Seducing Mr. Heywood (8 page)

John nuzzled in his mother’s arms. The new Baron Rowley was an infant again, breathing her familiar smell, a sweet, sharp fragrance that he had never forgotten.
Mama.
She was here. Finally, she was here, and he was in her arms. He sighed happily. All would be well again. He missed his father terribly, but now his mama had come. He had wondered where she was, all those years, but Papa had said she would return as soon as she could, and he had told him the truth.

She was warm and soft, and beautiful, too. Papa had often reminded him that she looked just like her portrait, but John knew that people sometimes did not look at all
like their pictures. His best friend’s father had far less hair, a longer nose, and eyes placed nearer each other than they appeared in the miniature Hannibal kept in his desk at school. John had barely recognized Lord Stover from that likeness when he’d visited the school one day. But Mama, if anything, was lovelier than the oil painting over the mantelpiece in the drawing room. She was the loveliest person he had ever seen. She was his mother!

William Rowley, embracing both his older brother and the mother he barely knew, rejoiced in the feel of her warm, sweetly scented body. She felt better than he had imagined. Better, even, than Rudy, the Irish wolfhound pup that his father had given him when he was five years old. Rudy had not lived long. William looked up at his mother and hoped she would live a lot longer than Rudy or his father had lived.

He had been inconsolable when his papa had died. If not for Mr. Heywood, he would still be sad, but Mr. Heywood had told him that Papa was looking down on them from Heaven, and that William must not be sad or his Papa would be sad, too. He caught Sophia’s eye. She smiled, bent down, and kissed his brow. His heart swelled in his chest and began to beat very fast.

He hugged her tighter, the silky soft fabric of her dress crushing against his cheek. He would not let her go away, not ever again. He and John and Mr. Heywood would do their best to keep her with them forever. He would be very, very good, so good that no one would ever leave him again.

Sophia felt the beating of her sons’ hearts against her abdomen and remembered holding them when they were babes. Their little chests had heaved so when she’d embraced them. She had hated handing them over to their nursemaids. Many times, she’d fallen asleep with one of them in her arms. She could not bear letting them out of her sight in those early days of motherhood. More and more memories of those three years at Rowley Hall were coming back to her. Smells, tactile sensations, emotions…

Why had she ever left them? What madness, what stupidity, had sent her away? This was joy. Why had she abandoned joy for the shallow pretext of her life in London? Sophia had chosen not to dwell on past mistakes, but now she was drenched in regret. It overwhelmed her even as the last remaining fingers of ice that had encased her heart tightly in its frosty grip melted away. She held her sons closer and reveled in their tight, warm, loving embrace, warmth that had set her free.

I will never leave you again, so help me, God
, she promised them silently as she bent to kiss their fair heads. Later, she would make them acquainted with Harriett, the always smiling, pleasant young girl she’d engaged to look after them when they were not with Mr. Heywood.

Charles had barely worked out the sum on the blackboard before William called out the answer. The boy’s mathematical gift had grown by massive increments over the last few months. The vicar constantly endeavored to be inventive in the problems he presented to William, but no sums he could set seemed a challenge.

“All right, you genius, answer this one, if you dare: from Land’s End Cornwall to Farret’s Head in Scotland is measured to be 838 miles. Now, and take your time to work this out, at the rate of eight feet a day, how long would it take a snail—a mere snail, mind you—to creep that long distance?”

“Sir, that is not a probable distance for a snail to cover in a day,” the literal-minded John objected.

“This is solely for the purposes of the problem,” Charles assured him. “We both know that it is im—”

“Five hundred fifty-three thousand and eighty days, sir!” William interrupted them.

Charles and John looked at each other. John started scribbling the numbers on the board and working out the multiplication. Five hundred fifty-three thousand and eighty days. Yes, that was correct.

“How does he do it, sir?” John threw up his hands in exasperation.

“We shall stump him yet, John,” the vicar remarked with conviction.

William smirked, crossing his bony arms over his narrow chest.

“All right, sirrah, now pay attention. If a coach wheel is five feet ten inches in circumference, how many times would it revolve in running eight hundred million miles?”

William frowned. In less than a minute, he had scrawled the answer to the problem—which involved changing miles to feet before dividing the numbers—on the blackboard.

“Sir, that is seven hundred twenty-four billion, one hundred fourteen million, two hundred twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and four times, with twenty inches left over.”

John, who had barely begun to work out the first part of the problem, threw the piece of chalk he was using to figure the sum up in the air. “Arrrgggh! How does the little beast do it?”

“Wait, John, let me see if he has it worked out properly.” Tongue between his teeth, concentrating hard, Charles began the task of working out the long division.

Several minutes later, he had confirmed the ten-year-old’s conclusion: “He is correct, it is seven hundred twenty-four billion, one hundred fourteen million, two hundred twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and four, with twenty inches remaining.” He, too, threw both the chalk and his hands up, despairing of ever stumping the wondrous boy, this mathematical marvel.

Young William had a remarkable gift; Charles had never seen its like. What the second son of a baron could do with such a gift, however, was food for speculation. At the very least, it was an excellent after-dinner amusement. Wagering on how long it took the lad to come up with an answer would tickle the fancy of the gamesters at the London clubs, Charles had no doubt. As to the future, Cambridge University was noted for excellence in science and mathematics. The great Newton, inventor of the calculus, had been Lucasian professor of mathematics there. And, Charles chuckled gleefully, he could
not wait to show Lady Sophia her younger son’s gift. She would be amazed!

“Well, he may be able to work impossible sums in his head, this awesome mental calculator,” John cuffed his younger brother on the shoulder, and William pretended to be felled by the light blow, “but he can barely spell his own name!”

William flushed. It wasn’t true! He could so spell his own name, but other words, as a rule, were not so easy to spell.

“Ah, William, consistency in spelling is for small minds like mine. Your brother is only jesting.” Charles knew too many adults whose orthographic skills were at a level not much higher than young William’s, if the truth were told, and society cared not a whit. Dr. Johnson’s dictionary was over fifty years old and had caused a small revolution in setting down authoritative spellings and spelling rules, but amongst the
ton
, no one paid much attention to such strictures.

“Now, boys, pay attention to me. I am going to read from
The Iliad
today, and we shall translate from the Greek together.” Charles’s sonorous voice fell into the old Homeric rhythms as he began the tragic tale of the valiant soldier Achilles, the bickerings and whims of the ancient gods (to whom mortals were mere playthings), and the horrors of war. The boys listened in awe, concentrating on the poetic structure, frowning at the pronunciation.

John and William were both aware that proficiency in Greek and Latin was essential in order to pass the entrance examinations of the universities. This was their summer holiday, but Mr. Heywood’s tutoring would give them an advantage when the time came to stand for those examinations. Their father had been determined that they attend university, as he had done, and they were determined that their father would be proud of them. They knew that he watched over them from Heaven. Mama and Mr. Heywood had told them so.

William had just performed three mathematical feats involving enormous sums to Sophia’s delight. Charles had set him the problems and he had calculated them in
his head for less than a minute each. It had taken both Charles and Sophia considerably longer to work them out on paper, Charles noting with interest that Sophia was a faster calculator than he was.

Then John recited his own translation of a passage from
The Iliad
, after first repeating the ancient Greek from memory. The boy had a prodigious memory, and his Greek was improving daily. Sophia’s eyes sparkled with maternal pride as the boy recited, acting out the stirring excerpt from the poem. Charles thought she was mouthing the Greek with him and wondered how that could be. Lady Sophia, versed in Homeric Greek? Nay, he must have been mistaken. When would that lady have learned Greek? Ladies learned needlework, how to ride, and dabbled in watercolors; that was the whole of his sisters’ education.

Sophia beamed at her boys, her breast swelling with pride. Charles, watching the lady closely, could not help noting it.

She stood and clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Bravo, bravo!” She turned to the vicar, her body swaying seductively toward him. “You have done very well, Mr. Heywood. I am in your debt.” Her blue eyes were warm and promised untold payment. Charles caught his breath.

After the boys had gone to bed, Charles and Lady Sophia enjoyed an postprandial brandy in the drawing room. The cellars at Rowley Hall were excellent; the baron had been a connoisseur of fine wines and spirits. Sophia’s eyes glowed warmly as she toasted the vicar.

“To your health, sir.” She raised her glass.

“And yours.” Charles returned the compliment, smiling.

Sophia sipped the brandy, contemplating the man before her through the thick mesh of her long eyelashes. She felt a stirring inside that had nothing to do with the infusion of liquor through her system.

Charles caught her appraising look. He took a hurried sip of the brandy and placed his glass upon the side table. That scene in this same drawing room a few short weeks
ago returned in all its glory. Lady Sophia’s full, creamy white bosom flashed before his eyes. If he tarried any longer, he would disgrace himself with his surging lust. He must leave.

Sophia took note of his sudden nervousness and smiled; she knew how to relax high-strung young men. Putting an arm on his sleeve, she purred like a sleek, satisfied cat. “Mr. Heywood,” she whispered, “have you seen the Hall’s gardens by moonlight?”

Rowley Hall was famous for its rose gardens. An Elizabethan ancestress, Blanche Snow, had been responsible for creating the fragrant blooms. Indeed, a particularly fragrant white rose, the
Blanca Gloriosa
, had been named for her. That rose was planted all along the far wall of the garden, and it perfumed the soft, warm night air with its presence. Lady Sophia’s signature fragrance, almond blossoms, wove in and out of the underlying leitmotif of roses. Charles was intoxicated by the sweet competing odors.

Lady Sophia walked slowly, skirt swaying, to a stone bench set in an ivy-trellised alcove. Her gown was cut low in the back, displaying her white shoulders and long neck. Charles’s eyes were fixed at a point between her shoulder blades. As she stopped short, he bumped into her back. “Beg pardon, my lady,” he murmured.

“My fault entirely, sir. I stopped suddenly.” She turned to face him, her movements sleek and sinuous. Charles’s heart lurched in his chest. She looked up at him, the motion feline but unmistakably female, as well. If he had been sitting down, he was sure she would have jumped in his lap for a cuddle, like a favorite kitten. He backed away a step. She walked toward him, closing the gap.

His collar was inordinately tight and he felt drops of perspiration forming at his temples. Lady Sophia took her thumb and ran it over his lower lip, slowly, teasingly. She suddenly pressed down hard and giggled when he jumped. He gulped.

“My, what a soft mouth you have, Mr. Heywood,” she cooed.

Charles was mesmerized. Sophia stood on tiptoes and slanted her mouth over his. The pressure of her warm lips forced his to open slightly. Slowly, excruciatingly, the pointed tip of her sweet tongue insinuated itself into his mouth. His arms wrapped around her curvaceous, yielding form and she sighed as his tongue met hers and began to explore her soft, warm mouth.

His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers kneading the smooth strands of hair, loosening them from the bun at the back of her neck. He caressed the warm nape of her neck, the satiny soft skin between her shoulder blades, and moved on to her ear, fingering a dangling earbob and pulling on it playfully. She moved sensuously against him, backing him against the wooden trellis. Her hands began to explore his chest, his hipbones, his…

Charles broke the deep kiss, reaching down to take Sophia’s wandering hands. “My lady, I don’t think—” He attempted to stay her.

Sophia looked up at him, the moonlight playing over her flushed face, illuminating the loosened strands of pale blond hair on either side of her face. Her lips were swollen, he saw, swollen with the force and passion of his kiss. “Why think at all, Charles?” Sophia asked. Her breath was warm and sweet on his face.

Charles swallowed. Why, indeed, he thought? But he knew why all too very well. “Because, my lady, it behooves us, as sentient human beings, to think, to consider the consequences of our actions.”

“I would rather feel than think right now, Charles, I would rather be swept away by what we both are feeling at this moment. I don’t—” She shook her head vigorously and more pale yellow strands escaped from the bun at the nape of her neck. She took a short breath. “I do not want either of us to think overmuch.”

Charles closed his eyes and prayed for guidance. He still clutched Sophia’s soft hands tightly in his. “My lady,” he began, “I fear that both of us drank, perhaps, a bit more of your late husband’s fine brandy than we should have had. That bit of spirits and the moonlight
are not a good combination.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I am going to bid you good night now and make my way to the stables, where I will mount my horse and take myself home.” He prepared to flee.