Authors: Heather Cullman
Feeling her face flame at the thought of such a fiasco, she replied by well-bred rote, “You’re looking well, too, my lord.”
His hand covered the back of the one he still held, sandwiching it between both of his. “I assume you know the purpose of my visit?”
She nodded slowly. Here it came.
“Excellent. Then, you have had time to consider my offer. Before I ask for your answer, however, there are a few matters I feel we should discuss. Shall we sit?” Oh, botheration! She should have guessed that he would insist on prolonging this miserable business. Seeing no other choice but to grant him the time, she dipped her head in assent and allowed him to lead her to the tete-a-tete by the window.
When they were settled, he again took her hands in his and began, “First off, I want you to know that above all else, I desire to make you my wife.”
She nodded, settling her gaze modestly — and safely — on his fashionable yellow gloves.
There was a beat of silence, as if he were deciding how to proceed, then he cleared his throat and said, “You are young, Miss Barrington. Exceedingly so. And because of your extreme youth, I feel it my duty to explain to you what awaits you as my wife. Marriage is, after all, not something to be entered into lightly or with ignorance.”
Her duties as his wife? Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Oh, dear! He wasn’t going to talk about dirty verses and feathers, was he? Worse yet, maybe he was going to inform her that he was one of those beastly men who Lydia’s brother had said liked to stand on their heads — naked — while their wives teased them all over with a daisy. It was all she could do to suppress her shudder at the thought of suffering such a trial.
“As my bride,” he continued, “you will, of course, gain the title of countess. Later on, and I pray that it is many years from now, you shall become a marchioness.” Countess? Marchioness? She looked up abruptly and smiled a genuine smile in her relief. That part of marriage she could stomach. Easily.
He smiled in return. “I’m glad to see that that prospect pleases you.”
“Yes,” she murmured, bowing her head again before her gaze could rivet onto his scar.
“As you most certainly know by now, my title comes with an enviable position in society. Indeed, there isn’t a door in England that will be closed to you, should you wish to enter. There is also the advantage of my wealth, which is such that I can promise you that neither you nor our children shall ever want for anything.”
She nodded. She had to admit that his offer was handsome.
If only he had the face to match.
He squeezed her hands. “You also have my pledge that I shall be the most generous of husbands. The allowance I shall allot you will make it possible for you to buy out every shop in the Arcade, should that be your desire. In short, you can expect the best of everything, as will befit your new position.”
The best of everything? Very handsome indeed. If he was as wealthy as all that, perhaps her lack of dowry and debts might not matter much … especially if she could convince him that her deceit was a result of her desperate infatuation with him. Hmm. Perhaps Edgar’s plan might succeed after all.
“Last, but most certainly not least,” he enumerated, “you shall have my everlasting devotion. I promise to treat you with nothing but the utmost respect and kindness.”
Devotion? That word was like a pin to her ballooning confidence. Surely he felt more for her than mere devotion? By the fervor of his courtship, she’d assumed that he was in love with her. Madly so. If she was wrong …
She gave her head a mental shake, pushing away the ridiculous notion. Of course he loved her. How could he not? She was the Toast of the Town, and all the gentlemen desired her.
“Miss Barrington?” Clearly he had just said something of importance, and she had missed it.
“I’m sorry. This is all so … overwhelming,” she stammered, forcing herself to look at him and smile. “You were saying?”
He touched her cheek, and she had to steel herself to keep from flinching away. “It’s quite all right, my dear. I realize that the notion of becoming a wife is somewhat intimidating for one so young.”
“Somewhat, yes,” she agreed, tearing her gaze from his cheek. Blast. She was staring again.
“In that case, I hope you won’t be unduly alarmed when I tell you that there are as many duties as benefits that attend the title of Countess of Lyndhurst.”
“Of course not, my lord. My aunt taught me that with any title comes responsibility.”
“Very wise of her,” he returned solemnly. “And did she by chance tell you what those responsibilities were?” Sophie nodded. “She said that I must always guard my manners so as not to sully my husband’s name. I am also to keep abreast as to what the ton finds amusing, so that I can entertain in a manner worthy of my position. It is also my duty to manage the servants and make certain that the household runs smoothly.” “Households,” he corrected her. “You shall have three at first, six when you become marchioness.” “Three?” she echoed, praying that his palace-like residence on Pall Mall numbered among them.
“Three,” he confirmed. “There is Ebbatson Hall in Durham, Newlyn Manor in Herefordshire, and Grafford Keep in Leichester. We shall spend most of our time at Newlyn, though we shall visit my other estates for two months each out of every year. As my wife, it will be your duty to see to the cottagers. That includes directing the charities, ministering to the sick, and organizing the village festivities — such as the annual Harvest feast.”
It was all Sophie could do not to gasp her dismay. Not only was she to rusticate, she was expected to fete the local peasants. It was simply too much!
Her face must have reflected her thoughts, for he dryly observed, “I take it that you find those duties distasteful?”
Though she wasn’t normally given to cursing, Sophie cursed herself then for her carelessness. Damn! Damn! Damn! She must learn to school her expression before she ruined everything. Desperate to rectify her faux pas, she stammered out, “Not distasteful, my lord, but … um … perplexing. You see, I know little of country affairs.”
There was a pause of silence, during which she feared the worse. Then he chuckled and said, “Of course you don’t, my dear. I didn’t expect that you would. It is one of the many things I shall teach you once we are married.”
“You may be assured that I shall follow your instruction to the best of my ability,” she vowed, almost sagging in her relief.
“That is all I shall ever ask of you. Now, having told you that, I believe it is time for me to frame my question.” Clasping both her hands between his as if they prayed, he asked, “Miss Barrington, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
At last. Tugging her mouth back into what was by now a well-rehearsed smile, Sophie looked up and said with as much pleasure as she could muster, “You do me great honor, my lord. Yes, I will marry you.” Despite her efforts, the words came out wooden.
Apparently only the meaning of those words mattered to him, for he smiled as if she’d just granted him the world. Lifting her left hand to reverently kiss her ring finger, he murmured, “You’ve made me the happiest of men, my dearest Sophie, and I promise that you shall never regret your decision.” Lowering her hand to clasp it to his heart, he inquired, “I may call you Sophie now that we’re engaged, mightn’t I?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Nicholas,” he corrected her. “You must call me Nicholas.”
“Nicholas.” Oh. So that was his name. She’d never so much as wondered what it was. Before she could ponder the matter further, his palm cupped her chin and raised her bowed head.
Drawing her face close to his, he whispered, “I believe that it is traditional for us to seal our engagement with a kiss.” Without awaiting her response, he pressed his lips to hers. As he did so, the scar came into clear, sharp focus.
Sophie screwed her eyes shut. Tightly. Think pleasant thoughts. Think pleasant thoughts, she frantically chanted to herself. Pretend that he’s Julian.
Yet, try as she might, it was impossible for her to imagine that it was her beloved who kissed her. Where Julian’s lips were soft and cool, Lyndhurst’s were hard and hot, claiming hers with a hunger that she found terrifying.
Oh, heavens! He must be a daisy man after all. Or worse yet, a custard man. Lydia’s brother had told them of men who made their wives sit naked on their equally bare laps, licking custard from a cup held pressed between their breasts. Just the thought of being subjected to such an indignity made her want to die.
Mercifully the kiss was a brief one, and was over almost as soon as it began.
“Now,” he murmured, pulling back with a grin. “The only thing left to do is to choose our wedding date. I was thinking of sometime around Christmas, say, the twenty-second of December?”
“I, uh,” she stammered, distracted by the horrible suspicion that he might be a custard man. The twenty-second of December? Hmm. Why not? She opened her mouth to give her consent, then her mind cleared and she remembered that time was of the essence. Praying that he wouldn’t think her brazen and thus withdraw his offer, yet seeing no other option, she coyly ducked her head and whispered, “I’m not so certain I want to wait so long.”
Silence.
Just when she was starting to dread the worse, he chuckled. “In truth, my dear. After kissing you. I’m not so certain I can wait that long, either.”
A custard man. He was definitely a custard man.
His hand cupped her chin again. “Just say the word, sweet Sophie, and I shall obtain a special license. We can be married within the fortnight.”
“And that word is?” she sweetly inquired.
He kissed her. This kiss was a gentle one, filled with all the tenderness and reverence a girl could wish for from her groom. To Sophie’s surprise, it wasn’t nearly as awful as the first. Not when she didn’t think of daisies or custard.
Like his first one, this kiss too ended quickly. Yet this time he didn’t pull away, but instead leaned his forehead against hers to stare into her eyes.
Brown, she noted. His eyes were a rich, warm brown, rimmed with a most enviable fringe of lashes. In truth, they were quite beautiful.
If only they weren’t set in a ruined face.
“The word?” he finally murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. “It was the unspoken promise of your kiss.”
It was over.
At last.
And Sophie had never been more wretched in her life. Not only was she to be Lyndhurst’s bride at the end of the month, the headache that had plagued her all morning had exploded into an excruciating megrim, making her pray for a quick and merciful death.
Unwittingly heightening her misery was her aunt, who hovered over her sickbed, chattering like a magpie enthralled by a particularly tasty worm. “I must say that Eddie is quite pleased with the way you handled Lyndhurst,” she said in a head-splitting chirp. “Why, his lordship all but demanded that you be married within the fortnight. If you ask me, such eagerness bodes well for our scheme. Indeed, my guess is that our troubles are over.”
Yours, maybe. But mine are just beginning, Sophie thought grimly. In just two weeks time she would be the
Countess of Lyndhurst. That meant that she must begin the nightmarish ordeal of trying to get with child. And to do so she must —
Shuddering convulsively, she pushed the swirling montage of feathers, daisies, and custard from her mind.
Heloise made a clucking noise. “Poor dear. Are you cold?”
Sophie opened her eyes to reply, only to moan and squeeze them shut again in the next instant. Though the drapes were drawn, the midday sun blazed around the edges, stabbing through her eyes and into her brain like stakes of red-hot steel.
Apparently her aunt took her moan for an affirmative response, for she said, “Yes. It is a bit chilly in here. I shall summon a footman to lay a fire.”
Alarmed by the prospect of more light from a fire, Sophie started to shake her head. The first motion, however, sent paralyzing pain stabbing through her temples, and she was forced to lie still, croaking instead, “No. Not cold, just ill. Terribly ill. My head …” she broke off with an agonized groan and laid her hand on her brow to illustrate her complaint.
Heloise countered with another series of her mother-hen clucks. “I know, sweeting. I know it hurts.” There was a splash, then she gently pushed Sophie’s hand from her forehead and replaced it with a cool, vinegar-soaked cloth. “Mademoiselle has gone to the stillroom to prepare her special megrim infusion for you. She should be back in a moment or two.”
Sophie made a face. Vile stuff! Still, her maid’s concoction did ease her megrims, usually within a half hour, so she would gladly swallow it without protesting its foul taste.
As if on cue there was a scratch at the door, followed by the faint creak of well-oiled hinges. A beat later she heard the swish of her aunt’s skirt as she crossed the room. Though Sophie recognized the voice of the new arrival as that of her maid, the woman spoke too low for her to decipher her words.
After a few moments, during which her aunt replied in an equally hushed tone, the door closed with a soft slam. A brief time later the cloth was lifted from her head. “Here’s your infusion, dear. You need to sit up to drink it.” It was Heloise.