Lady Sophia's Lover by Lisa Kleypas
As they talked in the quiet evening hours, Sophia had shared the few memories she had of her own childhood: the feel of her father’s whiskers when he had kissed her good night… a family picnic… the stories her mother had read to her. And the time when she and her little brother had mixed water into her mother’s face powder and played with the paste, and how they had been sent to bed without supper.
Ross was able to draw more confessions from her despite her effort to hold them back. Before she quite realized it, she had found herself telling him about the months after her parents’ death, when she and John had run wild in the village. “We were horrible little fiends,” she had said, sitting in the bedside chair with her knees curled up and her arms locked around them. “We played nasty tricks, and vandalized shops and homes, and stole…” She paused and rubbed her forehead to ease a sudden pinching ache.
“What did you steal?”
“Food, mostly. We were always hungry. The families that tried to look after us did not have much to spare. When our behavior became too wicked to tolerate, they washed their hands of us.” She hugged her knees more tightly. “It was my fault. John was too young to know better, but there was no excuse for my behavior. I should have guided him, taken care of him…”
“You were a child.” Ross spoke with apparent carefulness, as if he understood the weight of the guilt that threatened to crush her. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She smiled without humor, not accepting the consolation.
“Sophia,” he asked quietly, “how did John die?”
She stiffened as she fought the temptation to tell him. That deep, soft voice was asking for the key to her soul. And if she gave it to him, he would scorn and punish her, and she would shrivel into nothing.
Rather than answer him, she had laughed unsteadily and invented some excuse to leave the room.
Now, as Ross extracted a dark silk cravat from the dresser, Sophia’s thoughts were forced back to the present. The fact that Ross had taken it upon himself to leave his sickbed provided her with a welcome distraction, and she pounced on it eagerly.
“You will overtax yourself and collapse,” she predicted. “And you will get no sympathy from me. You should heed the doctor’s advice and rest!”
Standing before the looking glass, Ross tied the cravat with a slight wince of discomfort. “I’m not going to collapse,” he said evenly. “But I have to leave this room, or I will go mad.” His silvery gaze met hers in the reflective glass. “There is only one way you will get me back into that bed—and I don’t think you are ready for that yet.”
Sophia looked away from him immediately, turning hot with embarrassment. It was a sign of how familiar they had become, that he would acknowledge his desire for her so openly. “You must at least have some breakfast,” she said. “I will go to the kitchen and make certain that Eliza has boiled the coffee.”
“Thank you.” The corners of his lips tilted in a wry smile, and he finished knotting his cravat with a deft tug.
Later that morning Sophia filed reports and depositions in the criminal records room while Ross conducted meetings in his office. Straightening the piles of paper before her, Sophia sighed despondently. During the first month of her employment, she had begun to copy information that she believed would be damaging to the Bow Street office and all who worked there. Most of it concerned mistakes that a few runners and constables had made, from procedural errors to mishandling of evidence. Ross had chosen to discipline the men privately, as the last thing the public office needed was a potentially ruinous scandal.
Sophia knew she had to gather much more information if she wanted sufficient ammunition to destroy Ross and his runners. For the past three weeks, however, she had done nothing to further her goal. To her self-disgust, she did not have the heart for it. She no longer wanted to hurt Ross. She despised herself for her own weakness, but she could not bring herself to betray him. She had come to care deeply about him despite her efforts to avoid it. Which meant that her poor brother’s death would never be answered with justice, and his short life would therefore have no meaning at all.
Gloomily Sophia sorted through files until Ernest appeared suddenly and interrupted her labors. “Miss Sydney, Sir Ross wants ye.”
She stared at the errand boy with immediate worry. “Why?”
“I don’t know, miss.”
“Where is Sir Ross? Is he all right?”
“ ‘E’s in ’is office, miss.” The boy left in his customary haste, off to perform more errands.
Sophia’s stomach flipped with anxiety as she wondered if Ross had pushed himself too hard. It was possible that he had somehow ruptured his wound, or succumbed to fever once more, or exhausted himself with too much activity. She went to the office in a headlong rush, ignoring the startled faces of barristers and clerks she pushed by in the narrow hallway.
The door to the Chief Magistrate’s office was open. Sophia crossed the threshold with swift strides. Ross was sitting at his desk, looking pale and a bit tired, his gaze lifting as he saw her. “Sophia, what—”
“I knew it was too soon for you to go back to work!” she exclaimed as she reached him. Impulsively she put her hands on him, feeling his forehead, the sides of his face. “Do you have fever? What is the matter? Has your shoulder started to bleed again, or is it—”
“Sophia,” he interrupted. His large hands wrapped around hers, his thumbs nestling in her soft palms. A reassuring smile touched his lips. “I’m fine. There is no need for concern.”
She stared at him closely, ascertaining for herself that he was all right. “Then why did you send for me?” she asked, bewildered.
Ross’s gaze moved to a point beyond her shoulder. To Sophia’s sudden consternation, she realized that they were not alone. Twisting, she glanced behind her and saw that Sir Grant was seated in the large leather visitor’s chair. The giant was watching the pair of them with startled interest. Sophia snatched her hands away from Ross’s and closed her eyes in humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, wishing she could somehow disappear. “I—I overstepped my bounds, Sir Ross. Forgive me.”
He grinned at her embarrassment and spoke to Sir Grant. “Morgan, I have something to discuss with Miss Sydney.”
“Apparently so,” came Morgan’s dry rejoinder. He bowed briefly, his green eyes twinkling as he glanced at Sophia. The door closed behind him.
Sophia covered her reddened face with her hands. Her voice filtered between her stiff fingers. “Oh, what must he think of me?”
Ross came from behind the desk and stood before her. “No doubt he thinks that you are a kind and caring woman.”
“I am sorry,” she said again. “I did not realize that Sir Grant was here. I should not have come to you so impetuously, nor should I have… It’s just that I am in the habit of…”
“Of touching me?”
She squirmed in discomfort. “I have become too familiar with you. Now that you are well again, things must return to the way they were before.”
“I hope not,” he replied quietly. “I enjoy our familiarity, Sophia.” He reached for her, but Sophia stepped back hastily.
Averting her eyes, she asked in a subdued tone, “Why did you send for me?”
A long moment passed before he replied. “I’ve just received word from my mother of what she assures me is a great crisis in her household.”
“No one is ill, I hope?”
“I’m afraid it is far more serious than that,” he said sardonically. “It pertains to an upcoming birthday party she is giving for my grandfather.”
Perplexed, Sophia looked up into his dark face as he continued.
“Apparently my mother’s housekeeper, Mrs. Bridgewell, has suddenly gotten married. She had been seeing an army sergeant, who proposed to her when he learned that the regiment was soon to be moved to Ireland. Naturally Mrs. Bridgewell wished to accompany her new husband to his new post. The family wishes her well, but unfortunately, her absence occu
“Oh, dear. When will the event take place?”
“In precisely a week.”
“Oh, dear,” Sophia said again, remembering from the great household she had worked at in Shropshire that such large festivities required meticulous planning and near-flawless execution. Food, flowers, guest accommodations… there would be an overwhelming mass of work involved. Sophia pitied the underservants who would be required to step in to manage things.
“Who will arrange things for your mother, then?”
“You,” Ross muttered with a scowl. “She wants you. The family carriage is waiting outside. If you are willing, you are to leave for Berkshire at once.“
“Me?” Sophia was stunned. “But there must be someone else who can take Mrs. Bridgewell’s place!”
“According to my mother, no. She has asked for your assistance.”
“I cannot! That is, I have no experience in taking care of something like this.”
“You do quite well at managing the servants here.”
“Three servants,” Sophia said in agitation. “When your mother must have dozens and dozens.”
“About fifty,” he told her in a deliberately offhand manner, as if the number were of little significance.
“Fifty! I can’t be in charge of fifty people! Surely there is someone far more suitable than I.”
“Perhaps if the housekeeper’s departure had been less precipitate, they would have found someone else. As it is, you are my mother’s best hope.”
“I pity her, then,” she remarked with great feeling.
He laughed suddenly. “It is only a party, Sophia. If all goes well, my mother will no doubt take the credit for everything. If it proves to be a disaster, we’ll blame it all on the absent Mrs. Bridgewell. There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“But what about you? Who will take care of you and manage things here while I am gone?”
He reached out and fingered the white collar at the neck of her dark blue dress, the back of his knuckle brushing the tender underside of her chin. “It appears I will have to make do without you.” His voice lowered to an intimate pitch. “I expect it will be a long week indeed.”
Standing so close to him, Sophia could smell the tang of his shaving soap, the touch of coffee on his breath. “Will your entire family be there?” she asked warily. “Including your brother and his wife?” The prospect of abiding beneath the same roof as Matthew was distinctly unappealing.
“I doubt it. Matthew and Iona prefer the pleasures of town life—the country is too quiet for them. I expect they will wait until the weekend, and arrive at the same time as the other guests.”
Sophia considered the situation carefully. There seemed to be no graceful way to refuse Ross’s mother. She sighed in consternation at the Herculean mission that had been set before her. “I will go,” she said tersely. “I will do everything in my power to make your grandfather’s party a success.”
“Thank you.”
His hand slid around the back of her neck, and his fingers brushed over the braided coil pinned at her nape. His fingertips found a few delicate wisps of hair and stroked gently.
Sophia drew in an unsteady breath. “I will pack my things.”
His thumb traced a slow, tiny circle on the side of her neck. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”
She licked her dry lips. “I don’t think it is wise for us to… to do that anymore. It is not appropriate. This separation is a timely one, as it will allow us to go back to the way things were—”
“Don’t you like kissing me?” He picked up a stray lock of hair on her neck and fingered it lightly.
“That is not relevant,” Sophia heard herself say. “The point is, we shouldn’t.”
His eyes glinted with challenge. “Why?”
“Because I think… I am afraid…” She gathered her courage before blurting out, “I cannot have an affair with you.”
“I have not asked for an affair. What I want from you is—”
Impulsively Sophia put her hand to his lips. She did not know what he had been about to say, but she did not want to hear it. Whatever his intentions were, she would die if he put them into words. “Don’t say anything,” she begged. “Let us be separate for a week. After you take some time to reflect, I am certain that your sentiments will change.”
His tongue touched the seam between her fingers, and her hand jerked away. “Are you?” he asked, lowering his head.
His lips brushed over hers in a communion of moisture and warmth that filled her with unbearable pleasure. She felt the tip of his tongue against her bottom lip, softly teasing, and her resistance melted away. Gasping, she strained upward, and was caught against his hard body, one of his hands fitting beneath her buttocks. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him hungrily. She was unable to deny the attraction between them, which was, of course, the point that Ross was now intent on making. He rewarded her response with an even deeper kiss, his tongue sliding past her teeth, until she sagged against him in helpless pleasure.
Suddenly she was released. Stunned, Sophia put her fingers to her damp mouth.
Ross looked arrogant and amused, his own face flushed. “Good-bye, Sophia,” he said, his voice thick. “I will see you in one week.”
The vehicle provided by the Cannons was by far the most luxurious Sophia had ever ridden in, with French windows and velvet curtains, the dark-green-lacquered exterior decorated with gold-leaf scrolls, the interior upholstered in glossy brown leather. The well-sprung carriage traveled jauntily over the twenty-five-mile distance between London and Berkshire.
Although the prospect of arranging the weekend party was intimidating, Sophia was eager, to see the country estate where Ross had spent his childhood. The county of Berkshire and its environs were just as he had described them, with abundant pasturelands, fertile woods, and small towns with bridges arching over the Kennet and Thames rivers. The smells of freshly turned sod, river breezes, and grass mingled to create a pleasantly earthy fragrance.
The carriage turned off the great road onto a much smaller one, the wheels bouncing and jolting as the paving became ancient and uneven. As they approached the town of Silverhill, the scenery became even more picturesque, with fat sheep grazing in the meadows and half-timbered cottages dotting the green countryside. The road led through a series of timeworn gates covered in ivy and roses. The carriage skirted the periphery of Silverhill and started down a long private avenue. They passed through the stone gates of the Cannon estate, which Ross had told her was about fifteen hundred acres in size.
Sophia was impressed by the beauty of the land, which featured groves of oak and beech, and an artificial lake that sparkled beneath the cool blue sky. Finally the outlines of a Jacobean mansion rose before her, its roofline arching in a profusion of turrets and gables. The rubbed-brick facade of the home was so magnificent that Sophia felt a painful jab of anxiety in her stomach.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. The towering entrance of Silverhill Park Manor was fronted by fifteen-foot-high hedges and bordered by a terraced walk featuring huge beds of primrose and rhododendron. A row of immense Oriental plane trees led the way to an orangery on the south verge of the walk. In Sophia’s most extravagant dreams, she had never expected the Cannons’ country estate to be so imposing.
Two thoughts assailed her at once. First, why would a man with this kind of wealth consign himself to live in the Spartan quarters at Bow Street? And second, how was she going to survive the next seven days? Clearly, she was wholly inadequate to the task that lay before her. She was too inexperienced to direct an entire regiment of servants. They would not respect her. They would not listen to her.
Sophia clasped her hands over her stomach, feeling sick.
The carriage stopped before the central entrance. White-faced but resolute, Sophia accepted the footman’s assistance from the carriage and accompanied him
The stone-floored entrance hall was immense, with a grand central staircase that split on the second landing and led to the east and west wings of the mansion. The walls were covered with gigantic tapestries woven in apricot, dark gold, and faded blue. Sophia was interested to see that two sets of receiving rooms flanked the entrance hall. The set on the left was decorated in a masculine style, with elegant dark furniture and blue tones, whereas the set on the right was predominantly feminine, the walls covered with peach silk, the furniture delicate and gilded.
A butler showed Sophia to the peach receiving room, where Sir Ross’s mother awaited.
Mrs. Catherine Cannon was a tall and elegant woman, dressed in a simple day gown, with shimmering amethyst combs in her upswept gray hair. Her face was angular, but her green eyes were kind. “Miss Sydney,” she exclaimed, coming forward. “Welcome to Silverhill Park. Thank you for rescuing me from a terrible disaster.”
“I hope I may be of some use,” Sophia said as the older woman took her hands and pressed them warmly. “I explained to Sir Ross, however, that I have little experience in these matters—”
“Oh, I have every faith in you, Miss Sydney! You strike me as a very capable young woman.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Now, one of the maids will show you to your room so that you may freshen up after that long carriage ride. Then we will walk through the house, and I shall introduce you to the servants.”
Sophia was shown to a small but serviceable room that had belonged to the former housekeeper of Silverhill Park. She exchanged the white collar of her dark dress for a fresh one, brushed her skirts and shook the dust from them, and washed her face with cool water. As she returned downstairs, she marveled at the loveliness of her surroundings; the ceilings of interlaced ribs and painted panels, the galleries filled with sculpture, and the endless rows of windows providing lush views of the gardens outside.