Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (24 page)

She could not have been more touched.

Yet there was nothing she could do to thank him except stand clutching a broken bottle in the center of a screaming mob. Meanwhile, the baron was moving forward, grabbing on to Anthony's arm as he spoke.

"Do you mean to tell me that the lady is still pure?"

"A glacier could not be more pure!" spat the major.

Sophia flinched—inside. Outwardly, she merely straightened her shoulders. She understood his intentions, but that still did not keep his words from inflicting pain. She had never wanted to be the Ice Queen, but somehow she always seemed to return to that persona.

"Well," sputtered the baron as the furor died down. "I suppose that is all, then. You are free to go, Lady Sophia," he added with a rather confused bow.

Sophia did not know how to respond. She was still too numb from the entire experience to comprehend it all. But then Aunt Agatha was across the room and enfolding her in a mass of ribbons and furbelows, and Sophia was burying her face in the woman's arms.

"Aunt Agatha," she whispered, unsure whether it was a sob or a cry for help.

"Hush, dear, we shall sort this out later. Come along now."

But before she could leave, the other occupants of the room had to clear from the area, and they showed no interest in doing so. Sophia was forced to stand ramrod straight as she listened to one after another coarse man make vulgar comments about her person.

"That 'un's as cold as a witch's tit, she is."

"Aye," cackled a woman. "Have t' be t' refuse the likes of 'im! 'E can come to me bed whenever 'e likes."

Sophia heard the words as distant rumbles, whispers of nonsense that could not touch her. All she had to do was stand still, her expression distant, her body regal. That was all. Soon, it would be over.

Except part of her did hear. Part of her heard everything and remembered similar words voicing the same sentiment, only phrased more politely. Jeers spoken in London about the Ice Queen. The cold woman without a heart. The frozen witch best left alone.

She had thought to escape, but the words had followed her. Just as the major had.

She could not escape. Would never escape.

Except for one night, one glorious night when she had been alive and fulfilled, and joyously, wondrously happy. The night she had spent in Anthony's arms.

But now that was over, and there was nothing left. She had no intelligence to rescue her. No ritual to redeem her. No man to love her. So she did the only thing she could.

For the first time in her life, she willed herself to faint.

* * *

Anthony heard the jeers. Indeed, how could he not? He maintained his pretense of being offended, a thwarted suitor. It was an easy role to play, since he was indeed thwarted.

He told himself that he had made his best attempt to win the lady. He had done all that was humanly possible, and still she had refused. Some events God did not intend, and apparently his marriage to Sophia Rathburn was one of them.

So he told himself.

But the memory of last night still burned in his mind. He recalled her passionate kisses, her ardor, her undeniable hunger for him. She did not feel indifferent to him. She could not.

And yet she did.

He had lost. And at the same time, he'd lost a thousand guineas and his diplomatic post. Anthony clenched his jaw. It was time to return to London. He could lick his wounds in peace there, perhaps save his career. No doubt he could find some insipid girl to wed, then be off across the water to India.

Without Sophia.

The thought was a bayonet wound, piercing and deep.

Then he heard it. It was only one of many ugly comments, but this one stuck in his mind.

"Wait a couple o' months an' we'll see 'ow pure she is. 'Er belly'll be round, you mark my words."

Sophia's belly round with his child?

The thought was both glorious and terrifying all at once. He turned to Sophia, wondering if she had heard the comment. He noticed her unnatural pallor, saw her stiffened spine and haughty expression. What was she thinking? Was she as flustered as he? Excited at the thought of carrying his child?

He did not have to wait long for an answer.

Within moments of the woman's words, Sophia fainted dead away.

Chapter 11

She woke with a cool compress across her forehead. She felt warm and comfortable, but a strange ache of emptiness seemed to surround her. She didn't want to examine it, but instinctively curled away from the thought. The feeling. From everything.

"Come along, dear. Wake up."

It was Aunt Agatha. Which meant she must be in her own bed. Indeed, when she finally, reluctantly opened her eyes, Sophia saw the familiar pink curtains illuminated by the same afternoon sunshine that filled her bedroom every day in Staffordshire. But somehow, it did not seem like home. Though the featherbed and Aunt Agatha's smiling face seemed familiar, they appeared much too cheery for her mood.

She rolled over and buried her head away from the brightness, away from the forced beauty. Away. She would never come out again.

"You might as well roll over and look at me because I am not leaving until you do."

Sophia stiffened at the reproving note in her aunt's voice. "I am not at home, Aunt Agatha. To anyone. Even you."

"Too bad," her aunt snapped. "This is my home, not yours. Now, you will speak with me or I shall be forced to tell all those people downstairs that you will see them directly."

Sophia shifted, poking her head out from under the pillow. "People? What people?" Could it be Anthony had changed his mind?

"Friends of yours, so they say. From London. Come to comfort you in your hour of need."

Sophia winced. "Come to gawk, you mean."

"Yes." Sophia could hear the disgusted note in her aunt's voice and most heartily agreed with the sentiment. But it did not prevent her aging relative from speaking in an excessively stern voice. "Now, will you talk with me or shall I bring them upstairs? A Countess of Ashbury seems most anxious, as she is your dear, dear friend."

Sophia groaned into the mattress and wished she could hide in it for the next decade. "Lord, not Drusilla. Anything but Drusilla."

"She is quite determined."

Sophia waited, but her aunt would not comment further. Neither did she leave. Eventually, Sophia had no choice but to push herself into a sitting position and regard Agatha with a dark look. "You have not invited them to stay, have you?"

"Nonsense. We have only enough room for a few guests. The rest have taken up lodging at the Stag's Heart Inn."

Sophia almost asked who had been fortunate enough to manage an invitation to their house, but then she stopped herself. There was not a soul she wished to see. Even were it the King of England himself, she would tell him she had the migraine.

"Talk, young lady."

Sophia searched her aunt's face for a glimmer of sympathy, some weakness that would allow her to delay this moment of reckoning. But there was no quarter in Agatha's expression, and Sophia sighed, knowing she would not get any peace until she gave in. She folded her hands primly in front of her and eyed her aunt. "Very well. What do you wish to discuss?"

"Exactly what happened. And in great detail. I trusted the major, you know. He seemed quite smitten with you. I cannot believe this betrayal. I am most disappointed with the man. Most disappointed. Now, tell me, what exactly did happen?"

Sophia blinked at her aunt. "What makes you think that it did not happen exactly as the major explained this morning?"

Agatha folded her plump arms, her expression bordering on the insulted. "I am not a peagoose, Sophia. The major does not strike me as a man who lets a simple piece of broken glass keep him from what he wants."

"But—"

"And I have never seen you hurt anything so much as a fly, much less a man. You could never have cut the major, no matter what he did."

Sophia did not know whether to be offended or not. "My virtue was threatened," she said in stiff accents.

"Piffle."

Sophia stared at her aunt, but the woman glared right back. And, in the end, it was her aunt who was stronger. Sophia crumbled, her spine sinking back into the pillows as she released a heavy sigh. "You are right, of course. I have never been so frightened in my whole life as when he cut himself."

"But why would he do it?"

She blinked, suddenly appalled to feel tears slipping down her cheeks. "He did it to save my reputation," she whispered. And then Sophia Rathburn, Ice Queen, began to cry in earnest.

* * *

The sad truth about tears is that as much as one might wish, one cannot sustain that level of heart-wrenching emotion for long. Especially when one is of an analytical bent and has absolutely no idea why the tears are flowing so freely. Or so Sophia told herself before a half hour had expired. Though she had never in her life cried so long or so hard, eventually the tears stopped, and she was left drained, exhausted, and no more enlightened than before.

"What is wrong with me?" she asked her pillow.

"You do not know?" responded Aunt Agatha. In truth, Sophia had not even realized the woman was still with her. She wanted to be alone with her misery. But then she felt her dear aunt's hand gently pat her shoulder, and Sophia had to admit she was grateful for her presence. She needed insight, clarity, from an older and wiser woman. So she turned, looking up at the person she most adored.

"Tell me what to do," she whispered.

Agatha's hand slipped from Sophia's shoulder to gently pat her niece's cheek. "You think on it, my dear. I am sure it will come to you soon enough."

The odd note in her aunt's voice prodded Sophia into finally reaching out. She grasped her aunt's arm, tugging on it in her desperation. "Aunt—"

Gong.

Both women started at the sound, but it was Agatha who sighed, her lavender ribbons fluttering in dismay. "Oh, dear. There is the dinner gong, and I am not even dressed appropriately."

Sophia clutched her aunt's arm even tighter. "But—"

"Hush, now," the older woman said as she gently disengaged her niece's fingers. "It cannot be helped. All those wretched guests will just have to accept me as I am. After all, I did not invite them here."

Sophia blanched, her tears momentarily forgotten in a wash of shame. It was not only her own life in such chaos. She had managed to thoroughly disrupt her aunt's once-peaceful home as well. "I am so dreadfully sorry for all this mess."

Aunt Agatha blinked; then her eyes began to twinkle with a mischievous smile. "Nonsense, my dear," she exclaimed as she rose from the bed. "This is the most entertainment I have had in years. In fact, no doubt most of the county feels the same."

Sophia could do no more than groan, but her aunt absently patted her shoulder before moving to the door, her ribbons trailing away behind her.

"Try to rest," Aunt Agatha called over her shoulder. "All will look better tomorrow."

* * *

The morning dawned disgustingly beautiful. Sophia's first admittedly cowardly thought was to hide in bed for another week at least. Unfortunately, she knew her aunt's unwanted guests would not leave until they had actually discussed her trauma ad nauseam. Therefore, for the sake of her aunt's limited means, she rang for Mary and made herself get dressed.

Forcing herself to leave her room, however, was almost beyond her abilities.

Fortunately, Drusilla was at hand to push her the rest of the way.

"Good morning, my poor dear," the shrew exclaimed as she burst into Sophia's room. "Ah, I see you are dressed already. Good, good, though I am afraid that shade of blue is not quite right for your face. It brings out the smudges under your eyes. Ah, well, never mind. We are late for breakfast, and you will just have to do. Besides, after what you have been through, it is no wonder you look fagged."

As she spoke, Drusilla pushed Mary aside and toured the room, picking up this and that, inspecting everything as she moved. Sophia merely stared at her, noting that the woman's dark hair was a perfect complement to her flawless skin. Over the years, she and Drusilla had constantly fought for the status of reigning beauty.