A Passionate Endeavor (33 page)

A few giggles erupted from the ballroom and
she noticed the cupped hands and the rounded eyes of many females
gossiping and tittering in front of her.

She heard whispers of female venom, “ill-bred
hoyden heiress — another exhibition of fast behavior…” and, “…
gel’s reputation is beyond tatters now, poor dear.” Ah, revulsion
she could swallow, but a true show of pity, she could not.

She was suddenly cold, colder than the
frostiest winter day in Wales. She turned and tried to flee, down
the steps into the garden, into the fog. Oh, she was so cold… and
her feet wouldn’t move.

Sophie woke with a start. She was freezing.
All of the silk-satin bedcovers had slid off the bed and the pitch
darkness proved that the fire had burned out in the hearth. She
shivered and struggled to haul the covers from the floor without
placing her toes on the massive bedchamber’s icy cold floor. What a
horrid nightmare. It had been so real. Her teeth chattered as she
gathered the bedclothes tightly around her body. And then she
stilled.

It had been so real, just like the ball
tonight. She closed her eyes. Just
exactly
like tonight.
Only she had not been able to escape from the hard, calculating
stares of the crowd. Oh no, she had had to pull herself up, walk
into the ballroom, where she had been unable to perceive her cousin
Mari or her ancient aunt. She had stood there like a complete dolt,
gawking at the many faces. She was sure everyone had been able to
see her heart pounding below her inelegant bosom. It had been
altogether the most embarrassing moment in her nine and twenty
years.

Her only consolation was to be found in the
considerable form of her aunt who suffered from very little
rational conversation after consuming a vast quantity of ratafia.
On this occasion, instead of chastising her niece yet again, she
had chosen to sleep off her overindulgence during the whole of the
miserable carriage ride back to the townhouse. Mari had been unable
or unwilling to make light of the event. That had been left up to
Sophie.

“So do you think it was worse tonight or did
last Tuesday’s disaster equal it, Mari?” Sophie rearranged the
plumage of her dozing aunt’s headgear that kept poking her in the
face.

“Hard to say, dearest.” Mari grimaced as the
carriage wheel negotiated a spot of uneven cobblestones.

“So kissing in public is worse than having
someone spill lemonade on me, thereby — let’s see, how did that
vile Lord Busby describe it? Ah, yes — ‘allowing my voluptuous
charms to peek through my amusing gown?’” Sophie, exasperated,
removed the offending hat from her Aunt Rutledge’s head as the
grande dame began snoring in earnest on her shoulder.

Mari sighed and rested her forehead in her
hand.

“Well, I hardly think I should have been
blamed when Lord Busby was the one trying to put his hand down the
front of my bodice. It’s not like I wasn’t trying to fend him
off.”

“Dearest, we’ve been through this
before.”

“I know, I know. If his wife and her circle
of friends hadn’t come upon us, naught would’ve been said.” Sophie
looked out the small carriage window. “Ah, Mari, come on then. You
promised to cheer me up.”

“Hmmm,” her sweet cousin intoned, tapping her
fan on Sophie’s arm. “Well it won’t help at all to remind you that
you shouldn’t have been kissing tonight at all, public or
privatelike if you ask me. Especially after the old goat pawed you
last week.”

“Oh, but Mari, Lord Coddington was so very
beautiful, don’t you think? And I did so want to be kissed, at
least once in my life. It was ever so interesting——until he showed
his true colors that is.”

“I just wish you had waited for the kisses
until
after
you were married to a right and proper
Londoner,” Mari said. “Your nob of an uncle would turn in his grave
with these goings-on and it just makes it all the harder to carry
out the terms of your inheritance.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sophie said, pulling up
her bodice and losing the war to curb her unfashionable, full
curves. “They’ve seen my ‘charms’ and know all about the
possibility of a windfall. What more can they want?”

“Cheer up, dearest,” Mari said, patting
Sophie’s hand. “There’s always tomorrow. And there are all those
shops we have yet to see. And after all, we’ve only been here a
month. I’m certain you’ll succeed in finding a husband.”

The clock struck four, bringing Sophie back
from her reverie of the evening’s events. She closed her eyes and
shook her head, dropping onto the downy pillows of her bed, which
provided precious little comfort on the dawn of what promised to be
another miserable day in London. Why, oh, why had she ever agreed
to leave her beloved little village in Wales?

Sophie was struck anew with the same thought
a mere ten hours later as she sat waiting for the blond perfection
of Lord Coddington to mount the stairs to the morning room after
being announced. Sophie shifted uncomfortably on the settee.

She and her new intimidating French lady’s
maid, Mademoiselle Karine, had taken great care in Sophie’s
toilette and dress today. The new corset, which managed to suppress
her bosom even more than the last torturous device, as well as the
tight bodice of the white morning gown, constricted her lungs in a
way that made it difficult to breathe. But Aunt Rutledge had
insisted she wear it. Karine had looked her over from head to toe,
then she had shaken her head with displeasure and muttered her
opinion in French so no one could understand.

Oh, how much better and easier it was in
Wales where she could wear anything she wanted as long as it was
modest and serviceable. Her father had even let her wear pantaloons
on the days she had been allowed to go fishing or hunting with
him.

The handles on the double doors moved and a
liveried footman entered and bowed with Lord Coddington on his
coattails. “His lordship, miss.”

Sophie rose from her perch and became
lightheaded. She curtsied and nodded. “My lord.”

“Miss Somerset, delighted.” Lord Coddington
looked anything but.

“You find me alone, sir. My aunt and Miss
Owens are out, paying calls.”

“So the butler informed me. But as I had
something particular to say, perhaps this is for the best.”

Sophie felt as if she were playing a part in
a bad comedy at the Drury Lane Theatre as she reseated herself on
the edge of the settee. Her aunt had insisted Sophie stay behind to
hear the gentleman’s proposal.

Lord Coddington, playing his role to the
hilt, began pacing as he gripped the edges of his tall beaver hat.
“Miss Somerset, from the moment I first saw you I knew our lives
were destined to become intertwined.”

Sophie had the horrible urge to giggle. Her
tight undergarments helped curb her initial instinct. She sighed.
He was a very handsome man.

His dark blue coat accentuated his broad
shoulders and just the correct amount of white froth tied in a
dazzling knot appeared below his chin. His boots showed not a speck
of dirt despite the rain earlier this morning.

She looked down at the tiny gravy stain on
her gown from a hastily eaten meal and placed her hand over the
mark. What was he saying now?

“I have been given the blessing of your aunt
and my family to pay my addresses to you. But I am sure this is no
surprise. And I feel I must offer for your hand in marriage to
atone for the
newest
blemish on your name. Would you do me
the honor then, Miss Somerset, of consenting to become my
wife?”

It was clear from his proud posture, his
patronizing tone and his gaze, which rested on a point just above
her shoulder, that he had no feelings for her at all. She could be
a codfish for all he cared as long as she brought her possible
windfall to the union.

Oh yes, Miss Codfish married to Lord
Coddington. A perfect match. She giggled.

“Miss Somerset? Do you find this interview
amusing then? Is this your answer to my declaration?”

“No, my lord. I’m sorry if I have caused
offense. I am honored by the condescension you have shown me.”
Sophie stopped speaking. For the life of her she did not know how
to continue.

She was in London to contract an arranged
marriage with a suitable nobleman of the Upper Ten Thousand. This
codfish, er, gentleman was eminently qualified. But his dazzling
blue eyes and light hair left her feeling unnerved.

Could she spend the rest of her life looking
at his icy expression every day and worse, perform the most
intimate act with him? Surely there would be other suitable offers.
But could she risk rejecting the addresses of her aunt’s favorite?
A gentleman who would satisfy, without question, every condition
stated in the will of her late uncle, the fourth Duke of
Cornwallis. The union would also fulfill the requirements of the
unusual patent of nobility that allowed the duchy to be passed down
to a female.

“Well, what is your answer?” Lord Coddington
tapped his cane once loudly on the wide planked wooden floor.

Sophie took a deep breath but was forced to
stop midway into the effort by the unyielding undergarment. She
panicked and became extremely dizzy. She prayed she wasn’t going to
faint, but the edges of darkness were already radiating around the
edges of her vision. Oh, she was about to embarrass herself and her
family yet again.

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Sophia Nash’s first ten novels won thirteen
national awards including the prestigious RITA Award and two spots
on the
American Library Association’s
“Top Ten Romances of
the Year.” Sophia was born in Switzerland, raised in France and the
United States, but says her heart resides in Regency England. Her
ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire
with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave. Before
pursuing her long held dream of writing Historicals, Sophia was an
award winning television producer for CBS, a congressional
speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO.

Visit
www.sophianash.com
for more
information about the author’s books, excerpts, contact
information, links to facebook/twitter, and a witty dictionary of
Regency era vocabulary.