The Arrangement (42 page)

“Your knuckles too?”

“It was a heavy door,” he said.

She took his other hand from his side and held it in both of hers.

“A
very
heavy door,” he said.

“What happened?”

“A sparring bout in the cellar,” he told her. “Maycock came down this morning, and we thought it would be diverting to spar with each other. Maycock suggested very sportingly that we make the odds more equal by doing it in darkness, and Martin doused the lamps. Maycock came out of it rather worse than I did, unfortunately for him, but it was to be expected. I have had more experience with darkness than he.”

He grinned at her.

She searched his blue eyes, which gazed so nearly directly back into hers.

“It was not a friendly bout, was it?” she asked him. “It was about me?”

He did not answer for a while.

“You were fifteen, Sophie,” he said. “You were hurting and fragile, and he trod all over your heart with nailed boots. Worse, he trod all over your self-esteem. He convinced you that you were ugly when you were in reality one of the most beautiful little creatures ever created.”

“Oh, Vincent.” She felt a tear drip off her chin to be absorbed by her cloak. Another was trickling down her other cheek. “It was all a long time ago. He means no harm, you know. He just does not have strong sensibilities. There was no need to punish him.”

“Yes, there was,” he said. “I may be without sight, Sophie, but I am still a man. And when my woman needs defending, I will defend her.”

My woman.
She had a momentary image of a caveman, hanging on to his woman by the hair with one hand while in the other he wielded a club to beat back caveman number two. Perhaps she would sketch it one day.

But she understood his need to be as other men were—Vincent Hunt, who had always been a leader among boys, at the forefront of every game and wild exploit. He had probably been at the forefront of every youthful fistfight too. She could not squash him by telling him that Sebastian was really not worth his wrath.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, Vincent. Do you have any ointment on those knuckles? Or on your jaw?”

“Martin knew better than to suggest any such thing,” he told her.

Another male thing, she supposed.

“Well,” she said, “I shall kiss them better.”

Which she proceeded to do.

He had fought for her. In the darkness. And won. And then concocted a story to explain all the bruises and raw knuckles so that no one would know the truth except the three men who had been in the cellar. And now her.

She ought not to be pleased. Nothing was ever gained by violence. His generosity in marrying her and his kindness since then had healed her. And she had grown up in five years. The violence had been unnecessary.

She was pleased nonetheless.

Vincent had fought for her.

Because she was his.

And because she was one of the most beautiful little creatures ever created.

S
ophia was dressed for the ball. She did not believe she had ever felt so excited or so sick or so altogether delirious in her life before. She
knew
she had not, in fact.

“You
see,
my lady?” Rosina said just as if Sophia had been arguing with her. “I
told
you.”

“You did indeed,” Sophia agreed, gazing back at her image in the pier glass in her dressing room. Rosina was standing behind her shoulder, and she was somehow reminded of another occasion when she had stood in front of a full-length glass with someone behind her.

Sebastian had taken her aside yesterday after luncheon. His nose had been looking a little less bulbous than the day before, and the bruises on his chin and both sides of his jaw had looked more blue than black. He had spent the day before laughing good-humoredly at all the teasing to which he had been subjected and declaring that the next time he challenged a blind man to a friendly sparring bout, he would make sure it was out of doors at noon on Midsummer Day.

“Sophia,” he had said when they were alone together, “Darleigh is under the impression that I hurt you quite grievously when you were still at Aunt Mary’s. I could not altogether avoid hurting you. I had not realized you were developing tender feelings toward me, and I could not encourage you to continue with those sentiments. To me you were still just a child, you know, and I did not see you that way.”

“No, of course you did not,” she had agreed. He was quite right. But that was not the point.

“You understood, surely,” he had said, “that when I said you were ugly, I was just teasing you.”

The easiest thing would be to say yes. It did not really matter after all this time, anyway. But she would make what Vincent had done yesterday seem foolish. Besides, it
did
matter. The effect of his words had lived with her for years after they were spoken.

“No, Sebastian,” she had said. “I did not understand that, for you were
not
teasing.”

“Oh, I say.” He had looked uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps you are right. You had embarrassed me, and I was annoyed because I did not know quite what to say to you. And you really were a funny-looking girl, you know. You are very much improved now. Please accept my deepest apologies. I probably did you a favor, anyway. You probably took yourself in hand as a result of what I said, did you?”

What was the point of withholding her forgiveness? He had been smiling endearingly at her, his nose slightly glowing. And Vincent had punished him.

“Your apologies are accepted, Sebastian,” she had said. “And you do not look so pretty yourself today, you know. Perhaps you will look better tomorrow.”

She had laughed and held out her right hand toward him, and he had taken it, laughing heartily with her.

“I am
so
glad I got to be your maid,” Rosina said now. “There is
so
much I can do with you.”

Before she could wax even more rapturous, there was a tap on the dressing room door, and Vincent stepped inside.

“My lord.” Rosina curtsied.

“Rosina,” he said, and she withdrew.

He always dressed neatly and elegantly. But tonight, in his black, form-fitting tailed evening coat with silver embroidered waistcoat, pale gray knee breeches with white stockings and linen, and black shoes, he looked nothing short of magnificent. The knee breeches were slightly old-fashioned, but Sophia was very glad he wore them. He certainly had the legs to show them off, and the waist to show off his waistcoat, and the shoulders and chest to make his coat look as though it must have been sewn around him. His fair hair, slightly overlong as usual, had been brushed into a neat style, but soon it would be its usual unruly, attractive self.

“You look extremely handsome, my lord,” she said.

He laughed. “Do you think?”

“I think.”

“Tell me.” He gazed across at her. “Describe yourself.”

“I look ravishing,” she told him, and there was only a very little self-mockery in her tone. “My gown is a bright turquoise, the skirts all soft and floaty and trimmed with a wide flounce at the hem. It is low at the bodice and the back and has little puffy sleeves. My dancing slippers and my gloves are silver, my fan Chinese bamboo and finely wrought and delicately painted. And my hair, Vincent! Rosina has magic in her fingers, I swear.”

“Am I going to have to double her salary?” he asked her.

“Oh, at least that,” she said. “She has made it look
long
when really it has only just started to grow below my chin. I have no idea how she has done it. It is all sleek at the sides and swept up at the back, and all the curls are gathered high on the crown of my head so that there appears to be a great mass of hair there. And she has let a few curls wave artfully over my ears, and I suspect there will be some along my neck before much time has passed. There must be a whole arsenal of pins in my head, Vincent, though I cannot see a single one in the mirror. And Lady Trentham’s hairdresser was quite right—and Rosina too. The style does show my neck to advantage. And I
do
have good cheekbones. I look older. More grown-up, that is. More … Hmm.”

“Beautiful?” he suggested. “Impossible, Sophie.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed.

“You cannot possibly be more beautiful than you already were,” he said.

She laughed and he grinned at her.

“Happy?” he asked.

Her smile faded.

“Ask me again at the end of the evening,” she told him, and the baby chose that moment to perform what felt like a sideways somersault. “If no grand disaster strikes, the answer ought to be yes.”

“Come.” He reached out a hand toward her and drew her against him.

“Don’t squash my hair,” she told him.

He lowered his head and kissed her. She kissed him back and clung to him, her arms about his waist.

“Don’t squash my waistcoat,” he murmured against her lips and deepened the kiss.

She drew back, picked up her fan, and took his arm.

There were guests to receive.

S
ophia had described the scene. Vincent had had the state apartments described to him before, but he had not come here often. They had not particularly interested him except that he knew they gave great pleasure to visitors and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing himself to be the owner of such magnificence.

This evening’s description, of course, had more life to it than it ever had before, partly because Sophia was the teller, and partly because the apartments were being used as they had been intended to be.

The grand salon had been set up as a card room and sitting room for those who wished to withdraw from the bustle of the ballroom for a while. There were four tables and a number of sofas. A fire had been lit in the large marble fireplace. The walls were paneled with narrow bands of oak alternating with wider panels with painted scenes. The high coved ceiling was also decorated with paintings. There was gilding everywhere and a single large chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, every candle lit for the occasion.

The small salon, exactly half the size of its grander neighbor, was similarly decorated. It was set up with refreshments—dainty savories and sweets, wines and liquors, lemonade, tea.

The state dining room was to be used later for supper and toasts and speeches—and a four-tier wedding cake, which had been his grandmother’s idea. A wedding cake with Sophia several months pregnant and beginning to show, if his hands were to be believed!

He hoped it showed. He was bursting with pride—and with suppressed terror.

The ballroom was twice the size of the grand salon and not unlike it except that where there were painted panels in the salon, there were mirrors in the ballroom. And there were three chandeliers overhead and an orchestra dais at one end and a floor that gleamed with polish and French windows that opened onto the terrace.

It must all be magnificent indeed to behold. But it was more so than usual tonight, of course, because it was filled with guests. Oh, it was not the sort of grand squeeze so beloved of hostesses in London during the Season, he supposed, but all his family and Sophia’s were here, and all their neighbors. And Flavian.

Everyone was glittering with jewels and waving with plumes and glowing with color, Sophia reported. She had heard that it was fashionable in London ballrooms for even the youngest of girls and the spottiest of youths to affect an air of ennui. Henrietta had practiced the look when she first made her come-out. No one had that look tonight.

“Not even your aunt and cousin?” Vincent asked when she reported on the fact as the last trickle of arriving guests had been greeted at the doors and had passed inside the ballroom.

“No.” She laughed. “They are too busy looking superior. But they are enjoying themselves too, Vincent. They are very important people here. Our neighbors are looking upon them with deference and admiration. Aunt Martha’s hair plumes must be four feet tall, and they are nodding in very stately fashion.”

“I detect a bit of the caricaturist in that remark,” he said.

“Well, perhaps
three
feet tall,” she conceded. “She is talking with everyone. So is Sir Clarence. If he puffed his chest out any more, his waistcoat buttons would all pop off in unison. Oh, dear! Please stop me.”

“Not for worlds,” he told her. “And Henrietta?”

“Setting her cap at Viscount Ponsonby,” she said, “though it looks as if he has solicited the hand of Agnes Keeping for the opening set.”

“Talking of the opening set,” he said.

“Yes.” Even over the buzz of animated conversation about them, he heard her draw a deep breath. “Where is Uncle Terrence? Ah, here he comes.”

“Shall I give the orchestra the signal to strike up a chord for the opening set, Darleigh?” he asked. “It looks to me, Sophia, as if this is going to be a grand success of an evening.”

“If you will,” Vincent said. He took Sophia’s hand in his and raised it to his lips.

“Enjoy yourself,” he said.

He stood in the doorway listening to the music and the rhythmic pounding of dancing slippers all hitting the wooden floor at the same time. His own foot tapped and he smiled.