Authors: Heather Cullman
Despite her distress, Sophie couldn’t help smiling at his endearing attempt to cheer her. Touched, she looked up and croaked, “Fancy is right, my lord. You are a tease.”
Sniffle!
He grinned. “True, but please be good enough to refrain from telling anyone. It would never do for the world to know that the Earl of Lyndhurst isn’t at all the staid, dignified fellow they all believe him to be.”
“You could tease every girl in England in such a manner, my lord, and the only thing anyone could ever accuse you of being is charming.” And handsome, she added to herself, her gaze worshiping the contours of his face.
Instead of looking pleased by her words, as she’d hoped, he looked rather discomfited. In the next instant his smile faded, and he tipped his disfigured cheek from her sight. Dropping his arms from around her, he stepped back saying, “But enough of such nonsense. If you will be good enough to tell me what has you in a stew, I shall do my best to help you.”
Grieved over the death of their unexpected intimacy, Sophie merely gazed at him, wondering at his change of demeanor. Most men she knew preened like peacocks when called charming. Could it be that he was different from other men in that he neither liked nor wanted compliments? Or was it just her compliments he disdained?
It had to be the latter, she grimly decided, remembering how he’d smiled when Lady Helene had complimented his mother on having an attractive son. The thought that he still detested her so, despite the newfound ease between them, started her weeping anew.
“Well?” he bit out.
“It’s just that — ” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him of her feelings, to spill forth all her pain, regret, and longing. To beg his forgiveness for everything. But she couldn’t, she didn’t dare, not after the terrible way he’d responded to her compliment.
Thus, she swallowed her emotions and instead confessed, “It’s Ming-Ming. I’ve lost her. She ran away while I was walking her in the park. I looked and looked, but — ” She broke off shaking her head, once again overwhelmed by the gravity of her predicament.
He looked almost amused by her plight.
Her dismay deepened, if such a thing were possible. He must harbor an even deeper resentment than she suspected to look so.
Smiling in a way that confirmed her awful suspicion, he turned and strode back to his horse. After stroking the animal’s neck and whispering something in his ear, he opened his saddlebag and extracted a sleepy-looking Ming-Ming.
Holding the yawning dog up for her inspection, he explained, “I found her on the road by the gatehouse. She probably burrowed under the hedge at the north side of the lake and wandered down the manor lane.” Rather than be relieved, as Nicholas expected, Sophie wept harder. Perplexed, he looked first at the dog, which slobbered and gazed back at him from beneath its silly cap, then at Sophie, who sobbed as if faced with the world’s greatest tragedy. Emitting a noise that perfectly expressed his aggravation, he snapped, “Would you please be so kind as to tell me what is wrong now?” “She’s dirty and tangled — and look at her hat! The plume is ruined. Lady Helene shall murder me for certain when she sees her.”
Nicholas opened his mouth to dispute her ladyship’s murderous tendencies, then closed it again when he remembered who it was they discussed. While Helene most probably wouldn’t kill Sophie, she was bound to make more of the incident than it merited. Indeed, judging from her hysterics when she’d caught him teaching the dog to fetch a stick, she’d no doubt demand Sophie’s dismissal were she to see her pet in its current state. Not that he’d oblige her, of course. But why become entangled in a coil that was so simple to avoid?
Amazed that Sophie hadn’t thought of the solution herself, he moved toward her saying, “Her ladyship will never be the wiser if you bathe the animal before she returns.”
She shook her head, sniffling loudly. “I can’t. Ming-Ming won’t let me. She hates me.”
As if to prove her claim, Ming-Ming growled and bared her teeth at Sophie as he came to a stop before her.
“See?” She gestured to the animal.
It growled again and lunged at her hand, its tiny jaw snapping open and closed as it tried to bite her.
“I see,” he replied, eyeing the dog with annoyance. Like her beautiful, spoiled mistress, Ming-Ming seemed to have an ugly intolerance for servants. And since he had no intention of allowing Sophie to be abused by either, he added, “I guess there is only one way out of this coil.”
“Which —
sniffle
— is?”
“Since Ming-Ming and I are on the best of terms, I shall bathe her while you mend the hat.”
She froze amid blowing her nose, peering at him over the top of his handkerchief as if he’d just made a particularly addled suggestion. “You? Bathe Ming-Ming?”
He couldn’t help smiling at her consternation. “Just because I’m an earl doesn’t mean that I’m opposed to soiling my hands.” His smile broadened into a grin. “Have you forgotten my fondness for grubbing in the dirt?”
She wiped her nose, blushing a most delightful shade of pink as she did so. “No, but — “
“Fine. Then, it’s settled. I shall wash, and you shall mend.” With that interjection, Nicholas strode back to his horse and gathered up its reins. Glancing over his shoulder, he inquired, “Shall we retire to the stables, Miss Barton? We will find everything we need to wash the dog there.”
She returned his gaze for a beat, then nodded.
For a long while thereafter they walked in companionable silence; he leading his horse with one hand while cradling the drowsing dog in his opposite arm; she walking beside him, stealing glances at him as if she had something on her mind.
It wasn’t until they were almost to the stables that she revealed her thoughts. Looking everywhere but at him, she blurted out, “I’m sorry if I offended you by calling you charming. It was meant as a compliment.”
Of all the things Nicholas suspected she might be thinking, this wasn’t one of them. Indeed, so surprised was he, that he stopped short to stare at her. He hadn’t been offended by her compliment, he was disappointed; disappointed that it had been nothing more than light, meaningless banter. He’d have so loved to believe that she truly found him charming, that she felt the same attraction for him that he felt for her.
Solemnly returning his gaze, she vowed, “I promise that I shall never again refer to you as charming, though I fear you shall most probably have to endure other women calling you so.” She bowed her head and began picking at the edge of her shredded fichu. “Of course, perhaps you shan’t mind it so much if it is said by someone else. I can’t blame you for not wanting my compliments.”
Not want her compliments? Dear God! Was it possible? Could she really think him charming? Calling himself every kind of fool for daring to hope, he murmured, “I’m not so different from other men, Sophie. I very much desire compliments from beautiful women such as yourself, provided that those compliments are sincere.” She looked up quickly with a rather startled expression. “But I was sincere. Whatever made you believe otherwise?”
“Perhaps it had something to do with the way you so sincerely pronounced me stiff and dull just last month.” Try though he might, he was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“I-I see.” She bowed her head again, but not before he saw her face. If ever a woman looked contrite, it was Sophia Barrington. “To be honest, I did think you tedious. Intolerably so. But that was because I never bothered to listen to you. I was too — too — distracted — by your s-scar to notice anything else about you.”
He smiled sardonically at her use of the word
distracted.
If she were indeed being honest, she’d have said repulsed.
“I was a fool, the worst kind of one to have dismissed you in such an unjust manner,” she continued. “I see that now. I have also discovered that you are a most charming man and that — that I like you very much.” When he didn’t immediately respond to her declaration, she looked up and earnestly added, “I shan’t blame you at all if you never forgive me for treating you as I did. I know that I shall never forgive myself. I do want you to know, however, regardless of what you choose to do, that I am deeply sorry for everything and that I now think you the most splendid man in all of England. Not that I expect my opinion matters to you.”
Little did she know that at that moment it meant the world to him, especially the one she’d just expressed. True, she hadn’t said that she no longer found his scar repulsive, nor had she indicated desire for him. Yet she had said that she liked him. Yes, and she’d called him the most splendid man in England. Surely she wouldn’t have said such a thing if she found his person offensive?
Would she?
Uncertain what to believe, Nicholas reluctantly met her gaze, hoping to read the truth in her eyes, yet terrified of what it might say. What he saw made his heart miss a beat.
There was anxiety and uncertainty and a look of appeal, as if she humbly begged his forgiveness and expected to be rebuffed. That she so clearly wished to make amends brought a smile to his lips. More than willing to grant her her wish, he exclaimed, “I like you, too, Miss Barrington, and gratefully accept your apology.”
At that moment, as he watched her face light with a smile more radiant than the sun, moon, and stars combined, he realized that it was true. He didn’t just desire Sophie as a man desires a beautiful woman, he liked her as a person.
He liked her for her honesty in the Mayhew disaster and respected the bravery it took for her to express it. He also admired the spirit with which she bore her servitude. Then there was the kindness she showed the other servants. How could he not like a girl who not only accepted, but befriended and cherished people who most in her class considered beneath their notice?
In truth, she surprised him daily by revealing new and praiseworthy facets of herself; ones that gave him reason not just to like her, but to love her. And love her he did, he realized.
Wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her of his feelings, Nicholas ripped his gaze from her glowing face and murmured, “We had best be off to the stables. Ming-Ming must be bathed soon if she’s to dry before Helene returns.”
“Yes, of course … and thank you, my lord.”
He nodded stiffly and resumed walking, not daring to look at her for fear of losing control and kissing her against her will. As for Sophie, she fell into stride beside him, wishing that she were in his arms again.
Thus they continued the rest of the way in silence, each aching for the other, neither daring to voice their desire. Once at the stables, both were too caught up in their bustle to prepare the dog’s bath to exchange more than a few hurried words.
It wasn’t until everything was ready and they were alone in the saddle room — he in his shirtsleeves, sitting on the floor brushing the brambles from the dog’s long coat, she seated on a clean saddle blanket nearby, trying without either hope or success to repair the animal’s cap — that they again conversed.
It was Sophie who spoke first. “My lord — ” “Nicholas,” he interjected, without looking up. “Excuse me?”
“Nicholas. Please call me Nicholas. Or if you prefer, Colin.”
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“It is perfectly proper if I ask you to do so. Unless, of course, you don’t wish to address me by my given name?” He looked up then to cast her a quizzical look.
Sophie felt herself blush, curiously warm and self-conscious beneath his gaze. “I would very much like to do so, but I’m a servant now and subject to certain rules. One of those rules is that I use proper forms of address. Mrs. Pixton would have my head if she heard me call you Nicholas.”
“Then, you must call me by my name only when you’re certain that you’re out of earshot of the other servants. Cook has called me Colin since I was no bigger than, well — ” -he nodded down at the dog ” — Ming-Ming, and the Pixie has never been the wiser.”
Sophie couldn’t help smiling at his referring to the housekeeper as the Pixie. “I see that the servant’s secret nickname for Mrs. Pixton isn’t such a secret after all.”
He smiled back. “Who told you it’s a secret?”
“I just assumed it was. I mean — ” she shrugged ” — no one ever addresses her so to her face.”
“No one except Quentin. He created the name, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. How did he come to do so?” Ming-Ming whimpered then, objecting to her lack of attention.
His expression wry, Nicholas dipped down and whispered something to the dog, something that made it wag its tail. After giving its ear a friendly tweak, an action which would no doubt have given Lady Helene apoplexy had she witnessed it, he eased the animal into the tub of water next to him. To Sophie’s surprise, Ming-Ming didn’t emit so much as a yip of protest.
As he briskly worked the mud from her coat, he explained, “Quentin first called Mrs. Pixton ‘Pixie’ when he was about, oh, he couldn’t have been beyond one at the time. He was quite taken with her and would toddle after her at every opportunity.”
“Perhaps it was her hair that attracted him,” Sophie commented, resuming her efforts to fix the plume. “I’ve noticed that your brother has a particular fondness for women with red hair.”
“Perhaps. Or it could be that his preference stems from the kindness Mrs. Pixton showed him as a child. Whichever is the case, hers was one of the first names he said, or at least attempted to say. Since he was too young to form the words correctly, it came out as Pixie. She’s been his Pixie ever since.”