The Earl I Adore (5 page)

For a few seconds she just stared at him, her expression mutinous. “And you think I am somehow flaunting myself? Inviting notice?”

He rubbed his tongue back and forth over his teeth as he tried to find the words he wanted. “You've invited notice just by being here. I simply wish for you to have a care as to how you are seen.”

She shook her head, averting her frustrated gaze to the ceiling. “Yes, I know. I should have stayed shut away in Ledbury like the pariah I am. God forbid a man get the wrong impression because I smile at him. God forbid I have a spot of fun.” She pressed her lips together and met his eyes. “Meanwhile, you've been doing heaven knows what in London all these years.”

Where the hell had that come from? “I've been fulfilling my duties. Trips to London are a requirement for a sitting member of parliament.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, I'm aware. But all these years, I never pictured you dancing the night away with woman after available woman. I imagined your club, a coffeehouse, card games, and musicales, but certainly not waltzing as though it is your duty to do so.”

That stung. He already felt guilty that he had left her behind again and again to go to London. Yes, it was part of the requirements of his title, but it was also an escape. It was a sanctioned reason to leave his mother for a while, to climb out from under the darkness that she'd lived under for as long as he could remember. In theory, Julia could have come with him, but they had decided long ago that the risk was too great. After all, while a man was free
to attend any event he wanted with no ulterior motives being assigned to his actions, an unmarried woman's sole purpose could only be to find a husband.

Rubbing a hand over the stubble at his chin, he sighed. “There is nothing wrong with a little dancing, Jules.”

A smug grin emerged from her scowl. “My point exactly. You've had years of harmless fun. I don't see how you can begrudge me the chance to do the same.”

God's teeth, but the woman needed a keeper. There was no telling what she was imagining when she spoke of harmless fun. She may have lost her rational sense of late, but he had no intention of letting good judgment fall by the wayside. Though he hadn't a clue where to even begin, by Jove he planned to have a proper chaperone for her by the end of the week. “I haven't sent you home yet, have I?” he said gruffly. “But let me be clear: If you engage in behavior that I feel is inappropriate, I'll escort you back to Ledbury myself. Understood?”

“You do realize that I am past the age of majority, yes?”

“I do. And do you realize that you're staying in my rental, riding in my carriage, and eating my food?”

Her bravado faded to something much more brittle. “Every day of my life.”

Damn it all. She knew exactly how to gut him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking his sister square in the eye. “We're still a team, Jules. I'm not against you. I'm trying to do the right thing here.”

Some inscrutable expression dashed across her face, but was gone before he could properly analyze it. “I know. But you need to realize that I'm not going against you in anything. Can't you just trust me?”

Trust her? What an ironic question. She was the only person in the world he
did
trust.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured before leaning back against the squabs again. He may trust Julia, but he sure as hell didn't trust the men around her. The sooner he found someone to look after her, the better.

C
ontrary to what one might expect, there were benefits to being relegated to the sofa for the day with an injured ankle. Yes, Sophie was missing out on an uncomfortably large portion of her allotted husband-hunting time, and yes, her poor ankle, though not broken, did hurt like the devil, but at least she had an ironclad excuse for why she couldn't go out and face the general public today.

Thank God.

That being said, she was bored to death. May had already stopped by for a few hours that morning. In her typical no-nonsense way, she had acknowledged that while the incident was indeed the talk of the night, Sophie had at least succeeded in capturing the earl's attention for much longer than originally hoped. Somehow, that point didn't make her feel at all better about the situation.

Since May's departure, Sophie had received a letter from Charity, read said letter—hooray, she was coming back within the week!—and responded with a lengthy one of her own. She'd also read a collection of poems, practiced on her oboe, and endured her mother's
constant fretting with the patience of Job. Very well, with somewhat
less
patience than Job, but certainly with enough to earn her sainthood.

Even now, Mama paced back and forth across the room, her feet following nearly the same path as they had when she'd discovered the elopement. “Perhaps you should write him a note. Expressing your gratitude, alluding to the hope of seeing him again soon, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sophie caught herself before rolling her eyes. “I'm not going to write him a note. I'd rather not remind him of the Incident. Best to simply start anew the next time I see him.” It was reaching to imagine that he would forget the whole thing, but one could hope.

“Well, you must do something. You cannot just sit here and expect him to come to you.”

A light scratch on the door announced their maid's presence. “Pardon me, ma'am, miss. A Lord Evansleigh has come to call.”

Mama's gasp was only slightly louder than Sophie's. He was here?
Now?
Sophie started to scramble to a sitting position before a white-hot bolt of pain reminded her of her injury. Gritting her teeth, she sat back and sent a desperate look to her mother. “I can't see him now, not like this!”

Her hair must look an absolute fright. Curls and humidity never did seem to get along. It was likely frizzy, and her gown was wrinkled, and—

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mama said, interrupting Sophie's runaway thoughts. Turning back to Lynette, she flapped her hands. “Go! By all means, show him in. And order tea. And biscuits. And perhaps some cordial just in case. Quickly now, what are you waiting for?”

As the servant scurried off to collect the earl, Mama
rushed to Sophie's side, excitement brightening her plump cheeks to a blotchy pink. “You can and you will see the man. From what I've heard, the earl never calls on
anyone
.”

She leaned down and fussed with the fringe around Sophie's face before shaking her head. “Oh, those curls are hopeless. They've already turned to cotton and you've not even stepped foot outside. Here,” she said, unpinning her mobcap and yanking it down over Sophie's head. “That will have to do. Hurry, pinch your cheeks and sit up straight. On second thought, recline a bit. There, that's better.”

Oh heavens, Sophie could only imagine what she looked like now. A mobcap? Why not throw a shawl over her shoulders and add spectacles for good measure? Just what she needed, Evan seeing her at her worst directly on the heels of last night's debacle. She didn't even attempt to pinch her cheeks—Lord knew, they'd be red enough on their own.

Footsteps reached the squeaky spot on the landing, sending Mama hurrying to her chair. She grabbed a handful of yarn and her knitting needles seconds before Lynette showed the earl in.

Sophie's breath caught in her throat when he entered the sitting room. Had she ever seen him in daylight before? No, she would have remembered the effect it had on those crystalline eyes of his. It was like sunshine through a stained-glass window.

As her mother greeted him, Sophie sat looking up at him in awed silence, her tongue too tied to say a word. He looked handsome and completely composed. In other words, her exact opposite in almost every way. He wore buff-colored breeches that hugged his legs like a second
skin. His boots were polished, free of so much as a speck of dirt. Even his hair seemed to be showing off, each strand exactly in place. How in the world had this man come to be in her drawing room, completely of his own free will?

In unison, Mama and Evan turned and looked at her, as though expecting her to say something. Oh drat, what had she missed? In order to properly ogle him, she'd completely ignored whatever they had been saying.

Swallowing against what felt like a lump of wool lodged in her throat, she smiled. “How good of you to visit, my lord.” The floppy edge of her mother's cap drooped across her eyes, and she tried to blow it away as inconspicuously as possible.

“It is my pleasure, Miss Wembley. I do hope you are feeling better today.”

How was it possible to want someone to stay and feel so desperate for them to go at the same time? “Yes. Much. Thank you.” For heaven's sake, could she sound like any more of an idiot?

He nodded, blessedly ignoring the stilted nature of her response. “Though still off your feet, I see. Nothing broken, I hope?”

“The doctor said I merely turned it. Hardly worth all the fuss.” Oh drat, had that sounded ungrateful? She rushed to clarify. “Not that I'm not terribly appreciative for all you did for me. I am. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. A damsel in distress, and all that.” He smiled a perfectly disarming smile, which of course only served to make her more nervous.

“Rescued quite handily. Thank you. Again.” She gritted her teeth in an effort to keep from grimacing. For the love of biscuits
, stop saying thank you
!

Mama cleared her throat and smiled. “Well, then. I
think I'll go check on the refreshments.” She rounded her eyes briefly in Sophie's direction before heading for the door.

Sophie stared after her in absolute horror. She was leaving them?
Alone?
Good heavens, such a thing simply was not done! Evan stood silent for a moment, likely contemplating making a dash for freedom. After a pause, he gave a little shrug—did he know such a thing highlighted his deliciously broad shoulders?—and took a seat in the chair closest to her. “It is a shame that you should be bedridden on such a lovely day. Or sofa-ridden, as the case may be.”

She was alone with the earl. Completely, utterly, sinfully alone . . . and they were talking about the
weather
?

Suppressing a sigh, she nodded, which had the unfortunate effect of making the cap slip a bit farther down her head. “Indeed,” she murmured, lifting her hand as casually as possible to tug the blasted thing back. In all her daydreams of being alone with the man, she had never once been wearing her mother's cap, while being laid up on the sofa like some sort of invalid.

Well, she had hoped for more time with the earl, hadn't she? She sunk down into the sofa another inch. Next time she'd have to remember to be more specific about what she wished for.

*   *   *

It was all Evan could do not to crack a smile. What on earth was she doing wearing that dreadful thing on her head in the first place? Clearly it was driving her mad. He had the most absurd desire to walk right over to her and yank the damn thing off her head. Perhaps throw it out the window for good measure.

It was almost worth it just to see what she would do. With her mother gone, however, he wasn't inclined to
move a muscle. He was still shocked that she had left the two of them alone. Did she think Miss Wembley's injury superseded society's rules? Or was she really that clueless? Or perhaps underhanded. Hard to say which, from what little he knew of the woman.

This was what he got for breaking his own rule.

He did
not
call on unmarried females. Or married females, for that matter. Since he had no intention of wooing a wife, he had no need whatsoever to engage in such a tedious task. He also didn't want anyone to get the wrong impression about his interests. Miss Wembley, however, deserved an exception to his normal behavior.

If Evan had not pressed her into dancing as he had, she would never have tripped and fallen, and thereby would have been spared the pain and embarrassment of such an ignoble event. She wouldn't have been forced to endure Miss Harmon's waspish tongue, or the unrepentant stares of a ballroom full of curious people. Most of all, the poor girl would not have injured herself, making a visit like this necessary.

At least she looked well this morning—ugly cap aside. Her cheery yellow gown complemented her pale complexion, which, together with her rosy cheeks, made her look the very picture of good health. The afternoon sunlight filtered past the gauzy white sheers covering the front windows. The effect was much more complimentary to her dark eyes than the candlelight had been last night. Today, their rich color reminded him of shimmery chocolate-colored silk.

He needed to get to the point. Scooting forward a bit on his chair, he said plainly, “Miss Wembley, I want you to know how much I regret dragging you into service yesterday. In my attempts to avoid a scene, I somehow managed to cause a much worse one.”

Her small nose crinkled as she shook her head. “No, please. I am the only one to blame for my own clumsiness.”

The movement of her head further dislodged the doily, making it slide an inch toward her right ear. He did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on those pretty eyes. “You never would have been dancing if I hadn't dragged you out there.”

“I
like
to dance,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. Sighing, she sat up a little straighter, gestured to the thing on her head and said, “Would you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

Plucking the cap off, she tossed in on the sofa table. “My apologies if my unruly hair offends, but I couldn't take another moment of that thing on my head.”

Her hair was indeed unruly. Dark brown, almost black curls sprang up as if freed from bondage. Instead of the coiffed, pinned style he had seen her wear, it was all piled rather unceremoniously on top of her head. He smiled. “Nonconformity is a good thing, in my opinion.” He also liked that she seemed to be loosening up with him, if only a little. That was probably the longest sentence she had ever spoken to him.

The smile she gave him was nearly worth the whole visit—wide and wholly without censure. For the first time since he'd known her she actually looked at ease. “Tell that to my mother,” she replied, a hint of dry humor lightening her tone.

Dimples creased her cheeks for a moment before vanishing. His gaze flicked to her mouth, a feature he had never paid much attention to. In that moment, with her face relaxed and her full lips curved in a sweet smile, he was surprised at just how inviting her mouth was. “I'd
be happy to. Though unless I'm much mistaken, she does subscribe to at least some amount of nonconformity.”

Both brows lifted. “My mother? What would cause you to think so?”

“I've been to one of your concerts. I know exactly how unusual your family's choice of instruments is. And the word is your younger sister, who comes out next year, I believe, is accomplished in the recorder. Bassoon, oboe, recorder—all bold choices.”

Instead of laughter or agreement, her eyes clouded and her brows fell. It was like watching shutters slam shut or a candle blown out. Damn it all, he hadn't meant for her to take offense. “Bold, but excellent choices,” he clarified. “You in particular have a great talent for your oboe.”

Mrs. Wembley chose that moment to come bustling back in. A maid followed behind her, her arms laden with an overlarge tea tray. The older woman clapped her hands together lightly. “There we are, now. I hope you like your tea hot, my lord.” Her eyes landed on the mobcap on the table, and she shifted her narrowed gaze to her daughter.

“Yes, the hotter the better,” Evan said, wanting to deflect her scrutiny. It didn't matter that not only did he not want tea, but it was much too warm to wish for especially hot refreshments of any kind.

“Excellent. Now, did I hear you say you are an admirer of Sophie's playing?” She sent him a coy smile before attending to the business of pouring. “How do you take it?”

“Just as it is, please. As for the talents of your daughter, yes, I think she is quite skilled.” He accepted the cup of undoctored tea and looked at Miss Wembley. “I was
late to your trio's recital last month, but I heard so much about it, I wish I had seen it.”

She looked down, those lovely lips curving upward into a pleased grin. “Thank you. It was a wonderful experience. I hope we can play together again soon.”

Mrs. Wembley set the teapot down with a thump. “I know! Sophie, why don't you play your part for Lord Evansleigh? We could have a miniature concert, right here in the drawing room.”

Eyes wide, Miss Wembley shook her head. “No, Mama, please.” It was a real plea, not the feeble protest of one looking to elicit more praise.

“Don't be shy, my dear. Play for your guest.”

The older woman's demand was just that. It was said with a smile, but the steel in her voice brooked no argument. Miss Wembley looked as though she'd as soon sink into the floorboards as be forced to play for him right then. Once again, he had managed to get her wrangled into something she'd rather avoid.

“Sophie,”
her mother nearly hissed this time, “you mustn't keep his lordship waiting.”

“Never fear, madam; I may have missed this most recent concert, but I certainly have had the pleasure of hearing her play. Miss Wembley is very talented.”

The girl blushed, clearly pleased, but her mother wasn't so easily deterred. “How lovely for you to say so. Just wait until you hear her play solo.” She gave her daughter another insistent look. She had the tenacity of a seasoned matchmaking mama.