Lord Harry's Daughter (21 page)

Chapter
37

The evening, however, brought him no closer to enlightenment. Both Lady Laura and Lady Cecilia were fashionably fair with the requisite rosebud lips and retroussee noses. Both were graceful dancers and amusing companions with an inexhaustible flow of clever remarks and
on-dits.
Both were becomingly attentive, though the minute he spoke of anything serious he could see their eyes begin to glaze over in spite their well-bred attempts to keep the smiles pasted to their lips and to nod in the appropriate places. And it was clear from his brother's approving smiles that selecting Lady Laura or Lady Cecilia would permanently insure him against the duke's ponderous attempts to direct his life. That in and of itself was worth a good deal to Mark.

Why, then, did he feel the leaden weight of his life closing in on him? Why did this safe, secure future fill him with more foreboding than even the most horrific day in the Peninsula? Overcome with a vague distaste for life in general, Mark left the rout early to wander the streets for hours, feeling more alone than he could ever remember. He considered going to the barracks and reminiscing over a bottle of port with his fellow officers, but most of them would congratulate him rather than commiserate with him on the prospect of marrying an attractive, wealthy woman.

No one would understand how utterly bored he was at the thought of a comfortable life devoid of danger and empty of challenge. That was it, he needed a new challenge. And the thought of challenge brought with it the memory of someone else who could not exist without a challenge—Sophia Featherstonaugh.

The pall of dullness and boredom that had hung over him all day vanished as quickly as if the sun had broken through the clouds. He could talk to her. She would understand how he felt.

The tide of happiness that washed over him, the sense of relief that flooded through him as he thought of Sophia, were miraculous. But then followed the inevitable question. Did she feel that way about him? And how was he to discover whether or not she did?

Almost as quickly as the question arose, it was answered. He would ask her to draw portraits of his two possible fiancées. Not only would she be able to show him the subtle differences between the two that he had been unable to detect, but her reaction to his request would tell him something about her own feelings for him. Despite Sophia's angry disavowal of the slightest jealousy of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna, Mark still believed that some of her distaste for the condesa
had
sprung from feelings of jealousy. Surely he was right about that. Sophia for all her intelligence and unusual upbringing was still a human being after all, still a woman.

Mark was so relieved and delighted by his idea that he could hardly wait to put it to the test. Not only would the commissioning of the two portraits provide an excuse to call on Sophia, it would give him the opportunity to discover how much she cared for him, if she cared for him at all. Now all he had to do was to decide whether or not he really wanted to know.

* * * *

The next afternoon Sophia was reading the
Times
when Lady Lydia's butler came to announce that there was a gentleman below to see her. “A gentleman?” Sophia remembered with a sinking feeling that Sir Ernest Tudway had been promising to stop by and leave another of his learned and unintelligible treatises on an obscure topic for her to read.

“It is a Major Lord Mark Adair. Am I to tell him that you are at home?"

“Oh yes, certainly. By all means. Thank you, Mackworth."

Observing the major as he followed Mackworth into the room, Sophia could not help but be struck all over again by the way his powerful figure infused the room with energy and excitement.

“Good day. Major.” She rose to greet him. “I am sorry that my aunt has gone to call on a friend of hers who is very ill."

“Will you take it amiss if I tell you that I am not calling upon her, but upon you?” Mark raised a quizzical brow.

“Not at all. You mistake my meaning. It is just that I should like her to become better acquainted with you."

“Am I to take it, then, that you value her opinion? She must have made you feel welcome here after all."

“Yes. She has been most kind to me. She has done a great deal to make me feel at home here and she has introduced me to many of her acquaintances, who are more sensible than I could have hoped."

“That must be a great relief to you.” Mark could not help feeling vaguely disappointed as he realized that in some odd sort of way he had hoped she would welcome him as the only person with whom she could truly share her thoughts and feelings, the way he had welcomed the sight of her bright, intelligent face among the fashionable throng at Lady Montmorency's ball.

“Yes. And I expect you can guess just how great a relief it is.” She smiled at him shyly.

“Sophia ... I mean, Miss Featherstonaugh."

“Yes?"

“This is not purely a social call. I have come to ask a favor of you."

“Yes?” He seemed oddly ill at ease and Sophia could not imagine what was coming next.

“Once again, I find myself in need of your skills.” When he had first come up with the notion of having her draw pictures of Lady Laura and Lady Ceclia, it had seemed easy enough to ask her to do a simple sketch of the two young ladies, but now, for some reason, he was having great difficulty articulating his request. “I need your help deciding ... I mean, I need your skill at reading character ... well, what it is, is that there are two young woman I am thinking of ... in short, I am trying to decide which one to ask to become my wife."

Even as he said it, he could hear how absurd it must sound, but Sophia did not evince the slightest reaction. In fact, she betrayed no emotion at all, not even the flicker of an eyelash, but sat, an expression of polite interest frozen on her face. “I was wondering"—he tugged uncomfortably at his cravat—"if you would be so good as to draw a portrait of each one of them—a sketch, nothing more. You always see so much, and I thought you might distinguish a difference between the two that I had missed, a difference that might help me to choose one over the other."

For a moment Sophia could not speak. She felt as she once had when as a small girl she had walked too close behind a horse and been kicked in the stomach. Then, with a valiant effort, she summoned her wits about her. “These two women are so interchangeable, they mean so little to you that you cannot choose between them?” she asked incredulously. “I have never heard of anything so cynical in my entire life!"

“Cynical? Is it cynical or is it rational? I assure you that neither one of them cares a whit for
me
as a person, but they both care a great deal for what I represent, a husband who is of an equal station in society and wealthy enough to provide for them. Surely you do not pretend that I should marry for love. After all,
you
would never be so reckless as to marry for love."

“Yes, I...” The image of her careworn mother scrimping and saving the little left over for them after her father had lost yet another sum on some ridiculous wager rose before Sophia, and she thought of the endless nights they had sat up waiting for him to stagger home from the arms of some woman, or an evening drinking with the lads. “No, I would
not
marry for love.” But even as she uttered the words, another picture of her mother smiling fondly at the general flitted through her mind. At first Sophia had assumed that the general and her mother, both widowed and mature, had married merely out of mutual respect and a wish for companionship, but she had, over time, revised her opinion as she had watched the two of them together. Perhaps their maturity had given them the freedom and the confidence to follow their hearts. Certainly the affection she had witnessed between them had often made her feel left out and just the tiniest bit jealous of their obvious delight in one another and their very real happiness. “I mean, I do not know,” she concluded lamely.

Mark heaved a sigh of relief. There was hope after all. “Then could you help me? You must consider this as you would any other commission, as an opportunity to advance your career, except that you will know I am counting on you for so much more."

She opened her mouth to refuse, but shut it again when she realized how churlish it would sound. After all, he was only trying to promote what she had often expressed as her dearest wish. It would be most ungrateful of her to reject such an offer on the grounds that she disapproved of his behavior, and it would be even worse to condemn that behavior if she could not counter his logic with her own strong arguments against it. He was only doing what every one of his acquaintances would do or had done. Why then did she feel so dreadfully disappointed in him? “Very well."

Mark rose and took both her hands in his. “Thank you so much. I shall be forever in your debt. You will hear from me as soon as I have spoken to Lady Laura and Lady Cecilia."

Another bow and he was gone, leaving Sophia to wonder if she had gone stark, raving mad. Here he was offering support and encouragement for her career and she wished to have nothing to do with any of it, or with the two young women whom she had never seen before, but already detested.

Chapter
38

In fact, it turned out that neither lady was particularly detestable. Each one was far more charming and far less self-serving than the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna had been. During her session at the family's town residence in Portman Square, Lady Laura confided to Sophia that she hoped to do everything in her power to make Lord Mark Adair a suitable wife. “His papa and mine were friends since Eton and Mark is so much more charming than the Marquess of Ashworth, who is Papa's other choice for me. The marquess is years older than I and though Mark is only a second son, Papa feels it incumbent upon him to honor a promise he made to Mark's papa when I was in the cradle, which is most fortunate. I do think the major is quite handsome, do you not. Miss Featherstonaugh?"

Sophia, intent upon her sketch, was able to mumble a reply that neither confirmed nor denied this opinion and her subject chattered gaily on, never noticing that her portraitist, while appearing to listen with great seriousness to everything she said, never actually responded to any of it.

It took the entire afternoon, but Sophia, bound and determined to have as little contact with either one of the prospective fiancées, was able to sketch in enough detail that she required only one sitting with each of them.

Lady Cecilia, though slightly more reserved and less forthcoming than Lady Laura, welcomed Sophia graciously and sat uncomplainingly in her Berkeley Square drawing room for the entire session. When it was over she begged to see Sophia's work. “Why, you are vastly clever, are you not? Lord Mark told me that you were. He says that you are good enough to become the next Angelica Kauffmann, and that he is determined to see to it that you do. He is such a forceful gentleman. Tell me, Miss Featherstonaugh, since you, too, were in the Peninsula, do you think he will find living in the country quite dull after all his travels? I myself prefer a quiet life and I look forward to returning to Kent. It would be such a relief after the rigors of the Season. Mama quite adores all these routs and balls, but I prefer a quiet evening by the fire—so much more enjoyable, do you not agree?"

Once again Sophia, putting the final touches on the sketch, was able to avoid responding. She could not help feeling pleased that Mark had spoken of her in such a complimentary fashion, but in truth, she found little to decide between the two ladies. Both women appeared to be equally unsuited to a man who craved activity and constant challenge. She as much as told the major this several days later when he came to collect the sketches.

Mark crossed over to the windows of Lady Lydia's drawing room that looked out over Brook Street. Holding them to the light, he examined first one sketch and then the other. “But these are no help. They are both lovely, but virtually indistinguishable."

“So are the ladies."

“This is not like you, Miss Featherstonaugh.” Mark congratulated himself on his carefully noncommittal tone of voice. So she did not care for either of his worthy prospects—that was most encouraging. “Ordinarily you have a decided opinion on everything. You never fail to pick up some clue as to the personality beneath the outward facade."

Perhaps in this case, there is none,
Sophia longed to reply, but she held her tongue.

“Then whom do
you
think I should marry?"

“Why marry at all?"

“Why indeed? A very good question. Miss Featherstonaugh. But, tell me, even though you might not believe it possible, do you not secretly hope to marry, to find someone with whom you could share the rest of your life, someone to whom you could confide your deepest thoughts, your most cherished dreams? Do you not have worries and fears that would dwindle into nothing if someone could share them with you?

“I never thought of marriage.” That part, at least, was true. As to the rest of it, she had pictured it almost constantly since the day they had said good-bye in Saint Jean. While it was true that her aunt had been very kind and they possessed similar tastes and intellectual interests, no one, not even her mother, had shared things with her so intimately as Major Lord Mark Adair had. And when she had left him in France, it had felt as though she had left half of herself behind.

Watching her closely, Mark wondered what brought the color rushing into her cheeks. Was she remembering the way her lips had responded to his kiss, the way her body had molded itself to his?

“I am sorry. Major, that my pictures did not help you with your decision.” Unable to bear his scrutiny any longer, Sophia turned and walked briskly away from the window toward the sofa in front of the fire.

“No matter. They are excellently done. I am sure that both ladies will be pleased to receive them, and you have proven to me that I cannot commit myself to spending my life with either one of them."

The relief was so great that Sophia's knees almost buckled underneath her. She grabbed the back of the sofa to steady herself. “Then if I have been able to help you in any way, I am pleased."

“Yes, you certainly have helped me. You always do.” He came to stand next to her, looking deep into her eyes, searching for some clue, something that would tell him for certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. His eyes remained steady on her face for some time, then, raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it, turned, and was gone.

Walking back down Brook Street, Mark asked himself,
What next?
The wind ruffled the paper that Sophia had wrapped around the pictures. He looked down at the package in his hand. What a fool he had been! It seemed so simple now; how could it have been so complicated before?
Why marry at all?
he heard her asking. Why indeed? For the reasons he had just given her. He did not wish to marry Lady Laura or Lady Cecilia, not so much because he had anything against either lady, or against marriage, for that matter, but because he wished to marry Sophia! The vague feeling of unrest and dissatisfaction that had been hanging over him since she had left Saint Jean vanished in an instant and once again his life felt full of possibility and, yes, challenge. For how was he to convince Sophia Featherstonaugh that she wished to marry him?

I never thought of marriage,
she had said. That, given her father's example, he could well believe, but what did she think of love? There was the challenge. He could not say to a woman like Sophia,
I love you, I want to marry you,
just like that with no preparation, no warning, nothing. She would not believe him for an instant. Her natural distrust for dashing cavalry officers in general, and one who had been involved with the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna in particular, would make her inclined to distrust anything he might say. So how was he to convince her? What was he to do? Somehow he would have to come up with something.

But the moment Mark entered his brother's impressive marble hall, his attention was distracted by a more immediate problem. As he crossed the black and white tiles and headed for the imposing marble staircase, he heard his name being called.

“Uncle Mark?” His nephew, Richard, appeared in the doorway of the library and glanced anxiously around to assure himself that they were unobserved. “Might I have a word with you?"

Something was seriously amiss. It took no great powers of observation to see that his ordinarily blithe nephew was greatly worried about something. His customarily sunny countenance was drawn and haggard and the unnatural pallor of his skin only made the dark circles under his eyes all the more pronounced. “What is up, lad? You look as though you are in a devil of a coil. Mark poured a glass of brandy, handed it to his nephew, and pointed to a chair on one side of the fireplace. “Now, out with it."

“Well, you see, the last few nights at Watier's"—Richard tugged nervously at his cravat as his uncle's eyebrows rose—"and, no, Papa has not the slightest notion that I frequent the establishment. He does not approve of any game of chance, but that is because he does not understand. It is the opportunity to test one's wits against someone else's. Not all of us are lucky enough to prove ourselves in the Peninsula, and a man must do
something."

Mark nodded encouragingly.

“You see, the thing of it is, everyone does it, and one does not want to be thought of as hen-hearted so one has to play a little to keep up one's reputation. And, if one does not want to be thought of as a nip-cheese, one has to wager a decent sum. All the really choice spirits go to Watier's these days and there is no harm in a friendly game of whist, is there?"

“Except that..."

“Except that last night and the night before I lost nearly one thousand pounds. I know, I know, that does not seem such a princely sum compared to many, but Papa is so clutch-fisted he would be horrified if he found out and I do not have the ready to pay my debts, which, of course, must be paid."

“So you would like a draft on my bank for one thousand pounds."

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Richard ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “It is just that I think, I mean, I feel fairly certain that I was cheated."

“That is a serious accusation, lad."

“I know, I know. And I know that anyone who is at Watier's is a gentleman and that every greenhorn who loses thinks he has been beaten by a Captain Sharp, but I
am
more than seven, you know, and I
do
play a fair game of whist. I have not ever lost before. Oh, a game here and there over the years, but nothing to signify. However, these last few nights, I could do nothing
but
lose and each time, I was playing with the same people. So that is why I think that there is something havey-cavey about it. But I do not know who it is nor what to do. One simply cannot accuse one's enemies, much less one's friends, of cheating at cards, particularly if one does not know which one is doing it. Whatever shall I do?” He groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“It is always the same group of people, you say."

“Yes. Fenton Crawthorne, Calverly Berwick, and Digby Northcote."

“Friends of yours?"

“Yes. Er, well, that is, since I have come to town, but they are all perfectly unexceptionable. Berwick and I were at Eton together, and everyone knows that Northcote is rich as the Golden Ball so he has no need to do such a thing. And Berwick has known Crawthorne this age—their families have neighboring estates in Oxfordshire, or some such thing—so it is not as though any one of them is not a gentleman."

“No? Hmmm.” Mark thought for a while. “And are you being pressed for the money?"

“No. Crawthorne is being most gentlemanlike about it. They all say that my luck will turn, I just need to play a little more to win it all back, but I have never had a losing streak before. It is not as though it were E.O. or hazard, which
are
a matter of luck."

“I agree.” Mark rose and laid a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. “Let me think about it a bit, lad, and I shall see what I can come up with. Let us talk again tomorrow."

Richard rose, smiling shyly at his uncle. “You are a great gun. Uncle Mark. Papa knows about a great many things, of course, but he is such a stickler for propriety, and he can make one feel so ... feel so..."

“Believe me, lad, I know precisely what you mean. Now you go out and get some fresh air and exercise. Your father is not noted for being sensitive, but he will notice if his son and heir walks around looking like a ghost."

Then, following his own advice, Mark ordered Caesar to be saddled up and brought around for a ride in the park. Fresh air and exercise always cleared his mind as well and helped him to think.