Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (16 page)

Graham growled—actually, physically
growled
. Somewhere in the back of his mind a saner voice wondered if there was perhaps more of his father in him than he’d previously thought, for even Somers drew back, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

“Well, I suppose I’ve overstayed at that . . .”

Then nearly all the snapping hounds were gone, leaving only one man still in attendance. He seemed vaguely familiar to Graham, although by his dress and manner he was not someone of the
ton
. A man of business perhaps? Did he think he had an actual chance with a girl like Sophie?

Maybe Sophie likes him
.

She certainly seemed intimate, at that. She was leaning forward to hear what he said and bestowing upon him the smile she ought to be saving for Graham.

Furthermore, for all his mundane appearance, the bloke was a good-looking lout—tall and powerful, if a bit drawn and creased.

The thought that Sophie might actually prefer that . . . that
clerk
. . . to
him
. . .

The fellow looked up then to meet Graham’s gaze. Like measured like. This man was no stammering clerk. No, this was a different sort altogether. Instant distrust flared in Graham, to be matched by an answering flash of amused assessment in the other man’s eyes.

SOPHIE WISHED MR. WOLFE
would leave. At first she’d been intrigued by his interest in her translations and further distracted by his maturity and trusted connection to the family. Then, as their perfectly innocuous conversation turned to the current gossip, which seemed to center on Graham’s exploits in particular, Sophie began to feel rather hunted in his company.

There was dark urgency in Mr. Wolfe’s reddened eyes, as if he could scarcely keep from reaching for her with his hands, which kept opening and closing in nervous distraction. Mr. Wolfe
wanted
something.

Perhaps this was what Lementeur had meant when he’d said “ardent”?

It must be only that she was unaccustomed to such regard that his gaze made her feel like a steak on a plate. After all, ardent was what she was looking for, was she not? And unlike the simpering boys around her, Mr. Wolfe was a man of accomplishments. As a solicitor, he was an educated man, one who had learned the value of working for his place in the world.

He also seemed genuinely interested in
her
, not caught up in the glamour of Sofia. He was old enough to know what he wanted and not be swept up in the winds of the latest craze.

His abruptness and his awkwardness might be a bit jarring, but who was she to judge someone for not moving smoothly through Society? Yes, Mr. Wolfe ought to be quite high on her list of possible husbands.

It wasn’t his fault that she simply couldn’t imagine
any such thing. Ashamed of her reaction, Sophie made sure to bestow a little extra attention on the man. She wouldn’t want him to detect her inexplicable aversion and have his feelings damaged in any way.

At last, the throng of younger men left and Sophie began to hope for eventual escape. Then she realized that it was Graham who was herding her admirers from the room, like a sheep dog cutting a ewe from the flock.

GRAHAM STARTED FORWARD
, furious in his intent to separate this . . . this predator from his Sophie. By the time he reached her, however, the fellow had bowed a quick farewell and slithered out the door, following the rest of the pack, leaving Sophie alone with Graham, just the way he’d wanted.

When he reached her, however, he wasn’t expecting the flare of fury in her eyes. He halted, startled.

She stood and advanced on him. “Just what, pray tell, was that all about?”

Ah, well, perhaps he’d not been precisely subtle. He cleared his throat and gave her his best charming grin. “You didn’t want to spend all afternoon with that keg full of idiots, did you?”

She folded her arms and pursed her lips. “Oh, were they your callers to dismiss then? If so, then you’ve been keeping tawdry secrets from me indeed!”

He gaped. “My callers?” Tawdry secrets? What had that hairy fellow been filling her head with? Not sure he wanted to know—for what if he couldn’t honestly
deny them?—he backpedaled quickly. “I’m not the only one with secrets here!”

She drew back and paled. Why? He’d only been referring to her surprise transformation last night at the masque. Then, as quick as a blink, she was back in form. “I might have been enjoying myself. You’ll never know for sure.” She poked him in the chest with one finger. Hard. “We’re friends and I’ve appreciated that, but you’ve no call to wax territorial. You don’t own me, Gray!”

Territorial? Alarms began to ring back in that tiny sane portion of his mind. He ignored them. Instead, he scoffed, folding his arms. “That wasn’t territorial! It was . . . it was protective! You’re naive and barely chaperoned. You’ve no idea what wolves some of these blokes are!”

“You have no room to speak. You’ve taken advantage of my lack of duenna. You tell me—am I ruined because I spent a few hours playing cards with a rogue?”

He blustered at that, for he had indeed gone beyond the bounds of propriety—at least that once. The memory of her scent and the feel of her hair trapped in his fist slapped him nearly senseless with a sudden surge of longing.

He’d been a fool, he saw now. He’d thought himself the victim of a random urge to touch her that day, an impulse born of a need for distraction . . .

Not for diversion had it been, but for solace. For comfort. Not an impulse, but a yearning.

A strand of her red-gold hair had come undone in
her fury. It drifted down to coil next to a high, elegant cheekbone, framing one furious, dark gray eye. “You know what, Graham? I think you’re a wee bit jealous.”

He had a sudden vision of what she would look like sleeping, half her face buried in his pillow, her hair drifting over both their naked bodies, clinging to skin dampened by satisfied lust . . .

Bloody hell.

What had he become? What had he done to her—to himself?

Just look at him! He was becoming a chest-beater! He had no right to snort and stomp and scare away her suitors!

She fumbled in her sleeve and drew out her spectacles, all the better to glare at him through. She was a soldier dressing for battle. The gesture touched him in the oddest way.

The spectacles and the way her eyes peered through them belonged to him and him alone. The others might think they knew who they courted, might even believe they felt something real for her, but he was the only one she trusted enough to don her spectacles around.

What was so wrong with them, anyway? They were naught but a bit of wire and glass. He detested that she didn’t feel as though she could be herself with that crowd.

“I can’t believe you’re looking for a husband among that lot! Why?”

She pushed her spectacles up with the tips of her fingers and glared at him furiously. “Why not? You’re
the jealous one. Tell me! Give me one reason why I shouldn’t!”

What could he tell her?
I ruined everything
.

How had he let something so innocent and easy come to this—and why now, when he was no longer free to act on it? He’d dug his own grave, by God—dug it deep and wide with the sharp blades of loneliness and good intentions!

Through a throat tight with longing and lust, he pounded the last nail into his own coffin. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he snapped at her. “I took pity on a poor, plain girl from the country! There’s nothing to be jealous of!”

The flash of startled pain in her eyes made his gut ache. He didn’t want her pain. He didn’t want the responsibility of yet another soul on his shoulders. He turned away, unable to face her pallor and stunned silence.

Then, at the door, he glanced back to see that she had not moved, had apparently not even breathed. The pain forced him to continue. He needed to make sure she understood. It might not be a bad idea to remind himself as well.

“I have decided to ask Lady Lilah Christie for her hand in marriage.”

Then he left like the coward he was, walking away from the damage he’d caused.

IN THE OFFICES
of Stickley & Wolfe, Solicitors, there was, as usual, only Stickley. He wrapped up another
day of totting up the interest earned in various accounts by the Pickering trust and mused over his current plan to put some of the money into shipping. It could be very lucrative, but required a large initial investment. If Miss Blake did wed the Duke of Edencourt, then she might wonder where such a large amount of her money went. Even the merest thought that something could cast a shadow of doubt upon his ethical management of Sir Hamish’s fortune would not do.

He sighed. Such a pity to pass up a golden opportunity. Perhaps if he had approval beforehand—of course, that would require signatures from all three of the ladies, even though Lady Marbrook was already disqualified . . .

Soothed by thoughts of money and putting matters in neat and lovely order, Stickley had almost completed his weekly foray into the safe before he noticed the marks on the door.

Scratches? Nay, gouges! What on earth—?

Then, as if he’d seen it with his own eyes, he knew. That day Wolfe had come in early, he’d actually come to try to crack open the safe!

But why? Surely Wolfe knew that Stickley only kept their own personal retainers there, and only a month at a time, with, of course, a second month’s worth as margin against emergencies, of which Wolfe had constantly and Stickley never . . . or perhaps Wolfe didn’t know that.

Did the idiot think that the entire balance of the trust lay within this iron box? Did the fool know nothing of banking and investment?

Then again, it
was
Wolfe. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Stickley shut the safe box and dialed the lock shut. His partner was becoming more and more of a liability every day. Stickley hoped that Miss Blake would marry the duke—providing that the duke understood his proper responsibilities concerning the inheritance—because when that day came, Stickley would be free!

He closed his eyes for a long moment, savoring the pretty picture that thought made. Free of Wolfe’s face, his foul habits, his tendency toward distressingly illegal acts—and, admittedly, his mysterious ability to make those acts seem like the most logical course of action!—free to invest his own money, or even to spend it, though he couldn’t imagine needing anything he did not already have.

Real work.

Oh, yes. True work, work of meaning and progress and . . .

And nonsense, as long as he was tied to the trust and to Wolfe. Eyeing the disfigured door of the safe, Stickley pursed his lips once more.

He only hoped he could get out before he discovered what depths Wolfe was truly willing to sink to.

TESSA SAT DOWN
at her feminine little escritoire and brought out the ink and pen and paper. She hated to sink to this level, really she did, but there was no denying that Sophie had gone too far.

Imagine, that horse-faced stick of a creature, creating such a stir in Society! And Graham, idiot boy, was
being the most oblivious fool. Tessa remembered him as a mostly silent boy, skulking about trying to stay out of sight of his brutish brothers. Not that Tessa blamed him for that, for her elder cousins had been disgusting indeed, much like her own father. Good riddance to the lot of them.

Yet for Graham to dangle after
Sophie?
It was embarrassing!

And dangerous. The Pickering fortune was meant for Deirdre, not her horse-faced cousin. Only Deirdre would know the proper gratitude to pay her very own loving stepmother, once the checks were cashed.

Furthermore, if sweet Deirdre forgot her duty, Tessa had some nasty threats she could make against fat, moon-faced little Phoebe. Not everyone in Society would be as forgiving of Phoebe’s wicked past as was her equally wicked husband! Deirdre doted on her stupid cousins. It shouldn’t be too hard to exact a nice lifelong income from her.

All that would come to naught, of course, if Sophie won the day. The stupid girl would never recall that it was Tessa who allowed her to be here in the first place. She would only remember the few, paltry occasions where Tessa had lost her temper and called her a few harmless names.

All of which had been richly deserved. Why the creature was ridiculous! It was very alarming how no one in Society seemed to see that anymore.

With a slight smile, Tessa set to her work.

“Dear Mrs. Blake . . .”

After Graham left her, Sophie sat in the empty parlor, gazing unseeing at the trays with the remains of tea and cakes.

Crumbs. She was left with crumbs.

I took pity on a poor, plain girl from the country
.

The heat was still in her face, she knew, and likely would be for days whenever she thought of that moment. She’d forgotten herself, so impressed had she been by her new popularity. She’d forgotten that all she was to the people who knew her was a “poor, plain girl.”

What had she thought would happen when Graham saw the new “Sofia”? Had she thought he would drop to his knees and declare his undying love?