Romancing the Rogue Page 7

  “How wicked of her,” Elise complained. “And her poor father.”

  Hearing benevolence in the same sentence with her father made Sophia ill. “I am reluctant to believe everything I read in the society columns. Don’t you wonder why the daughter of a viscount would run away from a comfortable life? What if her father is no hero, but a villain? And Miss Duncombe’s departure was rather an escape?”

  “Ooh, yes. This story has the makings of a most salacious novel.” Mary rubbed her hands and settled in to give an exposition.

  Sophia interrupted, “Mary, dear, have you researched the meaning of that word — salacious?”

  “It means delicious,” Elise said.

  “You’re thinking of the word delectable,” Sophia directed at Elise, then turned to Mary. “Salacious means indulgent in a carnal sense.” Both girls wrinkled their noses, and Sophia amended, “Erotic indecency.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t write a salacious novel. At least not without a pseudonym.”

  “Mary, your writing career will be over before it starts unless you become better acquainted with a dictionary.” Sophia said to Elise, “And if you opened any book at all, it would be to your benefit.”

  “Why does Madeline get riding lessons in the afternoon while we are stuck with literature and arithmetic?”

  Sophia closed her eyes and sighed. “Because she is nine. And speaking of age, at nineteen and sixteen respectively, Elise and Mary, I wonder if your debut is much on your mind?”

  Mary groaned and Elise’s mouth pulled into a smile Sophia was familiar with; a vain platitude usually followed.

  “All I need is to follow the three S’s of snaring a man: smile, sashay, and satisfy. A girl who is very pretty, dances well, and compliments her beau has all the virtues she needs.”

  “And from whom did you learn that, Elise?”

  “Madame Depaul. She and her daughter Eugenie had us over for tea when we lived at Beaufort.”

  “And to whom did Madame Depaul make a match for her daughter?”

  “Well, the vicar, but—”

  “I do not care for the marriage market as an institution myself, and I am sorry I must play the accomplice in your debut. However, play we must, and play it well.”

  Elise and Mary leaned in, eager.

  “Imagine yourselves at a ball in London this moment, at the townhouse of, oh, say Lady Lambrick. You were invited because your last name is Cavendish and your uncle is Lord Devon, so your connections are desirable. So far as I am aware, no scandal has compromised your reputations. You both are lovely girls, in fact, among the most admired in London.” The girls beamed, and Sophia almost hated to deflate them.

  “Congratulations: you are two among eight hundred eligible debutantes of the ton. Never fear, you have an advantage. Between your inheritance and Lord Devon’s generous endowment, you rank among the two hundred most privileged maidens of the ton. That makes you both what we term diamonds of the first water.”

  “Two hundred?” Elise gaped, and Sophia pressed a finger to the girl’s chin to close her mouth.

  “Yes. You compete with no fewer than two hundred girls who are as pretty and wealthy as you. Do you know how many eligible bachelors came up to scratch last Season? And by eligible, I mean titled or well-connected, younger than forty, financially solvent, and without unforgivable flaws of character.”

  At this point, Sophia was completely inventing her anecdote, but at least her point had merit. “I counted seventy-five marriage announcements in the Times last Season between couples such as I described. That means seven out of eight girls passed the Season without making the match they wanted. Most settle for an older man, a poor man, a foreigner, or worse, a tradesman.”

  “Jenna Fayolle married an American last year. A gambler.” Elise sounded like Jenna had gone to the scaffold.

  “So you know your competition, Elise, Mary. Now back to Lady Lambrick’s ball. Who should arrive but none other than her brother, the Duke of Salisbury?”

  Elise squealed in excitement. Mary gasped.

  “His Grace is tolerably handsome, more than tolerably wealthy, and as luck would have it, quite charming. Although he is a bit rakish, he must marry this Season by edict of his mother and doesn’t dare provoke her wrath. You know this because Lady Lambrick just told you so. He is this Season’s on-dit, and every eye watches him. As if on cue, the duke comes to greet his aunt, and Lady Lambrick introduces you. Here is your chance. What happens next?”

  Sophia knew Mary was going to shrug but had a hand in place to push her shoulder back down before she could do it. Such a French gesture, or American, but hardly elegant. Elise looked genuinely worried, which meant Sophia was finally making an impression.

  “You smile and curtsey, then His Grace asks you to dance to please his aunt. You are now among the luckiest forty girls who have earned such attention from one of the most eligible lords in England. He will marry one of those forty. He must.”

  Mary wrung her hands and Elise nervously twirled a strand of hair. “What should I do?”

  “You could smile, compliment his aunt, and mention the weather. And you would be entirely proper, as well as identical to thirty-and-nine other girls he considers. What do you suppose will set girl number forty apart? Remember, each of the contestants is equally lovely and eligible.”

  Elise looked stricken, and Sophia felt a little guilty, but best the girl learned the brutal ways of society now.

  “The lucky miss who becomes the new Duchess of Salisbury is the one who makes herself unforgettable. She knows a secret the others do not. She understands what a man wants, or more wisely, how to make a man want her. It’s in how she speaks, in her manners, but mostly it’s how well she understands him. And if she truly knows her business, she is aware that the battle has only begun once she is a bride.”

  “But why?” Mary blinked, wide-eyed.

  “Because a wife is only one of many interests a man juggles, yet her well-being for life depends on his favor. If her husband listens to her, respects her, wants her and no other, then it is not because she smiles, sashays, and merely satisfies. She has the mind of a diplomat, a general, and Cleopatra, all in one.”

  “Well said, Mrs. Cooper.”

  Aunt Louisa. Sophia turned and nodded, wondering how long the Old Dragon — as Wilhelm dubbed her — had been listening from the doorway. The footman rushed to help her into a chair, upsetting the sparrows again.

  “Can you teach me that? How to be like that?” Elise whispered, as though it was a great secret.

  “We shall do our best. Meanwhile, diplomats, generals, and even Cleopatra agree literature and arithmetic are essential. That is where we must begin.”

  “Capital. I shall seduce the Duke of Salisbury with geometry.”

  “At least he would know there is substance between your ears, Elise.” Aunt Louisa rapped her cane on the floor and the footman slid the tea tray across the table so she could reach. Odd, being on the same side of an argument with Aunt Louisa. She sent the girls to the library to resume their studies, and Sophia sensed a battle coming.

  “You speak with such authority on the subject of ensnaring men.” Aunt Louisa had mastered cold disdain to an art, a model of propriety with her tightly buttoned collar and stiff spine. She sat angling her hat brim to keep the sunshine from her flawless ivory complexion.

  “My comments were hypothetical and based on observation, but don’t tell Elise and Mary. I thought it necessary to prove my point.”

  “No doubt. I wonder if such artifice as you described is the gold thread of the net my nephew is caught in.”

  “I assure you I wield no such power.”

  The ladies fell silent as Wilhelm turned toward their spot on the terrace patio. He raised a hand in greeting then gestured for Sophia to join him. She excused herself and crossed the lawn.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  She fell into step beside him, and he shortened his stride to match hers. Fritz and Dagma
r loped beside them, pestering the pony until Wilhelm shooed them away.

  “Did I mistake your need for rescue?”

  “Indeed not. And thank you.”

  “What did she want? Aunt Louisa looked ready to pounce.”

  “She likes to have sport with her prey first. She’d only begun when you waved me over. I am not yours to summon, by the way.”

  Wilhelm chuckled in his throat. “I would give a great deal to hear you say the opposite.” His voice went low in a honeyed inflection, but she knew the joking glint in his eyes. Wilhelm had an irreverent sense of humor, and she didn’t have the heart to discourage it.

  “Oh, like what?”

  “Name it.”

  “Chocolate-dipped peach slices with cream and pomegranate wine.”

  He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “A rather erotic selection, I noticed.”

  “I didn’t say it was for two.” So enjoyable to tease and flirt without consequences.

  “A shame. So let me hear it. And make it good, Rosalie. Peaches are out of season, so I’ll have to buy from a hothouse.” He made her shiver when he talked in that quiet purr. Speaking of erotic.

  Sophia raised her chin and breathed deeply, knowing the motion would draw his gaze. With her eyes closed, she breathed, “Hmm, Wilhelm. I am yours to summon. Darling.”

  When she opened her eyes, she saw him swallow, wearing an expression she couldn’t read, then he winked. “Scandalous. What do you say, Snowflake, was that good enough for peaches and chocolate?”

  Moments like these made her certain he was merely charming. No advances, no affectionate touch, no hungry stare. She was nearly certain Lord Devon didn’t want her. Not as a lover.

  “Snowflake?” The pony’s ears twitched.

  “My fault. I let Madeline name him.”

  Sophia waited while Wilhelm rubbed down the pony. The groomsmen handled the tack, but gave Lord Devon a wide berth as he groomed the animal. Odd that he performed such a menial task.

  “May I venture a guess that you enjoy riding but haven’t done so for a long time?” he called from the stall. Other horses nickered and snorted at the sound of his voice, an equine chorus that began eerily in unison. A testy stallion at the end of the stable kicked the door of his stall.

  No harm in admitting it, she decided. “True.”

  “Tell me, Rosalie, which of my horseflesh is the finest?”

  Another test of skill? She wasn’t an expert, but apparently he wanted to prove something. Sophia wandered down the aisle, pausing to peer inside each stall and give a little rub on the cheek to the friendly horses who stuck their heads out in curiosity. “Good heavens, your draught horses are enormous. Eighteen? Nineteen hands? You don’t cross-breed them for pulling carriages?”

  Wilhelm only smiled with his arms folded across his chest. He must have been waiting for her to notice his Thoroughbreds. She had noticed them the moment she’d come inside. The agitated black stallion in the back commanded attention, but it was the roan mare at the opposite end that caught Sophia’s interest. “You like to collect Arabians, but she is a mustang.”

  The mare eased to the back of the stall, eyeing Sophia warily. Her ears twitched and she blew a snort, warning Sophia away.

  “My, you are pretty. You are lean and long-legged; you must be a racer. I suppose that big brute in the back chases your skirts.”

  The mare decided Sophia was not all bad, shuffling to the door and lowering her head to sniff. Sophia stroked the finely chiseled head, admiring her truly elegant physique. Strong and feminine, and without even seeing her in motion, fast and spirited. “Magnificent.”

  “Well spotted, Rosalie. Sadie turns heads. She sprints faster than all but Thor, and at times she outlasts him and is very smug.”

  Thor kicked his stall again, protesting Wilhelm’s neglect. Lord Devon gave a sharp low whistle, and the stallion resorted to stamping his hooves and blowing impatient gusts of breath.

  Sadie adored Wilhelm, apparently. She stretched her neck over the stall and nudged his shoulder, flirting for attention. Wilhelm scratched her forelock and muttered, “Sadie made headlines in her day, but she is not quite well. In fact, I’m surprised she came to you. Observe the star-shaped scars across her shoulders and withers. A barbed whip.”

  Sophia froze, seeing the jagged lines ending in a sprawling shape, like fireworks. How could he know? He couldn’t. He’d never seen her back, and Sophia took great care to conceal it with the judicious cut of her gowns. He gave no hint of a double meaning. His hands moved gently, almost reverently over Sadie’s neck, and the horse stilled, seemingly entranced.

  “I rescued Sadie from her villain of an owner, and I don’t mind saying it was Lord Buckley of Lancashire. He couldn’t handle her spirit and tried to beat it out of her. She was half-starved and lame when I took her.” Wilhelm said those awful words in a crooning voice while his fingers traced the ugly scars left by the barbed whip.

  Sophia’s eyes burned, and she hadn’t noticed a tear had rolled down her face until it dropped onto her hand. She dashed it away, thankful Wilhelm seemed occupied.

  “It was a long time before she trusted me. Even now, were I to raise my hand to her, I would damage her mind beyond repair. You can see she is exceptional yet delicate. She must be protected, but she is worth the effort — she runs like she wants to catch the wind. So smooth I think she might take flight. My Sadie tolerates no one else. Except you. I wonder why.”

  He waited, and Sophia thought he’d fallen into another trance before he answered himself. “Kinship.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Horse sense, a true phenomenon but seldom understood. Horses sense danger, weather, strength, and benevolence, or the lack thereof.”

  The conversation had taken an uneasy turn. She had no idea what to say.

  “You have a spine of steel and fire in your eyes, Rosalie. To have such a quality, one must be shaken to the foundation of one’s soul and put back together. I want to know how you emerged from hell made of steel and fire.”

  Her eyes misted and she couldn’t look away. She saw the same in him: sorrow. Strength. Lord Devon had been to hell and back, too.

  “Yes, you understand.” He seemed so gratified, and it made her want to burst into tears. His gentle camaraderie soothed her like cool water to a parched throat.

  “Tell me, Rosalie. Once you decided you were made of fiery stuff, what did you do about it? No need to divulge secrets, but give me the nature of your actions. I must know.”

  She had drugged her father, bound her injuries under layers of linen bandages, and escaped Eastleigh alone in a service coach, followed by three months of a high-stakes game of chase. “I ran away and didn’t look back.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, as though she’d been forthcoming rather than cryptic. “Then I envy you, Rosalie. I did not fare so valiantly.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The opposite. I sought revenge.”

  “And you regret it?”

  He laughed coldly. “I should have listened to ages of poets and philosophers. I paid dearly for my folly.”

  Another long silence hung between them while Wilhelm resumed stroking Sadie’s mane.

  “I don’t see how we shall ever speak of books and politics again.” A poor attempt at humor, but she wasn’t feeling humorous at all.

  “Then how about an inspector who requested an audience with the magistrate of Devon County this morning?”

  Elise had already ambushed her with the article about her father and his investigators, and Sophia’s poor heart couldn’t take much more of a jolt. Her face probably peaked and she felt the blood drain to her feet. “Oh? And what did he want?”

  “He notified me that a woman, the daughter of an English lord, had been abducted and was thought to have been spotted in the southern counties. He described the woman as aged thirty, tall and slender with dark hair and the look of Italian ancestry. Noticeably beautiful, to quote.”

  “I
know of no such woman.” Good, her voice emerged even and casual.

  “I told him the same. For a while I wondered if he might mean you, but I didn’t say so, since you could not possibly be aged thirty.”

  “I think I might be in love with you,” she joked.

  Wilhelm chuckled. “Fine, but don’t tell Sadie. She is very jealous.”

  Just like that, he’d expressed sympathy and pledged his loyalty, all without saying it directly. More importantly, he had accepted her anonymity and asked nothing in return.

  “And now I had better run Thor before he kicks through the wall. Care to see what happens when he and Sadie race?”

  He would let Sophia ride her? “I bet I can come back wearing a riding habit faster than you can saddle them both.”

  “And if you win?”

  “Chocolate-dipped strawberries to go with my peaches.”

  “And if I win?” He raised a brow suggestively, and she couldn’t help smiling.

  “What do you want, Lord Devon?” She lowered her voice in sultry teasing.

  “A kiss.”

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Somebody Loses A Bet

  I am not running down the stairs. Yes, she was. But at least she wouldn’t allow herself to be seen crossing the field in a gait more urgent than a stroll. All right, perhaps a brisk march would do… Her room was strewn with her petticoat, corset, and tea gown, as though her wardrobe had exploded. Of course she wanted chocolate-covered strawberries, but she also wanted to win.

  Or did she want Lord Devon to win? Did he want to win?

  Before she passed through the open doors of the stables, she decided to hang back and let him prevail if he seemed in a panic to finish saddling the horses. But if he appeared to be taking his time, she would certainly claim her prize. Who was she to bully a man into kissing her?

  Sophia peeked to see Lord Devon leaning against an empty stall, chewing on a piece of hay. As she approached, Sadie and Thor pawed the ground, their reins draped over the horns of their saddles.