Lord Harry's Daughter (18 page)

Chapter
31

Though he might denounce to her face the condesa's efforts as being ineffective. Mark suffered the pangs of self-recrimination for his own blindness and inefficiency to such a degree that the only way he could answer his own bitter self-accusations was to throw himself into his duties and to encourage Wellington and Hope in their efforts to lull the French into believing that the British were preparing for a lengthy siege of Bayonne. Wrapped up in his work and his own unhappy thoughts, he kept close to headquarters, arriving early in the morning and leaving late at night, pausing only to eat or to sleep and to make sure that Caesar was properly looked after.

This rigorous regime also protected him from any accidental encounters with the woman who had been suspicious of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna from the very beginning. Still castigating himself for being all kinds of a dupe and a fool. Mark could not face the idea of seeing Sophia.

But Sophia was too preoccupied with her own affairs to waste much thought on the major or the condesa. With the prospect of improving weather, she knew the army would be planning a move deeper into the heart of France. She had already made some plans for this when the general called her into his study one evening.

“Sit down, my dear.” He smiled kindly as he indicated a chair by the fire. “I am afraid that it may seem to you that I have not been sensitive to your circumstances since your beloved mother's death, and for that I do apologize. My only excuse is that I, too, have been coping with her very great loss."

“There is not the least need to apologize, sir.” Indeed, there was not. Sophia was not the only one to think that the general had aged a great deal in the past few weeks. Everyone at headquarters had observed that the loss of his wife had obviously left its mark.

“I may have been remiss in my attentions to you, but I have not been remiss in my duties, and I have been concerning myself with your future welfare. In fact, I have here a letter, written in answer to mine, that arrived in the bag from the weekly packet boat this morning. It is from Lady Lydia Featherstonaugh, who writes to invite you to live with her in Brook Street."

“Lady Lydia? Brook Street?” Sophia was too stunned to do anything more than echo his words.

“Yes. I know that you have never had contact with your father's or your mother's families, but much as I regard you as the daughter I never had, the Edgehills and the Featherstonaughs are your true family. As the Featherstonaughs are more likely to be able to provide for you than the Edgehills, I wrote to the Duke of Broughton. The duke, no matter how much he might have disapproved of his brother, would never want it to be said that he had abandoned his orphaned niece. Lady Lydia writes, most kindly, that the duke, knowing of her wish for a companion, suggested she might invite you to live with her."

“A companion?” Sophia had seen enough of companions at some of the establishments in Lisbon to be less than enthusiastic over the proposition.

“I do not think, from the way that Lady Lydia writes, that she means for you to become one of those silent, long-suffering relatives of all work who spend their days at the beck and call of their more fortunate relatives. But here, see for yourself. She has enclosed a note to you."

Wordlessly, Sophia held out her hand for the letter.

My dear niece,
it began,
if I may call you niece after all these years of shamefully neglecting you. General Sir Thornton Curtis has informed us of your sad loss, and though I can in no way ease that unhappiness, I do write to invite you to make your home with me. I realize that the prospect of sharing a home with someone who, along with the rest of the family, allowed her brother to live and die without any contact from her, is not the most encouraging, but I hope you will believe me when I say I look forward to making amends for the family's treatment of your parents. I do not know how your tastes run, but my life here in London, though not so taken up with amusements as many, is nevertheless pleasant. I keep myself busy with my studies, and lectures. I hope you will join me. Though I was not in contact with your father, I was always eager for news of him and his wife, who, by all reports, was a woman of sense, a woman he was lucky enough to marry. I trust that being raised by such a woman that you are also a young woman of sense, else I would not extend this invitation to you. I look forward to a favorable reply. Sincerely, Lydia Featherstonaugh.

“Well?"

“Her invitation is kindly enough meant, and she does sound as though she has given it serious consideration. As I remember it, she was Papa's favorite sister, but that was long ago, and he spoke so little of his family that I cannot say for certain. I believe she was a good deal younger.” Sophia paused, and staring into the fire, folded and unfolded the letter abstractedly until she at last burst out, “But may I not stay with you, sir? You are my family now. And who will keep house for you now that Mama is gone? I may not be Mama, but I have spent so many years helping her that I am sure I am equal to the task."

Sir Thornton smiled at her fondly. “I know you are, but that is not the issue. The issue is your future. I am a rough old soldier, and it would be unfair, nay, selfish, of me to give my own comfort a moment's thought where your future is concerned. No"—he held up a hand to forestall the protest she was about to make—"hear me out. I shall miss you, more than you might imagine. Your presence has been such a comfort to me since your mother passed away.” The general paused and blinked rapidly once or twice before continuing. “But I could never offer you the opportunities that the Featherstonaughs can. Your father was a harum-scarum lad who perhaps did not deserve his birthright, but that is no reason to deprive you of yours."

“But I do not wish to live that sort of life—fashionable, frivolous, and empty."

“I know, my dear. But believe me, you will never be that, no matter what sort of society you are thrown into.

But, from what I can tell of Lady Lydia, you will not be asked to become one. It appears to me as though you are in far greater danger of becoming a ferocious bluestocking, for it sounds as though your Aunt Lydia is a lady of strong opinions and fearsome intellect. There, you see, it may not be so bad.” The general was encouraged by the wan smile that flitted across the sad face in front of him. “Besides, the Allies have crossed the Rhine and if this warm spell holds, we shall be on the move soon. With the Austrians in Switzerland and the Russians and Prussians progressing toward Nancy, I truly do not think that the French will be able to resist us much longer. I expect to be in England myself before the year is out."

“Truly?"

“Truly. And you can be certain that the first thing I shall do upon returning home is to call on you. I know that you are not happy about this, Sophia, but believe me, it is the only way. I shall have to devote all my attention to my work in the next few months as we move into France. Keeping our armies well supplied so that they do not plunder the countryside is more critical than ever."

Sophia, sensing that, in his own kindly way the general was doing his best to tell her that he would be glad to be rid of responsibility for a young lady who had only a Portuguese peasant to look after her, nodded slowly. “I understand."

“There's my girl.” The general laid a firm hand on her shoulder. “I know you would rather be joining the cavalry than retreating to London, but sometimes, in order to help win a war, we are asked to do things we do not wish to do."

The wealth of sympathy in the general's eyes brought tears to her own. Sophia gulped and nodded. “I know, sir.” The interview was at an end and she rose to go, but halted before she reached the door. “Thank you for understanding."

“No thanks is necessary. You are a good soldier. You know that your duty lies in what is best for many of us. Your mother would be proud.”
And your father would not have the least conception,
he muttered to himself. “There is a boat returning to England at the end of the week that has room for a passenger. I know it seems very soon, but events are unfolding rapidly and there may not be another opportunity.

Doing her best to hide her dismay, Sophia nodded and fled to her bedchamber.

Chapter
32

Sophia began packing the next day. Trying not to think about the familiar way of life she was leaving behind, she once again began laying her few treasures in the well-worn trunks that had accompanied her and her mother from England to Portugal, Portugal to Spain, and Spain to France. This time, however, she would be moving on alone.

Placing her mother's sewing basket in the corner of one trunk and proceeding to fill it with a few of her favorite books—Pope's poems, a volume of Shakespeare, Addison's essays—Sophia was fighting back the tears when she heard a timid knock on the door.

It was Jeanne. “If you please, mademoiselle, there is a gentleman here to see you."

“A gentleman?"

“Yes, mademoiselle. Major Adair."

“Major Adair? Oh, yes, thank you, Jeanne.” Taking a quick glance in the looking glass, which, fortunately, she had not yet packed, Sophia tidied her hair and wiped a smudge of dust off her nose. She looked pale and tired in the black bombazine mourning dress of her mother's that had been taken apart and refitted for her, a complete contrast to the condesa, she thought wryly as she pulled down the sleeves that had ridden up her arms as she packed.

Slowly she descended the stairs, trying to guess what possible reason the major could have for paying a visit.

He was leaning against the mantel when she entered the parlor, and as he turned to greet her, she was struck by his air of fatigue. His face was drawn and tired and the dark eyes seemed even more deep-set than usual.

“You look exhausted, Major. You must be working very hard.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I do apologize. How ill-bred of me to blurt out such a thing without even thanking you for calling or offering you a chair."

A half smile tugged at his mouth as he took the proffered seat. “Ever the forthright Miss Featherstonaugh. Actually, it is refreshing to know one woman at least, who speaks her mind.” The sarcastic note in his voice clearly indicated that this was not just a general observation.

“Oh? I am flattered, I think."

“You were right about the condesa.” It was Mark's turn to blurt out his thoughts. “She is utterly false."

“I am sorry."

“Why should you be sorry? She is precisely what you said she was—cold, scheming, duplicitous..."

“Goodness, how did you come to this conclusion?"

“By following her."

“Ah.” So he had believed her after all! The warm feeling that flooded through her at this admission took Sophia by surprise. She had not realized to what extent she valued the major's good opinion or how unhappy she had been made by their disagreement. “What happened?"

“I caught her giving information to her French lover."

“A French lover! If her heart was engaged, it is understandable I suppose, and she is French, after all."

“How can you defend her after you told me in so many ways not to trust her?"

“I never said that she was dishonorable, I just thought she was hiding something. But according to her way of seeing it, she might have been acting in the most honorable way she could think of."

“Like any exploring officer, I suppose."

The bitter tone in his voice tore at Sophia's heart. “No, you must not think...” She rose and crossed over to his chair to lay a comforting hand on his arm. “You are not like that."

“How am I different?"

“You would not deceive..."

“I have deceived many times. You know that. You have even seen me trying to deceive the world as a priest, as a peasant..."

“But you would not deceive someone when it was a matter of the heart."

“Heart? This was not a matter of the heart."

The relief that washed over her was another complete surprise to Sophia. So he had not cared about Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna in
that
sort of way. “Oh, but you would never use a member of the female sex in such a way. If you have deceived people, it has been those who are waging a war just as you are waging a war."

The hazel eyes looking up at him shone with conviction. He clasped the slender fingers gripping his arm. How he was going to miss her when she was gone. “Thank you. You make it all seem right somehow, Sophia. I shall miss you when you are gone.” He rose and took her other hand in his. “Actually, that is why I am here. I heard at headquarters that you are leaving soon. I have orders to ride over to Hill's corps near Urrcarray today and I may not return before you go so I have come to say good-bye."

“Thank you. That is very kind of you,” she whispered. In spite of her best efforts, her eyes filled with tears.

“My poor girl.” Mark pulled her into his arms and held her tight, wishing desperately that he could say something that would lift her spirits during what was bound to be a lonely journey to a place where she knew no one. “I wish I could help."

“You have.” She smiled tremulously. “Just knowing that I have you as a friend..."

“A friend you may always call upon if you need him.” Mark bent his head to press his lips to hers. He had meant the kiss to seal his pledge of friendship, but as his lips touched hers, something happened. He became acutely aware of the softness of her skin, the delicate scent of lavender, the slenderness of her waist beneath his hands, the long, slim line of her thigh pressed against his, and he found himself kissing her hungrily, desperately, fueled by a desire he had not thought possible.

For a brief moment he gave himself up to the passion that rose within him. Just for a moment, he savored the exquisite ache of longing, and then his sense reasserted itself. How could he be thinking such things, feeling such things toward a woman he had just assured of his help should she ever need it? How could he be thinking of making passionate love to her and coming to her defense at the same time? How could he wish so intensely at this moment to be her lover while he was pledging himself to be her protector?

Gently Mark thrust Sophia away from him. Drawing a deep breath, he tried to get hold of himself. The big eyes still gazed trustingly into his. Good. Perhaps she had not felt it, the desire, his body's craving for her. Perhaps she did not know how close he had come ... to what? To treating her as a woman instead of a friend? Forcing his own confused thoughts from his mind, Mark tried to focus on Sophia. “You will be all right, believe me, you will. At the moment you do not think so, but I know you. You are strong. You are resourceful. You will do well. And when I return to London...” For some inexplicable reason, he discovered that he could not go on. His throat was tight, as though the damp weather had finally given him the sore throat and cough that everyone in Saint Jean seemed to suffer.

He grabbed Sophia's hand again, raised it to his lips, and was gone before she could begin to frame a reply.

Sophia remained rooted where she stood in the middle of the room, transfixed by what had just occurred. Then, slowly she sank into the nearest chair and, staring into the fire, tried to make sense of all that had just happened, trying to sort through her disordered thoughts and feelings, but she could not. At the moment she was too overwhelmed with everything—her mother's death, her packing, her impending departure, an unknown life before her—to deal with anything, to comprehend anything. Resolutely she put all the jumbled impressions and emotions out of her mind and returned to her bedchamber and the task at hand-packing. She could not bear to think of the farewells she would have to endure.

It was not until the end of the week, after she had boarded a brig bound for Portsmouth, that she was able to relive the major's good-bye and wonder at it.

One thing seemed clear, however, and that was that whatever Major Lord Mark Adair's relationship with the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna had been, it was now most definitively at an end.

At last Sophia could admit to herself the constraint this relationship had put on her own friendship with the major. Until the appearance of Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna, Sophia had felt closer to Major Lord Mark Adair than she had ever felt toward anyone else except her mother. With the appearance of the condesa, he had seemed to withdraw, or maybe she herself had withdrawn, especially after their disagreement over the condesa's portrait. She had thought, especially after their discussion of losing their mothers, that they had regained some of their original intimacy. Certainly there had been a naked vulnerability in the major's eyes when he had confessed to his feelings of guilt over his mother's death that made Sophia believe he had never confided it to anyone except her, but at the same time, he also seemed to be perfectly capable of being intimate in other ways with Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna, ways in which he was not intimate with Sophia.

As Sophia paced the brig's deck or leaned over its rails to gaze at the gray swells all around her, she thought again and again of the look in his eyes as he had assured her that he was
a friend you may always call upon if you need me.
There had been an intensity in that look, an insistent note in his voice that made it seem as though there were some other message he had been trying to convey to her.

Not only did she think about the major's looks and words, but about her own reaction to them, how his farewell kiss had evoked feelings in her she did not know existed. Until that moment, she had not understood the hunger she had observed in the condesa's eyes when they rested on the major, a hunger she had seen in the eyes of other women when she had caught them gazing at some of the more dashing officers.

Until that parting moment with the major, she had thought herself immune to such things, but now she knew that she was not. The attraction she felt toward Mark Adair, the lean, tanned face with the high cheekbones and mobile mouth, the straight dark brows over penetrating eyes that missed nothing, the broad shoulders and long legs that made him tower over other men, was an attraction she had never felt toward anyone else.

It was not that he had kissed her or held her in his arms, she knew that now. The kiss had just forced her to realize that she had been attracted to him for a long, long time—since the first day he had come pounding over the hill on Caesar's back and scolded her for sketching in the middle of a war. And as his lips had come down on hers, as he crushed her to him so that she was close enough to feel his heart beat, Sophia had discovered that she had also wanted that kiss for a long, long time.