Lady Sophia's Lover by Lisa Kleypas
Matthew’s face twisted into a surly grimace. “It was not seduction. It was mutual desire. She wanted me, I obliged her, and no one was the worse for it.”
“No one was the worse?” Ross repeated incredulously. “Tanner says the girl is not yet sixteen, Matthew! You’ve taken her innocence and given her a fatherless babe—and betrayed Iona in the process.”
Matthew looked unrepentant. “Everyone does it. I could name you a dozen men who have taken their pleasure outside the marriage bed. A bastard child is an unfortunate consequence—but that is the girl’s concern, not mine.”
Somewhere in the midst of his fury, Ross was shocked at his brother’s callousness. It was not lost on him that Matthew had done exactly what Sophia’s lover had done to her—used her, deceived and abandoned her. “My God,” he said softly. “What am I to do with you? Have you no conscience? No sense of responsibility?”
“Conscience and responsibility are your preserves, brother.” Matthew spun the globe again; it nearly teetered off its axis. “You’ve always been held up to me as an example of supreme morality. Sir Ross, the paragon of manhood. No one on earth could live up to the standards you set, and I’ll be damned if I’ll even try. Besides, I don’t envy you your sterile, joyless life. Unlike you, I have some passion—I have a man’s needs—and, by God, I’ll indulge them until I’m in my grave!”
“Why don’t you indulge them in your wife?” Ross suggested acidly.
Matthew rolled his eyes. “I was bored with Iona a month after we were married. A man can’t be expected to be satisfied with one woman forever. As they say, variety is the very spice of life.”
Ross was sorely tempted to blister his ears with a scalding lecture. However, the obstinate set of Matthew’s jaw made it clear that he was going to remain stubbornly unrepentant. He would never willingly face the consequences of his actions.
“Exactly how much ‘variety’ have you enjoyed?” Seeing Matthew’s blank look, Ross clarified his question impatiently. “How many women have you seduced besides the Rann girl?”
A vaguely smug expression settled on Matthew’s face. “I can’t be certain… nine or ten, I suppose.”
“I want a list of their names.”
“Why?”
“To discover whether or not you have fathered any other bastard children. And if so, you are going to provide for their support and education.”
The younger man sighed grumpily. “I don’t have any money to spare—unless you give me an advance on my allowance.”
“Matthew” Ross said, his gaze menacing.
Matthew held up his hands mockingly. “All right, I yield. Scour the countryside for my illegitimate offspring. Take away what little money I have. Now, may I join my friends?”
“Not yet. There is something you should know. From now on, I will ensure that your indolent way of life is over. No more lounging at the club and drinking all day; no more gambling or chasing women. If you attempt to visit your usual haunts, you’ll find that you are no longer welcome. And you will be refused credit wherever you go, for I will make it clear to shopkeepers and list-makers alike that I will no longer be responsible for your debts.”
“You can’t do that!” Matthew burst out.
“Oh, but I can,” Ross assured him. “From now on, you are going to work for your allowance.”
“Work?” The word seemed unfamiliar to Matthew. “Doing what? I’m not qualified to work—I am a gentleman!”
“I will find something appropriate for you,” Ross promised grimly. “I am going to teach you responsibility, Matthew, no matter what it takes.”
“If Father were still alive, this would never happen!”
“If Father were still alive, this would have happened years ago,” Ross muttered. “Unfortunately, much of the blame is mine. I’ve been too busy at Bow Street to pay attention to your activities. That is going to change, however.”
A string of curses issued from Matthew’s lips as he moved to a cabinet and rummaged for a glass and a decanter. Pouring himself a brandy, he tossed it down as if it were medicine, then refilled the glass. The liquor appeared to brace him. Taking a few long breaths, he glared into Ross’s implacable countenance. “Are you going to tell Iona?”
“No. But neither will I lie to her if she ever comes to me with questions about your fidelity.”
“Good, then. My wife will never ask—she does not want to hear the answers.”
“God help her,” Ross muttered.
After taking another swallow of brandy, Matthew swirled the liquid in his glass and gave a moody sigh. “Is that all?”
“No,” Ross said. “We have one more issue to address—your behavior toward Miss Sydney.”
“I’ve already apologized for that. I can’t do any more than that… unless you would like me to open a vein?”
“That won’t be necessary. What I wish to emphasize is that you are to treat her with absolute respect from now on.”
“There is only so much respect I am going to show a servant, brother.”
“She isn’t going to be a servant for much longer.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow in mild interest. “You’re going to dismiss her, then?”
Ross gave him a hard, purposeful stare. “I’m going to marry her. If she will have me.”
Matthew stared back with total incomprehension. “Holy Mother of God,” he said raspily, and stumbled to the nearest chair. He sat down heavily, the whites of his eyes on full display as he regarded Ross. “You’re serious. But that is madness. You would be a laughingstock. A Cannon marrying a servant! For the sake of the family, find someone else. She is only a woman—there are a hundred others who could easily take her place.”
It took all of Ross’s will to keep from doing his brother bodily harm. Instead he braced his hands on the desk, closed his eyes for a moment, and battened down his temper. Then he turned and sent Matthew a gaze filled with black fire. “After all the years I’ve spent alone, you ask me to reject the one woman who makes me complete?”
Matthew seized on his words. “That is my point. After so many celibate years, you’re half mad from deprivation. Any woman would seem desirable. Believe me, that creature is not worthy of your affection. She has no sophistication, no style, no family. Take her as a mistress, if you fancy her. But I advise you not to marry her, because I guarantee that you will soon tire of her, and then you’ll be well and truly shackled.”
Abruptly Ross’s anger died. He felt nothing for his brother except pity. Matthew would never find true love or passion, only hollow imitations. He would spend the rest of his life feeling dissatisfied, never knowing how to fill the emptiness inside. And so he would turn to artificial pleasures, and try to convince himself that he was content.
“I will not attempt to persuade you of Sophia’s worth,” Ross said quietly. “However, if you say one word to her that could be construed as critical or condescending, I will castrate you. Slowly.”
Chapter 11
Simple black or white silk masks were provided for the guests who had not brought one for the Saturday evening ball. But most of the company were wearing beautiful creations that had been designed especially for the event. Sophia was dazzled by the array of masks adorned with feathers, jewels, embroidery, and hand-painted motifs. People mingled and flirted audaciously, enjoying the anonymity that their disguises afforded. The unmasking would occur at midnight, after which a lavish supper would be served.
Peeking around the doorway of the drawing room, Sophia smiled in satisfaction at the splendid sight of guests dancing a formal minuet, executing bows and curtsies with practiced grace. The ladies all wore gowns in fashionably rich colors, while most of the gentlemen were striking in their schemes of black-and-white evening wear. Freshly waxed and polished floors reflected the sparkling light of the chandeliers, bathing the assemblage in an almost magical glow. The air was thick with flowers and perfume, relieved by the evening breeze that drifted in from the conservatories and anterooms.
The series of rooms beyond the drawing room were filled with guests who played cards or billiards, drank champagne, and partook of small delicacies such as oyster pate, lobster tarts, and cakes soaked in rum. Thinking of the meal to come, Sophia decided to return to the kitchen and make certain that everything was going according to schedule. Discreetly she slipped outside to a walk that skirted the side of the house. The night air was cool and springlike, and she sighed in relief, pulling at the snug collar of her dark gown.
Passing an open conservatory lined with columns, Sophia was surprised to note that it was occupied by the elderly Mr. Cannon, positioned in his wheeled chair to view the ball through a large window. A footman waited nearby, evidently having been recruited to attend the crusty old gentleman.
Sophia approached him with a hesitant smile. “Good evening, Mr. Cannon. May I ask why you are sitting out here alone?”
“Too much noise and bother in there,” he replied. “Moreover, the fireworks will start at midnight, and this is the best place from which to view them.” He eyed her speculatively. “In fact, you shall watch them with me.” Turning to the footman, he said brusquely, “Go fetch some champagne. Two glasses.”
“Sir,” Sophia said, “I’m afraid I cannot—”
“Yes, I know. You have responsibilities. But this is my birthday, and therefore I must be humored.”
Sophia smiled wryly as she sat on the stone bench beside his chair. “If I am seen drinking champagne and watching fireworks with you, I will probably be dismissed.”
“Then I will hire you as my companion.”
Still smiling, Sophia folded her hands in her lap. “Are you not going to wear a mask, sir?”
“Why would I wear a mask? I’m hardly going to deceive anyone, sitting in this contraption.” Viewing the dancers through the window, Cannon snorted derisively. “I didn’t like masked balls when they were in fashion forty years ago, and I like them even less now.”
“I wish I had a mask,” she mused with a thoughtful smile. “I could do or say whatever I liked, and no one would know me.”
The old gentleman’s gaze moved over her. “Why are you wearing plain broadcloth on such an evening?” he asked abruptly.
“There is no need for me to wear a fine gown.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Nonsense. Even Mrs. Bridgewell wore a good black satin on special occasions.”
“I have no gowns more elegant than this, sir.”
“Why not? Isn’t my grandson providing a decent salary?”
Their conversation was interrupted as the footman reappeared with a tray of champagne. “Ah, good,” Cannon said. “Is that the Rheims? Leave the bottle here, and go be of use to someone inside. Miss Sydney will keep me company.”
The footman complied with a submissive bow. Sophia accepted the glass of champagne from Mr. Cannon, holding it by the stem and regarding the light amber liquid curiously.
“Have you drunk champagne before?” the old man asked.
“Once,” Sophia admitted. “When I lived with my cousin in Shropshire, a neighbor gave me a bottle of champagne that was not quite finished. It had gone flat by then, and I was disappointed by the taste. I expected it to be sweet.”
“This is French champagne—you will like it. See how the bubbles rise in vertical lines? That is the sign of a good vintage.”
Sophia brought the shallow glass to her face and enjoyed the cool, tickling sensation as the bubbles burst near her nose. “What makes it sparkle?” she asked almost dreamily. “It must be magic.”
“Actually, it is a process of double fermentation,” he informed her, his tone so flat and dry that he reminded her of Ross. “The ‘devil’s wine,’ it is called, because of its explosive nature.”
Sophia took an experimental sip of the dry, effervescent vintage and wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t like it,” she said, and the old man chuckled.
“Try it again. You will acquire the taste for it eventually.”
Although she was tempted to point out that she would never have the opportunity to acquire such a taste, Sophia nodded obediently and drank. “I like the shape of the glass,” she commented while the champagne trickled down her throat.
“Do you?” A mischievous sparkle entered his eyes. “That style is called the coupe. It was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast.”
Sophia gave him a reproving glance. “You are wicked, Mr. Cannon,” she said, and he cackled in delight.
A new voice entered the conversation. “It was not modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast. Grandfather is trying to shock you.” The speaker was Ross, austerely handsome in his evening clothes, a black mask dangling in his fingers. His teeth flashed in a smile so easy and charming that Sophia’s breath caught. There was no man who could equal him tonight, no one who possessed his mixture of elegance and rugged masculinity.
Trying to conceal her reaction to him, Sophia took a deep swallow of cold champagne, and choked on the icy burn. “Good evening, Sir Ross,” she said hoarsely, her eyes watering. She stood awkwardly, looking for a place to deposit her half-filled glass.
“Well, Grandfather,” Ross continued, “I should have known you would be doing your best to corrupt Miss Sydney.”
“I would hardly call a good bottle of Rheims corruption,” Cannon replied defensively. “Why, it is a health tonic! As the French say, champagne is the universal medicine.”
“That is the first time I’ve ever heard you agree with the French, sir.” The amusement lingered in Ross’s eyes as he caught Sophia’s wrist, preventing her from leaving. “Stay and finish your champagne, little one,” he said softly. “As far as I’m concerned, you may have anything you desire.”
Flushing, Sophia tugged at her wrist, conscious of the elderly man’s attention on them. “I desire to return to my duties, sir.”
To her disbelief, Ross lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, right in front of his grandfather. Their relationship couldn’t have been more clear if he had proclaimed it from a podium.
“Sir Ross,” she said softly, shocked.
He held her gaze deliberately, informing her silently that he was no longer going to conceal his feelings for her.
Unnerved, Sophia handed her glass to him. “I must go,” she said breathlessly. “Please excuse me.” As she left with great haste, Ross remained with his grandfather, watching her so intently that she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back.
Glancing at his grandfather, Ross raised his brows expectantly. “Well?”
“It is a good match,” Cannon said, pouring more champagne with obvious relish. “She is a pleasant girl without pretensions. Much like her grandmother. Have you sampled her charms yet?”
Ross smiled at the abrupt question. “If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I think you have,” the old man said, regarding him over the rim of the glass. “And if she is anything like her grandmother was, you had a fine time indeed.”
“You old fox Don’t say that you and Sophia Jane… ?”
“Oh, yes.” The memory appeared to be a delicious one. Lost in private reflections, Cannon gently rolled the stem of the champagne glass between his time-worn fingers. “For years I’ve loved her,” he said softly. “I should have tried harder to win her. Don’t let anything come between you and the woman you love, my boy.”
The smile vanished from Ross’s face, and he replied gravely, “No, sir.”
As Sophia strode across the stone-and-marble-paved floor of the great hall, she saw a dark figure detaching itself from the shadows of a domed alcove. It was a man wearing a black silk mask, dressed in evening wear like the other guests. He was young and strapping, with broad shoulders and a slim waist—the same unusually powerful build that most of the Bow Street runners possessed. What was such a man doing far away from the drawing room? Sophia paused uncertainly. “Sir? May I assist you?”
He took a long time to respond. Finally he approached, stopping within an arm’s length of her. The
Puzzled, Sophia tilted her head as she gazed at him. Something about him made her uneasy, her nerves thrilling with a sense of dangerous awareness. The mask concealed most of his face, but there was no disguising the bold jut of his nose or the generous shape of his mouth. His brown hair was short and neatly brushed, and his skin was unusually swarthy for a gentleman.
“How may I help you?” she asked cautiously.
“What is your name?”
“Miss Sydney, sir.”
“You are the housekeeper here?”
“Only for tonight. I work for Sir Ross Cannon at Bow Street.”
“Bow Street is too dangerous a place for you,” he said, sounding annoyed.
He was drunk, she thought, and inched backward.
“You are a spinster?” he asked, following her slowly.
“I am unwed,” she acknowledged.
“Why would a woman like you remain unmarried?”
The questions were strange and inappropriate. Uneasily Sophia decided that it would be wise for her to leave as soon as possible. “You are kind to spare me your concern, sir. However, I have duties to attend to. If you will excuse me—”
“Sophia,” he whispered, staring at her with what seemed to be longing.
Startled, she wondered how he knew her first name. She stared at him with wide eyes, but then a sudden noise distracted her. It was the sound of laughter and cheering, accompanied by a vigorous swell of music and a cacophony of fireworks explosions. Bursts of brilliant light lit the sky and flickered through the windows. It must be midnight, Sophia realized. Time for the unmasking. Automatically she looked toward the sound.
The stranger moved behind her, so swift and silent that she did not sense him until she felt something cold drop on her chest. She reached up and fumbled at the foreign weight, then heard a smooth click as something was clasped around her neck.
“Good-bye,” came a warm whisper near her ear.