Kasey Michaels (42 page)

“Into parrot—
well
!”

Bramwell put a finger to his lips, warning her to silence as they walked past the entrance to the drawing room, where Lady Gwendolyn and Mrs. Farraday were holding a somewhat loud conversation about the straw-bonnet-wilting properties of a thick London fog, and pulled her toward the flight of stairs that led to the bedchambers.

“Yes, darling,” he said as they climbed the flight, “Shipley wanted Ignatius dead. Strangled, plucked, and boiled, I imagine. And Lord Upchurch wasn’t the first to come to me. Lord Buxley didn’t even let me get as far as the street this afternoon after we’d had our small journal-burning ceremony, before he chased after me, warning me that Shipley wasn’t satisfied with my solution. That he wanted the bird destroyed. I had thought Shipley might want you strangled, darling, but it seems he believed you when you said you’d never breathe a word of anything you know.”

“That’s because I dazzled him, Bram,” Sophie said with a nose-crinkling grin. “And you said dazzling didn’t work. Ha!”

“I never said it didn’t work, darling,” he corrected as he left go of her hand and opened the door to his bedchamber, motioning for her to precede him into the room. “I just said you shouldn’t do it. I’ve had second thoughts about that since this morning, by the way. Dazzle to your heart’s content, Sophie, as long as you
love
me.”

She watched as he set Ignatius’s cage on a low table, amazed at how comfortable she felt in this chamber. Not at all naughty. Just comfortable, because she belonged here. She always would. But when Bramwell came toward her, his intention clear in his smile, she held him off, saying, “But why is Uncle Tye—Sir Tyler—no longer a threat to us, er, I mean, to Ignatius?”

He put his hands on her elbows as she reached out to touch his waist. “Now you’re going to have to be brave, darling. I couldn’t have Lorrie promise something we couldn’t in all good conscience promise, now could I? Couldn’t have him say we’d train Ignatius never to say what he says if
that
word came up in conversation. So,” he said, looking at her closely, “I’m sending Ignatius to the country, to Selbourne Hall. I’ve got quite an aviary on my estate, and he’ll be comfortable there even when we aren’t in residence. In other words, darling, Ignatius has had his last Season.” He bent his knees, the better to see into her eyes, and asked, “Do you hate me? I did it for the best.”

“You’ll march him off in chains, I suppose?” Sophie tried to be stern, but Bramwell looked so apprehensive that she couldn’t let him suffer for another moment in the belief that she might hate him for sending Ignatius into a very comfortable exile. “Oh, Bram, don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “It was the only solution that was fair to everyone. Especially,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, “when I consider what happens when he hears anyone say the word
spurs
.”

“Spurs?” Bramwell repeated, also whispering. “What does he say?”

She motioned for him to bend his head even closer, and whispered the words into his ear.

“You’re kidding!” he exclaimed, looking toward Ignatius, who was grooming himself, oblivious to their hushed conversation. “My God, Sophie—whose voice does he use to say
that
?”

“Well,” Sophie told him as she took his hands and began backing toward the bed. “Let’s just say that the duke of Wellington probably will be quite pleased to learn that Ignatius will be permanently rusticating on your estate.”

“The duke of—Lord, Sophie, I love you!” Bramwell exclaimed, tumbling her onto the bed and following her down.

“Sophie loves you! Sophie loves you!” Ignatius called out in an excellent imitation of his mistress’s voice. “Sophie loves you!
Squawk
!”

“You know, I’m going to miss that bird,” Bramwell said, smiling, before Sophie took hold of his ears and pulled him down for her kiss.

I know this balcony,
love...

Give me a thousand kisses, then a

hundred, then another thousand, then a

second hundred, then yet another

thousand, then a hundred.

– Catullus

Kiss till the cow comes home.

– Francis Beaumont.

B
ramwell stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at his wife as she hesitated for a moment before putting out one satin-slipper-clad foot and beginning her descent toward him.

She was perfect. She shimmered in pale green silk, from the knot of material that covered her full breasts, to the sweeping hem that floated down the stairs behind her. Her shoulders were bare, her arms covered in softest white kid to just above the elbows. A magnificent necklace of diamonds and emeralds was put to shame by her shining eyes.

She wore her hair severely pulled back from her face tonight, caught up in some sort of curling cluster at the top of her head, a circlet of diamonds and braided silk holding it in place. Her eyes, wide and faintly tilted, her magnificent cheekbones, her long, delicate neck—all were perfect. There had to be other words, more eloquent definitions, but none suited Sophie better than that single, simple word. Perfect.

And then she smiled at him, and she became more than perfect. She became his Sophie. His Sophie of the crinkled-up nose, playing at duchess, and asking him to join her in the enjoyment of their private joke—because, for as regal and duchesslike as she might appear now, only an hour earlier she had been a shameless wanton, all flash and fire in his arms.

Dear God, how he loved her!

“She becomes more beautiful every day, Bram,” Baron Lorimar said, coming up behind him just as Sophie arrived at the bottom of the stairs, then passing him by to offer his arm to his friend’s wife. “Your Grace,” he drawled, as Sophie slipped her arm through his, “you will send every other woman present at Lady Upchurch’s ball weeping into the night the moment you walk through the door.”

“How you do flatter me, Lorimar,” Sophie said, smiling up at him, dazzling him as Bramwell watched approvingly. “I’m sorry to be so late, but Desiree had the worst time with my hair. It became sadly tangled somehow. Has Bram offered you a glass of wine before we go?”

“Lady Gwendolyn did the honors, actually,” the baron told her as they walked into the drawing room, Bramwell trailing behind, shaking his head. “And then she and Sir Wilford took themselves off into a corner, their heads all but pressed together as they fell into some deep conversation or other. You’ve been giving her lessons, haven’t you?”

“Only a few,” Sophie admitted, winking at him, “Aunt Gwendolyn found him to be most charming when he came to pay a morning call on me when I first arrived in London, but I think he went away much more interested in her. In fact, Sir Wilford has become nearly a permanent guest in the house of late, isn’t that right, Bram?”

“The poor fellow doesn’t stand a chance, Lorrie,” Bramwell declared with all good humor, touching a hand to the slight bulge in his waistcoat and wondering how he was going to manage slipping Sir Wilford’s snuffbox back in his pocket after Peggy had found it in his aunt’s clothespress that morning. “Hello, Wally, you’re looking fit. Did you and my cousin have a good day?”

Sir Wallace leapt to his feet in order to bow over Sophie’s hand. “Better than good, Bram,” he said, lifting his glass of lemonade in a toast to the world in general. “Attract the ladies like bees to honey, those dogs of his do. No better place to be these days than riding through the park in Samuel’s carriage. I’m thinking of getting myself a couple of hounds of my own as a matter of fact, seeing what they did for Sad Samuel. Well,” he then said, looking around the room, “if we’re all ready? I want to speak to Bobbit a moment before we go. He’s promised to tell me about a most sterling new shop that specializes in custom-fitted gloves.”

“He
owns
that shop, Wally,” Bramwell told him as Sophie giggled. “And you probably paid for most of it. You, Lorrie, and me. Definitely me.”

Sir Wallace looked to each of his friends in turn, colored hotly, and said, “Oh.” Then he shrugged, as if accepting of the news. “I still need new gloves, you know, so I suppose that’s all right. Isn’t it? Shall we go?”

It was nearly three in the morning before the duke and duchess returned to Portland Square, to mount the flights to their chamber, their arms linked, both of them still basking in the glow of a most successful evening.

And neither of them quite ready for bed.

“Help me with these fastenings, please, darling,” Sophie said, turning her back to her husband.

“Gladly,” he answered, coming over to her and pressing a kiss against the nape of her neck as he began working at the closings of her gown. “Hmmm, you taste good.”

She turned in his arms as the gown loosened, holding it to her breasts as she smiled up into his face. “Surely you aren’t still
hungry
, darling?”

“Famished,” he admitted as she stepped away from him, allowing the gown to fall into a puddle at her feet, leaving her in only the merest of undergarments, a pair of silky stockings. “And becoming more hungry by the minute.”

She held out her arms to him. “Oh, poor darling Bram. Come here to me. Sophie will fix that. Sophie will fix everything.”

“I can’t imagine why I ever wanted you to think you shouldn’t. God, Sophie, but you look lovely, standing there in the moonlight shining through the windows.”

And that’s when Bramwell got an idea. A most wonderful, delicious idea. With more haste than care, he stripped himself out of his jacket, his shirt, his shoes. “Stay right there!” he ordered as he went over to the bed, ripping the coverlet from it. He opened the doors to the balcony that overlooked the darkened Square as Sophie watched, giggling, and spread the coverlet on the narrow landing that was enclosed by a highly decorative, secluding balustrade.

Satisfied with what he’d done, he then came back into the room, swept his wife up in his arms, and carried her toward the balcony.

“Bram?” she asked as he gently deposited her on the coverlet and knelt down, preparing to join her.

“You think I’m insane, don’t you?” he asked. “That this is insane. We could be seen from the Square, if anyone really looked. We could make utter fools of ourselves. And you want me to take you back inside.”

“No, darling,” she said, stroking the length of his thigh, so that his mind, which he already considered fairly well lost, spun off into the night, to be replaced by desire. “I just want you to lock those doors behind you. I’m convinced Reese would appreciate that, yes?”