Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (19 page)

Sophia thanked her and hurried past the rosy-cheeked lass, her heart
leaping with hope. If Patience could have come across, surely it would
be safe for Stephen…

Damon was standing before the library windows, scowling down at a
paper in his hand. When she entered, he folded it hurriedly and thrust
it into his pocket. "A message from the landlord of 'The Wooden Leg.'
Whitthurst came—and has gone. You would do well to accept—"

"Gone?" she interposed, aghast. "What do you mean—
gone
?"

"What the deuce should I mean? Your brother arrived at the inn not
an hour after you had left. When he learned the bridge was down, he at
once returned to Kent—quite the worse for wear, I am informed. I've no
doubt he needs you at—"

"Is that what the note says?" she demanded angrily, and when he gave
an exasperated gesture and nodded, she asked if she might read it.

"Gladly, ma'am. However, there is also a personal message for me.
And our innkeeper is, I fear, a crude individual at best." His eyes
were bland and empty. "Since my father has already offered to—"

"To be taken many miles out of his way? And before you tell me that
he will be glad to change his plans for my sake, I have no doubt of
it." Her lip curled. "Surely, sir, you can restrain your impatience.
Directly my cousin returns, we shall leave you to your precious
solitude."

Two hours later, however, she was beginning to repent her decision.
Clay was still among the missing, and Vaille and Miss Hilby had
departed better than an hour since. Now, beginning to be really
worried, Sophia went downstairs.

In the music room, the maid Patience stood beside the harpsichord,
her fingers touching the keys gently. She looked up, her eyes dreaming,
and, seeing Sophia, started and gave a small scream. "Oh, ma'am! Oh, my
stays! I am that
sorry
! I clean forgot, and it do be almost a hour, too! Sir Amory, ma'am. He do be waiting for'ee down by the fountain!"

"Twelve thousand… pounds?" Sophia's voice squeaked a little. "But—the agreement I signed said
two
thousand!"

Hartwell sprang up from the wrought iron bench in the rose garden,
bowed theatrically, and handed her a bank draft. "I bullied the old
curmudgeon into coming up a trifle! And— was ever a man so fortunate as
to complete his lady's errand and win so glowing a look in return?"

He watched her adoringly, his handsome face reflecting his love. And
she was desolate. Why, oh, why had she begged him to handle the
transaction for her? Why had she decided to borrow against the land?
She'd had no right—not without consulting Stephen… no right at all! At
the time, it had seemed—

"… is wrong?" Hartwell was asking anxiously.

She gathered her wits. "I just do not understand. They
do
realize I am just
borrowing
against the land? It… it was not a
sale
, Amory?"

"My dear, when I brought you the preliminary agreement you said— You
did
ask Whitthurst, or your man of business to look it over, as I urged you to do?"

"Yes—well, I did, of course," she lied. Amory had arrived at
Singlebirch one rainy afternoon, soaked to the skin, and with a
preliminary agreement form requiring her signature. "May not be able to
get the old chap to sign it, even now," he said cheerfully. "But you
and Stephen look it over m'dear and see what you think. If it appeals
to you, sign on the bottom line and I'll rush it back to him with the
Deed. Must go and change now—have to be back in Devonshire first thing
in the morning. Strike while the iron is hot, y'know! Don't want
Prendergast to change his mind!"

After he'd left she had begun to struggle through the voluminous
pages of crabbed writing, much in Latin, with endless clauses and long
words. She'd deciphered the fact that Prendergast Associates were
willing to loan the sum of two thousand pounds against the properties,
the amount to be repaid in full within twelve months. She had also
noted that they were willing to halt any building currently under way
upon said properties, and to prohibit any additional construction prior
to the termination of the agreement. But this was as much as she had
been able to establish before Amory returned, eager to be upon his way
once more. She had longed to be able to turn to one of her uncles, or
the family solicitor for advice, but it had been more than she'd dare
do. Even if they agreed not to discuss the matter with Stephen—which
seemed unlikely—they were sure to mention it to their wives. The word
would have swept the family like a forest fire, returning inevitably to
her ailing brother's ears.

Amory had assured her that "old Prendergast" was true blue and sound
to the backbone. "Never one to hand you over to the cents-per-centers,"
whatever that meant. He looked weary, but denied it with cheerful
vehemence. He had worked so hard in her behalf and been so delighted to
think he had helped her in this emergency. Grateful, she had signed,
and he'd left promising to return with the bank draft as soon as
possible.

Now, watching her narrowly, he exclaimed, "Oh, Lord! I pray I've not
caused you to be worried? I'm the last one to understand all that legal
flummery. If anything goes amiss, Whitt's liable to think I've been up
to some skullduggery!"

"Indeed, he will not! You have been a true friend, Amory. As if we could ever entertain such wicked doubts!"

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Had you only allowed
me to be of greater assistance than merely arranging a fribbly loan for
you… it would have made me the—the very happiest fellow in all England."

"You are too good." She gave his hand a slight squeeze before
removing her fingers from his clasp. "But it would not be at all
proper, you know."

"Then let me make it proper! Dash it all, Sophia, I shan't let one
turndown stop me! I love you! My lovely lady, won't you allow me to
start planning the biggest ball, the grandest wedding, the most
delightful honeymoon money can buy?"

She looked into his eager face and felt a deep liking. She looked
into those wide grey eyes and knew herself the veriest fool among
fools, for here was total devotion. And she did not love him. Her glib
advice to Charlotte came back to haunt her. 'Better to have known such
a love than to endure a
mariage de convenance
…' "Dear Amory…" she said haltingly, "I—I am most… deeply honoured and truly thank—"

He gave a muffled sound of despair, leapt to his feet, and turning from her, began to stride down the slope.

"Amory!" She ran after him. "Wait! Please wait!"

The grass was still slippery from the rains and the soles of her
slippers somewhat worn. She slipped, tumbled, and gave a small cry as
she sprawled with a revealing display of petticoats and ankles.
Hartwell turned with a shocked gasp and, running back to her, slipped
also and went to his knees; Heedless of his immaculate breeches, he
crawled up to ask breathlessly, "Sophia—are you all right?"

Laughing, she said, "A trifle muddy, but—" Horatio shot through the
trees and flew at her with a hiss and a flap of wings. Amory pulled her
close, waving his arm menacingly. She shrank against him, and the goose
trundled on past.

Damon, bursting from the trees, cried, "Is something wrong? I—" He
halted abruptly, looking utterly taken aback. Then a fierce glare
travelled from Sophia's bare ankles to the arms that Hartwell clasped
about her. Two spots of colour appeared high on his cheekbones. "I do
apologize," he said acidly. "Pray forgive the interruption of such a…
pleasant pastime." The contemptuous curl of the lip, the lift of those
dark brows, relegated Sophia to the status of Haymarket ware.

"The devil!" Amory spluttered indignantly. "I vow you're becoming
positively caper-witted, Damon! You go beyond the line—the lady fell,
merely!"

But noting how his arms gathered the stunned Sophia a little closer,
the Marquis bowed and was gone, sauntering gracefully back through the
trees, Horatio squawking grumpily after him.

When Sophia entered the house, the harpsichord was crashing in a
furious boil of music. She recognized Bach's tempestuous "Toccata and
Fugue" as she flung the door wide. The room was, as usual, almost dark.

"Excuse me," she snarled. Her plea went unnoticed. She stepped
closer. Damon's head was bent, his supple fingers flying over the keys.
"Your pardon, my lord," she enunciated, loud and clear. His head went
back, the thick hair tossing. One slim hand shot up, poised, and then
he was leaning forward, the notes rippling out again.

"Viper!" she hissed. Bach enveloped her and was her only response. Marching forward, she threw the drapes open.

A crashing chord terminated Mr. Bach's music. Damon stood, scowled
at her, then went to the mantle and began to ram tobacco into his pipe.
"I do apologize, my lady, for bursting in so rudely upon your little…
tête-à-tête." And, again, there was the insinuating, offensive smirk.

From earliest childhood, the Lady Sophia Drayton had been schooled
in the arts of grace and graciousness, but never had her reputation
been so impugned. Her many beaux variously worshipped, admired, or
desired her. To be blatantly insulted was something so foreign to her
experience she could scarce comprehend it. And thus it was that, facing
him, she was all but panting with rage. And very lovely.

"If it is any of your business, my ignoble lord," she half sobbed, "I had fallen. Sir Amory was merely—"

He gave a tiny shrug, a gracefully deprecating wave of the hand. "I
beg you will not fatigue yourself with explanations. I, in fact, owe
you my felicitations." His eyes glared suddenly. "Since Hartwell is the
man of your choice. At least, one must assume so, in view of
your—er—torrid embraces."

She stamped closer and thrust her small chin at him, her eyes blazing with wrath. "Oooh!" she choked. "How I wish I were a man!"

Damon's eyelids assumed a bored droop. "That, dear lady, is a desire you can scarce expect me to share."

"I expect nothing from you, sir!
Nothing
!"

"Alas," he sneered. "I am become unnecessary, I perceive. While Hartwell is so—ah—accommodating."

Sophia flushed scarlet, her fists clenching, "How monstrous you are!"

"True," shrugged the Marquis. "Wherefore, being monstrously
unnecessary, I am sure you wish to be gone, for you surely cannot care
to be—"

"To be spied upon!"

"But, of course. No one would. Under
those
—circumstances."

It was incredible how much scorn he could convey with just that cynical lift of one eyebrow.

Her teeth bared, Sophia grated an impotent "How—
dare
you!"

"You, ma'am, were the one who dared. I must confess I thought it not quite the thing.
En plein jour
, as it were. But I am, I collect, rather old-fashioned."

She paled. For an instant, she stood quivering and silent. Then her hand slapped hard across his cheek.

It was the second time she had struck him. A lock of his hair was
bounced down his brow by the impact, but he made no movement of either
anger or retaliation, merely regarding her levelly.

"By what right," she bit out, almost incoherent, "do
you
censure
me
?"

She was quite visibly shaking with rage. Looking down at her, the
glare faded from Damon's eyes. He made no response for a moment, then
gave a slight bow. "Not censure, ma'am. Merely observe. But you are
right. I apologize. I have neither the right nor the desire to bandy
words with you."

"Of course not," she spluttered. "That is not your way, is it?
Having insulted me, you think to run away—like the coward you are!"

His eyes fell. "Yes. If you will excuse me, ma'am," and he started away.

"Well, I shall not!" She ran swiftly to confront him. "You have made
your nasty insinuations. Now you will have the decency to hear me out!"

He halted at once. "I have apologized. I had no—"

"No what? Valour? Morals? Integrity? Oh, I am well aware of that,
sir! And have known all along that you are beneath contempt! How
fortunate that your poor abused father did not hear you name a guest in
your house a—a wanton!"

Damon stood rigidly silent. Then he took out a small and begemmed
snuff box, deftly flicked it open, raised a pinch with infuriating
languor, and inhaled. "I was not aware," he said, dusting his cravat
with a lace-edged handkerchief, "that I mentioned such a word…"

He had spilled more snuff than he imagined, his hand shook so. The
movements of his handkerchief broadcast a small cloud, and Sophia, her
mouth opened for another blasting attack, paused, gasped, and gave so
violent a sneeze that a comb was shaken from her hair. Damon, his eyes
at once abrim with laughter, scooped it up and offered it.

Sophia snatched at it angrily but dropped it as she sneezed once
more. His faint chuckle added to her fury as she thought up a scathing
indictment, waved her arms preparatory to devastating him with her acid
words, only to explode into another sneeze. "Beast!" she choked
inadequately.

He grinned and held out his handkerchief.

She took it, turned as she felt another paroxysm building, and ran a
few quick steps toward the harpsichord. The sneeze was magnificent. It
rocked her to her slippers; gasping, she reached out blindly for
support. Her hand struck the rack, sending music flying helter-skelter.
Damon hurried over and began to retrieve the pages, and Sophia,
recovering somewhat, bent to collect the sheets that were close to her.
Something inside her became very still. The topmost sheet was the
melody she'd heard him playing just before Vaille had left, the music
he had snatched away so hurriedly. It was Still unfinished, but these
notes had been penned by the sure hand of a skilled musician—quite
different to the clumsy efforts on the old parchment. At the top, a
bold, firm scrawl provided the title "Sophia."