Sex and the Single Earl (14 page)

“I know, but we’ve run out of time,” he replied in a cool voice. “I have urgent business in London and can’t afford to delay my return to the city any longer. And you need to order your bridal clothes and begin planning for the wedding.”

She jerked upright in her seat.
Leave Bath?
She couldn’t. She had a chance to help Becky and Toby, no matter what the blasted Earl of Trask might have to say about it. He may have forgotten them, but she hadn’t.

Well, maybe for a little while, but that wouldn’t happen again.

Simon frowned as she edged away from him. His hard eyes, glittering like coal, swept over her, then he rose with athletic grace from the settee. Turning his back—he really did have a magnificent set of shoulders—he grabbed his shirt from the chair where he had tossed it and began to turn out the sleeves.

Sophie yanked her attention from the bronzed sinews of his back and neck, determined to refocus on the conversation.

“Why must we rush back to town? You never said anything about this important business before tonight. I’m not ready to leave Bath. And I’m not ready to announce our engagement, either.”

He didn’t even look at her, pulling his shirt over his head instead. A shivery sense of anxiety crept up her spine. Was he avoiding her question? Simon never did that. The man didn’t know how to be anything but blunt, at least with her.

His head emerged from the folds of his shirt. He threw a hooded glance her way before turning to search for the rest of his clothes scattered about the room.

“Fine. If you don’t want to return to the city, then we can be married here. I’ll still need to go up to London to discuss the settlements with your mother and your grandfather. Your family, I’m sure, will be happy to travel to Bath. I assume you’ll want your mother to be here when you get married,” he finished sarcastically.

He
had
avoided her question. Why wouldn’t he explain why they had to get married in such a rush?

Sophie gaped at him. He was holding something back, something important. Every instinct she possessed confirmed it. The idea that he had obviously decided to lie to her about it made her naked flesh crawl with goose bumps.

She shook her head, wishing desperately she could obliterate the woolly clouds from her brain. What should she do? Simon had retreated behind the imperious facade that would deflect any attempts to pry the truth from him. But she couldn’t marry him until she knew what he was hiding from her. Especially—and she could barely stand to think about this—if it had something to do with Lady Randolph.

Simon took her silence for acquiescence, for he extracted his pocketbook and a pencil from his tailcoat and began to make notes.

“I’ll notify the local parish tomorrow, so the banns can be posted Sunday. We can be married in three weeks.” He paused for a moment as he frowned at his notebook, then resumed his rapid scribbling. “You can order your wedding clothes here. Aunt Eleanor and Aunt Jane can help you. It’s not London, but surely there are some respectable modistes in Bath who can provide you with what you need. I expect you to begin shopping tomorrow, so there will be no pointless delays. Have the shopkeepers send the bills to me.”

An acrid taste of panic flooded her mouth. Why in God’s name was he pushing so hard? And why wouldn’t he even look at her?

“Simon, stop.” Sophie put as much authority into the command as she could.

He glanced up, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth as his gaze drifted over her naked body. Sophie could feel the hot rush of blood staining her cheeks. She grabbed her chemise from the heap of clothing on the floor and yanked the flimsy garment over her head.

They stared at each other for a long moment. The smile on Simon’s lips faded, the lines of his face hardening until it resembled that Greek statue once again.
No happy bridegroom this
, she thought with a sinking heart.

“Now what?” His tone was now positively grim.

Sophie steeled herself to ask the question she had sworn she never would—or at least not yet. But his behavior demanded she seek the truth. The man who had made passionate love to her had disappeared, replaced by the arrogant earl who rarely deigned to show emotion. She didn’t trust that man, and right now she had a great deal of difficulty imagining herself married to him.

“Simon.” Her voice caught. She swallowed and tried again. “Simon, do you love me?”

He had looked away to tuck his pocketbook into the folds of his coat, but her question made him jerk around in surprise.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” His black eyes narrowed to slits. “Sophie, have you gone completely mad?”

She stood her ground. “Well, do you?”

He sighed, buttoned up his brocaded waistcoat, and then shrugged into his formfitting tailcoat. A weighted silence filled the room, blending with the shadows around them. Her heart gave a sickening thump as she realized he was buying time to formulate an answer.

He finally looked at her. “I’ve loved you ever since you were a little girl. Why do you think I pay so much attention to you?”

She almost choked. Paid attention to her? Brotherly scolds and reprimands were his idea of paying attention to her?

“Well, that’s very sweet of you.” She could hear the grumble in her voice. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. Are you
in love
with me, Simon?”

His dark brows snapped together like a trap. “What’s the difference?”

Her heart squeezed another painful thump against her breastbone. Simon had, as usual, identified the exact nature of the problem, even though he probably didn’t realize it. He cared for her, but he had clearly fortified himself against the tempestuous emotions that swept through her every time she came within a hundred feet of him. How could she ever hope to have any control in their marriage—even self-control—if he refused to grant her any part of his true self?

“Sophie?” He studied her with narrow intensity, as if she were some exotic creature in a menagerie.

She blew out a tight breath and rose to her feet. Her head ached a great deal too much to think her way through the problem tonight. Well, more than one problem, since she couldn’t shake the disturbing notion that he had lied to her about something.

Her throat constricted with unshed tears, but she forced herself to speak past them. “I’d rather not talk any more tonight. You’d better go before Yates or one of the other servants discovers what we’ve been doing in here.”

A brief grin slashed across Simon’s dark visage. “I expect the old codger has a fairly good idea of what’s transpired.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t joke about it,” Sophie hissed as she grabbed his arm and began to drag him across the drawing room. The thought of discovery made her stomach pitch like the deck of a fishing boat in a storm.

“Very well, I’ll go,” he grumbled as he let her tow him to the door. “But tomorrow we will set a date for our wedding. I won’t take no for an answer.”

She wrenched open the door, stepping aside to let him pass. He walked through and turned, obviously intending to continue their argument, but Sophie slammed the door in his face and twisted the key in the lock. The solid panels of the mahogany door muffled the sound of his oath. After a few moments she heard him stalk toward the front of the townhouse, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly with his disapproval.

She sagged against the coolness of the polished doorframe, her heart pounding so rapidly in her throat she could hardly breathe. Making love with him had been the worst mistake of her life. He had taken her innocence, claimed her for his own, and would continue to insist on marriage as soon as possible. His honor, and the demands of society would allow for nothing less.

But she wasn’t ready to marry him. And she might never be if he kept acting the way he had tonight. Something was terribly wrong, and she needed the time to find out what it was.

Somehow, she had to find a way to turn back the clock.

The coming of the dawn didn’t weaken Sophie’s resolve, or lessen her sense that Simon had lied to her. Well, he could bluster away till Armageddon, but she had no intention of being pushed into a hasty marriage. And she certainly wouldn’t leave Bath until she saw Toby and Becky again, and assured herself of their safety.

Given his way, Simon would ruthlessly carry her back to her mother’s house in Mayfair, then head straight to Grosvenor Square and to Grandfather Stanton, who would agree to anything Simon asked for. In less than a month, Sophie would find herself trussed and delivered like a Christmas goose to her impatient bridegroom, who would then serve her up to the ton on a gold-leafed platter.

And trussed up like a Christmas goose was exactly how she was beginning to feel, in spite of Simon’s declarations and lovemaking. He had never before shown any inclination to marry her, though both their grandfathers and his aunts had often voiced the hope that “the stubborn lad would come to his senses and marry the poor girl.”

Sophie still winced whenever she recalled the long-suffering look on Simon’s face as he deflected the labored jests about founding a new family dynasty. He had never laughed or made a joke in return, which had made the whole thing worse. If only he hadn’t taken it so seriously, as if marrying her was the most horrifying idea he could imagine. She had put up with it for years and for some demented reason had loved him anyway, though she had always known he would rather set sail for India on a broken-down raft than take her as his wife.

But now, for some reason, he wanted her. And if last night was any indication, wanted her with an alarming, if flattering, intensity. She had slept barely a wink after she had climbed into bed, jerked from sleep by disturbing dreams of Simon’s mouth on her lips, his hands on her breasts, his—

“Sophia Stanton, you’re turning as red as a beet. Are you coming down with a fever?”

Sophie jumped inches off the carriage squabs as awareness of her surroundings came flooding back. How humiliating to be thinking of
that
while driving through the streets of Bath with Simon’s Aunt Eleanor. As if trying to hide the marks on her neck left by his voracious kisses hadn’t been bad enough.

“I…I don’t think so, ma’am,” she scrambled. “Although I may have eaten something last night that disagreed with me.”

Lady Eleanor’s dark skirts rustled their disapproval. “How like Lady Penfield to serve bad refreshments. I remember one of her routs in London when she served lobster patties that smelled like a goat pen. I, of course, had the sense not to eat them, and I directed everyone that night to avoid them as well. But Mrs. Groton insisted on sampling them—a decision, I assure you, she came to regret.”

The feathers on the old woman’s bonnet quivered with righteous indignation, leaving no doubt of the severe agonies inflicted by the lobster patties.

“There were no seafood patties last night, my dear ma’am.”

“Regardless, I insist you take a glass of the waters today. It’s just the thing for bilious complaints.”

Sophie grimaced. Better to eat one of Lady Penfield’s suspect patties than choke back yet another glass of the vile healing waters of Bath.

The family carriage rolled to a stop in front of the imposing portico and columns of the Pump Room. James lowered the step and handed Lady Eleanor to the pavement. Sophie jumped to the ground, waving aside the footman’s offer of assistance. The old woman grumbled under her breath, but declined to scold, leaning heavily on Sophie’s arm as she trudged into the Pump Room.

The magnificent Tompion clock had just struck noon. Elegant ladies and soberly clad gentlemen crowded the room to sip the waters and gossip about the previous evening’s parties. The musicians, in their usual place in the west apse, provided a tuneful back note to the cheerful, discordant chatter that rose and fell in waves.

Lady Eleanor and Sophie made their way to the top of the room, nodding to acquaintances but not stopping until they reached a few chairs set back against the wall. After settling the old woman into her seat, Sophie fetched a glass of water from the fountain attendant.

Lady Eleanor frowned, taking the glass. “Where is your water?”

“Oh, I seem to have forgotten it,” Sophie replied absently as she scanned the crush of people. She both hoped and dreaded that Simon would come to the Pump Room this morning. After last night’s soul-shattering encounter, she should obviously speak to him in private, but she was dead certain he would respond with outrage when she announced her intention to put off their wedding. Better to spring it on him in a public place, where he’d be less likely to attempt intimidation.

Or worse, try to kiss her into submission. Which, she had to admit, had a much better chance of working on her than intimidation.

“Sophia, stop craning your neck like a stork.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sophie stretched up a bit further—it really was inconvenient being so short—but couldn’t spy Simon anywhere. She let her gaze drift over the crowd, relaxing as she encountered nothing more than a few disapproving stares from the usual assortment of bombazine dragons. No doubt her behavior at Lady Penfield’s had occasioned a few choice tidbits of gossip this morning.

Despite her fluttering nerves, Sophie couldn’t help snickering as she imagined the ton’s reaction to her engagement to Simon, and what it would mean for her. No one would dare snub the Countess of Trask. Perhaps there were some advantages to becoming his bride after all—aside from the obvious ones he had shown her last night.

A moment later her laughter died when her eyes encountered the one person in Bath she least wanted to see, especially this morning.

Lady Randolph headed toward their corner of the room, her lush body wrapped in wine-colored silk that made her auburn curls glow like flame. As usual, she had a handsome escort by her side, looking as if he, too, wished to wrap himself around her voluptuous body in the same clingy way as the fabric of her gown. Sophie didn’t recognize the man, but he seemed somehow familiar.

Oh well, at least it’s not Simon doing the clinging.

Her headache from last night, still lurking behind her eyeballs, returned full force under Lady Randolph’s malicious gaze. Why couldn’t the blasted woman just leave her alone?

“My dear Lady Eleanor, Miss Stanton, how delightful to meet you this morning,” purred the countess. “Why, Miss Stanton, I had no expectations of seeing you at all.”

“There’s no explaining your expectations, Lady Randolph,” replied Lady Eleanor, her voice frosty. “Why shouldn’t Sophia be out and about today?”

“She seemed most unwell last night at Lady Penfield’s ball. Perhaps it was something she drank.”

Lady Randolph’s escort laughed, earning him a hard-eyed stare from Lady Eleanor.

“More like something she ate,” barked the old woman. “And who might this jackanapes be? You could remember your manners, Countess, and properly introduce him.”

The other woman’s eyes narrowed, but she maintained her cream-pot smile. Sophie wished that, just once, the sophisticated widow would lose her poise in front of an audience.

“Allow me to present Mr. Watley. He’s been in Bath for only a few days, which might explain why you haven’t seen him.”

“My lady. Miss Stanton.”

Mr. Watley gave a graceful, correct bow and returned his gaze to Sophie. He seemed fascinated by her, and with a sickening flash she realized she had seen him before. He was the man outside the theater. The man who had watched her with avid curiosity as she helped Toby inside Lady Eleanor’s carriage.

Sophie sucked in a breath through her teeth. If Lady Eleanor found out about that particular escapade, there would be the devil to pay for both Sophie and the servants who had escorted her that night. She prayed Mr. Watley had the sense to keep what he saw to himself.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” intoned Lady Eleanor, obviously not charmed in the least.

Lady Randolph turned back to Sophie. “I do hope you are feeling better today, Miss Stanton. How unfortunate that Simon had to take you home last night. He was greatly missed, I can assure you.”

“I’m fine, your ladyship. Thank you for inquiring,” she ground out.

Mr. Watley didn’t bother to hide his knowing smirk.

“My nephew knows his responsibility when he sees it,” Lady Eleanor intoned. “He has been taking care of my god-child since she was a girl.”

Sophie refused to let her eyeballs roll up to the ceiling. Is that how everyone saw her relationship to Simon—simply as one of responsibility?

The malicious gleam returned to Lady Randolph’s eyes. “I’ve always thought Simon was very good with children. He’s so noble and self-sacrificing to all his family.”

“You needn’t tell me my nephew’s good qualities, Bathsheba. I know them very well,” snapped Lady Eleanor as she struggled to her feet. “Sophia, give me your arm. I’d like to stroll around the room a bit.”

Sophie dropped a short curtsy, casting a glance at the countess and her escort. Their expressions were rigid in the face of Lady Eleanor’s blatant snub, but Mr. Watley quickly recovered and executed a faultless bow. The old woman ignored him as she moved away with stately grace.

Sophie choked back a laugh. “Ma’am, that was splendidly done,” she murmured in her godmother’s ear.

“Never could abide the woman, even if she is supposedly good ton. I swear, her antics sent her husband to an early grave, even if he did accidentally kill himself in a carriage race.”

Sophie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Randolph was mad for her, from the very beginning. She didn’t give a stitch for him—married him for his money. Oh, the girl was always discreet. Never embarrassed him in public, although she often cut very close to the line. But there were rumors that quite a few men besides Randolph shared her bed. Poor silly fellow couldn’t stand it. If he hadn’t cracked his curricle on the road to Brighton, he would have drowned himself in a barrel of brandy.”

Sophie’s jaw went slack. Lady Eleanor had never spoken so frankly to her before—at least not about something so scandalous.

The old woman cast an impatient glance. “Don’t give me that look, miss. I know you understand me. You’re not a simpering schoolgirl anymore, not that you ever were. I want you to stay far away from that woman. For all her fine airs she is a bad piece of business, and for some reason she seems to have taken an extreme dislike to you.”

Sophie gave her head a small shake. It never ceased to amaze her that her godmother, who rarely left the house, observed a great deal more than one could ever imagine.

Lady Eleanor expelled a sigh. “I never could understand Simon’s fascination with Bathsheba. Madness to go anywhere near the viperous creature. I do hope he has learned his lesson.”

Sophie caught her foot on the ruffled trim of her hem, but managed to catch herself.

“Pay attention, Sophia,” rapped out Lady Eleanor. “We’ll both end up in a heap on the floor thanks to your clumsiness.”

Muttering an apology, Sophie took a firm grip of Lady Eleanor’s arm and walked slowly on.

Did everyone know Simon and Lady Randolph had been lovers? And did everyone think they still were? He had assured her last night that he and the widow were now merely friends, but why did Sophie find that so difficult to accept? All her instincts clamored that Simon was holding something back. She would find out what it was if she had to tie him to a chair and pummel it out of him.

“Ah, and there’s the great man himself,” grumped Lady Eleanor, gazing toward the front of the Pump Room. “I wondered when he would make an appearance.”

Sophie’s heart banged against her ribs. All the dark magic of last night’s memories came rushing back as she watched Simon prowl toward them through the company. She tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat were suddenly parched. The potent combination of longing and frustration that flooded through her every time she saw him would surely drive her to Bedlam, in short order.

He moved with a long, easy stride, nodding to friends but never pausing until he stood before them. His eyes gleamed as he openly—and thoroughly—inspected Sophie from tip to toe. A hot rush of blood seemed to flush every part of her skin in response. She couldn’t help scowling at her own ridiculous reaction to his possessive gaze.

Her forbidding expression apparently failed to deter him, because his eyes sparkled with laughter. He smiled as he bent over his aunt’s gloved hand.

“Good afternoon, my lady. I’m pleased to see you looking so well.”

Although clearly irritated with her nephew, Lady Eleanor couldn’t keep her lips from twitching into an answering grin. As usual, Simon’s smile could charm the devil out of the doldrums.

“Well, my boy, how are you? I had thought to see you before this, but I suppose you had business this morning, as you always do.”

“Alas, yes. Believe me, I would much rather spend the morning with you and Sophie than in the company of two ill-tempered bankers and my slave-driver of a secretary.”

“Simon, you spend too much time with those vulgar city men,” said his aunt. “You know how your grandfather felt about such things. Family and land—those are what matter, not these newfangled schemes that occupy all your time. I’ve hardly seen you since you’ve come to Bath.”

Simon’s face grew remote as he listened to the familiar and aggravating family refrain. Sophie had heard those disapproving remarks often enough over the years when visiting the St. James’s estate, and had seen the tight-lipped bitterness on Simon’s face when the old earl had lectured him about his determination to seek a life of study at Cambridge. She had felt the pain he experienced as her own every time his grandfather pulled him further away from the life he truly desired.

But Simon had buried his disappointment years ago beneath a mask of careful indifference. At least Sophie thought it was a mask, although she had to admit she sometimes didn’t recognize the boy she had loved in the man he had become.

“Forgive me, dear aunt.” Simon’s voice was level and polite. “My business should be concluded in a few days, and then I promise to spend more time with you.”