The Earl I Adore (7 page)

The room was empty.

I
n hindsight, Sophie's decision to flee from the earl's house may have been a bit rash. Except, really, what choice had she had when the earl had declared, quite vehemently, that he had no interest in her? So vehemently, in fact, that the words had easily filtered through the drawing room ceiling from the room above it.

Yes, tears had burned at the back of her eyes, what with hearing such a sentiment from the man she fancied herself in love with—and was actively attempting to entice. So much for their supposed friendship soon blossoming into something more. And yes, the visit had already been going rather dismally, thanks to the man's sister.

However, perhaps she should have considered the fact that her ankle was still healing, and the earl's home was almost a mile from her own. Worse, she hadn't a single farthing on her person. Why would she? She was supposed to have been ferried by Lord Evansleigh's own coach for this little excursion.

Sighing, she trudged on, following the curving road down the hill toward the city center. At least the weather was cooperating. The clouds kept the sun at bay, and a
cool breeze made the walk almost pleasant. Discounting the fact that her ankle was throbbing, of course. And that she wasn't entirely sure she knew the way home. And that she would die a lonely spinster because the man on whom she'd pinned her last hopes was most ardently and decidedly not interested in her.

“Miss Sophie?” Lynette's quiet voice penetrated Sophie's gloomy thoughts. She'd nearly forgotten the poor maid was with her.

Taking the opportunity to stop and lean against the wrought iron fence lining the pavement, Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Do you think it might be prudent to go back? Perhaps the butler could send for a hackney.” There was so much hope in the servant's green eyes, Sophie couldn't help but feel guilty.

The problem was, she didn't think her heart could take the further humiliation of returning for help. She wasn't an overly proud person, but everyone had their limits. She shook her head, even as she discreetly lifted her right foot to rest it. “I'm sorry, Lynette, but I cannot. As a rule, I pride myself on not imposing my presence where it is not wanted.”

“Yes, Miss, but what if I went to the servants' entrance and asked? Surely that would work.” Blowing an escaped lock of hair from her eyes, she added, “We needn't give your mother the vapors by showing up looking like shipwrecked vagrants.”

She had a point. Sophie pursed her lips, glancing back up to the top of the street where the earl's house stood. Was it just her, or was the thing looking down its nose at her? Still, Lynette's idea did have merit. She started to say as much when a figure caught her attention. A man was rushing down the pavement, much faster than the
other pedestrians. She squinted her eyes. No, it couldn't be. Could it? Her heart gave a little panicked leap. Was
Evan
actually coming after her?

The clothes were the same, and the hair was a dead giveaway. Yes, it was definitely the earl.

Sophie turned away, sucking in a bracing lungful of air. Why would he do such a thing? With her heart drumming away in her chest, she grabbed Lynette's arm and started down the hill. “Come along. We must be on our way.”

“But, Miss Sophie,” the servant protested, looking over her shoulder. “I think that's Lord Evansleigh!”

“Yes, I know,” Sophie hissed, walking all the more quickly. Her ankle ached in fierce protest, but she would rather die than face the man just now. She leaned heavily on Lynette, eternally grateful that they were walking downhill.

“He'll help us, I'm sure of it,” her maid persisted, glancing back again.

“Lynette, if you look back one more time, so help me I will . . . do . . .
something
,” she finished lamely when nothing appropriately awful came to mind. How was one supposed to think properly when one was being chased by an exceedingly handsome and dreadfully unwanted peer of the realm?

“Miss Wembley?”

Oh, dear Lord. Sophie kept her eyes on the pavement and doggedly hobbled along, even as she realized there was no way for her to outrun him. Or outwalk him, as the case may be. Even if she was only delaying the inevitable, she didn't want to face him any sooner than she had to.

“Miss Wembley,” he said again, this time much closer. “Miss Wembley, please. I know you can hear me.” He
was only slightly out of breath, while she was as winded as a racehorse.

Fine. She might as well get this over with. Coming to a stop at last, she paused to pant for a moment before turning to face him. “Did I forget something? Other than my dignity, of course.”

He drew back, surprise clear in his raised brows and widened eyes. He recovered quickly, however, shaking his head and offering what she could just imagine was his official Look of Concern. “I cannot begin to express my regret for the way you were treated in my home. Please, allow me to escort you back to the house. My sister is anxious to apologize.”

Yes, Sophie would just bet she was. She refrained from pointing out the significant difference between apologizing in earnest and apologizing under duress, a distinction anyone with three sisters and one long-suffering nursemaid would understand. The truth was, though Lady Julia had surprised Sophie with her clear dislike, the woman's reception had little to do with Sophie's escape.

What really galled her was that even though Evan had proclaimed his lack of interest in her not ten minutes earlier, her traitorous body still hummed at his nearness. The slightly uncivilized look of his windblown hair didn't help things, either. He looked like a dashing naval officer fresh from his ship. She gave herself a mental shake. No, she would
not
let her heart be waylaid by a beautiful head of hair, for heaven's sake.

Wrapping herself up in what was left of her pride, she lifted her chin. “Apology accepted. Now, if you will excuse us.”

“Come now, she feels terrible. Allow her to make proper amends.”

“Really, we must be on—”

“Please,” he said, boldly interrupting her. He curled his lips into a gentle smile and added, “It would mean a lot to both of us.”

Fresh embarrassment heated her cheeks. Why was he pushing the matter? A sense of misplaced obligation to her? Was he still feeling guilty for her stupid injury? Drawing herself up to her full, albeit short height, she said, “Lord Evansleigh, might I offer a suggestion?”

He paused, no doubt cautioned by her sudden change of demeanor. “Of course.”

“In the future, I would recommend you hold your private conversations somewhere other than directly above the person you wish to discuss.”

*   *   *

Damn it all, Miss Wembley had overheard them. Evan frantically sorted through the conversation in his mind, trying to remember exactly what was said.

But thinking clearly was hard when she was looking at him like that, like a kicked puppy attempting to be brave. Blowing out a breath, he stated the obvious. “You heard us.”

She gave a single nod. “I heard
you
,” she said, the emphasis unmistakable.

She heard him? What had he— Oh, Christ. She must have heard him lose his temper and make his position on her clear. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment before meeting her gaze. “It didn't mean what it sounded like. Please, let us return to the house and allow me to explain. I'll have my carriage at the ready, so you may leave at any time.”

Though she couldn't see it, her maid was nodding vigorously just behind her. He couldn't believe Miss Wembley had been willing to walk home on her wounded
ankle just to get away from him. If that didn't make a man feel as honorable as a speck of dust, he didn't know what did. “Your mother entrusted your well-being to me. At least allow me to return you to her in one piece.” He held out his elbow, silently urging her to join him.

She stared at it for a moment, then back up at his face. With a great sigh, she nodded and laid her hand on his arm. Thank God. At the very least he could be sure she made it home alive. They trudged back up the hill in silence, with him setting a pace roughly on par with that of a snail in deference to her limp.

The moment they reached the house, she released his arm and solemnly followed him back into the drawing room. Julia looked up from where she sat on the settee, her smile cautious. Coming to her feet, she approached their guest. “I'm so relieved my brother found you, Miss Wembley. I am also relieved that we are female, as a duel at dawn wouldn't be uncalled for, given the way I treated you.”

Miss Wembley smiled wanly. “I'm a terrible shot, so it's just as well.”

“Either way, do please accept my most ardent apology. Only Shakespeare could have written a greater shrew.” Julia shook her head ruefully, clearly contrite.

“Apology accepted,” Miss Wembley replied, giving a little dip of her head. Even so, her shoulders didn't relax in the least as she stood stiffly at his side. “I really should be getting back home, however. Mama will want us to prepare for tonight's events.”

Julia's eyes brightened with interest. “What is scheduled this week for the festival, anyway? My brother is rather unforthcoming.”

Miss Wembley swallowed, her gaze remaining steadfastly on his sister. “A night of Austrian composers this
evening, then tomorrow the Music Around the World series is offering an introduction to polka as well as a duet featuring two Italian opera singers. Oh, and on Friday afternoon, there's a lecture about the history of British composers.”

“My, what excitement,” Julia said, her tone as dry as parchment. “I'm quite the music lover, but a lecture isn't exactly my idea of an enjoyable afternoon. I would love to see the opera singers, however. Would you be willing to accompany me? Or us, rather,” she amended, flicking a glance to Evan.

The smile slipped from Miss Wembley's lips. “Thank you, but—”

“Julia,” Evan said, shamelessly interrupting Sophie's attempt to decline the offer. “It's my understanding that Miss Wembley is a great lover of all things musical. Why don't you play your harp for her before she leaves us?”

His sister blinked in surprise, obviously startled by the request. “I'm sure she doesn't wish—”

“Oh, but
I
wish,” he ground out. “A little ambiance, if you please.” He met her confused gaze with steel in his eyes. After how things had gone earlier, he was willing her not to balk.

Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Any requests?”

“Surprise us.”

Nodding, she made her way to the other end of the room, where she'd insisted on keeping her harp. Apparently, the acoustics of this room were superior to those of the actual music room located down the corridor. Evan refrained from looking at Miss Wembley while his sister prepared to play. He didn't want to open the door to her expressing her desire to leave. When the first strains of heavenly music filled the room, he turned to her at last.

“Thank you, Miss Wembley, for giving me a chance to explain.”

*   *   *

In Sophie's opinion, she hadn't so much given him a chance to explain as he had simply taken one. Still, she nodded, not wanting to come across as ungracious. The whole thing was embarrassing in the extreme, but it was best to deal with it now and be done with it.

He gestured toward the pair of mahogany chairs opposite the sofa, and they both took a seat. For a moment, she ignored the jumble of emotions that tangled like a knot of thread in her stomach and listened to the angelic music Lady Julia elicited from her harp. She wasn't a particularly disciplined player, but the music was still lovely, and it was blessedly calming.

Evan perched on the edge of his chair, positioning himself so that his feet were only a few inches away from hers on the floral Aubusson rug. “You have to understand, my sister and I are a little different from most siblings.”

She tilted her head a bit to the side. This was not the apology she was expecting, but it succeeded in rousing her curiosity. “Oh?”

“When my father died, I was fifteen and Julia was twelve. Our mother . . . well, let us just say she didn't handle the loss very well. My sister and I leaned on each other for support, but at the same time, I was filling the roles of father, mother, and brother for her.”

Sophie could hardly believe he was speaking with such frankness. It might have had something to do with the harp music lending his story an almost mythical quality, but she found herself leaning forward the tiniest bit.

“We've always looked out for each other, but
sometimes my sister is less than amenable to my attempts to keep her natural enthusiasm within the bounds of propriety. When I invited you here, she assumed I was attempting to find someone to keep her in line.”

How very odd . . . and terribly interesting. “I see,” she said, though in all honesty, she wasn't sure she did. How did that assumption lead to Evan's declaration? That aside, Sophie was quite intrigued to know what sorts of activities Lady Julia wished not to have curtailed. Sophie could like a woman with a little rebellion in her.

Evan licked his lips before continuing, a move that drew her attention to his mouth. They were such nice lips—full but not plump, wide but not distractingly so. Actually, they were quite distracting. Very kissable. She caught herself and jerked her gaze back up to his. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“I'm afraid that when I explained that you were a friend, not a spy, she jumped to a conclusion that I felt the need to correct before her imagination ran away with her. I was angry with her at the time, and I'm sure my response was much more vehement than I intended. I hope you can overlook my thoughtless words, and accept my apology.”

The floating notes of Lady Julia's song softened the mortification Sophie had felt when she'd originally heard his exclamation. If he had no care for her, then he certainly wouldn't go through such effort to comfort her, would he? In her experience, it was a rare man who apologized, and an even rarer one who actually attempted to explain himself.