Authors: Heather Cullman
Fish. Yes. Putrid fish. No doubt the mad pair of anglers had forgotten about a catch stowed somewhere in the vehicle, and it now rotted in the heat. As to why they hadn’t smelled it themselves and thus removed it, well, what could he say? They were Mayhews.
Eager to be shot of this particular Mayhew, Nicholas held his breath and manfully charged forward again. Aha! A worm, slithering across the girl’s filthy hem. He dived forward to catch it … at the same time Miss Mayhew lurched back.
Whap!
Her posterior collided with his face.
“Argh!” He tumbled backward —
thump
! — right onto his tailbone. For a long moment he lay sprawled across the bottom steps, too stunned to move.
Miss Mayhew was the rotting fish.
Chapter 12
The Beast had told. She just knew it. Why else did the marchioness demand an audience?
Sophie paused at the end of the hall, her stomach knotting as she gazed to where John stood stationed by her ladyship’s door. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. She needed a moment, well, maybe two or three, to prepare herself for her coming ordeal.
Unfortunately, John’s vision was as strong as Miss Stewart’s was weak, and he promptly spied her standing there. Smiling as if hailing a long-lost sister, he gestured for her to approach.
She ducked her head and feigned interest in her gown, pretending not to see him. How could he look so jolly … so very friendly? she wondered, plucking at her puffy sleeve. As footman to her ladyship, he surely knew who she was and what she’d done? How could he not? He was as much friend as servant to the marchioness, and thus as privy to her affairs as Miss Stewart.
Sophie shifted her make-believe attention from her sleeve to her scalloped overskirt, her wonderment deepening into confusion as she remembered the equally bewildering conduct of the lady’s maid. Why, she’d looked nothing short of gay when she’d waltzed into the kitchen earlier and delivered her mistress’s summons. The way she twittered and flushed, you’d have thought she was a schoolgirl.
A schoolgirl bedeviled by the keeping of a very big secret, Sophie amended, thinking of the bright, knowing glances the woman slanted her way. And as if all that weren’t enough to throw a body off balance, she had blithely charged her to don her best gown.
Sophie considered her sea-green frock with its puckered bodice and lilac trim for a moment. After much thought she’d opted to wear not her best dress, but her favorite one; the one in which she’d always experienced the best of luck and had had the most excellent times. She’d worn it in hopes that its magic would prevail.
“If I might be so bold, my dear, I must say that you look quite lovely this evening.”
She glanced up in surprise to see John standing before her, gazing at her like a proud papa at his daughter’s coming-out. Though she was far from in a smiling mood, she appreciated his courtly compliment and thus forced her lips to curve up. “You are most gallant, sir.” Apparently her smile looked as strained as it felt, for he instantly sobered and took her hand in his. “Ah. Plagued by the nerves, are we?”
She bit her trembling lip and nodded.
He gave her hand a fortifying squeeze. “No need for it. Her ladyship is quite tame, I assure you. Hasn’t devoured a servant in years.” He grinned at his own jest.
Sophie returned his gaze grimly, not at all cheered. Lady Beresford might not deal harshly with servants, but she, regretfully, wasn’t a mere servant. She was the girl who had jilted her son; the one responsible for disgracing him in front of the entire ton. And from what she’d heard tell about her ladyship, she was protective to the point of fierceness when it came to her sons. What the woman would do to her for wronging her precious Colin, well, she daren’t even imagine.
Her panic mounting by the second, she continued to stare at John’s smiling face, her breath hitching in her fear. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be just another servant, one whose only sin against the Somervilles was a badly swept floor or an indifferently scrubbed spoon.
As she stared, his smile faded. Cupping her chin in his palm, he murmured, “Why, Sophie. My dearest girl. You truly are in a fright, aren’t you?”
So compassionate, so full of genuine concern were both his voice and face that the fragile wall of her composure shattered and she blurted out, “Oh, John. Whatever shall I do? Pm in such trouble … such terrible, wicked trouble.”
His eyebrows shot up at her words. “Terrible, wicked trouble? You? I find that rather impossible to believe. Whatever makes you think such a thing?”
Miserably, she shook her head. Though she longed to confide in him and seek his sage advice, she didn’t dare. For she knew that despite his paternal fondness for her, his first loyalty lay with the Somervilles. He would hate her if she confessed to harming one of them, and at that moment she very much needed his friendship.
“Come, come, now, girl. Speak up.”
“It’s just that, well …” She shook her head again. “Why else would her ladyship demand to see me unless I’ve done something dreadful? You know as well as I that she hasn’t invited me, a mere maid-of-all-work, upstairs for a friendly tete-a-tete.”
He chuckled softly and released her chin. “There are a great many reasons why a mistress might wish to speak with a servant, and not all of them bad. Indeed, I happen to know that you shall find the purpose of this interview pleasant to the extreme.”
“But I — ” She broke off abruptly, blinking her surprise as his words penetrated her brain. “I shall?” The words came out in a squeak.
He nodded. “Now, stop fretting and come along. We mustn’t keep Lady Beresford waiting any longer.”
“But — “
He shook his head and took her arm. Too astonished to object, she docilely allowed him to escort her down the hall. It wasn’t until they stopped before the marchioness’s door that she regained enough of her senses to whisper, “Will you at least give me a hint as to what this is all about?”
The look he cast her mirrored Miss Stewart’s mirthful, knowing one. “Her ladyship’s business is for me to know and you to discover,” he retorted in a singsong voice. “But — “
He put a finger to her lips to hush her. When she’d remained silent for several beats, he scratched on the door.
“Enter!”
Sophie frowned. Either the marchioness had a very deep voice, or the respondent was a man. The marquess perhaps?
“Now, then, girl. Don’t forget to curtsy. And please do try to smile.” With that hasty instruction, John opened the door and announced her.
It was more instinct from years of training than conscious thought that propelled Sophie into the room and down into an elegant curtsy. As she began to rise, taking care to keep her head modestly and correctly bowed, a frail female voice murmured, “Nicely done. Very nicely done. Don’t you agree, Colin?”
The Beast. Sophie almost lost her precarious balance.
“M-m-m, yes. Nice,” concurred a dry voice she knew so well.
It was all she could do not to look up and shoot him a withering look. No doubt this interview was yet another of his cunningly plotted punishments.
“Do have her move nearer, Miss Stewart. I should like a closer look,” the marchioness peevishly directed.
“If you please, Miss Barton?” the lady’s maid relayed.
Her gaze still lowered in respect, Sophie rose and did as charged. It wasn’t until she’d stopped in the center of the room that she ventured a surreptitious glance before her.
More lounging than sitting in a chair by a tester bed, was Lyndhurst. Sophie couldn’t help but to stare through her lashes, astonished to see him, who was always so stiff and formal, in such a casual pose. Hateful cur! He looked as relaxed as she was tense.
He also didn’t look so very big and ungainly, she reluctantly noted, not when he sat all loose-limbed like that. In fact, she found the sight of his long, athletic body rather … pleasing.
Pleasing? Ha! She must have breathed too much of the Pixie’s cleaning solution to be having such outlandish delusions. Delusion or not, the Beast’s form intrigued her, and for the first time in their acquaintance she actually observed it.
Up his sprawled legs her gaze moved, up over shapely calves and powerful thighs. So snug were the yellow trousers sheathing them, that they might as well have been bare for all the detail they revealed. Despite herself and her savage reluctance to do so, Sophie found herself admiring that detail.
Strong was the word that came to mind as she stared at those legs: strong, masculine, and perfect in their muscular contours. Rather than casting him in a more favorable light, having to add legs to his growing list of physical attributes merely deepened her dislike.
Wishing him to the devil and herself anywhere else, she attempted to look away. To her exasperation, her gaze defied her will and continued its greedy exploration.
Excellent thighs, yes. A grudging point for Lydia and her skills of observation. An impressive bulge — ur — uh —
Praying her face wasn’t as red as it felt, she hastily dragged her attention upward. Hips and belly? She gritted her teeth. Lean and flat, respectively. Perhaps …
Her stare intensified as she tried to discern a telltale corset line beneath the thin trouser fabric. After a beat she heaved an inward sigh. Oh, blast! Another credit to his list.
Ah, well. Glumly she raised her gaze to his torso, hoping to see a lumpish waist or sunken chest. Another silent sigh. There was no mistaking it, not with the superb cut of his gold tailcoat, and blue-and-cream-striped waistcoat: His torso was as flawless as the lower half of his body. The wretch!
Beyond annoyance now, she eyed his slim waist, resenting the dramatic and undeniably attractive manner in which it curved into an impressive chest. Knave! As for those shoulders —
Wanting to scream her displeasure she forcefully ripped her gaze from his broad, obviously unpadded, shoulders up to Miss Stewart, who stood behind him.
So? Who cares if his body is perfect? she decided, adding a mental sniff for emphasis. A lot of good it does with that face.
Assuring herself that his ruined face indeed canceled out the splendor of his form, she focused on the lady’s maid. As she did so, she became aware that the woman’s lips moved and that she peered at her in the oddest of manners. Sophie didn’t have to hear her words to know that Miss Stewart spoke to her.
Oh, curses! He’d done it again. Once more the Beast had confused her into embarrassing herself. Wanting nothing more than to wrap her hands around his despicable neck and wring it hard, she murmured, “I’m sorry. Pardon?” She could almost feel him smirk.
“Lady Beresford wishes you to move nearer, to here.” Miss Stewart motioned to a place a scant yard from where the scourge of her existence sat.
Though she’d have preferred to remain where she was, Sophie saw no choice but to obey. Not unless, of course, she wished to voice her objections, which would no doubt amuse his odious lordship to no end. And since she’d rather be flayed alive than provide him with yet more entertainment —
She stiffened her spine and strolled forward. As she took her assigned place, she became aware of an all too familiar, all too disconcerting sensation of heat. He was staring. She could feel his eyes upon her, blazing through her flesh and wilting her composure.
For what seemed like forever she stood at attention before the trio, bedeviled by a most vexing urge to fidget. Just when she was certain she could bear the torment no longer, her ladyship coughed and said, “Yes, Miss Stewart. You are quite right. She is indeed a most genteel gel. Pretty, too. Isn’t she pretty, Colin?”
Slow fire raked her length. “M-m-m. Yes. Very.” Another soft cough, then, “You are probably wondering why I requested this interview, Miss Barton.”
“Yes, my lady.” For the first time since entering the chamber, Sophie lifted her lashes and gazed at the marchioness. It was, after all, highly improper to look at an older lady of rank unless spoken to directly. Now that she did look at her, she saw where Lord Quentin got his breathtaking beauty.
Hers was a face of ageless perfection, exquisite in both contour and feature. Like her son, her ladyship’s eyes gleamed a rare shade of pansy, one startlingly more violet than blue. Her hair, though now peppered with gray, held vestiges of a mahogany legacy, the bright heritage of Quentin’s much admired curls. After pausing a beat to envy the classic elegance of her nose, Sophie demurely glanced away.
In spite of her ghostly pallor, the Marchioness of Beresford was without a doubt the loveliest woman she’d ever seen. Had she been thirty years younger, Sophie would have thoroughly despised her. Since, however, such was not the case, she felt only wonder, wonder at how such a beauty could have borne a beast like Lyndhurst.
H-m-m. Could it be that she’d suffered a fright while carrying him? She’d heard that a fright could mark an unborn babe in a most hideous manner. She had just concluded that such was the case when her ladyship murmured, “Miss Stewart informs me that you are a gentlewoman, Miss Barton.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Your father was a baron, I am told?”
“Is
a baron,” Sophie corrected her, growing uneasy at the line of her questioning. “As far as I know, he is still alive.”