more accurately, at the edge of a cliff, below which yawned a wide, ugly chasm that threatened to swallow her up whole.

And now, so slowly as to be barely perceptible to her, the block of ice that had encased Sophia’s heart since the eve of her first marriage, the ice that protected her even as it kept her from her own humanity, threatened to melt at its outermost edges. She shivered, as if feeling the cold for the first time in many years. She had not felt so cold when the Thames froze solidly last January as she did now.

What was she to do? What were the choices open to her? The boys had no one now but her…her and that decidedly odd vicar. Her boys deserved better, did they not? Why had George left her in this muddle? She was frightened, even if she could not admit it to herself. Indomitable, brazen Sophia Rowley was scared to death.

What was she to do?

Charles had to clear his muzzy head, full of sermons and Sophia. It was hardly the best of combinations; indeed, it was a ludicrous mix. He would go for a walk. A path led from the vicarage and St. Mortrud’s to the outskirts of Rowley Hall. He doubted he would run into anyone save a gamekeeper. Certainly not Lady Sophia—that gorgeous hothouse bloom was suited more to London ballrooms than to the robust air of north Yorkshire. Confident that he would be alone and hoping to air his demons, he donned his hat and took his walking stick and a book of Wordsworth’s latest poetry. Reciting aloud into nature’s silence was a tool he used to conquer his slight tendency to stammer. An hour or two on the wild, hilly moors would do him a world of good.

Why waste a perfectly good walking dress by sitting indoors and giving in to another bout of the dismals?
Sophia thought. The day was glorious, bright sun, robin’s egg blue skies, and sparse, fluffy clouds. She pulled on her sturdy half boots, a pair left behind from her last sojourn at Rowley Hall, took a Cashmiri shawl for added warmth, if needed, and informed Joan that she was taking a stroll on the grounds. As an afterthought, she grabbed her reticule.

“Do you wish me to accompany you, my lady?” Joan inquired.

“You must be joking.” Lady Sophia snorted. “Do you think I will be accosted here, at the very barren edge of nowhere?” With burgeoning impatience, she brushed away the poke bonnet the eager abigail offered her and strode forth. There was a path that led to the village cemetery from the back of the Hall, through a copse of yew trees. Perhaps she would pay George a visit and ask for his help in sorting out her thoughts. She sighed. Ah, how addle-brained she was becoming. As if anyone could help her, much less the mortal remains of her late husband!

Charles walked briskly, inhaling deeply of the fresh, country air, unencumbered by cares. He’d been on a walking tour of Switzerland after Cambridge and had enjoyed it mightily. Perhaps it was time to travel again, he thought. But no, he caught himself up short. There were the boys. George’s sons would be home in a few weeks on summer holiday from Eton. They needed a friendly face to greet them when they arrived.

He was inordinately fond of those two; he had tutored them, from time to time, in Latin and Greek. The younger, William, had great mathematical talent; Charles had discovered that the boy could work out huge sums in his head in less time than it took Charles to write them down. Most extraordinary! John was a madcap, a rapscallion, especially in contrast to his younger brother.