“Really, Sophie!” he chided, some of his playfulness evaporating. “You should take some pains to disguise your Scottish miserliness, my love. We can’t go groveling to Colman after a few pounds, can we?
The Provoked Player
is the piece that will put you in silks and satin, but you must show some ladylike patience. Stop mewling and come over here, lass,” he commanded, stretching out his hand to her.
Feeling simultaneously guilty for raising the issue of money and unfairly chastised by Peter’s cavalier attitude, Sophie rose from her chair and walked rather unsteadily toward him, attempting to regain her equilibrium. He drew her against his chest.
“Such a pretty little pinch-penny,” he murmured, whispering into her hair as his hands massaged her back in sensuous circles. “Let
me
worry about our funds, will you? When I make you Lady Lindsay-Hoyt, you won’t trouble yourself over such trifles, will you, darling?”
“I haven’t said I’d become Lady Anybody,” Sophie replied tersely, feeling a headache coming on, both from their conversation and far too much champagne.
He pulled her closer, whispering urgently into her ear. “Lady Lindsay-Hoyt. It suits you… absolutely suits you, my angel.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her firmly against the length of his body, evidence of his obvious desire pressing against her thigh.
As his lips began trailing kisses from her ear to the base of her throat, a vision of Hunter rose, unbidden, in her memory. It had been nearly a year since they’d parted, Sophie thought, distressed to realize she felt oddly removed from the ardor of Peter’s fervent embrace. She had made her choice to return to London, and she had not heard a word from Hunter since. At least Peter wanted her… wanted to be her writing partner… wanted her to be his
wife!
His kisses had become more demanding and she forced her mind to attempt to concentrate on the pleasant sensations he was evoking with his thumb as he stroked her breast through the fabric of her gown. She felt nearly cleaved in two as her senses were heightened by his ardor and, at the same time, diminished by a strange sense of detachment, a mere curiosity to see how the scene between them would play through to its conclusion. After several moments, he broke away and strode to the door, locking it with a decisive click of the key.
“What about Mrs. Hood… ?” Sophie giggled as he marched over to the window and yanked closed the velvet drapes that fronted Cleveland Row. Then he turned to face her with a determined gleam in his eye.
“The baggage wouldn’t dare attempt to come in here unless I rang,” he said gruffly, picking up the champagne bottle in one hand and taking Sophie’s hand in the other. Draining the last of the bubbly liquid from the containers narrow throat, he set it carefully on the floor beside the satin-covered chaise.
Without further conversation, they divested each other of their clothing, leaving their garments in piles beside the couch. The firelight danced in amber patterns against Peter’s skin as Sophie surveyed his naked body for the first time. She could see the dark stubble that shadowed his face this late afternoon was matched by black hairs covering much of his chest, legs, and arms. She thought fleetingly of the fine golden hair dusting Hunter’s well-muscled torso. Immediately, she banished all memory of that magical afternoon in Bath by holding out her arms to the young baronet.
“You’re so fair…” he murmured, drinking in the sight of her auburn hair and pale skin. He inclined his head to kiss her as he asked gruffly, “Have you been with a man ’ere this?”
“Yes… yes, I have,” she said, swallowing as a frown creased his forehead. “If it pleases you not I have had another lover… perhaps we’d better reconsider…”
Sophie hesitated, her headache growing more severe by the minute. She was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to be home alone in her own bed.
“Sophie, my love,” he whispered urgently, pulling her roughly against him, “what pleases me is
you…
just you.”
The chartreuse satin upholstery felt cold against her back as Peter’s full weight pressed her body against the daybed in his sitting room. She attempted to ignore the dull ache throbbing in her temples, concentrating, instead, on the sensation of his lips pressing against the hollow of her throat. His knees swiftly parted her thighs and when he entered her, she heard him sigh, almost with relief. Then, he began to throw his torso against hers in short, eager strokes, as if he were competing in some contest in which he intended to vanquish his opponent by sheer, physical endurance. She pushed her palms against his chest, hoping to slow down his frenetic pace, but to no avail. Within seconds, he emitted a groan and collapsed against her, sweat drenching the black mat of hair covering his chest.
As Peter lay beside her, panting with exhaustion, a thought suddenly pierced through Sophie’s champagne-induced lethargy. She had forgotten to make use of the sheepskin condom Mrs. Phillips had so emphatically warned her to keep at the ready.
Sophie waited anxiously during the following week for any signs of infection resulting from her carelessness that April afternoon in Peter’s sitting room. Even so, she was greatly relieved to discover as the month progressed that there was no evidence of Boswell’s old nemesis, Señor Gonorrhea. Despite her relief, she battled severe feelings of remorse for having fallen into Peter’s bed and, in a weak moment, even entertaining the notion of becoming his wife. This was a step she realized she had no intention of taking, even in the unlikely event Peter’s grandfather would give his blessing to such an alliance.
“’Twas a terrible thing to do,” Sophie confessed somberly to Lorna one morning as they opened the book shop for business. “I don’t require a Calvinist preacher to tell me that!”
“’Tis
not
such a terrible thing, Sophie,” Lorna insisted, wrapping a sympathetic arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Foolish, perhaps, but not terrible.”
“Yes, it was,” Sophie insisted dejectedly. “I see now, I do not truly return Peter’s affections, and I
used
him to ease the loss I feel for—” she faltered, looking away quickly to avoid Lorna seeing the tears that invariably sprang to her eyes whenever she mentioned her unhappy parting with Hunter.
“It appears to me that Peter’s used you to gain fame—and some fortune,” Lorna responded firmly. “’Tis an even exchange, I’d say.” She gave Sophie’s arm a soft squeeze. “’Twill all come right in the end with Hunter… just you wait and see. The man can’t play to the bloody Irish forever! But I must admit,” she added pointedly, “I’m relieved you’ve decided to steer clear of Peter’s bed. Mrs. Phillips says—”
“Aye,” Sophie replied shortly, halting her friend mid-sentence. “All that’s finished.”
In truth, she had foresworn champagne forever and, since that day, had repaired to her lodgings in Half Moon Passage each night at the conclusion of their writing sessions. She refrained from all manner of physical intimacy, pleading fatigue—which was real—and the press of her duties as a shopkeeper and printer.
For his part, Peter seemed strangely satisfied with their current arrangement. He showed her the list of revisions Colman had ordered for the final draft. However, as the summer wore on, the more pages Sophie produced of the new draft of
The Provoked Player,
the fewer Peter tended to contribute. Despite her effort to be forgiving, Sophie grew increasingly impatient at the hours spent reworking several troublesome scenes with virtually no help from her co-author.
One sultry morning in early July, Sophie rang the bell to the baronet’s flat, only to be informed by the surly Mrs. Hood that his lordship had failed to return from a night on the town with Roderick Darnly.
“No bother… I’ll just slip in and get to work,” Sophie announced brightly, trying to mask her irritation.
Her stomach already felt mildly queasy from a breakfast of cold cabbage and a bit of meat left over from her supper the previous evening. This latest development only made her feel worse. Assuming her customary seat at Peter’s desk, she resolutely attributed her biliousness to the long hours she’d been working and to her anxiety over funds. She had been equally distressed by the deteriorating condition of her aunt whom she had visited in Bedlam the previous Sunday.
Suddenly, Mrs. Hood flung open the velvet drapes in the sitting room with an angry jerk.
“Don’t know why I put up with it!” the middle-aged woman muttered under her breath. “Seeing to guests when I haven’t been paid my wages in
weeks!”
The woman turned, hands on hips and glared in Sophie’s direction. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ me to serve you tea, like you was some proper lady!”
“Actually, I’d appreciate a cup very much right now,” Sophie replied evenly, thinking tea might be just the prescription to settle her stomach.
During the rest of the day she found it difficult to concentrate on the plot problems Colman had accurately detected in the final act. As the day wore on and Peter did not return, she could feel a knot of fury building inside her, choking off whatever comic muse she usually summoned to portray the back stage antics of the competing actors who peopled this new play. Her stomach continued to churn and she wondered if her anger over Peter’s increasingly wayward behavior could actually make her ill.
At about two in the afternoon, she heard a bell ringing outside. Her pen was poised over a sheet of foolscap with a thicket of crossed out sections marring its surface. She listened intently when Mrs. Hood
opened the front door.
“Lost your key, have you?” Sophie heard the housekeeper snap. “You’ve company in the sitting room. That scribbler’s been here all day… wanting tea, like she was mistress of the house!”
“I’ll have some too,” Peter replied cheerfully as he opened the door to the front chamber. “No… make it coffee… hot and strong.”
“Before I fetch the coffee, sir, I must speak to you,” Mrs. Hood said stubbornly, lingering in the foyer.
“I’m afraid ’twill have to wait,” Peter replied in clipped tones. “I have a guest.”
“I’ll be wanting my wages, sir,” Mrs. Hood retorted. “I can’t be slaving for a gentleman like yourself if you don’t pay m’fees!”
“Coffee,
woman!” Peter pronounced, ignoring her request as he entered the sitting room, “or you’ll find yourself out on the street with no references, you can be sure of
that
! God’s bones!” he said for Sophie’s benefit, “that wretch is a housekeeper from Hades!”
“One can hardly blame her,” she replied as Peter sauntered into the sun-filled chamber. “I, too, have yet to see proper payment for my labors.” She rose from the desk. “However, that is merely
one
of my complaints. You are four hours late for our appointment.”
“’Pon my word, Sophie,” Peter replied with feigned amusement, “you, too? How many harpies must I endure in my own house?”
“Harpy!” Sophie exclaimed, refusing to fall in with Peter’s attempts at humor. “In the last month I have done virtually all of the work suggested by Colman, while you… you’ve done naught but frequent every drinking and wenching establishment in this city, I hear!”
“Well, have you considered that if you hadn’t suddenly become such a cold-hearted lass,” Peter noted pointedly, heading for his drinks cabinet, “perhaps there’d be a greater temptation to return to my own bed.”
Stung, Sophie watched silently while he blithely poured himself a stiff brandy. She was unnerved by the offhanded way he had loudly voiced the fact of their intimacy within earshot of Mrs. Hood.
Mortified by their exchange, Sophie gathered her papers into a pile.
“See here, Peter,” she said, turning to face him, “since you have yet to write a single word of this draft, I am off to Drury Lane to submit these changes in
my
name.”
“You wouldn’t
dare!”
Peter pronounced with an amused smile.
“I certainly would!” Sophie retorted. “You deny that I’m the genuine author of these pages?”
Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion invaded every fiber of Sophie’s body. She sank into a chair near the cold fireplace, next to an ornamental paper fan that masked the hearth during the summer months.
“Sophie… look here, I—” Peter began, his tone suddenly contrite.
“Don’t bother to apologize or make excuses,” she interrupted in a fatigued voice. “You were at the Blue Periwig or some such brothel all night and it doesn’t interest me in the least. I just want the play to be accepted at Drury Lane and be
done
with all this!”
She heard cups rattling in the foyer and soon Mrs. Hood marched in with a tray, which she thumped on the table next to Sophie’s chair. The aromatic fumes of the rich, sable brew wafting toward her nostrils were inexplicably nauseating and Sophie nearly gagged at an odor she normally found delightful. Her throat felt constricted, and cold sweat broke out on her forehead.
“Sophie?” Peter said hesitantly, his expression registering his alarm at her wan appearance.
But before he could finish his sentence, Sophie bolted toward the fireplace and was thoroughly sick behind the paper fan.
“Good God!” Peter exclaimed to Mrs. Hood. “Go and fetch a bucket of water and a cloth… Sophie, what the deuce… ?”