Authors: Heather Cullman
Nodding and smiling at the girl’s choice of gutting knives, Nicholas focused on the chip bonnet atop her head. It belonged to Sophie. He’d recognized the yellow and white confection the instant he saw it, recalling as clearly as if it were yesterday how lovely she’d looked in it at Lady Sainsberry’s picnic.
For a long moment he stared at the hat, haunted by the memory of that day. Again, he heard the music of Sophie’s laughter, so sweet and seductive; again, he saw the radiance of her smile and felt the warmth of her questing hands when she caught him in a game of blind-man’s buff.
Again, he experienced the desperate yearning to make her his.
Vexed and frustrated, Nicholas ripped his gaze away, cursing his stubborn desire. What the hell was he doing, wallowing so in such memories? He despised the chit, damn it. How many times must he remind himself of that fact? He despised her with a vehemence that should render all thought and memory of her repugnant.
Hating himself for his weakness, he turned his attention to the girl on his arm, determined to lose himself in her stammering conversation. After several moments of listening, he deduced that she spoke of the production of silk fishing lines.
“Then you s-s-soak the w-worms in p-pickle of vinegar and w-w-water for s-several h-h-hours,” she explained, visibly enamored by her topic. “After you take them out, you h-hold them at each end and t-tear them in h-h-half.” She pantomimed a vicious ripping action. “You’ll s-see two s-s-silk s-sacs inside. P-pull them out and s-s-stretch them until they’re long enough for a line.”
As she launched into a starry-eyed narrative on the drying and preparation of the rendered fibers, he was abruptly distracted by the sound of an all-too-familiar laugh. Despite his efforts to ignore it and the woman who’d issued it, he found himself stealing a peek over his shoulder.
Like the good abigail she’d proved to be, Sophie walked several paces behind her charge. Unlike most abigails, however, she was squired by two visibly infatuated footmen. Strangely disturbed by the scene, he sought to place her companions, his eyes narrowing as he watched them vie for her favor.
That was Charles, the second footman, on her right, and … Terence? Yes, Terence, the fourth footman at her left. His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he noted the way they looked at her.
There was something about Charles’s covetous gaze and Terence’s love-struck gape that set his teeth on edge. His eyes little more than slits now, he turned his attention to the object of their ogling. Like Miss Mayhew’s bonnet, he at once placed her fetching gown. She’d worn it the first time he’d taken her walking in the park. As she had then, she looked ravishing in it now. And again he was captivated, utterly and blissfully captivated.
Her skin blushed like a peach against the gown’s lush coral hue; a ripe, succulent peach that tempted the lips and promised heaven in every taste. As for its cut and fit… ah! Perfection! Absolute perfection in how it cleverly revealed nothing and hinted at everything: long, shapely legs … feminine hips … a slender torso … and full, succulent …
Nicholas blinked, appalled to find himself gaping at Sophie’s breasts. Mortified, he tore his gaze away and returned it to his companion, praying that she hadn’t noticed his shameful faux pas.
She hadn’t. Miss Mayhew was squinting in the opposite direction, waving her arm like a drunk hailing a cab.
Thankful for that small mercy, he followed the direction of her wildly flapping arm. On the pleasant tree-strewn green to the right of the imposing medieval church, stood his father, the viscount, and several of the more prominent members of the local gentry. His father was signaling him to escort Miss Mayhew over. Grateful for the diversion, he promptly did as directed.
As the marquess introduced the girl about, speaking of her in the most glowing and exaggerated of terms, Nicholas noticed that three footmen and a valet from a neighboring house had joined Charles and Terence in wooing Sophie. As for Sophie, she held court beneath a tree several yards away, clearly enjoying their attention.
And why not? he brooded, his mood darkening. All six men had the pretty, unblemished sort of faces she favored. To his supreme discomfort he was filled with a sudden, irrational urge to pummel those faces and mar their pleasing perfection. Especially that of Charles Dibbs. The way the footman groped Sophie’s arm and stared at her breasts …
His hands balled into fists. If rumors were true, and he was certain they were, the knave had fathered eleven of the score of by-blows running about the village. That he clearly intended Sophie to round it to an even dozen made it all the harder for him to restrain his violence.
Exactly why he cared what she did, and with whom, he didn’t know. Indeed, the notion of the high-and-mighty Miss Barrington unwed and carrying a footman’s babe should amuse him to no end.
But he wasn’t amused, not in the least. Not when he thought of the cur kneeling between her thighs and sharing her first rapture. That pleasure should have been his, blast it! He’d earned it. He’d wooed and courted her, he’d offered her marriage. And he’d be damned if he’d stand by and let that scoundrel take what he’d failed to win.
As he glared at the bastard, wishing that looks could kill, the “Sophie Adoration Society” was approached by a pretty girl whom he instantly recognized as Fancy, the chambermaid. By the scowl on her face, she looked primed to commit murder.
“Charles Dibbs!” she bellowed, stopping just outside the group.
The footman looked up from Sophie, annoyance written on every line of his face. “What do you want, Fancy?” he growled.
“Whadda I want? Whadda I want!” She crossed her arms across her chest, her foot tapping furiously as she fixed him with a blistering glare. “What I want is to know why you dinna walk me to church like you promised. I waited and waited in the bleedin‘ garden, just like you said, and you nivver came.”
He eyed her coldly for several beats, then shrugged one shoulder. “I forgot.” Shrugging again, he shifted his attention back to Sophie, dismissing the episode as too insignificant to warrant either explanation or apology.
Fancy, however, wasn’t about to be put off so easily. Expelling a crude noise of disbelief, she hissed, “Seems to be that you’re always
forgittin’
me these days. You talk all lovey-like, beggin‘ me to meet you and makin‘ all sorts of promises if I do, then you go sniffin‘ after her — ” she jabbed her finger at Sophie ” — and forgit to come. The only time you pay me any mind a-tall anymore is when you want somethin‘ she ain’t likely to give you.”
Charles heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes, as if enduring the greatest of trials. Then he slanted his companions a smug, sidelong glance, and smirked. Three of the four footmen guffawed and clapped his back, enjoying his mute mockery of Fancy and her complaint. The remaining footman, Terence, and the valet exchanged frowns, while Sophie stared at him as if he’d just sprouted horns.
Despite his reluctance to do so, Nicholas couldn’t help wonder at her expression. Could it be that she’d already succumbed to the bastard’s charms and was distressed to discover that he trifled with another? He was certain that such was the case in the next instant when she breathlessly exclaimed, “Oh, Charles. How could you toy so with Fancy’s affections?”
The footman waved aside her protest with an impatient flick of his wrist. “I did no such thing. We had a brief dalliance, that is all. I can assure you that it meant nothing whatsoever.”
Fancy squawked, visibly outraged.
He spared her his regard long enough to rake her length, then looked back at Sophie, adding, “In truth, my dear Miss Barton, it meant less than nothing. Females of her ilk throw themselves at me all the time. I simply took what she offered and moved on when I grew bored.”
Sophie gasped at his admission.
Fancy squawked again. “It weren’t like that a-tall, and you know it weren’t,” she shrieked, stalking toward him. The wall of uneasy-looking footmen parted at her approach. “I nivver throwed myself at you. Nivver! I were a good girl when I came to Hawksbury. It were you that came pantin‘ after me, moanin‘ hows you loved me and promisin‘ to marry me if I gave you what you wanted.” “Really, Fancy.” Charles made a rs&ing sound. “Why would I bother chasing after you when I have so many women clamoring for my attention?”
” ‘Cuz I weren’t a piece of stuff, that’s why. You said so yourself.” She came to a stop in front of him, her gaze spitting venom as she glared at him. “You said you loved me ‘cuz I were a good girl, and wheedled me into givin‘ you what I were savin‘ for my husband. You said you’d marry me if I let you have it.”
He snorted. “Why in blazes would I marry the likes of you? I told you that I plan to buy a commission in the army someday, and elevate my station to that of gentleman.”
Fancy sniffed. “So? I don’t see what that’s got to do with us gittin‘ married.”
He eyed her with open contempt. “Then, you are stupider than I thought.” Ignoring her indignant squeal, he ruthlessly continued, “As a gentleman, I shall be afforded opportunities to make my fortune, which I, of course, fully intend to take. Once I am wealthy, I will naturally want to enter society. In order to do so, I shall require a refined and genteel wife — ” he cast a meaningful glance at Sophie ” — preferably one of noble birth. You, Fancy Jenkins, are a slattern and thus do not meet my requirements.”
Rather than look relieved by the bastard’s hint at a proposal, Sophie appeared stunned, and not with delight. Nicholas found her reaction baffling to the extreme. If she had feelings for Charles, as he suspected, she should
be pleased to learn of his honorable intentions. True, he was only a footman, but ruined as she was, his offer was the best she could expect. Surely the chit knew that.
He shrugged. Oh, well. Whatever it was that disturbed her, it couldn’t be the man’s churlish treatment of Fancy. Not after the vicious manner in which she’d spumed him. If anything, Charles’s coldhearted conduct should show her how eminently suited they were to each other. Why —
“Colin?” A gloved hand waved before his eyes. Nicholas blinked twice, then looked at his father, who shook his head. “Best to let the servants sort things out among themselves. Isn’t that so?” The marquess peered at his companions for confirmation, who instantly dipped their heads and gave it.
Sir John Gibbes, an elderly knight, continued bobbing his bald head like a puppet with a loose string. “Right you are, Beresford. Bad thing to meddle in the affairs of inferiors. Very bad indeed. Causes resentment.” “And problems,” interjected Sir Basil Coutts, a crusty baronet of at least eighty. “Makes them act above themselves to pay them personal notice.”
“B-besides, s-s-servants don’t know anything ab-b-out fishing,” Miss Mayhew chimed in.
Before Nicholas could figure out exactly what fishing had to do with settling quarrels, the church bells rang, summoning the milling congregation to worship.
His father offered Miss Mayhew his arm. “May I have the pleasure, my dear?” She brayed a grating response and accepted. Giving her small hand a fatherly pat, he nodded to his companions and inquired, “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?” to which they again dipped their heads to the affirmative.
All except for Nicholas, that is. He couldn’t help stealing another peek at the group beneath the tree. As he did so, he saw Fancy make what he recognized as an ancient curse sign at Charles, and heard her spit, “Quim-sticker! I hope you cop a dose of dripsy-stick and piss fire.” Despite the fury of both her words and tone, he heard heartbreak in her voice.
As she turned on her heels, Charles grabbed her arm and jerked her back around. His handsome face ugly with rage, he viciously cuffed her across the cheek. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, you slut. Do you hear me? Never!” Slapping her again, he hurled her to the ground.
Nicholas growled and started toward them, enraged beyond all reason by the scene. Letting the servants sort things out among themselves was one thing; standing by while a footman abused a chambermaid half his size was quite another.
“Lyndhurst.” Someone latched onto his arm, halting him.
He shot that someone an impatient look. It was Sir John Gibbes who frowned and shook his head. “Trouble, boy. You’re asking for nothing but trouble.”
“I’ll chance it,” he bit out, pulling his arm free. Without sparing the old knight so much as a parting nod, he marched over to the embattled servants. As he did so, he saw that Terence stood toe-to-toe with Charles, his hands clenched into fists and his youthful face contorted with wrath. From what he could discern from their hissing exchange, the younger man was intent on defending Fancy’s honor.
Nicholas admired Terence’s bravado, for despite his manly height, he was little more than a boy, a fact readily evidenced by his smooth cheeks and spindly build. That he would champion the maid against the physically mature Charles displayed a gallantry that was as laudable as it was foolhardy.
Coming to a stop opposite the squared-off pair, he barked, “Charles! Terence!”
Both men swung around at the sound of his voice and instantly snapped to attention. Murmuring, “My lord,” in unison, they sketched stiff bows. The other footmen and valet hastily followed suit, while Sophie gaped at Fancy, who lay weeping on the ground.
Firmly controlling his urge to throttle Charles, Nicholas snapped his fingers at the neighboring servants. Accepting the gesture as the dismissal it was, they scampered off toward the church, visibly relieved to be excused from the brewing conflict.