Authors: Heather Cullman
He frowned. “In what way?”
“Well, for one, she knows much too much about the ton to have never had a Season, as she claims. I also noted that what few gowns she owns are of first-rate materials and all the kick in style. One does not find such garments in Durham.” She shook her head. “My guess is that Miss Barton isn’t who she claims to be.” “My thought exactly,” he countered, his smile returning.
“In that instance, I am certain that you agree that we cannot allow a match until we know who she is and how she came to be here. For all we know, she’s a murderess running from the law.”
The marquess’s smile broadened into a grin. “Oh, I can assure you that she’s no murderess.”
It was his wife’s turn to frown. “What makes you so certain?”
He chuckled. “Come, come, now, Fan. Surely you have some inkling as to our Sophie’s identity? I’ve had one for quite some time now.” In truth, after watching his son’s demeanor toward the girl change from frigid hostility to heated captivation, he had more than a mere inkling.
She grunted. “There you go with the riddles.”
“You want it blunt again?”
She punched his arm.
Taking that punch as an affirmative response, he gleefully replied, “My guess is that Miss Sophie Barton is in truth Sophia Barrington. And from all appearances, she and Colin have settled their differences.”
Chapter 19
“Thank goodness. You haven’t left yet, Terry,” Sophie exclaimed, rushing into the kitchen.
The footman looked up from the shopping list in his hand, smiling. “I was just about to do so now. Is there something you or the marchioness need from Exeter?” She paused a beat, plagued by second thoughts, then nodded and pulled a letter from her pocket. “I need you to deliver this note, that is, if it isn’t too much trouble.” She rather hoped it would be.
But of course it wasn’t. Taking the letter, as she’d known he would do, he replied, “Nothing you could ask me to do could ever be too much trouble.”
She smiled faintly at his gallant response, though smiling was the last thing she felt like doing. The note was to her uncle, who was due to return home any day now, informing him of her whereabouts and begging him to rescue her. It was a note that grieved her to write and devastated her to send, for she now loved Nicholas with an intensity that made her soul cry out with longing.
That love was the reason she must leave Hawksbury, and soon, before she did something reckless that could only result in heartbreak and a score of hopeless quandaries for the both of them. For she knew, as surely as she knew they could never wed, that the next time their passion exploded, they wouldn’t stop at a mere kiss.
Desperate to escape the kitchen before the tears flooding her eyes fell, Sophie turned and hurried to the door. She was on the threshold when Cook paused from chastising Meg, one of the kitchen maids, to shout, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Miss Barton?”
“Pardon?” she forced past the lump in her throat.
“Her ladyship’s luncheon tray.” The woman gestured to the sideboard next to the door, where the meal trays were always set.
Today, Sophie noted, it held three. Apparently Nicholas and his father were too busy preparing for their houseguests’ imminent arrival to dine together, as they usually did.
The lump in her throat swelled at the thought of the coming company and the purpose of their visit. If Nicholas found Lady Julianna agreeable, he would most probably marry her.
Well, he has to wed someone, someday,
she ruthlessly told herself, blinking back her tears,
a suitable, well-bred someone who can stand beside him in the ton and be a credit to the Somerville name.
It was a fact she had to accept, no matter how much it hurt, just as she must accept the hopelessness of her lot and get on with her life as best she could.
Drearily contemplating the emptiness of that life without Nicholas, she picked up the marchioness’s tray. As she did so, she noticed that his tray, the one with apple cider instead of tea, lacked the tarts the other two held. She frowned. How very odd that Cook would be so careless, especially in preparing Nicholas’s tray.
Like everyone in the house, Sophie knew of Cook’s fondness for Nicholas, and she often found herself smiling at the lengths to which the woman went to please him. Indeed, not a morning passed that she didn’t bake him a special treat; one made from fruit, since fruit was his weakness. This morning she’d baked the apricot-and-pineapple tarts that now graced the other trays.
Certain that the omission was an oversight, she turned to inform Cook. The woman still scolded Meg. All too familiar with the dangers of interrupting her when she was thus engaged, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She might not be able to love Nicholas as she wished, but she could most certainly see that he got his tarts.
Wistfully picturing his smile as he tasted the treat, she selected the plumpest and most perfect tart from each of the other trays, and placed them on his plate. Satisfied, she again picked up her ladyship’s tray. As she did so, Julius, the third footman, appeared to claim Nicholas’s meal. After exchanging brief greetings, each rushed off to their respective destination.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the kitchen, Cook continued to berate Meg, gesturing furiously at the basis for the scolding: a plate of tarts. “Now, then. Do you understand?” she inquired, glaring at the thin, red-faced girl before her.
The maid nodded so emphatically that her cap tumbled from her head. “Aye, ma’am. Lord Lyndhurst ain’t to have nothin‘ with pineapple ‘cause it makes him itchy and gives him spots.”
“Among other unpleasantness, yes,” Cook murmured, grimacing at the thought of those other effects. His poor lordship. It was a good thing she’d caught Meg putting the tarts on his tray.
“Beggin‘ yer pardon, ma’am,” Meg murmured, bending down to retrieve her cap. “But wouldn’t his lordship have tasted the pineapple ‘n’ not ett them tarts?”
She shook her head. “Not with the apricot. Pineapple and apricot are a wretched mix, can’t taste one fruit for the other.”
“Ifn it’s so wretched, how come you used it?” “Because it’s her ladyship’s favorite, and she requested it.” Sighing over the hopelessness of her mistress’s palate, she waved the girl away. “Well, don’t just stand there. Cut a slice of the pear pie cooling at the window, and put it on his lordship’s tray.”
The girl hastened away to do her bidding, only to return moments later, wringing her apron. “Oh, law! Julius already taked his lordship’s tray.”
Cook grunted her irritation. “Well, there’s no help for it now. Just set the pie on the sideboard. No doubt his lordship will note the lack of a sweet and send Julius back to fetch it.”
Nicholas, however, was too preoccupied to notice anything on his tray. What occupied his mind was Sophie.
Never had a woman captivated him as she did, never had one confounded him so. One minute she was in his arms, her body pliant and her lips yielding, the next she avoided him as if he were the deadliest of plagues. Indeed, all he’d seen of her in the last three days was a blur of blue gown as she dashed from his sight.
Trying to make sense of her actions, Nicholas absently plucked a tart from his tray and took a bite. As he chewed, he wondered if his kisses had prompted her sudden avoidance. Could it be that she’d found them unpleasant and sought to escape suffering more?
He polished off the tart as he considered. Well, he’d never had any complaints about his kisses before. In fact, once experiencing them, women usually seemed eager for more.
Then again, he’d never kissed a woman as he had Sophie. With her he’d been swept away by passion, letting his desire rather than his head guide him as it had done in the past. Could it be that his abandon had made him too rough? Too eager and demanding? Could he have frightened her with the savagery of his need?
He smiled ruefully at that last. Hell, he’d frightened himself with the intensity of his own need. There had been something shockingly primal in it, something deep and desperate — a hunger that went beyond the urgency of his flesh and made him yearn to love all of her … heart, soul, and mind.
As confused by his own behavior as he was by hers, he picked up the second tart and nibbled on a corner. As the sweet, syrupy filling flowed over his tongue, he become aware of an odd tingling in his mouth. The unpleasant familiarity of the sensation made him pull the pastry from his mouth and eye it with alarm. The last time his mouth had felt like this was when he’d unwittingly eaten the pineapple garnish on the ham at the Kingsdale
soiree.
Talk about a miserable night!
Shuddering at the memory, he tossed aside the tart and hastily gulped down his entire glass of cider. To his everlasting relief the tingling instantly subsided. It was then, after his momentary panic had passed, that his senses returned. And his senses told him that there couldn’t possibly be pineapple in the tarts. Not only had he not tasted it, Cook would never allow it to be served to him, knowing as she did how it affected him.
His mind thus eased, he returned to his problem with Sophie and his theory that he’d either frightened or disgusted her with his passion. After brief but serious contemplation, he dismissed it. Neither reason made any sense. Not when he remembered how she had kissed him back. The way she’d grasped his buttocks and moaned for more bespoke of an ardor that matched his. It was remembering her abandon that made him hit upon another idea: Could it be that she was ashamed of her own conduct and thus too embarrassed to face him?
He reached down and scratched his side as he considered. Embarrassment would certainly explain the way she bolted every time she saw him. Then again — he scratched his neck — one couldn’t always count on logic when trying to fathom the workings of the female mind. As all men knew, there was no rhyme or reason to the way women thought. As for the way they acted …
Wanting to howl his frustration, Nicholas gave his neck another scratch, vaguely noting as he did so that his tongue had begun to tingle again. This time, however, he was too absorbed in his problem with Sophie to pay his discomfort much mind.
After several moments of deliberation and a furious bout of scratching, he came to the conclusion that there was only one way to solve it: He must chase her down and simply ask point-blank why she was avoiding him. Whether or not she would give him a satisfactory answer…
Scrape!-Scrape!-Scrape
! — at the door.
Annoyed by the interruption, he barked, “Enter!”
It was the majordomo, his face flushed and his breathing labored, as if he’d been running.
“Well? What is it, Dickson?” he growled, rubbing at his neck. The blasted thing itched. Jessup must have shaved him too closely this morning.
After panting several times, the man gasped out, “A thousand pardons, my lord. But Lady Chadwick’s outrider has arrived —
puff
! — and reports that her ladyship’s coach is but moments behind him.”
Nicholas rubbed his neck again, none too pleased by the news. Not even trying to mask his irritation, he muttered, “Thank you, Dickson. I shall go outside to welcome them.”
The man bowed. “Very good, my lord.” Then rushed off to resume his post.
Testily imagining the horrors that awaited him, Nicholas clawed at his belly through his clothing, trying to assuage its sudden itching. No relief. The maddening sensation simply increased. Grimacing, he tried pinching and slapping the area. The discomfort persisted. Oh, bloody hell. The laundresses must have overstarched his shirt.
Firmly ignoring his urge to remove the offending garment, he stalked from the library, scratching assorted body parts as he went. By the time he reached the entry hall, he felt hot and cold in turn, and itched all over.
As he miserably awaited Dickson to open the door, he again speculated upon the tarts. Could Cook have filled them with some exotic new fruit that didn’t agree with him?
“My lord! They are here! The coach has pulled up to the steps,” the majordomo exclaimed, growing flushed again.
Wanting nothing more than to strip off his clothes and dive into a cool bath, Nicholas stepped onto the stoop, praying for the coming greetings to be brief. Staunchly curbing his impulse to scratch his backside, he proceeded down the steps, determined to do his gentlemanly duty and assist the ladies from the coach.
The first person to emerge was an older woman in a stylish yet dignified lavender and black ensemble. Deducing from the colors that she was in half-mourning and thus the widowed marchioness, he sketched a courtly bow. “Lady Chadwick, I presume?” he murmured, offering his hand.
She accepted with a lovely smile. “And you must be Lord Lyndhurst. My, my! Your mother claimed you to be a most dashing and handsome fellow in her letter, but I must say that she hardly did you justice.”
Nicholas returned her smile, liking her immediately. Not only was she gracious and charming, she was quite attractive. If her daughter was anything like her, she would have no trouble making a suitable match, despite the scandalous circumstances of her father’s death. Secretly thinking Chadwick a dolt for dying over a dollymop when he had such a wife, he handed her down. His hands clenching against his urge to scratch his belly again, he then turned back to the vehicle and awaited her daughter’s appearance.